“Angel!”
I’m already throwing myself backward into the stairwell, hoping to avoid the rifle blasts coming my way.
I know I’m fast.
But apparently I’m not fast enough.
Chapter 29
As I fall, I manage to grab the door at the top of the stairs and pull it shut behind me. Velocius comes in very handy for multitasking.
I somersault down the stairs until I reach the landing. Above me, I hear the helicopter descend, feel the shake and thump as it comes to rest on the roof of an adjacent building.
My vision starts to curl and lengthen into tunnels. I don’t know where I’m hit, and I don’t want to look. Wherever it is, it’s bad. I’m fighting off the shock that is trying to overtake me. I’m fighting all the natural impulses of my injured body. But I can’t stop. I need to get out of here.
When I reach the fourth floor, a smell hits me—a clean, familiar smell. I know it at once. I must have smelled it every day when I was at the research center.
Rubbing alcohol.
I should keep going, but the smell is so overpowering that fresh alarm bells go off in my brain. I yank open the stairwell door and step into a corridor completely doused with rubbing alcohol. Pools of it on the floor, streaks across the walls. Through the darkness of the unlit hallway, I see empty plastic bottles strewn around. What batty thing has Mrs. Claymore done now?
I rush past the receptionist’s desk and shove open the glass doors. Before I can take a full step into Mrs. Claymore’s room, I hear, “Stop!”
Mrs. Claymore is standing next to the fireplace, lit by an eerie combination of emergency lights coming from outside and the dwindling embers in the hearth. She’s holding onto the mantle with one hand, the fire poker in the other. Her clothes are wet. The whole room is filled with the sharp smell of alcohol.
“Don’t come any closer, Angel.”
I stand there panting, fighting to stay upright. “What did you do?”
“Oh, dear. You’ve been injured.”
“Yeah. Don’t tell me where. I don’t want to know. But . . .” I point to the scattered bottles on the carpet and the sofa. “What is all this?”
She smiles so sadly it’s almost hard to look at her. “I was thinking that they’ll need a body. My husband won’t be satisfied unless he’s certain you’re dead. I thought a fire might explain the lack of body.”
“But what about you?”
“I can’t go on like this anymore. It’s time for me to set myself free.”
“No! Not like this!”
“I’m proud of you, Angel. You’re going to be the one who gets away from him. I couldn’t, Virgil can’t, but you . . . you’re the one who can fly away. Please tell Virgil I send him all my love. And that lovely woman, Grace. She brought me hope when I had none.”
“Please, please, please! Don’t do this! There’s got to be another way!”
“No. Let me give you the chance you deserve. Let me do this for you.”
“I don’t want you to do—”
But it’s too late. With the poker, she gently pushes an ember out of the fireplace and bats it onto the rug, almost as if she’s playing croquet.
The fire erupts, first igniting the pool of alcohol around her feet and then climbing up her legs. A split second later, the whole room bursts into flame. The heat pushes me back and I realize that it’s coming straight for me. I run to the stairwell and push through the door just in time.
And now I hear my grandmother’s screams. Whether my mind was editing them out until now or she managed to hold them in for a minute, they catch up to me here on the stairs. It’s the worst, most nightmarish sound I’ve ever heard.
Until it stops.
And I think that’s even worse.
Something takes over in me. Not bravery or strength. Pure animal survival instinct. Nothing to be proud of.
I stagger down to the third floor and find the room where Thomas and I hid earlier. I root through the bag of soiled clothes we left there. Robotically, I pull out a top that looks like it’ll fit me. I try to peel off the scrubs I’m wearing but the fabric sticks to the bullet wound and I scream in agony. I throw a bulky hooded sweatshirt over my head instead. That’ll hide the blood and obscure my size.
The window is still slightly ajar. I climb out onto the ledge and follow it around the back of the building. I then creep, climb, fall—whatever it takes to get me down to the courtyard at ground level. From there, I see a route—up onto fire escapes and down into alleys—along the backs of each building on the block.
Only once do I turn to look over my shoulder. My face is lit by the spreading fire. In front of the building, sirens are blaring and I can see an arc of water firing up toward the upper floors. But I know it’s too late for Mrs. Claymore.
When I peer out from behind one of the buildings up the block from the nursing home, there’s a mob of people pushing against the barricades. I keep my head low and walk until I lose track of the time and the distance.
If you survive . . . go to our meet-up spot. . . .
I walk and walk for hours, though I feel like I’m making no conscious decision about where to go. I finally arrive at the right place, in front of the City Hall subway stop. Out in the open. By the time I slip down onto a bench my arm has grown completely numb. I’ve been cradling it with my other hand, but now I don’t have the strength to do that either. I close my eyes, not sure if I’m falling asleep or passing out or dying. I really don’t care which it is.
I just want life to go away.
The next thing I’m aware of is Mrs. Fitzgerald standing over me, snapping on a pair of rubber gloves. I sit up, immediately feeling a pulling sensation in my shoulder. My arm is in a sling.
“Be careful,” she says in the same matter-of-fact voice she always uses. “Don’t move too fast. I don’t want to have to stitch you up again.”
I look down. The first thing I notice is that I’m wearing my own clothes. The second thing I notice is the pain in my chest. I pull my shirt away from my skin slightly. There’s a row of stiches, maybe twenty or more.
I glance around at the room. It’s completely unfamiliar. “Where are we?”
“A hotel room near Kennedy Airport,” she says. “I couldn’t risk taking you to your father’s house or even to my office.”
I put my hand over the stitches, gently passing my thumb over the black bristly ends of the stitches poking out of my skin. “How bad was it?”
“You just missed having a shattered clavicle. It’ll hurt for a while but, obviously, not life-threatening. And now that you’re awake . . .” She holds up a plastic squirt bottle of yellowish liquid. “We need to dye your hair.”
“What?”
“You need to not look like you.” Slowly my brain catches up: she’s talking about a disguise. Amazing how sluggish my thoughts can be without Velocius. I suppose it doesn’t help that I’m exhausted and traumatized, but that’s been par for the course for a long time. “Come into the bathroom and let’s get this over with. You need to get going first thing in the morning.”
Mrs. Fitzgerald has me sit on the toilet and lean my head over the tub. I feel her squeeze the cold dye onto my head.
“So what now?” I ask.
“I’ve packed a backpack with money, credit cards, a phone, and a passport. There’s also a ticket in there for you. You’ll be going to Amsterdam for a few weeks. Staying with a friend of mine. I’ve written the details down. You’re not to call me or your father directly. My friend will relay messages to me but not for the first three weeks.”
I try to take all that in but all I can think to say in response is, “What’s Amsterdam like?”
Mrs. Fitzgerald works the dye through my hair, gently dabbing a few places where it drips.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there. Virgil thought you’d like it. If you don’t, you can find somewhere else that agrees with you. You’re free now.”
“Free?” I say. “You mean
I have nothing left.”
She sort of grunts in response and keeps massaging the dye into my scalp.
“Can I ever come back here again?”
“I don’t know. Maybe once we’re sure that Erskine Claymore and the FBI truly believe you’re dead.”
When she’s done with the dye, I sit up and she hands me a small box. I open it and see a pair of blue contact lenses. “Never imagined myself a blue-eyed blonde,” I say.
“I’m sure there are a lot of things you never imagined,” she says. Her voice is quieter than usual. Not exactly emotional, but less brusque.
I practice putting in the contacts. Since I’m not used to it, it takes me a few tries. Eventually they’re both in and I look around, blinking. I notice the pile of bloody, dirty clothes—my stolen scrubs—on the floor next to the toilet.
That’s when I remember. And panic.
I kneel down and start pawing through the pockets. “I had . . . there was a vial of medicine in my pocket. Did you find it? Did I drop it?”
“It’s in here,” Mrs. Fitzgerald says, pointing toward the bedside table. “What is it?”
I explain to her about the drug, how it was used on Thomas and Mikey and, most important, that Thomas needs it. “I’m fairly sure Claymore’s people will give him the second injection. It’s just a matter of when. Claymore told me that they were going to delay until they could be sure that his memories from the entire past year had been eliminated.”
Mrs. Fitzgerald peels the rubber gloves off and sits on the end of the bed. “He saw you get shot, correct?”
I nod.
“So I suppose, on a personal level, the choice is, let him forget you or let him think that you’re dead. What would be the kinder thing to do?”
This is officially the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever had with my guardian. Grace Fitzgerald is asking me about feelings and kindness and “a personal level”?
But she has a point. “The kinder thing to do would be to spare him pain.”
“Maybe,” she says. “Let me rephrase my question, then. What would he want you to do?”
“He would want to remember me. Even if it hurt,” I say. “That’s what he told me.”
She picks up the vial. “Then I’ll find a way to administer it. Though I can’t make any promises about how long that will take. He’ll be under lock and key, for one thing.”
“Yes, but you managed to sneak in to see Mrs. Claymore. If you got into that place, you can get access to Thomas.”
“There’s also the question of the proper dosage and the fact that this medication has been without refrigeration for several hours. Some medications degrade quickly when not kept in just the right conditions, and knowing Dr. Wilson, I’m sure this is a tricky one.”
The name of Velocius’s mastermind catches me off guard. “You knew Dr. Wilson?”
She removes her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. She takes a deep breath. “Angel. I . . . I owe you an apology. More than one, really.”
“For what?”
She pulls her sweater down over her knuckles and folds her arms across her chest. The gesture makes her seem much smaller, much younger. “I don’t know exactly what they told you, but I know you didn’t trust me enough to reach out for help when you first realized you were in trouble. I’m sorry that I made it so easy for you to believe I’d betray you. I’m not very good with people. I’m not—”
She swallows. I want to let her off the hook. She doesn’t need to say anything more. “It’s okay. You never asked to be some surrogate mother to me.”
I’m glad she doesn’t look up at me because I feel so embarrassed by this conversation, I think I’m going to burst into flames.
“In any case, I want to apologize to you for Velocius,” she says. “I’m the one who came up with the idea for it, a long time ago. I was one of Wilson’s early research assistants. Dr. Ladner was my replacement when I left. I want you to know that I never would have pursued the idea if I’d had any inkling of how they’d develop it and test it.”
I just look at her and pull hard on the towel draped around my neck.
“I know that when you came back here to New York, your handlers told you that you shouldn’t use your skills, that it wears you out and shortens your lifespan. They don’t know anything, Angel. That was just their way of controlling you. The truth is, no one knows what your potential is. No one can say for sure if there are any limits to what you can do. The government was afraid of you and tried to make you afraid of you. What I’m trying to say is, don’t ever let anyone make you fear your own strength.”
Strength? What a joke. I don’t care if I find out I can fly. It won’t do me any good now that Thomas is gone and Mrs. Claymore is dead. I’ve lost everyone who’s ever mattered to me. If Mrs. Fitzgerald had told me this sooner, if I’d learned to understand and control my Velocius abilities earlier, maybe tonight would’ve played out differently. But now? What good is a superpower if you have no one left to protect? This is all too little and too late.
Mrs. Fitzgerald gets up and gathers a few things to put away in her medical bag.
“I have to get back to your father now. I’ll tell him that you’re all right. Your flight is at 6:30 a.m. tomorrow. Be safe, Angel.”
I listen to the sound of the door latching shut. It’s just a short little click, but it seems to echo in my mind for hours, long after I’ve rinsed the dye from my hair and stared into the mirror and fallen into a fitful sleep. I try to accept that my life in New York—the short, hopeful existence of Angel Ramos—is now over for good.
As the morning light spills into the room, I let myself go. I decide that it’s all right to cry, to mourn a death, even if the person who’s died is you.
Six Months Later
I grip the pair of binoculars with one hand and hold my phone to my ear with the other. A steady, chilling winter wind cuts through my clothes. No place does wind like Manhattan in the winter.
“You’re sure?” I say into the phone. “Completely sure?”
I can tell from the sigh on the other end of the line that Mrs. Fitzgerald is getting impatient with me. Not that I can blame her. She’s done me a huge favor, and now she wants to get on with her day. “You’re looking right at him, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I acknowledge. I’m standing a block away from Claymore Tower, watching through the binoculars as Thomas exits the building and crosses the street.
I know it’s really him. I see his red hair. I see his jawline. I notice that his confident walk is . . . not quite the same. He’s keeping his head down, just plodding along.
I tuck the binoculars into my backpack.
“So he comes here a lot?”
“It’s the same each time,” Mrs. Fitzgerald says. “He goes to the top of Claymore Tower and then heads to a café at the edge of the park. Now, if you’re going to do this, I suggest you get it over with instead of conspicuously loitering out in the open.”
Even though I look nothing like the Angel that the world remembers, Mrs. Fitzgerald worries I’ll be recognized now that I’m back in New York.
“Okay, then I guess I’ll just . . . go talk to him.”
“We don’t know that the medication worked,” Mrs. Fitzgerald reminds me, her tone at once telling me that I shouldn’t get my hopes up and that she understands if I do. “We don’t know what he remembers. He may just be drawn here for reasons he doesn’t understand. But you’ll never find out if you keep stalling forever.”
End call.
Her phone etiquette is just as abysmal as ever. Over the last six months, just about everything in my life has been transformed except her.
I’ll never again criticize the media, because it was the live coverage of the showdown at the nursing home that saved Thomas. And maybe me, too. All that public scrutiny threw a monkey wrench in Claymore’s plan to spirit Thomas away and fake his death. It also helped that Thomas’s very wealthy parents hired a bunch of expensive lawyers and even a publ
icity company that specializes in crisis management. They kept Thomas squarely in the public eye in just the right way so that Claymore—who has always preferred to operate in the shadows—had no choice but to back off. Upon being released from the hospital, Thomas went back to stay with his adoptive parents, out of Claymore’s reach, at least for now.
And the kill shot that got me? The one those television cameras caught? Well, that’s been quite a hit. Even though my body was never recovered, several ballistics experts jawed for hours on cable news shows about how lethal these rifles are, even at long range. No one, they all concluded, could have survived that gunshot.
Of course, my reputation took a beating. Claymore blamed me for the whole situation, including starting the fire that killed his wife. But I’m dead now. No need to speak ill of me. And apparently I do have some loyal supporters who are insisting that I was set up. They say that I was the victim of a conspiracy and the government is still actively engaged in covering up what happened.
Ha.
But whatever story people believe, Angel Ramos is dead. She sacrificed herself so I could start fresh with a new life.
And Mrs. Fitzgerald was right: People move on. As sensational a story as it was, other sensational stories came after. And people forgot.
We’re still not sure what happened to Mikey, but Mrs. Fitzgerald has a lead. Finding out whether he got a semi-happy ending is near the top of my to-do list now that I’m back in New York.
Item one on my to-do list is now directly ahead.
I shouldn’t be nervous. I’ve spent the past six months learning how to turn on my Velocius skills as easily as snapping my fingers. Unfortunately, none of my newly honed superpowers will help me in this situation.
The sandwich shop that Thomas has just entered is not the kind of place I was expecting to find him. Inside it smells of coffee and burned sugar and that stale lemony scent of air fresheners in public restrooms. It’s the sort of café where old people come for a good deal on a bowl of soup. Nothing wrong with it, but nothing that would be an obvious draw for a rich kid with all of New York City’s varied cuisine at his fingertips.
Incognita Page 21