Fire Will Fall

Carol Plum-Ucci

• Editore: HMH Books for Young Readers
• Anno: 2010
• ISBN:
  9780547487977

The four teen survivors from Streams of Babel face a new terroristic threat in a thriller that “will keep readers enthralled right up to the climax” ( School Library Journal ).
 
ShadowStrike poisoned the water of Trinity Falls two months ago. Now the Trinity Four, the teens most affected by the poison, have been isolated in a remote mansion under twenty-four-hour medical care while scientists on four continents rush to discover a cure. Meanwhile, US operatives scour the world for the bioterrorists responsible for this heinous crime, as two teen virtual spies, also infected, hunt for the criminals on the Internet. The danger remains real—for ShadowStrike has every reason to pursue the Trinity Four, and their evil plan will unleash a new designer virus that’s even deadlier than the first.
 
“Figuring out whom to trust gets harder for everyone, including the reader, and the narrative picks up speed. Sexual tension and fragile relationships are part of the story as much as the terrorist hunt is, and the two couples’ fears about their own possible impending mortality will captivate a high-school audience.” — Booklist

Twenty-six

CORA HOLMAN
SATURDAY, MAY 4, 2002
4:45 P.M.
HER BEDROOM

I TRIED TO SETTLE INTO MY JOURNAL, a task devoid of anxiety. It had not been a peaceful first day in our new surroundings. The only nonstressful thing that happened had been meeting Henry.

The computer had booted while I had been downstairs, and I took it into my lap, suddenly wondering if my journal would be any less stressful than everything else, as my plans were to turn my journal into a blog. So many people reading my words. I’d never written journals when Aleese was alive. I seemed unable to face my life, to tell truths even to myself. Some of my journal entries at St. Ann’s had been chances to see how honest I could be without shocking myself. It was kind of fun, and I definitely reached some milestones.

Writing was a form of healing to me, but realizing that other people would read what I wrote brought me back to my own shyness, something I didn’t want to mix with my writing. I figured I could write a second journal and simply not post it.

But I went to my e-mail to see if anyone had signed my guest book. I already had four messages just since Scott had argued with Mr. Steckerman. Three were from people I didn’t know, and they offered encouragement and heartfelt prayers and support. I stared at the one marked “urgent” before clicking, hoping it was not what the CEO of Dell had spoken of over the phone to me when he had called to say he was sending us each a laptop.

“Reach out to others, but be prepared for a few nuts and kooks,” he had said.

I wondered if this was one. My heart sped up as I read the brief message.

Were you in a certain city today shooting pictures of a convention center and an amusement pier? If so, which city? It is important, and hence, you must let me know your movements. Yours most sincerely, The Kid

The signature registered, but the message lit me like a bad circuit, and I sat there frozen, my chest crackling sparks as I read it twice. I felt naked, which didn’t help the impression of thousands of eyes watching me all day, regardless of where I was. Staring at the signature, I tried to think of some way it could be a kook. The e-mail address to which I was supposed to reply was printed below the name: [email protected]. I knew Hodji Montu, though he was one of the New York USIC agents and hadn’t been around nearly as much as the New Jersey ones. Roger O’Hare had told me once that he was the Kid’s protector.

I copied and pasted the address into a new e-mail, still suspicious of a hoax, but what else could I do? Not reply, when it might be him? I listened for some miraculous movement from Scott’s room, but he didn’t stir.

I did take pictures at a convention center today.

I typed slowly. Scott could more easily make a decision. I tested the waters.

Why do you need to know? Cora

I hit SEND and received another message from a well-wisher, which I read without much ability to concentrate. I felt thankful that it was only five lines long. By the time I finished I had already received a reply from hodjimontu22, a fact that amazed me.

Please tell me what city you were in today and what you were doing. You must trust me. While you were in St. Ann’s you maintained your affection for a very old and balding stuffed rabbit named Baba, about which Roger O’Hare used to tease you. K.

Baba was a favorite stuffed toy from my childhood that I resurrected from the closet shelf to sleep with on the night Aleese died. Only Mr. O’Hare would have known about the teasing. I had still been in a private ICU pod when he would come in and have lengthy conversations with Baba, using a high-pitched voice for Baba and a low voice for himself.

Intrigued, I carried the laptop into the hall. Still, I swallowed a mouthful of saliva guiltily as I turned Scott’s doorknob, forced myself to enter the blackness, and closed it behind me. I had no idea if he would scream at me to leave.

The curtains were drawn tightly. The room was impossible to see into, save the closest things to me, lit in a glow from the laptop. The long drapes had been pulled from the hooks that usually held them back. I moved silently, with my arm in front of me, until I could feel a bedpost. I could hear him breathing, but with a couple of groans that let me know he was awake.

“Can I get you anything?” I whispered.

It took him a while to answer. “A gun.”

I felt horribly selfish and more stupid. I ought to be able to make a decision by myself, but I didn’t have all the facts. I brought the laptop silently to his side, hoping he would recognize its glow and realize this was something important. If he was to the point where the headache spiked, he would want to do little more than flail out to slap it shut and eliminate the light. But it might not spike for an hour or more.

“What . . .” he grumbled impatiently.

“I got an e-mail from the Kid,” I whispered.

He said nothing.

“He wants to know if we were taking pictures at a convention center today.”

After a moment, he sat up again, not bothering, as I surely would have, to press both palms firmly against his temples again. “Never a dull moment.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Give.”

I slid the laptop in front of him. In the glow of the screen I could see him grimacing, trying to read the e-mail. He put his hands over his eyes, saying, “There were earlier ones?”

I guessed he got that from the context. I took the laptop and read in hushed whispers the Kid’s first e-mail and my reply.

I knew better than to touch him, but my heart sputtered as he cursed. He finally came back around to it. “So . . . should you answer him, in other words . . .”

“Correct.”

He leaned backwards, rolling his neck around slowly. “Yeah, answer him.”

I took the laptop and moved quickly toward the door.

“Stay,” he said in a normal voice.

I made my way back to a chair at the foot of the bed and sunk cautiously into it, glad for a place close to him even if his pain made me crazy. I began

Scott and I were in Griffith’s Landing.

I began a new e-mail. Feeling the urge to add more, I typed,

I hope we haven’t caused you any trouble. Cora

Another e-mail appeared.

No trouble. Please tell us why you were there and retrace your steps for us. K.

I read the e-mail in a whisper, hoping it would distract Scott rather than prolong his agony. I could retrace our steps, but it would be up to Scott to say why we were there. I still had no clue.

“Tell him . . .” Scott lay back. My eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, and I could see the wastebasket on his stomach as he lay back again. “Tell him I overheard Alan Steckerman and Mike Tiger talking about a hit on a convention center across from an amusement park in New Jersey. I went with . . . what was most logical.”

After a long minute, a reply said,

How in hell do you overhear a USIC conversation? Anything you’d like to teach the Kid and me? Luv, Tyler

A smile bloomed on my face. The Kid had a friend with him. Tyler. You could tell the “voices” apart, even in e-mail.

“The Kid’s friend wants to know how you overhear a USIC conversation,” I whispered. After a moment, he said, “Tell them I said, ‘Don’t ask.’”

I put my part in.

We shot photos of the convention center, then an amusement pier, and the water park that’s in the back. On the boardwalk people kept staring at us. I think it might have been due to People magazine, but I got scared. We left. As to how you overhear a USIC conversation, Scott says, “Don’t ask.”

I saw I had already received another message as I hit SEND. It was the same e-mail address, only this one said,

P.S. I am in love with you, Cora Holman. Tyler

I flinched, wondering again if this were a hoax, a bunch of high schoolers who had read about the Kid in Newsweek and were being cruel. They wouldn’t know about Baba; however, I felt watched all over again. Another e-mail dropped quickly into the box.

This one said,

Miss Cora, do not be offended by Tyler’s frankness. He means only the utmost of respect for you, though he is American schooled and very fresh. We think you and Miss Rain are our princesses. Please forgive. K.

A bigger smile bloomed on my face. I suddenly felt incredibly important, or at least to be in the virtual presence of incredible importance. It was a better rush than meeting a movie star, more like meeting Peter Pan. I thought of the Kid every several days or so. The fact that he thought of us was something I had never considered. Within a few seconds, a new e-mail appeared.

Miss Cora, thank you for your info. We are grateful. We would like to see your pictures. However, please do not return to Griffith’s Landing in the future. You are unaccustomed to so much attention, but your faces are very well known, and you could easily be recognized by people whom you would wish to avoid. K.

I thought of the men scattering as I shot their photos on the boardwalk and wondered about Scott’s remark to Marg about the idea of her being outside to talk on her cell phone . . . “Were you talking to some buddies staying in Griffith’s Landing?” I wondered at all the deep, dark places his imagination must be traveling, which probably brought on his headache. Maybe he’d guessed the truth too late—maybe we’d managed to walk straight into a horde of ShadowStrike operatives. The Kid’s e-mail made it seem like they were around here in swarms. I thought of Richard Awali, my would-be assasin, and wanted desperately to get out of this dark room . . . out of New Jersey.

I jumped a foot when the door opened slowly. It was Mr. Tiger. He closed the door quietly, moved past me with a pat on my hand, and stood beside Scott’s bed. The glow of my screen was the only light in the room, but I could see Mr. Tiger looking down at him for a minute before deciding that he was awake.

“I understand I’m supposed to get down on my knees,” he said in an almost whisper.

“Mike. What the fuck kind of nurse did you guys—”

“Shhh, shhh . . . don’t wear yourself out fretting. That was our mistake today. We got an emergency call and forgot she was out jogging. She didn’t want to bust us, but we were the stupid ones, Alan and me. It won’t happen again, buddy. We’re working on getting more help, but they gotta pass our clearances—”

Scott managed some sarcasm. “Must have been a hell of an emergency.”

“Yeah. But you guys should not have suffered. Godfrey’s here, looking at Rain now. There’s nothing for you t...