Jericho’s brow furrowed. “Me? Why?”
“It’s time people knew. Jericho, you are the future of America. You are the next evolution of our species. A vision of all our hopes and dreams: Stronger. Faster. Smarter. Heroic. Tell me: When was the last time you were sick?”
“I… I can’t recall.”
Marlowe leaned back against his chair, smiling. “There you are! How fast did you recover from the gunshot wound?”
“A week, give or take.”
“A week! A week and you were good as new—better than new!” Jake Marlowe laughed. “Remarkable. Jericho Jones. A true native son. Our golden boy.”
It was true that Jericho had survived against all the odds. But the way Marlowe talked about it made him seem like a product rather than a human being. Wasn’t it some alchemical, mysterious connection between science, Marlowe’s genius, and whatever it was that made Jericho unique that had resulted in this advancement? Marlowe had made the parts and invented the serum. But he couldn’t claim credit for it all. He couldn’t claim credit for who Jericho was.
Choices. That’s what made a man. Wasn’t it?
Marlowe strolled over to the model and busied himself with perfecting the alignment of the buildings. “In the laboratory, we could study you. Study your blood. Run you through a conditioning program and a battery of tests.”
“And what would I get out of it?”
Marlowe frowned at a Winged Victory statue that was seemingly out of place. He picked it up and the angel hovered over the model fairgrounds as its creator searched for a spot to place it. “We’ll fine-tune to make sure that you don’t ever suffer the same fate as the others in the Daedalus program. You won’t end up like your friend Sergeant Lester.”
“Leonard. Sergeant Leonard.”
“Right,” Marlowe said. “Of course. Sergeant Leonard.”
“But so far, I’ve done fine with just the serum.”
“Indeed. You’ve done just fine. But what if you could do more than fine, Jericho? What if you had the chance to be extraordinary? Exceptional. The sort of extraordinary, exceptional man Miss O’Neill couldn’t resist.” Marlowe’s eyes gleamed. “I assumed when you mentioned her there was a reason.”
Jericho didn’t answer.
“When you stand on the stage at the exhibition and demonstrate how superior you are, there won’t be a girl in this world you can’t have. That’s the law of the animal kingdom: The stronger beast wins out,” Marlowe said, placing the Victory statue in the center of the model.
Jericho glowered. “I’m not a beast.”
“Now, now, don’t get sore. I mean it as a compliment.”
“I don’t want to be your exhibit. I only want to have a normal life.”
“Normal!” Marlowe thundered. He loomed over the table. “No man worth his salt wants to be ‘normal,’ Jericho. Be remarkable! Aim high. After all, do you honestly believe that your young lady wants a normal, ordinary life? Not from what I’ve seen. How funny that she’s Will’s niece. They’re as different as chalk and cheese.”
“Like you and me,” Jericho snapped.
“Am I really so repugnant to you?” Marlowe said quietly.
He was hurt, Jericho realized with a mixture of pride and shame.
“It’s… it’s not that I’m not grateful for what you’ve done for me. Sir.”
“It’s not your gratitude I want, Jericho,” Marlowe said. “I remember the first time I saw you, lying on that bed in the hospital. You didn’t cry, and you didn’t complain. They told me you were smart and that you liked to read, particularly about philosophy and machines—you’d gained an interest in helping your father fix things around the farm. And I asked you a question to start us off. Do you remember?”
Jericho did remember. It was the morning that he’d truly realized the full, intractable horror of his situation. For an hour, he’d stared at the ceiling, fighting desperately to hold on to his thinning hope in miracles. But as he listened to the moans and cries of those around him, he understood that hope was not a construct of faith meant to bring man closer to God but one of denial and delusion meant to keep him from accepting that God did not exist. He wondered if he stopped eating, if he let himself slip away, if that could be considered suicide, which he’d been taught was a sin.
But was it a sin if there was no God?
He’d heard the tap-tap of shoes coming closer. He could have turned his head to see, but he continued staring at the ceiling. Suddenly, the smiling nurse was standing beside his paralyzed body, saying, “There’s someone here to see you, Jericho.” Jake Marlowe’s face loomed above his, blocking the light.
“Hello, Jericho,” Jake Marlowe had said.
Jericho hadn’t answered.
“Now, Jericho, where are your manners? Mr. Marlowe has come all the way from Washington to see you,” the nurse tsked, and Jericho imagined her falling off a cliff.
He still didn’t say hello.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Marlowe,” the nurse said. “He’s not usually so disagreeable.”
“That’s all right, Miss Portman. Could you leave us for a moment?”
“Certainly.”
Marlowe stood next to Jericho’s bed, examining the metal cage that kept Jericho breathing. “I invented this, you know. It’s no substitute for good lungs, but I’m working on that. I understand you like mechanical things as well.”
Jericho did not answer.
“So. Tell me,” Marlowe tried gamely, “what do you think is man’s greatest invention?”
Jericho turned his head just slightly toward Marlowe, looking him straight in the eye. “God.”
He waited for Marlowe to be shocked or horrified. He waited for a lecture. Instead, Marlowe had put a hand on Jericho’s head like a father, saying quietly but firmly, “I’m going to help you, Jericho. You’re going to get up from this bed. You’re going to walk and run again. I will not stop until you can, I promise you.”
And just like that, the snare of hope trapped Jericho again.
Marlowe made good on his promise. But like all deals with the Devil, there were drawbacks. In the past ten years, his relationship with Marlowe had gone from idolatry to rebellion and resentment.
Fathers and sons.
“What if I don’t want to be your experiment or exhibition any longer?” Jericho said. “What if I want to be my own man?”
Marlowe’s eyes flashed. Jericho knew that look well. The great man did not have much patience for insubordination.
“You want to be your own man? Be your own man. Without this.” Marlowe held up the precious vial of serum and stuffed it into his pocket.
Jericho squirmed a bit. What game was Marlowe playing now? “You wouldn’t do that,” he challenged. “You care about your experiment too much.”
“I could start over with somebody else.”
“If you could do that, you would have already. And that golden boy or girl would be standing on the stage with you.”
“Fine. Go without the serum, then,” Jake said evenly.
As far as Jericho knew, Marlowe’s little blue miracle powered the machinery of his body. It kept his heart beating, his lungs breathing, his blood pumping. And it kept his mind from devolving into madness. Marlowe was bluffing. Had to be.
Jericho was scared, but he refused to let Marlowe win. “All right. Maybe I will.”
“I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Why not? What will happen if I do?”
Marlowe didn’t respond.
“I deserve an answer,” Jericho said, raising his voice. He banged his fist on the table, toppling some of the buildings on Marlowe’s artfully arranged Future of America model.
“Careful,” Marlowe cautioned, and Jericho wasn’t sure if he meant the model or Jericho himself.
“I honestly don’t know what will happen. Because you’re the only one who’s come this far. Just you.” Once more, Marlowe leaned forward, his face grimly determined. “Jericho, let me help you. You’ll get your girl. You can have ev
erything you want. Together, we will be part of greatness.”
Just like on that spring morning ten years before, Jericho could feel hope’s snare around his ankle. If he submitted to Marlowe’s grand plan, became part of his experiment, could he have a better chance at happiness? Would he be considered not a freak but a golden son—a prototype for the new, exceptional American? Could he have everything he wanted?
Could he have Evie?
Choices.
Already Marlowe had restored order to the toppled model, everything in its place.
“I’ll think about it,” Jericho said, enjoying the irritation flitting across Marlowe’s face. The great Jake Marlowe couldn’t control everything, after all.
“As you wish,” Marlowe said.
He went to his left pocket, fished out the small vial there, and placed it in Jericho’s palm.
Jericho stared at it, confused. “Where are the others?”
“You earn them. That is one month’s supply. I’m giving you thirty days to make up your mind. After that, you’re on your own.”
“Isaiah!” Memphis shouted. “Did you do this?”
He showed Isaiah his defaced poetry book.
Eyes wide, Isaiah nodded.
Three of the pages were covered in disturbing drawings. Isaiah’s pencil had gouged the paper.
“You’re acting like you’re two instead of ten,” Memphis griped. “I know you’re mad at the whole world right now, Isaiah, but you can’t be doing this. You can’t ruin a man’s personal property.”
“I didn’t mean to. I was asleep,” Isaiah protested.
Memphis didn’t know whether to believe Isaiah or not. The way he’d acted lately, he could’ve done it out of spite. Now the poem he’d worked so hard on was a shambles. Memphis wasn’t even sure he could recover any of it.
“I was having another nightmare,” Isaiah said. “Those are the monsters in the subways.”
“Monsters. In the subways.” Memphis’s laugh was short and bitter. “They pay full fare?”
“I saw them!” Isaiah yelled. “She made them. They’re down there. They’re hungry.”
“Isaiah! I swear.” Memphis threw his hands in the air and let them fall to his sides again. He held up the book. “You owe me.”
“What’s all this fuss about?” Bill Johnson said, tapping into the room.
“Nothing, Mr. Johnson,” Memphis grumbled. He pointed a finger at Isaiah. The finger was a warning. “But I’m not leaving anything of mine around you anymore.”
Memphis tucked the book inside his coat.
Isaiah trudged alongside Blind Bill as they walked through St. Nicholas Park, his baseball glove under his arm, the ball cupped in his other hand, and a scowl on his face.
“Now, what you got to do next time,” Bill instructed, his blind man’s cane tapping out ahead of him on the path, “is you got to put a li’l spit in your palm—just a li’l bit, now. Not too much. That’ll make that old ball fly like it has an angel’s wings.”
Isaiah was quiet. Bill didn’t need to see the boy to know that he was angry. He could hear it in the way Isaiah kept kicking up dirt as he walked. Memphis was supposed to take his little brother to play ball, but he was so angry about Isaiah drawing in his book that he’d refused. Bill knew he was a poor substitute. Just like he knew Memphis Campbell had healed Noble Bishop and lied about it. It still made Bill furious to think about the healer using his gift on that old drunk and not doing a goddamn thing to help Bill. Seemed like he and Isaiah had something in common: They were both mad at Memphis.
“Little man!” Bill said brightly, hoping to cajole the boy out of his mood. “Why’nt you tell me one of your funny stories you got, ’bout frogs or what-have-you?”
“My mama and daddy used to tell me stories,” Isaiah said. “Memphis, too. Before he went and got a girl.”
“That so?” Bill could infer Isaiah’s shrug in the silence. “You want me to tell you a story, then? That it?”
Sniffling. Then: “Don’t care.”
“Mm-hmm. Tell you a story, tell you a story,” Bill said, nodding and thinking. “All right. There was this fella—”
“That ain’t the way you start a story!” Isaiah interrupted.
“Say, now! Who’s telling it?”
Isaiah missed stories. His mama used to tell good ones, all about a rabbit in Mr. McGregor’s garden and a warrior named François Mackandal who ran down from the hills to chase the bad men away. Sometimes, Isaiah would get the stories confused and François Mackandal would be a farmer chasing a rabbit down the hill. His daddy liked funny stories. And Memphis told the best stories of all. He missed when it was just the two of them together in the back room watching the night lights of the city climbing up the wall while they waited for sleep to come, back before all this nonsense with that girl, Theta. He missed the way it had been once upon a time. Isaiah felt like crying again. He turned it into anger at Bill for not knowing the right way to tell a proper story.
“You gotta start with ‘Once upon a time,’” Isaiah insisted.
“Well, well, well, all right, then,” Bill teased. “Once. Upon. A time. That better? You happy now? Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a race of proud people. Kings and queens. Like the pharaohs of old.”
“Is this a Bible story?”
“You never gonna know you keep running your mouth.”
Isaiah kept quiet.
“And the land these people lived in?” Bill continued. “It was something. Fulla magic, and the people was fulla magic. And there was lions and fruit trees and everything you could want.”
“Everything?”
“Didn’t I say everything? Everything still mean everything, don’t it?” Bill started again. “But the people of that land was betrayed. Men come and stole ’em away from their kingdom—had to put chains on ’em to keep the magic down. Then they put ’em on ships and brought ’em to a new land. A hard land where they worked all day and all night long. And they suffered. They suffered. And then, a long time later in that new land, along come a prince.”
“Like in ‘Cinderella’?”
“Naaww,” Bill said, affronted. “This fella look like you and me. Big and strong and black as night. They said he was so strong he could grab the straps of a plow with both hands and pull that old plow better’n any horse. This prince had a powerful magic. He could suck the life right outta things. Could put an old dog down if its time had come or take the boll weevil sickness off the cotton. Yes, sir. That prince was mighty powerful. And that made some folks nervous, you understand? Too. Much. Power.” Bill spat out the words on a fierce whisper. “Soon, ever’body was talking ’bout the prince and sayin’ he killed people.”
“Did he?”
“No. No, little man, he didn’t,” Bill said softly.
“What happened?”
Bill took in a deep breath. The air smelled good, like chimney smoke and sunshine on snow. “One day, some men come and they took the prince to see the king’s castle and ask him to show off that power of his. First, they brought in a chicken. Old squawking chicken, and the first thing that prince thought was, There’s dinner.”
Isaiah laughed. “I ate four drumsticks last night!”
“You got a good appetite.” Bill reached out and patted the boy’s head. Once upon a time, he might’ve had himself a son like Isaiah Campbell, a boy who liked baseball and frogs and tall tales. If things had been different.
“What happened next?”
“Well, sir, the prince took that old chicken, but lord, did it fight him, all flutterin’ feathers and pecking—such a big fuss for a li’l old bird. Soon enough, the chicken stopped fighting. And then it lay cold and still in the prince’s hands.”
“He… killed it?”
“Quick and easy, like. So it didn’t suffer none,” Bill said quietly.
“And they ate it, right?”
“Right. Right,” Bill said. “Well, the king and his court were mighty impressed by this. That nig
ht, some men come to talk to the prince. Shadow Men.”
“What’s a Shadow Man?”
“Nobody you want to be messin’ with. Like the bogeyman made real. They heard ’bout what the prince could do with the chicken. They brought in something else for him. A man. They said he was a bad man, an enemy, and they asked the prince to use his magic like he done with the chicken. But the prince had never done that on no man before, no matter what the people in the town said ’bout him. And he was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid it would curse him forever.”
“But if that man was a bad man, how could it?” Isaiah asked.
Bill took another breath, let it out slowly. “Ain’t that simple, little man. Ain’t that simple to know what the truth of somethin’ is. Just ’cause somebody tell you ‘This the way it is’ don’t mean you oughta believe it. You gotta make sure for yourself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Supposin’ a couple people told ever’body you stole bread from the bakery.”
“They’d be liars! I wouldn’t steal nothing!”
“I know you wouldn’t. But some folks might believe ’em. ’Fore you know it, they telling ever’body you’re bad. Other folks hear it and they believe it, too. Don’t bother to check into the story ’cause they’d rather just believe that than find out for themselves.”
“Why?”
“Looking for truth makes a man hafta look at himself along the way.”
Cold wind eddied around Bill’s trouser legs and he felt it in his bones. Isaiah took Bill’s hand. The soft trust of the boy’s fingers was a surprise.
“Did the prince kill that man?”
“Yes,” Bill said after a pause. “Yes, son, he did.”
“And was he cursed?”
“Yes, he was.”
“How? Did it turn him into a monster?”
Bill was still for a moment, listening to a winter wren trilling from a nearby perch. “I expect it did,” he said, feeling suddenly tired, more tired than he could remember feeling in a very long time. “Come on now. Let’s go home.”
Isaiah let go. “That ain’t the end of the story!” He sounded angry. And scared. Like somebody had told him the monsters under the bed were real. “Tell me the real end!”