Edgewood Series: Books 1 - 3 (106 page)

I hadn’t gotten far when the band stopped playing and the lights brightened. The singer said, “Ladies and gentleman, I give you the President of the United States of America.”

The band began playing “Hail to the Chief” and the crowd cheered loudly. President Bernstein walked up the stage steps and over to the microphone. She smiled and held up her hand to silence the crowd.

After the president called her daughter onto the stage, I got my first Bash view of Russ as he traipsed obediently behind her. I cupped my mouth and yelled, “Russ!” but my voice couldn’t be heard above the crowd applauding at the sight of the first daughter bounding up the stairs onto the stage. When she said, “My date this evening is the fabulous Russ Becker. Isn’t he handsome? Give it up for Russ!” I felt my gut clench and I wasn’t sure if it was from jealousy or worry.

All I knew was that I had to warn Russ. I didn’t have any power but the power of knowledge. He’d know what to do.

If I could have, I’d have run to the stage, but there was this small matter of four hundred people blocking my way. I pushed through the crowd, slipping through gaps, and moving around couples. As fast as I tried to go, I still only went at the pace of a lazy river raft—agonizingly slow. A few people objected as I shoved my way around them. “Ex
cuse
me!” one man said loudly. I had no time to answer or I would have said,
I’m sorry I bumped your elbow but I’m frantically trying to save the president’s life. My apologies. Jerkwad.

Thinking I might not get there in time made me crazy with worry.
Think, Nadia, think.
I decided I’d have a clearer path if I moved along the edge of the room, so I veered to the far left side. I was impatient with these people. These beautiful, privileged people. They stood in their tuxes and gorgeous gowns with drinks in hand, oblivious to the danger lurking among them, watching the stage in front, blocking my way. I wanted to yell, to tell them there was an emergency and they should exit the room, but between the applause, the band, and their chattering, I didn’t think I’d get heard.

I was moving faster now, keeping my gaze straight ahead and getting more aggressive. When two people standing too close together blocked my path, I used my hands to part them like treading water. I stopped worrying about accidentally stepping on the hem of a dress, or bumping someone’s glass; I just went. I left startled people in my wake, and at one point I heard a woman’s voice behind me say, “Someone’s in a big hurry,” and I thought:
you got that right.

I was making good headway when I came to two men standing shoulder to shoulder. I said, “Excuse me,” and gave each one’s arm a push then squeezed through the opening and bumped—bam—right into the back of a white-jacketed man. Shocked, I realized I’d happened upon the very scene I wanted to warn Russ about, the Associates posing as father and son. And from the feelings I’d picked up from touching the back of this man’s jacket, he was one of them too. I gasped. “Pardon me,” I said and took a step back. But the doctor turned and saw me before I could slip away. His eyes narrowed and a sick smile spread across his face. He grabbed my arm forcefully. “Nadia,” he said. “What a surprise.”

Russ

With only about an hour left to the evening, I was starting to feel like we might be in the clear, but I wasn’t going to let my guard down yet. Layla and her parents had finished receiving guests without any problems, and since then we’d danced, mingled, and had refreshments. A stream of people came up to talk to Layla over the course of the evening and she always introduced them and I shook hands like a good date. Some of the ladies made comments about how cute we were as a couple. Most of them were middle-aged, and except for the actors and singers whose names I already knew, I had trouble keeping track of them. I kept looking for the scenario that had played out in Kevin Adams’ homemade comic book, but so far there was nothing. I was also looking for Nadia. Every time I saw someone shyly lurking in the shadows, I thought it might be her, but it never was. It seemed like she wasn’t going to get here in time after all. Thank God. She’d be safe.

One more hour and this would be over. One more hour.

When Layla’s mother went up on the stage and the band played “Hail to the Chief,” I felt my attention go into overdrive. Yes, there were two Secret Service agents located discretely on either side of her, but still she was vulnerable. I knew how quickly someone could get struck down. A bullet flies faster than a hiccup, a lightning bolt crosses the room like a sneeze. One second a person can be standing there just fine, planning what they’re going to do the next day. A moment later there is no next day. Someone’s death is always a loss, but if the president were killed it would be a national tragedy. No, a worldwide tragedy. I held my breath as she held up her hand to stop the applause.

“This is where she announces it’s my birthday,” Layla whispered, holding my arm fiercely. “And then I’ll have to cut the cake and pose for pictures.” Under her breath she made a noise that reminded me of a car crash. “If I were a good girl I’d be up there already.” She shot me a rebellious grin.

Layla told me she liked the occasional perks of being the president’s daughter—the backstage concert passes, traveling, getting to visit movie sets. But she hated not having any privacy and having to keep up a fake public persona. And she was not looking forward to sharing her birthday with four hundred people even if it was just for fifteen minutes.

The president spoke. “As many of you know, my daughter Layla will be celebrating her nineteenth birthday tomorrow.” Polite applause filled the ballroom. Off in the distance, a drunken male yelled, “Happy birthday, Layla! You rock! Woo hoo!”

Layla leaned over and whispered in my ear. “That’s Kyle Sternhagen. Every year he gets totally wasted.”

When the clapping and laughter subsided, the president said, “Layla? Will you come up and join your father and me on stage?” She lifted her hand to shield her eyes as she searched for her daughter. “Where are you, dear?”

Layla cooperatively raised a hand and called out, “Right here, Mom.” She took my arm and pulled me along with her and we headed to the stage. Mr. Bernstein had already joined his wife and they’d linked arms like Ferris Bueller’s parents standing over his bed. Off to one side, Vice President Montalbo and his wife held hands and smiled.

The crowd parted as we walked forward. I tried to avoid stepping on her dress while simultaneously staying alert to those around us in case I had to fend off an attack. Layla, who had her paparazzi smile on, greeted people along the way. Mallory and Jameson followed behind us; I could hear Mallory’s excited whispering to Jameson. During our training we’d gone over the night’s schedule dozens of times. I knew that Layla’s cutting of the cake was only symbolic. In the back kitchen were trays full of wrapped cake that would be positioned by the exits for the guests to take home. Layla would take the first slice, taste the frosting, and declare it delicious. The crowd would sing “Happy Birthday,” and then the band would play one last song (“Come Fly With Me” was the usual choice, since it was Layla’s favorite). Afterward the first family would thank everyone for coming and depart through a secret door located behind the stage. And then the lights would be raised, and the band would pack up their equipment. If the guests didn’t get the hint by the time the staff began cleaning up, they would politely be told the building had to be vacated for security reasons.

Layla bounded up the stairs at a remarkably fast clip, given her high heels. I tried to stay behind, but she wouldn’t let go of my hand. When we got to the center of the stage, she held my hand up like pronouncing me the winner, then spoke into the microphone, “My date this evening is the fabulous Russ Becker. Isn’t he handsome? Give it up for Russ!” As the applause thundered, a warm flush crept over my cheeks. In a few seconds, my reddened face would be evident to everyone there. There was no stopping a blush once it started.

Out of the corner of my mouth, I said, “Thanks, Layla.”

“You didn’t think you were going to get off easy, did you?” she said, smirking.

Embarrassed, I surveyed the room. From this angle I saw the entire banquet hall, the rows and rows of people standing in front of the stage like concert-goers waiting for the opening chords of their favorite song. But behind them, way in back and off to one side, was something more alarming, something that just looked
wrong
. A group of men clustered around a gurney. I squinted, trying to figure out what was happening. The patient lying on the gurney was the gray-bearded father of the muscle-bound boy, the same pair who caught Layla’s attention earlier. A man in a white jacket (a doctor?) was talking to a dark-haired woman in red. It was hard to see what was going on. Why were they just hanging out here? Wouldn’t someone sick or injured get rushed to the hospital?

A server wheeled a cart holding a large tiered chocolate cake onto the stage, and President Bernstein said, “Please join me in singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Layla.” The band leader raised his baton and the room filled with music and the sound of voices singing the familiar tune.

Layla still had her arm linked through mine, but I shook it loose and took a step forward to get a better view of the back of the room.

Nadia

The doctor pulled me closer. I tried getting away, my feet scrabbling on the smooth floor, but his firm grip meant I was not going to be going anywhere soon. I was close enough to see every detail: the dark wavy hair and mustache, large plastic rimmed glasses, and the bulbous nose, which I knew to be fake, as were the hair and mustache. He had a stethoscope draped over his neck like a pet python. The white jacket had the name Dr. Michael Mitchard embroidered over the pocket, but I knew this man and he wasn’t Dr. Michael Mitchard. “Mr. Specter,” I said breathlessly. “Don’t do this.”

“Oh ho!” he said, close to my ear. “Aren’t you turning out to be quite the little pistol?”

“Let me go,” I said, thinking quickly. “I didn’t see anything. You know I don’t have any powers that can hurt you.”

Both of the Secret Service agents standing on either side of the gurney turned to look at me. Young guys with a clean cut look and nearly identical suits. They could have been brothers. “Help me,” I pleaded. “He won’t let me go.”

Mr. Specter waved at them to turn around and they did, showing me without a doubt where their allegiance fell. His hold on my arm was even tighter now. “I can’t let you go. You’re a liability, Nadia. I underestimated you before, but it’s not going to happen again.”

I glanced up at the stage. One of the servers had wheeled out a cart holding what looked like a chocolate wedding cake, and Layla was giving an impassioned speech about everything that had happened in her life since her last birthday. All eyes were on Layla. No one seemed to notice the girl in the red dress being held against her will. To buy time, I said, “What do you mean you underestimated me?”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. “According to my visions, you should be in the morgue back in Edgewood.”

“Why would I be in the morgue?” My heart thumped in my chest.

“That’s usually what happens to someone whose throat gets slashed by a butcher knife,” Mr. Specter said almost cheerfully. He reached out and touched the stitches on my neck and I flinched. “Somehow you’ve managed to disturb the future space-time continuum. Why didn’t your mother get that knife in a little deeper?”

“I kicked her.”

“And why would you do that?”

I stared at him dumbfounded. “Because I wanted to live.”

“But you didn’t before. Hmm…” And almost to himself he said, “I wonder why that’s changed?”

On stage, the president asked the audience if they’d join her in singing “Happy Birthday” to her daughter, Layla. In a moment, the noise level in the room was going to build an acoustic wall. If I was going to yell for help, it had to be now.

“Let go of me!” I shouted. My yelling got the attention of the gray bearded man on the gurney. He started to sit up and his fake son pushed him back down, but not before I saw the older man’s eyes. I knew those eyes, but I didn’t have the luxury of figuring out where I’d seen him before. I kept screaming. “Someone help me!” And then, thinking I might be able to get Russ’s attention, I screamed, “Russ, be careful. It’s Mr. Specter—,” Too late, I felt a needle jab the side of my neck and immediately I lost control of my limbs. It was as if every muscle had instantly become paralyzed. My vision became fuzzy but I felt Mr. Specter catch me right before I collapsed onto the floor.

“She just had a bit too much to drink,” he said to those standing around us.

I felt my consciousness fading away. It was happening fast, so fast that if I couldn’t do it quickly, it wasn’t going to happen at all.
Take me out of my body.

And just like that I was hovering over my body, watching as Mr. Specter held me in his arms. It was the way people describe near death experiences, their spirit floating above their dead body. But I wasn’t dead. At least not yet. And best yet? I could see them but they couldn’t see me.

I needed to act quickly, and yet I couldn’t help but pause and look at myself for a second. Good grief, I was small. I knew I was shorter than almost everyone else, but really, I had no idea. No wonder Russ had been able to carry me so effortlessly in Peru. And here I’d worried that I was too heavy.

The second thing that hit me was that I was actually beautiful. It didn’t hurt that I wore a gorgeous red gown and that my hair was twisted into a sophisticated up-do held in place by a gem-studded headband. Nice accessories and all, but it was my face that was surprising. Even without much makeup my skin was flawless, and I had such nice features—long dark lashes, cute nose, high cheekbones. They’d been there all the time, but I never knew it. I’d been too busy keeping my hood up to hide my hideous skin. I never knew I could look so good. I’d thought if my scars were fixed I would look average and looking average would have been fine with me. I prayed to be average, in fact. I wanted to blend in and be like everyone else, but this girl’s face was beyond that. She was gorgeous. If it wasn’t me, I would want it to be.