CHAPTER 62

  I’M STANDING WITH Margo, Jericho, and Burbank at what’s left of JFK International Airport. Rising sea levels have almost submerged it. Most of the airfield is now covered by the waters of Jamaica Bay, but one long runway is still in operation. And sitting at our end of it is an aircraft like I’ve never seen.

  “I promised you a plane,” says Hawkeye proudly. “And here she is.”

  I’m not sure how to react. The last plane Margo and I flew in was a DC-3 twin-prop in 1933. Newark to LA in twenty hours, with four stops along the way. The machine sitting on the tarmac looks more like a missile. It’s about thirty feet long and no more than four feet across, with a pointed snout and a single giant engine in back.

  “This is incredible,” says Burbank, running his hands over the raked wingtips.

  “No way this thing gets off the ground with three people,” mutters Jericho.

  “Almost ready,” Tapper calls out. He’s under the black fuselage making an adjustment. Hawkeye brings out two nylon jumpsuits, one for me and one for Margo. Bright yellow, with zippers up the front.

  Margo shakes out her jumpsuit to its full length and holds it up by the shoulder seams. “Lamont, this is hideous!”

  “Thin, but insulated,” says Hawkeye. “You’ll thank me at fifty thousand feet.”

  With a sour face, Margo slides her feet into the attached booties and slips her arms into the sleeves. I suit up next. Tapper is walking toward us, wearing a bright red version of the same outfit. He’s rubbing goop off his hands with a towel. “Well. What do you think?”

  I step up to the plane and place my hand on the tailfin. It feels as flimsy as a tin spatula. “Are you sure this thing is airworthy?”

  “I won’t lie. It’s experimental,” says Tapper. “But it’s supersonic. Should get us to Paris in two hours.”

  He walks to the side of the fuselage and presses a lever. Two clear canopies flip open—one over the cockpit, and one over the impossibly small passenger compartment. Forget luggage or weapons. There’s barely room for us.

  “All aboard for Paris,” Tapper says, one leg inside the aircraft. Burbank, Hawkeye, and Jericho move back onto the runway apron. Way back.

  “Lamont, are you sure about this?” asks Margo.

  “What I’m sure about is that we need to get to France. And this is the quickest way to do it.”

  “Fine,” says Margo. She walks to the fuselage and steps into the compartment, easing herself down into the seat until only her blond hair is peeking above the side of the fuselage.

  My turn. Looks like a very tight fit.

  “Should have brought a shoehorn, boss!” yells Jericho.

  I zip my jumpsuit up tight to my throat and squeeze into the open seat directly in front of Margo. My knees are bent up toward my chest and my feet are pressed against an aluminum bulwark. Through an open hatchway, I can see Tapper in the pilot’s seat, turning dials and flipping switches.

  I hear the whine of a small motor. The canopies lower over us. There’s a small sucking sound as the gaskets seal, then a gentle hiss as the onboard air supply kicks in.

  I feel a hard lurch. My seat starts to vibrate. When I look to the side, we’re rolling toward a white centerline. Tapper fine-tunes the maneuver until the nose of the plane points straight down the runway.

  “Do we have parachutes?” Margo calls out.

  “No room!” says Tapper.

  “Ejection seats?” I ask.

  “Just mine!” Tapper replies. He lowers a dark visor over his face and grabs a large lever at the base of the console.

  “Clench your sphincters,” he calls out. “She’s got a kick.”

  The main engine behind us rises in pitch, from a loud whine to a guttural roar. Suddenly, I’m slammed against the back of my seat and the runway is shooting past in a gray blur. The nose of the aircraft tips at a sharp angle and we shoot up into the sky. More like a launch than a takeoff. I feel a heavy thud from underneath my seat.

  “Wheels up!” shouts Tapper above the engine noise. “Enjoy your flight!”

  I hope I didn’t make a mistake when I let this guy live.

  CHAPTER 63

  MADDY IS IN a deep sleep when she feels a warm tongue slurping at her face. She presses a pillow over her head. “Bando! Quit it!” But the terrier won’t give up. He tries to root underneath the covers, sniffing and whining, begging for attention. A moment later, Maddy feels a gentle hand resting between her shoulder blades. She lifts the pillow to see her grandmother sitting on the edge of the bed.

  Jessica snaps her fingers. “Bando, down.” The dog hops off the bed and curls up on the floor. Maddy props herself up on her elbows.

  “Are they gone?” she asks. “Margo and Lamont?”

  Jessica nods. “On their way to France.”

  Maddy isn’t sorry for not going to the airport for the send-off. She still hasn’t forgiven Lamont and Margo for keeping quiet about the World’s Fair killings, or for leaving town before Deva’s murder is solved. At the thought of her, Maddy’s eyes brim with tears again.

  Jessica reaches out and grasps her hand. “You miss her. Your dancer friend.”

  “I do,” says Maddy, sniffling through tears. “So much.”

  Jessica leans in and whispers. “You know who else loved to dance?”

  Maddy shakes her head.

  “Your mother.”

  Maddy sits back and wipes her eyes. “Really?” Jessica rarely speaks of Ellen, Maddy’s mom. And Maddy hardly has any firsthand memory of her. All she knows is that her parents both died young, and that Jessica raised her on her own. Maddy looks at Jessica and realizes that her grandmother knows exactly what she’s thinking.

  “It’s okay,” says Jessica. “Go back.”

  Maddy sits up. She had told her grandmother that she was learning chuanghu and she had to disclose the risks, so she never expected this. “When to?” she asks.

  “Your third birthday,” says Jessica.

  Maddy clears her mind, then brings her focus to the first day of May, sixteen years ago. Forget the dangers of chuanghu. She’d risk anything for this. And with her grandmother’s hand on her arm, she somehow feels safe.

  One second later, she’s there—in a tiny living room in a small apartment. From somewhere, music is playing. A woman with long hair is leaning down, holding the hands of a small girl with blond hair. The woman moves gracefully, hips swinging to the rhythm. The child does her best to follow her steps.

  The smells are familiar and comforting. Cooking oil. Roasting vegetables. Soap. Tobacco. Perfume. There’s a small birthday cake on the table and a few colored balloons resting against the ceiling. Maddy watches from a corner as the woman picks the girl up and holds her in her arms, spinning her around the room in time with the music. The girl giggles with delight, her blond hair flying with each turn.

  Maddy can’t tell whose eyes she’s seeing through. Maybe her grandmother’s.

  Doesn’t matter. All she knows is that the little girl loves being held, and that she wants to be held this way forever.

  Bando yips. The vision evaporates. Maddy comes back to the present, startled and gasping. Jessica wraps her in her arms. “Did it work?” she asks. “Did you see her?”

  Maddy can’t speak. She can only nod as she hugs her grandmother tight, clinging to the feeling she just experienced.

  The last time she was truly happy.

  CHAPTER 64

  I HAVE TO say I’m impressed. Our landing is a lot smoother than the takeoff, and Tapper’s time estimate was right on the money. Just two hours in the air and now we’re taxiing down a runway somewhere in France. At least I think it’s France.

  I crane my head from side to side. No other planes in sight. No people or vehicles, either. Just a rusted metal hangar in the distance. The whole airfield is overgrown with stubby brown grass. Looks like it hasn’t been used in years. When the plane comes to a stop at the end of the runway, there’s a hiss from the ventilation system and then a rubbery pop. The canopies release and lift open over our heads.

  I smell country air mixed with jet fuel.

  “Lamont! For God’s sake, pry me out this thing!” Margo was quiet for most of the flight, but now she’s clearly out of patience. I climb out of my seat and offer my arm for a handle as she pulls herself up.

  “Frankly,” she says, “I preferred the Queen Mary.”

  I help her step out of the fuselage onto the cracked tarmac. Tapper is already on the ground, running his hand back and forth under the fuselage.

  “Looks good,” he says. “Nothing fell off.”

  “You’re surprised?” I ask.

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Where in God’s name are we?” asks Margo. “I thought we were landing in Paris.” She gazes around at the bleak landscape, then grabs my forearm. “Lamont. Please tell me this is not Paris!”

  Tapper laughs. “Don’t worry. Paris is still Paris. But this is as close as I’m comfortable getting.”

  “So where do we go from here?” asks Margo. “I’m not wearing my hiking boots.”

  “There’s a train station about a half mile that way,” says Tapper, pointing past the hangar. “And the villa is about two hours north.” He reaches into his pocket and hands me a wad of currency. “Here. Take some euros.”

  “Wait,” says Margo. “You’re not coming?”

  “I’m a wanted man over here,” says Tapper. “If they got to your friend Moe, they’ve probably figured out that me and Hawkeye were spies on the inside.” He pauses. “And we all know what happens to spies.”

  I glance at Margo. “Tapper’s right. We don’t need a fugitive slowing us down.”

  “Also, I can’t leave the aircraft here,” says Tapper. “Too much of a target. I need to fly it somewhere safe. Burbank will figure out how to contact me when you’re ready for pickup.”

  Margo doesn’t look happy. I think she expected to have Tapper’s muscle along on the mission. “Fine,” she says. “Take your toy and go.”

  “Good hunting,” says Tapper, stepping back into the cockpit. He waves us off to the side. “Watch out for the blast.”

  I pull Margo back onto the grass alongside the runway. Tapper settles into his seat and lowers the front and rear canopies. The plane makes a slow turn at the near end of the runway until it’s pointed back in the direction we came from. Margo and I press our hands against our ears. The main engine starts up—like a cannon firing.

  In two seconds, the plane is shooting down the runway. When it’s just about at the end, it tilts up and spears into the sky at a forty-five-degree angle. We watch it disappear into the clouds, like it was never even here.

  Now it’s just the two of us. Like the old days.

  Margo takes a slow look around the airfield. “Lamont, look at this wasteland. Do you think it’s a trap?”

  I shake my head no. “Think about it. If Tapper wanted to set us up, he didn’t need to fly us all the way to France to do it.”

  Then I feel a tremble. A slight vibration in the air.

  I squint into the distance, past a line of trees. Just below the clouds, a small speck appears in the sky. My heart starts thumping. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it is a trap. Maybe Tapper meant to leave us here like two sitting ducks.

  “Drone!”

  CHAPTER 65

  I PULL MARGO by the arm. We start running toward the hangar—the only cover in sight. Margo stumbles. I catch her just in time to keep her from falling. I gauge the distance. No good. The drone is moving too fast. Margo looks over her shoulder. Sees it coming.

  “Lamont!”

  I look around. Nothing but flat ground. No cover. I take Margo by the shoulders and push her down onto the grass. “Don’t move. Protect your head!” She curls into the fetal position and squeezes her forearms against her temples.

  The drone is heading straight for us. I whip my arm around. A fireball blasts out of my palm. The drone swings to the side. Quick and nimble. The flame shoots right past it and flickers out in midair. The drone dips lower. Point-blank range. A wall! We need a wall! I try to shape-shift, but my energy is drained. My body tightens up. I drop to my knees.

  “Lamont!” Margo shouts. “Go! Run! Disappear!”

  Maybe I could. It’s my simplest skill. But there’s no way I’m leaving my wife. If our time is up, we’re going together.

  The drone is only a few yards away now, hovering about six feet off the ground. It feels like it’s taunting us. The rotor blades sound like a hornet hive. I feel around for something to throw. A stick. A rock. Anything! But there’s nothing but dry grass and hard-packed dirt.

  The drone starts beeping. Like a bomb counting down.

  I wrap myself around Margo and whisper into her ear, “I love you.” I feel her body tighten as she squeezes my hand.

  “Joined at the hip,” she says. “Forever.”

  The beeping stops.

  I look up.

  A slot on the underside of the drone slides open.

  A small envelope drops out and falls to the ground. It lands just a couple of feet from our faces. Margo turns around and looks up at me. I stretch out to pick up the envelope. I can feel the hard wind from the rotors on the back of my neck.

  Margo uncurls herself and gets onto her knees. “What the hell is this?”

  I open the envelope and pull out a cream-colored card. Elegant script. All in French. Margo translates.

  “It’s an invitation,” she says.

  “From?”

  Margo points to the bottom of the card. The signature is also in elegant script, but bolder.

  Destructeur de Mondes.

  “I’ll give you one guess,” says Margo.

  There’s a quick thip from the drone. Margo crumples back onto the tarmac. No!

  Another thip. I feel a sharp sting in my neck.

  And then… nothing.

  CHAPTER 66

  MADDY WALKS THROUGH the entrance of the World’s Fair at the stroke of midnight—alone and determined. The visit with Lamont and Margo two nights back showed her the lay of the land, and Lamont’s vision gave her a few hints about the killer. All-seeing. Hideous. Powerful. But she left that night feeling discouraged and useless. Nothing was solved.

  Tonight will be different, Maddy tells herself. Very different. She knows that Lamont and Margo would stop her if they could. But they can’t. They’re on another continent. This time, it’s just her.

  At this late hour, most of the families with kids are gone. The main thoroughfare is packed with young couples and rowdy friend groups, most of them drunk. Maddy passes a gaggle of twentysomething women, slurring and stumbling, their faces sparkling with glitter from a makeup booth.

  As she heads down the main concourse, Maddy is amped up and alert. The killer is here somewhere. She’s sure of it. Maybe watching her right now. She feels her neck hairs tingle at the thought of something behind her, or above her. Somehow, she needs to lure the murderer into the open. Whoever it is—whatever it is—she’s going to find it and kill it. No mercy.

  The crowd thickens as patrons pour out of a pavilion exit in front of her. Maddy angles her way through, trying to stay on course, looking through small gaps in the throng.

  Something catches her eye. About twenty yards ahead.

  A young woman. Slim. With long, dark hair.

  She looks again. No. Not possible!

  Maddy feels a blast of adrenaline—so strong it stuns her. For a second, her breath stops in her chest. Her heart is racing now. She elbows her way through the crowd, trying to keep her eyes locked on her target.

  The young woman is walking fast. Black pants. Bright blue top. Maddy knows that top. It was the one she lent to Deva a week after school started. She never got it back. Dear God…

  “Deva!”

  Maddy breaks into a run, crazed with relief. Her vision at school must have been wrong. Some kind of misfire. She shoves people aside, almost tripping as she goes. “Sorry! Move!” Signs and lights and kiosks pass by in a blur.

  “Deva! Stop!”

  But she doesn’t.

  What’s wrong? Why won’t she turn around?

  Maddy breaks through the other side of the crowd and freezes. She’s in the middle of the concourse now—surrounded by strings of bright lights. Drums pulse from a pavilion just ahead.

  But Deva’s gone. Vanished.

  Maddy looks left and right. The drumming is getting louder, blocking out all other sounds. She hurries to the pavilion entrance and walks through, as if she’s being pulled.

  She can’t stop.

  The entrance leads into a tunnel lined with black canvas. With every step, the drumming gets more and more intense. Maddy can feel it from her temples to her toes.

  She’s almost at the end of the tunnel now. She sees light through a half-open flap in the canvas just ahead. She steps through and… bam! She gets walloped by a blast of sound and human heat.

  It takes a second to register. She’s in a stadium. The biggest she’s ever seen. Packed with thousands of people. The stage at the far end is filled with costumed dancers—spectacular and acrobatic. The performers and the audience are all thrashing to the rhythm pounded out by a battalion of drummers on a platform above the stage. The energy is insane! Wild. Ecstatic. The drum pattern is Asian, then African, then everything at once—the pounding of a global tribe.

  Maddy stands at the top of one of the main aisles. The bleachers shake from thousands of feet stomping in unison. She looks across the stadium.

  There!

  A lone figure is moving down another aisle about twenty yards to her right. For a split second, the figure is illuminated by one of the spotlights sweeping the audience.

  Black hair, blue top.

  It’s her!

  Maddy races toward the stage and cuts across the front of the stadium. Her ears are throbbing. The tempo of the drums is building, faster and faster. Maddy speeds up, too. The figure she’s chasing is now just a silhouette. The stage lights pulse in sync with the drums. On the final deafening beat, the stage goes black. The roar from the crowd rises like a physical force.