Tabula Rasa Kristen Lippert Martin (29 page)

climb than these, I know. The elevator isn’t working yet.
That keeps most of the tourists away. It’s a long walk to the
 top of the steeple, more than five hundred steps. My physi-
 cal therapist would probably think I’m working too hard.
Or maybe not hard enough. They’re tough to please, those
 physical therapists.
I hang the crook of my cane over my forearm and grab
 the railing. The pain in my spine will get worse with every
 step, and by the time I get to the top, I won’t be able to
 think of anything else. This is probably not the best way
 of dealing with my grief over losing Thomas, but I’ve
 never been able to figure out what you’re supposed to do.
The only solution I’ve ever had is to go up. Somehow up
 is closer to wherever they’ve gone—those people you’ve
 loved and lost.
I have to stop a few times and rest, but finally I push
 the door open to the observation deck and look at my
 watch. Thirty-one minutes is a new best time, but it’s cost
 me. I’m exhausted. The twinges of pain in my back have
 now fused together to become one continuous, unyield-
 ing ache.
I find a bench and sit down. It’s always colder up here
 than I’m expecting, but I’ll stay until closing time. I have
 nowhere else to go. Well, nowhere else I want to go. Being
 home again hasn’t been easy. I can’t go back to living
 my old life, and inventing a new one means letting go of
 some things and holding on to others. That hasn’t worked
 too well so far. I still can’t seem to figure out the right
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combination to get me back to feeling normal, so I guess
I’ve kind of stopped trying.
I watch a mom and two kids who both look thoroughly
 unimpressed with the view as they hustle toward the door.
There’s also a guy leaning against the railing with his hands
 clasped. I’m hoping he’ll leave in a minute, too, so I can
 have the place all to myself.
I rest my hands on my cane and push it against the
 ground, trying to give off whatever sad, impatient vibes
 might encourage him to leave. I hear sirens wailing down
 below. They’re getting more persistent, ever louder as they
 head north up Amsterdam Avenue.
Somebody’s in big trouble. I’m glad it’s not me.
Almost instantly the guy spins around and begins to
 walk across the deck. I turn my head toward the setting
 sun, watching him come closer out of the corner of my
 eye. At first I think he’s heading toward the stairs. It takes
 me a second to recognize him, and at first I don’t believe
 it.
So many times I thought I’d seen him. In a crowd or
 on the subway platform. I’d limp closer, only to be proven
 wrong. I don’t want to be disappointed again, so I wait
 until he’s standing right in front of me. Then I close my
 eyes.
“Are you real?”
“I am.”
“You can’t be real.”
“Why not?”
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“Because this doesn’t suck.”
“This is the one exception to the rule.”
I try to leap toward him but end up falling instead. He
 catches me.  “Does this help you believe?”
He takes out his clunky eyeglasses and puts them on. I
 kiss him with such clumsy enthusiasm that I knock those
 awful glasses right off his face.
“I had no way to find you,” I say. “They wouldn’t tell
 me anything. Even if you were alive or dead.”
“I know. Except I knew you’d be alive. I knew you
 would make it. And I knew I’d find you again.”  
“But how did you know to look for me here?”
“I told you, part of what makes me a good hacker is
 that I’m good at figuring out the way people think, what
 they do, what habits they have. I spent the last few weeks
 thinking, trying to come up with a place that you might
 go. Then I saw the article in the Times about this place
 opening up. St. Philip’s new observation deck. Upper West
Side. I thought, ah, that’s it. That’s where my angel will
 go. I’m so glad I got it right. I knew I’d only get one shot
 at finding you.”
“Why?”
“I’m kinda . . . under house arrest.” He lifts the leg of
 his jeans and shows me his ankle transmitter.
“For what?”
“There were at least a dozen international warrants out
 for 8-Bit, but since they couldn’t have him, they settled for
 me instead. I’m locked up at home with my parents. No
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computer. No phone. Basically, no contact with the outside
 world. I can’t even go to school.”
“For how long?”
“Until they figure out what to do with me and my law-
 yers cut a deal. Leniency in exchange for information.”
“House arrest. I’ll bet your mom is glad about that. Glad
 you’re alive, I mean.”
“She is. I . . . I know I’ve got a lot to make up for. I’m
 doing my best. My dad’s still very angry.”
“But Thomas . . . no computer? How can you stand it?”
“It’s been easy. Compared to what else I’ve had to live
 without.”
He kisses me, then stops. It’s way too short of a kiss for
 me.
“What’s the matter?”
He lifts my hat up a little in the front. “I don’t know if
 this is going to work out between us. I usually only go for
 bald chicks.”  
“I understand. How’s this?”
I tuck my hair up into my hat and pull it all the way
 down to my eyebrows. He kisses me again. A little longer
 this time, but still not long enough.
The sirens are getting louder, closer, and there are more
 of them. We walk to the edge of the observation deck, arm
 in arm, so I don’t have to use my cane. Down below, three
 police cars have pulled up onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians
 scatter like pigeons as the officers leap out and charge up
 the church steps.
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“Are they here looking for a handsome, red-headed
 fugitive?”
“Yeah. And if they catch us up here, I’m going to be
 in even bigger trouble. I’m sort of breaking the law two
 times right now. I’m not supposed to have any contact
 with you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess they want to protect you from
 me.”  
“It’s probably the other way around. My ‘handlers’ can’t
 seem to decide if they should be bossing me around or
 placating me. I don’t respond very well to either. I’m sure
 that’s got to be annoying for them.”
Thomas pulls me toward him by my jacket lapels.
“Before they get here, tell me how your life is. I just need
 to know you’re okay.”
My head falls against his chest, and he presses his cheek
 to the top of my head.
“I’m all right. Virgil is a kind man. My mother was
 right about him. He hasn’t told his father about me yet.
We were waiting for things to blow over. Hodges . . . your
 mother—”
“Please don’t call her that.”
“Okay. But she was practically a surrogate daughter
 to Virgil’s father—my grandfather. He did everything he
 could to cover things up, but he couldn’t save her from
 being arrested. Couldn’t even get her out on bail.”
“I saw they busted Wilson, too.”
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“Wilson. I think I hate him almost as much as I hate
Hodges.”
“You should. That Velocius thing is no gift. Angel, you
 know what it does to you? They told you that, didn’t they?”
I step back so I can look into his brown-black eyes.
“They told me. I guess they wanted to keep me from
 using my new tricks. Nothing like a radically shortened life
 span to put a damper on your superpowers. They told me
 every time I speed my mind up, I wear myself out. They
 said it’s like running a car at two hundred miles an hour.
You can’t keep it up forever.”
We hear men shouting in the stairwell. Thomas looks
 over at the door and says, “Seems like old times.”
“Tell me how to reach you.”  
“I have no computer and no phone. I guess you’ll have
 to do things the old-fashioned way. Write me a letter.”
“Okay. I will. What’s your address?”
He pulls a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket and
 hands it to me. “It’s on here.”
I take it from him and whisper, “Thank you. Thank
 you for . . . for still being alive.”
The men are almost to the top of the stairs now.
“Quick. Go hide behind that column while I turn myself
 in. Maybe they’ll give me credit for semi-good behavior.”
“Aw, but you’re a good guy.”
“That’s me. Hacker with a heart of gold. Now go!”  
He kisses me again. My top lip, then the bottom, then
 both together. He pushes me toward a column crowned
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with exceptionally gruesome gargoyles, all of them with
 their tongues sticking out. If only warding off evil was that
 easy.
“Stay here until they’re gone, okay?”
“Do you want me to bust you out? I could, you know.”  
“I have no doubt about that, but I don’t want you short-
 ening your life by even one day for my sake.”
The door swings open, and Thomas spins around and
 puts his hands behind his head, ready to cooperate. I wait
 in the shadows as the police take him into custody. The sun
 is low. Why it feels warmer now, in this cold wind, I don’t
 know, but it does.
After a few minutes, I look out over the railing of the
 observation deck, down at the street below, and watch
 as they lead Thomas away. The police cars are long gone
 before I finally unfold the piece of paper that he gave me.
It’s blank.
I flip it over. It’s the same on the other side.
For a moment, I think it’s a mistake. Or some kind of
 joke. I don’t know why he would give this to me. It’s not
 until I’m about to head down the stairs that I think to put
 my hand into the inside pocket of my jacket. There I find a
 second piece of paper. On it is written Thomas’s full name,
 address, and three words I know he’s never said to anyone
 else but me.
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