by Doug Solter
Emma retreated back into the food court and left the mall.
Chapter 3
The address Mrs. B gave her was located inside an aging housing addition. Old streetlamps stood on the corners with their dim, yellow circles of light barely illuminating the crumbling streets below them. Emma guided the Mercedes over a few rough potholes until she stopped opposite a small and sad-looking house with a For Sale sign in front. The lights were on inside, but the shades were drawn.
Emma noticed her hands quivering on the steering wheel. Her guts begged her to drive away. But she knew she couldn’t. If Emma didn’t find out what really happened to her dad, she’d go crazy thinking about it. Especially if there was something she could do to clear his name. There were six people on that jet. Six families who trusted her dad to bring their loved ones home. He was responsible not only as the pilot, but as their employer too. Emma didn’t want those families to think her dad was negligent. Or worse, incompetent.
Maybe this old lady held the answers she needed?
Emma opened the car door and stepped onto the pavement. She held the key fob to the Mercedes in her left hand with her thumb resting on the panic button. If she had to, Emma would make as much noise as possible, hoping this was the type of neighborhood where a teen girl running down the street and screaming for help would still make people call the police. Emma knocked on the front door.
No one answered.
She pushed the doorbell.
Nothing.
She tried the door. It opened with a loud creak that sent a chill up her back. The living room appeared empty with its bare walls and dusty wood floor. In the middle of that floor were two folding chairs that sat opposite each other. A cheap light fixture hung from the ceiling with a lazy fan rotating around it. The light was dim. The kitchen was dark. The hallway beyond the living room probably led to some dark bedrooms.
Emma didn’t like this.
She took a few steps inside. “Hello?” Her voice echoed.
Nothing.
Emma stopped. This was as far inside as she was willing to go. Emma pivoted towards the front door just as a shadow approached her from a dark corner.
“You’re late.” Mrs. B’s shadow faded as the light revealed her face. The woman had placed herself in a corner parallel to the door. Walking in, there was no way Emma could have seen her. “Please stand perfectly still. Before we proceed, my associate must search you.”
Emma took a step back as the bald man appeared from the shadows.
“This is for your own safety as well as ours,” Mrs. B said. “We must frisk you for weapons.”
Weapons? Emma wondered if the woman was serious.
The bald man circled around to Emma’s back and pointed at her left hand.
“Yes, I see,” Mrs. B said. “Please lift your thumb off the panic button. We wouldn’t want your car to accidentally disturb our precious time together.”
Emma hesitated before lifting her thumb. The bald man smoothly removed the key fob from her hand.
“We will return it, of course.”
Emma wondered if the bald man could speak. Maybe that scar of his went deeper than she thought.
The bald man rested his cold hands on Emma’s hips.
She tensed up.
The man hesitated, as if he had second thoughts.
Emma’s heart beat faster and faster. Her body prepared for an escape. Emma didn’t want this strange man to touch her. She would lunge for the door and—
“On second thought.” Mrs. B leaned on her cane. “This assignment isn’t appropriate for you. I will search Emma myself.”
The bald man withdrew his hands and stepped away. He held Mrs. B’s cane as she frisked every square inch of the girl’s body. Emma found the inspection most uncomfortable and unnecessary. But she was convinced the alternative would have been worse.
“Would you be so kind as to scan her?”
The bald man nodded and took out his phone. He clicked on a few buttons and waved the device all over Emma’s body. Was he taking video of her?
Mrs. B smiled, as if reading her mind. “Do relax, Emma. We are searching for electronic devices.”
The man waved his phone over Emma’s back, legs, and her shoes before turning back to Mrs. B with a nod.
“Excellent. We can start.” Mrs. B sat on one of the folding chairs and gestured Emma towards the other.
She hesitated, but sat down also.
Mrs. B crossed her legs at the ankles and studied Emma, who waited for the old woman to say something.
The woman kept quiet for a few minutes, as if she had all the time in the world.
After a while, Emma couldn’t take it.
“You had some information about my dad?”
“Oh yes. Forgive me. The French aviation authorities were able to salvage and examine the pieces from your father’s jet. The static ports were not covered with tape and the jet wasn’t washed by the ground crew. Someone sabotaged the ports, causing them to malfunction and give out false data to the aircraft’s instruments. Over the moonless Atlantic Ocean—it would be difficult for a pilot to fly such a crippled aircraft. Your father wouldn’t have known up from down since he could not trust his instruments. And he had no visual horizon to help him.”
“Why would they lie about the tape and the ground crew washing the plane?” Emma asked.
“Because it was necessary to cover up your father’s murder.”
Emma knew it. She was right. Her father was innocent.
Mrs. B leaned back. “You have sent forty emails and placed fifteen phone calls about your father to the French Embassy in Washington. Twenty-eight emails and twenty-one phone calls to the U.S. State Department. Ten emails sent to your local US senator. And one to the president of the United States.” She paused. “You are very persistent, Emma.” Mrs. B reached into her purse and took out a gun.
Emma stared at it. This wasn’t some plastic cap-gun that a high school actress used in a play. It was metal. It was black. It was real.
Mrs. B took out a long tube from her purse and twisted the end to the muzzle of the gun. Next from her purse came out a full magazine of ammo with shiny new bullets stacked inside it. Mrs. B clicked the magazine in place and pulled back the end of the chamber.
“Do you know what type of weapon this is?”
“No.” Emma could hear her voice waver. Was this it? Did this woman set this all up…just to kill her? Was this Mrs. B responsible for her dad’s murder?
“This weapon is a Walther P22 with silencer.” Mrs. B placed the gun on her lap. “If you proceed deeper into your investigation about what happened to your father, then I fear there will be a man who will follow you to your school. Follow you home. Follow you to the mall you enjoy shopping at. That man will have a gun exactly like this one. And he will use it to end your curiosity forever.”
Her words turned Emma’s blood cold. The old woman’s eyes were not joking.
Emma knew she was about to die.
But a quick flash of hope came to the woman’s face. “Or you could help me help you.”
Emma swallowed. “How?”
“You could join the organization. You fit the criteria. You are a loner who does not need the support from her peers to boost her self-esteem. Selfless when it comes to helping others who need your help. You are tenacious when it comes to finding out the truth. You are calm under pressure.”
“How do you know that?” Emma asked.
“I surprised you at the door and you did not scream. I pulled out a weapon and you did not run for the door. My male associate touched you under the assumption of conducting a full-body search and you didn’t flinch. Even now your mind analyzes every morsel of information I just gave you about your father, instead of letting your emotions distract your focus. Unlike most girls your age, there is a level of maturity inside you. And the biggest attribute I see? You do not trust people. You are still not too sure about me. Which is a wise approach for any intelligence operative to
take.”
Emma stared at Mrs. B. “Intelligence operative? Sounds like you’re talking about being a spy.”
“That is the alternative term. Yes.”
Emma paused. “Who do you work for?”
“An organization.”
“The FBI? No, wait. The CIA?”
“I am not at liberty to discuss that. But if you joined, that would be a different kettle of fish.”
“Why would I join anything without knowing what it was first?”
“Why? So you can play an active role in bringing down those who betrayed and murdered your father. Or you could wait at home. Send out your emails. Make your phone calls. Mail your letters. Yet I assure you that none of it will bring you the answers you seek.”
Emma knew she was right. The more she tried to push people for answers about her dad, the more she was met with silence. “Why do you need me? What do I add to all this?”
“I can answer that and all your questions…if you agree to join. Otherwise, that answer is classified.” Mrs. B unscrewed the barrel of the silencer and slipped it back into her purse. “Think about my proposal. If you are keen to join, message me back on the number I sent to your phone.” She put away her gun. “If I do not receive a message, then you’ll never hear from me again.”
Mrs. B stood up using her cane. She nodded to the bald man, who reached into his pocket and tossed Emma her car keys back. The bald man offered his arm to Mrs. B and she took it before disappearing into the dark hallway. Emma heard a door open and shut in a faraway room.
The lazy fan twirled above Emma as she pieced together what had just happened. Was Mrs. B for real? Could she make her into a spy? Did she even want to become a spy? Was she dreaming all this?
Emma pinched her arm and flinched in pain.
Chapter 4
Emma used her back to hold open the front door as she dragged the large wooden doggie cage inside the house. Emma hesitated. She didn’t want to scratch up Grandma’s polished wood floors, so Emma lugged the cage over to the Persian rug near the living room. Inside the cage, Snoopy wagged his tail as he struggled to stand with the plastic brace now hugging his midsection. His eyes focused on Emma as the dog’s nose pressed against the tiny metal bars of the cage. Emma went to her knees and Snoopy’s pink tongue poked through the bars, searching for a cheek to lick. Emma leaned forward to indulge his wishes. She couldn’t believe Snoopy was still happy to lick the face of the girl who did such an awful thing to him.
Emma pulled up on the latch that released the cage door, allowing Snoopy to waddle out of his cage and go for a tour around the old house. The dog did a circle around the dining room table with all its tall wooden chair backs. He paused at the French doors that led out into Grandma’s huge backyard garden, then continued through the strings of blue beads that hung over the door frame that separated the dining and living rooms. Snoopy found the kitchen and another set of French doors, where he paused to take another peek outside at the large garden. Satisfied with the first floor, Snoopy headed for the stairs.
Emma stepped in front of him, ready to intercept.
Grandma gently squeezed Emma’s arm. “Don’t baby the poor thing. If the stairs are too painful, he’ll let us know.”
Emma reluctantly stepped to the side.
The dog climbed the first step and paused.
Emma drifted closer. She couldn’t help herself.
But Snoopy resumed his climb. He took it slow and steady on each step, making his way up to the second floor. Emma followed and showed the dog around her bedroom. Next she headed for the other two rooms, but found Snoopy had ditched her.
Emma looked back down the hallway. Grandma smiled at something going on inside Emma’s bedroom. Emma came over and peeked.
Snoopy had snuggled up to a pillow on top of Emma’s bed. His eyes were closed as he took a nap.
“Smart dog.” Grandma chuckled. “Knows a good place to snooze when he sees it.”
“He must be exhausted. Stuck in a cage with a bunch of noisy cats and dogs and having all those humans poking him with medical procedures.” Emma smiled at Grandma. “Thanks for letting him stay here. I know you don’t approve of the pet thing…”
“Humans have no right to make animals into their servants. However, this dog is a victim of our society and deserves better treatment. I’m happy you’re willing to make amends for your actions and give this dog a better life. So in his particular case, I’ll make an exception. Hungry yet?”
Grandma made some homemade vegetable beef soup and baked bread. The hearty honey-wheat bread with crispy crust went so well with the soup that Emma enjoyed two pieces.
“You see? This is what you should be eating,” Grandma said. “Fresh vegetables and natural grains. Good for the mind and body.”
Emma didn’t want to hear another lecture. “I don’t eat that bad.”
“Tell that to the package of chocolate mini-donuts I tossed in the trash. Oh, and that receipt for a cookie-dough Blizzard at the mall? Do all New Yorkers eat that much junk?”
“Are you searching my pockets, now?”
“When I have to wash your clothes, yes. You wouldn’t have to worry about it if you did them yourself.”
Grandma didn’t understand Emma’s life. She had to go to school. Chill out from all the stress of everyone treating her like a dead fish. Do her homework. And now she had a dog to take care of. Plus some strange old lady wanted her to become a spy.
That reminded Emma. “Something has come up and I need to talk to you about it.”
Grandma carved out a slice of apple with her knife and took a bite. “Say your piece, little one.”
Emma wondered how she’d do this. Tell Grandma the truth? That some old woman with a gun claimed to be a spy and wanted her to become one too? Grandma wouldn’t go for that. Emma needed to come up with a good lie, something plausible that allowed her an excuse to leave the country. Spies always traveled to faraway places, right? In the movies they always went to Europe.
Emma stopped herself. That was it!
“There’s this agency that runs…an exchange program for international students…and they have openings for American students who want to spend a semester in Europe. What do you think?”
Grandma cut another chunk. “You’ve only been here a few months. Do you hate California that much?”
“It’s not that. I just think it would be fun. I’ve never been to France before and I’ve taken two years of French.”
Grandma chewed on her apple slice.
“And while I’m in France…I could see if there’s anything new I could learn about Dad.”
Grandma laughed. “Just because I’m an old freethinker, don’t assume I can’t still think.” She put her half-eaten apple down on the plate. “You want to use this excuse to snoop around France and cause more trouble. It won’t work. The French are tired of you harassing them about the investigation and showing up at their front door will just provoke them. They might even toss you in jail.” Grandma sighed. “Young one, your father is…”
Her voice faded. A sadness erased the glow from her face. The memories of her son were no doubt still sharp and painful.
Emma stopped eating and reached out for Grandma’s hand, gripping the beads around her wrist.
Grandma recovered a little. “It was an accident and we have to accept the truth. No matter how it paints your dad.”
A response pushed its way up Emma’s throat and she couldn’t hold back. “It’s not the truth. It wasn’t pilot error. Someone killed him, Grandma! And Dad’s killer is still running free. We have to do something about it. We have to keep trying. Seriously, how can you give up on your son like that?”
Grandma stared at the plate with a half-eaten apple core and skin on it. Tears formed in her eyes. “This doesn’t help either of us, you know.”
Emma instantly regretted pressing the issue. Her grandma didn’t deserve that. None of this was her fault. She didn’t cause this catastrophe in Emma’s lif
e. Dad was her son and Emma knew this must hurt Grandma just as bad.
She cleared her throat. “Grandma, I’m sorry that I—”
Grandma left the table and opened the French doors into the garden. She shut them behind her as she disappeared into the foliage.
Emma knew things couldn’t continue like this. Both her and Grandma needed answers. They needed this to end. Emma only saw one option available. She pulled out her phone and clicked out a quick text addressed to Mrs. B with only one word.
Yes.
***
On Saturday, the afternoon sun baked Emma as she lay out in the backyard, tanning her bod like a good California girl. It was only seventy-one degrees out, but the warm sun made it just comfortable enough to stay outside in her bikini. Emma was listening to the new Screaming Kelp album she’d downloaded last week. So far she was into it. Emma combed her long blond hair back and noticed Snoopy nosing his way through the herb garden. The dog quivered with energy as he sniffed each and every plant. His tail was wagging with constant approval. Snoopy was doing much better. He still needed the little brace for his back, but the little dog carried on with his new life with an enthusiasm Emma wish she had.
Grandma sat on one of the lawn chairs reading Ray Bradbury as she burned some sage in a clay pot. Grandma said the practice gave her wisdom and clarity while purifying the space. Emma thought the smell was pleasant, but she didn’t believe the smoke itself was good for anything besides developing lung cancer.
Grandma flipped over a page. Emma wondered if Grandma was still angry with her. Maybe she should make her a peace offering.
“Do you want to go to a movie tonight?” Emma asked.
Grandma didn’t lift her nose out of the book. “I’m always up for a good documentary.”
Emma forgot. Grandma’s favorite movie theater was the art house one in San Francisco. That was not what Emma had in mind. “How about something with romance?”
Grandma slipped in a bookmark and placed her book on her lap. “Something animated. Even if it’s a kids’ movie, I don’t…” Something distracted Grandma from finishing.
