“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.
CHAPTER TEN
Modern Family
I’m in the back of Alex Gunnery’s SUV as it makes its stop-and-start-journey along the dull, gray expressway to Brooklyn. Our drive back from the airport is taking so long, Mrs. Gunnery informs us, because the eldest son of a high-ranking official from the government of someplace called Trezekhastan is celebrating his fourteenth birthday tomorrow and half of Trezekhastan is making its way into New York to join in the festivities.
“Trezekhastani children undergo such a fascinating rite of passage,” says Mrs. Gunnery. “It’s my understanding they have a service where they bid farewell to all their favorite childhood keepsakes, whether they be toys or bicycles or books. It’s hard to imagine a tradition like that catching on in America, right, guys? We love our possessions too much.”
“I don’t know,” Sam replies. “Material things don’t matter as much as the strong bonds of family and friendship.”
I laugh out loud at this parent-pleasing nonsense, but as I do, I realize I am the only one laughing and I quickly turn my laugh into a racking cough. (It goes something like “Ha-ha-ha-hacccchhhh-haaaaccchhh.”)
“That sounds nasty, Bridget,” says Alex.
“I’m fine,” I assure her.
“Sam,” she says, “remind me to make Bridget a jug of my therapeutic licorice-root tea when we get home.”
Sam dutifully inputs the instruction into his phone.
Little Lucien sits next to me, playing rock-paper-scissors with Joanna. Again, adorable. (Especially when he says thissers because of his missing front teeth.) Sam is up front, shooting periodic glances at his phone but mostly listening to and agreeing with his mother, who is now yammering about the Brooklyn Flea. For a second, I thought she was painting a cautionary picture of a winged predator found only in her community. But now that I pay a little more attention, she is talking at great length about the exciting flea market where she works most weekends selling antique furniture and overpriced trinkets.
“Jojo’s been a big help at the stall,” pipes up Sam. “She’s a real people person.”
I am so glad not to be drinking Alex’s licorice-root tea at the moment Sam says this or liquid would be spraying out of my nose. I give Joanna a sidelong glance of amazement but she does not divert her attention from little Lucien.
“You’ll get to see her in action on Saturday,” promises Mrs. Gunnery. “And that’s not the only treat I’ve got lined up for you.” She grins at Sam. “Should I tell her?”
“Why not?” smiles Sam.
Mrs. Gunnery gives a little shiver of anticipation. She checks to see that the traffic ahead is moving slowly enough to look back at me without causing a horrific accident, then she squeezes around and says, “I’m taking you to Nasturtium!”
“Really?” breathes Joanna, like she’s just heard she’s been nominated the new pope. “It’s back?”
Mrs. Gunnery turns to give the busy road ahead her undivided attention, but that doesn’t mean she stops talking. The words come pouring out of her. Nasturtium is the most amazing pop-up vegan restaurant anyone has ever been to ever. The meal they served her earlier this year changed her life. Literally.
“Mine too,” says Sam, who seems like every parent’s dream child.
“Remember the saffron coconut curry with rainbow cauliflower and cilantro pesto, Jojo?” says Mrs. Gunnery. “A religious experience.” She lets out a loud groan. “You’re in for a rare treat, Bridget. Something to tell the folks back home.”
Forget for a second that I’m Bridget Wilder: Spy. Focus instead on the fact that I’m Bridget Wilder of the Sacramento Wilders. My dad makes guacamole tacos—and not the healthy kind! We eat at Leatherby’s Family Creamery. We shared a buffalo chicken pizza just the other night. I beat up my school’s Big Green healthy eating vending machine. I like food that tastes good. This fancy-pants vegan stuff is not for me. And it’s certainly not for Joanna, who I’ve seen snap into a Slim Jim on numerous occasions. If I were legitimately in New York to visit with my best friend, I’d be freaking out over the way she’s swapped her true—i.e., unpleasant—personality to fit in with her warm, caring, and slightly irritating relatives.
If I had time, I would take Joanna by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. “Remember who you are,” I’d bark. “Remember the Conquest Report? All that bitterness and spite: Was it for nothing?” But I don’t have time. I have a missing father to find.
“Uh, Mrs. Gunnery?” I say.
“Alex, please.”
“Alex. This sounds like an amazing weekend. It’s so thoughtful of you to have planned out my whole visit.”
“It’s my absolute pleasure, Bridget,” she says.
Alex frowns a little at this. Control freak, I think, pleased to see even a slight flaw in her motherly perfection.
“There’s this place in Manhattan. I’m sure you know it. The Dominion Brothers Building? On Broadway? I’ve always wanted to see it. Me and Jojo both.”
Joanna gives me a sharp look. I raise my eyebrows at her. Have my back here.
“Right” is as much as she’s prepared to mumble.
Not me. I’m in full-on lie mode. My plan is to hide in plain sight among a bustling tribe of Gunnerys while I scope out the building and look for clues pointing to Strike’s whereabouts. So I put on a hushed, breathless voice and let the dishonesty flood out: “The ambition of those brothers. The sense of history in that building. It’s so inspiring to me. I just . . . I don’t know, this probably sounds stupid . . .”
“Don’t undermine yourself like that, Bridget,” says Alex. “Go on.”
“We’re all listening,” adds Sam, needlessly.
“I always thought, and I know I’m speaking for Joanna as well, that I’d be just as inspired if I was ever lucky enough to be able to . . .”
Screeeech.
Alex drags the SUV across two lanes of traffic, amid horn honking and fist shaking from angry drivers. She takes the exit to Manhattan. As she drives toward the city, she launches into a story about the buildings, churches, and libraries that inspired her when she was even younger than me. I make the occasional ooh or wow sound but I’m not really listening to a word she says. Carter Strike may have wanted me to be-normal-stay-normal, but the spy in me cannot be denied. I made it across the country more or less under my own steam. I was able to track down the location of my abducted biological father. And now I’m going to blend into the bosom of this warm, caring, annoying, and entirely unsuspecting family. Until it’s time to go into spy mode.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bleak House
Gargoyles with leather wings, horned heads, clawed hands, and bared fangs grimace down from the concrete tower at the top of the Dominion Brothers Building.
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