To my surprise, the lights were still on in the kitchen. Beatrix was asleep in a chair, exactly where she’d been when I saw her a few hours before. Her computers still buzzed all around her, and her glasses were pushed up on top of her head like a headband.
“Beatrix?” I whispered.
She didn’t move.
Whenever Kennedy fell asleep on the couch back home, Dad would carry her to her bed. I was pretty certain I wasn’t strong enough to lift Beatrix, but I felt bad that she was going to sleep in a kitchen chair all night. I crept to my bedroom, snatched a blanket off the bunk occupied by Ben’s inventing tools, and went back to the kitchen. I tiptoed around Beatrix and tried to slide it over her shoulders . . .
Beatrix sat up and yelped. I clapped a hand over her mouth and tried to spin her so she’d see it was me, but she braced her legs into the table and slammed the chair backward, crushing me between it and the wall. The breath was knocked right out of me, and I’m pretty sure my kidneys had been too—
“Oh! Hale! Oh, I’m sorry!” Beatrix said, yanking the chair off me. “Are you okay?”
I tried to say “I’m fine,” but it sounded more like “Iihhii.” Beatrix winced with apology, then glanced at the clock.
“Whoa! It’s four in the morning. Did I fall asleep?”
“Yes. And apparently you dreamed of ninjas or something,” I said, rubbing the spot on my stomach where the chair had dug in.
“Otter said I should learn some basic self-defense,” Beatrix said.
“You’re excelling at it.”
“Really? Yay! I mean—well. Yay, but sorry for smashing your ribs.”
“It’ll be fine, really.” I pointed to her Right Hand. “Any luck with the helium?”
Beatrix’s face fell, and she sat back down in her chair. I pulled up one of the others. She said, “Not really, Hale. I mean, plenty of people order helium, but it’s the sort of people you’d expect. Blimp companies. The government. Cryogenics companies—did you know that’s what they use to cryogenically freeze people? I had no idea. But anyway, there’s no one who’s ordering a regular supply who isn’t someone you’d expect to order it, you know?”
I sighed and leaned back in the chair. Then Beatrix said quickly, “I’ll keep looking, though!”
“It’s okay, Beatrix,” I said, shaking my head. “I just don’t know where to go from here.”
Beatrix bit her lip and tapped her Right Hand absently for a moment. “Maybe we have to look at SRS now, Hale.”
“No, that’s—”
“Shh! You’ll wake everyone up!” she said. I slammed my lips shut—I didn’t realize I was shouting. Beatrix and I listened for a moment and, when no one stirred, she beat me to speaking first. “I know it’s important to you that your parents have always done the right thing, Hale. But you know, it’s okay if they messed up. They’re still good people, I’m sure.”
I waited a long time. Maybe it was because it was dark and the middle of the night, or maybe it was because this was Beatrix, but I closed my eyes and said, “That’s not really the problem. Well. Not all of it, anyway.”
“What is?”
I opened my eyes and stared at her computer screens, unblinking. If I were being interrogated, my eyes would definitely have given away how uncomfortable all this made me. I reached forward and picked up a screw that had fallen out of one machine or another, rolled it between my forefinger and thumb, and then finally spoke.
“My parents left when they realized SRS was doing something wrong—kidnapping kids for Project Groundcover. But . . . there’s no way they couldn’t have known stealing art from some little old lady’s house was wrong, right? But they did it for years and years, according to Otter. Because that was the mission. You always have to think of the mission at SRS. It’s the most important thing.”
“Okay . . . ,” Beatrix said, nodding, trying to understand.
I went on. “My parents eventually left SRS—which was the right thing to do. But they also left me and Kennedy behind. They didn’t warn us or take us with them or come get us after it all blew over. Because they can’t—their mission, our mission, is to take down SRS for good. And if they come get me and Kennedy, the mission could be compromised. So they’re thinking of the mission, just like they did at SRS. Putting the mission first. Above everything, even their kids.” I drummed my fingers on the table and shook my head. “I get that they’re heroes and spies and all, but sometimes I wish they’d just be my parents. I wish we were as important as the stupid mission.”
“Hale, I’m sure your parents think you’re just as important—more important—than the mission! But it’s not safe for them to come get you yet,” Beatrix said.
I shrugged. “I guess. I mean, I know that’s true, deep down, but sometimes it doesn’t feel very true. And then I get so mad at myself for getting mad, because of course they should be thinking of the mission!”
“You are always telling the rest of us to put the mission first,” Beatrix agreed.
“Right! But then . . . then I’m just acting like I’m back at SRS too. So what’s the point of fighting SRS if, in the end, they’re too deep inside me for me to ever really escape them? Maybe it’s too late for me and my parents and Walter’s mom. Maybe we’ll always be SRS agents, no matter how hard we fight it.”
Beatrix went quiet and put her Right Hand down, which wasn’t something she did very often. She turned to face me, even though I still wasn’t really looking at her. “Remember how my parents were League agents?”
“Of course.”
“And that they died on a mission?”
“Yes. I mean, you and Ben didn’t tell us that, but I sort of guessed,” I said quietly.
Beatrix folded her legs up underneath her. “I don’t really know how it happened or anything—Ben and I were only a year old or so. Uncle Stan says he won’t tell us everything till we’re older, but I think he really just never wants to think about it. I don’t know that I want to know. Ben says he does, but I’m not sure he means it. Anyway—sometimes I’m mad at them. Which is the worst, since they’re dead and all, but sometimes I’m mad because they went on that mission. There were a billion other agents at The League back then who could have gone, agents without kids. Why did they have to do it?”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. I understood what she meant, and I thought I understood how she felt, but there was just no fixing it.
Beatrix took a long breath. “If they’d known what would happen, I’m sure they wouldn’t have gone. And if your parents had known how long they’d have to be away from you and Kennedy, I bet they wouldn’t have gone either. Just because they’re parents doesn’t mean they can’t make mistakes. And just because they’re SRS agents doesn’t mean they love the mission more than you. They were all just trying to be heroes.”
I nodded because she was right, and then I sighed. “I always wanted to be a hero, you know. Like them. But I don’t think I want to be the kind of hero who leaves my family behind. Does that make me a terrible person?”
Beatrix smiled. “No. It just makes you a regular person, I think.”
I nodded. Then after a long time I said, “I’m sorry about your parents, Beatrix.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said, and smiled. “But it’s okay. We’re all okay. Also, we’re all tired. Seriously, Hale, your eyes look like someone punched you. Unless—were you trying to help Kennedy with that cheerleading pyramid she wants to do? Because Ben tried a few weeks ago, and she kicked him right in the eye on accident.”
“No—just tired,” I said, and smiled too. I stood up and pushed my chair in. “Are you going to bed?”
“I guess so. I’ll run everything through the system again tomorrow just to make sure I didn’t miss anything. But . . . do you think maybe we can look into SRS now that the noble gases turned up nothing?” she asked.
I bit my tongue for a second, because I was thinking, Of course we can—mission first, right? Then I let my fingerti
ps linger on the list of partygoers that rested on the edge of the table. “Yes. Of course, yes . . . but can I go over these people one more time to make sure they’re dead ends?”
Beatrix sighed a little—her talk, however moving, however sincere, hadn’t gotten to me quite as completely as she hoped it would. “You can do whatever you want, Hale. But you trust me, right? I went over them all.”
“Of course I trust you; I just . . . I just want to be sure, I guess. It’s not even because I don’t want to look into SRS. It’s that I feel like I missed something.” Once I said it aloud, the feeling grew stronger—that gut feeling that SRS had taught us to trust.
Beatrix lifted her Right Hand. “Well, let’s go over it together. So, we ruled out all the employees, right? Ben and Kennedy felt pretty confident about those.”
“Okay, yeah.”
“And then . . . we have the three families from Hastings’s birthday party who live in other countries, but I picked through their bank accounts. No sign of an influx of money, and no sign of sudden helium buying.”
“All right, yes . . .”
“And then there are the country club families. I checked them for helium buying too, but you also cleared the Stonemans, the Alabasters, and . . . what was that final name?”
“The St. Claires.”
“Oh, right, the ones who made fun of Hastings for having a clown at his birthday party—”
Beatrix nearly dropped her Right Hand. Our eyes snapped together and widened in sync. The paper slipped from my fingers.
“Access to helium. Attended the birthday party. The clown,” I said under my breath. “We never looked into the clown.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Because it was a weekday, we couldn’t talk to Hastings about the clown until that evening, when he’d arrived home from the bank. There wasn’t much to do on the poney farm other than look at the aforementioned ponies, so we—everyone but Beatrix and Ben, who stayed behind to source uranium for something or another—got to Hastings’s early, broke in, and made sandwiches. Clatterbuck worried Hastings might be mad at us, using up his groceries. Otter wasn’t worried; he said Hastings owed us a break-in and a few sandwiches, given that we’d been in Switzerland for a week now just for him.
“Cheese is Annabelle’s favorite,” Kennedy said fondly, feeding the dog another cheese sandwich. I think this was number four. Maybe five? It was hard to count, since Annabelle had smashed her entire body onto my lap and her giant head blocked most of my view. Annabelle swallowed her sandwich, then looked back at me with wistful eyes; I patted her head again, because even though she was sort of suffocating me, it was sort of impossible to say no to those eyes.
“What’s the next trick you’re teaching her?” I asked.
“Fetch, maybe? She’ll run after the ball, but she won’t bring it back. Watch—”
Kennedy grabbed a tennis ball from the ground, and before I could stop her, she reeled her arm back. Annabelle leaped off me in a flurry of oh-my-gosh-time-to-play! enthusiasm, kicking me squarely in the stomach as she did so.
“Oh! Sorry, Hale—ah!” Kennedy crumbled to the ground as Annabelle grabbed for the ball in her hand. They wrestled for it, and Annabelle won, pinning Kennedy to the floor and licking her face happily.
“I liked her better when she was a floor cushion,” Otter said. I would have argued that Annabelle would probably like him better as a floor cushion, but I was pretty sure the dog had rearranged my internal organs with that jump, and I was having trouble finding my lungs.
The front door opened; everyone stood except for Kennedy, who rolled Annabelle off her and was just scrambling to her feet when Hastings walked in.
“Finally! Tell us everything you know about the clown!” I said.
Hastings leaped into the air, flinging his briefcase to the ceiling. It cracked when it hit the ground, and papers flew up, then drifted down slowly like office-themed confetti.
“How’d you get in here?” he asked, clutching his heart. I guess arriving home to seven people in your kitchen can be a little disarming, especially when you’re working for a major crime organization.
“Spies? Remember?” I said. “Anyway, there was a clown at your birthday party. We cleared everyone else who was there, and your old staff, but the clown—”
“What are you eating?” he asked, frowning.
“We made you one,” Kennedy said without answering the question, and shoved a cheese sandwich I was certain she’d made for Annabelle his way.
Hastings gave her a strange look, then took it as he collapsed into an expensive-looking leather recliner. “Okay, clown. A clown. The clown. I . . . I don’t remember. I was twelve!”
“I remember my twelfth birthday,” Walter said, looking bitter. He’d spent most of the afternoon watching French television. But since his French wasn’t so great, he’d been unable to understand more than a few passing words.
Hastings scowled at him. “That’s because you’re what, thirteen, at the most? I remember he was a clown!”
“Perhaps in your grandmother’s financial records, we can find where she paid him?” Otter said, his voice tense.
Hastings shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really understand financial stuff.”
“You’re a banker,” Walter and I said at the same time.
“I know how to move money around accounts! But my grandmother always handled our finances!” Hastings said, throwing his hands into the air.
“It’s amazing you still have a dime,” Otter said drily. “Fine—do you remember anything else? What sort of car did he drive? Was he from a company, or more of a self-employed individual clown?”
“I think he was just an individual. I remember his makeup? Sort of . . . red here . . . white there . . . purple . . . ,” Hastings said, waving his hands a bit. “I’d know the makeup if I saw it again, I’m sure.” Annabelle, who’d been watching his sandwich carefully, dived forward and glommed her mouth onto it. Hastings recoiled, looking disgusted. “Hey! Bad dog! Cheese is bad for your fur!”
Kennedy’s eyes widened. She edged the nearly gone block of cheese behind some canisters.
I lifted my comm mic to my mouth. “Beatrix, are you there? Can you tell me how many photos of Swiss clowns there are on the Internet? We’ve got to somehow find a photo of this clown.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m here—hang on, Hale, I’m trying to steady this tray of aluminum pegs. Okay . . . okay . . . all right, here we go—Swiss clowns?” Beatrix asked. I heard Ben muttering in the background, which usually meant the invention was coming along nicely. “There are about a billion photos when I search for ‘Swiss clown.’ ”
“What about ‘Swiss clown makeup’?”
“There are . . . huh. A little less than a billion. Sorry, Hale, it’s just that lots of random stuff gets tagged with the word “clown.” Why?”
“Isn’t there some sort of clown database or registry or something that you can hack?” Otter asked, pacing back and forth in front of Hastings.
“Searching . . . ,” Beatrix said. “Yes! There . . . oh.”
“‘Oh’ what?” I asked.
“Well, there is a clown database. But it’s physical. I can’t hack it,” Beatrix answered. “It’s in Somerset.”
“England?” I asked.
“Will one of you tell me what she’s saying?” Hastings said, pouting. Without a comm, he couldn’t hear Beatrix.
I sighed—Hastings had never been a very sympathetic guy, but the whining was pushing me over the edge.
“Beatrix, I’ll get back to you,” I said; then to Hastings, “There’s a registry of clown face paintings, but it’s in England.”
“So you’re going to England?” Hastings said, sounding pleased.
“No,” Otter said firmly. He took a few steps toward Hastings, and for a moment I thought Otter might slap the guy. Instead Otter put his hands on his hips and lifted his chin—a technique that made him look taller than he actually was, one that we learned back
at SRS. “Mr. Hastings, I’m growing a little tired of being your personal loss recovery department, all on the promise that if we find these books, you’ll give us information so we can hopefully rob SRS’s bank account.”
“You offered!” Hastings protested, throwing his hands around again. Annabelle looked up, but seeing there was no longer a sandwich to gobble, she snorted and leaned so hard against Kennedy, they both toppled over.
Otter shook his head. “We offered to find the books, sure—when we thought it was a simple research job. But we’re not going to England without some sort of guarantee that when this is done, you’ll come through on your end.”
“Well, maybe then, maybe I’ll just say never mind and you can go home and I’ll just stick with Annabelle,” Hastings said haughtily.
Now, look: I’m not proud of this. But I already didn’t like Hastings much, what with how he sold all his grandmother’s stuff, and how he basically just wanted the books back so he could have even more money when he was already making a half million dollars per puppy off Annabelle. All that combined meant Hastings’s threat didn’t really sit too well with me.
So, while Kennedy, Walter, and Otter were looking shocked and offended, I said, coolly, “You’re forgetting, Mr. Hastings, that we also can tell the world about Annabelle’s heritage.”
Hastings blanched. “What? No! You wouldn’t. You’re supposed to be the good guys! That’s what you told me!”
“And we are. Which is why we have to get those account numbers, Mr. Hastings. We’re willing to help you in order to get them, but we are not willing to let you walk away entirely,” Otter said.
“Well . . . I . . .” Hastings fumbled between words and emotions—first he looked angry, then upset, then panicked. Finally he shouted, “Fine. Just fine. What do you want, then?”
“Annabelle. As collateral,” I said, folding my arms.
“The dog?” Hastings said. “She’s worth millions!”
“Then she’s excellent collateral,” Otter said. “We’ll take good care of her, right, everyone?” He turned to Kennedy and Walter as he said this. They looked a little uncomfortable with the whole exchange, but they nodded.
The Inside Job: And Other Skills I Learned as a Superspy Page 8