“Hey, Maidenkirk,” Jonathan grumbled as he felt the tension mount within him. His jaw tightened, his eyes twitched, and his stomach clenched as he pondered how he had come to find himself in such a situation. How was it possible that his parents—the human equivalent of the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz—were facing charges of treason?
“Hammett,” Jonathan said, his voice cracking. “Is it true? Are my parents spies?”
“I’m going to give it to you straight, kid,” Hammett said as he pulled the toothpick from his mouth. “I just don’t know. I’ve met your parents, and to be frank, they don’t seem smart enough to steal ketchup from McDonald’s, never mind classified documents from the US government.”
Jonathan’s eyes grew glassy as he fought the urge to cry. “Mom and Dad love ketchup. They keep a bottle hidden under their bed just in case aliens come by unannounced.”
“I think I speak for the whole room when I say, what?” Shelley said as she looked over her glasses at Jonathan.
“Apparently aliens love ketchup… or at least that’s what my parents think,” Jonathan explained.
“Here’s the bottom line, kid: The evidence points to your parents using their job as dog walkers to get into the Harrington residence and download a file from their computer.”
“What was the file?” Jonathan asked.
“The STS,” Hammett answered.
Jonathan shook his head. “I don’t know what that is.”
“The Secret Tunnel System is a grid of underground passages linking the White House, the Capitol, and the Supreme Court in case of a nuclear attack. However, if the map of the tunnels were to fall into the wrong hands, it could also prove the perfect means to gain access to our country’s most important buildings.”
“And my parents stole the map of the STS?”
Hammett nodded.
“You have actual proof?”
“Your parents couldn’t figure out how to transfer the file, so they e-mailed it to themselves. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, they left their e-mail account open on the Harringtons’ computer,” Hammett explained, nervously fidgeting with a button on his jacket.
“Is it just me or does that seem like a big mistake for spies to make?” Shelley asked.
“It’s one of the many questions we have regarding this case. There’s a lot we don’t understand. But we also can’t overlook the evidence. And the evidence doesn’t look good. To be honest, it looks bad—real bad.”
“Life in prison is not a pretty thing, especially for spies. They’re usually kept in solitary confinement. Most of them go crazy. But they’re the lucky ones. Remember what happened to the Rosenbergs?” Nurse Maidenkirk muttered, still paging through pictures of taxidermy animals.
Shelley pursed her lips and grumbled, “Stop bringing up the Rosenbergs or I’ll lock you in the closet and throw away the key… and yes, I realize there isn’t a closet in here… nor do I have any keys… not even to my own house… because my grandparents don’t trust me… but that’s not the point… just stop talking about the Rosenbergs!”
“I need to see my mom and dad,” Jonathan announced to the room, his face awash in perspiration. “Even if it’s true, even if they are spies, they’re still my parents.”
“As far as you know,” Shelley supposed. “After all, they betrayed their country. Who’s to say they didn’t kidnap you? Maybe your real name is Arnold and you’re from one big khaki-wearing family?”
“Arnold?” Nurse Maidenkirk repeated. “I could see that.”
“So now they’re spies and kidnappers?” Jonathan exclaimed as he shook his head.
“Cool it, kid. We don’t have all the facts, which is why I’ve pulled some strings and arranged to get us into the CIA to see them,” Hammett said.
Jonathan’s eyes widened. “The Central Intelligence Agency?!”
“More like the Central Intelligence-less Agency!” Hammett barked. “Those clowns couldn’t solve a game of Clue!”
“But they’re in charge of my parents’ case?”
“No, kid. We’re in charge. We might live just north of Dumb and just east of Incompetent when it comes to books and numbers, but espionage we can handle!”
OCTOBER 30, 11:44 P.M. CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY. LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Why is it so hot in here? Jonathan thought as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He wanted to open a window, but there weren’t any. The hallway was narrow but long. The walls, institution gray, were empty except for the interruption of a few beige doors. Track lighting showered the space in a yellowish tint that left Jonathan, Shelley, and Hammett looking more than a little jaundiced. Surreal. There was no other word Jonathan could think of to describe the situation. What had happened to the dull existence of Jonathan Murray? Afternoons spent staring at the wall or asking his parents to please turn down the sound on their video game. Sure, he had always thought his life boring beyond measure. But now he kind of missed it. The stability of boredom—the sense that he knew what was coming each day.
The sound of a door opening drew Jonathan’s attention to the end of the hall. A woman, about fifty, in an oversized navy pantsuit appeared. That’s one tough-looking lady, Jonathan thought as he watched her march toward them. She reminded him of a wrestler he had once seen on television: a woman whose signature move was pouncing on top of her opponents until they passed out.
Hammett narrowed his eyes, flared his nostrils, and coolly grumbled, “Agent O’Keefe.”
“So this is the traitors’ spawn?” she snarled, looking Jonathan up and down, taking in everything from his scuffed sneakers to the loose thread hanging from the collar of his shirt.
“I’ve never been so jealous in my life,” Shelley muttered. “I would kill for that kind of nickname.”
Hammett shook his head. “Keep it together, doll. This isn’t about you.”
“Exactly!” Shelley huffed. “I’m just the friend of the traitors’ spawn! What a lame claim to fame.”
“Where are my parents?” Jonathan asked Agent O’Keefe, nervously slipping his hands in and out of the pockets of his khaki trousers.
“What’s your name?” the agent asked.
“Jonathan.”
“My name’s Jennifer O’Keefe and one day I’m going to call on you to testify against those people you call parents. And you may not believe it now, but when that day comes, you’re going to say yes,” she announced calmly. “The truth has a way of changing people.”
“Enough with the chitchat. Where are they?” Hammett interrupted.
“You have ten minutes,” Agent O’Keefe said, motioning to a nearby door.
OCTOBER 31, 1:02 A.M. CIA INTERROGATION ROOM. LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Mickey and Carmen Murray sat side by side at a small wooden table. Soda cans and crumpled candy wrappers were strewn across the floor. Light beige walls, speckled with years’ worth of stains, surrounded them. This was an interrogation room, a place where countless criminals before them had come to face the bleak reality of their lives. And yet, the Murrays appeared upbeat, almost happy. Did they understand they were at the CIA? That they had been arrested for treason? Did they even know what treason was? These were the questions that flitted through Jonathan’s mind upon spotting his parents, both smiling widely.
“Mom! Dad!” Jonathan called out while running toward them, arms extended.
Pulling them into a group hug, Jonathan once again fought the urge to cry. Not because he was embarrassed, but rather, he knew it would distract from what they needed to do—save the Murrays.
“Champ! What are you doing here?” Mickey asked, pushing his shaggy blond hair behind his ears.
“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?” Jonathan asked pointedly.
Carmen shook her head and sighed. “I knew we forgot to tell you something.”
“It’s not Mom’s fault; alien trackers are obsessed with secrecy. They kept reminding us not to tweet about them,” Mickey said, rolling his eyes. “Like we know how to
use Twitter!”
“Alien trackers?” Jonathan, Hammett, and Shelley repeated in unison.
“Yes!” Carmen said as she thrust both arms up in the air as if in the throes of a cheer routine. “Dad and I were recruited to work for the Alien Intelligence Agency. Pretty impressive, huh?”
“Wait! Aliens are real?!” Shelley said, grabbing hold of Jonathan’s arm. “You know what that means, don’t you? We’re even less special than before!”
Hammett snapped his fingers. “Listen up, folks, and listen up good!”
“Not to be rude,” Mickey interrupted, “but aren’t you a little old to be friends with Jonathan?”
“I’m not Jonathan’s friend, Mr. Murray, I’m the private detective he hired to help you guys. So what do you say you two give me the facts and give ’em to me fast.”
“Okay, well, my name is Carmen Lucia Murray and I was born on June twentieth—”
“Not about you! About what happened! Why are you in the big house? What did you do?” Hammett asked as he paced around the room, toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“It all started one afternoon when Carm and I were playing Surfing Zombies and these two teenagers showed up at the door. At first we thought they were selling Girl Scout cookies and we were like ‘Heck yeah!’ We love us some Thin Mints.”
“But it turns out, they work for the Alien Intelligence Agency,” Carmen added as she pulled something from her pocket. “They even gave us their card.”
“They needed our help to catch aliens masquerading as humans,” Mickey explained proudly. “We had to get them this one file—a list of every undercover alien on Earth.”
Jonathan’s eyes widened as a lightbulb went off in his head. His parents had spent their lives reading comic books, watching science-fiction movies, and playing video games, thereby making a visit from the Alien Intelligence Agency seem within the realm of possibility to them. But then that small nagging voice returned. The one Jonathan had fought so hard to silence. What if his parents were acting? What if this was all a ruse to maintain their covers? Who were these people he called Mom and Dad—lovable idiots or international operatives?
“So we went to Fred’s house—” Mickey continued.
“Wait, who’s Fred?” Hammett asked.
“A poodle,” Mickey replied. “He’s blind in one eye and smells like musty clothes, but he poops on command, and that’s a big deal in our world.”
“I can imagine,” Hammett responded stiffly before motioning for Mickey to continue.
“The girls gave us two slips of paper. One with the computer’s password and one with the file name. But we lost the scrap of paper with the file name on the way there.”
“And all we could remember was that it was short and started with an s,” Carmen chimed in. “So it took us a while to find the right one.”
“You know what sounds really good right now?” Mickey said while staring off into space.
“Life in prison?” Shelley muttered under her breath.
“A burrito with extra guacamole.”
“Yes!” Carmen responded. “Let’s order delivery!”
Hammett pulled the toothpick from his mouth, stepped toward the Murrays, and grumbled, “You’ve been arrested for treason—you don’t get to order delivery!”
“Harsh,” Mickey mumbled.
“Seriously,” Carmen agreed.
Jonathan stared at his mother, flashes of his childhood flitting through his mind. This was the woman who had taught him—albeit incorrectly—how to tie his shoelaces. The woman who had pushed a candle into a cupcake to celebrate his birthday every year or so (Carmen Murray had never been very good with details like dates). Jonathan leaned in until he was mere inches from her face. He noted the wrinkles that crept away from her eyes. The scar on her left nostril that looked more like an enlarged pore than the last trace of a nose ring. The bronze color of her skin that darkened around the mouth. Jonathan recognized it all. But did that mean he knew her? Was she his mother or a stranger? Or both?
“Mom,” Jonathan said before turning to his father. “Dad… please just tell me the truth. I might not be the smartest kid in the class or be able to run around the track without wheezing, but in this area, as crazy as it sounds, I can help you. But you have to tell me what really happened.”
“I told you we should have told him!” Mickey snapped at Carmen before turning to Jonathan. “We always planned on telling you about the money.”
“What money?” Jonathan asked as Hammett and Shelley stepped closer.
“The money from the African prince,” Carmen answered.
“The African prince?” Jonathan repeated.
“He left us a million dollars in his will. Pretty cool, huh?” Mickey added with a confident smile. “I’ve already picked out a new surfboard. And a skateboard. And a television—”
“Wait, why would an African prince leave you even one dollar, let alone a million dollars?” Jonathan interrupted. “That makes no sense.”
“May I interject?” Shelley said before clearing her throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Murray, did this African prince’s lawyer contact you by e-mail?”
“Yes.”
“Did he or she ask you for any personal information?”
“No… well, except for our Social Security numbers, dates of birth, mothers’ maiden names, and our bank account number,” Mickey answered.
“If I had a dollar for every time someone told me they’d been contacted by an African prince, I’d have two dollars. Or technically only one, since the other couple didn’t tell me, I just saw them on the news.”
Hammett grabbed Jonathan’s arm and pulled him to the other side of the room. “Good news, kid. It’s looking more and more likely that your parents are just a couple of dimwits who were used as pawns.”
Jonathan smiled. The world suddenly made sense again.
“But the people who used your parents,” Hammett continued, “the people they sent the STS file to… we don’t know who they are, but there’s little doubt they’re going to use the map of the tunnels for nefarious purposes.”
“Nefarious?” Jonathan asked, unsure what the word even meant.
“Criminal, evil…”
“What about Fred the poodle’s owners? Maybe they know something.”
“Fred the poodle’s mother is a secretary for the Nuclear Planning Committee and his father is an executive for the Scholastic Aptitude Test, also known as the college entrance exam,” Hammett explained. “We believe they targeted Fred’s mother because of her dreadful organizational skills.… She didn’t even know she had a copy of the STS on her computer until your parents stole it.”
Whack!
The door to the small room flung open, loudly banging into the wall.
“Time’s up!” Agent O’Keefe announced, marching into the room.
“We’ve still got three minutes,” Jonathan argued as he stared at his watch. “Or two minutes… no, wait…”
“Telling time’s never been his thing,” Shelley explained to the agent. “Actually, to be honest, nothing’s ever really been his thing.”
“What’s that?” Jonathan asked Agent O’Keefe, noting the paper dangling from her left hand.
“This is what we call a bureaucratic waste of money,” the woman answered as she held up a drawing of two teenage girls. “My boss brought in a sketch artist on the off chance these two were actually telling the truth.”
Hammett grabbed the paper. His face blanched. His chin quivered. His eyes twitched. The toothpick fell from the corner of his mouth. His left leg started to tremble uncontrollably, much like a dog whose stomach was being scratched.
“Hammett, are you okay? Should I call a doctor?” Jonathan asked.
“No,” Hammett said quietly as the tremors slowed.
“Is there a problem, Hammett?” Agent O’Keefe probed as she stepped closer.
“You could say that.”
Agent O’Keefe smirked. “No one ever said defendi
ng traitors was easy.”
“They’re not traitors.”
Rolling her eyes, Agent O’Keefe remarked, “Don’t tell me you believe in aliens?”
“No. But I do believe in the Order of Merium.”
OCTOBER 31, 1:48 A.M. CIA INTERROGATION ROOM. LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Shelley craned her neck, stepped onto her tiptoes, and widened her eyes as she stared at Hammett. So contorted and awkward was the small girl, Hammett thought she might be in the throes of a terrible muscle spasm brought on by a lack of potassium. This kid needs a banana, he thought, just as Shelley parted her lips and whispered, “Did you say the Order of Merium?”
Hammett nodded.
“Man, I wish I had a burrito,” Mickey mumbled, still seated next to Carmen at the table in the center of the room.
“Dad! You have bigger problems than Mexican food!” Jonathan said before turning to Hammett. “What’s the Order of Merium? And how does Shelley know about it?”
“Johno, Johno, Johno,” Shelley said, shaking her head. “You clearly wasted your education on useless stuff like multiplication and geography, but not me, Johno. Not me.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes and wiped the sweat from his forehead. If ever there was a time he wasn’t in the mood for a Shelley-ism, it was now. But experience had taught him it was easier to let her talk than to try to stop her.
Shelley adjusted her glasses as she did anytime she wanted to emphasize her words. I’m reminding people that I’m smart, she thought. Smart people wear glasses. Never mind that she had met tons of dolts in glasses and geniuses with perfect vision; this was Shelley’s theory and she was sticking to it.
“The Order of Merium is a band. Very cutting-edge. I would describe their sound as something along the lines of pregnant dolphins crying out for food… with a light drum track in the background.”
Hammett looked at Shelley and smiled. She might be deluded, but she sure did know how to spin a tale.
“The Order of Merium is actually a secret society located in the western part of Bulgaria,” Hammett explained. “They have nation status, meaning that Bulgarian authorities have no power on their soil.”
The League of Unexceptional Children--The Kids Who Knew Too Little Page 3
