I CAN’T BELIEVE what I’m seeing.
An hour ago, this guy was lying on a metal table. Now he’s sitting in a chair out in the lab, trying to make conversation. Incredible. I can’t even imagine what he must be feeling. At first, his sentences were kind of choppy, as if his brain were broken into a bunch of puzzle pieces. But gradually he’s getting the hang of it. He shrugs off the blanket Fletcher gave him, like he’s in a rush to get back to normal. Does he even remember what normal was? Does he remember anything?
“My name…is Lamont Cranston.” That’s what he keeps saying. I know he’s not Lamont Cranston. Lamont Cranston was a radio detective from the 1930s. Totally fictional. But I decide not to make a thing of it. I’ll call him Lamont for now, just to humor him. We can get his true identity straightened out later. I’m sure he has bigger stuff on his mind. Assuming his mind still works. I think that’s up for grabs. He looks around the room. He looks at Fletcher. He looks at me. His eyes flicker.
“Where is this?” he asks.
Fletcher rolls his saggy old chair up close to him. “Hey,” he says. “Let’s take one thing at a time. Baby steps. Okay? I’m Dr. Fletcher.”
Lamont’s face brightens a little.
“Fenton? Fenton Fletcher?”
Fletcher leans closer.
“Fenton Fletcher was an ancestor of mine,” he says. “Way back. My name is Julian. Julian Fletcher.”
Lamont tries to absorb the connection, but gives up. He turns to me. “And you?”
“I’m Maddy. Maddy Gomes.”
“Why am I here?” asks Lamont.
I look back at Fletcher. He clears his throat. His PhD classes probably didn’t prepare him for this conversation—the one where you tell a guy that he’s been almost dead since the last century.
“Mr. Cranston,” Fletcher says. “You were poisoned. A fatal dose. Back in 1937.”
Lamont blinks. I can almost see his brain starting to make connections. Thinking back. Somewhere in there, neurons must be firing. He rubs his face, starts to talk. Hesitates. Then starts again. His voice is still cracking.
“I died?” he says. “But now I’m alive?”
“Something like that, yes,” says Fletcher.
Lamont exhales slowly.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask. “What do you need?”
Lamont looks at me in a way nobody’s ever looked at me before—like he’s actually trying to reach into my mind. Suddenly, he stands up. But he has no sense of balance. He starts to fall forward. I reach out to catch him, but Fletcher gets to him first. Lamont twists away and starts back toward the vault.
“There’s nothing there,” says Fletcher. He’s trying to sound soothing, but Lamont is getting more and more determined. He starts down the dim hallway that leads off the main room. Fletcher moves to block the way.
“Stop,” he says. “You’ll get hurt.”
Fletcher wraps Lamont up in a bear hug and practically carries him back to the chair. Lamont doesn’t have the strength to fight back. Just standing up and moving across the room has taken a lot out of him.
“Margo!” he says. “Margo Lane! Where is she?”
Margo Lane? Wait. I’m totally confused. Margo Lane was Lamont Cranston’s friend and companion. On the radio. There’s no way she’s a real person either.
“Air!” Lamont starts shouting. “I need air!”