Spy to the Rescue (5 page)

A
glass ball has thus far proven more resourceful than me at locating Strike's current location. I'm tempted to let my new friend Red figure out my next move. Maybe the smart nanomarble knows a way to stop the plane before it takes off and spring Strike from the crate where he currently slumbers. What would Dale Tookey do? I wonder. I'm no genius hacker, obviously, but if I put myself in the mind of a two- or three-year-old Tookey, maybe I can answer some basic questions. How do I find out where Strike's crate is leaving from? Where is it headed? What happens to the crate after the plane touches down?

On the bus home from Strike's condo, I pull out my phone and make the following discoveries:

Farmer's Field is a private airport on the southeast side of Sacramento.

If I Google the words
flight tracker
, I find many sites devoted to recording every aircraft, no matter how tiny, that takes off from any airport, no matter how tiny, anywhere in the world.

It will not be hard for me to keep tabs on the flight taking Strike and his crate to New York City.

There is a geo-fencing app that allows the user to set up boundaries around a particular location. Whenever a person, vehicle, animal, or crate bearing a comatose biological father leaves the geo-fenced boundaries, the geo-fencer—i.e., me—gets a text and an email with a satellite view.

In theory, I will be able to track any movement to and from the plane carrying Strike.

If I Google the words
live traffic cam
, I find many sites devoted to showing footage of dirty, rain-soaked highways with vehicles thundering past.

In theory, I will be able to keep continuous eyes on whatever is being used to transport Strike. The investigation into who set me up with the cheerleaders and the birthday invite will have to wait.

By the time I get home, I am not exactly confident I'm
as technologically adept as a two-year-old Dale Tookey, or even a red marble. But at least I have a plan. Or at least part of a plan. As I walk in the door, I prepare myself to put the other part into operation.

“How was Virus Club?” Dad calls out.

“Are they naming one after you?” Ryan. Of course. “One that crawls under your skin and irritates you more the longer it hangs around?”

I ignore my brother, who sits on the top of the stairs. Then I mosey into the kitchen, where Dad is annihilating an avocado. Already annihilated bits of sautéed chicken are piled up on a plate next to him. He's making guacamole tacos. I have approximately five minutes before he goes into a taco-eating coma and everything not taco-related becomes a blur to him.

“Tacos on the way,” he says, mid-avocado destruction. “Hope you're hungry.”

I go to the fridge and bring out a container of pomegranates and a lime.

“You're reading my mind,” he says.

I roll the lime on the kitchen worktop and slice it in half.

“I talked to Joanna before,” I say as I cut the lime.

“Who?” he says. “Oh, yeah. Of course. How's she doing in . . . um . . . Phila . . . Pittsbur . . . Brooklyn?”

“Not great,” I say. “She's finding it hard to fit in.”

“Hard to imagine why,” says Ryan, who has snuck into the kitchen. He grabs a lime half and goes to squirt it in my face.

“Not smart when I'm holding a knife,” I snarl.

“Cut it out, you two,” says Dad.

“You two?” I repeat, outraged. “I could have lost an eye!”

Ryan takes a suck of the lime and screws up his face. “Look,” he says, “it's almost like having Joanna right here in the kitchen.”

He's hugely not funny but I'm grateful for the opportunity to get back on message.

“Joanna doesn't make friends easily. Her relatives . . . I mean, it was amazing of them to take her in, but . . .”

“Your mother and I seriously considered it,” says Dad. His blatant bald-faced lie makes me feel less guilty about what I'm building up to say.

“I'd love to go and see her,” I say, like I haven't been working out the exact right way to phrase this request so it doesn't sound desperate or suspicious. “Just, you know, spend a couple of days hanging out. Let her know she's still got a friend.”

“That's the most beautiful, selfless thing I've ever heard,” sobs Ryan. He squeezes little droplets of lime
juice under his eyes to let me know how touched he is by my idea.

Suddenly, he lets out a loud yelp of pain and clutches his neck. As he does, I feel a movement inside my jacket pocket. As if something just jumped out and then bounced back in. Thank you, Red!

Ryan shoots me a furious look. Like he wants to pin the out-of-nowhere assault on me but can't quite figure out a way to do it.

“When would you want to go?” Dad says.

“Right now,” says Ryan. “I'll help her pack.”

“You really want to be away from home over Thanksgiving or Christmas?”

“Take the whole of winter,” says Ryan.

I put a preemptive hand in my pocket and clutch the restless Red.

“Columbus Day's coming up,” I say. Like I haven't thought about it. “I could go for the weekend. I'd be in constant touch. Ten texts a minute and pictures, endless pictures and clips of me at Yankee Stadium.”

Dad keeps pummeling avocado. I glance at Ryan. He wants this just as much as me.

“Let me run this crazy idea by your mother,” Dad says. He pulls out his phone and one-finger types a text to Mom. I mentally compile alternative scenarios if Mom no-nos the Joanna visit scam. Maybe Sacramento
Regional Transit has randomly selected me to ride the New York City subway system and then share my findings on the viability of a local subway system? Kind of far-fetched, I agree. Dad's text message effect tinkles. He looks at his screen and then at me.

“We've got air miles piled up we've never used. I think we've got enough for you . . .”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” I gasp. I rush to hug him but stop short. We both have knives in our hands.

“. . . and Ryan to go for the weekend,” he says.

I put the knife down. Just in case.

“What?” I say

“What?” Ryan repeats.

“He can be your—” Dad starts.

“I'm closer to fourteen than thirteen. I don't need a chaperone,” I shout. “Babies, actual babies, travel on planes by themselves. I don't need someone, especially him, coming along with me . . .”

I made expansive calculations as to how I was going to swing this trip to New York to save Strike. I did not foresee getting permission so easily but I also did not foresee this bombshell. How can I do my spy business with Ryan tagging along squirting lime juice in my eye?

I'm aware the louder I get and the more I glare at my father, the more I'm liable to put my spontaneous trip in jeopardy. I try to calm down. As I do, I suddenly hear
from behind me, “MumblemumblemumbleRyan.”

Great. Blabby has manifested from the ether. I don't even need to turn around to see her wrapping herself around Ryan. But I do and she is.

My brother grins at me. “Abby has family in NYC. They'd be happy to send her a ticket so she could come and double-chaperone you.”

“Double what?” I bawl.

“You're going to be falling down holes and choking on hot dogs. You need eyes on you at all times,” he says.

Abby buries herself deep inside Ryan's elbow. He gives me a smirk of triumph. I rein in my distaste and shrug in return. Will I enjoy traveling with them? I'd rather spend time sleeping under Strike's bed, but the grim presence of Blabby removes the potential annoyance of having Ryan get in my way once I begin my mission. He'll be so entangled in her web—I'm not being fanciful, she has little tendrils of spider web hanging off her hair and her clothing—he won't notice me.

I thank Dad with a peck on the cheek. Then I charge upstairs to nail down my travel plans for the next few days.

“B
ridget, Abby needs to sit next to the window or she gets anxious.”

“Bridget, get up and let Abby pass, she needs to go to the bathroom.”

“Bridget, Abby doesn't want her pasta. You take it and give her your chicken.”

“Bridget, you don't need your pillow. Abby can't get comfortable unless she has two.”

This early morning flight from Sacramento International Airport to JFK in New York is the worst journey anyone has ever endured. Not only did the person seated
in front of me shove their chair back as far as it was capable of going, leaving me approximately no space whatsoever, not only is the person behind me so entertained by whatever they're watching on their seat-back screen that they're moved to kick my chair every seven seconds, not only am I denied any escape from this nightmare because my—and only my—seat-back screen is not functioning and, despite my mentioning this on two occasions to Kimber the flight attendant, nothing has been done to fix it. Not only do I have to suffer all these indignities, but I'm stranded on a plane for six hours with Abby.

Subtract the time she spends mumblemumblemumbling to Ryan. And the time they spend touching their noses together and darting squelchy little kisses at each other. And the time she slumps unconscious against the window with her tiny mouth hanging open. And the time she crawls around in her seat trying to get comfortable. And the time she spends complaining to Ryan that she can't get comfortable even with my pillow! And that's still an unreasonable amount of time for anyone to have to spend eighteen inches away from Abby, her anxieties, her allergies, and her abnormally tiny bladder.

In between changing seats for Abby, changing my meal for Abby, and getting up to let Abby scamper off to the bathroom seventeen times an hour, I spend the rest
of the pleasant voyage buried in my laptop. Before Dad drove us to the airport early this morning—fun fact: Abby gets carsick in the front
and
back seat!—my attempts to track Strike's plane proved successful. The single-engine jet vehicle landed at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey. Ten minutes after the plane landed, a van exited the airfield. Through the wonders of the geo-fencing app, I am able to get a satellite picture of the van, and with the help of various live traffic cams, I have been able to follow it during the flight. The van takes the Holland Tunnel to New York. It makes various lefts and rights before turning onto Broadway.

Maybe Strike's in a show? Maybe sedating him and flying him in a crate is a way to combat his stage fright? Probably not.

Next time I check, the van has come to what seems to be the end of its journey. It stops outside something called the Dominion Brothers Building. A quick search reveals the following facts: The building dates back to 1913. It was named after the two brothers who sank their discount retail store fortunes into it. Frustrated by the cheapskate reputation their stores gave them, the brothers designed the building to be an awe-inspiring testament to their expensive taste. The reception area was built to look like a cathedral with a vast domed ceiling and sweeping
marble staircases. The building was, briefly, the tallest construction in New York. Unfortunately, the asking price for the apartments and office spaces in the building was so astronomic, more than half of the available floors remained uninhabited. The current asking price is $110 million. Guided tours around the ground floor continue on an hourly basis. I am about to read more when Ryan taps my arm.

“Bridget, get up and let Abby pass . . .”

I can't believe this. I have to put my tray table up, close my laptop, undo my seat belt, and wriggle out of my seat again? Can't she hold it? Apparently she can't. Before I can even push my tray table back in position, she's up and squeezing past Ryan. Suddenly, she lurches toward me, knocking Ryan's half-finished can of soda from its precarious perch on the arm of his seat. The contents foam all over my jeans and seep into the keyboard of my laptop.

“Mumblemumblemumbleturbulence,” I think I hear her say as she regains her balance and pushes past me.

I stare after her in disbelief. I turn to Ryan and wordlessly invite him to join me in staring after her in disbelief.

“
Always in the Way: My Story by Bridget Wilder
,” he says.

I say nothing. But inside I'm boiling with rage and I'm thinking,
That's not my story. I have an epic story.
And
buried deep inside there will be a footnote that will say,
There was no turbulence. She did that on purpose and she will pay.

I part ways
with Ryan and Blabby at the baggage carousel in JFK. Ryan and I make plans to check in with each other every few hours so our stories are straight when Mom and Dad call. We plan to meet on Monday at lunchtime so we can travel back to the airport together and catch our afternoon flight home.

“You going to be all right by yourself? You don't want me to wait with you till Happy Face gets here?” says Ryan, showing a tiny amount of brotherly concern for the first time this trip.

I shake my head no. “I'm fine. Go do your thing.” I don't even want to imagine what Ryan and Blabby's thing might be.

Ryan hovers for a second. Surely there isn't a hug coming? He settles on giving me a fleeting squeeze on the upper arm. And then he's gone, teetering under the weight of his overnight case and Blabby's bag of billowing nightgowns for unwell Victorian children. (I'm guessing that's what's in there. It could be the remains of an actual Victorian child.)

As for me, I'm traveling light. My backpack contains a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush, my soda-drenched
laptop, a few mini Snickers bars, and a box of marbles. It hits me that I'm venturing into unknown territory comparatively gadget-free, at least compared to the version of me that opened Brian Spool's Pandora's box of gadgets and could run like the wind, detect a lie from the merest twitch, and laser-beam a car in two.

Now it's just me and marbles. The marbles, I know, have the element of surprise on their side. They're a lot more aggressive than I am and they show no fear going places I would never venture. But are we enough? Yes, we subdued an intruder; yes, we found our target; yes, we lied our way across the country, but now what? Black Mask was one guy. One guy who wasn't expecting me or marbles. Whoever he works for knows about us now. Whoever he works for has the resources to put Carter Strike in a crate and fly him in a private plane across the country. I feel the confidence that got me to the baggage carousel start to dribble away. I'm on my own in a big strange city.

Fighting the urge to get back on the plane, I trudge toward the arrivals gate, where happy families are being reunited with loved ones. And how do I treat my own family? I lie my face off to them so I can save a guy I play a golf video game with every few weeks. I see more weary passengers light up as they spot their loved ones smiling
and waving at them. One particular family smiles, waves, and beckons in my direction. I keep trudging toward the exit.

“Bridget!” a few voices yell.

The smiling, waving, beckoning family is smiling, waving, and beckoning at me! And now that I focus on them, I see a very familiar face, although not a face I have ever previously associated with smiling.

When I contacted Joanna about my sudden East Coast trip, I was straight with her that I needed an alibi. This wasn't a hang out and catch up visit, this was me doing something mysterious connected to my enigmatic other life. And yet, here's Joanna, meeting me at the airport with . . . let's see who we've got here: a woman in her late thirties with lots of curly brown hair, several elaborately knotted scarves, and glasses pushed up on her forehead; a young boy, maybe five or six, clinging to Joanna's leg, who she's not kicking away or trying to stomp. And then there's a tall skinny boy, maybe my age, maybe a little older, with a shaved head, gray hoodie, and a Stop Bullying Now T-shirt. He seems just as enthused by my presence as the rest of the group Joanna described as barely civilized apes.

“Sam, please help Bridget with her bag,” says the scarf-laden woman as I approach them.

The boy with the shaved head eagerly goes to take my carry-on.

“I'm good,” I tell this Sam person with a grateful smile. I don't want a stranger anywhere near the marbles.

“I didn't mean to express male privilege,” he says, looking concerned.

“Alex Gunnery,” says the woman, sweeping me up into a vanilla-scented embrace. The feel of her scarves against my face is like a cool breeze on a summer day.

“Lovely to meet you,” she says in a rich, velvety voice. “Jojo told us so much about you. Finally we get to meet the famous Bridget Wilder.”

“Jojo's been telling me all about
you
,” I reply in as rainbow-filled a manner as I can manage while simultaneously shooting Joanna a look that says,
What part of alibi did you fail to understand?

“Did she tell you I've been to the moon?” says the little tyke, smiling to show the gap where his two front teeth should be.

“That's our secret, Lucien,” Joanna says, and she puts her hand on his head and ruffles his hair!

The only reason the Joanna I know would do such a thing would be to rub chewing gum into the boy's hair. But this is not the Joanna I know. This is someone I don't recognize, whose actions are incomprehensible to
me, who seems . . . happy?

“Avanti!”
Alex Gunnery suddenly sings out. “Lots of ground to cover. Lots of stops to make. You're going to see a whole different side of Brooklyn, Bridget!”

“That's great,” I chirp back.

The lovely Mrs. Gunnery heads out of the airport. Her tribe follows. I grab Joanna's arm and pull her back.

“Why the welcoming committee? Why am I going to see a whole different side of Brooklyn?”

Joanna shifts from foot to foot. She seems to not want to meet my gaze.

“I don't know,” she mutters. “They're clingy. I think they've put hidden cameras in my room. Something weird is going on with them.”

As she says this, Joanna turns away from me and looks longingly at the departing Gunnery family as if a second away from their presence is depriving her of oxygen.

Like I thought . . . she's happy!

“Joanna,” I say. “Did you want me to meet them because you really like them?”

She flushes bright red. “Are you demented? No, I don't like them. I just . . . I couldn't get rid of them. You know, like you used to have lice you couldn't get rid of.”

I feel a warm glow of familiarity as the Joanna I know makes a belated reappearance.

“I'm glad you've found a home where you're happy,” I say. “And you and that little moon kid are adorable together, but the fewer people who know I'm here, the better.”

“That's what I told them,” says Joanna. “But they made up this whole stupid list of things they wanted to do with you. Flea markets and thrift stores and little coffee shops where there's this kind of freestyle poetry reading and anyone can get up to read.”

Joanna's not just smiling when she tells me this; she has a wistful look on her face I've never seen before.

“I mean, I hate it,” she says quickly. “The words don't even rhyme.”

I'm in something of a predicament here. Strike is my reason for lying my way across the country, but my grumpy best friend is unexpectedly happy and, even though it would physically pain her to admit it, wants me to share in her happiness. The least I can do is spend a little family time with Joanna and the lovely Gunnerys, even if it's only so I can cynically use them to help me accomplish my spy mission.