Spies Like Me

by Doug Solter

  Emma’s heart melted all over her blouse. She had to save him.

  Chapter 2

  Emma gently scooped up the small terrier into her arms. His fur was wet and sticky. Her nose detected an awful smell coming from the dog as he shivered in her arms. Emma carried him over to the Mercedes. She managed to pry open the passenger door before placing her precious cargo on the leather seat.

  Emma ran over to the driver-side door and jumped behind the wheel. She did a quick search on her phone for the nearest animal hospital. She pressed for directions and peeled out, flying around one of the famous cable cars as it crawled up a steep hill.

  When she reached the animal hospital, Emma came in way too fast. She braked hard and late, causing her Mercedes to jump over the curb of the parking space and scrape the crap out of the car’s bottom. As if the gigantic scratch across the side wasn’t enough.

  Emma ignored the damage and scooped up the terrier. It moaned and shivered again as she carried the poor creature through the sliding glass doors. Inside the small waiting area, Emma noted a girl at the marble-topped desk.

  “I hit him with my car! He’s bleeding and needs help.” Emma said it over and over again, her voice cracking. Her emotions flooded her brain with craziness. The stench of death still lingered on her clothes.

  Hearing the commotion, the vet’s assistant came in and checked the dog. She took it from Emma and rushed the animal inside one of the treatment rooms. Emma was about to follow when the girl at the desk insisted she had to wait outside. So Emma put all her crazy energy into pacing back and forth across the waiting area, trying to ignore the framed pictures of happy animals not in pain.

  Her grandma called ten minutes later.

  Emma told her what happened and it took Grandma a half hour to find the place, but she did. The old woman entered the animal hospital through the swishing front doors. She wore a tie-dyed shirt with flowers and jeans dirt-stained on the knees. Her skin was whiter than Emma’s, with her hair braided into two white ponytails.

  The moment Grandma saw Emma, her mouth dropped. “Please don’t tell me that’s your blood.”

  For the first time, Emma examined her bloodstained arms. She also noticed her three-hundred-dollar blouse was ruined. “Oh…those are just stains.”

  Grandma came closer and her nose twitched. “You stink like the inside of a sweat lodge. Follow me, young one.”

  She escorted Emma into the single bathroom and hit the lights. Emma almost jumped back from her image in the mirrored glass. Not only was her blouse ruined, the cute matching skirt was stained so bad it looked like it was originally crimson not cream. Emma’s face was a mess too. Streams of mascara had run down her cheeks and turned them black. She must have cried a lot on her way here.

  Grandma opened the faucet and tested the temperature with her shaky fingers. Dipping into her rope-woven handbag, Grandma pulled out an old hand towel and some of her goat milk soap. She dipped the towel into the sink and washed Emma’s face and arms.

  Grandma rinsed blood out of the towel. “Any clue on who owns the dog?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t have a collar.” Emma hesitated, still trying to calm herself down. “I couldn’t stop in time. I was distracted and…”

  Grandma hugged her from behind. “It was an accident. I know you brake for animals. You have a good heart.”

  Emma knew she wasn’t that great, but Grandma believed it for some reason.

  Next Grandma had Emma take off her blouse and skirt so she could scrub them in the sink.

  “The car’s a little banged up too,” Emma said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Were you speeding?”

  Emma wanted to be honest. But also didn’t want to worry her grandma about some creepy bald man who might or might not be after her.

  “Maybe a little.”

  “I wanted to buy you a hybrid or that new electric car. Even that small Fiat would be okay. But you wanted that gas-guzzling German sled.”

  “You said I could pick whatever I wanted. Hayley’s dad drove one and I liked it. It was comfy.”

  Grandma scrubbed Emma’s skirt in the sink. “Bet he worked on Wall Street.”

  “Yeah, I think he’s like an investment banker.”

  “Capitalist swine. Of course he would have one.”

  Grandma cleaned Emma up and convinced the animal hospital to give up one of the free T-shirts their volunteers wore. The yellow shirt didn’t match Emma’s stained skirt, but at least it didn’t smell.

  An hour later, the vet came into the waiting area. “The dog was in rough shape. I have him stabilized for now. His spine was injured and the dog is in a lot of pain. There is a way I can attempt to repair his spine, but it will cost a considerable amount of money.”

  “I don’t care,” Emma said. “Whatever it costs.”

  The vet cleared her throat. “This dog is a stray. From what I can tell, he’s been malnourished and abused.”

  “Abused?” Grandma asked.

  “I found older injuries that would indicate abuse. Yes.”

  Emma closed her eyes. Not only did she hit a poor stray dog, she hit a poor abused dog probably searching for food. And maybe some love. She opened her eyes. “I want you to save him.”

  The vet hesitated. “It’s a fifteen-hundred-dollar procedure and I can’t guarantee he would survive. This poor dog has been through a lot in his life. I hate to say it, but…it might be best to let him pass. I can make it comfortable so he won’t suffer.”

  Tears dribbled down Emma’s cheek. She wiped them away as Grandma squeezed her hand.

  “I admire your heart,” the vet continued. “It takes someone special who’s willing to sacrifice so much for an animal. Believe me, I understand where you’re coming from. But sometimes, it’s better for them if we let them go.”

  Emma could see it in his eyes. That dog didn’t want to die. He wanted someone to give him another chance. He wanted Emma to give him that chance. She turned to her grandma. “We have to help him. Whatever it costs. I’ll sell my car. I don’t care, but we need to save him.”

  Grandma searched her granddaughter’s eyes. “You’ll have to take care of him. If you’re giving him life, you must take on the responsibility of giving him a happy one.”

  “I will. I so promise.”

  “Then we need to name him. A good dog should have a good name. How about…Snoopy? He’s not a beagle, but still.”

  Emma liked that name.

  “Snoopy it is.”

  ***

  Mrs. Bracket’s office was painted with dark oranges and browns with medical degrees dotting the walls. Emma wondered if she needed to remind people how overqualified she was to be a high school counselor. Mrs. Bracket made Emma turn off her phone so they would have zero distractions during today’s after-school session. This drove Emma crazy because that prevented her from getting updates on Snoopy’s condition.

  “How’s everything going with you and your grandma?” Mrs. Bracket asked.

  “Great. We’re like two best friends,” Emma said.

  Mrs. Bracket wrote something down. “How’s the adjustment been going?”

  “People are different here. More sensitive. Back in New York, you say what’s on your mind because if you don’t speak up, the city will run you right over, you know? And I’m used to that. But the people here…it ruffles their Birkenstocks when you stand up for yourself.”

  “Do you still miss your friends?”

  Emma wasn’t missing them anymore because her friends didn’t seem to be missing her anymore. What Emma missed was her life there. She missed going to the deli and taking a number. Folding a slice of pizza and licking the oozing cheese. Hopping on the subway and going to a Broadway show. Or a museum. Or to Central Park. Emma could go anywhere she wanted to, really. Emma didn’t need a car. And who needed friends when you had one of the world’s greatest cities to explore?

  Mrs. Bracket crossed her legs. She always did that when she changed subjects. “Your gra
ndmother emailed me about your car. Did someone key it?”

  Emma opened the mini-fridge full of free soda bottles that Mrs. Bracket allowed each one of her “patients” to have. Emma popped open the bottle and sipped. She couldn’t believe Grandma told her. “Yes, but it’s not a big thing.”

  “Were you angry?”

  Emma shrugged.

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “No clue. Probably a girl in one of my classes.”

  Mrs. Bracket leaned forward, resting her chin on her fist. Judging Emma’s answers. “Why do you say that?”

  “I just know.”

  “Do these girls bother you in class? Do they bully you?”

  Emma didn’t want to get into this. “They don’t bully me, really. It’s more…they don’t like me.”

  “Why do you think they don’t like you?”

  Emma sipped her soda again and took inventory of the room.

  Mrs. Bracket sighed. “I’m here to help you.”

  “I don’t live inside their heads. I have no clue.”

  “That’s not what I asked. I asked you what reasons do you think would make those girls not like you?”

  Emma rubbed her thumb over the glass ripples of the bottle of Coke as she rotated it in her hands. “I don’t know. Jealousy? I drive a nicer car than they do. I’m a good student. I’m a great actor. I stand up for myself. I wear nice clothes. I’m pretty.”

  Mrs. Bracket leaned back, as if she was about to roll her eyes at the conceited teenage girl.

  “Hey, I’m not vain. But I’m not stupid either. I grew up around adults for most of my life with all their grand balls and other social events. I noticed how they all looked at me. I was blessed. Seriously, blessed. But I’ve never looked down on those girls or said a bad thing about them. Yet they treat me like I’ve slept with all their boyfriends or something. I don’t understand.” Emma didn’t want to say that much, but Mrs. Bracket had a sneaky way of bringing the truth out of her. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure.” Mrs. Bracket sat back. “Let’s talk about your father.”

  Emma scoffed. She couldn’t win.

  “Do you still think he was murdered?”

  Emma crossed her arms.

  Mrs. Bracket pressed her lips together and interlaced her fingers on both hands. She acted so calm Emma wanted to strangle her. “Why do you not believe the French aviation authorities? Why would they lie about your father? What motive would they have to do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know why. But I do know that my dad was a careful pilot. He always did his preflight checks and never took chances in the air. My dad would have noticed the tape.”

  “It was night. Some of his employees were with him. He could have been distracted and—”

  “Not my dad. He would have seen it. Someone put on that tape after he did his checks.”

  Mrs. Bracket paused. “And yet, what if it was an accident? Didn’t witnesses testify that the plane was washed hours before and they had to tape over the static ports to prevent water from getting inside?”

  “The ground crew also testified that they took off that tape,” Emma said.

  “Mistakes happen. People think they did something when they actually didn’t. The French still came to the conclusion that your father missed it. Now, if the pilot wasn’t your father, would you accept the possibility that the accident might have happened as they say it did?”

  Emma had never thought about it like that. The only evidence she had was her dad. She knew what type of man he was and they didn’t. But was that enough? Could her dad have made that one mistake that killed him?

  “I’m concerned you’re holding on to this murder conspiracy as an attempt to hold on to your father. To not let him go,” Mrs. Bracket said. “What are your thoughts about that?”

  Emma’s brain still swirled with thoughts as she left Mrs. Bracket’s office. Was she still holding on to Dad? Maybe the ground crew did forget to take off the tape. Maybe Dad did forget to do his normal preflight check. His trip to Europe was a last minute thing.

  Something tripped up Emma’s walk and she stumbled forward. Her backpack somersaulted to the pavement. That was when Emma realized she was outside. She had walked across most of the school’s staff parking lot without even noticing. Her right toe ached from the parking curb she’d tripped over. Emma found her way to the student parking lot and her car. She tossed in her backpack and slid behind the wheel.

  If Emma went straight home, Grandma would want a full report about her session with Mrs. Bracket as soon as possible. So Emma drove back across the bridge to San Francisco instead. Once again, she handed her keys over to the valet and pushed open the doors to the San Francisco Centre. The smells from the food court reminded Emma’s stomach that she only had a piece of fish for lunch. At Salad Island, there was a tasty mandarin orange salad that would be good for her. But Emma gave into her sadness and bought a small Blizzard with gobs of cookie-dough chunks and vanilla ice cream.

  Emma found a nice empty booth and nibbled on her treat as her thoughts and feelings drifted back to her father.

  She zoned out for a while.

  Until the bald man sat down next to her.

  Emma tensed up immediately.

  The man surveyed the food court with an eerie calmness that made Emma want to bolt and scream her head off.

  He said nothing.

  Emma’s muscles tightened as she prepared herself to dash off like a rabbit.

  “May I join you?” a kind, but firm woman’s voice asked in a British accent.

  Emma noted an old white woman leaning on her cane. She wore a modern, yet age-appropriate dress with a certain flare. Emma tossed another look at the bald man.

  “Don’t mind him. He’s with me. May I sit?”

  Emma nodded.

  “Thank you.” The old woman eased into her chair with confidence and grace. “Good afternoon. May I introduce myself? My name is Mrs. B.”

  Emma was at a loss for words. What was going on here?

  The woman continued. “Your name is Emma. Am I correct?”

  “Yes,” Emma whispered.

  “Let us see here.” The woman put on her reading glasses and licked her thumb before opening a pad of paper. “Emma Rothchild. Now living in Berkeley, California, but a recent transfer from New York City. You are sixteen years old. You drive a white Mercedes AMG Coupe. You dropped out of ballet class when you were twelve because you told your father that dancing hurt your feet. You were a straight A student at Van Dorn Hall, taking the usual college preparatory curriculum. However, you did take multiple electives in theater and performed smaller parts in off-Broadway productions. Very interesting.”

  The old woman took off her glasses.

  “I watched your performance in the Van Dorn Hall’s production of Romeo and Juliet on YouTube. You played Juliet a bit over the top I must say. And I did detect some nuances you stole from Miss Natalie Potter’s Oscar-winning performance in that interesting film Black Water. If your drama teacher knew anything about acting, she would have spotted these errors and corrected you during the rehearsals. But I digress.”

  “I wasn’t copying Natalie Potter. She inspires my acting. And what do you mean by…over-the-top performance?”

  Mrs. B addressed the bald man. “I’m feeling a bit dry. Do purchase me some root beer, if you please.”

  The large bald man nodded and left.

  “I would like to compliment you on rescuing and paying for the treatment of that injured dog. A very selfless act. Dr. Leslie Vanders does good work. Her record as a veterinarian is impeccable.”

  How did she know about the dog? Emma was sure she’d lost her bald friend at that traffic light. Or had she?

  “Did you follow me yesterday?” Emma asked.

  “My associate did.”

  “Why? Why was he following me?”

  Mrs. B put on her glasses again and went through her notebook. “Your father’s name was Kenneth Rothchild,
owner of Rothchild Industries, a conglomerate composed of numerous companies. A few tech firms in Silicon Valley, a prestigious New York law firm, two professional sports teams, a German toy company, and the crown jewel of the conglomerate—AirTech—a company specializing in climate control systems for commercial buildings worldwide.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  Mrs. B ignored Emma. “The French concluded their investigation into your father’s crash. Based on their report, they believe it was a ground crew error complicated by pilot error.”

  The bald man placed a drink in front of Mrs. B, who pulled out the straw and removed the top before sipping. “Thank you,” she said to the man before continuing. “Have the French told you anything else?”

  Emma shook her head.

  “Would it interest you to know that when they examined the wreckage of your father’s jet, the French discovered a few other disturbing facts? Facts that are being kept classified?”

  “Classified? What? Like, CIA classified?”

  “All I can say here is…it wasn’t pilot error.”

  “So what happened?”

  Mrs. B didn’t answer. She removed a phone from her small purse and pressed a few buttons.

  Emma’s phone chirped with a new message.

  “Be at that address tonight at eight o’clock. I’ll answer all your questions then.” In one fluid motion, Mrs. B moved off her seat and used her cane to head away from the table. The bald man followed.

  Emma stood up. “Hey, wait a second. You can’t leave me hanging like that.”

  Mrs. B walked briskly through the crowd as Emma ran up to her.

  The bald man stepped right in front of Emma, causing her to crash into him. She now got a full look at the man. He was much taller than Emma first thought. And much bigger. His black eyes looked down at Emma as if she were a bug about to be crushed under his shoe. Emma also noticed a deep scar running vertically down the man’s throat. As if someone tried to open him up like a Thanksgiving Day turkey.