The Shadow

by James Patterson

  “You were right,” she whispered. “It’s him.”

  “Our humble host,” said Lamont.

  Gismonde descended the staircase slowly to applause and glass-tapping from the guests. The hem of the robe trailed behind him on the carpet. He stopped on the second-to-last step, which left him at least a foot higher than everybody below.

  “Welcome!” he said, turning left and right to take in as many faces as possible. “So many friends I don’t recognize! But of course, that’s the fun of it!”

  Champagne-fueled laughter echoed through the foyer.

  “Please,” said Gismonde with a gracious sweep of his arm. “Enjoy the evening—whoever you are!” More laughter.

  “I’d like to slip him a mickey,” said Margo, straining against Lamont’s arm.

  “You mean like he did to us?” said Lamont.

  At the bottom of the steps, Gismonde mingled politely with a few guests bold enough to approach him. In the library, the quartet began to play again, a lively gavotte. As the music swelled, the foyer became an impromptu dance floor, with costumed partners gliding and twirling elegantly over the checked marble.

  “Shall we?” asked Lamont.

  “Do we really have time to dance?” said Margo.

  “We always have time to dance,” said Lamont.

  He took Margo by the hand and led her to the center of the floor. From the railing above, the long beak looked down. Margo rested her hand gently on Lamont’s shoulder and leaned in close so that her lips were just an inch from his ear.

  “By the way,” she asked, “do you have a plan?”

  “I think I might have some leftover dynamite in the basement,” said Lamont.

  “So crude,” said Margo.

  “You’re right,” said Lamont. “Too many casualties.” He glanced around at the guests. “Not that this crowd would be missed.”

  Lamont leaned in to press his cheek against hers. He could smell her neck, her hair. He could feel her moving with him, gliding, bending, turning. For a few minutes, Lamont forgot everything except being with her. Margo was an excellent dancer, lithe and smooth. Sometimes it was hard to tell who was leading whom.

  As they circled under the gleaming chandelier, Lamont felt a soft tap on his shoulder. He and Margo paused in midstep. Lamont turned. World President Gismonde’s face was just inches from his mask.

  “May I cut in?” he asked.

  CHAPTER 82

  LAMONT GLANCED AT Margo. She didn’t even blink. Behind her mask, her eyes were as cool as ice.

  Lamont stepped aside, lowering the brim of his hat. He moved quickly toward the other end of the room. Gismonde clasped Margo’s hand lightly in his at shoulder level. His other hand came to rest gently against the center of her back. Gismonde bent his knees, lifted onto his toes, and wheeled Margo expertly across the floor as other couples moved to the perimeter.

  Lamont worked his way behind the circle of guests, trying his best to blend in. He was sweating a little under his mask and the wool scarf began to itch his neck. As the string music soared, Gismonde led Margo in a series of slow, sweeping turns.

  “Have we met?” he asked.

  “I’m just another face in the crowd,” said Margo.

  “Your dress is lovely,” said Gismonde, pulling away slightly to let his gaze run from Margo’s neck to her ankles and back again.

  “But my jewels are fake,” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” said Gismonde softly. “I’ll never tell. Besides, everybody here is pretending, are they not?”

  “And what are you pretending, Mr. World President?” asked Margo.

  Gismonde smiled and leaned in close to her.

  “I’m pretending that I’m still young,” he whispered.

  Margo felt someone beside her. A mask in the shape of a beak was almost brushing her arm.

  “Mr. World President,” came a deep voice from beneath the mask. “My apologies.”

  Gismonde pulled away and gave Margo a small bow.

  “To be continued?” he said.

  “Of course,” said Margo.

  Gismonde looked directly into her eyes, as if the mask weren’t even there.

  “Until we meet again,” he said. “Miss Lane.”

  A shiver shot through her. Gismonde turned on his heel and followed the man with the beak to the far corner of the room. The man with the beak beckoned a guard. That guard beckoned two others.

  Suddenly Margo felt Lamont over her shoulder, his lips close to her ear.

  “Do you remember the powder room wall?” he whispered.

  “I do,” she said.

  “I’ll meet you outside.”

  Margo slipped quickly through the crowd and into an alcove off the main hall. She opened the door to an elegant powder room with two marble sinks and an enclosed toilet stall. A velvet settee sat against one wall.

  Back in the foyer, the guards advanced. Lamont backed into the crowd.

  He needed to buy some time. Just a little.

  Margo darted to the right-hand sink. She reached below the marble bowl and found a hidden metal lever, just as she remembered. She yanked the lever up, hard. There was a loud snap as the handle broke off in her hand. Margo moved quickly to a section of tile wall at the far side of the powder room. She pressed on it, then pounded. But the wall did not move.

  Margo heard a knock on the powder room door. The door opened. A woman in a red satin dress and an elaborate mask slipped in.

  “Do you mind?” the woman said, pointing toward the stall. “Too much champagne!” Margo quickly assessed the woman’s height and size. Perfect.

  “My goodness,” said Margo softly. “I love your dress.”

  CHAPTER 83

  THE GUARDS STEPPED slowly toward Lamont, trapping him in a corner of the vestibule. Finding the girl could wait. The man was their main target. And they were obviously trying to prevent panic. In a crowded room like this, it would be too easy to shoot somebody rich and important by mistake.

  Gismonde stood on the staircase, his hand clenched tight on the railing.

  “Everyone please step away slowly,” said one of the guards. Lamont circled as if looking for a gap in the crowd. He twirled the long scarf off his neck and dropped it. He shrugged the heavy trench coat off his shoulders. He flipped his wide-brimmed hat toward the side, where the woman in the bustier caught it.

  The guards took another step forward, their rifles trained on Lamont’s chest.

  “Don’t move!” they said.

  “Don’t blink!” said Lamont.

  Then he disappeared.

  Some guests gasped. Others applauded.

  “Excellent!” shouted the man in the jester costume. “Well done!” He thought it was the best party trick he’d seen in a long time.

  The guards rushed toward the spot where Lamont had been standing, their boots trampling over his empty coat. Gismonde stepped angrily across the room and pushed through the crowd, his gold robe swirling behind him.

  “You had him,” he said to the guards. “Now find him.”

  On the front portico, Lamont stepped aside while the guards charged past him. In seconds, the front lawn and driveway were alive with armed men. Lamont slipped through a hedge and moved behind the mansion—to a corner of the garden where the powder room tunnel exited. But where was Margo? She should be here already. He saw movement at the far side of the garden. A woman in red was walking toward him on the flagstone path. Lamont squinted into the darkness.

  “Lamont,” the woman whispered. “Where are you?”

  Lamont rustled a tree branch. Margo quickly walked over.

  “They were looking for a white dress,” she said. “So I borrowed a red one.”

  “What about the tunnel?” said Lamont.

  Margo held up the broken handle.

  “Faulty materials,” she said.

  They could hear the pounding of boots coming from the front of the mansion. Lamont grabbed Margo’s hand and pulled her through the hedge that
led to the rear gate. A minute later, they were on a dark side street, heading back downtown. Margo had ditched her elaborate headdress and Lamont was visible again, exhausted from the effort.

  “I told you it was too dangerous,” said Margo. “We could have been killed—again.”

  “I promise,” said Lamont, “next year I’ll turn down the invitation.”

  Margo was clearly in no mood for Lamont’s little jokes and evasions. She stopped and grabbed him by the arm.

  “Lamont,” she said. “You said it yourself—whatever is going to happen will happen tomorrow. What are we going to do?”

  “We’ll be ready,” said Lamont. “So will Maddy.”

  Lamont headed back down the street. Margo caught up with him.

  “Maddy?” she said. “She’s too young. She’s been through enough. Leave her out of it.”

  “I know,” said Lamont. “I should keep her out of it. But she’s as stubborn as you are.”

  As they made their way down the dark streets, Lamont and Margo passed huge tents on almost every block, empty and waiting. Lamont stopped at a construction wall. He tapped the Most Beautiful Day poster that was tacked to it.

  “See that?” he said. The type on the poster read “3:00 p.m.” “We have until then.”

  “You always leave things to the last minute,” said Margo.

  After a few blocks, the straps of Margo’s high heels started to dig into her flesh. They were a size too small. Not bad for dancing, but useless for hiking.

  “Lamont, wait,” said Margo. He stopped. She leaned on his arm, reached down, and yanked her shoes off one at a time. She rubbed the sore red stripes on her feet and ankles, then tossed the shoes into a trash can.

  “What are you doing?” said Lamont. “We’ve got miles to go!”

  “Believe me,” said Margo. “I’m better off barefoot.”

  For the first time in her life, she wondered how it would feel to ride a scooter.

  CHAPTER 84

  BY TEN THE next morning, the World President’s Residence had mostly returned to normal. Ministers bustled through the halls with papers and portfolios as kitchen workers carried glassware, trays, and unopened champagne bottles back into storage.

  In the basement security room, a team of analysts played and replayed the scene from the previous evening’s disturbance. The man’s mask thwarted the facial recognition software, but in one viewer’s mind, at least, there was no doubt about the identity. Sonor Breece leaned over the monitor.

  “It’s Lamont Cranston,” he said. “There’s nobody else it could be.”

  Breece noted the current time on the monitor display. This was a big day. The Most Beautiful Day. And he was already late for his next appointment. No matter. Last one into the room is the most powerful, no matter what the size of the meeting.

  “Tweak the algorithm,” said Breece to the analysts. “Keep trying. And the woman with him. The one in white. Find her, too. Nothing can interfere with today’s event. Nothing!”

  Breece walked down the stairs to the first floor and moved briskly down the long corridor. Across the hall from the dining room was a small study with a view of the rear garden. It was Breece’s favorite room for morning meetings because it got such beautiful sun. Breece pushed the door open.

  As Breece entered, both visitors jumped to their feet.

  “Sonor Breece,” the chief of staff said, shaking hands with the men in turn as they introduced themselves.

  “Creighton Poole, attorney at law,” said the first.

  “Julian Fletcher. Doctor Julian Fletcher,” said the other.

  “Ah, a man of medicine,” said Breece. He gestured to both men. “Please sit.”

  “Chemist, actually,” said Fletcher.

  “Noble profession,” said Breece with a smile. “I’m a bit of a chemist myself.”

  The door opened again. An attendant entered, holding a tray with three flutes of champagne.

  “We had some festivities here last night,” said Breece. “I thought we might enjoy some of the leftovers.”

  The attendant set the tray down on the glass table in front of the sofa and quickly left the room.

  “But first,” said Breece, looking at Poole. “About your message. Very intriguing.”

  “Yes, Mr. Breece,” started Poole. “If you’ll allow me to lay out the parameters…”

  Breece knew the start of a lawyer’s speech when he heard it. He held up his hand.

  “You have information on Lamont Cranston—is that correct?”

  Poole recalibrated. Less was more.

  “Yes,” he said. “We do.” He shifted his eyes toward Fletcher. Fletcher cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Cranston,” said Fletcher, “was the subject of an experiment in my family’s laboratory.”

  “In the 1930s,” added Poole.

  Breece kept his eyes on Fletcher. “Experiment?”

  “Mr. Cranston was…ill at the time,” Fletcher continued. “My ancestor had devised a process that allowed for preservation of the human body in a form of suspended animation.”

  “Cryogenics?” said Breece.

  “A modification of that theory, yes,” said Fletcher. “But one that permits the body to function and survive over a long period of time without significant cellular deterioration.”

  “Fascinating,” said Breece. “And Mr. Cranston was the beneficiary of that process?”

  “He was,” said Fletcher. “I performed the revivification myself.”

  “And may I assume your laboratory is the only one of its kind?”

  “The only one that works, that’s for sure!” said Poole, looking for a way back into the conversation.

  “And Mr. Cranston?” asked Breece. “Where is he now? Alive and well, I presume?”

  “I saw him three days ago,” said Fletcher.

  “Doctor,” said Breece. “I salute your achievement. Let’s drink to science!”

  Breece handed a flute of champagne to Fletcher and lifted one of his own.

  Fletcher took an eager sip. Instantly, his eyes widened and a stream of white foam began to spill from his mouth. He collapsed forward onto the glass table, cracking it with his skull. Poole jumped to his feet. In a corner, a pair of finches fluttered in their cage. Breece shifted slightly in his chair.

  “I’m sorry that was so unpleasant, Mr. Poole, but I don’t wish to give Mr. Cranston another chance at…What was the term?”

  Poole’s lips trembled with the word. “Revivification.”

  “Exactly. And now, Mr. Poole, about the other matter you mentioned?”

  Poole’s hand shook as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a folded document wrapped in blue legal paper. On the top fold in legal script was the title “Last Will & Testament of Lamont Cranston.”

  “What have we here?” asked Breece.

  Poole cleared his throat and wiped the sheen from his upper lip.

  “In 1937,” he began, “my great-ancestor was Lamont Cranston’s attorney. He advised Mr. Cranston to write a will. But Mr. Cranston didn’t want to bother. He had no wife. No children. Thought it was a waste of time. So on the night when Mr. Cranston met his…unfortunate fate, my ancestor wrote a will for him and forged his signature.”

  “An ethical breach,” said Breece, pursing his lips.

  “No question,” said Poole, “but one designed for Mr. Cranston’s ultimate benefit. And I believe that what I know about certain provisions of this will would be of value to you. Provisions that Mr. Cranston, of course, is totally unaware of.”

  Breece took the document and unfolded it.

  “The final page,” said Poole helpfully, “the inheritance clause.”

  Breece glanced at the legal text. He folded the document.

  “This could be useful indeed,” said Breece. “And nobody else knows about this forgery?”

  “I’m the last of my line,” said Poole. “The secret dies with me.”

  “In that case,” said Breece, “why don’t we di
scuss your retainer?”

  Breece tucked the document into his pocket and put a hand on Poole’s shoulder.

  “But first, I’ll need the location of that laboratory.”

  CHAPTER 85

  THE MOST BEAUTIFUL Day is here. I’m at the warehouse, tossing a twine ball for Bando to fetch. Over and over again. I have to do something to keep from jumping out of my skin. I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous. But I don’t want to show it. If I seem too twitchy, Lamont and Margo might leave me behind. And I can’t let that happen. Whatever they’re doing today, I need to be part of it.

  Lamont and Margo walk out of their nook.

  “You ready?” asks Lamont.

  “I’m ready,” I say.

  All three of us are wearing the same outfit. Black pants and black shirts with no loose fabric—more secondhand finds, with a little extra tailoring by Grandma. For me and Lamont, she even replaced the zippers with plastic buttons, so we’re one hundred percent metal-free. If you ask me, we all look like old-time burglars, especially with the black masks. But I’m not complaining. Anything is better than those bike shorts.

  “Watch Bando while we’re gone, Grandma,” I say.

  “Don’t worry about us,” she says. Then she looks at Lamont.

  “Do you know what you’re doing, Lamont?” Grandma asks.

  “Not entirely,” he says. At least he’s honest.

  “Lamont likes to make things up as he goes along,” says Margo.

  “It’s called being in the moment,” says Lamont. “Acting on instinct. Finding the spontaneous solution.”

  “It’s called winging it,” says Margo.

  Grandma grabs Lamont by the arm. She looks at Margo.

  “Don’t you two dare let anything happen to my Maddy,” she says. “Remember, without her, none of us would be here.”

  “You have my word,” says Lamont.

  I give Bando a bye-bye belly rub and then wrap my arms around Grandma.