Spark: A Novel (45 page)

“You okay?” asked the parking attendant. “You want me to call an ambulance or something?”

I handed him a wad of money and turned away. “I fell down. That’s all. I’m going to see a doctor.”

It felt good to be sitting in the car. Clutching the steering wheel with one hand, I started the engine and drove out of the lot. When I turned onto Eighth Avenue, I activated my phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat.

“Can you hear me, Laura?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where am I?”

“In Manhattan, sir. We’re traveling north on Eighth Avenue.”

“Guide me to … to …”

Laura was the perfect traveling companion. She stayed silent and waited patiently. But I had no plan, no destination. Blood leaked out of me, trickled down my shattered leg, and formed a red slick on the floor of the car.

“Guide me to Marian Community Hospital in Walton, New York.”

After the motorcycle accident, I had been brought to Marian Hospital, and they still had a file there attached to my past identity. Maybe a few of the nurses and doctors still remembered me as Jacob Davis.

“Drive to Ninety-Sixth Street and turn left,” Laura said. “We’re going to take the West Side Highway.”

“Yes. That’s a good plan.”

I had died during my Transformation, but that was a different experience. Was I becoming a ghost? An angel? As I passed through Columbus Circle, I remembered what Monsieur Zéro had said about the angels blowing trumpets and waving swords on the Arc de Triomphe. True angels watched us and warned us and sang God’s praises. They were disembodied minds unattached to our world.

I was driving, following the traffic around Columbus Circle and up Broadway, but it felt as if I was lying on a beach. Thoughts, like waves, washed over my body.

Remember the face of Sanjay Desai when the laser dot touched his skin. His brown eyes were solemn, not frightened, as he waited for me to make my decision.

Remember the dark gold scent from the incense burners in Saint-Sulpice. And the purple scent of the rotting flowers surrounding the coffin in St. Theodosius.

Remember the growlers smashing shopwindows on the Champs-Élysées, and the car alarms cutting the air like knives. We are not. We are not. Part of the machine.

Remember the warm, sweet taste of the chocolate served at the Vickerson factory.

Remember Emily embracing me and pressing her body against mine. And then her last look before she disappeared into the night.

I stopped at Eighty-Sixth Street. When I stared up at the red light, my Spark broke free from its prison and passed through the top of the car. Like an angel, I floated above the traffic and the concrete and those bits of life hurrying down the sidewalk.

I could have flown higher, circling the proud towers with an angel’s cold purity, but my Shell saved me. As the light turned green I breathed in air and the Spark returned to my body. I was wounded and bleeding and lost and alone, but I finally wanted something—I wanted to live.

“Continue north,” Laura whispered. “Continue north.…”

I want to thank Jason Kaufman and Simon Lipskar for having faith in me.

The talented book designer Jason Booher transformed my scrawled drawings into illustrations. It was a pleasure to work with him.

I’m grateful to Glyn for his years of work on
wespeakforfreedom.com
. Many thanks to Ursula and Tony for their help and advice.

John Twelve Hawks is the author of the
New York Times
bestsellers
The Traveler, The Dark River,
and
The Golden City.