“What kind of rumors are they anyway?”
“That Exceletrex causes long-term brain damage. Take the pills for a few years and by the time you’re forty, your brain’s turned to mush. I guess it’s so bad that three of the scientists who’d studied the drug convinced a congressman to open an investigation. . . .”
“Glenn Sheehan. ‘The voice of the people.’”
Joi nods. “Yeah, but then he suddenly called it off. So one of the scientists announced he was going to hold his own press conference. He committed suicide two days before it was scheduled.”
“They killed him.”
“Yep. That’s how big this is. For a while I thought the Exceletrex investors were the only ones behind it. Then I realized that there were lawyers and politicians and a bunch of major Wall Street guys involved too. I bet half of the academy’s graduates have had a hand in the operation. When the drug comes out, they’ll all make a fortune. And as soon as doctors start passing out prescriptions, millions of kids are going to end up with brain damage.”
I’m standing in the sunshine, but I suddenly feel a chill. “They may have already started passing out pills.”
“What do you mean?”
The first time I visited the academy, Mandel said he’d been searching for a way to make the tracking chips unnecessary. A pharmaceutical that would keep the “less disciplined students” in line. That’s why my father warned me not to take any medication while I was here.
“Mandel told me that the predators are easier to manipulate when they’re on medication. I think they’ve been giving Exceletrex to some of the students at the academy. Gwendolyn. Maybe Leila too. Who knows how many others.”
Joi grimaces. “That makes sense. The scientists who worked for the company claim that batches of the product often disappeared from the lab.”
“Were any of the scientists named Arthur Klein?”
“How do you know?”
“Mr. Martin sent me out to steal Arthur Klein’s iPhone. The alumni must have been looking for dirt on him.”
“Klein was the first whistle-blower. He decided to go public after his six-year-old son died of a brain tumor. He said he couldn’t stand back and let other kids come to harm.”
I close my eyes and let my forehead rest against the fence’s iron bars. “Oh God, please tell me that Arthur Klein wasn’t the guy the alumni killed.”
“He wasn’t. As far as I know, Klein was still alive when I checked in at the academy. The man who was murdered was one of Klein’s colleagues. When I figured out the connection between the dead guy and the alumni, I decided I had enough information to blackmail Mandel. So I took him my research and demanded a spot at the academy. I don’t think he was impressed that I’d managed to piece it all together. I think he was amazed that I’d even bothered to look.”
How do I tell her that the situation is even worse than she thinks? “That’s not what got you into the academy, Joi. Mandel doesn’t give a damn about your research skills. You’re here because of your father. Mandel spoke to him.”
Something I just said strikes her as funny. “That’s perfect. I mentioned his name as a joke. All that work on Exceletrex, and I only got in because I’m connected? I’m surprised my father even remembers who I am. I wish I could have heard what he said.”
“It doesn’t matter. Mandel’s only interested in your DNA. He believes there’s a mutant gene that makes some people psychopaths or sociopaths. And he’s convinced that you and I both inherited the gene from our fathers.”
“He thinks we’re psychopaths?” Joi laughs even harder. I really want her to stop.
“No. He calls us hybrids. He thinks we have the gene, but it hasn’t been switched on. He’s trying to turn us into predators.”
“Predators?”
I explain Mandel’s theory. I start with the idea that the human race split into two distinct species—the predators and their prey. Then I tell her about the role that hybrids play and Mandel’s search for the “switch” that will transform people like us into ruthless killers. By the time I get to his vision of turning the academy into a factory for manufacturing super-predators, Joi’s smile has turned into a scowl.
“What do you think about Mandel’s little theory?” she demands.
“I’m not totally convinced that the predator gene exists,” I admit. “But I do believe there are predators. Nine of the top twelve students here are psychopaths. All you have to do is look in their eyes to know it. And I think the Mandel Academy has been doing a very good job of turning the other kids into sociopaths. I’m pretty sure no one graduates from this school without being some kind of predator.”
“Really? I bet your friend Ella could make it out without letting Mandel screw with her head.”
“She’s the exception.”
“She can’t be the only one. But tell me this—why do you call the rest of them predators?”
Joi seems to be hung up on the word. “That’s Mandel’s term for them. Some people are predators. Some people are prey. It fits. My father used to say that there are only two kinds of people—the weak and the strong. It’s the same idea.”
Joi’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re quoting him again,” she points out. “Your dad and the nutcase who runs this school have got you totally brainwashed.”
“You think I’m brainwashed? Are you joking? I’d love to kill both of them!”
“So why do you still believe everything that they’ve told you?! Your father said there are only two kinds of people—and you think it’s true. Mandel told you all the alumni are predators—and you totally buy it. So what kind of predators are we talking about? Mighty lions? Noble tigers?”
“I’ve always thought of them as wolves,” I admit, trying not to sound too defensive.
Joi sighs. “You mentioned ‘the law of the jungle’ the other day. You said Mandel believes in it. Did you ever read The Jungle Book? That’s where the phrase comes from.”
“I know,” I snap.
“But you obviously don’t know what it means. In the book it says, The strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack. That’s the real law of the jungle.”
“So what?”
“So these assholes aren’t wolves. Mandel calls them predators because that makes them sound more impressive. But real wolves fight for each other. And they only kill in order to eat. They take what they need—and don’t take any more. Maybe Mandel’s right. Maybe there are two kinds of humans. But I’m not buying his self-serving predator crap.”
“Then what label would you prefer?” I shoot back. It’s not that I disagree with her. I’m just not used to losing debates.
“Try parasites. I mean, think about it! They don’t care about anything—not even each other. All they do is feed. They’ll take as much as they can get, and they never get enough. They just eat and eat and eat.”
I start to argue before I know what to say. My mouth slams shut while my brain recalibrates everything I’ve ever seen, heard, or believed.
“They’ve fooled us into thinking they deserve what they have because they’re the smartest and the strongest,” Joi continues. “But they’re just a bunch of bloodsuckers. You want to know why all the kids in my colony are weak? They’re weak because Mandel’s parasites have been eating them alive.”
I’m about to ask what she means when I remember Tina, the blond girl back at Joi’s colony. The one who was shoved out onto the streets after her dad lost his job. This school has taught me how to seize control of companies and fire men just like her father. Other kids at the academy have been taught to take their homes, drain their bank accounts, up their credit card fees, deny them insurance, sell them drugs that ease their misery but rot their brains, and pass laws to keep them from getting back on their feet. Every day at the academy is a feast. We’ve been eating people like Tina’s father—slurp by slurp and bite by bite.
“I
’m going to stop Mandel,” I announce.
“What a coincidence,” Joi says. “Me too.”
“You got a plan?” I ask.
“I have a few ideas,” she says. “But I wouldn’t call them a plan just yet.”
“Well, that’s a lot more than I have.”
“Then this should all turn out splendidly,” Joi quips.
I reach out and take hold of one of the fence’s iron bars. It’s grown warm in the sun. Breakfast will be over soon. Our time is running out.
“Just in case . . .” I have to stop for a moment. “Just in case this doesn’t turn out well, can I ask you a few things while I still have the chance?”
“Shoot,” Joi says.
“What’s your last name?”
Joi grins despite herself. “Ferhatovi´c.”
It takes me a few tries before I manage to pronounce it right.
“And where do you come from?”
“I lived in Bosnia with my mother until I was fourteen. When she died, I came to the United States.”
“Do you have any idea how much I love you?”
“Yes,” Joi says. “Just as much as I love you.”
Then she frowns and kicks the fence with the toe of her shoe. She’ll probably forgive me, and someday she may even forget how badly I hurt her. But I never will.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Joi studies my face. “Then you can kiss me. On one condition.”
“Anything.”
“I’d like you to escort me to the next alumni gathering.”
“When is it?”
“Tomorrow night,” she says. “At Mandel’s house.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
* * *
DUMB SHOW
Joi has promised me a terrible time. But when the elevator drops me off on the ground floor of the academy, I decide that it’s already the best night of my life. It’s twenty to eight, and inside the atrium, the sun is turning everything it touches to gold. Joi’s sleek gown is gunmetal gray—and so perfectly fitted that she looks like she’s been dipped in molten metal. No one we meet will mistake Joi for a mortal. Her black curls defy gravity, and her amber eyes are more catlike than human. They take me in slowly, and one side of her mouth curls up ever so slightly.
“Let’s go,” she says. Her voice is cold, but when she accepts the arm I hold out for her, she gives it a gentle squeeze.
The car ride is quick and utterly silent. The academy’s driver checks the rearview mirror a little too often. I wonder if he’s watching both of us. Or just ogling Joi. When we arrive at our destination on Tenth Street, I slide out of the car. Just as planned, Joi takes time to check her makeup, fix her hair, and address an imaginary problem with one of her shoes. I make a show of impatience, but my eyes never leave the building in front of me. It’s a Greenwich Village brownstone. Four stories. Three front-facing windows on each floor. A service entrance beneath the stoop. Just the sort of feature you look for when you’re planning a little breaking and entering. But there may be an even better option. The buildings next door have buzzers with multiple names. Apartment buildings usually have crappy security, and some idiot will always buzz you in if you say you’re making a delivery. That’s the option I’ll go for if I need to come back here on my own. I’ll get into one of the apartment buildings and go up the communal stairway to the roof. Walk across to Mandel’s house and break in through the top. No witnesses—and all the time I’d need to crack any pesky locks.
“Are you coming?” I huff. Joi takes her cue and joins me, slamming the car door for good measure.
When we reach the top of the stoop, the front door opens. It looks like most of the guests have already arrived, but Mandel is lingering near the door, waiting to greet any latecomers.
“Don’t you make a pretty pair,” he observes with a smirk. I notice there’s a drink in his hand. I wonder how well the snake holds his liquor. “Though I’m still a little perplexed by your choice of escort, Joi. This should be your evening to shine.”
“The best way to spot a real diamond is to place a fake one beside it,” Joi purrs. “I’ll let the alumni decide which is which.”
“Well put,” says Mandel. He offers his arm to my date. “Let’s go show you off.”
Mandel’s house is a tribute to some interior decorator’s impeccable taste. It’s all ivory paint, vanilla fabrics, and warm wood. Aside from the throw pillows decorated with needlepoint cats, there’s absolutely nothing in sight that screams “madman.” Still, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover a hidden room devoted to Nazi memorabilia or a freezer in the basement that’s stuffed with body parts. Whatever he’s got, I plan to find it.
I spot a few familiar faces from the last alumni gathering, but their eyes pass over me like I’m yesterday’s leftovers. They’re all eager for a bite of Joi. When the feeding frenzy begins, I stick close to her side. I’d rather not make Joi face them alone. But she’s a master of chitchat, and her research is serving her well. It’s as though she’s prepared a mental dossier on each of the guests—and she knows exactly where to stroke their egos. I reluctantly retreat, one small step at a time, and watch the alumni circle and surround her.
I spend the next hour prowling the perimeter of Mandel’s parlor. Whenever Jude and I were ordered to attend one of our father’s parties, we passed our time making friends with the wallflowers. We’d look for the man paying a little too much attention to the art. Or the woman pretending to admire our lamps. Jude and I knew the most interesting guests would be the ones who didn’t fit in. We met artists and engineers and experts on unusual subjects. But we discovered that the wallflowers all had one thing in common. They never fawned over us—or treated us like our father’s pets. They were just pleased to have people to talk to.
I’m the lone wallflower at this soiree. No one here thinks I’m worthy of a chat—or hors d’oeuvre, apparently. Even the snooty waiters are ignoring me. So I make a show of studying Mandel’s collection of Picasso sketches and perusing all the books with unbroken spines that line his shelves. He once told me he collects rare books. Maybe that’s true, but he doesn’t appear to read very much.
Eventually I visit the bar and request a glass of white wine. A man I once met at my father’s house is standing less than two feet away, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. I take a swig of my drink and discreetly tip the rest down my shirt. When I ask the bartender for directions to the bathroom, I try my best to look embarrassed. I think I’ve even managed a blush. But the performance is unnecessary. No one is watching my dumb show.
I bypass the bathroom and scurry downstairs. The kitchen is hot and its atmosphere frenzied. Waiters load trays with crystal glasses while a crew of caterers decorates silver platters with edible artworks. I’m sure somebody must see me grabbing a bottle of Scotch. But no one says a word when I tuck the booze under my jacket and head up the stairs to the second floor.
• • •
It was Joi’s idea.
“How many Mandel graduates are still alive?” she asked just after I’d kissed her for the second time in months. It was the last thing I wanted to think about at that moment.
“Mandel said he recruits eighteen students a year but only half ever graduate. Fifty years’ worth of graduates might be out there. Nine times fifty is four hundred and fifty. But some of those guys will have kicked the bucket. So my guess is there are somewhere between three and four hundred,” I calculated. “Maybe more, maybe less.”
“Four hundred of the most powerful people in the country. Mandel told me that I’d have to work for the Mandel Academy after I graduate. Is it the same for everyone?”
“You can choose a career, but all alumni are secretly employed by the Mandel family.”
“Yeah, ’cause otherwise, the graduates would all go off on their own. We’re not talking about a bunch of people who value stuff like teamwork or charity, right? So how does Mandel keep them all in line? And how does he convince them to ‘donate’ big bucks to his school
? He’s got to be getting a pretty hefty cut of their profits to keep running this show.”
“That’s why half the alumni want to force Mandel out.”
“So why haven’t they?”
The answer was so obvious that I was surprised she couldn’t see it. “He knows all of their secrets, Joi. He knows who they’ve killed or robbed or cheated. The academy keeps files on everyone. Mandel owns the alumni. They have to do what he asks or he’ll ruin them.”
“Sure,” she responded as if I’d just told her the earth was round. “But where do you think Mandel stores all the files?”
Another strange question. “On a computer?”
Joi’s brow furrowed. “Maybe. Though don’t you think that seems kind of risky? There must be dozens of graduates who are capable of hacking the academy’s server. And I bet every single one of them would love to delete his own file. Besides, when did your dad graduate?”
“1985.”
“What if his file was never digitized? What’s your dad’s name?”
I hesitated.
“Flick?”
“His name’s Henry Brennan.”
“What if there’s an actual folder somewhere with Henry Brennan written on the label?”
“I’m pretty sure the files are all electronic now. Mandel downloaded something onto my computer the other day, and I have a hunch it was dirt on my father. I don’t know what the document was, but it was obviously digitized.”
“I’m sure he’s scanned a few things here and there. But do you think the Mandel family ever took the time to upload thousands of old documents?” Joi asks. “And if the files are filled with lots of juicy secrets, who would the Mandels have trusted to do the work for them?”
It was all adding up to a conclusion that I couldn’t quite buy. “So you think there might be physical files on all the academy graduates locked up somewhere in this school.”
“Probably,” Joi said. “But Mandel strikes me as the kind of guy who likes to take his work home with him.”