“Don’t worry,” I say. “I didn’t murder anyone.”
Lamont just sits there sipping his tea.
“I went to the lawyer’s office today and he told me that somebody had left me some kind of inheritance from somebody’s will.”
“An inheritance.” Grandma repeats the word carefully. She looks at Lamont.
“Don’t look at me,” he says. “I never even made out a will.”
Now I launch into the whole story, talking fast. The warehouse. Fletcher. The lab. Lamont waking up. Him asking about Margo. The fact that Lamont has basically been in a coma since 1937. I leave out the stuff about the Shadow for now. I mean, enough is enough.
Grandma listens to everything. Very polite. At the end, I expect her to flip out, or say she doesn’t understand, or that she’s confused, or that she thinks it’s all a big joke. Instead, she just nods.
As if this weren’t strange to her at all.
“We should eat,” she says.
CHAPTER 27
SUPPER WAS PEAS and bacon, cooked on Jessica’s salvaged hot plate. Lamont couldn’t remember what he’d eaten at his last meal, but he doubted that it had been anything like this. This was hunting-camp fare at best.
He took in the tiny apartment: the stained walls, the plastic window sheeting, the threadbare furniture. He was embarrassed by his bare feet, and by the angry black-and-blue bruise above his right ankle. A gentleman never appeared like this in mixed company. But at the moment, his silk socks were in the bathroom, soaking with his Egyptian cotton shirt. And even under these circumstances, dining with mismatched flatware and tin cups, his table manners were impeccable.
“My compliments,” he said.
“You’re too kind,” said Jessica.
Throughout the meal—such as it was—Lamont kept glancing over at Maddy, sitting to his right. In profile, she reminded him a little of Margo. Maybe it was just the blond hair.
“I guess you have a lot to catch up on, Lamont,” said Jessica, as Maddy cleared the plates.
“Things are…confusing,” admitted Lamont.
“He wouldn’t have lasted an hour without me,” called Maddy from the tiny kitchen.
“Probably true,” said Lamont. “Even though you’re a terrible driver.”
“Driver?” said Jessica. She stared at Lamont. “You let Maddy drive your car?” Maddy popped back in from the kitchen.
“Grandma, please—never mind,” said Maddy. “It’s not important.”
Lamont jumped in to change the subject.
“I can’t believe what’s happened to the city,” he said. “The Depression was bad. But this is worse!”
“Not quite the way you remember, is it?” said Jessica.
Lamont shook his head.
“Not quite the way I remember it either,” she said, waving Lamont and Maddy over to the sofa. The lights blinked again and then settled to a yellowish glow. The bulbs gave off a soft buzz.
“Come,” Jessica said gently. “Night school is in session.”
Maddy settled in against Jessica’s shoulder, Bando lay on the floor in front of them. Lamont leaned against the opposite arm of the sofa.
“Where do I start?” said Jessica. From Maddy, Lamont already knew about Gismonde. But only the basics. Now Jessica told him the whole story—about the economic panic that had brought the world to its knees over a decade ago, the growing distance between the haves and have-nots, the last gasp of the United Nations, the new office of world president, and the Alignment—the new world order designed to keep people in their place.
“Who allowed that to happen?” asked Lamont.
“It was meant to be temporary,” said Jessica, “an emergency measure, for global stability. But it just went on and on—and things got worse and worse. There were riots. But they got suppressed. After a while, for most people, it was easier to accept than resist. The people on top got theirs, and nobody cared about the rest.” She pulled a worn blanket up to her waist. “And now, it’s gone so far that it feels impossible to change. Impossible.”
Maddy had clearly heard this history before. Too many times. She closed her eyes, exhausted from the long day. In a few moments, she was asleep. Jessica brushed a tendril of hair from Maddy’s face and kissed her gently on the forehead.
“Now, Lamont,” she said softly. “Tell me about Margo. I want to know everything.”
CHAPTER 28
ACROSS TOWN, NEVA Lyon held her twins by the hand as they waited in line at the Beautiful Day Mission near the Hudson River. Noah, as always, was a fidget machine, but Brie was quiet and calm. The seven-year-olds hadn’t eaten any real food for more than twenty-four hours, only the thin soup at the camp yesterday afternoon. For Neva, it was more like thirty-six hours. She was feeling weak—light-headed and desperate.
“Go to the mission,” people had said. “They have free food Friday nights.”
“Go early,” they added. “There’s always a line.”
For Neva and the twins, early meant arriving at six a.m. Even at that hour, they found themselves at the end of a huge winding queue. It had been a very long day. At seven p.m., the doors opened. Right on time.
It was another two hours until Neva and her kids even got close. At one point, Noah said he could smell grilled cheese, but Neva said it was just his imagination. Peanut butter and jelly would be more like it, she thought. Or oatmeal. Whatever was cheapest to make in vast quantities.
“Are we really getting food, Mommy?” said Brie, stuffing her small hands into her mother’s frayed pockets.
“I hope so, sweetie,” said Neva. “Just a little longer.”
They shuffled a few paces closer. A few yards ahead, Neva saw a family of five squeeze through the doors. She could already hear low murmuring from inside. Two more families ahead of them in line. Then it would be their turn. Neva leaned over and kissed the top of each twin’s head.
“Remember,” she said. “‘Please’ and ‘thank you.’”
The kids nodded.
“And when a grownup says, ‘Have a beautiful day,’ what do we say?”
“‘And you as well,’” said the kids in singsong twin unison.
One more family through. This was it. They were next!
The door opened again, but just a crack this time. A man in black overalls stared out from the inside. Behind him, Neva could see narrow tables arranged in long neat rows, family-style. The aroma of tomatoes and browned beef wafted out in a momentary tease. Noah and Brie tugged forward. But the door did not open any wider.
“Sorry,” the man said. “We’re full for tonight. Try next week.”
The metal door slid shut, followed by the sound of a heavy latch falling into place on the other side. Neva was stunned, then furious.
“Next week?” she shouted. “What do you mean, ‘next week’?” She pounded her fists on the door. A chorus of shouts rose from behind her. “Feed us! Feed us!” A second later, the crowd rushed forward in a fury. The strongest stayed on their feet. The weak were simply plowed under. Neva was crushed up against the metal door. She felt her children being ripped away from her in the frenzy. She heard Brie scream.
“Brie! Noah!” she shouted, barely able to turn her head.
Neva thrust her arms straight out, pushing away from the door with everything she had. Slowly, she muscled herself sideways through surging bodies toward the sound of her daughter’s voice.
“Brie! Noah!” she called again.
“Feed us! Feed us!” The chant grew in volume as it spread through the hundreds of people behind her, nearly drowning her out. She shoved her way past men twice her size, twisting this way and that, her eyes wide and searching. “Mommy!” Noah’s voice.
She saw them low to the ground, huddled together like stones in a stream as the crowd charged around them. With one final shove, Neva managed to duck down and grab her children.
“Stay with me!” she said, her arms tight around them.
Together, they half stumbled, half crawl
ed to the edge of the crowd, until they broke free and collapsed on the fringe. The crowd milled around the front of the feeding center like a herd of crazed animals, shouting and pounding on the metal door.
“Can’t we eat tonight, Mommy?” asked Brie softly. Neva wiped a streak of dirt from her daughter’s face.
“Not right now, sweetie,” said Neva, and then, trying to put her best spin on it, “Who cares? It’s too crowded here anyway.”
They stood up and began the long walk back to their camp. Neva held her kids close. Somehow, she managed a hopeful smile and a squeeze for each of them.
“We can do better,” she said.
CHAPTER 29
SONOR BREECE DETESTED field research. Too many variables. Too little control. He preferred precise calibrations to crude estimates. Here, the only accurate piece of equipment was the vintage stopwatch in his pocket.
The Beautiful Day Mission was located in a Quonset hut, repurposed from an industrial farm upstate. Inside, curved panels arched up to a central beam. The floor was a mixture of raw dirt and sawdust. The air was filled with the aroma of fresh stew and intense body odor. Around the interior walls, guards were stationed at even intervals. They could hear muffled pounding and shouts from outside, but they weren’t expecting any trouble in here. The people who made it through the doors were only interested in one thing. Being fed.
At the head of each table, a uniformed server held a tray of tin bowls, steaming in the cool air. Breece had emphasized how important it was that everybody be served at the same time. Now the servers all looked to him, like musicians to their maestro.
Breece gave the signal. The bowls went down in quick succession all down the line on every table. In his pocket, he pressed the stem of his stopwatch.
The guests grabbed plastic spoons and plunged in hungrily. Seconds before, there had been a low hum of conversation and anticipation. Now the hangar-like space was virtually silent, except for some noisy slurping. One large man abandoned his spoon altogether. He lifted his bowl to his mouth, drinking in the stew like water and letting his red beard catch the spillover.
He was the first to react.
As soon as his empty bowl hit the table, his eyes rolled back and a trickle of white foam began to spill over his beard. He rocked slightly. A small girl across the table pointed and laughed—but only for a second. Then she began spewing white bubbles of her own. The effect was sudden and devastating.
Up and down the rows, people collapsed wordlessly to the ground, where the rough sawdust absorbed leakage from their mouths. The servers and guards stood motionless.
At Breece’s nod, the servers began to pick their way through the twitching bodies to the far end of the building, where the doors ran almost the whole width of the structure. As the heavy panels were rolled back, they revealed three trucks idling outside, their massive steel beds empty and waiting.
Breece walked through the dining area. His rubber boots did not suit his sense of style, but they were a necessary precaution against the mess. Here and there a hand reached up as if to claw at his heels, but for the most part, it was over quickly.
“Have a beautiful day,” he said, looking around. There was no response.
“What’s the count?” Breece called out.
“Seventy-five!” one of the guards shouted back.
Breece surveyed the still forms around him. He clicked his stopwatch and pulled it from his pocket. The red sweep hand was stopped at 30.
Seventy-five people. Thirty seconds. Breece sighed.
He could do better.
CHAPTER 30
HOURS AFTER DINNER, Lamont was still energized. But he was the only one. Maddy was in deep dreams on the sofa with Bando curled around her feet. Jessica had handed Lamont a pile of blankets and a pillow before retiring to the tiny alcove that she called her bedroom. The long talk had worn her out, she said.
Jessica had been so curious about Margo, and Lamont had been eager to share their whole history. He told her how he and Margo had teamed up to fight crime and corruption in the 1930s. How their work relationship had evolved into romance. And, of course, about that horrible night. At least as much as he could remember.
“She was with me,” Lamont told Jessica. That much he was sure of. “I had her in my arms!” And then, “Wherever she is, whatever happened to her, I have to find her.”
“You will. I know it,” Jessica said. She had sounded so certain. Just before turning in, she had squeezed Lamont around the shoulders.
“For now,” she had whispered, “I’m just glad Maddy found you.”
The apartment was quiet now, except for the muffled sound of voices coming through the wall from next door. Lamont couldn’t make out the words, only the mood—weary and hopeless.
He saw his tux hanging on the outside of the bathroom door. He felt the cuffs and lower legs. Still damp. Then he noticed a small lump in the right pocket of his tuxedo pants. A coin? A key? He reached in. As his fingers touched the object, his heart started to pound.
Slowly and carefully, he pulled out the object—an exquisite diamond ring.
Lamont fell back against the wall. Ever since he’d been revived, he’d been running on pure instinct and filaments of memory. But this was something else. In one second, a wash of feelings came back, and this time he remembered every detail.
The ring had come from his favorite Forty-Seventh Street jeweler, an expert who had vouched for the stone’s cut, clarity, color, and carats. Lamont remembered putting the black velvet box in his jacket pocket before he left for the restaurant, and then realizing that the shape of the box would be a dead giveaway to somebody as observant as Margo. So instead, he’d slipped the bare ring into his pants pocket, within easy reach when the perfect moment arrived.
Lamont’s mind flashed to Margo’s face—first radiant and smiling, then pale and terrified. He saw a blur of toys on a ceiling, plates on a floor, stunned waiters, and the elegant maître d’. The flashes were fleeting, but they left Lamont perspiring and short of breath.
He tried to focus his mind by concentrating on the present. Where he was right now, at this moment. He stared across the room at Maddy, her blond hair strung across the sofa cushion. He heard Jessica snoring from the next room. Then his mind started tumbling in crazy directions again. Why was Jessica so interested in Margo? It was almost as if she’d known her too. Then, the craziest thought of all: Was it possible that Jessica was Margo? There was some resemblance in the features and in the personality. By some miracle, had she somehow been revived before him? Had she been waiting for him all this time? That would explain the difference in years. Was she toying with him?
No. Not possible. He would recognize Margo when he saw her. Even a very old Margo. He had no doubt of that.
Lamont began to pad around the apartment slowly, trying to absorb everything. The detective in him took over. The Shadow in him. He ran his hands over shelves and walls, as if searching for a secret passage. He moved silently, still in his bare feet. When he looked out the window down onto the street, he saw shapes moving along the sidewalk in the darkness. To the north, he saw small patches of bright lights—the enclaves of people who were rich and privileged. Like he used to be.
As Lamont crept around the partition into the tiny kitchen, his hip bumped into a battered credenza with a single center drawer. He wrapped his fingers around the worn knob and pulled the drawer open, inch by inch. Inside, he saw a corner of pale yellow under a jumble of small white candles. He moved the candles aside to uncover an envelope—so old that it looked ready to crumble.
Maybe it would give him some clues. Anything was better than nothing.
Lamont lifted the envelope and pressed the sides to widen the gap at the unsealed end. He held the opening up to the light and peered inside. The envelope held a single thick sheet. Lamont slid it partway out, and then dropped it as if he’d been burned.
It was a photograph of Margo.
CHAPTER 31
THE NEXT MORNING, S
aturday, Lamont was up early. The blankets on the floor had not made for a very restful night’s sleep. And he couldn’t get the picture of Margo off his mind. He slid on his now dry silk socks and dress shoes, slipped out into the hall, and went down the stairs, moving slowly and quietly.
When he pushed open the door to the sidewalk, the smoky air filled his nostrils again, but he was almost used to it by now. The important thing was that his appetite was returning. He needed food. And coffee!
The street was mostly deserted, but there was a buzz around a small shop on the corner. Lamont saw people coming and going, some emerging with small bundles and paper bags. He walked to the end of the block and pushed open the dirty glass door. A small bell tinkled. A gaunt man in a ratty vest sat on a stool behind the counter.
The shelves were dusty and sparsely stocked. A few large bins sat on the floor in the middle of the shop. Lamont watched a woman reach in and pull out a carton of eggs and a small container of milk. She walked to the counter and put down a crumpled bill and a few coins. She looked up at the counterman. He hesitated for a second, then gathered the money in his hands.
“Close enough,” he said, waving the woman out the door with her purchases.
Lamont paced the narrow aisles. He saw simple bags of flour, sugar, and salt. Wooden baskets held a pitiful assortment of fruit, just some spotty apples and a few misshapen pears. A magical, timeless aroma wafted from a metal machine on a small stand in the corner with a sign reading FREE COFFEE WITH PURCHASE.
Lamont opened one of the coolers and pulled out eggs, milk, and butter.
He grabbed small bags of sugar, flour, and salt from a shelf, then a jar of strawberry jam. He poured himself a coffee from the carafe and took his first delicious sip. It was only when his arms and hands were totally full that he realized that he had no money to pay for anything. Not one cent.
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