Off.
And this time they stayed off.
The train slowed to a squealing halt. Not fast. Not at all once. And not at Euclid Avenue station.
The pa.s.sengers did not fly into an immediate panic. Of course they didn"t. This was New York. This was the C train. This was Brooklyn.
When the car settled into stillness, the pa.s.sengers were quiet for a moment as they listened for the kinds of sounds that would provide information.
There was no sound.
So they collectively moaned in soft irritation, sighed, rustled as they set themselves into comfortable positions to wait it out. There was not one person on that train, not one in that car who hadn"t been here before. Stopped, stalled, delayed, and in the dark.
The darkness was total.
And then one by one pa.s.sengers began punching b.u.t.tons on their cells phones, spilling the glow of screen displays into the car.
There were some laughs.
A couple of jokes. The MTA and the mayor had their names taken in vain.
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Maria closed her book and accessed the e-reader app on her cell, found a different book-a mystery by Hank Phillippi Ryan-and began reading. Unperturbed. Undisturbed.
Unsuspecting.
Something brushed her side and she half turned to watch as the man in the yellow raincoat stood up. His face was illuminated by the glow of cell phones. His mouth was moving as if he was saying something, but by now half the pa.s.sengers on the train were calling people who weren"t on the train to talk. The buzz of chatter was loud, and Maria didn"t catch a word the sweating man said.
Then she felt herself frowning as her mind began evaluating what her eyes were seeing. The man wasn"t speaking. His mouth was moving, jaws working, the way someone does when they"re eating. But she could see that he wasn"t really eating anything. There was nothing in his mouth. It was like he was pretending to eat.
Muy loco, she thought.
The man turned slowly in place, his unblinking eyes seeming to take in everything and everyone around him. Maria watched with an odd and inexplicable fascination. It was like watching one of those YouTube videos her son sometimes sent her without including a clue as to what it was about. She had to watch to find out.
The man completed his turn and then slowly closed his eyes. Maria felt strangely relieved that the man had finally closed his eyes. Her eyes had begun to feel dry and sore.
The train still did not move. The chatter of the crowd grew louder, more cell phones glowed to life. More rude jokes were swapped. There was almost a party atmosphere. Everyone was laughing, joking, smiling.
Except Maria.
What was this man doing? Standing there, eyes closed, sweating in a heavy yellow raincoat, pretending that he was chewing.
Then the man abruptly stopped chewing, drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and in a voice that was as fractured and raw as it was powerful, shouted at the top of his lungs.
"I have a message from Mother Night!"
It was so shockingly loud that for a moment everyone froze, silent, staring.
"The current administration of the United States government is acting in opposition to the will of the people and the laws of the Const.i.tution. The American people are cattle to them and we will remain so unless we take action, take to the streets, take the country back."
After another moment of awkward silence, a tall black teenager in jeans and a Yankees shirt lowered the cell phone into which he was speaking and said, "The f.u.c.k you talking about, man? Some kind of Occupy the C Train bulls.h.i.t?"
A couple of people laughed, but none of them was seated close to the man in the raincoat and hoodie. The teenager who"d spoken out, though, was three pa.s.sengers back from where the sweating man stood. The intervening people began shifting out of the way, not wanting to be a part of anything.
Maria couldn"t blame them. She slipped the pepper spray out of her pocket and held it in her lap, covered by both hands. Ready.
The sweating man pointed at the teenager. "Tell everyone. The only action is direct action."
"The f.u.c.k"s with you?" asked the teen in a tone of rising belligerence. "You high or some s.h.i.t?"
What the sweating man said in reply meant nothing at all to the black teen, or to Maria.
"Sometimes you have to burn to shine."
And then without warning, without the slightest hint, the sweating man leaped at the teenager and slammed him back into the laps of a row of people seated against the wall. The scream he made as he pounced did not sound human. To Maria, it sounded like the hunting shriek of one of the big cats, like the mountain lions who hunted the canyons in Mexico where she"d lived until she was twelve. It was inhuman, and filled with fury and hate.
And with hunger.
But it was almost immediately drowned out by the high, shrill screams of total agony from the teenager as the sweating man bit into the flesh of his throat and tore it out. In the glow of the cell phones the geysering blood was as black as oil.
Then everyone was screaming.
Maria screamed, too.
It took two minutes and nine men to subdue the sweating man. They crowded him into a corner and hammered him with kicks and punches. People hung from the straps for balance as they stomped him. Breaking his face, breaking his bones, knocking out teeth.
Through all of that, the man kept fighting. Keep trying to bite.
He never grunted in pain. Never begged for mercy.
He stopped fighting back only when one of the kicks caught him just right and his head struck a pole so hard that skin and bone burst.
The kicks continued for ten more seconds.
Then the crowd froze again, caught in a tableau, shocked by what had happened, calculating the degree of their involvement in any police action that might follow.
Cell cameras flashed, flashed, flashed.
Someone said, "Jesus Christ."
The sound of panting-from exertion and fear-filled the car.
Maria hurried over to the teenager, but she could tell that he was already gone. His windpipe was exposed and ragged, the arterial blood pulsed once more, weakly, then settled down to a dying bubble.
She felt for his pulse, felt the last throb, and then ... nothing.
"Jesus Christ," said someone else, loading it with a different meaning.
Then Maria herself said it. "Jesus Christ!"
Because the teenager opened his eyes.
And his mouth.
And he lunged for her.
The last thing Maria saw was a glaring eye inches from her own as the teenager-the dead teenager-darted in to take his first bite.
Chapter Thirty-three.
FreeTech 800 Fifth Avenue New York City Sunday, August 31, 12:24 p.m.
Junie Flynn watched as each of the newest members of her board settled into their chairs. It was a strange mix of people, and Junie knew that each of them had secrets that the others at the table did not necessarily share. Each brought their own unique skills, knowledge, connections, and motives to FreeTech. They came to help and to share in the benefits of an organization with a structure like DARPA but which had no military agenda. It was, to Junie"s experience, a unique organization.
After thanking them each for attending this closed session, Junie addressed the group. "We will operate with two levels of disclosure. Each of you has requested and been granted a public ident.i.ty that has been crafted by MindReader. No one outside of this group and the upper echelon of the DMS will know who you are."
The people seated around the table nodded, some with less enthusiasm and more suspicion than others.
"However," said Junie, "everything else we do at FreeTech will be available through the Freedom of Information Act. All benefits will be shared equally with the public, without reservations. Since none of our research or development is intended for military use, that freedom of access will extend beyond U.S. borders. Agreed?"
Another round of nods.
However, one person, a young woman with olive skin and dark hair, raised her hand. "As much as I can appreciate altruism on this scale," said Violin, "it is expensive. Surely, whomever is financing this venture will want the lion"s share of any profits."
"Actually," said Junie, "if any profits are generated they will be used for further research and to fund foundations tasked with distributing the fruits of that research."
"How? This will take many millions..."
Junie smiled. "We are operating with a start-up bank of seventy billion dollars."
It was a shocking amount. An absurd amount. Everyone gaped at her.
"How?" demanded Violin. "Your congress could never pa.s.s an appropriations bill of that size."
"Private donation," said Junie. She was intensely aware that the challenge in Violin"s voice spoke to issues beyond FreeTech. Violin had been Joe"s lover and Junie suspected that the strange woman still had strong feelings for Joe. They"d gone into combat together on multiple occasions and shared a kind of intimacy that was unique to them. Even though Junie knew that Joe was faithful to her, she was adult enough to realize that there were unresolved issues hanging fire between him and Violin. Issues that might never be resolved.
Although her trust in Joe"s fidelity was ironclad, Junie had less faith that this beautiful, exotic, and powerful warrior woman was the kind to simply bow out without a fight. Junie had been mentally preparing herself for that fight, and she dearly hoped it wouldn"t involve actual knives.
"Donated by whom?" Violin"s brow was knitted with doubt and concern. "Who has that kind of money? And why would they give so much? Is this part of the Bill and Amanda Gates Foundation or-"
"No," said a sad-eyed young man seated across from her. He was in his thirties, thin, handsome, and he spoke with a British accent. "I donated the money. All of it."
"You?" asked the thin, dark-haired teenager seated to Junie"s right. His name was Helmut Deacon. "And how do you have that much money?"
"I suppose you could say I inherited it," said the Brit.
"Oil money?" asked Helmut.
"No."
Suspicion flickered in Violin"s eyes. "Inherited from where?"
The Brit turned to Junie and raised inquiring eyebrows. She nodded.
"No secrets between us," Junie said. "That"s our rule. Besides, FreeTech is your idea."
"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," said the Brit. He took a breath. "Well, buckle up, kids, because this is going to be a b.u.mpy ride. The funding for this was appropriated on my behalf from the Seven Kings. I was made steward of the money on the condition that I find a way to do the best possible good with it. I proposed the creation of FreeTech as a way of fixing some of the damage the Kings did. Damage that I am partly responsible for."
Everyone at the table stared at him in stunned silence.
"And before I give you those details," said the Brit after taking a steadying breath, "I want one favor from you. No matter how much good we do, even if we cure the common effing cold, I don"t ever want to hear the words "thank you" aimed in my direction. Ever. This isn"t about me and it never will be."
One by one the others nodded, though they all looked suspicious and mystified.
"Very well," said the Brit. "I"ll start by introducing myself. My name is Alexander Chismer, but everyone calls me Toys."
Interlude Eight Four Seasons Hotel 1 Logan Square Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Four Years Ago "Take it, you b.i.t.c.h!"
Bill Collins snarled the words as he thrust into her from behind. She was on elbows and knees; he stood beside the bed. Her b.u.t.tocks flared red from where he"d slapped her over and over again with each thrust.
She snarled back at him from between clenched teeth. Goading him on, demanding that he go harder and faster, that he hit her.
Demanding it.
When they came they howled together like night creatures. Like wolves.
The iPod played very loud opera. If anyone else in the hotel heard them, no one called the front desk.
The Secret Service men outside the door were paid a lot of money under the table to pretend to be as deaf as they were blind. As far as they were concerned, they worked for Bill Collins, not for the vice president. That distinction was expensive and paid for in cash.
Collins collapsed on her by slow degrees, his sweaty chest falling onto her back and bearing her down to the sodden and tangled sheets. They panted loudly, unable to speak, spent and aching, lost in the exhaustion and pleasure and an afterglow that burned their skin.
This was the tenth time they"d met in private, and it was always like this for them.
Genuine tenderness formed no part of their relationship, though they went through the motions of it over dinner and before clothes were off. Once they were naked, each of them knew that they could be their real, true selves. They were not nice people, and that was part of the fun for each of them. They were rough and mean to each other, and that was a turn-on. And they both knew that they were trying through physical extremity to try and f.u.c.k each other"s mind. To do that, in fact, would have been their only goal, their only act; but in the absence of that possibility they drove each other toward the edge of the cliff every time.
And every time it was good for them.
Bliss had never allowed herself to be like this with anyone with whom she"d ever slept. Not even her foster father. In all other situations she"d made sure to dial it down, to play a borderline virgin, to be the good little geek girl who-oh my G.o.d!-has s.e.x. None of that was her, or if any of it was, then it belonged to that lesser, unevolved self whom Bliss left farther behind every day.
As the sweat cooled on their skin, they gradually fell apart, him rolling off her, Bliss shifting toward the center of the bed. They were totally unabashed about nakedness or preference, and that was such a liberating thing.