I close the door softly. Earlier, I asked her what happened to her out on the lawn. I saw what she did, but I wanted to know how she did it, what it felt like. She told me that was between her and Dache.

  I admit that stung a bit, but I guess I should be happy that they’ve formed such a close bond, even if it makes me feel like a third wheel. If there’s anyone in the world I can trust with Maddy, it’s Dache. That’s why I asked him to come in the first place.

  I still think of him as my father and my brother. That hasn’t changed. Not even after ten thousand years.

  CHAPTER 36

  THE NEXT NIGHT is the grand opening of the World’s Fair, and Margo and I are headed for the scene of the crimes. Moe insists on driving us in Khan’s limo. He knows that Margo enjoys her creature comforts, even if they’re left over from a madman.

  She runs her hands along the cushioning in the backseat. “I hate that we’re sitting where that maniac sat, but this leatherwork is exquisite.”

  We can see fireworks shooting into the sky as we approach the fair site. It’s the first time I’ve been back since my visit with Moe, and the difference is amazing. The crews have obviously worked overtime to get the place ready, and the venue looks spectacular.

  The huge main pavilion seems to glow from within, and the news crawl around the peak spells out WELCOME! in a dozen rotating languages. The engineers must have rerouted a large portion of the city’s electrical supply, because every pavilion and pathway gleams.

  “Omigosh!” says Margo. “You weren’t kidding!” Through the car window, she’s getting her first glimpse at the invisible Ferris wheel. It’s hard not to be impressed. The ride looks even more spectacular at night, with spotlight beams shooting up from below as riders circle in midair, a thousand feet up. I slide out of the backseat and help Margo out. “I told you it was amazing.”

  Moe gives us a wave and drives off to wait in the parking lot. Margo and I walk through the arched entrance. No admission charge. New York and the rest of the world are paying for everything.

  The fair is set up as an oversized village, with winding pathways leading through all kinds of pavilions—science, art, technology, music. The air is filled with the aromas from a hundred different outdoor bistros and food booths. The fireworks pop overhead and reflect on the surface of the East River below.

  “Think he’s here?” asks Margo. “The killer?”

  “How could he resist?”

  Over the past week, the sites of the murders have no doubt been paved over. All evidence erased. But predators tend to stick with territory they know. He could be part of the crowd or one of the thousands of workers, hiding in plain sight. It will take us hours to do a walk-through of the whole fair.

  But first things first.

  I grab Margo’s hand and pull her toward the massive Ferris wheel. The closer we get, the higher it looks. The riders at the top of the arc are just dots in the sky. Margo is generally fearless, but I know she’s not crazy about heights. She looks up at the floating benches and pulls back on my arm.

  I pat her gently. “C’mon! It’ll be like flying!”

  “Right,” she says. “Which is one step away from falling.”

  The crowd gets thicker as we move toward the attraction. A lot of people are walking with their eyes tilted up. We sidestep a couple of collisions. Just ahead, I spot a young man gliding purposefully through the crowd, head swiveling, arms loose. I recognize that kind of body language in an instant.

  I nudge Margo. “Straight ahead, blue denim jacket.”

  “I see him. You think he’s working?”

  “Just watch.”

  We pick up our pace until we’re just a few yards behind him. I keep my eyes on the young man’s right hand. He eases himself between two couples and presses close to a woman holding an ice cream cone. Her purse is hanging loosely from her left shoulder. Without looking down, the man dips two fingers into the purse and lifts out a wallet.

  “Slick,” Margo whispers.

  The man pockets the wallet and heads for a trash bin. That’s where he intends to ditch the wallet and palm the cash. I take a few long strides to catch up to him. When he reaches to pull the wallet out, it’s gone. Already in my hand. He whips around, but I’m now ahead of him. Margo brushes by me. I slip the wallet to her. She sidles up close to the woman and drops the wallet back into her purse.

  Margo smiles as I catch up to her. I could do this all night. No special powers required. Kind of fun. But we’re not here to frustrate pickpockets, and we both know it. We’re here to find a killer.

  That is, after we take the ride of our lives.

  CHAPTER 37

  AT THIS MOMENT, Jon DeLeon is feeling like the luckiest high school sophomore in New York. The World’s Fair opening was the hook that finally got Britta Lofton to go out with him, and it was definitely worth the wait.

  As they walk along the main path through the fair, Jon sees other guys turning their heads to catch a look at his date. Red dress. Long legs. Wavy black hair. Best of all is her laugh—full-throated, with a hilarious little squeak at the end. He can’t believe he’s actually here with her.

  When Britta threads her fingers through his for the first time, Jon feels like his head might explode. From that moment, the displays and pavilions are just a haze. All he wants is to be alone with her. Too bad they’re surrounded by a few thousand people and more bright lights than he’s ever seen in his life.

  They walk along the winding pathways, past food stands and exhibitions, until they reach the Amazon rain forest—actually, a small sample of it. According to the sign over the entrance, the enclosed two acres of transplanted jungle represent the amount of rain forest being burned and cleared by loggers every single second.

  But the two eager teenagers pay no attention to the sobering ecological message. And they’re not thinking about the massive engineering and irrigation effort it took to bring the exhibit to life. All they know is that the trees are tall and the foliage is thick and it looks like a good place to make out in privacy.

  Ten yards in, they’re surrounded by ferns and kapok trees and the chatter of jungle birds. The ground is spongy with moss. The artificial canopy far above mimics the night sky, blocking the light from the rest of the fair. They head deeper into the exhibit, until they reach an isolated niche overhung with vines and thick fronds. A small stream winds through the tree roots nearby, creating a subtle rush of white noise. They don’t even need to close their eyes to imagine they’re alone in the Amazon basin. The illusion is that perfect.

  By now, their clothes and hair are damp from the humidity. Britta grabs the hem of her dress and playfully pretends to wring it out. She laughs her fantastic laugh. Then abruptly, she stops. She points over Jon’s shoulder then presses against him, her eyes twitching with fear. Jon turns and spots a quick movement in the thick foliage.

  Then, in a blur, he sees a raised arm and a contorted green face.

  CHAPTER 38

  MARGO AND I are being held in our bench by an invisible magnetic belt. The seat is transparent and our legs are dangling in midair. We’re nearing the top of the arc, gravity be damned. Margo is clinging to my arm so tightly that I can feel her fingernails through my shirt. A few minutes into the ride, she still has her doubts.

  “Lamont, are you sure this thing can be trusted?”

  I look down at the massive battery housing at the center of the apparatus, and the emergency generator below. “As long as the magnets hold out.”

  We’re nearly seventy stories up, the height of a skyscraper. The whole fair is spread out below us like a field of light. The ascent felt thrilling and perilous. Here at the top, it’s amazingly peaceful, like being part of the sky. On the floating benches above and below us, the riders are mostly silent, just taking in the view. I feel Margo relax a bit. She leans her head against my shoulder and snuggles in.

  “Remember Chicago?” she asks, looking out over the river.

  I run my hand across her soft hair. “I do. Seems like another lifetime.”

  When Margo and I traveled together to the 1933 World’s Fair, we barely knew each other. In fact, it was our first trip together. Terrible times for the country and the whole world. In the midst of the Great Depression, the fair was the one bright spot in the gloom. A CENTURY OF PROGRESS, the posters said.

  That was the weekend when I first understood that Margo was going to be the best partner I ever had, in every possible way. On the train to Chicago, we had separate sleeping compartments. On the way back to New York, we only needed one. We’ve been together ever since.

  I wrap my arms around Margo’s shoulders and lean over to kiss her cheek.

  “Don’t get frisky,” she says. “You’ll give me vertigo.”

  By now, we’re way above the murmur of the crowd and the sounds of traffic on the highway below. But there’s one sound that carries in open air like nothing else.

  A female scream.

  CHAPTER 39

  BY THE TIME I get there, security has a small corner of the rain forest blocked off. Two nervous guys in white uniforms are setting up portable screens near a small artificial stream. Another guy is intercepting visitors on a nearby path and escorting them back toward the main entrance. There’s already a sign outside saying CLOSED FOR ROUTINE MAINTENANCE. Fair patrons are just walking by without a second look.

  I have a perfect view of the whole scene, and nobody’s bothering me. Nobody even notices me. Why would they? I’m just one more parrot in the jungle.

  From the branch where I landed, I can see two teenagers lying next to each other alongside the stream. They’re young. Maybe their first date. Definitely their last one. Their skulls are caved in. Exactly like the kids in the police photos. I hop to another branch for a better angle.

  The water leading away from their shattered heads is tinted red. Except for bloodstains and mud, their clothes are intact. It doesn’t look like a sex crime. What it looks like is a horror movie. Both kids are lying with their mouths hanging open and their hands clawed into the ground. From their necks to their hairlines, their faces are covered in bright green paint.

  I’m feeling jumpy and guilty. If I hadn’t been so determined to take a joy ride with Margo, maybe we could have been around to stop it. Or maybe the killer spotted us and waited until he knew we were out of the way.

  I hear thrashing in the underbrush, then three more men burst into the clearing. I recognize Detective Roskow right away. A couple of young uniforms follow right behind him with body bags. Roskow practically shoves one of the security guys out of the way to get to the victims. He stops just a few inches from the deceased.

  “Goddamnit!” he mutters.

  The detective squats for a few seconds between the two corpses, then looks up at one of the security people. “What’s the closest way out?”

  The security guy looks nervous. “Should we wait for the medical examiner?”

  Roskow brushes a wad of wet leaves off his shoe. “You want somebody to pronounce them dead?” He waves his hands over the bodies like a cheap magician. “Okay. Presto. They’re dead.” He stands up and clicks off a couple of photos of the bodies with a digital camera, then turns to the two cops. “Bag ’em.”

  He steps up to one of the security guys. “As soon as we’re gone, lose the screens and rake this area. Back to nature. One hundred percent.”

  And that’s it. No crime scene markers. No search for weapons. No pathologist to take body temperatures or check for hidden wounds. No crime scene investigators. The cops place the two black vinyl bags flat on the damp ground and lift the kids by their underarms and ankles. First the boy, then the girl. Their legs and arms are folded inside the plastic, then the zippers are pulled up over the faces. One lock of the girl’s black hair is still sticking out when one of the cops throws her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. The other cop takes the boy the same way.

  I make the short flight through the trees from the murder scene to the back exit.

  When the cops get there, I’m perched on top of the barrier that hides a paved service road. There’s no ambulance waiting. No hearse. Just a black unmarked van. The two cops load the bodies into the back and climb in with them.

  Roskow pounds the side of the truck twice with his fist and the truck takes off down the narrow road. He leans back against the barrier and pulls out his walkie.

  “Yeah. Tell Bates we got two more. All clean. No witnesses.”

  I make a short hop to a pole directly above where Roskow is standing. Suddenly, I have an irresistible urge to shit on his head.

  CHAPTER 40

  Kalu Ganga River, Sri Lanka

  THE CEREMONY BEGINS at dawn in the shadow of a huge stone dam, seven centuries old. A temple built from the same stone sits at the base of the dam, surrounded by thatched cottages.

  As the first flicker of light kisses the river, clerics and families wade into the gently flowing water. They’re all dressed in colorful gowns with flowered headdresses. The head priest stands thigh-deep in the green current and raises a long ceremonial stick over his head. He starts chanting in a low singsong cadence. The others echo him, slowly building in confidence and volume. The only sounds in the deep valley are the rising voices of the worshippers and the gentle rush of water.

  Suddenly, the air is split by a series of loud booms. Flames and smoke belch from the center of the looming dam. The stone towers collapse and the belly of the structure bows out. Then the river blasts through.

  Two seconds later, the foamy torrent hits the worshippers with the force of a hurricane, propelling two-ton stones like pebbles. Everybody turns toward shore, but nobody reaches it. Many are crushed to pulp before being swept away in the powerful current.

  In seconds, the temple is gone. The cottages are gone. Everything is gone.

  The high priest swirls downstream in a pinwheel pattern, impaled on his sacred stick.

  CHAPTER 41

  “ARE YOU SURE?” says Dache. “This is a step beyond.”

  I nod. I’m more than sure. I’m itchy and impatient. The skill I’m about to learn is called chuanghu. In my boyhood training, it was known as a forbidden skill, considered out of our reach. Dache has made it clear that it’s powerful and dangerous. But I don’t care. Let’s get moving!

  The two of us are in the middle of the garden behind my mansion, sitting on opposing stone benches. We’re surrounded by flower beds and decorative trees. My senses are on full alert. I can smell the lilacs and crab apples. I can hear the twitters from ten different species of birds. Just being in the presence of Dache has always made me more aware and attuned. When I’m with him, I’m eager to absorb all I can.

  If I’m being totally honest with myself, I realize that I’m a little jealous of all the new skills Dache has been teaching Maddy. Stupid, I know, to be competing with a nineteen-year-old. Maybe I miss the feeling of being the star pupil. But what I mostly want is to find the World’s Fair killer. And Dache says this technique might help—as long I’m willing to risk losing my mind.

  I settle on the bench, bare feet flat on the soft grass. Grounded and steady. But my heart is pounding hard. “What will it feel like?” I ask. “What will I see?”

  “If I knew that, I would tell you,” says Dache. “Chuanghu opens a channel based on something you’ve already experienced, or a place you’ve already visited. It allows you to see what happened there through the eyes of somebody else who has been in the same place, like tapping into another person’s memory. A parallel past.”

  “Whose past?”

  Dache shakes his head. “I can help you open the window. I cannot control what you see. Or who you become.”

  “And the risk?” He told me before, but I need to hear it again.

  “The risk is that you don’t come back. The risk is that your mind becomes somebody else’s mind. And that your mind ceases to exist.”

  Dache is right. That’s a truly terrifying concept—to be alive, but not myself. I worked hard for my life. Spent a century and a half in a coma waiting to live again. Maybe there’s another way. Something that’s not quite so radical. But, like I said, I’m impatient. And I didn’t live this long by not taking chances. I don’t have time for any more second thoughts.

  I nod to Dache. “Do it.”

  He stands up and walks behind me. “Eyes closed,” he says.

  I feel his hands on both sides of my head, cradling my temples. I can remember the same feeling from when I was a boy, when Dache was trying to get me to focus on something important. “Do you have the place?” he asks.

  “I do.” I’m picturing the Amazon rain forest—the snippet of it that ended up at the World’s Fair.

  “Don’t say it,” Dache whispers. “Just think it.”

  At first, I feel nothing. As I start to form another question, there’s a bright flash and a small pop in my brain, like a bulb exploding.

  Suddenly the scents and sounds of the garden are gone. I’m inhaling the thick atmosphere of the jungle. The air is heavy. The ground is spongy and damp. I feel myself walking, but in someone else’s body. I’m human, but heavier and taller, and my breaths are coming from a bigger, deeper chest.

  I’m following two shapes into the underbrush. My vision sharpens. Not perfect, but enough to see the shapes resolve into a tall boy and a girl in a red dress. I’ve never seen them before tonight, but I’ve chosen them. That much I understand. I can smell his sweat and her perfume. I can hear their supple young hearts beating. They’re perfect.

  I’m following them through the humid foliage, deeper and deeper toward darkness. A buzz of excitement rises in my belly, like an urgent tickle. When the girl turns around, I freeze. I feel heat rising in me. The girl grabs the boy. Now he turns to face me. There’s no waiting. I need to move. Now!

  In an instant. I see their expressions shift—from surprise to terror. They know they’re about to die.