Page 44

Maddy’s entire face brightens.

“Cool. Very cool. You just gave me a piece of info—the hula bobblehead—that I never had before. I should come here more often.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Belinda says. “Come on Wednesdays, that’s when the hairdresser is here. She can trim up that tail for you. Is that how you got Mama-Girl and the pack to trust you? Showed up as a little furry animal?”

“No,” Maddy says. “I impressed everyone with an incredible display of power, strength, fortitude, and judo.”

Belinda stares at her blankly.

“I kicked three guys’ asses at the same time,” Maddy simplifies.

“Bet the girls liked that.” Belinda laughs.

“I did, too,” Maddy says. “I know you think I’ve been bullshitting you, but I care about you, about them, about Mama-Girl. None of you asked for this life. You fell into it,or were forced there. No one deserves to live like that, not you, not these young girls, and not even a tough old hen like Mama-Girl.”

Belinda looks down at the floor. Then she looks back up and holds the palms of her hands against her eyes, not wanting Maddy to see her cry. After a few moments’ silence she speaks.

“You are really doing what you promised you’d do. Helping us. You’re just about the only person who’s ever made a promise to me and then kept it.”

“And I’m going to do more than that,” Maddy promises, but she is interrupted by the sound of voices coming down the hall.

Belinda speaks in a loud whisper.

“You got to get out of here.”

Within a few seconds, Maddy—back in squirrel form—scurries away.

“Damn,” Belinda says, staring at the spot her friend had been in. “That is one cool-ass trick.”

CHAPTER 62

MARGO AND I, along with Burbank and Tapper, are back in the living room of our hotel suite in Copenhagen. All four of us have that awful feeling of being both anxious and bored at the same time. Burbank and Tapper are having a sandwich-eating contest that Tapper is losing, due to a dislike of herring and a mix-up with room service.

Trapped and unable to work, we distract ourselves by theorizing if any of us might be carriers of the Newbola virus. Eventually our minds are at ease. We wore biohazard suits in Australia, and there was no one ill in Kyoto. Still not satisfied that we aren’t vectors for disease, Margo devises a simple but precise blood-droplet test that uses sodium azide to detect the presence of viruses. We have all been tested three times since we left the airport, and are all absolutely free of Newbola. Still, I don’t want to take chances.

“Don’t get angry, Margo,” I say, “but is it at all possible that your homemade test is not accurate?”

“Blueberry muffins are homemade!” Margo snaps. “Moonshine is homemade! This is a simple laboratory procedure, using ingredients that I carry in my biomedical travel case. If you think—”

“Sorry, sorry,” I say, quickly putting my hands up in surrender. “I’m not questioning your capability.”

“Neither am I,” Tapper says, glancing up. “Butdoesyour bag happen to have the ingredients for moonshine? Because if so—”

“Stuff it, Tapper,” Margo says.

Then she looks at me calmly, all her anger vented. “I’m sorry, too,” she says. “Doing nothing is so frustrating and infuriating.”

Our laptops and phones have been silent since the worldwide quarantine began. So when my handheld device signals a communication, we all perk up.

I read aloud a string of messages from Dr. Anna DaSilva.

Aware of worldwide delay

Crisis here exploding

Stay safe not your fault

The moment I finish reading the text from Dr. DaSilva, Tapper flings one of his sandwiches violently to the floor. Then he jumps up and speaks very loudly.