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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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