Boy Nobody (7 page)

A progress bar appears on the bottom of the screen.

The phone is handshaking with a secret server, downloading a sophisticated security suite, and installing it.

The lock stops spinning and the phone restarts.

It looks the same, but the phone is now jail-broken. Two operating systems are running. One on the surface, one beneath.

Slide the bar to the right, and the phone is in public mode. If someone found it, they’d see a regular iPhone. They could make calls, play games, whatever.

But if I use the unique diagonal finger gesture, it’s in secure mode. Now I’ve got access to an entire suite of apps that make this phone very special.

I put it in secure mode now, then open the camera. I configure the settings, triple-clicking the flash. I hold it up to take a picture—

“Hey, is that the new iPhone?” a girl says.

She’s maybe fifteen, long brown hair, too much gloss on her lips. She has a backpack slung across one shoulder. The strap pulls her shirt tight, the swell of her breast pressing against fabric.

“Brand-new,” I say.

“I wish I could afford one.” Her eyes widen. “Do you want me to take a picture of you?”

“I do,” I say.

I hand her the phone.

“It’s beautiful,” she says.

“Me or the phone?”

“Definitely the phone,” she says. But she’s laughing as she says it.

“It’s all set up,” I say. “Just press the button.”

She takes my photo. It’s not really a photo, but she doesn’t know that.

She just sent a locator ping back to Father.

I am here. I have begun.

I reach out to take the phone back.

There’s a man across the store looking at us. Curly hair and a tightly shaved beard. Dark complexion, intense eyes.

Too intense.

He might be looking at us, but I can’t be certain. By the time I look in his direction, he has turned away. Not in reaction to me, at least it seems not, but as part of a sweep around the room.

I watch him for a moment. He’s in his early twenties, short with a wiry build. Maybe a gym rat, maybe something else. Something that requires a different kind of training.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” I ask the girl.

That might explain the guy with the beard.

“Not at the moment,” the girl says. She smiles, misunderstanding why I asked the question. “Hey, should we take a picture together? Capture the moment and all that?”

She applies a little more gloss to her lips. They glimmer in the light of a laptop screen.

I glance back toward the man, but he’s gone.

“Thanks,” I say to the girl, “but I have to get back to school.”

I take the phone from her.

“Where do you go?” she says.

I shrug and mumble something as I walk away, blowing her off.

She looks disappointed.

No matter. I have work to do.

A presence.

Following me.

It’s on the very edge of my awareness. Nearly imperceptible.

Is it the Shaggy Giant?

Doubtful.

The man with the beard in the Apple Store?

Possibly.

I stand in place, projecting the circle of my attention in all directions like sonar.

I take a step. I listen.

I detect no movement, no disturbance.

So I walk north, heading back toward school. I stop at the intersection of Broadway and Amsterdam. I wait at the light, using the time to scan in all directions.

Still nothing.

My training has taught me to trust my intuition, but also to test it.

That’s what I do now.

I nod to a security guard smoking a cigarette in a drugstore doorway, use the pause to break my rhythm. At the corner of 72nd, I take a sudden turn toward West End Avenue, where it’s less crowded, and more difficult to track someone undetected.

That’s when I feel it again.

The Presence. He’s a man.

It’s not the Shaggy Giant. He would be too close, pressuring me.

The Presence is skilled. Maybe he’s part of the mayor’s security detail.

I replay the conversation with Sam earlier. I consider briefly the idea that something is going on in her life sufficient to have her worried about a new guy, worried enough to have him checked out by security.

I consider, then I dismiss it. I haven’t done anything in this city.

Not yet, at least.

But the Presence is here nonetheless. He turns as I turn, staying parallel to me, a block east on Broadway.

I have a choice: Lose him or flush him out?

I could lose him temporarily. Slip into a building, hop a cab, double back.

I could lose him permanently. Lead him into Riverside Park. Overpower him and ask a few questions. Leave his body for an early-morning jogger to discover.

But I don’t want added police attention in the neighborhood this week.

It’s better to flush him now and find out who he is.

Whether he’s related to Sam, to The Program, or to nothing at all. I need to know.

I speed up and head back toward school. I sense him continuing along with me on Broadway. I remember a church I saw earlier on my walk through the neighborhood. A church with an alley next door.

I can use it.

I walk east on 81st, projecting my energy toward Broadway as if I’m going to appear there, but I cut through the alley instead, pop out at the church on 80th, and double back.

If I’ve timed it right, I’ll catch the Presence on 81st. A quiet street. Light traffic.

No place to hide.

I wait two more seconds, then I step out into the street at the corner of 81st and West End, look back toward Broadway.

There’s nobody there.

The tiniest flicker of doubt crosses my mind. Am I imagining this?

I breathe slowly, project my energy into the circle around me, expanding it outward by degrees.

Nothing.

Whoever he is, he’s good.

And he’s gone.

It’s time to use it.

I slip into the lobby of a large building and find a quiet corner. I use the special finger gesture to put the phone into secure mode, then I look up
Dad
in the contacts.

It’s a number I haven’t seen before.

If I press the number, it will brick the phone, effectively destroying it.

So I don’t touch it. Instead I go to the picture box at the top of the contact information. A
World’s Greatest Dad
T-shirt. I pull the photo to the right, and the name
Dad
disappears, replaced with a new phone number.

I press the number.

“It’s me,” I say.

“I got the photo you sent earlier,” Father says. “Looks like you’re off and running.”

“Yes and no,” I say.

Silence on the line. I’ve deviated from protocol, and Father instantly recognizes it.

“Is there a problem?” he says.

What’s the best way to ask him about the Presence?

I decide to test a hypothesis. What if the Presence was sent from The Program to monitor me?

It’s never happened before, at least not to my knowledge. I’ve been on the road for two years now, receiving assignments and being left alone to carry them out.

But this assignment is something different. An accelerated timeline and a target with a high profile, maybe the highest profile of anyone in the city. It’s at least possible that I’m being monitored more closely.

So I say, “I’m wondering if I saw someone you might know.”

“I don’t know many people in New York,” he says cautiously.

“Maybe it was a friend you sent to check up on me? Since I’m new here and all.”

“Where did you see this person?” Father says.

Tension seizes his voice. He covers it well. There is perhaps a 5 percent elevation in pitch.

A normal person would not hear it.

But I can.

“I didn’t see him exactly,” I say. “It was more of a casual thing. At the Apple Store and again on the street just now.”

“Did you speak with him?” Father says.

“It wasn’t a speaking situation.”

It was a following situation. I walked, and he followed me.

“I don’t know anything about it,” Father says.

I listen to his voice, trying to judge whether he’s telling the truth. It sounds like he is. Which would mean the Presence is not related to The Program. But I can’t say for sure.

“I hope he didn’t bother you,” Father says.

“He didn’t.”

“This conversation has me concerned. Especially given the timeline of your new assignment.”

“Yes, it’s a tight one,” I say.

“You can’t afford any distractions. Your mother and I were talking about what happened the last time.”

“What are you referring to?”

“The four obstacles.”

He’s talking about the Chinese spies.

“Mother told me it was no big deal,” I say.

“In and of itself, no. But I don’t want to think there’s a pattern here. Unexpected things popping up suddenly.”

A pattern of what?
Is Father suggesting that I’ve screwed up?

“I’m sure it was nothing,” I say.

Back to business. Back to being in control.

I say, “I’m not even convinced I saw anything. I just thought I should check with you.”

“I’m glad you did—something important like this.”

“I have to go now,” I say. “I have to get back to school.”

“Of course. Keep me in the loop,” he says. “And if you see this person again, let me know.”

“I will.”

The line disconnects.

I’m troubled by this conversation with Father and the questions it raises.

But there’s nothing I can do about it now.

I scan the lobby, looking for anything out of place. I don’t find it. Only people in business suits gliding up and down the escalators, going about their day.

It’s time for me to go on with mine.

I’m walking in the hall after sixth period when I hear it.

“Cut it out!” a high-pitched voice says.

It sounds like a girl.

It’s not.

It’s the pale kid from the cluster group this morning.

He’s down the far end of the hall, pushed into a nearly invisible cubbyhole off the main hallway.

This school has a lot of unique study areas. L-shapes, dead ends, mini cul-de-sacs. Nooks and crannies laid out with beanbag chairs, most with large windows looking out on the New York skyline. If this were a prison, these would be considered traps. Blind spots the guards cannot monitor and where anything could happen. Here they are not traps but alternative study environments.

Hence the two guys teaching this boy a lesson by beating the crap out of him.

“Stop it!” Pale says.

I hear cursing, and a
thump
. The bigger of the two guys straight-arms him into the wall. It’s Justin, the guy with the soccer build from the AP class. A serious jock. He hits the geeky kid like a freight train while his buddy with a greasy face looks on.

The kid takes his punishment, his body limp, arms flopping at his sides. He doesn’t even hold his hands up in front of himself. No defense at all. They’ve beaten it out of him.

The application of might. It’s the same all over the world.

But it has nothing to do with me or my assignment, so I continue down the hall, minding my own business but monitoring the action in my peripheral vision.

As I pass by, Justin punches the geek in the stomach. It’s more of a half punch, crooked elbow, no backswing. But still, it’s a punch in the guts.

Ruthless.

I could stop this in a second. Clear my throat. Cast some attention in their direction.

I could stop it in other ways, too. I could make sure it never happens again. I could make sure Justin never raises his arm above waist level. No more throwing or catching or whatever the hell he does to get laid after school. I could remove his arm altogether.

But that wouldn’t serve my assignment.

The pale kid grunts in pain, and I ignore it and keep walking.

Uninvolved. That’s the best way to play it.

Or so I think until I hear a girl’s voice behind me.

Sam’s voice.

“Cut the shit!” she says.

I turn back to find her standing outside the cubbyhole, her arms crossed hard over her chest.

Involved. That’s how she plays it. Of course.

Her timing is lousy. I’ve blown my chance to grandstand in front of her. Now I’ll have to play catch-up.

“Mind your own business,” the jock says to her.

“I’m making it my business, Justin,” Sam says.

Justin steps out of the cubbyhole, confronts her face-to-face. He’s towering over her. He’s got eight inches and ninety pounds on her.

She doesn’t care. She stands her ground.

Impressive.

Justin says, “What are you going to do, Sam? Run to your daddy crying?”

He says her name with a sneer, adding syllables where none exist.

It’s time to get back into this thing. The casual hero. That’s the way I’ll play it.

I turn toward them, interested, but no more than any student passing by might be.

“What’s going on?” I say.

I say it low and even-toned, not like I’m going to do anything about it, but like I’m a good citizen.

Justin looks up at me. He looks back at Sam. His greasy friend is by his side.

I take a step toward them.

Sam looks at me.

“We’re out of here,” Justin says.

He and his buddy walk down the hall in my direction.

I walk toward Sam, not diverting, but giving the guys room. As Justin passes by, he pulls back a fist like he’s going to punch me in the face.

Our eyes meet briefly.

He puts his fist down.

When I get to Sam, she’s pulling the pale kid up off the floor.

“You’re all right, Howard,” she says to him. She brushes dirt out of his hair. Her finger snags in the tangle.

He looks at the ground, mortified.

“Thanks, Sam,” he says.

“Should I call someone?” she says. “Do you need the nurse?”