“There’s seventeen apartments in that building,” I say. “Some of them have four or five people in them.” I try to do the math and figure out how many potentially guilty parties that makes. I’m no good at math.
“The police have been able to make contact with them and they’ve all been able to account for what they were doing. All except . . .”
I didn’t do it.
“The police haven’t been able to contact Carter,” says Dad. “He’s not answering his phone. If he’s in his apartment, he’s not opening the door.” He leans forward in his chair, making a gun with his hand. “Remember that Law & Order episode where Briscoe decided there were exigent circumstances and he didn’t need a warrant to gain access to the perp’s house? That could happen here. They could just break in.”
“No one’s breaking in,” says Mom. “We’re not anywhere near the stage where anyone’s considering pressing charges. I just think . . . has Carter made contact with you at any time today?”
I need to be very careful how I respond to this. If I pick a fight with my parents over their lack of faith in Strike, which I sort of want to do, it will create a situation where they feel competitive with him and they’ll want to prove how responsible and protective they are. Which will result in me being watched a lot more closely. If I indulge in a hysterical foot-stamping tantrum, they’ll think he’s been overindulging me—maybe spoiling me with stolen gifts? I can’t be seen to defend him too aggressively. All I can fall back on is the one emotion that I’m honestly feeling right at this moment: confusion.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why would he . . . I mean, he has that rug business . . . I don’t understand . . . This must be a coincidence . . . Will you tell me if the police find out anything?”
Mom bridges the two-cushion gap between us and tries to my ease my distress with a soothing hug.
“Of course we will. And if Carter calls you, you’ll let us know immediately?”
Dad hauls himself up from the depths of his leather chair. He sits on the arm of the couch stroking my hair.
“And maybe from now on, when you go over to his place, one of us should come with you.”
Say nothing.
I let my legitimately concerned parents continue to hug and stroke me. Strike’s innocent. I know Strike’s innocent. I’m pretty sure Strike’s innocent. Why would he steal software from one of my mom’s vans? He wouldn’t. Unless he hadn’t moved on. Unless he was still knee-deep in secret spy business. Why would he send me those texts unless he knew he was going to be accused of something? Unless he really wanted me to believe he had nothing to with it.
Unless, unless, unless . . .
CHAPTER FIVE
Mildly Liked
“Really, Bridget? Really? How much more awesome? How much bigger and better? Do you have a chocolate fountain made of gold?”
Casey Breakbush’s face is bright red, her eyes are wild, her hair is perfect. Her two constant companions, Kelly Beach and Nola Milligan, purse their lips, put their hands on their hips, and shake their heads in synchronized disapproval. Casey’s face is inches from mine. I hear her breathe. She sounds like she just ran a mile. Except the energy she would have devoted to that, she’s using to hate me. And I don’t know why.
I’ve been in school approximately ninety-six seconds. I have not looked at nor spoken to anyone. My thoughts, up until this second, have been exclusively focused on the elusive Carter Strike, who, since yesterday’s alarming texts, has remained off the radar.
“Why, Bridget?” Casey is revving up again. “For what? What does it get you?”
A small crowd of onlookers, including several Cheerminators, shoot suspicious glances my way, taking the temperature of this confrontation. Will it be worth filming? Will it turn physical? Will there be hair pulling and face slapping? I hope not, for Casey’s sake, because Section 23 may have lied to me and manipulated me, but they also molded me into quite a tough little cookie.
Casey puts her hands together. I brace myself, ready to block a sudden slap. She starts applauding. Kelly and Nola join in. There’s a smattering of applause from the onlookers.
“Great performance. Totally bought it. I trusted you. I thought we were friends.”
Now I’m really confused. There was a brief moment, back when I was Brian Spool’s unquestioning puppet, when I cunningly infiltrated Casey, Kelly, and Nola’s airtight friendship. For a moment, I breathed the same rarefied peach-scented air as these slim, pretty girls. But they were smarter than I thought and they saw through me. They smelled a rat where Bridget Wilder was concerned. They never fully froze me out, though. They nod hello at me from time to time. But friends, Casey?
She thrusts her phone in my face. Like, right in my face. Screen against nose. The same way Big Bow Valkyrie confronted me yesterday.
I step back a few inches. The phone continues to hover close.
“What?” I finally say. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
Kelly’s applause grows more vigorous. “Stop!” she cries. “Enough! There’s no more awards.”
“How about a Phony?” says Nola. “Like a Tony, but for someone who’s completely fake.”
Not bad. I give her an impressed look and return my attention to the phone held tightly in Casey’s hand. I see an Instagram party invitation. A party invitation for an awesome event three nights from now. A party that’s going to be so stellar and packed with excitement and magic it will ruin the lives of anyone who does not attend. A party that will make the parties of anyone unlucky enough to be throwing similar events on the same night look shameful and embarrassing. A party thrown by . . . wait a minute . . . unless there’s another Bridget Wilder attending Reindeer Crescent Middle School, this insanely opulent and extravagant party seems like it’s being thrown by me.
“But . . . I’m not having a party.” I gulp. “I didn’t write this.”
Kelly starts applauding again.
“Stop clapping,” I yell. “This wasn’t me. I’m not . . .”
“Not trying to get attention by having a pathetic excuse for a party on the same night as Casey’s birthday?” says Kelly.
“No!” I yelp. Oh my God, this is just like the Cheerminator accusation.
“It’s fine, Bridget,” says Casey, her voice suddenly calm and serene. “Have your party. I hope it’s a big success. I hope it is packed with excitement and magic. But why do you have to be mean? Why would you put me down to make yourself look good?”
“But . . . but . . . but,” I splutter. I hear the onlookers immediately start imitating me. Is Brendan Chew in the crowd? Yup. Camera phone capturing every second of my discomfort. Already working up his “butt butt butt” impression.
“Casey.” I sort of want to take her hand to emphasize my sincerity. But I also fear she’d pull it away and demand the nurse sterilize it.
“Casey,” I say again. “I’m not having a party. I’ve never had a party. I probably will never have a party.”
“You’re having a pity party right now,” smirks Nola. Zing.
I ignore her and stay focused on Casey. “And even if, for some reason, I was having a party, why would I for a second consider having it on the same night as yours? Think about it. For one, I would be spending the weeks running up to your birthday hoping that maybe I’d get an invitation.”
“Don’t hold your breath. Or do,” sneers Nola.
“Two. I’m mildly liked.”
Casey stares at me, unsure of what I just said.
“You don’t throw a party, especially not one with that kind of hype, if you’re only mildly liked. You’re either a total mystery and are going all out to make a name for yourself or you’re deluded about your level of popularity. I’m neither of these things. Some people think I’m okay. Some people find me sort of annoying. Nobody has strong feelings about me either way. I’m mildly liked.”
Casey blinks a few times and jiggles her phone at me. “You didn’t do this?”
“Do y
ou really think I did? I mean, really?”
“Then who?” says Casey. She turns to Kelly and Nola. They walk away, deep in fast, whispery, paranoid conversation. I am forgotten.
Except by the person who’s having fun messing with me. Who has the time and malice to weasel their way into my Instagram account? Who wants to see me in a constant state of squirming embarrassment? I glance at the onlookers as they melt away. One of you, perhaps? I watch Brendan Chew mouthing “butt butt butt” to a grinning fellow student. You?
If only I had my Glasses of Truth rather than my normal Glasses of Vision, or my Tic Tac cameras, or my beloved laser lip balm, but Section 23 confiscated most of the gadgets that made me such a powerhouse spy. Am I capable of hunting down my clever tormentor armed with just the power of my own instincts? Maybe. But right now I feel a little bit fragile. That mildly liked thing struck too close to home. (Would it hurt Dale Tookey to send me a single text?) I bet Strike has a souvenir or two from his days as a Section 23 agent. I bet he’s got a little stock of gadgets hidden away in that condo of his.
I decide that’s as good an excuse as any to head out to Suntop Hills and pay my biological father, the retired spy, a visit.
CHAPTER SIX
The Virus Club
The inside of Strike’s apartment looks like the aftermath of a crime. A few white cardboard containers from a local Chinese restaurant sit on top of his coffee table, along with three remote controls and a few discarded pages from the sports section of an old copy of the LA Times. A vinyl turntable, the most expensive item in the room, is plugged into the wall beside Strike’s deep, saggy leather couch. A small pile of ancient 45s and albums nests on the floor, along with a big pair of headphones. I take a quick look at the single on the turntable. My heart sinks. “If I Could Only Win Your Love” by the Strangled Geese—again!
I texted my mom that I was going to the debut meeting of the Virus Club, an after-school group dedicated to studying and talking about the spread of rare and deadly diseases around the world. She texted me back one word: ugh. It was a bizarre lie designed to buy me a couple of hours before my presence would be missed at home. But as I pad slowly through Strike’s living room to the small kitchen, it occurs to me I wasn’t lying. I really am attending a meeting of the Virus Club. Dishes are piled up in the sink. Grease stains mark the white stove top. More Chinese food containers and a half-full peanut butter jar are the only occupants of the fridge. I back out of the kitchen and head toward the bathroom. Towels are strewn on the floor and there’s a constant drip-drip-drip from the shower. Empty shampoo bottles lie by the side of the trash can below the sink, almost as if someone threw them from the shower when they were done and never bothered picking them up. I pause outside Strike’s bedroom door. This is a clear invasion of his privacy. Yes, he gave me a key and told me to drop by anytime, but I’m starting to feel like an intruder.
“Strike,” I call out. “It’s me. Bridget. Wilder.” Should I remind him how we’re related? I grit my teeth and push open the door to his inner sanctum.
Well, there’s the rest of the LA Times, some of it spread across his California King–size bed, some of it on the floor with footprints smudging the ink. Four pillows are stacked up against the headboard, allowing him to watch the big-screen TV that hasn’t been attached to the wall but is perched on top of an old trunk. No pictures anywhere. No framed photos. No posters. No signs of life. In fact, the entire apartment looks exactly like it has on the other occasions I’ve been here.
“This place isn’t fit for pigs,” I told him on each of my last few visits.
“Next time you come it will be,” he kept promising. “I’m cleaning it all up. Top to bottom.”
Maybe I should take on that mammoth task while I’m here. Find a bucket and mop and surprise him with a fresh, clean, uncluttered apartment when he comes home. If he ever comes home.
I hear a sound outside the front door. The sound of a key entering a lock. I sag with relief. Strike’s back. I don’t have to clean his smelly house! I hurry out of the bedroom. As I move into the living room, I can hear that the key being pushed into the lock doesn’t fit. I go to open the door. Then I stop. A different key is being pushed hard into the door. With similar lack of success. I freeze. A third key opens the door.
I turn and run.
Someone’s in the house. My instinct tells me it’s not Strike. I pull off my sneakers in case they slap against the floorboards and give me away. I need a hiding place. The bathroom? Like Mom said: ugh. I make my way back into Strike’s bedroom, close the door behind me as quietly as I can, and then look for somewhere I won’t be found. I squat down and peer under Strike’s bed. There might be space for me to hide but I am not lying under there. I can see things growing!
I also notice a small, octagonal-shaped piece of black plastic no bigger than a quarter. Perhaps a discarded gadget from Strike’s Section 23 days? I’m tempted to risk touching the forest of mold to grab it but I hear the footsteps getting closer.
I slide open the closet, pull the door closed after me, and squeeze past the rails of shirts and jackets. There’s more room than I thought back here. Not only that, it’s cleaner and neater than the rest of Strike’s apartment. A few wooden file cabinets are pushed against the sides and a safe is built into the wall. On impulse, I open one of the cabinet drawers. Empty. I try a few others. Nothing there. I tiptoe over to the safe. As I get closer, I see scratches and dents surrounding the steel lock. Someone’s already tried to gain access.
I stare at the lock. Anagrams are my thing, not combinations of numbers. I have no hope of opening this safe, yet I suddenly find that I very much want to open it because A) it’s there and B) others before me have tried and failed.
I reach out for the lock and give it a quick, exploratory twist. It’s cold to the touch and hard to budge. I twist a little more. With an effort that causes a sharp pain to shoot up my arm, I get the lock to move. The sequence of numbers I try might seem a bit self-centered, but Strike moved to this smelly condo to be near me. He put himself in harm’s way to save me on more than one occasion. Why wouldn’t the combination to his wall safe be my birth date? 8242002. I turn the lock until the sequence is complete. On the final 2, the door opens.
I feel a quick burst of emotions. I’m obviously enormously proud of myself for solving a numbers-based problem. I feel incredibly touched that Strike would choose my birth date. I hadn’t recognized how close a relationship we’ve developed in such a short time and now I’m scared. Scared that I don’t know where he is. Or what sort of trouble he’s in.
I reach inside the open door and pull out a box. A rectangular metal box. Light, silver-colored. Something small, round, and loose rolls around inside.
“Give it to me,” says a low, muffled voice.
I gasp in shock. I’m not saying I’d forgotten why I was hiding back here, but I’d hoped I was safely hidden. The intruder follows my path past Strike’s shirts and jackets. I can’t see his face. It’s completely covered by an eyeless black mask.
But I can see the gun. The one he’s pointing straight at my face.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Balls of Fury
“Is Strike okay?” I ask the masked intruder in as nonquavery a voice as I can muster. “What did you do to him?”
In reply, the man goes to grab the metal box from my grasp. I let go before he takes hold. The box falls on the ground and the lid bursts open. Round glass multicolored balls roll chaotically across the ground.
“Marbles?” I say. “Who keeps marbles in a safe?”
I drop to my knees to pick them up. I hear a grunt and look up to see the black eyeless mask gazing down in my direction. How does he see? He grabs me roughly by the elbow and jerks me upright. I am not going to give him the satisfaction of showing fear or displaying any sign he’s caused me pain. He pushes the gun close to my face. I don’t know how good a job I’m doing of hiding my fear.
From behind me, I hear a weird rumbling sound l
ike a train passing underneath.
Down on the floor, the marbles that fell out of the tin have formed a straight line and are rolling toward us seemingly under their own power. The marble at the head of the line suddenly hurtles into the air and flies—literally flies—down the barrel of Black Mask’s gun.
The noise from under his mask is a mixture of shock and anger. He shakes the gun to remove the marble. There are no circumstances in which I want to be around an angry black-masked man furiously shaking a gun. But I really don’t want to be around such a guy when he’s shaking his gun in a small hidden compartment in the back of a closet. I start to sneak past him, but he bars my way with his free arm.
That’s when I see the marbles fly up his sleeve. I think there’s about twenty of them, but it’s easy to lose count because they’re moving so fast and they’re marbles! His arm is jerked up in the air and then backward. I hear a crack and a muffled howl from beneath the mask. He drops his gun and tries to pull off his jacket. I watch in fascination as more marbles swarm up the legs of his pants. Suddenly, he’s a kicking, stamping, flailing explosion of uncontrollable limbs. He can’t reestablish dominance of his arms or his legs. The marbles walk him backward out of the closet. All the while, increasingly hysterical muffled screams come from under the mask. I think I see something move under there. Something small and round. A few somethings that are small and round. And then the screaming stops.
Black Mask staggers backward. He makes a valiant attempt to claw the mask off his face, but whatever’s in his sleeves makes his arms flap like a demented bird. He loses his balance and falls backward. He lands with a thud on the ground. But he doesn’t lie there. He’s slowly rolled away.
I have not moved for the past couple of minutes. I don’t know if I’ve even breathed. I just stand in Strike’s closet and stare, not quite able to process what I just saw.
And then the marbles come back.
They’re rolling in a circular formation now. Picking up speed, making a sort of rrrrrrr sound as they rumble toward me. I squeeze my eyes shut and hug myself, fearing what happened to Black Mask is now going to happen to me.
Spy to the Rescue Page 3
