8
Tristram was the newest official member of the household, lean and pale with eyes that were both trusting and uncertain. Shortly after he'd begun to settle in to New York City mansion life, he had begun to exhibit some rather mild symptoms of upset such an unsettled tummy, headaches, and an occasional bout of sniffles. Pendergast had thought it stress-related, for while the lad understood that he would live a better life, a safer life under his father's care, it was not unexpected that he should have a few issues getting used to his new environment and way of life. When he developed an unfortunate habit of picking at his nails and scratching at his skin until he'd manufactured scabs with which to entertain himself, Pendergast contacted one of the very few physicians he was familiar enough to have developed some personal trust of and asked if his son could receive a complete exam and check-up. After relating the boy's symptoms, the doctor had suggested keeping him for observation and administering a series of allergy tests on him. The agent had agreed and sat down to have a long talk with his son, reassuring him that all would be well, and letting him know that he could contact his father or any of the household staff at any time of the day or night if he felt the least bit uncomfortable or afraid. Somewhat used to people in lab coats questioning him and administering tests, he had resigned himself to the procedure, though he was visibly ill at ease. Pendergast had called him a brave fellow and lingered with him for several hours, calling after he had departed to make certain the boy was adjusting well. The doctor had assured him that while Tristram had initially been a bit down over his temporary abandonment, he had cooperated willingly in every respect and was off the get-go a model patient.
"May I ask what your conclusions are regarding the visitor, sir?"
"You may," the pale man replied, seated with his legs crossed, his chin in the cup of one palm as he sightlessly watched the city flow by. "I believe she is very real and alive, as much as you or I, but she has been enhanced via some artificial means for a rather precise purpose I have not yet discerned."
The chauffer inhaled deeply, thinking, she's real and alive. That's about all I've figured out about her, too, but I certainly haven't lost sleep over it. Then again, his employer was the obsessive type.
"I would like you to contact someone regarding the damage in the sitting room. It should be restored immediately."
"Already done, sir," Proctor responded. "It has occurred to you, I suppose, that everything we think we've seen or experienced from this girl may in fact be nothing more than some elaborate illusion? Some kind of mass hypnosis?"
"I have entertained the possibility," came the tired-sounding reply. It was rare that any sort of mystery ever stumped the man, and he was undoubtedly mentally weary and frustrated.
Proctor drew the long car up before the covered entrance and waited for Pendergast to exit, turning quickly around when he swore he saw something quickly follow the man out. "Sir?" he called in alarm.
Pendergast was smoothing his jacket down, but turned and startled, his features growing sharper with his anger. "How did you get here?" he asked, laying both hands upon the girl's shoulders.
"With you," she said, as though he'd forgotten that he'd shared the back seat.
"I assure you that is not true, young lady!"
She spoke calmly, "You tell me."
"That is not amusing."
"I never saw her!" Proctor said, leaning toward the still open door to be heard.
"I know we left her at the house!"
Proctor added, "Just like Constance locking her in that room in the basement-"
"What?"
The man saw his employer's eyes narrow and decided he probably should not have mentioned that bit. "When you turned in this morning, when you went to bed…Constance felt it would be safer—for everyone—if Amanda was allowed to stay in the room in the basement where Tristram was initially kept."
"Did she?" the silvery-eyed man asked, a touch of cruel amusement vaguely coloring his cheeks. "This I did not know."
Amanda remained in place beside him, watching him carefully, doing and saying nothing.
"Forgive me," he told her, bowing slightly. He offered his arm and she took it, allowing him to lead her back into the rear of the car. "I suppose we have not been the most gracious hosts, but I will attempt to remedy the situation once we have returned home." He addressed Proctor, "Park and await me. I promise I will not be long."
The chauffer watched his employer shut the car door. He waved, wearing a false grin, as they rode off. "I never saw you get in the car," he said, turning the steering wheel and maneuvering through rows of parked automobiles. "How did you do that?" He glanced in the rear-view mirror when no answer was forthcoming. Then he unbuckled his seat belt and pushed himself up and backward, torquing his body around for a good look in the empty rear of the car. He resumed his normal posture and caught sight of the teen slipping through the automatic doors and into the large, public building. "Oh, no," he exhaled, then opened the driver's door and ran after her.
Pendergast knew what floor Tristram had been kept on and where the elevators were. He rode up alone as luck would have it, exited, and made his way to the ward where his son should be. He was greeted by a nurse and asked how she could help him. He explained why he was there and was smiled at and asked to take a seat within a small side room. He preferred to linger along a nearby wall, out of the way, but looking alarmingly like an undertaker in his fitted black suit and well-appointed, conservative style. "Please, Mr. Pendergast," the woman insisted, gesturing toward the small room lined with windows. "You might be in the way there if an emergency came up. I promise you the doctor will be here to meet you soon."
Reluctantly he approached the door and frowned at the metal handle before touching it. There were hand-sanitizing pumps mounted nearly everywhere, but the room within smelled a bit sour, stale, with a cloying attempt at cover-up by a synthetic fruit-scented air freshener badly hidden within a basket of artificial flowers. There was no one else in the room, but a small television insisted he pay attention to a drab talk show, and there was an actual coffee pot set on a small table with greasy-looking liquid in it and offerings of sugar in paper pillow packets, powdered creamer in an open canister, and Polystyrene cups stacked for his convenience. He chose not to touch any of it, but sat with his hands over his knees, posture perfect, eyes closed as he began a light meditation.
The sounds of the hospital began to fade, but he chose not to eliminate them entirely. It required splitting his attention to remain alert to his surroundings while exploring his own imagination, and he fell into the means easily. Out of all of the noises his ears could pick up, it was the soft, dull music emanating from the corridor beyond the glassed-in room that filtered through. He matched his breathing to the simple beat, then his heartbeat, feeling his body cool, losing the sense of weight and warmth, the feel of the fabric surrounding him, the solidness of the chair and floor beneath him.
He crested a grassy knoll and released the telescope from beneath his arm, extending the legs of the tripod and adjusting it to stand straight on the uneven ground. Then he uncapped the wide end of the optic and withdrew from a pants pocket one of three lenses he could use to vary the magnification. He checked his watch and verified its accuracy by the swath of Milky Way that beribboned the night sky. Out in the country the sky was blacker, and thus the heavenly bodies appeared fantastically more numerous and far, far brighter. To the east he watched the lights of a commercial jet as it descended. To the southwest a tiny gold glow moved surely across the sky. He stared upward, lost in the magnificence of space until constellations picked themselves out and made themselves known, orienting him. He attached the lens to the small end of the telescope and screwed it into place. Then he bent enough for a good view and began to adjust knobs, moving the device slowly and surely, seeking something he knew was out there, but had never actually seen before.
A quasar.
He heard the door open and lifted his head from the viewfinder.
"Hello, Aloysius," Dr. Fassbender said in his soft baritone, grinning and extending a cold hand. Choosing a seat, he perched on the edge of it and readied a clipboard over his knees. "Tristram is an interesting boy."
"I would imagine."
"You might consider therapeutic counseling for him, to help him adjust to his new routine."
"I shall take that into consideration."
"Great. Well, we ran a barrage of tests on him, and he's quite the trouper, by the way. Quiet, cooperative, but reticent."
"In what way?"
"Communication-wise," the man said frankly. "I think it's more than simple shyness. Other children might consider him a little slow, but he's actually a pretty bright boy."
"I see. Thank you."
Fassbender consulted paperwork attached to the clipboard. "He has allergies, but nothing serious. As a matter of fact, I'd be surprised if he doesn't end up outgrowing most of them. Here's a list," he said, stretching to hand Pendergast the data.
Pale eyes quickly scanned the information. "Dogwood trees, Brazil nuts, rodent hair and droppings, wool... Oh dear, really? Wool?"
"Blankets more so than suits," the doctor admitted. "Itching," he said.
"I see. Dogs, peas…only peas? Not other legumes?"
"None of them is serious," Fassbender said. "He's just a little overwhelmed in a change of climate and diet. Diarrhea here and there, sinus headaches, mild itchy rashes…but all of it mild."
"And the scabs along his arms?"
"He just needs to be kept pre-occupied. I gather he didn't receive a great deal of mental stimulus where he was before, aside from stress. You could get him into puzzles or games or even books if he'll read them."
"I am certain he shall," Pendergast replied with a faint smile. "Does he require medication?"
Fassbender handed him another sheet. "I'll get the actual prescriptions written up for you. All of these can be taken on an as-needed basis. In fact, some of these you can substitute with over-the-counter meds after he's finished taking these. In general, he's a healthy boy. He could use some sunshine and horseplay, though."
"Thank you," Pendergast said. "May I take him home now?"
"Certainly." The doctor glanced at his watch, then behind himself through the windows that overlooked the nurse's station. "He should be here at any moment. Why don't you two meet me at the counter and I'll grab those prescriptions for you."
"Two?" Pendergast turned to make certain he was alone in the room, and smoldered to see Amanda seated quietly beside him, looking attentive.
"You're not together?" Fassbender asked, rising.
"I'm afraid we are," the agent said through clenched teeth. He waited for the other man to depart, and once the door had closed to his satisfaction, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and for a moment said absolutely nothing. When he looked again, she was still there, watching him. He mentioned hoarsely as he pushed himself to his feet, "You look ridiculous in that outfit."
He was smoothing his jacket as he approached the nurse's station, looking a bit haggard, moving slowly. The girl brought on sensations of surreality every time she exhibited some superhuman feat. This is far too real to be a dream, he told himself, tugging his tie straight and making sure it lay flat. If he had no control of the situation, then at least he could maintain it over himself. Ignoring her, he moved close to the counter and softly cleared his throat.
"Hello," the overweight woman greeted. She was not the same person he had seen when he had first arrived, but there always seemed to be someone stepping onto or from the elevator, grabbing a wheelchair, dropping off paperwork, carrying items into the various rooms beyond the counter. "You're the Pendergast daddy?"
Her wording sounded almost vulgar. "Indeed, I am," he answered in his soft, calming tones.
"Ooh, what an accent! You're from New Orleans or thereabouts, ain'tcha, baby?"
"I am," he replied without warming to her.
She sensed his somber mood and toned her own down accordingly. "Oh, yes," she said, consulting some papers from the cluttered surface before her, "Well, you're a bit early, but you're welcome to wait. We have a nice little coffee shop-"
"Excuse me," he said, "but I was told by Dr. Fassbender that he would be ready for travel. His name is Tristram Pendergast…."
He noticed the slight stiffening of her posture and the artificial aspects of her smile as she decided he was of the more difficult persuasion. Probably some rich snob, she thought, rechecking the papers before her. "Yes, it says here he was signed out only ten minutes ago-"
"He left with someone? He was discharged?"
"No, sir. Someone signed him out to go get an MRI done." She held up the appropriate clipboard with the illegible information scribbled across one of the available lines.
"He was being discharged. He did not require an MRI. Who is this person who signed him out?"
Fassbender wandered up with a wheelchair. "Forgive me, had to stop in and say hi to one of my-"
"Tristram has been taken, allegedly to have an MRI," Pendergast stated.
The doctor's face turned red and his demeanor gruff as he snapped at the nurse, "By whose order?"
She showed him the clipboard.
"Whose signature is this? I can't read any of this! Mr. Pender-" he said, turning, but the tall, pale man in the black suit was gone.
He had swiftly ducked into the first elevator that had opened to discharge passengers, and mashed the ground floor button. To his chagrin, the car began to ascend. "No!" he gasped.
A pale arm reached past him from the corner and hit the button marked G again. The car came to an immediate halt and started to drop at stomach lurching speed. If Amanda hadn't been standing just behind him, smiling, he would have thought the car was free-falling and he would soon meet his maker. The doors parted, and Pendergast lurched forward unsteadily, his body still insisting they were dropping despite the fact they had already reached ground level. He took a good look around, then headed for the main information desk.
"I found you!"
He turned, recognizing the voice.
"Two guys wheeled him out and crammed him into an older-model sedan!" Proctor said breathlessly, his eyes settling for a moment on the tricky teenager. "We can catch them!"
The three hurried out into the parking lot, mindful of traffic. They piled into the car and were off with a squeal of tires before the rear doors had even completely shut.
"There was at least one other fellow driving. It was an old Mercedes-Benz. I saw which way they went before I went to find you."
He cut off motorists as he roared into traffic, and Pendergast calmly checked his handgun, ignoring the girl.
Proctor was an excellent driver. Not only did he follow every rule of the road scrupulously and behave in a considerate manner behind the wheel, but he had also completed extensive training of the sort used by the President's Secret Service agents. His passengers sat tight as he dodged and weaved with maximum efficiency, taking a slight scrape from a taxi that refused to yield to his aggression. Pendergast caught sight of the vehicle he was pursuing shortly after Proctor had decided he was certain it was it. The long, regal vehicle caught the curb at an angle between parked cars and rode up on the sidewalk, bypassing nearly an entire block of congestion before they abruptly entered an intersection to a barrage of startled horns. Proctor shook his head and clucked, flooring it. The black Mercedes was maybe three cars away.
An ambulance caught them at the next intersection, nearly T-boning them as they attempted to make the yellow light. Proctor nearly collided with traffic oncoming from the right, and then was challenged for the right to proceed by the ambulance driver. He threw the car into reverse, yielding only long enough for the emergency vehicle to clear his path, and then squealed forward, nearly colliding with traffic oncoming from the left. Someone in an H2 lowered his window to offer a hand signal, but Proctor wasn't driving up. He zipped around the pretentious beast and raced along nearly empty lanes until a brown sedan pulled away from the curb to his right, forcing him to drift into the left lane. The next light was red and there was no way to dodge the flow of cars before them.
"Do you still see them?" Pendergast asked, leaning forward.
"They're still ahead of us, sir."
"Were you able to get a license plate number or-"
Horns blared and tires squealed as the light changed again, catching unawares vehicles in the intersection. It changed again and the cars cleared. Two tried to run the next red that brightened seconds after the green had extinguished, with no yellow light between them. "We can run parallel to them," Proctor suggested, yanking the wheel hard to the right and driving through the all-red intersection.
He had to bypass a one-way street heading in the opposite direction before he came to the turn he needed. A line of cars sat in the left lane, waiting for the light. To their surprise every driver began to jerk their vehicles left or right until a jagged gap opened up. They sat still long enough to ascertain that no emergency vehicle was approaching, and then moved into the gap as gently, but quickly as possible, seeing it lead all the way to the intersection, which again was all red-lights. Proctor nearly closed the door of a man attempting to exit his Rav-4, and Pendergast noticed that many of the drivers who had pulled hard to the sides were exiting their cars, looking angry or puzzled.
He tried looking out every window he could, craning his neck to see the sky, sniffing for the scent of fire or chemical fumes or natural gas. He was nearly tumbled as Proctor sped through the turn and found another block's worth of empty lane before him. "Something weird's happening," he murmured as they flew past buildings and parked cars.
Pendergast refused to gauge Amanda's reaction. There was no way she could be a part of this…. Not at this level….
He allowed himself one surreptitious peek her way. She was seated comfortably, leaning forward, staring keenly ahead through the windshield.
Unless this is a dream, he thought, wincing.
Again and again they zoomed unimpeded down empty lanes, any cars ahead swerving into the right lane to avoid them or making right turns. Then the black car they were seeking cut through a congested intersection. Proctor spun the wheel to follow, but someone in a delivery truck had decided that if the Mercedes was going to run the red light, so could he. The impact skidded the car sideways. They bounced off a streetlight, ran over the curb, and kept going.
"I think they're heading for the bridge," Proctor said.
"That would be my guess, too."
"Traffic should slow them."
The driver of the Mercedes realized they had a tail. Pendergast wondered if they were familiar with the car. It jumped forward, swerving around vehicles that seemed to be returning to their normal patterns, losing the gap. There was a gasp and Aloysius saw Amanda with her face pressed to the nearest window, staring out at their surroundings. He thought he saw her reach through the window and pulled her back, leaning across her to raise it again…but it was closed. He turned to stare at her. Her eyes were wet, a blush of sadness ringing them and making the end of her nose rosy, the delicate line of her lips a blur. "Have you been injured?" he asked her incredulously.
"This bridge," she said, her voice clearly thick and hoarse. "The way home."
"You live in New Jersey?"
She shook her head. "ArtReal."
"Artreal, New Jersey?"
"No," she said, frustrated, shaking her head again.
"We can discuss it later," he said, patting her hand before sitting upright again and watching their progress. Despite the urgency of the moment, his own turmoil, an absurd thought came to him: Art thou real? He shook his head and pointed out an opening gap in traffic to his driver.
"They have a good lead," the chauffer grumbled, doing his best.
The vehicle directly ahead of them veered sharply right, causing a squeal of protesting tires, horns, and the sound of metal crumpling. The next one did the same, and the next one until the drivers ahead, seeming to sense something out of the ordinary was taking place tried to drive faster, soon losing to a new congested clump.
Beside him, the teen leaned far forward, her bottom barely in contact with the seat any longer and swatted as if she was pushing each car ahead of them aside. Pendergast, having difficulty believing his senses, leaned in close to her to try and see from her point of view. Sure enough, every vehicle she issued a shoving motion toward instantaneously swerved left or right. He licked his lips and suggested, "Go faster, Proctor."
"What? Faster? But there's something strange-"
"Floor it!" his employer insisted, raising his voice enough to give his order a significant weight.
"Yes, sir." The silver-grey Rolls roared forward, and Amanda's hand movements became faster. "There it is!"
The Mercedes had switched over to the far right and was wobbling as the tires rolled against the curbstone. The horn blared and it finally jumped onto the concrete, attempting to bypass traffic on the right.
Pendergast lowered the window and took careful aim as Proctor maintained a cautious distance between them. The car jerked left, striking a minivan as it tried to rejoin the flow. The agent had intended to take out a tire. It was possible, though he thought it unlikely, that catching up to his son's abductors might possibly put his son in more danger. He had made the mistake of believing his wife's kidnappers would not shoot her, and then he'd had to bury her in the desert where she'd fallen. I cannot allow the past to cloud the future, he told himself. It cannot become my weakness.
Ahead of them the Mercedes veered left, glanced off a Buick, fought to keep control, went sideways, then flipped, going airborne.
Several things seemed to happen very quickly. Cars squealed to a stop and others plowed into them. Pendergast threw his arms back to launch himself forward so he could exit the vehicle while Proctor nearly spun the car in an effort to stop it before it joined the pileup. Head swiveling to follow the action, he watched the Mercedes bounce off the roof of a limousine, then get spun by a tour bus braking hard. The car sailed toward the far edge, none of the support cables there to halt or deflect its trajectory. He grabbed the door handle and had it open, his feet landing lightly as his own car continued to slide away from him. He sprinted, feeling a sharp pain through an ankle as he began his run at a bad angle. He did not see the hatchback that almost threw him after the black car. Was unaware of the motorcycle that wobbled badly and finally lay down, sliding toward the Silver Wraith. He ran, and the world around him seemed silent, only the sound of wind whistling past his ears as he gained speed. His heart raced, his chest worked hard as his arms and legs pumped. The Mercedes caught the far edge of the railing and flipped along another axis before slowly—so it seemed to him—it sank with strange grace beyond his line of sight.
Proctor exited the vehicle to check on the frightened motorcyclist. He saw the Mercedes vanish and glanced quickly toward the rear of the Wraith. Then he paused in a half crouch and squinted, unsure of what he was seeing while the young man at his feet kept repeating, "I'm all right, I'm all right," as he tugged his helmet off. The chauffer looked back toward the lean man in black, straightened in horror and bellowed after him.
To no avail.
If this is a dream, Pendergast thought, attaining the rail and launching his hips sideways to vault it, then I will likely wake before hitting. And if it is not…then I join my family.
Depending on the tide, it was a drop of approximately 212 feet from the George Washington Bridge. Over the years it had gained popularity as a suicide spot, and a rare few had managed to survive the fall. Even if none had managed to live the attempt, he was confident that he stood an excellent chance of surviving. Not a fool by any means, Aloysius Xindu Leng Pendergast was not above sacrificing himself if it was for the better good. Physically fit, with the skills of a gymnast and martial artist combined, formerly enrolled in the U.S. Special Forces, proven to be the cream of the elite of both mind and body, and perhaps—though he would never admit to such a thing—with a smidgen of luck thrown in, he had endured his share of hospital stays, but never allowed fear to dictate his actions.
He aligned his body, pushed his arms straight before himself, told himself that he'd need to time his breathing just so. He calculated the speed at which he would hit the water and tucked his chin to his chest. He counted heartbeats and remembered the strange room with the humpback whales gliding past in indigo silhouette. He could smell the water. It would likely be cold. He heard the lapping of choppy waves echo against the base of the bridge and knew he was seconds from impact. Eyes closed, he drew a last, deep breath.
The lighting changed. He told himself to stay still, but to arch his back so he would glide up toward the surface. His hair tickled his forehead. He hadn't felt the impact. He thought he could still hear the thrum of traffic on the bridge's second level. He would have to open his eyes. The bridge was coming right at him. He spasmed in a fit of coughing and struggled, to find himself held fast. Something had him! And…they were steadily rising….
Gasping, he managed to twist enough for a look at the topaz blue eyes of Amanda. She offered him a smile. Her hair whipped past and around their bodies, the absurd ribbon gone. He looked down, freed an arm and saw he was caught in her embrace. He looked up, but there was no cable, no crane, no nothing. There was absolutely nothing suspending the two of them in mid-air.
They cleared the outer railing and she set him gingerly upon his feet before alighting beside him. Actually woozy, he staggered, and she held him upright. Her touch was calming and he remained with her a moment until someone called, "Hey! You guys all right?"
He looked toward a stranger who had just exited his car. Pendergast swallowed and nodded, gently pushing the teenager away.
"Do you know what's goin' on?" the guy asked. "Some kinda crazy accident or somethin'?"
Pendergast said, "Yes indeed. Some kind of…crazy accident."
A car full of elderly women was parked beside the cigar-chomping guy and he caught their gazes as he walked toward the commotion some yards away. Every one of them was pale and staring. There had been witnesses. This notion actually made him feel better.
He caught up to the girl and linked an arm in hers. Leaning toward her, he mentioned, "Of course you fly."
She shrugged.
They passed a small car with a surfboard strapped to the top of it, and every college-aged passenger was busy attempting to record them as they walked by.
"I believe you are about to become famous, my dear." The girl said nothing. He walked back toward the railing and looked over it, catching sight of what might be debris from the Mercedes. Jumping back in to find out what had happened to Tristram would likely end in his second rescue by the superhuman teenager. His heart seemed to beat wildly against his ribcage as pressure began to creep up his throat, making it difficult to swallow. He heard sirens and ignored them. Amanda stood beside him and snaked a hand over his arm, taking hold of his wrist and exerting firm pressure. "You…don't understand," he said softly, and didn't know if she heard his words or if they were lost to the wind.
The girl slowly, deliberately removed his hand from the railing and began to escort him back toward the car. He held onto the metal railing with his other hand in a death-grip, but she managed to pull him free of it as though it had been greased with butter. He resisted her pace, and she placed an arm around his waist, manhandling him in such a subtle manner that no one watching would realize he was only moving forward because of her irresistible strength.
Ahead of them Proctor waved, his movements growing wilder when he was certain that he had their attention. He walked toward the rear of the damaged grey vehicle and took hold of a wrist, drawing it out until the person it was attached to was identifiable.
Pendergast gasped and broke into a run.
Father dropped to his knees and embraced son, who placed his arms about his shoulders lightly, looking ashen and confused. His eyes caught sight of the girl who had appeared out of nowhere inside of the speeding black Mercedes. The driver, startled, had wrenched the steering wheel to one side and blurted a syllable as she had leaned into him, her hands about his throat. His legs had stiffened, mashing the accelerator to the floorboard. Tristram's world had become one of loud noise and concussive forces before it had literally been turned upside down. One of the men in the back had lunged forward to grab the stranger, his arms swinging right through her like she was nothing but a holographic projection. The other had attempted to fight G-forces and force his way toward the steering wheel, catching a squirt of blood to the face as the girl's fingers met each other through pulpy flesh. The loose head had bobbed about obscenely. The man on the boy's right was thrown into the front seat where he screamed and grabbed uselessly at a figure that was somehow not really there. The one trying to wipe blood out of his eyes was thrown about the inside of the topsy-turvy vehicle until a blow to the head knocked him cold. Miraculously, neither of the men had managed to touch him in the confusion. Smiling pleasantly, the teenaged girl had turned and reached back to adjust Tristram's seatbelt. While he feared her, he'd also felt strangely calm as the upside-down car had seemed to linger for a moment on the outer rail of the bridge before easing down over the side. He found himself fascinated by the fact that her hair remained perfectly in place instead of flying about her like a nest of serpents, and when he looked down at her hands as they took hold of the buckle he saw that they were clean, without any blood or gore upon them. "Stay," she'd said, still smiling at him as she'd sat up and looked out the open door of the car to where a lean figure in black was hurtling himself toward certain death. Proctor's astonished face was squinting her way, and then his jaw had dropped. She heard him call out as she rocketed from the back of the Wraith and for the span of a second or two actually seemed to vanish, reappearing on her way down toward a pair of shoe soles and catching up fast.
Not a man to allow himself to become emotional in public unless he wished to share a little contempt with someone in particular, Pendergast stood and held his son close, his hand sliding through the soft, flyaway hair. One might think he wept silently, but the chauffer and the mysterious stranger could see that he was merely immersed in the moment. Amanda turned away. People had left their vehicles to talk animatedly or yell at each other or text or try and explain what had happened into their cell phones. There was so much congestion that the police had to leave their own cars and approach on foot while ambulances and fire trucks slowly crept through the confusion. The girl walked slowly toward the edge of the bridge until she could see the area she thought she was familiar with. While she was unable to make out specific landmarks that she'd recognize, she was certain that the squat, grey building that should have been located not far from the banks of the Hudson was absent. This pained her and she turned to look back at her new friends. Pendergast was watching her, a look of gratitude and wonder on his features. Proctor cocked an eyebrow her way, then beckoned her back. She took a last look out over the water, closing her eyes as the breeze lifted her waist-length black hair and let it flow in mesmerizing waves behind her. Eventually she turned and picked her way back to the silver-grey automobile.