The Lake House, Page 4

15

  UP!

  Up!

  Up!

  The elevator doors opened again and the kids filed out into a wide, empty space. Max saw a metal door with bright red letters: ROOF. She used both hands and pried it open.

  “Roof! Roof! Roof!” the other kids chanted. “The roof is the place to be!”

  “Let’s just vamoose!” shouted Icarus. “I’m talking escape. Let’s go to the Lake House.”

  “Please, can we?”

  “The Lake House! Go to the Lake House!” the kids chanted.

  The afternoon sun beat down on the roof of the courthouse, but the breeze riffling Max’s feathers offset the heat. The wind was coming from directly behind them. It was blowing from the north, and that was perfect.

  Just right.

  For flight!

  “Let’s do it,” said Ozymandias, who stood poised on the roof like a young handsome prince. “You know we should, don’t you? They’re going to screw us over. There’s no such thing as justice in America. It’s all a fairy tale.”

  “C’mon, let’s go,” said blind Ic. “If I don’t have you guys around, I can’t fly at all.”

  “Can we, please, Max, can we, please?” Wendy begged. “We can, can’t we?”

  “Fly, fly, fly,” came the chant from the street below.

  “We should fly the hell away from here and from all of them down there,” Oz said darkly. He was the eldest after Max, the strongest, the alpha male. “We should fly away and never come back. I mean it, Max. That’s what my instincts tell me. You know I’m right about this. We won’t survive in these separate little families.”

  Max sighed and shook her head. “I like the woods, too, but I hate to tell you, Ozymandias, winter is coming.”

  Matthew said, “So we’ll steal blankets. We’ll sock away SpaghettiOs and big red fart-your-brains-out beans.”

  Max laughed at the image from her precocious younger brother. “Sure, but you know, we also like pillows and Timeports and vegetarian pizza and the latest videos.”

  Matthew looked crestfallen. Max thought that he might actually start to cry.

  “Hey, don’t be sad,” she said. “Buck up, buckaroo. At least you’ll be with me.”

  “We’re just things to them. Like toys from F.A.O. Schwarz,” said Oz. “They want to tell us what to do. They’re total control freaks. They think they’re superior to nature, to animals, plants, and birds.”

  “Maybe,” Max said, “but we wanted to live in the world with other people. You know, we begged for it. We almost died for it. So maybe, just maybe, we should do what they say we should do. For a while anyway.”

  “Well, guess what they say we should do,” said Oz. “Listen to the people, Max. What do you hear?”

  The never-ending chant floated up to them from the street, where crowds were watching: “Fly, fly, fly.”

  Max cupped her hands in front of her mouth. “Okay! Sure! Fine!” she shouted down from the six-story-high rooftop. “Okay!” she called out to the mass of people flooding the park, eddying around cars on the street below. “But we’re doing this because we want to. We’re doing this for us. And we’re not going to fly very far.”

  Glee lit the children’s faces, and they knew just what to do. They positioned themselves at ten-foot intervals around the curve of the roof. Hundreds of camera lenses were pointed upward. This was the picture the media had been waiting for.

  And it got only better.

  With a sudden flourish, the kids spread twelve magnificent wings and—thrssssssshhh!—their wingtips sailed up above their heads almost of their own accord. Sunlight glinted and sparks flickered off bright white-feathered wings.

  At Max and Oz’s signal, they bent their knees, pushed off hard, and launched themselves into the air. The people below sucked in their breath.

  There was no hesitation. The kids flapped their powerful wings effortlessly in the heated air. They soared above the State Capitol Building, its golden dome glinting in the sunlight. Higher and higher, the six of them flew. The flock.

  Max could see several of Denver’s landmarks spread across the landscape: the public library, the art museum, the Pepsi Center, Six Flags Elitch Gardens amusement park. And, of course, the majestic Front Range of the Rocky Mountains off in the distance. The city, the entire state, was gorgeous, and it had the most perfect skies anywhere.

  They chittered as they flew so that blind Ic would know where they were. “Chee-rup. Chee-rup,” Matthew screeched at the top of his voice. “Let’s go to the Lake House now! Let’s go, let’s go!”

  Max reached forward with the tips of her fingers, then deflected the air with her wings. It was almost like rowing! She did it again and again. Found her rhythm. Nice.

  Her magnificent body rose higher into the warm current. She felt her headache fall away. Suddenly, she was in another, better world.

  “Stay with me, now,” she called to the others. “Keep up. You, too, Ic.”

  “Don’t pick on the blind kid,” he yelled back, his favorite joke, their favorite joke.

  Max dipped her right wing and banked gracefully to the right. The others followed her lead. She dipped her left wing and banked left. This was effortless pleasure.

  She kept her left shoulder down and completed a wide and generous loop around the imposing, gray granite Capitol Building. The kids were flying wing to wing at her side.

  She had to smile as she looked down. She even allowed herself to feel a little hopeful. The people on the streets were cheering and waving, motioning them to fly faster and higher.

  Max knew what every one of them was thinking: We want to fly. Oh God, we wish we could fly like you.

  16

  BUT NOT EVERYONE in the huge crowd wanted to fly like the six biological wonders.

  Not everyone wanted the children to fly at all.

  A gunman named Marco Vincenti was crouching beside piles of lumber on an unfinished floor of a building under construction not far from the City and County Building in Denver. He didn’t feel one way or the other about the flying kids, except for the fact that they were definitely little freakazoids. They were good-looking and all, even beautiful, but it just wasn’t right, what they were, whatever the hell they were. Goddamn freaks of nature.

  Still, they were fun to watch—until he got his orders to shoot them down.

  Actually, he had no idea what the hell would happen next. Whatever it was, he was ready. If he had to take one of them out, it wouldn’t be a problem.

  He even figured he could take all six down if that was the job requirement. It wouldn’t be a problem, either. All hell would break loose after the murders, but he didn’t give a crap about that. He had his back covered.

  He slowly and smoothly moved the sight of his rifle over the faces of the six of them. The Japanese-made sight was amazing and he could see tiny imperfections—like a pimple or an ingrown hair on the kids’ individual faces.

  He kept bringing the rifle sight back to the blond female. She was the most impressive, the natural leader. Either she was, or the handsome boy they called Ozymandias. He was sleek and slender, but already had muscles like a laborer.

  The rifleman wore a set of earphones, and he patiently waited for his orders to come. For all he knew, there were other snipers out there—maybe one for each kid.

  Then he heard his name in the earphones: “Marco, you there? Marco?”

  “I’m here,” he said into the mike perched below his lip. Where the hell else would I be?

  “Can you take out one of them now?”

  “It’s not a problem. Any of them. Which one do I hit? Your choice.”

  “How about all of them?” the voice asked.

  “Not a problem, either. Just tell me when. Now would be a good time. Now is perfect. Not too much wind.”

  There was silence for several seconds. Marco Vincenti’s finger pressed lightly on the trigger. He was so ready.

  “Put the rifle down,” said the voice. “That’s all we need for now
. This was just a practice run. These children are incredibly valuable to science, and we hope there’s another way to solve our problem. Please leave Denver as soon as possible. You’re to go by car. You’ll be paid for your time. As always, Marco, it’s a pleasure to work with a professional. We’ll be talking with you again.”

  “I look forward to it,” said the contract killer.

  And then his earphones went dead.

  He held his sight on Max’s left eye, then on her right one, and finally on a spot between the two about the size of a dime.

  “Catch you next time, kid,” he whispered.

  17

  I FELT AS IF the whole world was about to end. This was it, wasn’t it? My head was spinning, and it also hurt like hell. I couldn’t even think about the possibility of losing the kids.

  I took a seat in a brown leather wing chair in Judge Dwyer’s spacious chambers. The wood paneling in the office was supposed to give off warmth and a feeling of security, but I didn’t feel in the least bit secure, and the air-conditioning had the room freezing cold.

  Kit entered the crowded room, searched me out, and came over and took my hand. Finally Judge Dwyer arrived, followed by the court stenographer. The doors were shut with a bang.

  “I’ve called you together,” Judge Dwyer immediately began, “because I want to let you know my decision in advance. That way, you can tell the children privately.”

  I almost couldn’t breathe. I squeezed Kit’s hand harder as I looked up at him and he kissed my hair. I couldn’t help thinking about what an absolutely terrific guy he was. I brought my attention back to the judge. He was talking about the experimental laboratory that the kids called the School.

  “I read the reports on what happened at the School, that horrifying lab that defies description, and my mind nearly rejects the words. . . . Had experiments been conducted on rabbits or chimpanzees, I could cite chapter and section finding criminality in the heinous way the victims were treated. But the crimes that have been committed against these children bear no resemblance to science and medicine as it has ever been practiced, even in the darkest ages of human understanding.”

  There was a sob from across the room. It came from Anthea Taranto. She looked as though she couldn’t take any more. Others in the room burst into tears.

  Judge Dwyer continued. “I understand that the people who committed these acts are gone, jailed, or dead. Over the past two days I have seen the tragic results of their unspeakable crimes. There are innocents involved. And I don’t mean just the children. As Mr. Kussof said in his opening statement, there are no bad people here. But my job is to concern myself with the children, and what is best for them.”

  The judge took off his reading glasses and placed them on his desk. He gazed around his chambers.

  “Here is my decision. . . . The petitioners, Dr. O’Neill and Mr. Brennan, have taken on the task of demonstrating that the custody of these minors by their parents would be detrimental to their well-being. They state that the children will not be happy, or safe, with their biological parents. The children seem to believe this as well. That’s important to this court. It carries weight with me. But Dr. O’Neill and Mr. Brennan have not sufficiently proved their case. Not today anyway. Accordingly, I must rule that the children stay with their parents.”

  Suddenly I felt incredibly empty and hollowed-out, as if I had lost my own children. Hot tears were streaming down my cheeks. I held in a scream of despair.

  “However,” Judge Dwyer continued, “this is a temporary order. There is a contingency mandated by law that I hold another hearing at a later date. If, as Dr. O’Neill posits, this ‘flock’ fails to thrive, I will reverse this ruling. Dr. O’Neill, Mr. Brennan, please accept my regrets. I’m sorry. I know you love these children like your own.”

  A clerk slipped quietly into the room and handed the judge a note. He put on his glasses, read the note, and then did something unexpected—he smiled.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Stern, Ms. Taranto, Mr. and Mrs. Chen, Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, the children have returned from ‘a spin’ around the Capitol Building and are waiting for you in Courtroom Seven. You may take them home.”

  Part Two

  FLYING LESSONS

  18

  The Hospital, Fantasy Room B

  Charlotte Donahue’s ample body tensed as the stainless-steel headphones were secured tightly on her head. She felt as if she were in a spaceship. This is getting weird already.

  The sounds of the busy operating room stopped cold once the headphones were on. Then Charlotte heard a voice inside her head!

  “This is Dr. Ethan Kane. Please don’t fight the anesthesia, Charlotte. Are you comfortable? Anything you need? It’s important that everything be perfect for you.”

  Charlotte was feeling stranger and stranger by the second—but a good strange. Her body was floating; her mind was still sharp. “I think so. I think I like it.”

  “Can you feel this?” the doctor asked as he inserted a long hypodermic needle into the twenty-three-year-old Cincinnati native’s acne-scarred lower back.

  “Nope. I don’t feel anything,” Charlotte said.

  Oh God, she wanted to laugh, though. Her long-standing fear of hospitals had evaporated completely, and her excitement was bubbling over. Something incredible was happening to her, something good, something exceptional.

  Suddenly Charlotte smelled a salty sea breeze. Was that possible? Where had it come from? Isn’t this the weirdest experience ever! It certainly was.

  Then she heard seagulls calling. Seagulls—she was sure of it.

  And then she could see the SS Nautica looming above her, nine stories of pristine, shining white luxury. She looked down at herself in total amazement and befuddlement. Everything about her had changed. When had this incredible makeover happened? She was wearing a dress of thin red silk and red sling-backs dusted with sparkling rhinestones. Her heels clacked pleasantly as she walked up the gangplank toward the main deck of the Nautica. The deck was teakwood, and teak deck chairs were everywhere.

  At the top of the gangplank stood a blond steward wearing a smart blue sailor’s hat and crisply pressed blue uniform. He handed Charlotte a drink in a crystal glass and welcomed her aboard. “Miss Donahue,” he said. “A pleasure.” He even knew her name.

  He winked at her, but Charlotte’s thoughts were elsewhere. The captain, dressed all in white, peered down at her from the bridge. No doubt about it—he was actually watching her. Charlotte brazenly turned her face up to him, looking directly into his silver-blue eyes.

  Ridiculous or not, she felt a wave of desire. Her skin was pleasantly warm—then Dr. Kane spoke again.

  Spoilsport!

  “Can you still hear me, Charlotte?”

  Somewhere on the deck a steel band had started to play a song she recognized as “Mockingbird.” The band was halfway decent, too. Bob Marley-ish. Maybe a hint of Jimmy Cliff.

  “Ms. Donahue?”

  “Go away, Dr. Kane,” she said, and drank deeply from her champagne cocktail. “I’m fine. I’m okay. This is perfect. Now let me have my fun in the sun.”

  “What are you drinking?”

  “It’s pink,” she said. “I think it’s passion fruit champagne. Delicious.”

  The drink was sweet and pungent and made her feel a touch giddy. She didn’t know where to look next, or what to do first. The bouncy rhythm of the steel drums called to her. The band had already found a nice groove. Oh yes, she wanted to dance! With the captain!

  “Charlotte, go over to the railing and look down. You’ll see me in the crowd. Wave to me, please,” said Dr. Kane.

  She wasn’t sure why, but Charlotte did as she was told. She made her way to the railing and looked down at the cheering mob of well-wishers gathered on the pier. As she leaned against the rail, she could see lifeboats jutting out slightly from one of the decks below.

  There he was! The very handsome, if somewhat cool and restrained, Dr. Kane. He was looking up at her.

&
nbsp; “Good-bye,” she called out to her doctor. She lifted her hand and waved and started to laugh. She couldn’t stop laughing. Streams of pink and baby blue confetti streaked the air. Ropes fell heavily against the hull. The ship’s foghorn blew three deeply satisfying blasts.

  “Bye-bye,” she called gaily.

  The doctor spoke once more. “Bon voyage, Charlotte. I’m sorry you have to die now. But you’re helping someone . . . who is so much more important than yourself.”

  19

  ETHAN KANE STOPPED TALKING to silly-ass Charlotte and went back to work on her.

  The surgeon had nerves of steel, and hands that were even steadier. His instrument was a Bovie, a scalpel that used heat rather than a blade. It burned blue at the tip and emanated a whispery sound as he made the first incision three millimeters deep, running laterally from one of Charlotte Donahue’s shoulders all the way to the other.

  The red line of blood turned black almost instantly and left a ghostly trail of smoke. The air filled with the unmistakable odor of burning flesh.

  His next incision formed a T with the first, starting at the throat and ending at the pubic bone, a line so crisply defined, it might have been drawn on the girl’s milky skin with a fine-tip marker.

  His third cut went deep into the subcutaneous layer, the thick yellow fat that rounded out Charlotte’s voluptuous shape as a woman.

  He then slid his hands inside her. Arteries were held with a guillotine clamp designed to press on one side, cut on the other. Dr. Kane worked carefully to sever connective tissues and any adhesive attachments.

  Within eighteen minutes, the woman’s most precious organs floated freely inside the open cavity of her body. Bypass machines kept her vital organs shining and pink. Her heart still pumped a strong sixty beats a minute.

  Suddenly, there came an otherworldly hum from overhead. A stainless-steel mechanical device, looking like the jaws of an earthmoving apparatus, traveled over a metal track. A medical tech lowered the Scoop by hand, then positioned it over the woman’s body.