The freelance team revealed that I am in danger. My mission may even be compromised.
I am trained to work alone, but I can’t figure out this situation on my own. With Howard’s skills, I might be able to determine what’s happened to The Program, the reason for the communication blackout and disappearance of the safe house. I can’t tell him the story on an open line, but in person—
“I need your help, Howard,” I say.
“What can I do?”
“Come to New Hampshire.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
I TELL HIM TO TAKE THE TRAIN TO EXETER.
A fourteen-year-old boy traveling by train to Exeter on a Sunday afternoon won’t attract any notice whatsoever. I make arrangements to pick him up there in several hours. Then I hang up the phone.
It’s done.
I’ve broken from Program doctrine for the second time in my life.
I have hours to kill before Howard arrives, and I need to stay in public. Luckily, I have the perfect cover. I am a boy at the mall on a Sunday.
I start by walking the mall, doubling back on myself, watching for reflections in storefront glass, popping into several stores then out again, scanning all the time for unusual movement around me.
There is none.
Instead I see something else.
A couple holding hands on a date. A family arguing about which store they will go into first. A group of teenagers laughing at some inside joke.
I see normal life, a life that I do not live.
When in doubt, emulate.
I’ve been trained to fit in anywhere, matching the patterns and the energy of the people around me. That’s what I do now. I move through the mall like the teens I see around me. Unlike them, I use the time to recuperate from killing four men.
I get a haircut. I order a small pizza in the food court. I sit in a massage chair at an electronics store. Then I go to Barnes & Noble, and I find a corner of the magazine section and comb through the news and culture magazines.
Because I do not live in one place, I have to work hard to stay up on current events. Without the daily pattern of attending school, talking with friends, and watching television, it’s easy to fall out of sync with the world. I have to feed myself a stream of information so I can understand and stay connected to current events and be able to converse with those around me without seeming like a visitor from a foreign country.
I pick up a New York Times and read a follow-up article about the death of Mayor Goldberg’s daughter in New York City, a death I know more than a little about. The article reflects on the incidence of rare and unexplained mortality in young people due to natural causes.
Natural causes. My specialty.
According to the article, Mayor Goldberg has gone into a media blackout while he grieves for his daughter. Something about the image of this lonely billionaire losing both his wife and daughter has caught the imagination of the world, raising his profile everywhere and bringing him attention on an international level. There is talk of him running for president in the next election.
I think back to my time in New York. The memory is painful, like pressing a bruise that has not fully healed.
I questioned The Program, and a girl is dead because of me. She was not innocent, but she was special to me, even if only for a brief time.
But that was before. And I’ve been taught how to handle before.
You put it away and replace it with now.
I toss the Times back into the rack.
I check my watch. The entire afternoon has passed, and the mall is beginning to close.
It’s time to get Howard.
I make one last stop at GAP to buy some new clothes and a duffel bag to carry them in.
I pull the tags from the clothes, crumple them into a ball and stuff them into the duffel so they’ll wrinkle and look more worn. I change into a fresh T-shirt and pants in the bathroom, slipping my old clothes into the GAP bag and dropping it in the large covered trash bin as I leave the mall.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
HOWARD IS STANDING ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD BY THE EXETER TRAIN STATION.
I pull up in the Chevy Silverado and beep the horn to draw his attention. He sees me and his face lights up. He grabs a small duffel from the ground, swings a large computer bag over his shoulder, and hops into the truck.
“Hey,” I say, and he quickly puts a finger up to his lips to silence me.
He reaches into his duffel and pulls out a small electronic device with three small antennas coming out one side.
He flips a switch on the side of the device and holds it up. A series of red lights flash. He waves it around the inside of the truck. There’s nothing for a few moments, and then a single chirp sounds from the device.
Howard’s face scrunches up in concentration. He moves the device around, trying to pick up the source of the beep. He crawls over the seat, nearly kicking me in the head in the process. He moves the device around the backseat but finds nothing. Then he comes back into the front and the device chirps again. when he brings it closer to me. He looks at me, concerned. He starts at my feet and moves the device up my body, the chirps increasing until he gets to chest level, when the device hits a solid tone.
He points to my right pec, one finger up at his mouth to warn me not to speak.
I reach into my right pocket and take out my phone and hand it to him.
He scans the phone, but the device does not register anything on the phone.
If it’s not the phone, what is it?
He holds the device to my chest again, and again the chirping becomes a steady tone.
He points toward my chest, indicating that the signal is emanating from there. We look at each other, both concerned.
He reaches slowly toward my chest, touching the pocket there. He reaches into the pocket and comes out with the micro SDHC card I took off the leader of the freelance team at the safe house. I forgot I’d transferred it to the pocket of my new shirt.
He examines the micro SDHC card, then exhales. He turns off the device with the antennas.
“It’s safe to talk?”
“Nothing is transmitting,” he says.
“What’s that device you have?”
“A little something I brought along. I knew you were in trouble, so I came prepared.”
He holds up the micro SDHC card, flipping it between his fingers like it’s a poker chip.
“Do you know what this is?” he says.
“I know it’s some sort of data card. I took it off a bad guy.”
“It looks like a normal data card, but it’s not. I can see that the contact points are different. You need some kind of a special reader, or the card is useless.”
“I don’t have the reader,” I say.
“You don’t need the reader,” he says. “You have me.” He smiles. “Now aren’t you glad you called me? Because I am fucking awesome.”
I laugh and slip the truck into gear. “It’s good to see you, Howard.”
“I missed you,” he says.
“I missed you, too, buddy.”
More than I realized. Having Howard around was the highlight of my last mission. It was my first experience having someone to rely on, someone I could trust who had no agenda but to help me.
“You don’t look good,” Howard says.
“I haven’t slept for a while.”
“Is it because of a mission? I know you couldn’t talk about it on the phone.”
“We’ll get to that,” I say, wanting to hear more about Howard first. “How have things been at school?”
His face darkens.
“You want a lie or the truth?”
“The truth is always better.”