“Not exactly,” says Fletcher. “His bodily processes have just been massively decelerated.”
“Decelerated?”
“Slowed way down. Heartbeat. Circulation. Tissue growth. Everything has been happening in slow motion.”
I take a step closer to the almost-but-not-quite-corpse. There’s a thick IV tube running under a bandage sticking out above his sock, and there’s a low hum from some kind of coil under the table.
“Who the hell is this? And why is he dressed for a party?”
“It’s just what he happened to be wearing in 1937.”
“Nineteen thirty-seven?” I run the numbers in my head. You’re telling me that he’s been lying here for a hundred and fifty years?”
“That’s correct,” says Fletcher. “I know it’s hard to…”
“And what are you, some kind of zombie assistant?” I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was just trying to tie this situation to anything that made sense, and I wasn’t having much luck.
“I inherited his care,” says Fletcher. He’s nervous and excited. “This facility has been in my family for generations. I’ve been waiting for the right time to move him to the next stage.”
“What stage is that?”
“Revivification. Bringing him back. That’s what I’m here for.”
I take a deep breath. No way this is happening.
“You’re going to bring him back to life?”
“That’s the plan.”
“So why have you been waiting all this time?”
“Like I said—I’ve been waiting for you.”
I’ve got all kinds of questions running through my head. Big questions. Starting with Why me? But sometimes when the questions are too big, it helps to focus on details. At least that’s the way my brain works. So I focus on the guy on the table. Handsome. Maybe early forties. His face looks perfect, but there’s some kind of yellowish-whitish crust on the front of his tux and shirt, like he threw up at a wedding.
“What’s that mess all over him?”
“Poison residue,” says Fletcher. “He probably vomited after ingestion. A reflex reaction.”
“What the hell…!”
“Relax. We’re fine,” says Fletcher. “The compounds are inert. The potency dissipated with the deceleration process, which was the whole theory in the first place. That part worked. The poison didn’t kill him. Whether it damaged him internally, who knows? Whether I can actually bring his organs and consciousness back to anything close to full function, that’s the real challenge.”
I’ve never been the kind to get queasy at the sight of dead bodies.
But something about this situation is too bizarre. Too creepy. I’m done.
I start backing toward the door.
“No way I’m part of this!” I say. “This is nuts!”
Fletcher grabs my arm. “Stop. Wait,” he says. “Think about it. It’s not just me who’s been waiting for you.” He points to the guy on the table. “He’s been waiting for you! Him! He’s been waiting since before you were born!”
Fletcher is holding my upper arm like a vise. When I tug at him, he relaxes his grip.
“What makes me so special?” I ask. “Why not some superscientist or brain surgeon? Why not some big shot from the government?”
“I don’t know,” says Fletcher. “Maybe he can tell you. But he can’t tell you while he’s like this.”
I step back toward the table and look at the guy’s face again. In some ways, it looks like he just went to sleep, like the guy in that old story. Rip Van Whatever.
“So, who is he?” I ask. “Does he have a name?”
“He does,” says Fletcher. “His name is Lamont Cranston.”
“What did you say?”
Fletcher repeats it, pronouncing each syllable: “Lamont Cranston.”
Okay. Good joke. That’s obviously a fake name. Because I’m an expert on Lamont Cranston, aka the Shadow.
And there’s no way that’s a real person.
CHAPTER 11
FLETCHER’S NOT IN the mood to debate names. “Mr. Lamont Cranston” is what it said on the intake sheet. That’s all he knows. So I decide not to push it. All Fletcher cares about right now is bringing this guy back into the land of the living. In fact, he looks a little obsessed.
“Okay. How do we do it?” I ask.
“‘We’?” says Fletcher. “Do you have a medical degree?”
“I get straight-As in science,” I say. “How many bodies have you brought back to life?”
“Actually,” he says, “this would be my first.”
“All right then, let’s call us even. What’s the process?”
Fletcher steps out into the main room and comes back with a stack of old binders and notebooks. Really old. Torn and falling-apart old.
“It’s all in here,” he says. “Theoretically.” He points to his head. “And in here.”
“And the theory is…?” I ask.
I think Fletcher has probably spent so much time alone in this temple of doom that he likes having somebody he can lecture to. He starts flipping through the binders and notebooks, looking back and forth. As he flips, he talks—like he’s been waiting forever to spill it out.
“When Mr. Cranston arrived in 1937, he was dying from ingestion of an erabutoxin, possibly derived from sea snake venom. Incredibly destructive. So before he was clinically dead, his body was cryogenically cooled.”
“He was frozen?”
“Supercooled,” says Fletcher. “Human cells can’t survive actual freezing. Ice crystal formation ruptures the cell membranes. There’s no way you could thaw a fully frozen organism and expect a positive result.”
He points to the IV tube running into the guy’s ankle, right above his rolled-down sock. “He’s been suffused with a vitrification solution to keep his cells viable at low temperature.”
“Like antifreeze?” I ask.
“A bit more complex than that, but yes, similar notion. Under cryogenic deceleration, his heart has been pumping. His blood has been flowing. His cells have been regenerating. But barely. In a hundred and fifty years, he’s probably aged ten.” He taps one of the old notebooks. “If the solution reacts with an electrical charge in the right way, it should restore function.”
“You’re going to electrocute him?”
“Yes,” says Fletcher. “Very gently.”
CHAPTER 12
GENTLY, MY ASS!
The first jolt makes the body jump an inch off the table. Fletcher adjusts the settings on his little hand controller. It’s connected to the coil under the table by a couple of wires. The body settles back down again. Fletcher flinches. This doesn’t look good.
“Well, if he wasn’t dead before,” I say, “he’s probably dead now.”
“Quiet!” said Fletcher. He thumbs through his notebooks again.
I can tell he’s trying to come up with another idea. And he does.
“All right,” he says. “I’m going to try a saline flush.” He points to a metal chest on the other side of the room. “There! Get two bags for me!”
I open the chest. It’s an aluminum cooler filled with sacks of clear fluid. I hand a couple to Fletcher. They feel like thick water balloons. He hooks them to a rack at the side of the table and attaches tubes so that the fluid runs into the IV line, which runs directly into a vein above the guy’s ankle. Then he attaches a syringe to a rubber connector.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“The concentration of the preservative solution might be too high. I’m trying to dilute it. Plus, the saline is conductive.”
“So they covered all this stuff in med school?” I ask. When I’m nervous, I just try to make conversation. Fletcher’s nose is buried in the binders again, turning pages back and forth.
“I’m not a medical doctor,” he says. “I’m a PhD in organic chemistry.” He looks up. “Big disappointment to my family.”
“Great. So what if this guy wakes up and has a heart att
ack?”
“I’m really hoping that doesn’t happen,” says Fletcher.
The IV line is wide open. I can actually see the solution flowing through the tube as Fletcher presses the plunger on the syringe.
“Okay,” says Fletcher. “I’m ready to reapply voltage. Stay clear.” He picks up his little box again, like a kid with an old-time game controller. He turns the dial slowly. The coil begins to whine again. I see the body start to pulse and vibrate, shaking the whole table. Fletcher is sweating. “C’mon! C’mon,” he mumbles. Suddenly, the IV line bursts from under the bandage and whips out, spraying solution all over the place. The body goes into a spasm, then settles back down. Fletcher turns pale and shuts the power off.
“Dammit!” he yells.
At this point, I’m past being grossed out by anything. I grab the end of the IV tube and hold it up. Sticky liquid drips all over my fingers, but I don’t care.
“Fix it!” I say. “Reattach it! Let’s go!”
“It’s not working,” says Fletcher. “I have to modify the protocol.” He shoves the pile of notebooks aside.
At this point, I have no idea if the guy on the table has any life left in him, but it still hurts to see him like this. I put the IV tube down on the side of the table. The back of my hand accidentally brushes the bare skin of the ankle where his sock is rolled down. The skin feels cool, but not ice cold, like I expected. Then, something else—a little shudder. A flicker of movement, right under the skin.
“Wait! Look!” I shout.
Fletcher leans over the table next to me. The ankle twitches again.
“Just a fasciculation—an involuntary muscle movement,” says Fletcher. “A little aftershock.”
But now the spasm gets bigger. It runs up his side until his whole leg is trembling. I move to the head of the table. I see a slight movement in his chin. Maybe I’m just imagining it. Or maybe there’s still a chance.
“There has to be something else we can still do!” I say.
I hate to fail at anything. Always have. Now my face is just a few inches from his. There! Another twitch of the chin. And now a little jerk in his neck.
What happens next is a blur. Don’t ask me to describe my thinking, because I can’t. I’m operating on pure adrenaline. Why else would I lean over and plant my mouth over the mouth of a guy who’s been in a musty vault for more than a century? But that’s what I’m doing. My lips are locked over his. I’m blowing air into him. Yuck. Maybe this is my punishment for cutting class.
I push in a couple of quick breaths. Nothing. Fletcher is frozen like a statue.
He can’t believe this. I can’t either. I adjust my angle. I press my fingers over his nose so air won’t escape. This is nothing like kissing. It’s the opposite of kissing. I feel like a human air pump. I give him two more breaths—harder this time. I feel Fletcher’s hands on my shoulders, pulling me back. “Stop it!” he says. “Are you crazy?”
Suddenly, the guy arches on the table. I hear a deep scratchy rattle in his throat. Then his eyes pop wide open. His head flexes up for a second and then drops back onto the table. His head turns. His eyes look straight at me. His lips move. He gasps. Then he starts talking—slow and hesitant.
“What time is it?” he asks.
I check the clock on the wall.
“Twelve o’clock,” I tell him. “On the dot.”
“And what day is this?”
“July first, 2087,” I say. “Twelve o’clock.”
CHAPTER 13
AT THE WORLD President’s Residence, two levels below the dining room, Sonor Breece, chief of staff, carefully examined the two dead councilwomen. They were now lying naked on stone slabs in what he liked to call his study. “Laboratory” sounded too clinical, although he certainly used the space for experiments.
Unlike the grabby guards outside, Breece had no prurient interest in female bodies. He was interested only in efficiency and effectiveness, and in what the bodies could teach him. He was a scientist and a scholar. The room was filled not just with instruments, but also with beautiful things—leather-bound books, some of the last in existence, graceful furniture, and ancient pottery.
The walls, already two feet thick and made of granite, had been augmented by soundproofing panels, because some of Breece’s procedures could get a bit noisy. But now the silence was broken only by the chirp of a pair of rainbow finches, fluttering from perch to perch in a cage suspended in a corner of the room.
“Pretty birds,” said Breece, in a soft, affectionate voice as he pulled a pair of syringes from a plastic case.
From each woman’s cephalic vein he drew a small sample of blood and deposited it in a petri dish. He used a thin titration tube to add a few drops of test solution. He watched as the mixture bubbled and turned powder pink. Breece frowned. Acceptable potency, but not optimal. For mass quantities, the formula would need to be perfected. He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and jotted down some figures.
Back in his years as a university professor, he would have had a team of assistants to work on the project, but now he would have to do it all himself. No matter. It was a passion for him—researching the very best way to kill the maximum number of people. Breece was fond of the old-fashioned saying “Find a job you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.”
Right now, of course, he had a task that most people would find highly distasteful. For Breece, it was just a matter of selecting the proper tool. He ran his eyes over the two bodies in front of him and made some quick mental calculations.
Yes.
The nine-inch reciprocating saw would work perfectly.
CHAPTER 14
I CAN’T BELIEVE what I’m seeing.
An hour ago, this guy was lying on a metal table. Now he’s sitting in a chair out in the lab, trying to make conversation. Incredible. I can’t even imagine what he must be feeling. At first, his sentences were kind of choppy, as if his brain were broken into a bunch of puzzle pieces. But gradually he’s getting the hang of it. He shrugs off the blanket Fletcher gave him, like he’s in a rush to get back to normal. Does he even remember what normal was? Does he remember anything?
“My name…is Lamont Cranston.” That’s what he keeps saying. I know he’s not Lamont Cranston. Lamont Cranston was a radio detective from the 1930s. Totally fictional. But I decide not to make a thing of it. I’ll call him Lamont for now, just to humor him. We can get his true identity straightened out later. I’m sure he has bigger stuff on his mind. Assuming his mind still works. I think that’s up for grabs. He looks around the room. He looks at Fletcher. He looks at me. His eyes flicker.
“Where is this?” he asks.
Fletcher rolls his saggy old chair up close to him. “Hey,” he says. “Let’s take one thing at a time. Baby steps. Okay? I’m Dr. Fletcher.”
Lamont’s face brightens a little.
“Fenton? Fenton Fletcher?”
Fletcher leans closer.
“Fenton Fletcher was an ancestor of mine,” he says. “Way back. My name is Julian. Julian Fletcher.”
Lamont tries to absorb the connection, but gives up. He turns to me. “And you?”
“I’m Maddy. Maddy Gomes.”
“Why am I here?” asks Lamont.
I look back at Fletcher. He clears his throat. His PhD classes probably didn’t prepare him for this conversation—the one where you tell a guy that he’s been almost dead since the last century.
“Mr. Cranston,” Fletcher says. “You were poisoned. A fatal dose. Back in 1937.”
Lamont blinks. I can almost see his brain starting to make connections. Thinking back. Somewhere in there, neurons must be firing. He rubs his face, starts to talk. Hesitates. Then starts again. His voice is still cracking.
“I died?” he says. “But now I’m alive?”
“Something like that, yes,” says Fletcher.
Lamont exhales slowly.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask. “What do you need?”
Lam
ont looks at me in a way nobody’s ever looked at me before—like he’s actually trying to reach into my mind. Suddenly, he stands up. But he has no sense of balance. He starts to fall forward. I reach out to catch him, but Fletcher gets to him first. Lamont twists away and starts back toward the vault.
“There’s nothing there,” says Fletcher. He’s trying to sound soothing, but Lamont is getting more and more determined. He starts down the dim hallway that leads off the main room. Fletcher moves to block the way.
“Stop,” he says. “You’ll get hurt.”
Fletcher wraps Lamont up in a bear hug and practically carries him back to the chair. Lamont doesn’t have the strength to fight back. Just standing up and moving across the room has taken a lot out of him.
“Margo!” he says. “Margo Lane! Where is she?”
Margo Lane? Wait. I’m totally confused. Margo Lane was Lamont Cranston’s friend and companion. On the radio. There’s no way she’s a real person either.
“Air!” Lamont starts shouting. “I need air!”
CHAPTER 15
ON THE WIDE cement step outside the warehouse, Lamont took his first outdoor breath in a very, very long time. It was a big disappointment. In fact, it reeked. There was someone at his side. The girl. Maddy? Was that her name? Lamont was still trying to figure out who she was. A secretary? A nurse? She was standing close—as if she expected him to tip over.
His brain felt like cotton and his eyes were slightly out of focus. Everything in his view was cloudy. It was just one of the thousand ways in which his body didn’t quite feel like his. He tried to orient himself to his surroundings.
“Is that…the East River?” he asked.
“It is,” said Maddy.
“Why is it so high?” asked Lamont. The brackish water lapped across the bare lot in front of the warehouse, only a few yards from where they stood.
Maddy shrugged. “The water’s been rising for years,” she said. “For as long as I’ve been alive.”
“And what’s that in the air?” Lamont asked. “Is something on fire?” The air near the river was filled with smoke.
The Shadow Page 4
