Indexing: Reflections (Kindle Serials) (Indexing Series Book 2) (8 page)

“Same as we’re giving the school: we’re here to investigate reports of an unusual smell, we don’t believe it’s toxic, but in the interest of containment and public safety, we’re going to have to ask the media to keep a wide berth. You may have to stay here and distract them. The last thing I need is some ace reporter following us into the woods and getting footage of a gingerbread house.”

“Maybe she could get some footage of the inside of the oven,” suggested Sloane. There was nothing kind about her tone. Then again, there so rarely was.

“Let’s not make more of a mess for the cleanup squad than we have to, all right?” I pulled into a spot near the front of the school. The reporters who’d been standing outside the news vans immediately started pointing in our direction, and a few began moving our way. “Remember, a good incursion is an incursion that doesn’t require anyone to accidentally burn down a news station.”

“Spoilsport,” said Sloane. She pulled her shirt over her head, flinging it unerringly at Jeff—who, as the only person in the car who was attracted to women, apart from Sloane herself, had turned bright cherry red as soon as he’d realized what she was doing. She pulled on her button-down shirt without bothering to undo the buttons and grabbed her jacket. “We ready?”

“We’re ready,” I said, and opened my door.

My team may be odd at best and dysfunctional at worst, but we’re good at what we do, and thanks to the number of narrative incursions we’ve dealt with and survived since Demi first joined us, we can pull ourselves together fast. The reporters on the scene didn’t see our bickering or our quick wardrobe changes. No, they saw a pale, severe-looking woman with black hair marching toward the front of the school, followed by a thin man who walked with the grim purpose of a mortician, a woman whose hair was virtually white and whose face was set in a seemingly permanent scowl, and a younger, darker-skinned woman who moved with the quick uncertainty of the trainee.

Then their view was blocked by Andy as he swooped in and took over. We were almost to the school doors when his voice boomed, “All right, settle down, and I’ll be happy to answer all your questions—”

I smirked, and we were inside, and the first hurdle was behind us. Now the real work could begin.

High schools around the country tend to follow a similar floor plan: the office is almost always located near the front, where it’s convenient for visiting parents or people from the school board. I spent a lot of time in the office back when Gerry and I were in high school. He was never big on kicking the crap out of people who called him a freak. I, on the other hand, was almost Sloane-like in my furious desire to see my fellow students bleed.

Oh, yeah. I was definitely thrilled to be back in high school.

The question of which of the doors lining the hall was the one we wanted was answered when one of them creaked open and a head popped out. A red-topped head, with familiar features, pulled into a familiar expression of mild distress. I perked up, trying not to let my delight at seeing my brother show. He was at work, after all, and we were trying to keep our relationship as quiet as possible. Still, I offered him a quick, private nod, and he returned it, making no effort to conceal his relief.

“I’m Agent Henrietta Marchen,” I said, offering my hand. He pushed the door open further, revealing the people who were clustered in the office behind him. They were watching our interaction with the wary suspicion the general public tends to reserve for vague, black-clad government agencies. It wasn’t a bad survival mechanism, all things considered. “My team and I are here about your possible chemical spill.”

“Gerald March,” he said, taking my hand and shaking it. There: we had established ourselves as strangers in the eyes of his colleagues. “I’m a teacher here. Principal Hanson is this way.” He let go of my hand, gesturing for me to come into the office. I, and my team, did as we were told.

The office was actually a warren of smaller offices, all connected to a large hub that was dominated by a secretary’s desk. The secretary was a woman who looked to be somewhere in her midfifties, sitting behind a computer that was four generations out of date and pretending to take notes as she eavesdropped on the people around her.

I decided not to call her on what she was doing. The more people we had backing up the official story about what had happened here, the better off we were going to be. I turned a politely bland look on the other inhabitants of the office, careful not to smile. Most people didn’t like it when I smiled. “Hello. I’m Agent Henrietta Marchen, and this is my team. May I ask which of you is Principal Hanson?”

“I am,” said a woman with ash blonde hair and a sensible lilac pantsuit. She took a step forward as she spoke, putting herself between us and the others. I decided I liked her. Any superior who didn’t try to hide behind her people was okay by me. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand exactly what’s going on here. I called the police, and they didn’t know anything about your organization, or what its connections are to the EPA.”

Damn. “I was unaware that you’d spoken to local law enforcement. I’m going to have to call the office and ask them to send in a cleanup team.”

“You’ll be able to talk to them yourself; I called them when the reporters showed up outside,” replied Principal Hanson. She looked at me coolly. “May I assume your office decided to contact them? Were you not going to get enough media attention without stepping in?”

Double damn. “I assure you, ma’am, my office operates under conditions of utmost secrecy, to avoid the possibility of triggering a public panic. The chemical spill we’re here to investigate is almost certainly not toxic. Going on what was described by Mr. March, it’s probably a form of rare but naturally occurring fungus. You think we want to spend the next few weeks fielding calls from panicked homeowners convinced that we’re covering up an outbreak of flesh-eating black mold? I don’t know about you, but my agency has better things to do.”

“Well, we certainly didn’t contact the press,” said Principal Hanson, thawing only slightly. She might be willing to accept that I wasn’t to blame, but that didn’t mean she was letting go of her anger just yet.

By my elbow, Sloane cleared her throat. I glanced in her direction.

“Agent Winters?”

“Pardon me for interrupting, ma’am, but I think if we’re looking for the source of a media leak, and we’re all policing each other, maybe we should be considering the only person in the room with an Internet connection.” Sloane sounded almost bored. She probably was. There was punching to be done out there in those woods, and as long as we were standing here arguing with the locals, she wasn’t getting the party started. The bloody, violent, unpleasant party.

As one, we all turned to look at the secretary. She reddened, hunching her shoulders defensively.

“I did not stay after hours so that I could be accused of wrong-doing by a stranger,” she said. There was a shrill note in her voice that screamed “guilty” more loudly than anything shy of a confession could possibly have done.

“No one asked you to stay after hours in the first place, Natalie,” said Principal Hanson. “Did you alert the media that we had a possible chemical spill on school property?”

Natalie sat up a little straighter and sniffed. “Well, I suppose that’s a matter of opinion.”

“She posted on the school’s Facebook group,” said Demi. Most of us turned to look at her. She shrugged, ears turning red as she lowered her phone. “There are two. One official one, for the school to make announcements, and one that’s supposedly set private, for complaining about the administration. She posted about the chemical spill on the private page. Which—oh look—has three local reporters listed as ‘friends.’ Have you been having issues with the press lately? Because it looks like this lady has been making sure they heard about every little thing that happened on campus.”

“That’s private, you have no right without a warrant,” snapped Natalie.

There were two ways this could go. Thankfully, Sloane went with the better option. She looked almost amused as she asked, “What do you think this is, lady, an episode of
Law & Order
? Facebook is a public resource. If logging into her account gives Agent Santos access to your ‘private’ group, then that’s what she’s going to do, and that’s what we’re going to act on. Since you’re the one who spilled details of an ongoing EPA investigation, I think maybe you should be a little nicer to us right now.”

That was my cue. “Natalie,” I glanced at her nameplate, “Barrick, you are hereby under arrest for endangering a federal investigation, and for exposing government secrets on a public forum. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a secret court of law.”

“I have the right to an attorney,” she said, all traces of smugness or superiority gone as she jerked to her feet and took a step back, away from me, away from Principal Hanson, and most important, away from Sloane. “I want an attorney.”

“Oh, actually, no,” said Jeff. “That’s just for civic authorities. We’re the
government
. We don’t have to give you an attorney. We’re allowed to make you disappear, as long as we fill out all the appropriate paperwork.”

“I just wanted people to realize there was corruption at this school!” protested Natalie, suddenly frantic. She took another step backward, and stopped as her shoulders hit the wall. “They’re so busy chasing make-believe bullies that they don’t look at the pay imbalances, at the people sneaking food out of the cafeteria, or the kids stealing from the supply cabinets—”

“We have a high population of low-income students,” snapped Gerry. He sounded angrier than I was accustomed to hearing him. “What do you want them to do, flunk all their tests because you treat pencils like they’re made of platinum? We’re here to teach. Students don’t learn with empty stomachs and second-hand notebooks. They learn with food, and paper, and
understanding adults
.”

Natalie looked around the room, apparently seeking a friendly face. She didn’t find one. She slouched a little. Then her eyes fell on Sloane.

Sloane didn’t say anything. She just smiled. That was more than enough. The unfortunate Natalie fell over in a dead faint, hitting the floor with a loud, boneless thud. For a moment, everyone was silent, looking at the collapsed secretary.

Principal Hanson spoke first. “She’s fired when she wakes up, of course. The union won’t be able to protect her from this one,” she said. “Is there any way I can convince you not to arrest her? The reporters out there are going to be suspicious enough when it comes out that she’s been dismissed from her position, especially if she’s been feeding them information about the school. I’d rather not see what happens if she disappears completely.”

“If we’re given full cooperation with the rest of our investigation, I believe we can be lenient in this instance,” I said blandly. “Please understand, however, that this is for your safety, and for the safety of your students. It’s important we not encounter any further complications.” The threat didn’t need to be spoken to be heard. That’s the nice thing about threats. Sometimes they can make themselves clear without any outside help.

“Of course,” said Principal Hanson. “How can we help?”

“You called it in, right?” asked Sloane, turning on Gerry. “I remember your name from the report.”

“Yes,” he said, glancing toward Principal Hanson. She would probably interpret his discomfort as related to our jobs, since no one likes to be singled out by a government agency. That was fine. I knew that he was actually uncomfortable about the idea of being identified as my brother. The more wrong everyone’s assumptions were, the better off we’d be.

“Good,” I said. “We’ll need you to show us the source of the smell. We have an extra face mask you can wear, in case we determine it to be dangerous. Principal Hanson, if you’d remain here in case the press causes any additional trouble, we’d be very appreciative. One of our agents, Andy Robinson, is outside speaking to them now. When he makes it in, please let him know we’ve gone on ahead. He’ll determine for himself what the best course of action is.”

“Certainly,” said Principal Hanson. She didn’t look thrilled about the fact that we were walking off with one of her people, but she didn’t raise a fuss either. After her secretary calling down the local news on our heads, she didn’t have a leg to stand on.

“Follow me,” said Gerry, and started for the office door. We fell into step behind him.

The last thing I saw before the door closed was Principal Hanson staring after us, a disturbed look on her face. Her world was changing, and she didn’t like it one bit. I understood the feeling, but I couldn’t stick around to commiserate with her. I had work to do.

# # #

Gerry stayed quiet until we emerged at the rear of the school, and the rest of us followed his lead. He’d been working here long enough to know where the cameras and poorly designed vents were located, and the last thing any of us wanted was to be overheard while we were trying to get to the incursion.

The smell of freshly cut grass assaulted us as soon as we stepped out of the hallway and onto the blacktop behind the school. The smell of gingerbread followed, worming its way under the grass, seeming almost to whisper promises in my ears.

“Does anyone else hear that?” I asked.

“Mild synesthesia has been associated with the smell of gingerbread houses in the past,” said Jeff. He didn’t sound any happier about it than I felt. “It’s a way to lure even those who are not necessarily vulnerable to the promise of sweets. Suddenly there’s a whole second layer to the temptation, one that the conscious mind may or may not be able to process.”

“You can make
anything
sound boring, did you know that?” asked Sloane. She seemed genuinely curious, at least until she punctuated her question by turning and punching Gerry in the arm.

He yelped. “What did you do that for?”

“You could have called and warned us that we were coming into a press situation,” snapped Sloane. “We might have been able to park down the street, and keep Andy with the rest of the team.”