“I get it! But I want to know what’s going on just as much as you do. I just want to find out who I am.”
Thomas and I exchange looks and for the first time, his face softens. He knows that I understand that feeling Mikey is describing. The curiosity that won’t go away, the unnameable longing, the promise of that missing piece of your identity.
Mikey slides forward until his upper body is practically in the front seat. “Hey, I got an idea. What if you put me in handcuffs?” He holds up his fists, with wrists touching. “Better yet, put the cuffs on me with my hands behind my back. Even if I’m hardwired to hurt you, what am I gonna do while I’m cuffed?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” I say. “Would that make you feel better about bringing him along, Thomas?”
“Maybe. Could we put a bag over his face too?”
“What for?”
“So I don’t have to look at his ugly mug.”
“Nice,” Mikey says. “Kick me while I’m down, why don’t you?”
I glance over at Thomas. He’s still scowling, arms crossed over his chest.
I know the whole idea of this Snowball stuff is freaking him out. If there’s one thing he’s afraid of losing, it’s his brain.
We need to get him that antidote.
Between the buildings, I see the first flush of an orangey sunrise. Time is growing short and our immediate options seem to be narrowed to one. I take our final turn onto Central Park South. Claymore Tower is straight ahead at Columbus Circle.
I take the handcuffs off my utility belt and hand them to Mikey. “Put those on yourself. We’re going to see what Larry wanted me to find.”
• • •
As soon as we pull up in front of Claymore Tower, there’s a skittering feeling inside my ribs, like something with small, sharp claws is hiding there. I’ve avoided coming here since I returned home. Being anywhere near this building triggers the same creepy feeling as a graveyard or a too-quiet alley in the middle of the night. I’m not sure if that’s because of the structure itself, or if it’s just that this is the place I most closely associate with Erskine Claymore—a man I hated so much that I risked my life just to bring him down. I have to say, I haven’t changed my opinion of him since then.
“Okay, so we’re here,” Mikey says. “Now what?”
“We wait and see if Angel remembers anything important.”
We sit still for a few minutes as I try to let my mind relax. That was always Larry’s first instruction to me. Let my thoughts become weightless. Let them wander.
I close my eyes and try to find that peaceful, meandering mental state, but the pressure on me to find something inside my own memory is so great, Thomas and Mikey’s hopes and expectations might as well be sitting in my lap.
“Staring at me doesn’t help,” I say, without opening my eyes.
“Don’t stare at her,” Thomas says to Mikey.
“You were staring at her, too!”
“How about, you both keep your eyes to yourselves and shut up?”
I press my fingers to my temples.
We wait some more.
“There’s nothing,” I say after a frustrating five minutes. “I’m sorry but nothing’s coming to me. Other than irritation that Larry made this so hard.”
“Maybe you’re supposed to go up,” Mikey says.
I turn around and look at Mikey. “Are you crazy? You think I’m going to climb up that building?”
“Not climb up the side, just go to the top. Look.” He points to a queueing area with poles and chains. “Observation deck. Big tourist attraction.”
“Oh, right. What time is it?”
“Just before six,” Thomas says, checking the website for Claymore Tower’s visiting hours. “First tour is at 8:30. I guess we’re going to have to kill some time before then. Who’s up for a delicious barrel of coffee?”
I’m about to start the van up again when Thomas touches my arm.
“What?”
His face is frozen. He points. “Look.”
At the next intersection, the front grills of two police cruisers are just visible from behind the parked cars on either side of the street, sort of like two pinchers about to snap shut. “And now look in the rearview mirror.”
Two large black SUVs—both unmarked—have blocked off the street twenty yards back. They look just like the vehicles my FBI security detail uses. Probably because this is my FBI security detail.
Only I have a feeling they’re not here to protect me.
“How did they know how to find us?” I ask.
Thomas shoots a quick glance my way and taps a spot on his head, just above his ear. The same place where Mikey had that hard bump under his scalp.
There’s no way Mikey is a puppet of the FBI. But if someone planted a tracking device on him—and the FBI used that to trace us—that’s practically proof that the Feds are not working on my behalf. They must’ve teamed up with someone just as sinister as the creators of the Velocius project.
And it’s definitely time to part ways with Mikey.
I do a quick sweep of the immediate area to assess possible escape routes. “Okay,” I say. “When I say go, we all bail out and run in different directions. I’ll go downtown. Thomas, you head up Central Park West. Mikey, you get the whole park to yourself.”
Thomas grabs both my hands. “If you get caught, you demand a court-appointed lawyer, and you make sure they put you in the city lockup. Do not let them hand you over to the Feds.”
“Deal.” I glance back at Mikey. He’s crouching by the back doors. “You ready?”
“I’m ready,” he says.
I keep my eyes on the mirror. The SUVs aren’t moving yet. But I don’t expect them to be content with just watching us for much longer.
“We meet back at Claymore Tower at eight thirty,” I add.
Thomas leans over and gives me a kiss that for a moment nearly blots out all the terror I’m feeling. Nearly. I pull back. “Okay—go.”
We run.
Chapter 16
I bolt out into the street and into the oncoming lane. I run a jagged pattern around the few cars coming at me, honking their horns, and stopping in the street as one of the police vehicles tries to turn around and pursue me.
When I glance over my shoulder, I see four police cruisers closing in behind me, lights and sirens at full blast. I’m moving at full speed, which is pretty fast but not fast enough to outrun a car. There’s no hope for me if I don’t find a place to hide.
I need some help. My eyes search frantically as I keep running.
Then I see it.
Up ahead, a huge construction project runs the length of a city block. Thanks to the scaffolding over the sidewalk and the tall plywood walls to keep pedestrians back, it will be my salvation. I’m up the scaffolding and onto the roof of the overhang before I have a second to dwell on it. I’m not sure if my Velocius abilities are helping me or if it’s pure reflex from the old days, but I know if I scoot to the far side of the scaffolding roof and just lie flat, no one will be able to see me from the street.
Just in time. I hear the police cruiser come by and give a squawk as it slides past. The car goes around the corner. I peek over the top of the wall just long enough to catch the eye of the middle-aged street vendor standing a few feet from where I climbed up.
I know he must have seen me but he turns away nonchalantly. He refills the napkin dispenser and straightens a few displays of chips and gum as another police car slowly inches by. It comes to a stop. I think my heart has moved into my throat. I’m nearly choking on it.
They’re asking him if he saw me.
They describe what I look like.
I wait.
“Nope, officer, ’fraid I didn’t see a thing,” he says.
I don’t know who you are but I love you!
I lie still, trying to silently catch my breath. Staring up into the sky, I can just make out the very top of Claymore Tower, reaching up into the milky blue morning
sky like a sword.
“Sarah, are you ready to talk?”
No. Not today.
I’m not my usual self.
Larry’s question irritates me, because I was enjoying the feeling of floating along like a twig in a stream and he interrupted that. But I can’t ignore him or he’ll think there’s something wrong. So I clear my dry throat and force my lips to move. I have to think very hard to get the words to travel from my brain to my mouth. The effort is exhausting.
“Yes. I’m ready. What are we talking about today?”
“Fears.”
“Fears?”
“It’s a vocabulary test. I’m going to give you the name of a phobia and you’re going to break the word down into its constituent parts and figure out what it means.”
Last night, while I was trying to prepare myself for my latest injection procedure, I was thinking a lot about fears. Like the fear of someone drilling into your skull. If there isn’t a word for that, there should be. They could name it after me in my honor.
Usually the odd topics Larry brings up during the surgeries help calm me. This particular topic, not so much.
“Easy one to start: hemophobia.”
“This is an easy one? For who?”
“Like I said, break the word down. Think about it.”
“Well, I hear you guys talking about hematocrit levels all the time and I know that has something to do with blood. So I’ll say hemophobia is the fear of blood?”
“Correct. Next one: nostophobia.”
It’s so hard to think when I’m pinned in this halo, with my mind trying to flow away on a beautiful bubbling brook.
“Can I ask a question?” I say.
“Sorry. No.”
“Then can you use it in a sentence?”
“This isn’t a spelling bee.”
“I’m in the middle of brain surgery here. You can spot me one question,” I say.
When Larry replies, I hear a smile in his voice. “Okay. Here’s your sentence: ‘Sarah should not have nostophobia.’ ”
“Are you kidding? That’s not helpful at all.”
“You asked for a sentence, I gave you one.”
I puff my cheeks up with air and then let it out slowly. “Fine, then I’ll figure it out on my own. I’ll say, nosto- sounds like, I don’t know, nostalgia maybe?”
“Hmmm.”
“You’re supposed to say warmer when I’m getting close to the right answer.”
“Then you’re getting warmer.”
“Okay. Then I’m going to guess that nostophobia is the fear of the past, or remembering the past, or something like that?”
“Correct.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say Larry sounds proud of me right now. But I realize something.
“Wait. But you said I shouldn’t have nostophobia?”
“You shouldn’t.”
“But I’m here,” I say.
I mean, the entire point of being here is that I should be afraid of remembering the past.
Larry doesn’t respond. I hear the sounds of metal instruments being dropped onto a metal tray and the quiet whirring of gears as the robotic arm takes up a new position, possibly readying itself to plunge into the next drill site. I brace myself and listen, but the room remains quiet except for my breathing and the dozen blipping machines monitoring my life signs.
“Last one, Sarah. You should get this one, easy.”
Emphasis on you. Meaning it’s something personal?
“Acrophobia.”
Well, he was wrong about this word. I got nothing. “Fear of acrobats?”
“Seriously? Who’s afraid of acrobats?” he asks.
“I’ll bet someone is.”
“Possibly, but no, try again,” he says. His voice suddenly sounds like he’s determined for me. He wants to make sure I get this last one correct. “You can figure this out. What do acrobats do?”
“I don’t know. I’m not allowed to go to the circus this week on account of my skull is full of holes and I’d scare the clowns.”
“Come on, Sarah. Reason it out.”
“I don’t know. Acrobats do flips and stuff.”
“Where?”
“At the circus. I just said that.”
“No, I mean, where at the circus? Here’s the only hint I’m going to give you.”
The robotic arm suddenly swings around the side of my head and positions itself directly in front of my face. The drill attachment on the end moves like a finger until it’s pointing toward the ceiling.
“Up? On a high wire maybe?”
“Good. So you couldn’t be an acrobat if you were afraid of what?”
“Heights?”
“Bingo.”
“Why was that supposed to be an easy one?”
“No reason. I doubt you suffer from acrophobia, that’s all.”
I think about my times at the gym, climbing to the highest point I could reach, not even sure why but knowing that I just had to get to the top. It was like all the answers, the peace I craved, the something I needed . . . it was always at the top. No, I definitely don’t have acrophobia. Acrophilia, maybe.
“So I do not have acrophobia and I should not have nostophobia,” I say.
“You’re getting warmer.”
Warmer? Does he mean I’m getting closer to the right answer? But wait. What was the question again?
• • •
I’m lying on the scaffolding, looking up at the sky above New York City, and I realize that even back then, Larry was trying to tell me something.
And right now Claymore Tower is like the needle of a compass pointing me in the right direction.
Chapter 17
I lie still for a few more minutes, listening to the sounds of the city getting louder and letting the noise chase away that memory of Larry talking to me. I really don’t like remembering those times in the halo because I don’t just remember them. I’m not sure what remembering feels like for most people, but for me, it’s like I’m there again. It’s as if I disappear for a moment, only to reappear, and when it’s over, I need a moment to reorient myself.
I need to get off this scaffolding. But I don’t want to call attention to myself by climbing back down the way I came, in full view of anyone on the street. So I scoot over to the other side. But a quick look over the edge of the plywood wall tells me it’s a straight drop, maybe sixty feet into a mound of gravel inside the construction zone. I can either lie up here all day or climb back down on the street side.
By now, one of the SUVs has circled back and is trawling up the block slowly. I wait while it does two more slow circuits around the block. And suddenly my prayers are answered in the form of a double-decker, open-top tour bus.
Either this one hasn’t started its run for the day or no one wants to take a tour through Manhattan at eight o’clock in the morning. In any event, the top level of the bus is empty. I leap to my feet and run the length of the block along the top of the scaffolding, hoping I can overtake the bus when it stops at the intersection. Up ahead, the light turns yellow and then red. The bus cruises to a halt, giving me the precious seconds I need to catch up to it. The top of the bus is almost level with the scaffolding. It’s barely a jump at all and I land lightly in the center aisle. I turn around to see if anyone’s noticed, and I can see the street vendor waving at me. I give him a salute before squatting low next to one of the seats.
A moment later, the bus rounds the corner. Fortunately it’s heading back toward Central Park, and when it stops for some people in the crosswalk a few blocks later, I grab the safety railing along the bus top, leap over, and hang as far down as I can before letting myself fall the rest of the way into the road. Not a pleasant sensation for my feet as I hit the pavement, but I’ve experienced way worse.
I jog up the street, back in the direction I came from near the southwest corner of Central Park. I try to stay out of view, walking between parked cars and running next to vans and buses to shield me from vie
w whenever I can. I’ve lost track of the time until I pass a jeweler’s window and see a few diamond-studded Rolex watches all set to 8:20 a.m.
In front of Claymore Tower there’s no sign of the SUVs, but I stay out of sight and keep my eyes peeled for Thomas. A tour bus comes to a stop at the curb, and within a minute, the sidewalk is filled with tourists.
This is my chance. Time to blend in.
I cross the street and mill about with the people who’ve just come off the bus. Okay, so blending in might be easier if these folks weren’t Japanese.
Suddenly there’s an arm around my waist and a voice in my ear. “Excuse me, could you take a picture of me and my girlfriend?”
I turn to face Thomas and pull him into a hug. Then I step back to get a better look at him.
“You left two hours ago in a tuxedo and now you’re wearing a completely different set of clothes?”
“I’m resourceful.”
“You’re a thief. Not that I’m judging.”
“I appreciate your moral flexibility during these times of stress.” He reaches over and pulls the hood on my Coney Island hoodie over the top of my head. “Better keep your head down. Who knows what advanced capabilities Claymore’s security cameras have, and the police might have facial recognition software that can peg you from here.”
I look down and pull the strings of the hoodie so that it nearly cinches closed on my nose.
“Alternatively, to hide your face from view, we could just make out constantly all the way up to the observation deck,” Thomas says.
“I don’t think so.”
“You never want to go with the make-out option, Angel. What is up with that?”
A security guard unlocks the front doors and begins directing the people at the front of the line to the set of three elevator cars dedicated to the observation deck tour. We follow the surge of chatting, laughing tourists. When it’s our turn to file into the next available elevator, we try to put plenty of people between us and the security camera in the upper corner of the elevator car.
The car rises and with it, my hopes. Can there be something useful here? Some clue, some tool, that Larry intended for me to find? Or am I being used again for something I don’t understand and didn’t agree to?
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