The largest stationary fog bank in London took up almost one fourth of Hyde Park, one of the Royal Parks of the former capital city. Its northeast section as well as several groups of buildings nearby were hidden beneath a hazy gray cloud. Since the Wave, not wind, nor rain, nor any other weather condition had altered its size in the least. It was as if that part of the city no longer existed.
The fact that the Hyde Park Fog never dissipated was, however, not its most inexplicable characteristic—the fact that whoever made the fatal mistake of going in never came back out. The number of people who’d been devoured by this abominable sea of mist was incalculable. It hadn’t taken people long to become aware of the danger it posed, so a steel fence now surrounded its perimeter in an attempt to keep people from going near it.
In time, the Fog became the most dreaded and despised spot in all of London. It struck fear into the heart of anyone who laid eyes on it. Citizens had no choice but to adapt their lives to its frightening presence. Parents instilled in their children an instinctive fear of the Fog in the hopes they’d always stay away from it, so the children of London grew up fearing the Hyde Park Fog instead of the boogeyman when it came time to go to sleep. But the Fog’s influence wasn’t limited to the area shrouded by it. The former inhabitants of the surrounding areas had made a mass exodus, leaving the adjacent properties deserted as well. No one wanted to be near the Fog, much less live anywhere remotely close to it. Businesses looked for new locations where they could set up shop, and people sought new homes where the Fog was not part of the landscape. And Hyde Park itself was now essentially divided into two parts. The Serpentine Lake, which was located in its heart, became the natural border considered to be the minimum safe distance from the Fog, making the park’s area half what had been before the Wave.
Despite all that, over the course of the first two years after the Wave, the most unsavory sector of society found in the vicinity of the Fog a fitting place from which to carry out their business transactions. Prostitutes, drug dealers, smugglers, and every other kind of delinquent found this area to be their own little paradise. Outside the reach of the law, from here they could freely serve their wares to those who were most vulnerable and desperate; not a single soldier had the slightest inclination to patrol there.
As was to be expected, the apartments closest to the Fog lost their value at breakneck speed, and it was in one of those apartments where Scott, Jack’s missing investigator, had established his home base. And that’s exactly where Richard Northon was headed in his new car.
The captain went around Portman Square and noticed that the traffic was almost nil in the vicinity of the Hyde Park Fog. He looked through the window and shivered when his eyes fell on the ever-present gray mass. He drove straight up Berkeley Street and had no problems finding a place to park when he got to Scott’s apartment building.
Two prostitutes made him a few interesting offers on his way to the entrance to the building and, although Rick turned them down, the thought that it had been quite some time since he’d enjoyed the company of a woman lingered in his mind for a few minutes, tempting him to turn around and forget about the task at hand for awhile. On the other side of the street there was a group of what he assumed were bums trying to light a fire to keep warm. A man approached the group and tried to sell them something hidden inside his raincoat, but Rick couldn’t see what it was. He threw one last, worrisome look at his car and told himself he probably should have walked here.
The elevator wasn’t working, so Rick had to take the stairs up to the sixth floor. With every step of the long, hard climb, his breathing was getting heavier. He still wasn’t completely recovered. He got to Scott’s apartment just in time to see a man covered in a hooded black cloak pulling the door closed with a loud creak.
“Hey!” Rick shouted to the man. “That’s Scott’s apartment. Want to tell me who you are?”
The man in the cloak turned slowly toward him, and when Rick could see his face clearly his first thought was that he’d been mistaken in thinking this was a man. The pale, innocent face of a boy looked back at him pleasantly. He had a full head of black hair that accentuated the contour of his face and was in stark contrast to his pallid skin. His eyes were blue and Rick immediately knew they’d seen much more than what would be typical in the short life of an adolescent.
“A most fascinating question,” responded the boy in the cape with a shy smile. “First, because it wasn’t preceded by a “good morning” or by a simple “hello;” and second, because the same question could be asked of you. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Rick had no patience for this kid’s babbling. It was like the little shit was mocking him.
“I’m a colleague of Scott’s,” Rick said curtly. “And you?”
“I am nothing more than a humble janitor. That’s right; completely dedicated to my modest responsibilities.”
Rick thought the kid was going to bow or something, and was glad when he was wrong. He wouldn’t have known how to react to that; he didn’t recall ever having bowed for any reason. Everything about this boy was too strange—starting with the black cloak he was wearing. Being that it covered his whole body, he could have had a weapon or something hidden under it, but that wasn’t the strangest thing for Rick. For some reason, instead of seeming like a threat, he felt an overwhelming pull to trust the boy. And trusting anyone so unusual was completely out of character for Rick.
“What were you doing in Scott’s apartment?”
“My intention was none other than to find your colleague. But he isn’t home right now and your presence here reveals that it’s not a typical, work-related matter that is keeping him away from home, since, if that were the case, a colleague would certainly know his whereabouts. On the other hand, one might think that—”
“Enough. I asked why you were looking for him.”
“Oh, that’s what you meant. It’s something quite trivial. It turns out that the neighbor who lives in the apartment just below our absent friend has complained repeatedly about a dripping that’s coming from the ceiling of his living room and, logically, to find the leak, the plumbers quite wisely indicated that their work is infinitely easier when they are working on the floor rather than the ceiling. There was nothing more to my having to invade the privacy of Scott’s home than what I’ve just related to you. Is there anything more you need to know?
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“No, thank you,” Rick hurried to respond. Rick thought he might fall asleep right there on the spot if he had to wait for this guy to finish another one of his explanations. “Now, if you don’t mind . . .”
Rick gestured for the young man to move away from the door. With a theatrical, exaggerated motion, he stepped to one side.
“Go on, go on. It’s all yours,” said the janitor obligingly.
Ignoring him, Rick opened the door with the key he’d gotten from Jack and went into the apartment. The foyer was tiny. Rick saw the kitchen to his left but decided to start in the living room. It was a mess, with leftover food scattered all over a table that sat in the middle of the room—and on the rug underneath it. There were cigarette butts on the floor and clothes thrown all over the couch, but Rick saw nothing that would indicate there’d been a struggle. If Scott disappeared because he was kidnapped it probably hadn’t happened here.
Jack’s henchmen had already searched the apartment but Rick had insisted on coming himself. It might turn out that it was all for naught, but since he didn’t know the guys that Jack had sent out, he preferred to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. Rick had reviewed every last detail in the reports that Scott had submitted before his disappearance, but he still had no idea where to start looking.
Scott’s files were focused on the mysterious Tech Underground Corporation, the company that had acquired Robbie Fenton’s warehouse that Jack needed for his business. The T.U.C. had initiated construction on its fourth office building after demolishing the warehouse. According to Scott’s notes, the three other buildings that belonged to the T.U.C. were exactly alike; twelve stories high and one hundred feet long on each side, forming a perfectly square base, and covered with tinted glass windows. One of the things that surprised Scott was that, each time, the T.U.C. had demolished the building that had previously been there on the land and had put up their own buildings. It seemed like it would be much more convenient and less costly to buy office buildings that were completed, or even to modify the existing structure to meet their needs.
The other thing that Scott found abnormal were their purchasing operations. Almost seventy percent of his notes were dedicated to this topic. From what he’d said, only one of the purchases, the very first one, had been completed clearly and with transparency. A company had put a site up for sale and the T.U.C. had forked over the asking price. The second purchase was completed with an air of mystery. The previous owner of the building disappeared just two days before the signing. When it was time for the signing, however, the owner briefly materialized at the notary’s, signed on all the dotted lines, and then left without saying a word to anyone. He was never heard from again and Scott never found him. But the third purchase was the most unusual of all. The T.U.C. bought a fire station. Scott still hadn’t figured out how City Hall had agreed to that transaction; they’d have to put up a new station, and they knew the T.U.C. would demolish that historical building. The fourth and final purchase was the one that was interfering in Jack’s plans: Robbie Fenton’s warehouse.
Rick learned from Scott’s last notes that the owner of the T.U.C. was a man named Stew Walton. Scott had noted that he’d made numerous attempts to speak with him but had not succeeded. In his summary report of the strange pieces of evidence he had gathered, Scott concluded that the T.U.C.’s financial situation was a bigger mystery than all their sales transactions put together.
Rick finished checking out the apartment. Other than an extensive collection of porn, he hadn’t discovered anything even remotely interesting. So, Jack’s people had done their job after all. He was about to leave when a small detail caught his attention. One of the corners of the living room rug had no trash on it at all; in fact, it could almost be said it was actually clean. The rest of the rug was full of all kinds of crap: cans, chip bags, rotting fruit, cigarette butts . . . but this tiny area about the size of a magazine was perfectly spotless. It was surely just a coincidence, but it wouldn’t hurt to check.
Rick squatted down, then put one knee on the floor. He took hold of the clean corner of the rug and lifted it up. A half-eaten slice of pizza that had found its final resting place nearby now slid toward the middle of the rug. There was nothing under it; just wood floor. Unless . . . Rick knocked on the wooden planks and one of them moved. It wasn’t connected to the others. He rolled the rug toward the table and took out a pocket knife. He slid it between the planks and lifted the one that wasn’t attached. He reached in the hole, pulled out a folder and opened it to see what was inside.
Most of the information was contained in the papers he’d already read in Scott’s report. Rick assumed Scott had made a copy before sending it all to Jack. But there was one medical report that didn’t ring a bell with Rick. It was about a woman named Angela Brown. She’d apparently had a surgical procedure—a radical hysterectomy—thirteen years before when she was thirty. That was before the Wave . . . Rick had no idea why this information was relevant, so he continued reading the rest of the document. Apparently Angela Brown had been diagnosed with uterine cancer and the doctors had had to remove her uterus, her Fallopian tubes, and her ovaries. The rest of the report detailed the risks associated with the operation as well as instructions for her convalescence. At the end of the report, a single word was handwritten in capital letters with a thick, red felt-tip pen: STERILE. Rick easily recognized Scott’s handwriting from having read countless pages of his notes.
Still more confused by what he’d discovered, Rick left the apartment and started heading down the stairs. The name Angela Brown meant absolutely nothing to him; he was sure she had nothing to do with the information Jack had handed over to him. But it must have seemed important to Scott for some reason or he wouldn’t have stashed the file away so carefully.
When he was close to the second floor, loud voices interrupted his thoughts.
“We pay you to do this stuff,” yelled a voice that sounded to Rick like someone who was either stoned or drunk. “We should fire you, you fat slob.”
“Leave me alone,” replied a significantly calmer and more serious voice. “Go back to your pigsty and mind your own business, junkie.”
Rick saw them at the foot of the last flight of stairs. An obese man with wild hair was arguing with an individual who was his exact opposite. An extremely thin man, wearing only a tight, dirty t-shirt that went down to his knees was standing in front of the fat man, fighting to keep his balance.
“It wouldn’t be a pigsty if you did your job,” the skeletal man shot back. “This hallway is disgusting, and it’s your job to clean it.”
“You must be really high if you think I’m going to clean up your messes and your puke.”
Rick walked past them and started down the last flight of stairs, wondering if his car would be waiting for him where he left it.
“That’s your job, you piece of shit janitor. Maybe while you’re cleaning, you’ll sweat off a few pounds.”
Rick stopped midway between two steps and spun around.
“You’re the janitor of this building?” Rick asked the fat man.
The man looked at him, somewhat suspiciously. “Yeah. Why are you asking?”
“He probably wants to complain about something,” the skinny guy chimed in with a snicker.
“You, shut up.” Rick pushed the drug addict up against the wall and he fell to the floor. Rick turned back to the fat man and asked, “Does anyone else work with you in this building?”
“No. Only me. If you have a complaint—”
“No, it’s not that. Do you know if there’s anyone else responsible for maintenance work? Like a young guy with a black hooded cloak?”
The janitor shook his head, looking a bit puzzled. Rick turned around and left the building.
The car was still parked where he’d left it. Rick took one last look at the Hyde Park Fog and drove off, running two stoplights. He couldn’t make sense of it all. A boy in a black cloak had been sniffing around Scott’s apartment and some woman named Angela Brown had given up her uterus to survive cancer.
In spite of his confusion about all that, he knew exactly where he’d go next to look for an explanation.
