by Mark Alpert
Hamid jumped to his feet so suddenly that several of the electrodes popped off his scalp. “Raza was right about you. He said you were evil.”
Frazier grabbed Raza’s wires. There were at least a hundred of them, but with a little effort he was able to curl his fingers around the entire bunch. “Okay, you’ve had your fun, old man. Now you’re gonna go back to your cell in General Detention. And we’re gonna throw Weinberg into a cell too and find another researcher to study your creepy kid.”
“Raza! I give you my permission.” Hamid turned away from Frazier and looked down at his son. “Do whatever you want with him.”
Frazier chuckled. He tightened his grip on the bunch of wires and prepared to yank them off the cripple’s head. “All right, kid, this might hurt a bit. Just—”
Then everything went black.
* * *
Frazier woke up on a bench on the Coney Island boardwalk. It was a warm spring afternoon, with pale green buds on the trees and sunlight sparkling on the Atlantic. It was too early in the season for swimming, but a few dozen people lay on the beach, sunning themselves on towels and chaise lounges. A bigger crowd strolled down the boardwalk, some walking east, others going west. Young mothers pushed strollers, elderly folks shuffled along with the help of canes and nurses, and rowdy groups of teenagers shouted at one another and drank from bottles wrapped in brown-paper bags.
At first Frazier thought his brain had shifted again and he was reliving another memory—not from his childhood this time, but a more recent memory, from the period after the FSU assigned him to New York City. But he grew less certain as he gazed at the scene around him. He’d come to New York only three months ago, so he’d never seen Coney Island in the spring. Also, this neighborhood was nothing like the ruined district that Frazier had patrolled with the FSU. The boardwalk here was still intact, the beach had plenty of sand, and the roller coasters and Tilt-a-Whirls in the amusement park were still running. This was Coney Island before the superstorms, before global warming accelerated and sea levels rose and dozens of hurricanes ravaged the East Coast. It was a memory from at least a decade ago, when the problems were just starting to get serious.
Frazier got up from the bench and looked around. He turned toward the ocean and noticed a family on the beach nearby, sitting on a big, red blanket spread across the sand, about twenty feet from the boardwalk. They were having a picnic, eating hummus and pita bread and olives from Tupperware containers arranged on the blanket. He realized with a start that this was the Khan family, or at least a younger version of it. He was immersed in one of their memories instead of his own. It had somehow wormed its way into Frazier’s skull and taken over his mind.
Hamid Khan reclined on the beach blanket, looking ten years younger than the man Frazier had seen in the laboratory. He had a full head of dark hair and a sturdy, athletic physique. His wife was a small, slender woman dressed in conservative but stylish clothes—a brown kaftan over black leggings, and a beige hijab over her head. Jenna was a college girl in jeans and a light sweater, with her own hijab covering her hair, a bright blue one. She sat cross-legged on the blanket with her nose deep in a book, a massive textbook titled Principles of Biochemistry.
And Raza ran in circles around the blanket, a black-haired boy of nine or ten, in sandy shorts and a SpongeBob T-shirt. He had all the energy and mania of a kid his age, constantly picking up rocks and sticks from the sand and throwing them as far as he could across the beach. He had no symptoms yet from his genetic disorder, not even a limp. He laughed and teased Jenna every time he ran past, calling her “baji,” which was probably the Pakistani word for “sister.” And occasionally he’d grab a piece of pita bread from the picnic spread and stuff it into his mouth.
But there was one unusual thing about Raza. The boy’s face seemed blurry. No matter how hard Frazier stared at him, it never came into focus. What’s more, this was the only part of the whole memory of Coney Island that wasn’t sharp and clear. After thinking it over, Frazier concluded that this memory must be Raza’s. His face was blurry because it’s impossible to remember your own face in any detail.
Frazier felt a twinge of discomfort. One of Raza’s memories had invaded his mind, and Hamid had warned that the kid was angry at him. The beach seemed to darken, even though the sun was still high above and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Something bad was coming. This scene wouldn’t end well.
After a while Raza knelt on the sand and dug out a larger rock, a smooth black stone about the size of a softball. It was so heavy he had to use both hands to pick it up. First, he tried rolling the stone like a bowling ball, but that was clearly disappointing. It rolled only a couple of feet on the sand before coming to a stop. Then he cupped the stone in one hand and held it against the crook of his neck, as if he were in an Olympic shot put competition. He must’ve seen a shot-putter on TV, because he did a pretty good imitation of the throw, spinning around three times before flinging the stone. And it hurtled pretty far through the air, clearly a lot farther than the boy had thought it would, arcing fifteen feet above the sand. It landed in the shadows under the boardwalk, directly below the spot where Frazier stood.
Someone cried out beneath the boards. A moment later, a tall, skinny teenager raced out of the shadows and onto the beach, hopping on one foot and grimacing in pain. He was an older kid, maybe eighteen or nineteen. His hair was long and blond and greasy, his forehead spotted with zits. He wore a black T-shirt with a white skull printed on the front, and he had a rattlesnake tattoo running down his arm. In his right hand he held a large bottle wrapped in a brown-paper bag. Several ounces of malt liquor spilled out of it as he hopped around on the sand.
“Shit!” He bent over to look at his injured foot, which was inside an old sneaker, and almost lost his balance. “Who the fuck threw that rock?”
Two other grungy teenagers emerged from under the boardwalk, both of them laughing and pointing at Skull Guy. At the same time, Raza ran to his father. Hamid stood up and wrapped his arms around his son, who buried his face in Hamid’s shirt. “I’m sorry!” Raza bawled, his voice muffled. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
The injured teen heard the boy and glared at him and Hamid. “Hey! Is that kid the one who did it?” He limped across the sand toward the Khan family. “Did he throw that rock?”
Hamid nodded. “Yes, I’m so sorry, it was my son. But he didn’t mean to hit you.”
“What the fuck? He threw that thing right at me!”
“But it’s very dark under the boardwalk. He didn’t see you and your friends there.” Hamid patted Raza’s back but kept his eyes on the teenager. “Is there anything we can do? Are you badly hurt?”
Skull Guy swayed on his feet. He looked more drunk than injured, but he put an outraged look on his face. “What the hell do you think? Of course I’m fucking hurt! Did you see the size of that motherfucking rock?”
Hamid winced at the language, but refrained from objecting. He pointed at Mrs. Khan instead. “My wife is a nurse. Why don’t you let her examine your foot? She could tell you whether you need to go to the emergency room.”
Mrs. Khan stood up, slowly and tentatively, obviously a bit scared. Skull Guy gave her a once-over and scowled. “Nah, no way. I don’t want her examining me. She looks like a fucking terrorist.” He grinned and turned to his two drunk buddies. “Right? Am I right? Look at her and the other bitch. They’re like a couple of Jihadi Janes. They probably got suicide bombs under their heebie jabbies.”
His friends laughed and stepped closer to the Khans. Jenna tossed her book aside and leapt to her feet. “That’s enough! We said we’re sorry. Now go away!”
Skull Guy cocked his head and came toward her. He stepped on their beach blanket and knocked over one of the Tupperware containers. “What was that? You think you can kick us off the beach now?” He pointed at himself and his friends. “That’s a little ass-backwards, don’t you think? I mean, we’re the Americans here, and you’re just a bunch of
shit-eating camel-fuckers. You think you can come here and order us around in our own damn country?”
Hamid handed Raza to Mrs. Khan, then stepped between Jenna and the blond punk. “Please, we don’t want any trouble. We’re very sorry about this accident and—”
“It wasn’t a fucking accident!” Skull Guy raised his voice and flung his arms up. The bottle was still in his right hand, and malt liquor sloshed all over the blanket. “Your cocksucking little brat threw the rock right at me!”
“Stop it!” Hamid went toe-to-toe with the punk. Although Skull Guy was taller, Hamid definitely outweighed him. “I won’t tolerate this kind of foul talk anymore! This is no way to speak in front of women and children. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
The punk took a drunken step backward. Hamid had intimidated him, but the teenager covered it up by grinning. He turned to his friends for support, and they stepped forward, one to the left of the blanket and one to the right. Then Skull Guy pointed at Jenna. “Hey, bitch, what’s under your heebie jabbie? If we take it off and see what’s under there, does that give us the right to fuck you? Isn’t that how your religion works?”
Hamid lunged at him, but the punk backed up again, jumping out of reach. At the same time, Skull Guy gave a hand signal to his friends. “Take ’em off!”
His companions rushed toward the Khans. One of them grabbed Mrs. Khan’s hijab and the other yanked off Jenna’s. Then they ran off with the headscarves, whooping and hollering across the beach.
It happened so fast that neither woman could stop them. Jenna and her mother just stood on the soiled blanket, stunned and appalled, while the teenagers ran toward the ocean, the hijabs trailing behind them and flapping in the breeze. Hamid didn’t react either, which surprised Frazier. The man grimaced, but he didn’t run after the punks or even shout at them. After a couple of seconds he bent over and started packing away the Tupperware containers, preparing to leave the beach. He’d obviously decided that confronting the teens would be futile. It would just bring him down to their level. Better to simply collect his belongings and go home. That was the best way to preserve his dignity.
For Raza, though, things like dignity were unimportant. He saw the teenage boys attack his mother and sister, and he responded instinctively. He charged toward Skull Guy, stopped in front of the greasy bastard, and stomped on his injured foot.
The punk howled. At the same time, he swung the malt-liquor bottle downward and smacked it into Raza’s head.
Frazier heard the thunk of glass against bone. Raza staggered and lurched backward, looking even wobblier than the drunk teenager. Then the boy collapsed on the sand.
Jenna screamed, “NO!” Hamid dropped all the Tupperware and leapt over the blanket, hurtling toward his son.
Skull Guy stood there for a moment, looking down at the fallen boy at his feet. Then he raised his head and saw Jenna and Hamid rushing toward him. He took off like a shot, his heels kicking up sand as he sprinted across the beach. The other punks saw the danger too and followed right behind him, letting go of the hijabs as they dashed toward the boardwalk. The headscarves floated on the breeze for a few seconds, then fluttered to the ground.
Jenna and Hamid knelt on either side of Raza. To Frazier’s relief, the boy sat up and raised his hand to his head. He let out a piercing scream, but that was all right—he was alive, he was conscious, he was going to be okay. But then the boy pointed his other hand over Jenna’s shoulder, and she turned around. Twenty feet behind her, Mrs. Khan lay facedown on the sand.
At the same moment, Frazier felt an immense surge of terror. It seemed to rise from the Atlantic and sweep across Coney Island, flooding every inch of the remembered landscape and drowning Frazier’s mind as well. The fear was paralyzing, suffocating, worse than anything he’d ever felt, even when Andy died. And it was accompanied by a voice that boomed across the ocean, a voice he’d never heard before but recognized nonetheless: She had a heart condition, an arrhythmia, but no one thought it was serious. Then she saw me collapse on the beach and her heart just stopped. I was the first one to notice what happened to her.
Now Frazier knew why Raza had put this scene in his head. He’d wanted Frazier to feel the worst agony in the world, so he’d flooded his mind with these thoughts and images. It was Raza’s most devastating weapon, this memory of his mother’s death.
* * *
The torture went on for so long, it might as well have been eternal. Frazier felt like he’d been writhing since the beginning of time. In reality, though, it lasted only thirty minutes.
Frazier woke up on the floor of Room 17. He scrambled to his feet and looked around, scanning both sections of the room. Hamid Khan and Dr. David Weinberg were gone. Raza was still there, still in his wheelchair, his head tilted back at the same painful angle, but when Frazier came toward him, the kid’s eyes didn’t move. They were cloudy, glazed over.
The freak was dead.
TWENTY-TWO
Jenna dove into the crowd surging toward Gracie Mansion. A second later, the FSU officers on the mansion’s upper floors opened fire on the rioters.
Pandemonium erupted all around her. Gunshots boomed and echoed, people threw themselves to the ground, men with bandannas masking their faces toppled backward and lay still. Some of the rioters turned around and fled, and some raced for shelter under the mansion’s porch, where Jenna had just emerged from the service entrance. But most of them just stood there in front of the building, too scared to move, making them easy targets. The Federal Service officers slaughtered them, firing hundreds of rounds from their assault rifles.
Jenna kept her head down and ran. She’d been in the same murderous situation the night before, at Bay Parkway, and she’d learned something important from that experience: although she couldn’t outrun a bullet, she could minimize her time in the killing zone. In this case, the zone was the driveway in front of the mansion, so she raced away from it as fast as she could, heading for the security fence that surrounded the building.
The rioters were packed shoulder to shoulder here, but Jenna lowered her head and charged through the crowd. Gunfire streaked from the mansion behind her, the bullets zinging from the windows to the driveway, and dozens of people fell to her left and right, but she didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down. A tall man in a Knicks jersey sank to the ground in front of her, struck by a bullet that took off the top of his skull, but she leapt right over him and bounded toward the fence.
The FSU officers had blown up a section of the fence when they’d attacked the mansion, and now the terrified rioters tried to escape through the gap. They rushed toward it and climbed over the charred wood and metal, shoving and trampling each other in their desperation. The mansion’s floodlights, though, illuminated the right side of the gap, and that’s where the FSU sharpshooters concentrated their fire. They mowed down so many of the rioters that their bodies covered the wreckage of the fence. It became a ridge of corpses.
But the terrified people kept coming. They converged on the gap and scrambled over the dead and dying.
Jenna veered away from them and dashed toward the other side of the gap. This side was darker because a nearby tree blocked the floodlights. She carefully picked her way through the darkness, clambering over a couple of splintered planks and a tangle of twisted steel beams that used to be fence posts. Then she jumped down from the wreckage and ran toward the streetlights on East End Avenue.
In seconds she reached 88th Street and sprinted down the block, trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and the riot. But as she approached the next intersection she saw an even larger crowd streaming down York Avenue. Hundreds of people ran through the street and vandalized the parked cars, smashing their windshields with bricks and tire irons. Hundreds more thronged the sidewalks and shattered the windows of the stores and apartment buildings. They tore down the buildings’ awnings and busted open their doors and ripped the uniforms off the doormen who didn’t run away fast enough. Millions of
glass shards littered the pavement, each gleaming in the moonlight.
Jenna stopped for a moment and tried to figure out the safest escape route. The rioters had whipped themselves into a frenzy, furious and chaotic. They laughed and shrieked as they demolished the bus shelters and looted the boutiques and jewelry stores. The destruction was mindlessly random, because the mob attacked everything in its path. Nothing was safe.
She decided to keep running west on 88th Street, hoping to skirt the worst of the violence. But there were crowds marching down First, Second, and Third Avenues too, and an enormous bonfire raged at the corner of 88th and Lexington. The entire population of New York City seemed to be on the move tonight, all the men and women and children from Harlem and the Bronx descending on the rich, privileged neighborhoods of Manhattan. The New York police had retreated farther south, and the private security guards had abandoned their posts in front of the luxury high-rises and townhouses. At the heart of the bonfire was the blackened chassis of a police patrol car, apparently left behind by the retreating cops.
There was an old stone church on the street corner, and Jenna ducked under one of its archways and hid within the shadows. She leaned against the locked door, panting, confused, and watched the rioters hurl things into the bonfire—garbage they’d dumped from cans, side mirrors they’d ripped off the parked cars, armfuls of clothing they’d just looted from the stores. The mob was angry but also ecstatic, ferocious and mesmerized. The rioters hardly knew what to do with themselves now that they’d invaded the Upper East Side, so they did everything at once. They raged and laughed, brawled and clowned, snarled and celebrated. It was anarchic, incomprehensible.
But no, that wasn’t exactly true. Jenna was an expert on the genetics of behavior, and she understood the power of violent emotion. And over the past twenty-four hours, she’d gained some personal insight into the malignant effects of systemic persecution—or, to put it in nonscientific terms, she’d gotten an up close look at how America fucks over its black and brown people. The Jenna Khan who hid in the church doorway on Lexington Avenue was very different from the naïve young woman she’d been before the Federal Service officers burst into her family’s apartment. She knew more about suffering now. She was starting to grasp the mind-set of the desperate, because now she was desperate too.