I cleared my throat, dabbed at my nose with a tissue, and put up a hand to show that I had more to say.
I looked at my note cards so that I could read a quote. “Anne Frank wrote, ‘How true Daddy’s words were when he said: all children must look after their own upbringing. Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person’s character lies in their own hands.’
“This is how Malcolm and Maud felt about us,” I said. “They trusted that we could shape our lives from this point on. That we could make our way.”
Quoting what my mother had said only moments before she died just about killed me. I fell apart, blubbering and sobbing again.
Harry stood and spoke over my sobs. “Our parents believed in working hard, and they taught us to earn everything we ever got. And now we finally understand that… that they did everything they did for us. It was all for us, right?” Harry looked around desperately. I nodded through my tears. He let out a huge sigh and covered his eyes with his hands. His shoulders shook and settled. He spoke again, adding, “Maud used to say, ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead.’ Sleep well now, Mother and Father.” And he sat down.
Hugo shot to his feet and flung himself across Malcolm’s coffin. He said, “Father, I forgive you for the biggest chop ever, ever, ever. I forgive both of you. Be good. No fighting. Buckle up and have a safe trip. We’ll always love and miss you.”
86
Two days later, we had all the windows open in our apartment in the Dakota.
Harry had turned up his music—not classical this time—so that it came over the intercom in every room, really loud. The charging drumbeat and the bright guitar riffs cleansed the air and made me almost want to dance.
Hugo was taking his baseball bat to the furniture in his room, which had been designed with some ordinary rich kid in mind—three big vintage toy cars with pedals, a make-believe rocket ship on a spring, and first-edition antique books that had never even been opened. All reminders of Angel wealth and perfection were quickly being decimated.
There was a lot of food on the dining room table: chips and dips and Ding Dongs—junk my parents would have forbidden. But Malcolm and Maud had left us to soldier on without them. And this laugh-out-loud time was a beautiful start. We felt like actual kids.
We were having a party. Our party. Just for us. We were finally grieving, in our own special way, as only Angels can.
I took a bottle of soda with me into my parents’ room. Their valuables would be sold or auctioned off: the Aronstein flag, the South Sea pearls and the emerald ring, Mercurio and Robert, the Pegasus piano, the Pork Chair and the UFO light fixture.
Before it was too late, I wanted to go through my parents’ less valuable things and find keepsakes for all of us.
I put on the jacket that had belonged to my mother by way of Madonna. I hoped I’d be able to keep it.
No, I was definitely going to keep it!
Harry came into the closet and sat down next to me.
“I’ve got Malcolm’s watch,” I said. “You want that?”
“Okay.”
“I saved a couple of things for Matthew and Hugo. Pictures. The wedding rings.”
“I’m the one who called the cops,” Harry said.
“What do you mean?”
“That morning. Right after I found Malcolm and Maud dead. I thought one of us had done it. Still, I had to call the cops.”
“Oh, Harry. Who was suspect number one on your list?”
“Well, sister dear, you’d just gotten a Big Chop.”
I laughed really hard, then said, “For a while, I thought you did it. You.”
We were still grinning at each other when a shadow fell over us.
I snapped my head around—a fear reflex, for sure. Virgil was standing there, absolutely huge in the doorway, looking down at us.
“I’ve got the car ready downstairs. You know the house rule, kids: I’ve got to move the vehicle in ten minutes.”
“Let’s move it,” I said.
87
The moon was high and full that night, and the water in Shinnecock Bay was the same gorgeous indigo blue as the sky. The Ponquogue Bridge stretched out before us, spanning the bay, its gleaming white arc making me think of the leading edge of an angel’s wing.
Harry, Hugo, Virgil, and I were grouped together at the foot of the bridge, listening to the soothing sound of waves slapping against the shore.
Then Hugo said, “Can we go?”
We took off our shoes and rolled up our trouser legs, each of us carrying a plastic bag with one of our sharks inside. Their green bioluminescence made the bags glow like lanterns. It was absolutely magical.
We stopped walking when the water was up to Hugo’s chest and floated the bags so that the temperature of the water within would equalize with that of the bay.
It was completely quiet. Even Hugo was mesmerized into silence by the luminous, bobbing bags. But the sharks soon became restless. They banged into the sides of the bags and lashed their tails and frothed the water.
They knew what was coming.
Harry said, “I say that it’s time.”
We undid the rubber bands and opened the mouths of the bags. My heart seemed to expand as the sharks left their cocoons and swam into the open water.
Freedom. For real this time.
We all pointed and called to one another, clapping and cheering as the sharks circled, then formed a school and headed south toward the vast, open Atlantic.
A moment later their trail went dark, and suddenly the air and the water around me felt cold. I shivered and a million unanswered questions rose up and fluttered in my mind.
What had been the truth about my father and Tamara Gee? Had Matthew killed Tamara? Would he be convicted of murdering her? How would Harry and Hugo deal with their anger? With the drug withdrawal? What would we be like without the pills?
And of course there was a lot I would need to investigate about myself, too. I knew it wasn’t a coincidence that the man suing my mother had the same last name as the boy I ran away with. James Rampling was Royal Rampling’s son—that I knew. But what happened between the night I met James at the party and the day we escaped? Had James Rampling kidnapped me with ill intentions, or had he been my first genuine taste of love and freedom? And what on earth had happened to him after we were torn apart?
Would I ever see, touch, or hold him again? Did I even want to?
There are parts of those mysteries that I do remember, friend, fragments I’m still trying to work up the nerve to talk about. There are many more parts that I no longer remember, thanks to Dr. Keyes. But I know some places where I can start looking for answers.
As I stood in the bay thinking about the future, the framed letter from Gram Hilda came into my mind. She had left my parents a hundred dollars and a stinging slap. How had she provided for the grandchildren who had not yet been born when she died?
Would she leave us a Grande Gongo? Or would it be a Big Chop?
The night my parents were found dead, Uncle Peter said to me, “After the reading of the will, we’ll see what the future will bring to the Angel family.”
Uncle Peter was wrong. Money was not going to influence our ability to succeed in the world.
The sharks had just amazed us. They had been confined for years and were now following their instincts, swimming together with strength and confidence out into the ocean.
It was a good sign.
In the last week, I had found my calling, what I was meant to do. I was going to be a detective. I might even have found mentors in Detectives Caputo and Hayes. I was surprisingly fond of them both, and I thought they felt the same way about me. They’d been unbelievably supportive and nice since they’d watched that video with us.
I could even see a possible business card in my mind:
TANDY ANGEL, DETECTIVE
MYSTERIES SOLVED. CASE CLOSED.
“What’s so funny?” Harry asked me.
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I looked up at my twin brother and said, “I was just thinking how much I love you guys.”
At that, Hugo yelled, “Watch me!”
He put his arms out in front of him, dove under the water, and stroked toward the shore.
“Swim fast, die hard!” Harry hooted.
“We’re both going to have to watch Hugo closely now. More than ever. And Matthew is going to need our help.”
“It’s a deal,” Harry said. “I’m in.”
My brothers and I had grown closer over the last few weeks. We were still growing, still becoming. I felt sure we would stick together, whatever happened, wherever the currents might carry us.
I really couldn’t wait to see what we would do next.
And hey, it’s been good talking to you. Really good.
JAMES PATTERSON was selected by teens across America as the Children’s Choice Book Awards Author of the Year in 2010. He is the internationally bestselling author of Middle School, The Worst Years of My Life; the highly praised Maximum Ride novels; the Witch & Wizard series; Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas; and the detective series featuring Alex Cross and the Women’s Murder Club. His books have sold more than 230 million copies worldwide, making him one of the bestselling authors of all time. He lives in Florida.
MAXINE PAETRO has collaborated with James Patterson on the bestselling Women’s Murder Club and Private series. She lives with her husband in New York State.
BOOKS BY JAMES PATTERSON FOR READERS OF ALL AGES
The Witch & Wizard Novels
Witch & Wizard (with Gabrielle Charbonnet)
The Gift (with Ned Rust)
The Fire (with Jill Dembowski)
The Maximum Ride Novels
The Angel Experiment
School’s Out—Forever
Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports
The Final Warning
MAX
FANG
ANGEL
Nevermore
The Daniel X Novels
The Dangerous Days of Daniel X (with Michael Ledwidge)
Watch the Skies (with Ned Rust)
Demons and Druids (with Adam Sadler)
Game Over (with Ned Rust)
Armageddon (with Chris Grabenstein)
The Middle School Novels
Middle School, The Worst Years of My Life (with Chris Tebbetts, illustrated by Laura Park)
Middle School: Get Me out of Here! (with Chris Tebbetts, illustrated by Laura Park)
Other Illustrated Novels
Daniel X: Alien Hunter (graphic novel; with Leopoldo Gout)
Daniel X: The Manga, Vol. 1–3 (with SeungHui Kye)
Maximum Ride: The Manga, Vol. 1–6 (with NaRae Lee)
Witch & Wizard: The Manga, Vol. 1–2 (with Svetlana Chmakova)
For previews of upcoming books in these series and other information, visit www.MaximumRide.com, www.Daniel-X.com, www.WitchAndWizard.com, and www.MiddleSchoolBook.com.
For more information about the author, visit www.JamesPatterson.com.
The One may have been defeated,
but his quest for power thrives….
Passion has never been more dangerous.
One kiss can destroy the world.
AVAILABLE FEBRUARY 2013
Turn the page for a sneak preview!
Chapter 1
Wisty
I can’t believe what I’m witnessing.
You would think it was a riot if you saw us on TV.
Shouts cut through the crisp air. Bodies push and sway. Hands rip at flags and banners, and feet kick in surveillance screens. A great bonfire swallows up the splintered pieces of the destruction.
But no fists are raised, and this isn’t a protest. I’m opening my lungs, but it’s to join the ecstatic voices in celebration: The One Who Is The One, the Overworld’s violent dictator, is dead, and the New Order regime has fallen.
We are free.
Free to listen to music—and it’s pumping through the loudspeakers.
Free to read books. We’re clutching them to our chests.
Free to believe what we want and to say what we feel. Even free to walk the streets without being arrested.
Excitement fizzes through my whole being, and every nerve stands on end as the crowd moves as one toward a vast stage in the center of the capital’s square for the ceremony marking the end of the New Order’s totalitarian regime and the return to a peaceful democracy. I’m grinning in the middle of the sea of people, and I pull my tangled hair back from my face as I jostle for a view.
A man in a smart gray suit takes the stage and taps the microphone. He’s doughy and stern-faced, with his white hair parted severely to the side, and I recognize him as General Matthias Bloom, one of the last holdouts against the N.O. in the outer suburbs.
A hush falls as thousands upon thousands of eager eyes gaze up at him.
“My dear, dear friends, today is a new beginning, a beautiful beginning for all of us. And to mark that birth,” his voice booms, “I introduce to you now… your new Council!”
I’m tingly all over, almost like the electricity I feel when my magic is strong, or the awesome rush of adrenaline when I’m performing onstage. It’s like the air itself is buzzing with hope.
General Bloom starts to read off the names of seventeen men and women and seventeen kids our age: the group chosen to get this place back to the way it once was, to the city we loved before The One Who Is The One brutally enforced the madness of his New Order.
“Wisteria Rose Allgood,” he reads, and I can’t help it—tears are streaming down my cheeks as I mount the stone steps, my name echoing through the loudspeakers.
My brother, Whit, is right by my side—and this is why I love him so much—Whit has tears in his eyes too, and he’s not ashamed. As divided as our city once was, with neighbor killing neighbor and only suspicion to feed us when food was scarce, it’s incredible to be part of the leadership that will bring us back together for something else—something good.
As I stand on that stage, representing all these united voices, the rebel in me can’t resist. I pull a scrap of a banner from my shoulder bag. I spread the crimson fabric open with two arms above my head, and the crowd starts to jeer and yell as the sign of the New Order billows in the wind.
Red means the New Order. Red means the Blood Plague. Red means death.
My brother elbows me—this whole ceremony has been planned out minute by minute, and I’m definitely straying way off script—but there’s a method to my madness, and he knows it. We need this, all of us.
I concentrate on the build of heat in my chest, and flames lick out from my fingertips and climb up the banner, enveloping it in seconds.
The crowd is in a frenzy of cheers and shouts, and I’m up here grinning giddily. By seeing that gash of red blackening to ash, we know that even though we can never get back the things we lost, we have overcome so, so much. And with hands clasped, hearts pounding, and a few deep breaths, we can still do this—we can mold this society into something great.
I’m a part of it, and you’re a part of it.
It’s just the beginning.
Chapter 2
Whit
Dusk is falling, and we’re singing. My heart seems to be lodged way up in my throat.
Having taken our vows, we thirty-four Council members stand side by side in a circle on the stage. We wear different badges of honor or war or age, but standing here together, we’re equals.
We sing the old songs today, songs we learned from our parents. Songs I sang with the Neederman family last year on the Holiday, not knowing whether my sister would live or die from the plague. As our voices waver on the final note, General Bloom takes the stage again.
“Today, we sing for new beginnings.” Applause echoes across the square. “But we sing to remember our history as well, and an older Order!” He holds a hefty, yellowed tome above his head, and an audible gasp can be heard from the crowd.
I’m in awe, like every
one else. The Book of Truths. The most sacred text in the Overworld. Destiny’s riddle. The book that has defined our lives. We all grew up revering its words, but few of us have seen it, and actually touching its dusty pages seems unthinkable.
But because Matthias Bloom salvaged the book from the embers while so many great texts burned, he is its new keeper.
At her cue, Janine strides to the podium. I’d be sweating bullets if I had to actually speak today, but she’s poised and confident, and gives the crowd a long, measured look. She’s in her standard combat boots. Her hair is as wild as ever, and she wears no makeup. But as usual, she’s luminous.
“The Book of Truths prophesied that only a sister and a brother, a witch and a wizard, could defeat The One Who Is The One,” Janine says into the microphone, her voice clear and strong. “It told of their power, of a sky filled with fire.” At the mention of my sister’s Gift, the square erupts in cheers. “Among many things we celebrate today, we pay tribute to their strength and courage that led to The One’s ultimate downfall.”
Now the cheers crescendo, but Janine’s not finished. “But never forget, we are all brothers and sisters. I know the fire of life, love, and leadership is burning not just in WistyAllgood, but in each one of us.”
No one cheers that line more than my sister. Wisty hoots her agreement, rebel style, and I grin. Janine was just supposed to introduce Wisty and me, but give her a platform and some willing ears, and she’ll tell you what’s what every time. She’s a great speaker—articulate, endearing, whip-smart—and the crowd is eating up her every word.
So am I.
“We all have equal power and responsibility to make this city great,” Janine continues. “Because that fire inside us is hotter than any magic, stronger than any spell. It’s the spark of change and the slow burn of new hope!” She looks out over the transfixed faces, satisfied. “And now, my friends, without further ado, I give you your heroes… Whit and WistyAllgood!”
Confessions of a Murder Suspect Page 19
