The Shadow, Page 3

“Good,” said Maddy. She walked out of the office, scooping up her scooter on the way. She turned back to Poole, sitting numbly at his desk.

  “You stay right there,” she said, opening the outer door. “Have a beautiful day.”

  “And you as well,” replied Poole. For once in his life, for reasons he did not understand, he had absolutely nothing else to say.

  CHAPTER 6

  AT THE SAME time, miles north, Councilwoman Maria Fernandez and Councilwoman Aida Almasi approached the World President’s Residence, in what was once called Manhattan’s Museum Mile. They paused for a moment to look up at the elaborate stonework that crowned the building. Openmouthed granite gargoyles stared back.

  “It’s like a fairyland castle,” said Maria.

  “Right,” said Aida, “or Dracula’s tomb.”

  Maria and Aida were good friends. They were also both relatively green as public officials. Maybe, they thought, that’s why they got the invitation from President Nal Gismonde. Maybe he thought it would be easy to manipulate them, or get them to ease up on their very public complaints.

  Maria and Aida were both in their late twenties and had both been named to the city council in last year’s cycle. They knew their positions were largely ceremonial, but both firmly believed in the squeaky wheels getting the grease. And so, against all odds, they kept squeaking. Even if it sometimes meant confronting people who wished that they would simply shut up and disappear.

  That’s why, when the invitation arrived, they decided to make the most of it. In her journal that morning, Maria had scrawled the words of a twentieth-century diplomat: “You negotiate peace with your enemies, not with your friends.”

  So here they were, prepared for a polite audience with a man who repulsed them in every possible way.

  “Remember, hang tight,” said Maria as they passed through the outer perimeter.

  “But don’t take any crap,” replied Aida.

  They both laughed—nervously. Dark humor was one of the many things they had in common. And although they openly pooh-poohed the trappings of power, their pulses were starting to pound. This meeting was a very big deal.

  “Ready for teatime in hell?” asked Maria.

  “Pass the sugar,” said Aida.

  The front of the Residence was patrolled by armed guards, augmented by a fleet of surveillance drones weaving overhead like buzzards. Maria and Aida presented their passes and papers and were waved through to an entry corridor. There, in harsh contrast with the Beaux-Arts design of the building itself, sat a massive military-grade full-body screener. Passing through the machine’s imposing arc one at a time, the two women and everything they wore and carried were quickly analyzed.

  Then, as if the electronic clearance were not enough, they were required to stand on low platforms under bright lamps. Guards tapped their knees apart and poked their arms into outstretched positions and then—more slowly than necessary—ran gloved hands up and down their entire bodies.

  “Have a beautiful day,” said the guards as they completed their pat-downs.

  Neither Maria nor Aida responded. A few steps away, they paused to straighten their clothes.

  “I think they picked my pockets,” whispered Maria with a tight smile.

  “I think I just re-lost my virginity,” Aida whispered back.

  They composed themselves and walked forward into a small portico, where a stylish assistant, a woman about their age, was waiting.

  “Good morning, councilwomen,” said their escort. “My name is Kitani. Please, follow me.”

  As if to wash away the indignity of the screening, Kitani smiled and ushered them gracefully through a door and into a long hallway with a checked tile floor. In here, Maria and Aida could almost imagine that they had been invited to a society function in the middle of the last millennium.

  “Is this your first visit to the Residence?” Kitani asked, looking back over her shoulder.

  “It is,” said Maria.

  “I can’t believe people still live like this,” said Aida. Her comment edged more toward disapproval than envy, which Kitani politely ignored.

  “The Residence is an absolute treasure,” said Kitani. “Made even brighter by your presence, of course.”

  Kitani had a comforting warmth about her, as if she were truly interested in her guests. But it was lost on Maria and Aida. They were just taking in the spectacle, mentally measuring the opulence around them against the makeshift apartments and squalid group residences where most city-dwellers now lived.

  “You’re probably wondering how many rooms the Residence has,” said Kitani.

  “Not really,” Maria mumbled under her breath.

  “Thirty-two,” Kitani continued, “with eight full baths. The floors are Italian marble, the moldings solid oak, and each of these balusters,” she said as they passed a curved staircase, “was carved from a single piece of ivory.”

  Maria leaned close to whisper into Aida’s ear, “Nice. An elephant graveyard.” If Kitani heard, she was trained to pretend that she hadn’t.

  The councilwomen were shown into a first-floor dining room, with high ceilings and gilded central skylights. At the far end was a dining alcove, sheltered under an arch of elaborately carved wood. A table for three was centered in the intimate space.

  “Please,” said Kitani, sweeping her open hand toward the alcove. Maria and Aida slid into the cozy nook and onto perfectly formed antique dining chairs.

  “The world president will be here soon,” said Kitani. “Have a beautiful day.”

  At this point, if being gracious was part of the game, Maria was willing to play along.

  “And you as well,” she said, though mostly to herself. Aida just nodded and put on her best fake smile. She hated this charade with her entire being.

  Kitani seemed to evaporate behind a panel they had not noticed. As she left, the women heard the soft sound of classical music floating through the space, mixed with the sound of chirping birds.

  When they heard the latch of the main door turn, they looked at each other and nodded.

  He was here.

  “Showtime,” whispered Maria.

  CHAPTER 7

  IN MARIA’S EXPERIENCE, famous people were usually less imposing in person than in their images. But Nal Gismonde seemed larger in real life. He stood over six feet tall, with a straight-backed bearing that stretched the impression even higher. His features were delicate, his skin agelessly smooth, his long hair black and silky.

  Goddamn. He’s prettier than I am was Aida’s immediate thought.

  “Councilwomen!” Gismonde said with a grand sweep of one arm. “I’m honored.” Against every instinct in their bodies, Maria and Aida both rose to their feet and dipped their heads.

  “No, no, please sit,” said Gismonde, waving off the protocol. To Maria’s surprise, he was more charming than pompous, and he appeared to meet her eyes with genuine interest. Maybe they would get somewhere with this tyrant after all.

  As the women settled back into their chairs, Gismonde took the seat at the head of the table. They had expected him to arrive with an entourage—a security detail, at least—but it was just the three of them. Gismonde leaned forward, his forehead furrowed with serious intent.

  “I understand that we have some issues to discuss,” said Gismonde. He looked earnestly from Maria to Aida, and then opened his arms in a gesture that seemed to embrace them both, his expression suddenly bright. “But who can negotiate on an empty stomach?” On cue, a door at the far end of the room swung open, and a server appeared with a silver tray holding three small plates and three glasses of champagne.

  “I never eat a big meal while conducting business,” Gismonde said. “Small servings are better, don’t you agree? Less blood to the belly. We all need our brains working at full capacity, do we not?”

  Maria and Aida stepped on each other’s replies, a mumbled mangle of “Definitely” and “Of course.” Gismonde smiled as the server set the plates down. Each plate hel
d several small toasted bread slices surrounding a tiny glass bowl. The bowls were filled with what looked like tiny white pearls. In spite of themselves, the councilwomen leaned in, curious.

  “Almas caviar,” said Gismonde. “Harvested only from sturgeons over one hundred years old. The finest in the world—and so hard to come by.” He plucked a single tiny egg from his bowl and held it between his thumb and forefinger.

  “We taste like this,” he said. He placed the egg in the middle of his tongue. His guests reached into their bowls and followed suit. “Now,” said Gismonde, “crush it and let the flavor pop.”

  Maria went first. The texture of the tiny orb was like a large grain of couscous, but when she crushed it, her mouth flooded with a briny, creamy flavor. Unbelievably rich.

  Aida went next. An involuntary “Wow” escaped her lips. She mentally scolded herself. The last thing she wanted was to be enjoying any part of this.

  The servant had disappeared. Gismonde lifted his glass and held it up to the light, appreciating the slow rise of the bubbles. “Twenty seventy-seven,” he said with a confidential whisper. “Exquisite year.”

  Maria couldn’t remember when she’d last tasted alcohol, let alone a glass of vintage champagne. She took a modest sip and felt the cool bubbles in her mouth. She looked across at Aida, who had already emptied her glass. She imagined Aida’s Muslim father revolving in his grave.

  Aida nodded to Gismonde as if to confirm his opinion of the vintage. Suddenly, bubbles started to ooze from her mouth, as if the champagne were spilling back out. But Maria, a former physician, knew that this foam was something else. A shock of adrenaline shot through her gut.

  “Oh my God—what’s wrong?” asked Maria. She turned frantically to Gismonde, who was sipping slowly from his own glass.

  “Mr. President!” said Maria. “We need help!” Aida’s eyes were starting to roll back, showing only white. Agitated and scared, Maria craned her neck toward the door, expecting a rush of assistants or medics. Anybody!

  “Please,” said Gismonde, placing his cool hand on Maria’s arm. “At this point, the key is to avoid panic.” At that very moment, Maria felt a bitter warmth rise in her own throat, accompanied by a sudden hot stab in her skull.

  Oh my God, no! thought Maria. It was the final thought of her short life. Aida, mercifully, had not even had time to think.

  The two women sprawled back in their chairs, heads rolled to the side, white foam trickling from their mouths. Gismonde leaned forward, his hand wrapped in a silk napkin. Slowly and carefully, he wiped the ooze from Maria’s face, then from Aida’s.

  “So unappetizing,” he mumbled to himself.

  He settled back, placed another delicate fish egg into his mouth, and felt its tiny, delightful explosion.

  CHAPTER 8

  MY SCOOTER IS good for most of the ride downtown, but off the main streets, it’s pretty useless. I sling it over my shoulder and start walking. Down here near the harbor, the air is even smokier. There’s a little breeze coming off the river, but it’s not exactly refreshing. More like a mixture of dead fish and wet garbage.

  Maybe it’s just a coincidence that the sky is clouding over. There aren’t many people around, and the ones I can see are the type I keep my distance from. Definitely no eye contact. This whole place feels weird and spooky.

  The kind of neighborhood you should never come to all alone. But here I am.

  The first two warehouses I see are abandoned, doors torn off, windows broken, I’m sure people sleep here at nights when there’s no place else to go, but they’re taking a chance. Those brick walls look like they might cave in at any minute.

  When I get to the last warehouse, I realize I’ve got nothing else to go on. No key. No secret password. I wonder if Poole has warned somebody that I was coming. I’m not sure whoever’s here will even let me in.

  There’s only one door, smack in the middle of the side facing the river. It’s big and metal and covered with rust. There’s no intercom or bell. So I step up and knock—hard. I wait. Nothing. I knock harder.

  This time, I hear a creaky sound from inside. The door starts to swing open. There’s a man behind it. I can see his frizzy hair silhouetted by the light from inside.

  “Hey there,” I say. “I’m Maddy Gomes.”

  For a few seconds, the guy doesn’t say anything. He just stares.

  “Hello?” I say, waving my hands in front of his face, waiting for some response.

  “I’ll be damned,” he says finally. “You actually exist.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “PLEASE,” HE SAYS, opening the door just a little wider to invite me inside. I notice that he checks behind me to see if there’s anybody else. He’s kind of pudgy, with a pasty white face. He looks like he’s been trying to grow a beard for a while but still hasn’t produced much foliage. Age? I’d guess about forty. But an old forty. Thick glasses. Spongy gut. If it turns out I inherited a yacht, I doubt this guy is the captain.

  I step inside and right away, I realize that this is a grade-A textbook setting for a pedophile lair. This wasn’t a very bright move on my part. I do a quick look-around. There’s nothing obviously evil in sight, but I pull my scooter off my shoulder and hold it in front of me, just in case.

  “Okay, what’s going on?” I ask. “What this place about? Who are you?”

  “I’m Dr. Fletcher,” he says. “Julian Fletcher.” He holds out his hand. I shake it. It’s slick with perspiration. I can tell he’s more nervous than I am, and that shifts the power dynamic a bit. I put down my scooter.

  He looks me up and down, but not in a creepy way. Then he focuses in on my face, like he feels he should know me. “It’s incredible,” he says.

  “What’s incredible?”

  “That you’re actually here. That this is actually happening.”

  “You mean you’ve been waiting for me?”

  He lets his breath out in a slow stream.

  “You have no idea.”

  I decide to give Fletcher a quick recap. I’m not sure that I totally trust him, but I’ve got to start somewhere. I need to get this process off the dime!

  “Here’s all I know,” I say. “I got a letter saying that I was the beneficiary of some mysterious will. The letter sent me to a lawyer. The lawyer started to give me the runaround.”

  “Poole,” said Fletcher. “He’s an associate of mine. I’m surprised he let you come down here without him.”

  “Not his choice,” I say.

  I step deeper into this huge musty room, which looks like an old-time science lab. The windows are covered with some kind of blackout paint, but there must be a solid electrical feed, because the lights are steady and some of the electronic boxes are humming. There’s a big metal table covered in wires and dials and old electronic parts. Real collector’s items. Not a single IC board or LED strip in the pile. It’s like I’m stuck in an alternate time zone, and it’s getting weirder by the minute.

  I see a hallway leading from one side of the room. There could be anything back there. But so far the only sound in the place is the beeping from the machines on the table.

  Fletcher scratches his head. He rubs his palms on his shirt. He clears his throat. Finally, he looks around the room and pulls up a metal stool.

  “Here,” he says, patting the seat like he’s training a puppy. “Sit.”

  I slide onto the stool and hook my feet around it. Fletcher pulls up a worn and slouchy office chair. He’s obviously spent so much time in it that it’s molded to his shape. I’m perched above him on the stool, looking down on the bald patches on his blotchy scalp. I can imagine him plucking out strands of his own hair in his spare time. Nail-biter too, I’ll bet.

  “I’ve practiced this a million times in my head,” says Fletcher. “But I can’t believe I’m saying it for real.”

  Now I’m starting to get a tingle. Not fear, exactly—just that feeling you get when all your senses are on high alert because you’re not sure which way things are go
ing to go. Fight or flight, right? I lean down.

  “So say it.”

  He nods his head slowly, like he’s working up his nerve. Then he rolls his chair closer and looks straight up at me.

  “What you’ve inherited, Miss Gomes…is a body.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “A BODY? LIKE what? An Egyptian mummy?” Maybe somebody left me a valuable museum relic.

  Fletcher takes a deep breath. “Bear with me,” he says. “I know that this will make me sound crazy.” He runs his hand through his hair again. “But I’m not.” He looks about to launch into some big monologue, then stops himself.

  “Nope,” he says. “Enough talking. You need to see this.”

  He walks toward a huge metal door on the other side of the room. In the center of the door is an enormous wheel, like the kind they use to turn off water ducts. He cranks the metal wheel and I hear the door give way with a little suction sound. The hinges are wider than my whole hand. The metal is about two feet thick.

  The wispy little hairs on the back of my neck are tingling. My pulse is racing. The air from behind the door stings my nose, like vinegar or cleaning solution. Fletcher steps over the lower metal rim of the doorway.

  “Let’s go,” he says.

  I follow him into a small room with metal walls and a hatch on one side. Fletcher yanks a long lever and the hatch door drops down. He reaches in with both hands and pulls on a horizontal bar. He leans back for leverage. The bar is attached to a narrow table, with tubes and wires running in from one side.

  I feel kind of sick and scared and excited at the same time. Because things have just officially gone from weird to insane. The table is all the way out now.

  And lying in the middle of it is a dead guy in a tux.

  “Holy mother of crap!” My heart feels like it’s going to explode through my clothes. I take a quick step back and feel the cold metal wall against my spine.

  “What the hell is this?” I say. “Is that guy really dead?”