“It’ll take her a minute to catch her breath,” Leandro said. “You shouldn’t make her laugh like that. It’s not good for her.”
Laughter, not the best medicine. “It wasn’t a laugh line.”
“Two laugh lines: not a Tesla and pigeon keeper,” Leandro chuckled. “Just when you think the mighty can’t fall any further.”
Joe wasn’t sure how to take that, but any way he looked at it, it counted as an insult.
Celeste came back on. “Sorry, darling, that was too funny.”
“Don’t go letting the tragedy of my life’s circumstances cause you to work yourself into a state.”
“Now you’re angry.” She cleared her throat. “But your ancestry is irrelevant. No less an august paper than The New York Times called you ‘the reclusive genius who revolutionized law enforcement.’ You are who you are and whether your great-great-whatever-uncle was a famous inventor or not, you’ve left your legacy.”
“That makes it sound like I’m already dead.”
“Aren’t we all?” She coughed again.
“I have a surprise for you,” Joe said.
“Tell me.”
“Can you look out your window?” He’d already written the code to hack the smart lighting fixtures installed in the office building across from her apartment. The security on them was practically nonexistent.
Leandro came on the line. “I’m moving her. It’s not easy, so this better be damn good.”
“I’m at the window,” Celeste said.
Joe pressed a button on his phone. It should run the code he’d set up a week ago.
“Oh.” Celeste sounded surprised. “A heart.”
He’d turned off every light on her side of the building, then turned on only the ones that would form a heart. He’d been saving it for some night, but Celeste often went to bed before the sun went down these days.
“That’s lovely.” He heard the smile in her voice. “A little sappy.”
“I thought you’d say that.” He pressed another button to change to a different set of lights.
Celeste laughed again and then went into another coughing fit.
Was it too much? He didn’t want her to hurt herself.
Leandro’s voice again, and he was laughing, too. “Damn fine work, Joe. You showed my sister a heart, then flipped her off.”
It had worked. Joe tapped another key to restore the building to its original lighting. “She knows what I mean.”
“Thanks, dude.” For the first time in a long time, it sounded like Leandro meant it, but before Joe could say anything else, he hung up.
Edison leaned against his leg and thumped his tail once (cyan). The dog knew he was upset, but how could he not be when he thought about Celeste? She was an incredible, vibrant woman—tough, reckless, and phenomenally talented. Although she’d never needed to work a day in her life, she’d struggled to become an admired artist. Painting was one of the first things the disease had taken from her.
Just as his condition took her from him. They’d dated years before, but he had not been exciting enough for her, and she’d moved on. Now that they both were crippled, they’d become closer than ever, at least emotionally. But physically they would never meet again—she couldn’t leave her penthouse apartment, and he couldn’t get to it. He’d checked all the city plans, and her building was too modern to have steam-tunnel or subway access.
Edison nudged him, and he stood. No point in dwelling on all that he couldn’t have. He should be grateful for what he did. Celeste on the phone was better than no Celeste at all.
“Good dog.” He palmed a treat for Edison.
They walked out through the concourse and down to the Oyster Bar. Joe admired the vaulted ceilings in the restaurant, so different from the rest of Grand Central’s architecture. They’d been state of the art when built, but they looked medieval. He liked that.
Giovanni hurried over. His wavy black hair was artfully disheveled, and his face was flushed. “Mr. Tesla! We have your corner table prepared. I will take you there!”
Joe followed him. He liked to sit in the corner so Edison could lie down next to the wall and be out of everyone’s way. He didn’t want anyone stepping on his dog.
Giovanni tapped a white dog dish on the floor, full of water. “It’s such a hot day! Maybe Edison would like a drink, too? Nice and cold for him.”
Joe thanked him, and Edison gave him a tail wag before ducking his head over the bowl.
Joe listened to the lapping sound of Edison drinking and the clinking of glass and silverware on plates. A low rumble of conversation drifted across the room, and Joe sipped the ice-cold water Giovanni brought him. He felt comfortable here, safe and easy.
He let his phone connect to the network, then answered a few emails from work. He’d had trouble concentrating after the funeral, and emails had piled up. His inbox was a giant conveyor belt. Stacks of messages just kept coming.
His mother was late, of course. He’d learned long ago that she was on time only for her performances. For everything else, the world could wait for her.
But he didn’t want to wait. He wanted to ask her about his father. He picked up his spoon and stared at his big-nosed reflection—a face he must have inherited from the Smiths. So what if he was a Smith instead of a Tesla?
Did it matter?
It mattered. All Joe’s life, his father had pressed and pushed him to be smarter, cleverer, quicker—to be a Tesla. His father’s Tesla obsession had driven his parents apart, and it turns out they were never Teslas to begin with.
Joe was ten years old and sitting in the tiny booth at the front of the trailer. At night, the table leg folded to the floor and the tabletop folded down until it was level with the seats. His mother would take the bedding from its storage bin under the right booth and put it on the tabletop and seats, and Joe would sleep there.
During the day his bed turned back into a table where the family ate dinner and where he sat to do his homework. He always had a lot of homework—his father made sure of it.
Today he was supposed to draw the periodic table from memory using a blue pencil. He had to put in each element name, its symbol, and its atomic number. He drew the grid—18 columns (cyan, purple) and 7 (slate) plus 2 (blue) rows below. He knew the edges—the alkali metals on the left and the noble gases on the right—but then he had to slow down to think of the others.
“You must know this, Joe,” his father admonished. “You are a Tesla. The world expects greatness from you: brilliance, wisdom, and courage.”
“None of the other kids in the show know any of this.” Joe set down the pencil and crossed his arms.
A muscle in his father’s jaw throbbed, and Joe flinched.
“Let me get you a glass of milk.” His father rose and went to the tiny refrigerator. “You’ll think better with some milk.”
Joe didn’t see how milk could help his thinking, but knew better than to say so after his father made that face. His mother was away rehearsing in the tent, and he and his father were alone in the trailer. His father was meaner when they were alone.
His father filled the milk glass, a jelly glass with Barney Rubble painted on the front, but instead of bringing it to the table, he turned his back and hunched his shoulders.
Joe looked out at the red-and-white striped tent pitched several yards away. He’d be safer there. Farnsworth would let him feed Binky the elephant if he shoveled out her cage. Farnsworth was the veterinarian who looked after the circus’s animals, and sometimes the people. Farnsworth drank like Joe’s dad, but it didn’t make him angry. It made Farnsworth funny.
His father set the glass next to Joe’s work. The white milk shone against the pink scar in his palm.
“How did you get that scar on your hand?” Joe asked, as he had often before.
“Hubris.” His father gave his usual answer. “Now drink up.”
Joe took a sip. The milk was so cold it made his lips numb.
“Drink it up,” his f
ather ordered. “It’s good for you.”
Joe drank. His lips and tongue felt weird for a minute, but the feeling went away.
“Now, back to work,” his father said.
Joe ran over the elements, their numbers a blur of colors in his head. He ran his finger across the elements he had completed: Hydrogen, Helium, Beryllium, Boron, Carbon, Nitrogen, and Fluorine. That was a good start.
His heart skipped a beat, then raced. He remembered all the elements at once. He had to get them down before they disappeared. His hand flew across the paper. He filled in square after square. He’d never felt so sure, so smart. His brain raced along like greyhounds he’d once seen at a track. They were nothing but gray streaks.
The door opened, and his mother came in. Her hair was up in a bun like it was when she performed, but she was wearing her old red leotard, the one she wore for practice. The tights had a hole in the left knee.
“What are you writing so fast over there?” she asked. “Secrets?”
“It’s the periodic table of the elements,” he said. “I’ve completed the first four rows, and I have three more to go, and then I’ll be on to the man-made ones. Can you imagine doing that? Smashing together things to create a whole new element? One that never existed in the whole universe before, and one that will only be around for a tiny slice of time? But it would still be there, and you would know you made it.”
She looked between him and his father, and her brows drew down like they did when she was angry. But why? He’d learned the elements. He was being a Tesla.
“Come see.” He lifted the paper to show her, but he was moving too fast, and it ripped. Just a tiny bit on the edge. He could tape that back together. “I thought of drawing in pictures of what the elements actually look like in real life, but I only know it for a few of them, so I didn’t do it because I thought they wouldn’t all match.”
His mother’s cool hand cupped his chin, and she looked down into his eyes. Her eyes were clear brown, like the tea she drank every day with breakfast. Right now trouble shifted behind her eyes, but he didn’t know why.
She let go of his chin and looked at his father. When she spoke, she used the super calm and deep voice she used when she was really angry. “What did you give him?”
“Just milk.” His father looked at his scuffed shoes. Joe could tell he was lying.
“Men in this circus will beat you until you tell me,” she said.
Joe jerked his head up. “I’m fine. I feel great. My mind is sharp and clear and fast and good. There’s nothing wrong. Nothing at all.”
“Coke?” His mother’s calm voice was directed to his father. She ignored Joe.
But his father hadn’t given him Coke. They didn’t even have soda in the trailer. That was for suckers. You could charge them a fortune for sugar water. His father always said so.
“Tatiana—”
“How much?”
The question hung in the air, until finally his father’s face crumpled up, and he spoke. “Maybe a quarter gram. Not much.”
She touched Joe’s shoulder. “We’re going to see Farnsworth, Joe.”
His father stood, too, as if he were coming along.
“When we come back,” she said to his father, “you will be gone from this place.”
“I don’t have a car.”
“If you are still here, I will feed you to Merle. And no one will stop me.”
Merle was the lion Joe had been warned to stay away from. Not that he needed any warning. Merle spent his days pacing his cage, snaking his paw out whenever anyone came close, and peeing through the bars. They’d bought him a few months before and were looking for a sucker to unload him on. Merle would eat his father, no problem.
“Don’t hurt him,” Joe said. “He didn’t do anything.”
“Enough.” She put her hand on top of Joe’s head and pulled him in closer to her. He stopped arguing.
“You will vanish, George,” she said to his father. “Or I will make you vanish.”
Edison nudged Joe’s shoe. He put down the spoon, packed away the memory, and petted the dog.
Chapter 7
Quantum stopped at a park bench to stretch his calf muscles. He’d been keeping an eye on the entrance to the Waldorf Astoria hotel and on a suspicious gray-bearded hippie sitting on a bench in front of it. The guy had a Wall Street Journal, which didn’t match his outfit, and he’d been pretending to read it while glancing at the hotel door every minute or so. Not subtle.
Quantum was here to watch for a certain woman to leave the hotel. After she left, he had orders to search her room for documents in Nikola Tesla’s handwriting, and also for the Oscillator. Ash had given him the assignment, and he was thrilled to be trusted with something this important.
He leaned into the stretch, thinking about Ash. He hadn’t managed to uncover much about him, but he was willing to bet that the guy was loaded. His Spooky actions always started with insider knowledge. Ash knew what happened off-line in the corridors of power and then used his online teams to screw things up. He was powerful in ways that Quantum only dreamed about. But maybe Ash would share some of that power and wealth. Whether he wanted to or not.
The old hippie shifted on the bench. He wore faded jeans and a gray NYU hoodie, and he had a beard like a wizard. He looked like Quantum had always pictured Geezer. What if he was Geezer? What if Ash had sent them both here? A prickling in Quantum’s neck told him not to discount the possibility.
He’d lived through four foster homes, a violent older brother, and a couple of stints in prison. He knew to trust his instincts for danger. But that didn’t mean he was going to wimp out.
Quantum wiped sweat off his forehead. More sweat replaced it. He didn’t much mind. He’d spent every summer in New York, and he’d done without air conditioning for most of them. If he played his cards right, he’d end up living in air-conditioned splendor one day. He bet Ash lived in air-conditioned splendor all the time.
A bustle of activity drew Quantum’s glance to the front of the hotel. His target had emerged from the building. She was a small woman, in her sixties, accompanied by a man in his fifties pulling a black suitcase. Both looked well-to-do, and the woman moved with a coordinated grace that made his awareness pop up a notch. She looked like she could handle herself. Probably a dancer, but she could just as easily be a martial arts expert. Not one to underestimate anyway.
Quantum might look like a nerd online, but in the real world he had a black belt in karate. Before she died, his mother had insisted on sending him to karate after kids started picking on him in grade school, like she thought he’d be a modern-day Karate Kid. After a couple of years, it started to pay off. He still ran from fights and didn’t like to get hurt, but he was quick in the way that a little nerd on the streets had to be to survive. And when he had to stand and fight, he could actually kick ass. He’d given a kid twice his size a broken nose, been charged with assault a couple of times, and once beat a guy and left him for dead in the street. He still didn’t know if the man had lived or died, and he didn’t much care.
The lady smiled up at the man in the business suit. He didn’t look like anything to worry about as he kissed both cheeks and installed her in a bright yellow taxi, sticking the suitcase into the trunk himself. Only after the taxi pulled away from the curb did the man start walking briskly in the other direction.
Perfect. Both of them were out of their room.
In a piece of weird timing that couldn’t be coincidental, the Geezer guy jumped to his feet and ran to the street. A taxi practically hit him, and he climbed inside. The hippie seemed to be arguing with the driver before it pulled away. Quantum debated following, but didn’t. Ash had told him to search the room as soon as the couple left. He wasn’t going to screw up such a simple assignment to follow some hippie.
He jogged across the street and looked right through the uniformed doorman. Quantum was a guest of this hotel, his room paid for through Spooky’s petty-cash fund—another reaso
n he thought Ash might be rich. Spooky always had access to plenty of money, either from Ash’s pocket or stolen by him, each as good as the other as far as Quantum was concerned.
Since check-in, he’d ordered all the room service he could and had raided the minibar. Money was just a concept to someone like Ash, he suspected. And Quantum could resell those tiny liquor bottles.
He sauntered across the opulent lobby toward the elevators. Nobody said anything about the sweat he was dripping on the floor, because he had every right to be here. He was a guest. Refrigerated air wafted across his skin, and he took in a deep breath of it.
A quick smile in the concierge’s direction, and he was already to the elevator. His room was beside the one he was supposed to search, and he had a card key to it in his wallet next to his own. If the card key didn’t work, he’d have to improvise, but he bet Ash had come through. That guy didn’t miss a trick.
A few minutes later he was in the hotel room of one Tatiana Tesla and Hugh Hollingberry, a tidy couple. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and began his search. His mother called him The Accountant, because he was so meticulous in his habits—always putting things back as he had found them. He’d been like that as long as he could remember. A useful trait.
He finished the search and returned to his room, where he tapped out a message to Ash in a dark chat room, telling him he hadn’t found anything, but the woman had left with a suitcase. Maybe the plans or the Oscillator were in there.
ash: she’s at oyster bar in grand central. get suitcase
quantum: how do u know?
ash: tracking her. go!
It was spooky how much Ash knew. Quantum smiled at the pun. He only ever contacted Ash through a screen of false identities or with a disposable burner phone, so he wouldn’t be easy to track, even for someone like Ash. Or at least he hoped not. His phone vibrated with an incoming text, reminding him that he was still on duty.
ash: get suitcase
The Tesla Legacy Page 5
