The 39 Clues: Rapid Fire #4: Crushed

by Riley Clifford

  Ian couldn’t take it anymore. Natalie had been fuming ever since Ian had told her he would be going to see Amy. “Natalie,” he began, but she cut him off before he could get any further.

  “I can’t believe you’re going,” she snapped. “I honestly can’t believe that you are going to Boston to see the Cahills and that you are leaving me here alone. What am I supposed to do if she . . . if she . . .” Natalie’s face screwed up like she was trying to shove an awful thought into the back of her brain. “What if she comes here and it’s just me? Didn’t you think of that? Didn’t you think of me at all?”

  Ian paused, and when he opened his mouth, he spoke slowly. “She can’t . . . she can’t leave America, Natalie. That would go against her parole. I’ve made sure. I checked.”

  “Oh, right, because she’s clearly so good at obeying the law,” said Natalie. She pushed her plate away. “If you go, and if she comes here, I’ll never forgive you.” She stood up and stomped out of the dining room, slamming the door hard enough to make the Waterford chandelier rattle on its chain.

  Ian looked down at his plate. The filet with béarnaise sauce and fingerling potatoes had been prepared by a classically trained chef, and yet it tasted like sawdust to him. He felt a creeping, distasteful thing sneak up on him — sympathy. Those wretched Cahills. They’d changed him over the course of the Clue hunt, and now their unwanted effect lingered. Having a conscience was such a nuisance.

  He’d have to make up with Natalie before he left. He didn’t blame her at all for being nervous about Isabel leaving prison. He was nervous, too, and he wasn’t even the one their mother had shot.

  Ian picked his napkin out of his lap and followed Natalie out of the dining room.

  “Natalie?” he called down the hall. But she wasn’t there. And she wasn’t in the gallery or in the theater or in the kitchen or the library. She wasn’t in the conservatory or the study or her bedroom.

  He was on his way to the parlor, passing the door to the secret wing of the mansion — the Lucian wing — when he heard the sound of shattering glass. “Natalie?” he said, putting a hand on the door. The knob was cool, and it twisted easily when he turned it. He stood there for a moment, looking at the knob. He couldn’t imagine that Natalie would go in there. They’d had an unspoken agreement to avoid it since the Clue hunt ended — avoid looking at it, talking about it.

  But someone was in there. So Ian opened the door.

  As soon as the door opened, a flood of lights streamed on one by one down the short hall as the chandeliers lit up. The floor was paneled in ebony wood, and the walls were lined with paintings of Lucians doing amazing things — being crowned, winning battles, ruling the world. It smelled of close air and dust; not even the servants had been inside. Ian felt as if he were trespassing, breaking the rules, even though that was ridiculous. This was his house, and with his father hiding in South America and his mother trapped in North America, there was no one present to scold or forbid him.

  Slowly, he made his way down the hall. “Natalie?” he called again. But there was no answer.

  At the end of the short hall was another door. He opened that one, to another hall. It had never occurred to him before how strange a setup this was. It was as if the wing were designed to be difficult to transverse — a series of rooms to be passed through, one by one, to reach an end destination, rather than one long corridor with doors along either side. Down at the end of the second hall, someone turned to look at him.

  Someone tall, and someone who was not Natalie. The figure was all in black, from boots to mask. He couldn’t tell for sure, but he was certain that the intruder smiled at him.

  “Oi! Stop!” he yelled, taking off down the hall. The lights began to flicker, and the chandelier closest to his end of the hallway gave a shudder and then crashed to the ground, landing a few feet from Ian. Glass and metal shattered over the wood floors, spraying Ian with shards and splinters. If he had been any slower, he’d be buried under that mess, tangled in it like a grotesque knot in a skein of thread.

  He half jumped, half skidded over the shattered chandelier and picked his way down the rest of the hall. But with a great groan, the second chandelier fell. Ian jumped out of the way, and continued his run down the hall, dodging the third and fourth chandeliers as their chains gave way and they slammed down to the floor.

  Ian looked up at the last broken chain. A cable ran from the chain, along the ceiling, to the previous chandelier, and so on, until the cable reached the door. Something had triggered it; something had caused it to crash — the door opening. Someone had rigged the chandeliers to fall.

  His spirit sagged down to his knees, dragging what felt like his lungs and all of his digestive organs with it. One of his parents had done that. Mother or Father, one of them — both of them — would rather have Natalie or himself be crushed by half a ton of glass and metal than have them make it through the wing and into the Lucian stronghold.

  But there wasn’t time to dwell on it. There was someone in the house, in this wing, and they needed to be caught.

  Ian shook glass from his hair. The intruder had disappeared by the time he made it past the chandeliers. He barged through the next door.

  It was the room made entirely of mirrors. Ian thought that Isabel had had it built because she liked to look at herself. Now he knew better.

  A single lamp hung from the center of the mirrored room. And then, there was movement. The figure in black was there, though he couldn’t tell where. He jumped at the reflection to his left, spun around to the one on his right. It was dark and the shadows tricked him; Ian could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his breath coming in quick bursts.

  The intruder’s image was cast all around him, but Ian couldn’t tell which was the real person and which ones were reflections. The intruder was scrambling at one of the mirrors, clawing at the side of it as if trying to find a latch.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. The figure in black spun around to look at Ian, and Ian finally thought he knew which way to go. He saw something that sparkled dangling from the intruder’s hand — a piece of jewelry? Glass? But then the intruder grabbed a thick bar from his trouser leg — a pipe or a crowbar, Ian couldn’t tell. He hesitated and stepped back, thinking he was about to be clubbed. But the intruder raised the bar and smashed the mirror. On the other side was a window that faced the garden. That was quickly smashed as well, and the intruder clambered outside.

  Ian ran over, reaching out to try and grab a leg, an arm, something. They were on the top floor, and the intruder had already scampered up onto the roof.

  There was no time to consider the three-story fall from the roof, or the fact that the intruder was apparently armed with at least a crowbar, or that Ian was supposed to be on a plane to America in a few hours. Ian grasped the window frame, put a foot on the ledge, and hoisted himself outside.

  The night was cold for April, and it was much windier high up than it would have been on the ground. Ian’s heart climbed rapidly to his throat when he realized what he was doing, but there wasn’t any other way. By the time he found Bickerduff and had the police summoned, the intruder would be gone.

  And if there was anything more important than catching them, it was knowing who they were. Anyone who was brave or foolish or desperate enough to break into the Lucian stronghold needed to be stopped.

  Shifting his weight, Ian swung around and grabbed the gutter above him. It was slimy with rain, leaves, and grime, and the first realization that he could slip and fall hit him. But he bent his knees anyway, firmed up his grip, and jumped.

  With a grunt, he swung one leg up above the gutter. He forced his weight into his stomach, pressing hard against the slick tiles. The figure in black was still trying to climb up the steeply pitched roof, and now that he heard Ian heaving himself upward, he scrambled all the harder.

  He dug his fingers into the tiles, pulling his other leg up, and then he let himself have a moment to remember that he was still alive.
But there was only time for a moment, and he was digging the toes of his Prada shoes into the roof to brace himself, to push higher and harder.

  The wind whipped his hair into his eyes as he flung an arm out as far as he could to try and grab the intruder’s trouser leg. He brushed the fabric with his fingers, but the person in black kicked at him. Ian took it in the shoulder, and he lost his grip. The movement caused the intruder to lose balance as well, and they both began to slide.

  The tiles were too slippery to stop him; his sweater caught but it just tore beneath him. He tried to grab at something, but his hands couldn’t grasp anything at all. His toes hit the gutter, which jolted under the impact. The intruder landed beside him. Ian tried to grab a black-garbed arm, but the gutter groaned again, and snapped.

  They continued to fall. Ian grasped the gutter like a climbing rope, his clothes scraping down the side of the stone façade. He would have kept swinging — likely until the gutter broke completely free of the roof — but there was a tree growing close to the house and he got tangled up in the branches. The intruder skidded across the wall in the same way, but ended up near a downspout. He jumped over to it like a squirrel and began to skitter down to the gardens.

  Ian kicked at the tree, trying to find a branch thick enough to stand on. He’d chased him that far — he’d not let him just get away now. He let go of the gutter with one hand and grabbed at a mess of sticks and leaves, hoping they would hold him as he pulled himself as quickly as possible into the tree.

  Branches whipped at him as he scrambled down — he was going to look an awful mess whenever he caught up to this intruder.

  There was movement beneath him, and Ian jumped, rolling into the person in black. They both toppled over, but both were soon back up on hands and knees. Ian lunged, grabbed a foot, and pulled. The person in black went down flat on his stomach. Ian snatched at the mask and ripped it off. And then he flung himself backward.

  Isabel smiled at him and pushed her hair back from her face.

  Ian felt as if he had been doused in ice water. His mother was there. There, in front of him. Isabel picked herself up from the ground and smoothed her black clothes with her hands. He shivered; his skin prickled up and down his back, and the first twinges of a headache crept over his brain.

  Both sets of amber eyes flickered to the garden gate. It was old, made of damp, weathered wood and great iron bolts. The wall around the garden was a good ten feet high. There would be one way out. One little door stood between Isabel and freedom. He shot to his feet, and he and his mother raced to the gate.

  Ian beat her there, barely. He pressed his back against the wood and covered the latch with a hand.

  “Step away from the door, Ian,” said Isabel. She leveled her gaze at him, and Ian thought he might drop dead on the spot. It pierced him like a poisoned dart, like he would never stop bleeding.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “You’re supposed to be in America.”

  “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to, darling. Though I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon,” said Isabel. “Now, stand away from the door, Ian. I won’t ask again.”

  He knew that he shouldn’t. He knew that he should find some way to restrain her; he should get the police; he should send her back to jail. He should do that much for Amy and Dan, for himself and Natalie.

  She looked at him in a way that made his throat close and his eyes water. Ian Kabra did not cry, but he thought in that minute he might. She was steel and he was paper and she tore right through him.

  But if he stopped her, she’d go back to prison. There would be no more parole, no more Isabel loose in Boston.

  Amy would be so happy. She’d be so proud.

  He’d never have to worry that Isabel would show up again.

  She’d never show up again. For a birthday, a polo match . . . anything.

  Perhaps his conscience was too new; he hadn’t used it enough yet to know how to use it properly. Perhaps he just wasn’t good at doing the right thing.

  Ian stepped away from the door.

  Isabel smiled again, and swept past him. “Thank you, darling.”

  She opened the door, stepped through, and shut it behind her.

  Shame swept over Ian like a tidal wave. He stared at the garden door, and it was hard to breathe. The realization of what he had done smacked him in the face and it was cold, like a block of ice. He jerked the door open and stumbled out into the street.

  But there was no one there. Isabel had gotten away.

  No. He’d let her go.

  Ian looked back at the house. For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel worthy of living there. He didn’t deserve it.

  Ian Kabra would never cry. But he did sit down on the ground, something else he thought he would never do, and put his face in his hands for just a moment. Somehow, he remembered to breathe. It was funny, how you could keep breathing when you just made the biggest mistake of your life.

  In the mansion, he found Natalie in the library.

  “What on earth happened to you?” she gasped. “Your trousers!”

  “I went into the . . . the Lucian wing.”

  Natalie’s head jerked backward like he’d just told her he’d be wearing flannel and denim from now on. “Why?” she asked.

  “I thought I heard someone in there.”

  “Did you?” she asked, gripping the arm of the chair she sat in. Natalie could be a nuisance; she could be tiresome and petulant. But she looked so small and scared, like an actual little sister, that he couldn’t bring himself to let her know that her nightmares were coming true.

  “No,” he said. “It was nothing.”

  “Then why do you look like that?” Natalie asked.

  Ian looked down at his clothes. He was covered with tiny bits of glass dust. The toes of his polished leather shoes had been reduced to unintentional suede. His sweater was gashed through across his stomach, and his polo shirt was stained an ugly greenish brown.

  “I took a walk in the gardens,” he said.

  “All of that happened from a walk in the gardens?”

  “You know I’m not the outdoorsy type. Good night.”

  He left the library and wandered to his room.

  He could never tell Amy, and he couldn’t go to America. It would be too much to bear, a secret too heavy for the airplane to lift across the ocean.

  And the more he thought about it, the angrier he grew with himself. Making the right choice — the good choice — should have been so easy. He could see that now. All it would have meant was saying no to Isabel.

  Stand aside, she would have said. And Ian would have said no.

  I’m not asking again, she would have said. And Ian would have said no.

  But he hadn’t said anything at all. And, worst of all, his mother hadn’t even expected him to. Isabel had known how weak he would be.

  How could feelings be this complicated? He liked Amy; she was so simply good. So smart, and so sweet, and so pretty, for someone with such a limited wardrobe. But, strangely enough, he loved his mother.

  Amy wouldn’t like him anymore after this. What would she think if she knew? That he was a Kabra through and through, just like they’d all always thought. That no good could come of him. But what right did she have to think ill of him? She didn’t know how hard it was to have a mother like Isabel. She didn’t know the pressure, the pain, the constant expectations.

  She didn’t have any idea of what it was like to be a Kabra. She and that brother of hers just stumbled in and out of life’s biggest challenges, making it out alive because of a bit of luck and the kindness of others — like himself.

  He doubted that she could so much as say her own name without stuttering, or tie her shoes without being racked with uncertainty. It was pathetic, and just another example of how far removed from his world she was, monetary wealth or no.

  And he knew that none of that was true, at all.

  He grabbed for the phone. I
t was a miserable thing, to be responsible for breaking your own heart.

  Amy was having a great afternoon. She’d made up the bed in the guest room and painted her nails, and now that all of her tasks for the day were done, she found that she couldn’t sit still. She perched on the couch, but then wandered to the kitchen, and then outside, and then back to the living room. It was as if a tiny motor had kicked on behind her stomach and it was powering little wheels that ran all over her arms and legs, gears turning and turning and making energy that needed to be used.

  She wondered if this was what it felt like to be Dan.

  Back in the kitchen, Nellie was whipping up a batch of macaroons while jamming out to her iPod. Sometimes, Amy thought Nellie forgot that there were other people around. Every now and then she’d stop in her stirring to use the spoon as a guitar, and she’d wail out a few licks.

  Dan wandered in and took a good look at Nellie. The buzz from her music could be heard across the kitchen. “Nellie,” he said, “Atticus and I are going to eat Doritos and Pixy Stix for dinner. Cool with you?” He shot her a thumbs-up.

  “And you used my heart as a Kleenex,” Nellie sang. “But you’re the one full of snot!”

  “Awesome,” Dan said, pulling out a bag of chips — only for Nellie to smack him in the chest with a carrot.

  Amy’s cell phone buzzed in her back pocket and she answered it quickly.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Amy.” It was Ian. Amy grinned, biting her lip when her stomach flopped over. He really did have a great accent.

  It’s Ian, Amy mouthed to Nellie. Nellie, still dancing, gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  “OooOOoooh,” said Dan, squeezing his carrot tight.

  Nellie grabbed for Amy’s hand and tried to dance with her while she was on the phone. It was so silly, but Amy couldn’t help but to give in. She held the phone with one hand, letting Nellie spin her around with the other. “All — all set to come over and visit? I’ve Dan-proofed the whole place.”