The Shadow

by James Patterson

  “I agree,” Lamont says. “Let me go downstairs and see what I can find.”

  Margo waits until Lamont is out the door. Then she scoots over next to me and brushes the hair off my forehead. There’s a big bruise there, turning into a big red lump. Obviously, she noticed it when we came in. Along with the red mark on my cheek. And the welts on Lamont’s wrists.

  “What in God’s name happened to you two tonight?” she asks.

  Lamont’s been pretty quiet about the whole episode since we got back, and I’m not sure he wants Margo to know just how close we came to not coming back at all. All he told her was that something big and dangerous was up and that he’d explain later.

  “I banged my head on one of Lamont’s secret doors,” I say.

  Margo smiles.

  “Oh, I know all about those,” she says. “One night, coming home late, I got my dress caught on one of those damned hinges. Almost stripped me bare!”

  “Victory!” Lamont’s voice comes booming from the doorway. He’s holding up three medium-size laboratory beakers.

  “I hope you washed the hydrochloric acid out of those things!” says Margo.

  “Fresh from the box,” says Lamont. “Pristine Pyrex.”

  “Pour away!” says Margo.

  The three of us gather around our little crate table. Lamont pulls the foil off the champagne bottle. Underneath, there’s a little wire cage around the cork. Lamont looks at me with his eyebrow raised. He taps the foil and the wire.

  “Good thing nobody was looking too closely,” he says. How was I supposed to know there was metal on a champagne bottle? Lamont unwraps the wire, then presses his thumbs against the bottom of the cork.

  POP!

  The cork shoots across the room and bounces off a wall. Bando barks and chases after it. A stream of bubbles spurts out of the bottle.

  Lamont pours some champagne into Margo’s beaker, then some into his. He looks at me.

  “What’s the legal drinking age these days?” he asks. “Still twenty-one?”

  “Sixteen,” I say. “Twelve if you work on a farm or a fishing boat.”

  “Are you making that up?” asks Lamont.

  “Yes, I am,” I say.

  Lamont pours some champagne into my beaker anyway. I hold it up to my nose, then tip the beaker back and let the champagne touch the tip of my tongue. My first taste of champagne. It feels fizzy and sweet. I gulp down the whole beaker. The bubbles burn my throat.

  Then I burp. Can’t help it.

  “Goodness gracious, Maddy!” says Margo. “Sip! Don’t guzzle!”

  “This tastes…amazing!” I say. What’s even more amazing is the feeling in my head right now. A little numbness right above my eyebrows and a warm buzz at the top of my skull.

  Margo shaves off a slice of cheese with a butter knife and holds it out to me. “Try this,” she says.

  The cheese is so close to my face, I practically have to cross my eyes to look at it. There are little brown flecks all over it. My nose wrinkles up.

  “What’s in there? Flies?”

  “Truffles, darling,” says Margo. “Gift of the forest!”

  “Tuber melanosporum,” says Lamont, slicing a piece for himself. “Delicious!”

  I take a little nibble, then a little bite. The cheese is creamy and the truffle bits taste like…omigod! They taste like dirt! I spit out the cheese and wipe my tongue on my shirtsleeve. Ugh! I hold out my empty beaker to Lamont.

  “Refill! Now! I have to get rid of this taste!”

  Lamont pours me what’s left in the bottle. I drink it down in one gulp. Dirt taste gone. And then…here comes that little buzz again. So nice. Suddenly I’m not as achy anymore. Just a little sleepy. I move over toward Margo. In this light, she glows like an angel. I rest my cheek against her shoulder and kind of slide down her arm until my head is resting in her lap. So warm.

  I look up at Margo’s perfect chin and then over at Lamont.

  “Tell me everything,” I say.

  “About what?” asks Lamont.

  “About Shiwan Khan.”

  CHAPTER 68

  THIS PART REMINDS me of nights when I was really little, after I was all tucked into bed. That’s when Grandma used to tell me stories. Fairy tales. Ancient mysteries. Greek myths. Sometimes the stories would blend in with my dreams and things that happened in my life and pretty soon I didn’t know which parts were real and which parts were made up.

  That’s how I feel right now. My head is fuzzy from the champagne. I’m really tired. And I’m hearing the kind of story that sounds like it could never be true. Even if it actually is.

  “Shiwan Khan is a golden master,” says Lamont, “descended from Genghis Khan himself. Direct line. The legend says that Genghis died when he was struck by lightning. His followers kept his battle spear, which was supposed to hold his spirit. After a while, they built a monastery to keep his spirit alive. When Shiwan’s parents died, the monks in the monastery took him in. They protected him. They taught him. They trained him. They passed on all their secrets. But Shiwan had powers even the monks couldn’t understand.”

  I’m snuggled tight in Margo’s lap. She’s rubbing my head gently. It feels good, but it’s making me even sleepier. I’m drifting in and out. But still listening.

  “We ran into Khan back in the 1930s,” says Margo, “when he was building his own private army. Lamont tracked him down and discovered his stockpile of weapons.”

  “Khan tried to escape in one of his experimental planes,” said Lamont. “The plane crashed in the river. I thought he was dead.”

  “But…he wasn’t?” I say.

  “No,” says Lamont. “He survived. Or maybe he was never in the plane in the first place. Maybe it was all some kind of illusion. Anyway, that’s when he came back to poison me and Margo.”

  “Luckily,” says Margo, “Lamont had a plan to keep us around.”

  “I’m glad you’re both still here,” I say.

  Or maybe I just mumble it.

  Right before I fall asleep.

  CHAPTER 69

  WHEN I WAKE up the next day, my head is filled with Mongolian chants and exploding fireballs and a million other things I don’t really understand. And there’s a stabbing pain right between my eyes.

  “It’s called a champagne hangover, honey,” Margo says. “Get some air.”

  Sounds like a good idea. I grab my scooter and head outside. I promised to wear a mask. But I break that promise right away. I walk to the closest street and start rolling uptown. As I head up the Bowery, I’m passing video screens with Gismonde’s face, spouting his usual platitudes. I can’t listen to his babble anymore. Especially after what I heard last night.

  I see a small crowd gathered in front of a construction wall. They’re looking at a poster tacked to the plywood. Two government workers are putting up the same poster on every available space. I roll up to take a look. One of the workers glances at me.

  “Have a beautiful day!” he says.

  “And you as well,” I answer. “Dickhead,” I add under my breath. More people start crowding in behind me to read the poster. It must be something good. I scoot up close to get a look.

  “The Most Beautiful Day Feast” says the poster headline in fancy, friendly lettering. Underneath, in smaller letters—“Free Food! Gather & Enjoy! Monday.” That’s just three days away.

  The crowd is all excited, practically jumping up and down. Could this be real? Actual generosity from the government? It sounds too good to be true. I feel a chill shoot through me. It was too good to be. It was a lie. I know it.

  I hear air brakes hissing behind me. It’s a bus, rolling to a stop across the street. Suddenly, the crowd scatters. The people without masks look down or turn their heads away. No wonder. It’s a prison bus. I can see suspects pressed up against the bars on the windows.

  I turn my face back toward the poster, pretending that I’m reading. When I hear the air brakes release, I shove off on my scooter to follow.
I know Lamont and Margo wouldn’t approve, but I can’t help myself.

  Wherever this bus is headed, I’m headed too.

  CHAPTER 70

  AS THE BUS rolls up First Avenue, I stay a safe half-block behind, weaving around cars and motorcycles. Suddenly, I hear the blast of an air horn behind me, so loud that it makes my ears ring. I wobble on my scooter and turn around. A huge trailer truck is about three feet from my rear wheel. I bank to the side and let the truck pass, but now the huge box of the trailer is blocking my view. I give a couple hard kicks and swoop out in front again. But now the bus is out of sight.

  Dammit!

  I look down on the river side of the street. I see a huge culvert pipe running alongside the roadway—another abandoned city project. I slide down the incline and roll my scooter into the empty metal tube. It’s so tall that I only have to duck my head a little bit. About twenty feet ahead, the light fades out. Spooky for sure, but it looks like a pretty good shortcut.

  The floor of the tunnel is pretty smooth, a lot smoother than asphalt. I kick my scooter along, picking up speed. I can see the seams on the sides of the tunnel zipping by and I hear the rattle of my wheels echoing against the concrete walls. It’s like gliding through a space warp. A few blocks ahead, I see a circle of light and bright flashes. The tunnel is ending!

  I shoot out of the tunnel like a cannonball past a couple of scrappers with acetylene torches. The sparks shoot across the opening as I fly past. I sail through the air and land hard on the ground, my face planted in the dirt.

  I hear the scrappers laughing and applauding.

  I look up. At the top of the incline, just a few yards away, I see it. The bus. It’s stopped to pick up more prisoners. My shortcut worked!

  I drag my scooter behind a cement piling and toss a few pieces of scrap lumber on top. I climb up the slope to the street. The bus door is open. Just outside, three TinGrins are herding the new prisoners up the steps. Inside, I can see another guard shoving people into empty seats. Nobody fights back. What’s the use?

  I take a breath. I concentrate. I feel the rush. I disappear.

  I slip into line and step onto the bus. I take a seat on the aisle.

  The last in line is a lady in a bright red turban. She walks up and tries to slide into the seat I’m already in. We bump hips. She turns around. I hold my breath. “Hey!” she says, waving to the guard and pointing to the seat. “I can’t…”

  “Quiet!” he says. “You don’t like that seat, take another!”

  With his gun, he points her toward the seat across the aisle. The woman takes it, but keeps staring across the aisle. I know she can’t see me, but it feels freaky anyway. Freaky and risky.

  The bus takes off again up the east side of Manhattan. A few minutes later, we turn onto a narrow bridge. In the distance I can see the abandoned airport. The bridge leads to another island. A smaller one.

  I stare out the window at the end of my seat row. My heart is racing but I concentrate on holding still, not moving my feet. I’m aware of every sensation in my body. I know I’m probably headed for trouble, and this time I can’t let my focus wander.

  I look down the aisle toward the front of the bus. Over the head of the driver there’s a yellowed sign from the old days. Better days.

  It says RELAX & ENJOY THE RIDE.

  CHAPTER 71

  THE CITY HALL subway station had been closed since the middle of the last century, but it retained an air of majesty—vaulted brick arches, decorative patterns in Guastavino tile, and elaborate leaded glass skylights. The sun was pouring through those skylights now, illuminating a buzz of activity on the platform that had been extended to cover the abandoned tracks.

  The station had the look of a Roman bath, but the aroma of an industrial kitchen. The air was steamy from the heat of a hundred pots, sitting on massive gas stoves against the interior walls. A dozen white-jacketed cooks stood at their stations, slicing mountains of onions, peppers, and tomatoes and shaking sizzling skillets of ground beef. The prepped ingredients were dumped into huge simmering pots, then swirled with stirring paddles the size of small oars.

  Sonor Breece walked slowly up and down the line, hands folded behind his back. Between his fingers he dangled a long-stemmed tasting spoon, which flicked out behind him like a thin silver tail.

  The aromas that filled the space were a bit crude for his senses. He preferred more subtle seasoning and, as a rule, he avoided meat. But scale and economy were the objectives here, not haute cuisine.

  He wandered over to the side of the cook in the center of the line and dipped his spoon into the bubbling mixture on the burner. He touched the spoonful to his lips to test the temperature. Then he took a small nibble and let the flavors expand in his mouth. He worked the mixture lightly between his molars for a few seconds, then leaned forward and spit the half-chewed wad back into the pot.

  “Too thin,” said Breece. “Start again.”

  The cook’s eyes never lifted from the stove in front of him.

  “Right away, sir,” he replied, his voice barely audible. The sweat on his forehead was from the heat of the stove. But the sour odor of stress rose from beneath his jacket as Breece watched him tip the forty-quart pot by its handles and dump the steaming contents into a large garbage bucket.

  “More texture this time,” said Breece, wiping his spoon on a clean towel.

  The loud squeak of metal wheels echoed against the curved station walls. Breece looked up to see a crew moving toward the station on a small electric cart made to fit over the ancient steel rails. The three men riding the cart wore rubber bib overalls and heavy gloves.

  Two of the men climbed a small ladder onto the end of the platform and began to unload their cargo—dozens of small metal containers, each marked with an abstract stencil of a bird’s head. The third man, the foreman, just watched. Breece pulled a pair of rubber gloves from a workstation and walked toward the workers.

  “Gently, please,” he said. “Gently.”

  The words of caution were unnecessary. The heavyset men were already handling the containers as if they were precious jewels, stacking them carefully in a neat pyramid. Breece picked a container from the top of the growing pile. He used the narrow stem of his tasting spoon to pry off the tight-fitting lid. Inside was a clear liquid with the consistency of cough medicine.

  Breece carried the open container over to the sweating chef in the center, now furiously chopping up a fresh load of produce. Breece dipped his tasting spoon into the container, picking up a small dollop of syrup on the tip.

  He held it up to the chef’s mouth.

  “Taste,” said Breece.

  The cook rested his knife on the cutting board as Breece lifted the spoon to him—almost like feeding a baby. Instinctively, the cook sniffed. No smell. He wrapped his lips around the spoon tip and took a small dot of syrup onto his tongue. He rolled it slowly in his mouth. He swallowed.

  Suddenly, the cook spun back against his stove, his body stiff, eyes wide. Breece saw him try to scream, but his vocal cords were already paralyzed. The gas flame from the burner flared onto his jacket pocket, singeing it. The cook reached for his throat as white foam began to pour from his mouth. He dropped hard onto the cement platform as an almost comical waft of smoke rose from the side of his jacket—like a cartoon character after grasping a live wire.

  Breece tossed his tasting spoon into the garbage along with the chef’s failed recipe. He looked at the foreman.

  “Perfect,” he said.

  CHAPTER 72

  TO ALL APPEARANCES, the bus was now empty, parked near an arched entryway at the prison gate. Outside, guards shoved and sorted the prisoners on a bare pavement slab. Another guard rested his rifle near the front door of the bus and started sweeping the aisle for stowaways. It was not unusual for prisoners to hide under seats, praying not to be noticed.

  From her aisle seat, Maddy watched the guard’s black helmet duck down, one row after the other, all the way to the bench that ran
across the rear of the bus. Maddy knew from the hum in her head that she was still invisible, still safe, but for how long? The guard walked to the front of the bus and leaned out the front door.

  “Clear!” he shouted. The squad leader outside nodded.

  Maddy moved down the aisle behind the guard and waited for him to exit. As he stepped down onto the ground, she followed. Suddenly, the guard wheeled around and started back up the steps to retrieve his rifle. As Maddy spun sideways to dodge him, she felt the hard ballistic nylon of his sleeve brush against her leg. She held her breath. The guard grabbed his rifle and stepped back out of the bus.

  The prisoners had already been separated by gender, men to the left, women to the right. The only juvenile on this load was a boy about eleven years old, who was roughly pushed in with the men. The woman in the colorful turban stood quietly at the end of the female line. At a signal from the lead guard, the solid metal gate in front of the prisoners rose like a garage door—the eight-ton, bomb-proof variety.

  Maddy slipped into the line behind the turban lady. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the guard in the rear was maintaining a comfortable gap as the column moved forward. Stay focused. Stay calm. Don’t push it. She had already been invisible for fifteen minutes.

  As the prisoners moved through the bleak prison vestibule, they passed an unmanned kiosk with an automatic camera. At a guard’s command, each prisoner turned to face the camera for his or her official mug shot. When Maddy reached the camera, the sensor saw nothing. Maddy posed anyway. She gave the lens her most charming smile, and both middle fingers.

  After passing through two more electronically controlled doors, the columns of people reached the core of the prison. Everything here was metal—metal bars, metal pipes, metal ducts, metal railings, even metal floors, in the form of grated platforms that ran around cell blocks stacked three stories up. The men’s column turned left and disappeared down a long corridor. The guards herded the women toward a wide staircase.