A dangerous weapon. A deadly virus. A brutal attack.
THE PRESIDENT’S SHADOW
James Patterson is one of the best-known and biggest-selling writers of all time. Among his creations are some of the world’s most popular series, including Alex Cross, the Women’s Murder Club, Michael Bennett and the Private novels. He has written many other number one bestsellers including collaborations with President Bill Clinton, Dolly Parton and Michael Crichton, stand-alone thrillers and non-fiction. James has donated millions in grants to independent bookshops and has been the most borrowed adult author in UK libraries for the past fourteen years in a row. He lives in Florida with his family.
Richard DiLallo is a former advertising executive. He lives in Manhattan with his wife.
Also by James Patterson featuring the Shadow
Circle of Death (with Brian Sitts)
The Shadow (with Brian Sitts)
A list of titles by James Patterson appears at the back of this book
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PROLOGUE
I CANNOT STOP thinking about college.
Th is afternoon is Maddy’s graduation from City College of New York, and the only person more excited than me and my wife, Margo, is Grandma Jessica. Unfortunately, the day and time of the graduation confl icted precisely with a vitally important meeting I was scheduled to attend at Kyoto University, and I’d found myself split between the campuses. When I mentioned this to my family, Jessica had the no-nonsense solution.
“Well, you can handle this confl ict in one of two ways, Lamont,” she said, as she prepared to take our family dog, Bando, on his morning walk. “You can do the right thing or you can go to Kyoto University. I know you’ll do the right thing.”
And so I did the right thing. But . . . instead of going to Japan myself, I sent Jericho Druke, one of the best and the brightest members of my team. I planned to attend the Kyoto meeting via Ultima-Vid, the newest incarnation of
Zoom. The fact that Jericho Druke would actually be sitting next to the chairperson of the Kyoto Nuclear Control Department at Kyoto U in the mountainous and beautiful Tamba Highlands of Southern Japan makes me feel like I’m missing out, but like Jessica said — I can miss out on work, or I can do the right thing.
The video meeting begins. The images are so crisp and clear I can even enjoy the beauty of the huge green mountains outside the building where Jericho and the Kyoto professor sit. The rolling hills seem to teem with life. The wind blows the leaves, and I think I can even spot some small creatures moving about in the treetops.
But an unnatural movement catches my eye, right before the unthinkable happens. Incredible. The mountains begin to explode and crumble. Great piles of rocks and trees and soil come racing down, the green colors of life overwhelmed by the brown of the earth and the gray of smoke. Jericho and the professor jump up and rush toward the door. But there is no time. No time to escape. It all happens too fast. Tons and tons of debris crash through the windows. Within seconds the building walls collapse. Screaming. Sirens. The Ultima-Vid feed shows only a massive amount of rubble and dust and dirt. It refuses to lose connection, forcing me to watch it all play out in real time. I jump to my feet, screaming. Margo and Maddy come running into the room, only to stand in shock as they watch the destruction on the screen, the audio feed still fi lling the room with endless wails of both sirens and people.
I am beyond horrified. I stand helpless, wishing I could crash through the screen and do something, anything. Anything to help the thousands of people at the university who have been annihilated. And most of all, most of all . . . my friend, my colleague, the best and the brightest, Jericho.
CHAPTER 1
THE ENTIRE CRANSTON family household is suddenly plunged into a state of shock and sadness. All of us loved and respected Jericho so much.
“Forget my graduation,” Maddy tells me, knowing how bad I feel that I wasn’t there to help. “You’ve got something more important to —”
“No,” I say fi rmly. “We may have lost Jericho in this nightmare. But we’re not going to lose one of the most important days in your life.”
“But —” Maddy begins to say something. I cut her off.
“No arguing, Maddy. I’m coming to your graduation.”
Maddy’s graduation is a day for her to shine, and her brightness is a beacon through all the haze that surrounds me now. I also want to show Maddy that I am completely in her corner, which I haven’t done a great job of lately. We’ve been arguing about her decision to take a summer internship in the New York City public defender’s office, even though she knows I have very little use for anything
remotely related to government work. Her next move after the internship bothers me equally. In the fall, Maddy plans on going to law school. I would much prefer that she finish training in Tibet with Dache and then get out into the real world and do something to help.
But now is not the right time to continue this argument, and she knows it.
“Okay,” Maddy says. “But don’t forget that you’ll have to sit through the guest speaker’s commencement address.”
“Oh, damn,” I say. The Right Reverend Lanata Hooper. The warmongering scum-bucket capitalist who’s made billions of dollars off the poor. How could I possibly forget?
“That woman has no more right to use the title ‘reverend’ than . . .” I don’t finish the sentence.
A deadly silence overwhelms the room. Maddy, Jessica, and Margo all exchange worried glances.
After waiting for the world’s longest minute, Margo finally speaks. “What’s wrong, Lamont? You look like you’re in another world.”
I open my eyes and speak softly.
“I am in another world,” I say. “A world without Jericho.”
CHAPTER 2
THE CCNY GRADUATION is being held at the huge open-air Corpus Field, where the grand old Yankee Stadium once stood many, many decades ago.
The graduation sky this afternoon is dark, depressing, not quite raining, but ready to start at any minute. The gloomy weather matches the family’s mood. Rain would only make it worse, but it might be more fitting.
I watch the happy, excited people surrounding me and try to force myself to join them emotionally. But even for someone with the powers of mind control, it’s impossible, and that only makes me more angry. Maddy deserves better. She deserves to have my full attention. When the Right Reverend Lanata Hooper is introduced, the audience erupts with a loud clash of both boos and cheers. Margo and Jessica join the chorus of boos. Then Jessica turns toward me. “Don’t even consider it,” she warns me.
I smile, some positive emotion welling at the thought of how wise she is, how well she knows me.
“You want to do one of your mind-control interferences,” she says. “But this is Maddy’s day. We can’t go spoiling it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. Still . . . I need to do something. After doing nothing as I watched Jericho die, I need to take action.
A few misty drops fall from the sky as Lanata Hooper rattles on and on about the “bright future ahead, in a land where wise people take control over the weak and foolish, a future of fine worldly goods . . .”
I can’t stand the vile philosophy any longer. I call upon my powers, and suddenly the graduation speaker stops speaking.
Both Margo and Jessica turn their heads toward me. They know something’s up.
Jessica is angry. “Lamont, you promised . . .” I nod, and the speaker resumes her speech. But suddenly it takes a completely unexpected turn.
“Now I would like to ask for a minute of silence,” Hooper says. Her voice is gentle, serious, and calm. “I would like us all to dedicate this time to remember and honor our academic friends who perished so tragically earlier today in Kyoto, Japan.”
The huge crowd falls silent. We all bow our heads. Then the rain begins to fall.
CHAPTER 3
I CANNOT SHAKE the images of Jericho from my mind. Still, when Margo suggests that we all go to dinner to celebrate Maddy’s big day, I agree.
“What’ll it be, Maddy? High-class French food or downhome barbecue?” I ask.
To everyone’s surprise, Maddy says, “I could go for a big honkin’ chunk of porterhouse steak.”
“You’re on. But before we go eat, I have a question for you.”
“I smell one of Lamont’s dad jokes coming,” says Margo.
“What do you get when a waiter drops your steak on the floor?” I ask.
Maddy doesn’t miss a beat. “Ground meat.” Groans. Fifteen minutes later, we’re seated at the last great steak house in New York City, the Strip House.
Margo, who really knows her way around a wine list, orders her favorite Burgundy, a Chambertin, vintage 2032. I order four sixteen-ounce steaks. “One medium, one rare,
one very rare, and one that’s blue.” Margo and Jessica seem confused.
Maddy says, “Blue means that the steak is as close as possible to being raw.”
“Th is girl is unbelievable,” I say. “First she knows my dad joke. Then she knows my secret food info. I’ve got nothing left to teach her. I guess CCNY was good for something.” I bite down on how I’d like to finish the sentence, something about wasting her talents on the government.
We all toast Maddy. Then, at her suggestion, we raise a glass to the memory of Jericho.
Everything is turning out okay . . . except for the five obnoxious young professionals at the next table. Margo glances over and identifies them as “a bunch of jerks, finance guys.”
Maddy says, “Yeah, but two of them are women.”
“Okay,” I say. “A bunch of finance jerks, men and women. Does that make it better?”
Maddy says not at all. But the tables are so close that it’s hard to ignore this offensive group, and the mood that was just beginning to lift evaporates.
“So,” one of the men at the other table goes on, “I said, ‘Don’t waste my time if you don’t have a minimum of four hundred million to drop on this deal.’ ”
Another man chimes in. “The big question is, did you get the babe to come back to your place?” Everyone laughs. Even the women. Disgusting.
They all roar at comments like “That IG guy didn’t know
a Treasury bond from his ass or his partner’s ass or his boss’s ass.”
“Hey,” Maddy says, working hard to stop contempt from entering her voice. “Do you guys think you could keep your voices down?”
The people at the other table look at one another and laugh. One of the two women even parodies Maddy’s question with old-fashioned sarcasm. “Weeeellllll, excuse me!” the woman says. And, of course, all her colleagues laugh.
“You’re a bunch of spoiled goons,” Maddy says.
One of the men fakes a combination of sincerity and seduction, saying, “Oh, maybe if that grumpy little girl joined our table she might have a little fun. How about it, babe?”
I have a front-row seat to this clown show, and I’ve just about had enough.
Only Margo notices the glint in my eyes, and a smile pulls at the side of her mouth.
Then we hear Finance Guy One gesture to Finance Guy Two and say, “Hey, Andrew, pass some of that Strip House special steak sauce this way, bro.”
Andrew does what he’s asked to do. But not exactly. He turns the pitcher of hot brown sauce over the head of Finance Guy One.
“What the f . . . ?” The man jumps to his feet, brushing sauce off his clearly expensive suit coat. “That’s not funny, dude.”
Maybe not to him, but Margo and I laugh hard. Jessica and Maddy turn to see what’s happening.
Finance Guy Th ree is on his cell phone. He gestures to his pals and says, “Keep it down, guys. I’m on an important . . .” But he’s not being important for long. His superduper, newer-than-new cell phone bursts into flames, and Number Th ree has no choice but to drop the flaming phone into his drink special: a ninety-dollar-a-glass tumbler of Macallan Scotch. The smell of melting plastic mixed with high-end liquor fi lls the room as other patrons leap to their feet.
But their gaze isn’t being drawn to the action inside the restaurant; they’re all looking at the sidewalk outside, where three teenagers are arguing.
I can sense that the sidewalk confrontation is about to become dangerous, very dangerous. Sure enough, one of the teens pulls out a switchblade and plunges it into the throat of another. The young victim falls to his knees, bleeding, hands clutching at the blade.
I’m on my feet and through the door, jumping over the body oozing blood onto the sidewalk. Meanwhile the two perps are running like crazy down Sixth Avenue.
CHAPTER 4
TWO OTHER MEN — older, dressed in jeans and black windbreakers — appear next to me on the scene.
“Get help fast,” I yell at them, motioning toward the bleeding body on the sidewalk. One guy presses a button on his handheld. The other turns to me, extending a hand.
“I’m Daniel Goyette, NYPD Narc and Drug Investigation. Th is is my partner, Ron. We were hoping to catch these young dealers in the act, but it looks like their little exchange went wrong somehow.”
“Great work you guys are doing!” I say angrily. “Mind if I step in and actually do something?”
I use my powers to subdue the escaping perps. I grab one and am about to get a stranglehold on the other, the one with the knife, when I hear a woman’s voice. Loud. Clear. It’s Maddy.
“I got him,” she yells as she forces the killer to the ground. I watch her twist the killer’s arms behind his back. The guy is struggling. He’s strong. Maddy is working hard.
“I can take over,” I say, jogging to join Maddy while maintaining a mental hold on the dealer I’ve already subdued, planning to put a heavy mental foot on her catch.
But suddenly the guy breaks free.
“I’ll get him,” I yell, but Maddy doesn’t hear me or she doesn’t want to hear me. She’s determined to use her developing mind-control powers to smash the killer against a double-parked car on Fifth Avenue and 12th Street.
But she makes a terrible miscalculation. Instead of smashing the runner against the car, she smashes the vehicle against two nearby parked cars. The impact is so great that all three cars collapse into one another like an accordion. Even worse, an innocent young woman who’d been crossing the street is now caught between the cars.
I release the perps I’m holding, then kneel down to help the innocent bystander. But it’s a feat even the Shadow can’t execute. The woman is dead, a mass of blood and skin and bones.
Maddy is horrified, hands covering her face. I’m angry and sad; angry that Maddy took such a huge leap before she was ready, and sad for this young woman whose life was just beginning.
“I was hoping that I could help, Lamont,” Maddy says. She’s in tears. “I wanted you to see that I was learning.”
“Damnit, Maddy. You’re ready to work with me when Dache and I say you’re ready. That’s clearly not now.” I know that Maddy is heartbroken, but an innocent person is dead, and a terrible killer escaped. Crime and death and horror and sorrow. They’re everything the Shadow fights against.
CHAPTER 5
BACK AT HOME we try to relax, but it’s impossible. After the tragedy of Jericho’s destruction, the wild, unusual graduation speech, and the terrible catastrophe of the drug bust gone wrong, it feels as if nothing will ever be the same. Peace and comfort will never show up.
Maddy and Jessica go to their bedrooms. Margo is brewing tea.
I sit alone in my office. No screens, no gadgets, nothing. I stare straight ahead, searching for clarity.
Then the door opens and Margo walks in, a steaming mug in her hand. “Am I disturbing you?” she asks.
“How can I be any more disturbed than I already am?” I retort, then regret my tone when I see her searching for the hint of a smile on my face.
She doesn’t find it. There’ll be no joy in this house tonight. She lets a few seconds pass and then speaks.
“Listen,” Margo says. “I overheard what you said to
Maddy. I just wanted you to know that I think you handled it really well.”
“Thanks, I guess,” I say.
“That was a tough conversation,” Margo says.
“And a worse situation,” I tell her. “Maddy’s got to learn . . . she’s got to learn so many things if she is going to help me straighten things out in this tough world. The powers she’s being trained in are both a blessing and a curse. She’s got to proceed with speed and caution.”
“Speed and caution are not always the best partners,” Margo says.
“I appreciate your concern,” I say. “Maddy has so much potential. I just want it all to develop properly. Today was clear proof that she’s not ready.”
There is silence. Margo reaches out and holds my hand. My fingers wrap around hers, and I finally find a small amount of comfort, but I don’t want to mislead her into believing that everything is better now.
“I need to tell you something,” I say.
Need. To Margo, that’s a frightening word coming from me. Someone who presents himself, even to those I love most, as private. Thoughtful and strong.
“What is it?” she asks.
“I will never get over Jericho’s death.”
Another silence. All she can do is hold my hand even tighter.
CHAPTER 6
MADDY’S FIRST DAY in the public defender’s office is not going well. She dreads the moment when she gets home and Margo and Lamont ask her the inevitable questions, “So, how’d it go? How was your fi rst day?”
Her half-a-lie response will be, “It was interesting.”
She knows Lamont thinks her summer would be better spent working in Tibet developing her mental and physical powers. So she will adjust her answer quite a bit. The truthful response would be, “It sucked big-time.”
Her day consists of taking orders from anyone in the office. She makes the coffee in the big coffee machine and then makes more when people complain that the pot’s empty. She fetches sandwiches for lunch and takes the blame when the deli screws up one of the orders. She formats hundreds of PowerPoint presentations. When one particularly snotty young paralegal asks her to pick up his copies, Maddy says, “You must be kidding. The printer is ten feet from your desk.” He doesn’t even look at her when he replies, “Yeah, but you’re the one standing up already.”
Finally she’s had enough and decides to speak up. A risky move. Her immediate supervisor, R.J. Werner, is a whip-smart Yale Law School graduate only a few years older than she is. During her interview — serious, quick, and very annoying — he told her, “My work philosophy is very simple. Do it by the book or don’t bother doing it.”
She doesn’t know if “by the book” means getting walked all over, but if that’s the case, she’d like to throw that particular book at his head. Summoning up all her nerve, she knocks on his door.
“Something wrong?” he asks. Then adds, “Already?”
“I thought this job would be a chance to learn social work and criminal law,” she says, holding her hands behind her back so R.J. can’t see how much they are shaking.
“So far, all I’ve been doing is household chores and delivering packages,” she says. “I’m not learning anything, except everyone’s coffee order.”
“I getcha,” R.J. says. And Maddy thinks for a moment that he does indeed “get her.”
Maybe R.J. is a reasonable, decent person under that ridiculously businesslike exterior.
“That’s good to hear,” says Maddy.
Then R.J. says, “Don’t get too excited. I’m going to give you an actual assignment. But it entails taking the subway, going to a really miserable place, and, most likely, dealing with a rude, unpleasant person.”
“Lay it on me,” Maddy tells him, thinking it didn’t sound terribly different from what she was already doing.
“Here’s what you need to do,” he says. “Download the Justice Systems General Form app on your cell phone and get yourself over to the 19th Precinct. There’s a young woman over there who’s coming up for a pre-bail evaluation. Try to get some info out of her. And don’t let her bullshit you. Happy now?” he asks, no smile, no charm.
“I’m all over it,” Maddy says, and she can’t believe she’s given such a corny response.
“Yeah, sure,” R.J. says. “And, oh, by the way, on your way back could you pick up my clean shirts at Valley Cleaners downstairs?”
Maddy is about to say something, but R.J. speaks, still serious. “Just kidding,” he says.
But Maddy’s not sure that he is.
CHAPTER 7
ACCORDING TO MADDY’S police-assigned handheld screen, the young woman’s name is Belinda Miller. Maddy buys that.
Maddy’s screen also says that Belinda Miller’s age is eighteen. Maddy is not buying that. Th is woman . . . girl . . . could easily be thirteen or fourteen. Certainly not much older than fi fteen.
They sit across from each other on junky folding chairs.
“My name is Maddy. I’m with the New York City public defender’s office, and I’m here to help you fi ll out some forms for your hearing.”
Maddy waits for a response from this snarly girl with the bloodshot eyes and long, greasy blond hair. But Belinda doesn’t even bother to look at Maddy. Instead she twists around in the folding chair and focuses on the cement wall behind her. Belinda is silent, and it’s fairly obvious to Maddy that she doesn’t plan to participate in this meeting. Maddy is a combination of nervous and angry and anxious,
but she stays determined. She waits exactly thirty seconds, and then she tries all over again.
“Look, Belinda, we’re going to get this thing fi lled out one way or another,” Maddy says, and she’s surprised at her own tough voice. Still no response from Belinda. Maddy tries again. Then Maddy decides to yell.
“I’m the only person in this building who is actually here to help you,” Maddy shouts. “So turn around in your damn chair and look at me.”
Belinda doesn’t turn around, but she does twist her neck and she takes a good look at Maddy, as if the only type of language she responds to is yelling. Finally she speaks.
“Wanna help? Get me the hell out of this place.”
“That’s exactly what I want to do.”
“Yeah, that’s what everyone wants to do. That’s why the cops arrest us low-level dealers trying to pick up some cash, but nobody does shit about the big-shot scum doing the worst things.”
Maddy tries to show how tuned-in she is.
“You mean your bosses are dealing drugs? Sorry, but you don’t exactly look like a drug dealer.”
“Lady, that’s the point,” Belinda says, rolling her eyes. “The smart ones figured out a long time ago having a bunch of shady-looking men standing on the street was like waving a red flag. But some young girls wandering around with ice-cream cones — who questions them? Anyways, if I told you anything, they’d kill me, and you might not make it out in great shape neither.”
Maddy feels some random power building up inside her. She’s going to help this girl. At the very least she’s going to get information that might clue her in to what Belinda’s talking about.
“C’mon. I can help you if you level with me,” Maddy says, and she means it.
Belinda turns her face toward the wall again.
“Give yourself a break,” Maddy says.
Belinda says nothing.
“My department can help,” Maddy says, remembering the young woman she’d accidentally killed using her mind power. If she saves a different one, does it cancel that out?
But Belinda has totally stopped talking.
“I have friends, good friends who aren’t cops who really can help you,” Maddy says. She can’t even imagine Lamont stepping into this rat’s nest. But she’ll figure out how to deal with that later.
Still nothing from Belinda. Then Maddy softly says, “Please.”
Belinda turns around. She’s crying. Suddenly she stands up and approaches Maddy. Maddy moves her finger very near the Panic button on the side of the small card table. She’s ready to push.
“You wanna learn something about me and my life, lady? Mom’s new boyfriend took a liking to me, you get it? It was pretty clear I had to put out or get out, and I went with the last one. Now I’m trying to make a decent kind of living —”
Her face colors in anger when she sees Maddy’s reaction. “No, not like that ! That’s exactly what I’m trying not to do . . . even though sometimes the customers get a different kind of idea about what services the girls have on offer.”
Belinda pulls at the neckline of her police-issued brown jumpsuit and points.
Her neck is covered in bruises in the shape of handprints. The skin on her chest and shoulders is riddled with open cuts and scratches.
“Sometimes I gotta make it real clear to them that the only thing I’ve got for sale is in my pockets, not my pants.”
Maddy is appalled, shocked into silence.
But before she can ask any more questions, her police cell phone rings.
Maddy looks at the caller name.
It’s her boss. R.J.
CHAPTER 8
“WHERE THE HELL are you?” R.J. shouts.
Maddy is still reeling from Belinda’s injuries, so she shouts right back at her boss.
“Where am I? Do you understand how time works? I’m with Belinda at the 19th Precinct. You sent me here, if you remember.”
“Listen. Th is assignment should take about five minutes. Just get some basic info. Name. Home address. The other stuff you can get online. Previous arrests. ER visits. Then get her version of the arrest. Keep it all brief.”
The lack of cooperation is coming at Maddy from two people now. Belinda and R.J.
“I’m doing my best here, R.J. Maybe if you listened . . .”
To Maddy’s surprise, Belinda is holding up her hands in the traditional “calm down” gesture. Is this a kind of breakthrough? Is Belinda suddenly cooperating?
But Maddy takes the advice. She tries to play nice with R.J.
“Listen, sir. Th is young woman needs medical attention. It looks pretty serious to me.”
“Yeah. They all need medical attention. Get what you came for and then get the hell out.”
Staying calm, Maddy says, “She has to see a doctor.”
R.J. doesn’t even ask what the medical problem us. The young woman could be bleeding out. Broken legs. Heart attack. OD. Whatever.
“Download the Medical Condition app. Fill out a request form. Send it to Police Health and be sure to cc me on it. They’ll see if it requires a PA exam.”
Maddy is back to full speed.
“But she needs to be seen now.”
“Damnit. Do what I tell you to do. Just do it. And do it fast. We need you back here.”
For what? Maddy thinks. Does someone’s dog need to be walked?
But she doesn’t get a chance to ask.
R.J. hangs up.
CHAPTER 9
MADDY IS ABSOLUTELY certain of one thing: R.J. is not going to break her. She’ll prove that she’s the best thing that ever happened to the New York City public defender’s office.
She downloads a Temporary Release form on her handheld, forwards it to the NYC Judicial Procedure Office, and, within a few minutes, receives approval to accompany Belinda on a “necessary departure and absence” release for two hours.
When Belinda changes out of her prison uniform and into her “work” clothes, Maddy is surprised to see someone who actually looks like . . . well, not a woman but a middle school student who’s late for geometry class — backpack, blue polo shirt with the alligator insignia, black skinny jeans.
Maddy can’t help but say, “Wow. Not what I was expecting.”
Mistake. Belinda snarls a tiny bit and speaks.
“What were you expecting? A T-shirt that says, i deal drugs, bogo today?”
Maddy says, “My mistake, sorry. Just tell me where we’re going.”
Where they quickly end up is a badly lit parking area beneath Second Avenue and the 59th Street Bridge.
What Maddy sees are three other girls, all of them dressed and groomed like Belinda. As a group they could be waiting for the school bus.
“You understand this yet?” Belinda asks.
“I’m beginning to,” Maddy answers.
Then she sees one of Belinda’s friends, a girl who is actually dressed in a navy-blue jumper over a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, looking like the Catholic school girls she’d see in books and movies from a hundred years ago. The girl is talking to a very ordinary middle-aged guy. The guy is chubby. A significant glob of belly hangs over his belt. They talk for a few minutes. The guy nods. Then they disappear behind a fi lthy NYC Sanitation truck, the girl glancing over her shoulder as they go.
A black Lexus pulls up and stops. Another “coworker” of Belinda’s approaches the driver’s side and begins talking to the driver. Maddy steps a little closer. What surprises her is the driver’s good looks — college type, early twenties, not unlike the finance guys from dinner the other day.
“I just don’t get it,” Maddy says. “That guy looks like his dealer should be wearing a three-piece suit and delivering
to his door. He’s not the kind I expect to see on the street, buying drugs.”
“It’s real simple, lady. He wants to feel like a badass, he wants to take the risk of getting caught. For some people, the drugs aren’t even the point. They like the feeling of doing something bad. Others, they like to come down here and see how the other half lives, then go back to their highrise, taking what they bought with them.”
“Poverty tourism,” Maddy says, shivering.
“Yep,” Belinda agrees. “And some of them get it in their heads that they’re actually helping us, you know? Like I had one of my regulars apologize to me because he bought off someone else, in a nicer part of town. And I’m like, bitch, you think I didn’t sell that shit to someone else?”
“Wow,” Maddy says, watching as the girl and her customer emerge from behind the sanitation truck. He pulls on her elbow, stopping her from walking out onto the street until a car passes. “They really do think they’re helping you, don’t they?”
Belinda snorts. “What they don’t know is, nobody can help girls like us.”
CHAPTER 10
JESSICA, MARGO, MADDY, and I are seated in front of our Communication Vector, a massive screen dedicated solely to watching events outside the United States.
Today we are watching the Oberon Awards for Literacy and Peace. The ceremony takes place in Copenhagen, Denmark. I was on the voting committee. Actually, I was chairperson of the committee, but I’ve been sworn not to blab. It’s hard not to spoil the winner for the others, but we’ve had so little clean, good fun recently that I’m sitting on it — not that everyone appreciates that.
“In five minutes we’re going to know who the winner is anyway,” Margo says. “So why don’t you just tell us now?”
I shake my head no and stay focused on the lavish ceremony on the screen. The only thing I say is, “Maddy, you can stop trying to intercept my brain patterns. I’ve enforced a mental barrier that prohibits you from entering. Maybe
with another year of training you’ll be able to connect to me. But you’ve got a long way to go.”
Then Jessica says, “Everybody quiet down. The guy who runs Denmark . . .”
“Sometimes called ‘the king,’ ” Margo says with a wry smile. “Is about to announce the winner,” Jessica goes on, ignoring the interruption.
The translation at the bottom of the screen tells us what the king is saying:
Th is citation is especially meaningful in these times of world turmoil. Therefore, it gives me great pleasure . . .
Then suddenly everything changes. The picture on the Communication Vector starts to shake. I can barely make out people in the audience running, but I can clearly hear their screams and cries. Dignitaries and celebrities are rushing to leave the scene.
It seems like the earth under Copenhagen is shaking. Is this Copenhagen’s version of the catastrophe that destroyed Kyoto? Then I watch as the king himself falls to the ground. Jessica and Margo gasp. “It could be an assassination attempt,” I tell them, keeping my voice calm. Then a Danish word appears over the images of chaos:
Margo says, “What the hell does that mean?” And almost as if the screen heard her and decided to help, the English translation of the word pops up:
NEWS UPDATE
I stand in a kind of suspended panic and watch. Margo, Maddy, and Jessica move to the edge of their seats. We are not merely wide-eyed and overcome with fear. We are terrified. We are a quartet of people who are used to taking action, being in control. Our bodies are practically humming with the need to do something, but what?
The voice of a Danish news announcer comes on. It is shaky, loud.
An English translation begins scrolling across the screen. The news is horrifying. Far worse than an assassination attempt . . . or anything else I could imagine.
CHAPTER 11
I DON’T KNOW a word of Danish, but I don’t need to understand it to realize the seriousness of whatever is happening. There is sheer panic in the newscasters’ voices. They seem to be talking over one another, interrupting one another, yelling at one another. The English translation can’t seem to keep up with the words being spoken.
We see the English words:
A DEVASTATION IS ABOUT TO APPEAR.
“A devastation is about to appear?” I ask aloud. What does that even mean? I think of Kyoto. Is this a replay of that madness? Will mountains fall? Will the Earth crack open?
Then we hear more of the mishmash of foreign words.
“Baltic!” shouts Margo. “They’re saying something about the Baltic.”
“The sea,” Jessica says. “The Baltic Sea is where Denmark is.”
Now, finally, English words come swirling by on the screen:
A
TIDAL
WAVE, UNLIKE
ANY
TIDAL
WAVE EVER RECORDED, IS ESTIMATED TO BE ONLY MINUTES AWAY FROM THE ISLAND THAT HOLDS COPENHAGEN.
I recall that most of Denmark is a peninsula, but the capital city of Copenhagen is located on a nearby island. The newscasters sound terrified. Their words are translated for those of us watching from thousands of miles away. Panic. Nothing but panic. How could it not be? The newscasters are as frightened as anyone, but many of them are staying at their posts, boldly reporting, doing their jobs.
On the screen comes another flurry of English words.
WE ARE TOLD TO FIND SHELTER. BUT WHERE? WHERE IN GOD’S WORLD IS THERE A SAFE PLACE? WHAT IS HAPPENING? PLEASE, GOD.
Some brave fool is broadcasting now from the center of the city. Small amounts of water — nothing terrifying yet, I think — are beginning to splash onto the camera lens.
“In the back, the cathedral,” I yell, as if he can hear me.
“Climb to the top of the cathedral!”
“No,” says Margo, her voice calm and flat. “I don’t think it’s tall enough.”
“Of course it’s tall enough,” I argue, turning to her. But when I see her expression — blank and staring — I turn back to the screen. The cameraman must have dropped the camera and run away, because the only thing I can see is sky. Then I realize it’s not the sky — this is the tidal wave! It reaches so high, nothing else can be seen.
I think of the people who are about to disappear — all the extraordinary, notable people gathered for the awards ceremony. The scholars, artists, scientists, doctors, writers, the international array of presidents, kings, and queens. Not to mention everyone else; the sound engineers, the chefs who make the sandwiches, the parents who have taken their children to witness this great and glorious event. I cannot control my beating heart and my fear. And then the screen goes black.