Spy to the Rescue (4 page)

T
he 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.

“I
s 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 like 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.

I hear the marbles
rrrrrr
straight past me. I open a
cautious eye. I glance down at the ground. One by one, the marbles hop back into the metal box. When the last one is safe inside, the lid snaps shut.

“Nanomarbles
,
” I explain
to Black Mask as he returns to consciousness. He says something like “Mmm mmmm mmmm.” After he's come to terms with the fact that his mouth has been sealed with an extra-strong, extra-sticky brand of duct tape from Strike's laughable excuse for a supply closet, he starts to struggle. And then he realizes his wrists and ankles have been similarly bound to the rickety wooden chair on which he sits in the living room. He gives me a look of pure loathing. It doesn't fit the somewhat angelic face I saw when I peeled off the scary rubber mask. He looks more like he should be singing in a church choir, except for those eyes, which are boring straight into me and wishing me a life of pain and misery.

I jiggle the silver metal box at him. His eyes widen. His “mmmm mmmm”s have a hint of panic.

“I used to have a black-and-gold tracksuit that was nanopowered. So I like to think I'm up to speed with the latest in nanotechnology. That's why I think these little critters . . .”

Once again, I shake the box, and this time close to his face so he hears the glass inhabitants clatter off one
another. He flinches and rears back, almost falling off the chair.

“. . . are nanopowered. If I let them loose, they'd probably find some new parts of you to explore. Or we could just talk.”

Still holding the box, I move carefully to the back of the wooden chair. I take hold of the end of the tape, and with one not-quite-as-smooth-as-I'd-hoped pull, it rips away from his mouth.

“Aaaaah!” is the first thing he says. I wince at the red marks on his lip and chin.

“Where's Strike?” I demand.

In reply, he eases back in the chair, tilts his head, and gives me a cold look through half-closed eyes.

“Who are you?” I say.

Again, nothing.

“Who do you work for? Section 23?”

I harbor a secret fear that, even though I ended Brian Spool, his organization might have regrouped like a worm that grows a new head after the old is cut off.

Non-Black Mask gives me a pitying look and a smirk. So the good news is, he doesn't work for Section 23. The bad news is, his smug expression suggests whoever he does work for makes Section 23 look like a lemonade stand.

His smile and his continued silence chip away at my confidence, as, I'm sure, was his intent. I could let the nanomarbles loose on him again, but I have no idea how to control them. They may leave him incapable of giving me any information about Strike.

I put the metal marble box on the coffee table, walk to the side of the saggy couch, and pick up Strike's big headphones. I place them over Non-Black Mask's ears. Then I switch on the turntable and put the needle on the 45. The sound that has marred many a visit to Suntop Hills fills the intruder's ears. I watch him squirm as the nasal, yodelly vocals begin. As soon as he sees the amused look on my face, he starts nodding along, acting like he enjoys the whining in his ears. Let's see how he likes it the next twenty-seven times I make him endure it.

As the awful song plays, I walk around the living room letting Non-Black Mask see how little his presence interests me. I stop a few feet away from the front door. There's something on the floor. A few flattened objects, some green, some white. I reach cautiously down to pick one up. It's a foam packing chip. My mom's been here!

Or . . . Non-Black Mask must have unknowingly tracked them in. That seems the more likely option. But what would he have been packing? I slip a couple of the foam chips into my pocket. The song on the turntable
reaches its whiny conclusion and I make my way over and restart it. The superior look on his face is gone, replaced by a rebellious one.
I can wait this out
, it says.

We'll see.

I walk back into Strike's bedroom. Holding my breath, I crouch down and look under his bed. Still hideous and unhygienic. I reach for the small, black, octagonal object. At first I think it might be an abandoned piece of chocolate and, for about an eighth of a second, consider putting in my mouth. I shudder and return to my senses. It seems to be plastic. It feels hard, it has the thickness of a coin, and it's grooved around the edges. If it's not a Section 23 gadget, maybe I can pretend it is and use it to intimidate Non-Black Mask. I slip it in my pocket and return to the living room, where, once again, my favorite song is coming to a close.

He wears his defiant expression as I take up position in front of him. I reach in my pocket and pull out the foam packing chips.

“What was in the crate?”

He tilts his head toward the turntable, daring me to play it again. This strategy might not have worked the way I hoped it would. I want to hear this stupid song less than he does and I can only hear the tinny sound that spills through the headphones.

I pull the little black octagon from my pocket and place it in the palm of my hand. I hold it out to him.

Everything changes.

His eyes widen. He struggles with the duct tape that binds him and tries to push the wooden chair away from me.

“Don't . . .” He's actually speaking! Why didn't I do this right away instead of making myself suffer through that stupid song again? “Be careful with that. Put it down,” he says, trying to sound calm and failing. Good gadget instinct, Bridget!

“Why?” I ask. “What does it do? What happens if I do . . . this?”

I pretend to throw it at him. He lets out a noise that sounds like
yeep
.

I watch his panicked eyes flutter around the room. They fall on his mask, which I suddenly suspect he wasn't wearing just to be scary. He was wearing it because he didn't want to breathe in anything toxic.

I walk across the living room, pick up his black mask, and put it over my face. The smell of dried sweat and rubber is not fragrant. The mask may be featureless to the terrified observer, but on the inside, there are small breathing holes dotted around the nose and mouth areas. It's like looking through a thin curtain. I can see enough to know the guy in the chair is currently very nervous
and fidgety. I get close to him so he can understand my muffled voice. I hold up the little black octagon.

“I don't know what this does. But I'm guessing what I'm wearing means it doesn't affect me.”

I flip the chip in the air and catch it.

“It's not a toy,” he screeches.

“Okay. Now we're getting somewhere. You're finally giving me a little information. Keep going.”

I flip the octagon again.

“Stop! You'll set it off. It triggers a powerful sedative.”

I pull off the mask. Too smelly.

“What was it doing under Strike's bed? Why are there foam packing chips on the ground? Did you sedate Strike so you could pack him in a crate and send him somewhere?”

The guy grimaces at my questions. I push the octagon closer to his face. He sighs and gives me a nod.

“He's going to be fine. If he cooperates.”

“Cooperates with who?” I shout at him. “Who's got him? Why would they need to sedate him?”

“You need to walk away now,” the guy shouts back, and I suddenly see emotion in his face. “Don't get involved in this. It's too big for you. Go now and I won't tell anyone you were here.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” I snap. “You packed my
biological father in a crate like he's a . . . a . . . hat stand. Or something. Tell me where he is!”

I stare at him. He stares back.

I feel a sudden, insistent tapping at my foot. I look down. A little red marble is bouncing off the side of my shoe. I reach down to pick it up. It hops up and down in my palm.

“No, don't . . . ,” says the guy in the chair.

“I'm not—” is all I manage to get out.

The red marble bounces from my palm inside the guy's jacket. He squirms and moans in fear and discomfort. I hear the sound of glass clinking against plastic.

My phone receives a text.

I inhale sharply. My first thought is,
Mom!
She's found out there is no Virus Club.

But a quick look at my phone tells a different story. A much nuttier story. A text has been forwarded from another phone. Presumably, the guy in the chair's phone.

Crate leaving Farmer's Field Arr NYC: 7AM

The red marble hops out of the guy's jacket—where it had been searching his phone!—and back into my hand. I look down at the glass ball.

“Thanks, Red,” I say. The marble bounces up and down in my palm and then jumps into my pocket. Strike may be unconscious inside a packing crate in a plane
bound for New York, but at least I've made a new friend.

“So we've got the where,” I tell the guy. “Now we need the why. Are you recruiting him, is that it?”

The guy almost smiles. “That broken-down old has-been? We just need him for . . .”

“Leverage?” One of Brian Spool's favorite words. One I hoped I'd never hear again. “What leverage does having Strike in a crate get you?”

He shakes his head. “I gave you a chance,” he says. “I told you to leave. That's all you get from me.”

I see from the resolve in his face that he's not kidding. I could play the awful song again. I could let Red and his/her friends take a crack at him. But I've been here too long. I check my watch. It's after six. I need to go home and figure out what to do with the little information I have.

I toss the guy his mask. It lands in his lap. He starts to struggle and pull against the tape.

I go to leave Strike's apartment. As I do, I drop the octagonal device on the ground and stamp down hard on it.

The guy yells, “Nooooo!”

I'm out the door a second later. Behind me, I leave only silence.