It's funny how humans can wrap their mind around things and fit them into their version of reality. Chiron had told me that long ago. As usual, I didn't appreciate his wisdom until much later.
According to the L.A. news, the explosion at the Santa Monica beach had been caused when a crazy kidnapper fired a shotgun at a police car. He accidentally hit a gas main that had ruptured during the earthquake.
This crazy kidnapper (a.k.a. Ares) was the same man who had abducted me and two other adolescents in New York and brought us across country on a ten-day odyssey of terror.
Poor little Percy Jackson wasn't an international crimi- nal after all. He'd caused a commotion on that Greyhound bus in New Jersey trying to get away from his captor (and afterward, witnesses would even swear they had seen the leather-clad man on the bus—"Why didn't I remember him before?"). The crazy man had caused the explosion in the St. Louis Arch. After all, no kid could've done that. A con- cerned waitress in Denver had seen the man threatening his abductees outside her diner, gotten a friend to take a photo, and notified the police. Finally, brave Percy Jackson (I was
[334]
beginning to like this kid) had stolen a gun from his captor in Los Angeles and battled him shotgun-to-rifle on the beach. Police had arrived just in time. But in the spectacu- lar explosion, five police cars had been destroyed and the captor had fled. No fatalities had occurred. Percy Jackson and his two friends were safely in police custody.
The reporters fed us this whole story. We just nodded and acted tearful and exhausted (which wasn't hard), and played victimized kids for the cameras.
"All I want," I said, choking back my tears, "is to see my loving stepfather again. Every time I saw him on TV, calling me a delinquent punk, I knew . . . somehow . . . we would be okay. And I know he'll want to reward each and every person in this beautiful city of Los Angeles with a free major appliance from his store. Here's the phone number." The police and reporters were so moved that they passed around the hat and raised money for three tickets on the next plane to N e w York.
I knew there was no choice but to fly. I hoped Zeus would cut me some slack, considering the circumstances. But it was still hard to force myself on board the flight.
Takeoff was a nightmare. Every spot of turbulence was scarier than a Greek monster. I didn't unclench my hands from the armrests until we touched down safely at La Guardia. T h e local press was waiting for us outside security, but we managed to evade them thanks to Annabeth, who lured them away in her invisible Yankees cap, shouting, "They're over by the frozen yogurt! Come on!," then re- joined us at baggage claim.
[335]
We split up at the taxi stand. I told Annabeth and Grover to get back to Half-Blood Hill and let Chiron know what had happened. They protested, and it was hard to let them go after all wed been through, but I knew I had to do this last part of the quest by myself. If things went wrong, if the gods didn't believe me . . . I wanted Annabeth and Grover to survive to tell Chiron the truth.
I hopped in a taxi and headed into Manhattan.
Thirty minutes later, I walked into the lobby of the Empire State Building.
I must have looked like a homeless kid, with my tattered clothes and my scraped-up face. I hadn't slept in at least twenty-four hours.
I went up to the guard at the front desk and said, "Six hundredth floor."
He was reading a huge book with a picture of a wizard on the front. I wasn't much into fantasy, but the book must've been good, because the guard took a while to look up. "No such floor, kiddo."
"I need an audience with Zeus."
He gave me a vacant smile. "Sorry?"
"You heard me."
I was about to decide this guy was just a regular mortal,
and I'd better run for it before he called the straitjacket patrol, when he said, " N o appointment, no audience, kiddo. Lord Zeus doesn't see anyone unannounced."
"Oh, I think he'll make an exception." I slipped off my backpack and unzipped the top.
[336]
The guard looked inside at the metal cylinder, not get- ting what it was for a few seconds. T h e n his face went pale. "That isn't . . ."
"Yes, it is," I promised. "You want me take it out and—"
"No! No!" He scrambled out of his seat, fumbled around his desk for a key card, then handed it to me. "Insert this in the security slot. Make sure nobody else is in the ele- vator with you."
I did as he told me. As soon as the elevator doors closed, I slipped the key into the slot. T h e card disappeared and a new button appeared on the console, a red one that said 600.
I pressed it and waited, and waited.
Muzak played. "Raindrops keep falling on my head. . . ." Finally, ding. T h e doors slid open. I stepped out and
almost had a heart attack.
I was standing on a narrow stone walkway in the mid-
dle of the air. Below me was Manhattan, from the height of an airplane. In front of me, white marble steps wound up the spine of a cloud, into the sky. My eyes followed the stairway to its end, where my brain just could not accept what I saw.
Look again, my brain said.
We're looking, my eyes insisted. It's really there.
From the top of the clouds rose the decapitated peak of
a mountain, its summit covered with snow. Clinging to the mountainside were dozens of multileveled palaces—a city of mansions—all with white-columned porticos, gilded terraces, and bronze braziers glowing with a thousand fires.
[337]
