“Just until it’s tested,” he said. “Just until you can figure out where it’s been made. Most manna’s still fine to eat—and it’ll have manufacturing information stamped on the packaging. But Canaan Products ships the base ingredients for other brands, like Park Avenue, so you’ll need to sort out where the manna came from before you can say it hasn’t been reformulated. The stuff in your cupboard, especially. Just toss it all out. They’ve been trying to pull it from the shelves, but you don’t want to take a chance that you get an older batch.”
“What are the specific dates?”
“I have no idea. But a good rule of thumb—if you’ve had a sudden, unexplained weight gain,” or if your kid was trying to consume you, “then chances are, your usual brand is no good, and you need to lay off the manna.”
The reporter said, “Then what should people eat?” and tilted her mike toward Nelson again.
“Anything high in protein and fat should help ameliorate the hunger until your hormones even out again.” Even the clever reporter looked blank in response to that explanation, and no wonder. It ranked up there with the pistachio joke in terms of obscurity. “Anything made with dairy or eggs. Nuts. Peanut butter.”
“That would cost a fortune,” one of the reporters deep in the group called out.
“Then some of the soy manna-alternatives should work. And if you can’t afford that—even the pre-packaged veg mixes will be better than nothing. They’re mostly water and fiber, but at least they’ll fill you up while your leptin receptors recover.”
Someone pushed into Nelson’s side as he got the final words out and shoved a Fox News microphone in his face. “How long have you been trying to get a job at Canaan Products, and how many times have you been rejected?”
“That’s it,” Javier snapped. “This interview is over.” And when it seemed as if the reporters and the cameramen would physically prevent them from leaving, he gave one of them a good shove, and another a searing, one-eyed glare, and grudgingly, the media stepped aside and let Nelson and Javier make their way down the marble stairs—albeit through a gauntlet of insulting questions.
“Did you see,” Nelson said in Javier’s ear. “That was ABC.”
“That was live,” Javier said. Oh yes, he saw plenty. “You’re lucky it was Melinda Jackson and not Rob Hewitt.”
“I know I went against orders, Sir, but come on. I couldn’t just say nothing.”
“Shut up,” Javier said affectionately. He slid his arm around Nelson’s waist and shoved through a tenacious group of newspaper reporters with his shoulder. “There’s Marianne—I see her hair. And that ridiculous coat. And…Tim.”
Tim? Nelson gave Javier a shove of his own. “Then get a move on.”
His eyes began to grudgingly adjust to the light as they shoved and hustled, and the farther away from the forefront of the reporters they got, the dicier the credentials became—and the more willing Javier was to smack someone with an elbow or stomp on their foot to make some room. No doubt Nelson would find a fresh crop of bruises on himself—it was almost as bad as the riot—or maybe he could entice Javier and Tim into taking a look, too. Tim—there he was, towering above the mega-political-looking dykes all around him, face lighting up as he caught Nelson’s eye. Almost there now, just a few more ranks of reporters to push through. Closer still, and yes, there was Marianne in that funky old coat. One more row of guys with digital recorders, and there was Tim, opening his arms wide…
…and gesturing, beside him, to Bobby.
Nelson broke away from Javier and rushed to gather Bobby in his arms. The kid smelled like smoke and B.O. and vomit—and who cared? Nelson squeezed him hard enough to lift him off the ground, and swung him around and around until he fell into someone—Randy—laughing and crying and saying his boy’s name, over and over, as if it was impossible to comprehend he was really, truly here.
“I love you, kiddo,” Nelson said as he pressed kisses into Bobby’s reeking hair. “I love you so much.”
“Can’t…breathe…” Bobby said.
Nelson laughed, and eased up on the squeezing. Slightly.
He was so giddy with relief to have his son in his arms, he didn’t notice the security guards closing in until one of them jammed a bullhorn in his face, and out thundered the words that nearly split his head in two: “Which one of you is Tim Foster?”
Chapter 33
It was amazing, really, how quickly elation could turn to horror. One moment, Tim was watching Nelson whirling Bobby around, and he was bursting with pride—pride that he’d done that, him, the guy who’d thought he could only make a difference through pixels and bandwidth, but instead he’d delved into the belly of the beast, and come out the hero.
The next moment, Tim thought he might wet his pants—because they’d been onto him from the moment he hit the “upload” button—and now he was completely, and utterly, screwed.
One of the security guards shoved Tim out of the way, raised the bullhorn to his mouth, and shouted at the NPR van, “Where is Tim Foster?” The van. Somehow, the 4G connection had been traced. And fast. Tim closed the netbook and slid it into a trash can. He scanned the crowd. It was thinning all around them as news crews backed up and trained their cameras on the security guards in case the situation turned newsworthy. Maybe he could slip away. There—a path was opening up. If he was casual about it, security might never notice one guy in the crowd walking the opposite way.
And then they converged on Joni and the NPR sound engineer she’d been networking with.
Tim’s heart sank.
The guard lowered his bullhorn. His eyes darted nervously as he shouted over the crowd noise, “Tim Foster. Which one is he?”
Without missing a beat, without so much as glancing in Tim’s direction, Joni said, “Who?”
“Tim Foster.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
Gratitude surged through Tim. He’d never think that Joni had a big nose again. As far as he was concerned, her nose was perfect. All noses were perfect. On everyone. Everywhere.
“I need to see some I.D.,” the other guard, an older guy with graying stubble, told the sound tech. The tech shrugged, unclipped a press pass from the hem of his shirt, and held it up for the guard to read.
An NPR reporter climbed out of the van and said, “What’s this all about?” but since she was female, the guards ignored her. They sized up the crowd, then the nervous one pointed to the guy with the wooden stretcher plugs, who’d just returned from the port-a-potty. “You.” And to Randy. “You. All of you in that group. Get over here.”
Tim backed up a few steps, and the guard looked him in the eye and said, “You, too.” He flanked them, with one hand on his pepper spray, and said, “Look, let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be. Get your I.D. out and—”
“I’ll do no such thing,” Javier argued, and Randy, who’d been reaching for his wallet, changed his mind and planted his hands on his hips.
“We can do this the easy way,” the older guard said, “or the hard way. We check your I.D.s, or we just hold all of you until the cops get here.”
“Hold us?” Javier demanded, “on what grounds?” If it were just the older guard Javier was talking to, Tim wouldn’t have been concerned. “This street is public property. You have no authority here.” That guard looked like he could deal with a rash of vandalism, a bomb threat and a missing baby—all before breakfast—without even breaking a sweat.
But the guard with the bullhorn might decide his pepper spray needed a little target practice.
Tim marshaled his courage, took a deep breath and said, “I’m—” just as Randy hollered, “Hey, dickhead, over here. Chill the fuck out. I’m Tim Foster.”
Everyone turned to face Randy, who held up his empty hands as if to dare someone to pull a weapon on him, unarmed, in front of a dozen cameras. The guards converged on Randy, and the calm one said, “Okay, bigmouth. Come with us.”
They each took one of his elbo
ws and began leading him toward the Manhattan Minute studio, when Marianne pulled on a bizarre lime green hat with a pom-pom on top, darted out in front of them, and shrieked, “He’s not Tim Foster…I am.”
Both of the guards stopped, and stared.
Marianne stared right back at them and said, “Oh, that’s me, all right. It’s my pen name. Tim Foster.” She crossed her arms, threw her shoulders back, and said, “I’m the Voice of Reason.”
The guards looked at each other and shook their heads. The older guard rolled his eyes and said, “All right, all of you. Get inside.”
He caught Marianne by the upper arm, and she started to struggle. “Don’t you dare touch me.”
“Look, lady, calm down.”
“I’ll sue you! I will! You can’t push me around like that! I have a medical condition! I’m pregnant.”
The guards locked eyes, and the nervous one said, “Why do all the wackos show up on my shift?”
“Just put her in the green room with the other crazy chick. Maybe they’re from the same planet.”
“I’m Tim Foster,” Randy said reasonably. “Not her. That’s my blog. Check and see. I just posted a picture of a bunch of bloody kids tied up in The Tombs.”
“Right. You’re coming with us.” The older guard scanned the crowd and said, “Anyone else here go by the name of Tim Foster?”
Tim could still try to slip away—but what good would it do? If the cops were looking for him, no doubt they were monitoring his apartment. Why give them any reason to come in and seize all his equipment? Besides, the most incriminating things he owned—his netbook, and all his printouts—were stashed in the truck. The truck would be better off where it was now, parked on a side street between a pair of SUVs. “I’m Tim Foster,” he said—and his own name sounded strange as it left his mouth.
The twitchy guard nudged him into place alongside Marianne, and said, “Come on, Spartacus. Join the party.”
The stretcher plug guy grabbed Tim as he was being herded into place, and said, “What happened to my—” but then he thought better of retrieving his netbook, and mumbled, “never mind.” The guards both looked at him, and he said, “I’m not Tim Foster.”
They didn’t let him walk away until they’d checked his identification. “Anyone else?” the nervous guard called out. Javier met Tim’s eyes, and Tim shook his head, telling him not to hop on the Tim Foster bandwagon. Not again. Nelson, holding on to Bobby for dear life beside Javier, might need him. Tim would be okay. He had Randy. And Marianne…who was still pitching a fit even as they led her back up the marble stairs and through a handicap entrance back into the lobby.
“D’you think we need to separate them?” the nervous guard asked his partner. He seemed a lot calmer now that he was inside, and no longer surrounded by a mob of potential problems.
“Where else are we gonna put ’em? If we use any of the dressing rooms, we’ll get our asses handed to us.”
“Good point.”
“Wherever you’re taking me,” Marianne said, “there’d better be a bathroom…or else someone here will have a really nasty job ahead of them.”
“It’s a green room,” the not-so-nervous guard said wearily. “Yeah, there’s a toilet. And coffee and soda and manna, and a bunch of TVs. It’s practically a luxury spa.”
As they approached, the hallway didn’t look particularly threatening. The lighting was pleasantly subdued and walls were a cheerful sunny gold. Promotional photos of the anchors lined both sides of the hall, interspersed with framed awards and clippings. But the muffled, high-pitched shrieking coming from behind the closed door was a bit daunting.
“The cops should be here any minute,” the older guard said. He opened the door, and the volume of the yelling peaked, then went silent.
“You find him?” said a woman with a thick accent. “You bring him?”
“Still looking,” the guard said. “But we did bring you some company.”
They ushered Tim, Randy and Marianne into the green room, which also wasn’t particularly threatening—and once Tim got a look at the source of the commotion, neither was she. The young Asian woman was tiny. The collar hung in shreds from her lavender jacket. Her hair hung in long tangles, and she had a mascara track running down the center of each cheek.
Marianne, in her green hat and leopard coat, marched right up to the girl, stroked her arm, and said, “Are you okay?”
“They think I crazy.” She gave a venomous look to the guards, who were already out in the hallway and closing the door. “They not listen.”
“Watch out,” the guard said. “She kicks.”
The door shut, then locked. The Asian woman tossed her hair, and said distinctly, though the L sounded a bit like an R, “Asshole.”
“They didn’t hurt you,” Marianne said, “did they?”
The Asian lady shook her head. “My son’s father is here. On TV. They no listen.” And while Tim hated to think that all Asians looked the same to him, he was particularly struck by the way her annoyed pout looked a hell of a lot like Bobby’s.
And then his heart did a joyous little lurch.
“Are you looking for Nelson?”
The woman’s face lit up at the sound of Nelson’s name. “Yes—Nelson.” That L sounded a bit like an R, too. “He here. On TV.”
Inside Tim, something shifted, in the way it did when he was trying to hack a particularly daunting software issue, and no matter what he tweaked, nothing seemed to come together—until he saw it, that tiny string of code, sometimes as minor as a single character, where the smallest change made all the difference in the world.
“What’s your name?”
“Pham Thi Tuyet.”
Asian names—first name last. Tuyet. Tim’s heart was pounding now. Hard. “You live with Nelson?”
“You know Nelson?”
“Yeah. I know Nelson.” And like a routine that had been stuck but was now running smoothly, Tim felt a rush of excitement course through him like results scrolling up a window too quickly to read. “He’s here, he’s okay…he’s right outside.”
And her son was okay, too—she must be worried sick, what with the riot, and then the explosion. But her mother was definitely not okay. The image of her mother’s body laid out on the tarp among all the other bodies flashed past his mind’s eye. As he struggled to sort out what to say (or not say), the door banged open, just moments after it had been shut, and a pair of grim-looking white guys in suits strode in. The one with a touch of gray at his temple looked at Tim and said, “Tim Foster? Please come with us.”
Although it was prefaced with the word please, it sounded a lot more like an order than a request. “He’s not Tim Foster,” Marianne said, but they were so focused on Tim, it was obvious they knew exactly who he was.
Head spinning with horrific images of The Tombs, Tim followed the suited men into a small conference room. “Agent Collins, FBI,” said the second agent, a younger man with glasses, and hard blue eyes behind them. He indicated the first agent and said, “this is Agent Donahue. Have a seat.”
Tim would have preferred to remain standing, but his knees were so rubbery he didn’t think his legs would hold him. The FBI? That was serious. That was beyond serious. That was Federal Penitentiary-level serious. They knew he’d hacked into Canaan Products…they knew he was the Voice of Reason…hell, they probably knew he’d shoplifted a comic book from the corner gas station when he was twelve, and even though he’d felt so guilty he left a five-dollar bill on the counter once he’d gotten his allowance, the damage had already been done.
“I’m not saying anything without my lawyer,” he said. His voice was rusty, and it broke on the last word.
Agent Donahue said, “Mr. Foster, you’re not being charged with anything.”
Tim was on his feet before he even realized what he was doing. Between listening to the bragging of the LGBT activists who were on a first-name basis with the local police, and the nightly reports of Phil’s tedious days at th
e law firm, he knew damn well that if he wasn’t being charged with something….
“Then I’m free to leave.”
Collins and Donahue didn’t seem prone to exaggerated eye-rolling or melodramatic sighs—but both of their expressions shifted slightly, in a way that indicated that perhaps they wished they were. “Mr. Foster,” Collins said, “please, sit down.”
That, at least, did sound more like a request than a demand. Tim perched on the edge of his chair, not because he wanted to comply, but because he was so flooded with adrenaline that he wasn’t even sure he could still feel his feet.
The younger agent, Collins, seated himself across from Tim. “What we were hoping was that you could provide some additional information about Canaan Products.”
“Why would I know anything about Canaan—”
“Could we cut the crap?” Collins said. Tim had assumed, probably because he wore glasses, that Collins would be more intellectual. Apparently Tim had been harboring all sorts of really stupid presumptions he’d never been aware of. “You’re a longtime member of several activist groups, you publish the site Voice of Reason, and we picked up your license plate right outside the Pamoda Building shitstorm.”
No, not very intellectual at all.
“I had nothing to do with the riot.”
“No one’s saying you did,” Donahue said, more calmly than Collins, as if his additional years in the Bureau had resulted in a bit more patience.
“Except the police,” Tim muttered.
“We went through a lot of effort to track you down once you left your apartment,” Collins said, “During a time when resources were stretched tight with looting and accidents and what have you. Don’t you owe it to your fellow New Yorkers to tell us what you know?”
“How long have you been following…?” escaped before Tim could help it. So much for keeping his mouth shut.
“Your site’s been on our radar. That can’t be news to you.” As if he hadn’t just well and truly blown Tim’s mind, Collins went on. “Now, this guy they just interviewed had some interesting things to say about ‘manna starvation’….”
The Starving Years Page 29
