America could take more than one punch, but it was reeling, and the evidence was everywhere. Trash bags were piled on street corners, black plastic stretching at the seams. Private military contractors with automatic weapons guarded luxury apartments. Billboards advertised Madison Square Garden as a haven for “those feeling threatened.” The rows of buildings seemed almost to be watching them, and it took a moment to realize that it was because so many had broken windows. A block of small businesses had been burned out, the glass gone, brick blackened, nothing but crusted ruins within. Graffiti on a scorched metal roll-door read, WE ARE BETTER THAN THIS.
Cooper thought of a flash of white sock, and wondered.
“Okay,” Ethan said. “This is just a theory, right? Without data, I can’t say for sure.”
“Roll the dice.”
“People have been searching for the genetic basis of brilliance for three decades. They couldn’t find it because it wasn’t there, not in the code. Our breakthrough was discovering the epigenetic basis of it. That’s why the answer was so slippery, because epigenetics is about the way DNA expresses, not the genes themselves. DNA is the raw ingredients, but you can make very different dishes from the same ingredients, and human DNA has twenty-one thousand genes. That’s a lot of ingredients. The trick is locating the specific cause. Abe called it the three-potato theory.”
“Right, you told me,” Cooper said. “If the cause of the gifts was eating three potatoes in a row, figuring that out is hard, because it’s a big world. But once you know, all you have to do is eat three potatoes.”
“Here’s the thing, though. Nature is messy. Evolution is about random errors—mutations—that end up conferring a survival advantage and get passed on. But so does a lot of other junk, stuff that doesn’t really do much but hitch a ride. So while you end up with three potatoes, they’re ugly potatoes. Lumpy, deformed potatoes. But what we developed was different. We reverse engineered it, developing a gene theory that was carefully targeted.”
Cooper got it. “You created a perfect potato. The Platonic ideal of a potato.”
Ethan shrugged. “It’s just a guess.”
“But if you’re right, then Abe isn’t just gifted. He’s the ultimate expression of brilliance. He can move like Shannon, analyze like Erik Epstein, plan like John Smith.”
“I . . . it’s possible.”
Cooper took a deep breath. Exhaled. “Well. I guess we better find him then, huh?”
The apartment building was in Hell’s Kitchen, a five-story walk-up on a street of weathered red brick and haggard trees. As they walked to the front door, Ethan said, “I don’t know who this guy is to Abe. Isn’t this a long shot?”
“When a long shot is all you have, you shoot long. Unless you can think of someone else?”
Ethan shook his head. “He’s private to the point of paranoia. Vincent is about the only person I ever heard him mention from his personal life.”
The front door was locked. Cooper found LUCE, VINCENT on the directory and rang the buzzer. No answer.
Well, you could always break the glass with an elbow, then kick in the hallway door. Noisy, though. Or you could—
Ethan Park leaned forward and pressed five call buttons at once. After a moment, a voice said, “Hello?”
Pressing the TALK button, Ethan said, “UPS, got a package for you.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. There’s no way that—”
The buzzer sounded and the door clicked open.
“What’s the point in a lock,” Cooper asked, “if you open it for the first disembodied voice?”
“Manhattan factor. You put a chain and three deadbolts on your apartment, and then start to get lonely. I used to live here, remember? A package isn’t quite a friend coming up, but it’s the next best thing.”
They passed a bank of mailboxes and found the stairs. Halfway up, they were passed by a dude hustling downward, no doubt to meet UPS. The fifth floor was dimly lit and grungily carpeted. One of the doors hung half ajar, the frame splintered.
“Shit.” Cooper motioned Ethan behind him and pushed the door open. The room beyond was typical Manhattan, in that a tall man could have cooked dinner from the futon. The walls were painted tasteful shades, and neatly framed posters of musicians had once hung on the walls. Once.
Now, the floor was covered with broken glass and smashed wood fragments. Stuffing gaped from slashes in the furniture. Shelves had been swept clean, drawers upended, curtains torn. A stand-up piano was lying down; the bow of a violin pierced a lamp shade. Debris crunched beneath Cooper’s feet as he stepped in.
“Oh, man,” Ethan said. “You think Abe did this?”
Cooper spun slowly, putting together the pieces. The shattered dishes, torn curtains, broken mirror. He stepped to the futon and knelt down. The fabric reeked of urine. There was a bloodstain on the pillow, fairly broad but centered in a specific spot, like someone had lain still as they bled. Or been held down.Forced to watch.
“You little shit,” a man said, “we told you not to come—” In the doorway stood a man whose chest bulged beneath a Yankees jersey. Behind him stood two other guys, one with the same bland good looks, the other smaller but thicker. Yankees said, “Who are you?”
Cooper rose. Very consciously, he looked at the destruction, then snapped his eyes up to the man’s face. Caught the quick dart of the eyes, the slight flush, the pulse kicking up, and knew the whole story. He forced himself to smile. “It’s okay.” He showed his badge. “We’re looking for Vincent Luce. You know him?”
“Vincent?” The man scowled. “Thought I did. Heard him playing piano all the time. Weird music, kinda pretty. But it turns out he’s an abnorm. Never said a word about that. Just been living right here without telling anyone.”
“How do you know?”
“Walls are thin. He and some old guy were in here yelling at each other. The old guy said it, and Vincent tried to hush him up. Said it was real important no one find out.”
Cooper nodded, took his d-pad from his pocket, and uncrumpled it with a flick of his wrist. He called up a picture of Abraham Couzen. “This guy?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“Okay, listen. I’m not here about a busted door or broken dishes. I mean, we’re all normals here, right?”
Yankees nodded.
“So. You’re a neighbor, and the walls are thin. I figure you probably overheard this going down.”
The man stared at him, smiled slightly. “I got you. Sure.”
“Tell me about the fight.”
Yankees grinned. “Wouldn’t call it a fight.”
“They kicked in Vincent’s door,” Cooper said. “Broke his nose. Held him down while they smashed everything. Then what?”
“We—one of them told him to leave and never come back.”
“You think he did?”
“When it was all done.” Yankees gripped his crotch, mimed a firehose. “He got the message.”
Cooper was overwhelmed by a sudden flash of memory. A bathroom stall, white porcelain stained crimson. His eyes blackened, nose broken, two fingers snapped, spleen ruptured. Twelve years old, back in California, one of his father’s military postings. A bully and his posse standing above.