I have conversations with him in my head so we can finish talking about all the things we didn’t have time to discuss back at the hospital. Back when everyone was trying to kill me. And we always laugh. I think if we’d had the chance, we would have laughed together a lot.
“Remember that time you told me you loved me because you thought you were dying?”
Yeah. That was horrifically embarrassing, wasn’t it?
“I told you the same thing.”
It doesn’t count when the person you say it to is unconscious, Angel.
“Yeah, I know. You were way braver than me.”
I reach the end of the block and pivot with my cane to face the steps of the cathedral. There are a lot more to climb than these, I know. The elevator isn’t working yet. That keeps most of the tourists away. It’s a long walk to the top of the steeple, more than five hundred steps. My physical therapist would probably think I’m working too hard. Or maybe not hard enough. They’re tough to please, those physical therapists.
I hang the crook of my cane over my forearm and grab the railing. The pain in my spine will get worse with every step, and by the time I get to the top, I won’t be able to think of anything else. This is probably not the best way of dealing with my grief over losing Thomas, but I’ve never been able to figure out what you’re supposed to do. The only solution I’ve ever had is to go up. Somehow up is closer to wherever they’ve gone—those people you’ve loved and lost.
I have to stop a few times and rest, but finally I push the door open to the observation deck and look at my watch. Thirty-one minutes is a new best time, but it’s cost me. I’m exhausted. The twinges of pain in my back have now fused together to become one continuous, unyielding ache.
I find a bench and sit down. It’s always colder up here than I’m expecting, but I’ll stay until closing time. I have nowhere else to go. Well, nowhere else I want to go. Being home again hasn’t been easy. I can’t go back to living my old life, and inventing a new one means letting go of some things and holding on to others. That hasn’t worked too well so far. I still can’t seem to figure out the right combination to get me back to feeling normal, so I guess I’ve kind of stopped trying.
I watch a mom and two kids who both look thoroughly unimpressed with the view as they hustle toward the door. There’s also a guy leaning against the railing with his hands clasped. I’m hoping he’ll leave in a minute, too, so I can have the place all to myself.
I rest my hands on my cane and push it against the ground, trying to give off whatever sad, impatient vibes might encourage him to leave. I hear sirens wailing down below. They’re getting more persistent, ever louder as they head north up Amsterdam Avenue.
Somebody’s in big trouble. I’m glad it’s not me this time.
Almost instantly the guy by the railing spins around and begins to walk across the deck. I turn my head toward the setting sun, watching him come closer out of the corner of my eye. At first I think he’s heading toward the stairs. It takes me a second to recognize him, and at first I don’t believe it.
So many times I thought I’d seen him. In a crowd or on the subway platform. I’d limp closer, only to be proven wrong. I don’t want to be disappointed again, so I wait until he’s standing right in front of me. Then I close my eyes.
“Are you real?”
“I am.”
“You can’t be real.”
“Why not?”
“Because this doesn’t suck.”
“This is the one exception to the rule.”
I try to leap toward him but end up falling instead. He catches me. “Does this help you believe?”
He takes out his clunky eyeglasses and puts them on. I kiss him with such clumsy enthusiasm that I knock those awful glasses right off his face.
“I had no way to find you,” I say. “They wouldn’t tell me anything. Even if you were alive or dead.”
“I know. Except I knew you’d be alive. I knew you would make it. And I knew I’d find you again.”
“But how did you know to look for me here?”
“I told you, part of what makes me such an excellent hacker is that I’m good at figuring out the way people think, what they do, what habits they have. I spent the last few weeks thinking, trying to come up with a place that you might go. Then I saw the article in the Times about this place opening up. St. Philip’s new observation deck. Upper West Side. I thought, ah, that’s it. That’s where my angel will go. I’m so glad I got it right. I knew I’d only get one shot at finding you.”
“Why?”
“I’m kinda … under house arrest.” He lifts the leg of his jeans and shows me his ankle transmitter.
“For what?”
“There were at least a dozen international warrants out for 8-Bit, but since they couldn’t have him, they settled for me instead. I’m locked up at home with my parents. No computer. No phone. Basically, no contact with the outside world. I can’t even go to school.”
“For how long?”
“Until they figure out what to do with me and my lawyers cut a deal. Leniency in exchange for information.”
“House arrest. I’ll bet your mom is glad about that. Glad you’re alive, I mean.”
“She is. I … I know I’ve got a lot to make up for. I’m doing my best. My dad’s still very angry.”
“But Thomas … no computer? How can you stand it?”
“It’s been easy. Compared to what else I’ve had to live without.”
He kisses me, then stops. It’s way too short a kiss for me.
“What’s the matter?”
He lifts my hat up a little in the front. “I don’t know if this is going to work out between us. I usually only go for bald chicks.”
“I understand. How’s this?”
I tuck my hair into my hat and pull it all the way down to my eyebrows. He kisses me again. A little longer this time, but still not long enough.
The sirens are getting louder, closer, and there are more of them. We walk to the edge of the observation deck, arm in arm, so I don’t have to use my cane. Down below, three police cars have pulled up onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians scatter like pigeons as the officers leap out and charge up the church steps.
“Are they here looking for a handsome, red-headed fugitive?”
“Yeah. And if they catch us up here, I’m going to be in even bigger trouble. I’m sort of breaking the law two times right now. I’m not supposed to have any contact with you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess they think they need to protect you from me.”
“It’s probably the other way around. My ‘handlers’ can’t seem to decide if they should be bossing me around or placating me. I don’t respond very well to either. I’m sure that’s got to be confusing for them.”
Thomas pulls me toward him by my jacket lapels. “Before they get here, tell me how your life is. I just need to know you’re okay.”
My head falls against his chest, and he presses his cheek to the top of my head.
“I’m all right. Virgil is a kind man. My mother was right about him. He hasn’t told his father about me yet. We were waiting for things to blow over. Hodges … your mother—”
“Please don’t call her that.”
“Okay. But she was practically a surrogate daughter to Virgil’s father—my grandfather. He did everything he could to cover things up, but he couldn’t save her from being arrested. Couldn’t even get her out on bail.”
“I saw they busted Wilson, too.”
“Wilson. I think I hate him almost as much as I hate Hodges.”
“You should. That Velocius thing is no gift. Angel, you know what it does to you? They told you that, didn’t they?”
I step back so I can look into his brown-black eyes.
“They told me. I guess they wanted to keep me from using my new tricks. Nothing like a radically shortened life span to put a damper on your superpowers. They told me every time I speed my mind up, I wear myself out. They sai
d it’s like running a car at two hundred miles an hour. You can’t keep it up forever.”
We hear men shouting in the stairwell. Thomas looks over at the door and says, “Seems like old times.”
“Tell me how to reach you.”
“I have no computer and no phone. I guess you’ll have to do things the old-fashioned way. Write me a letter.”
“Okay. I will. What’s your address?”
He pulls a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to me. “It’s on here.”
I take it from him and whisper, “Thank you. Thank you for … for still being alive.”
The men are almost to the top of the stairs now.
“Quick. Go hide behind that column while I turn myself in. Maybe they’ll give me credit for semi-good behavior.”
“Aw, but you’re a good guy.”
“That’s me. Hacker with a heart of gold. Now go!”
He kisses me again. My bottom lip, then the top, then both together. He pushes me toward a column crowned with exceptionally gruesome gargoyles, all of them with their tongues sticking out. If only warding off evil was that easy.
“Stay here until they’re gone, okay?”
“Do you want me to bust you out? I could, you know.”
“I have no doubt about that, but I don’t want you shortening your life by even one day for my sake.”
The door swings open, and Thomas spins around and puts his hands behind his head, ready to cooperate. I wait in the shadows as the police take him into custody. The sun is low. Why it feels warmer now, in this cold wind, I don’t know, but it does.
After a few minutes, I look out over the railing of the observation deck, down at the street below, and watch as they lead Thomas away. The police cars are long gone before I finally unfold the piece of paper that he gave me.
It’s blank.
I flip it over. It’s the same on the other side.
For a moment, I think it’s a mistake. Or some kind of joke. I don’t know why he would give this to me. It’s not until I’m about to head down the stairs that I think to put my hand into the inside pocket of my jacket. There I find a second piece of paper. On it is written Thomas’s full name, address, and three words I know he’s never said to anyone else but me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I always read ACKNOWLEDGMENTS pages, don’t you?
At one time, weirdly—perhaps ironically—reading the acknowledgments at the ends of books convinced me that I’d never be a published author. Most authors had so many people to thank, reading their lists of thankees was like watching film credits roll at the end of a movie. I used to think, “Really? I don’t even know that many people.”
Now I’m happy to say that I do. And I hope you’ll stay and read all the way to the end so you’ll know who made this book possible.
My “Without Whom” Agent
Molly Jaffa, for your unflagging support and patience and vision and for not letting me give up on this book. You couldn’t be more perfect if you were dunked in chocolate.
Executive Producers
Andrea Cascardi and Bonnie Cutler, for giving Tabula Rasa a warm, safe home for its many bullets and explosions.
Director
Alison S. Weiss, my own winged editorial Valkyrie, a shockingly nice person and excellent editor who made this book better in every possible way.
Art Direction
Georgia Morrissey, for my fabulous, eye-catching cover.
Set Design
Alison Chamberlain, for designing all the pretty, gritty pages of this book.
Associate Producers
Ryan Sullivan and Laaren Brown for catching my mistakes so I don’t look like (too much of) a fool.
Script Supervisor
Denise Logsdon, who has possibly read every word I’ve written the last fifteen years. Dude, you are the best. Truly. I’m not even going to be more specific than that. You’re just the best.
Key (to My Keeping a) Grip
For critical feedback, tea and sympathy, and general awesomeness: Sierra Godfrey, Angelina Hansen, Vivi Barnes, Julie Bourbeau, Renee Collins, Tara Kelly, and the fabulous YA Valentines—Sara Raasch, Sara B. Larson, A. Lynden Rolland, Jen McConnel, Philip Siegel, Lynne Matson, Jaye Robin Brown, Paula Stokes, Lindsay Cummings, Bethany Crandall, Bethany Hagen, Kristi Helvig, and Anne Blankman.
Boom Operator
Amy Crandall Lippert, who always asked, “How’s the book going?” and then listened to the (often whiny) answer.
Casting Directors
Mom, for your help, support, and assistance in innumerable ways, including clutch babysitting in the eleventh hour of manuscript revision. And my writer dad, for saying, “Wow. Look what you did with your brain!” upon hearing I was going to become a published author.
Technical and Military Advisor/Stunt Coordinator
Andrew Lippert, for making my childhood an excellent adventure. I’m exceptionally lucky to have had you as a big brother.
Special Effects
I’d like to acknowledge the work of Dr. David Eagleman, whose research on neuroscience—the concept of “brain time” in particular—got me thinking one day, “What if …?”
Personal Assistants to Ms. Lippert-Martin
People ask me often how I’m able to write when I have four kids, and the reason is I have awesome kids. I thank you, my glorious progeny, Caroline, Lucy, Emma, and Augustus. Never has a writer been constantly interrupted by lovelier children.
Best Boy
I’m not sure what a “best boy” actually is, so I’m using this term literally. Thank you, Philip, for always laughing at my jokes and never once laughing at my dreams. There’s a reason I named a cathedral after you.
FIN
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