Spy to the Rescue

by Jonathan Bernstein

  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.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Frequent Liar

  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.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Welcoming Committee

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