I turned to look at him while he slept. I had the rare opportunity to stare, to take him in without his knowing. His closed eyes seemed wider than usual, and his expressionless face seemed younger. Asleep, he was not the know-it-all trying to do the job of a man ten years older. Asleep, he was a kid like me. His ears were nondescript, which I think is the best way for ears to be. But on his left ear was the faintest mark of a long ago closed-up piercing, maybe an act of preteen rebellion while living in Prague.
I wondered what he would be like when he woke up. Was last night a post-traumatic we-almost-got-killed-so-we-might-as-well-make-out-a-little situation? Was he going to phone into the FBI and confess and then caution me against ever coming near him again, lest I compromise his chances at Special Whatever? I had my answer almost immediately.
He started to wake up. I felt like I was about to be caught rifling through his underwear drawer, so I quickly closed my eyes and pretended that I had not just spent fifteen minutes memorizing the layout of his DNA. He brushed his lips softly over mine. “Hey, Digit. You still seventeen?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Me either,” he said. Then he kissed me, and it struck me that not only was he the best, most fantastic kisser in the world, but that he was the only person I have ever known or heard of who does not have morning breath. The world’s only completely delicious person.
This went on for a long time, or not. It’s really hard to say. I was living in this time-space continuum that existed only in the one-inch perimeter around John’s body, in a world that was only that bed. When he spoke, even the sound of his voice surprised me. “Are you okay with this?”
“What do you think?” I said, kissing him again.
“I just want to make sure. This doesn’t seem like the kind of thing I can backtrack on. I mean, I’m not going to be able to go back to being your buddy and guardian.”
“Then don’t.” This was all so clear to me. I couldn’t understand what the big deal was. But what did I know? After all, I was the minor who was already plotting how to get him to turn this misdemeanor into a felony.
“Okay. So this is okay?”
I laughed at him a little. There’s no way I seemed like I was under duress. “Yes, this is okay.” I rolled over on top of him, just to make my point. “I’m pretty sure it was okay a week ago, but it’s definitely okay now. But just to make sure, let’s take the day off from running from the bad guys.” I was honestly in such a fog that I didn’t know how I was going to function outside of that bed.
John pulled the covers up to our shoulders. “That’s all I want to do. They’ll never find us under here,” he said.
The switch in my brain flipped to warm-up mode, but I kissed him anyway. The slightest spark of actual mental activity was making its way through the stupor I’d slipped into. I kissed him again, but the thought started to take form, despite my best efforts.
“What’s wrong?” John was kissing my neck and making it nearly impossible to answer the question.
“It couldn’t have been my phone they were tracking. They would have found us back in the warehouse. So it’s strange that they have found us at Grand Central Station and at the school, but they haven’t found us here.”
Yawn. His switch was still firmly in the off position. “That’s because no one knows this place exists.” He kissed me again and, as much as I wanted to keep that going for the next six to twelve hours, my mind would not shut up.
I sat up. “But no one has ever known where we were, except for Steven. But we keep getting found. And the one time you don’t check in, we haven’t been found.”
Flick. I think I see a connection. John swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran his fingers through his now getting-a-little-long-in-the-dreamiest-possible-way hair. “You think
my
phone is tapped?”
“Or maybe there’s someone inside the FBI who’s selling us out. Someone close to Steven, someone in your group.”
John switched fully to FBI mode and pulled a pair of jeans out of his dresser. He started walking downstairs. Sorry I’d brought it up, I got out of bed and followed him. John ordered eggs Benedict, waffles with raspberries and whipped cream, four croissants, coffee, and orange juice for breakfast.
We sat down on the terrace to eat, and I broke the silence. “I think I know how to find out. It’s pretty simple first-season
Law and Order.
” And then I heard it:
creak
as the secret elevator opened, and
slam
as the steel door closed behind an intruder. John jumped out of his seat and shoved me behind a topiary. He had his gun in his hand in an instant. Funny what you think when you are in mortal danger. I did not see my life pass before my eyes. I just wondered what kind of person eats waffles with a concealed weapon in ready position.
The terrace door was open, and we could hear them looking around the apartment. They were opening and closing doors, and I could hear their steps getting closer.
When they finally appeared on the terrace, my confusion mounted. There were two of them, they seemed to be unarmed, and they were beautifully dressed.
“God.” John gasped, relieved. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.” He put his gun away and walked over to hug them. “What are you doing here?”
John’s mother was tall and serious. She had that polished but no-nonsense look that French women have, suggesting that they’d been born beautiful and had to exert very little effort to stay that way. “Johnny, we could not get in touch with you through the L.A. Bureau and finally heard you were away on assignment. But this morning we got a call from William saying that you had arrived here last night injured. Of course, we had to come. Are you all right?”
Okay, here’s a way to make a good first impression. Don’t get up—just stay crouched behind the topiary as if you are still expecting gunshots. John started to explain that it had actually been me who was hurt and gestured to where I should have been standing, casually next to him, fully dressed and ready to make an awesome first impression. When I wasn’t there, he spotted me—Crouching Tiger, Hidden Idiot—and reached out his hand to help me up.
“Mom, Dad, this is Farrah Higgins.” I managed to stand all the way up, brushed the potting soil off my hands, and said hello. “Farrah, these are my parents, Henry and Margaret Bennett.” I had the feeling they were not the sort of people I’d be calling Hank and Marge after the wedding.
“Hello, dear,” the missus said quickly, eyeing her now-wrinkled pajamas and then turning back to John. “So you are here with a young woman?”
“How old are you, young lady?” asked his father.
“Seventeen,” I managed.
Proving that no matter how chic and worldly, all moms are alike, John’s mom leaned in to him and said, “Darling, this is hardly appropriate, such a young girl and unchaperoned, and while you are supposed to be on a case . . .”
“Mom, stop. It’s nothing like that! This
is
my case. Farrah has cracked a major terror plot, and I am hiding her while we get to the bottom of it.”
Nothing like
that?
I thought it was starting to be something like
that.
It really felt like it was exactly
that.
Maybe I’m underage and this is a major misdemeanor, but come on! Own up!
So I stood there feeling like a stray cat that Johnny Freakin’ Do-Gooder was hired to escort home. “I am the love of his life, actually. We just spent the last twelve hours snuggled up in your Egyptian cotton sheets. I even used your razor! So if you think I am some charity case the FBI has picked up, you are sadly mistaken.” So that’s what I felt like saying. But instead I said, “We have made a lot progress on the case.” Lame, I know.
Mrs. Bennett looked relieved, as if she was making a mental list: Son not a pedophile—check.
John was acting maddeningly casual, like his parents were always walking in, unannounced, to his love nest. “Should I have William send up some more coffee? Can you guys join us for breakfast?”
John’s parents exchanged a glance, and Mr. Bennett said, “Just for a minute. I’ll have coffee and blueberry pancakes. Your mother will have the same but make her pancakes whole wheat.” What I wouldn’t give to see that magic kitchen.
We all sat down on the terrace, looking out over the tops of other Park Avenue buildings. In the distance, the perfect tree line of Central Park calmed my nerves a little.
Mr. Bennett was a man of few words, but I could tell he was well schooled in the spy business. He seemed to take in every detail around him without moving his head more than five degrees in either direction. I saw him notice how close together John’s and my chairs were at the table, and the way John had to move his to even out the foursome when we all sat down. He was on to us, and his mental checklist was reading: Son is a pedophile—check.
He started quizzing us. “Farrah, how did you get hurt?”
“We were hiding out in a middle school Friday night. It was locked up for the weekend, so we were sure we were safe—”
John jumped in. “But we weren’t obviously. Four guys got in and held us at gunpoint and nearly marched us to our deaths—”
“Until John had the bright idea that we jump, me first!” I was laughing and so was he.
“Lucky for me, Farrah broke my fall . . .”
“And protected him from the sprinkler that was sticking up from the grass below. I cut my arm, the same arm I bruised earlier when John dragged me out of a moving taxi . . .”
“She’s heavier than she looks,” he teased.
“Hey.” I smacked him in the arm playfully. I looked over at the Bennetts and realized that we had totally blown it. We were being way too cute. John looked up and saw it too. His mother had her arms crossed, and her eyebrows were threatening her hairline. His dad had a faint smile on his face, slightly amused.
We both recovered and straightened ourselves up. John started talking a mile a minute, and I started shoving croissants into my mouth. It seemed like the only way to keep me from speaking. And it was clear that, as long as I was within two feet of John Bennett, if I was speaking, I was gushing.
Mrs. Bennett scolded John. “You were crazy to go hide out in a school when you could have been completely safe here. Why would you have gone there?”
Wait. That was a good point. John looked down as he spoke. “I just wanted to do this on my own. I wanted to successfully complete my first field assignment without leaning on you guys.” He glanced at me. “And I nearly got her killed.”
“But you didn’t,” Mr. Bennett offered. “Now, what is this case about? Who wants to kill Farrah?”
John explained, “I can’t give you all the details of this case, of course, but Farrah and I are starting to think that we have been compromised in some way. We are being found in normally secure locations, when no one has been informed about our whereabouts except for my team at the FBI. It’s possible that my cell phone is tapped or that there is a leak from within the Bureau. We were safe last night, but it was the one night that I did not call the office to check in.”
“That’s not like you, John. Why wouldn’t you have re- ported in?” His mother’s eyebrows were now reaching an unprecedented latitude.
“We were really tired, and Farrah was hurt, and, well, I forgot.”
Mr. Bennett jumped in to save his son. “It sounds like you’re right—you may be compromised in some way. And it may be key to your investigation to determine who is sympathizing with the criminals. I don’t think you have any option other than to set up a sting and try to catch them.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” I brushed the crumbs off my face.
Which is how I found myself at the top of an oak tree at dusk in Central Park. It was two o’clock by the time we finished the most awkward possible breakfast with the Fockers. At 5:30 John called Steven from the tree to check in. Helen told John that Steven was not in the office but that she had orders to transfer John to his cell phone immediately if he checked in.
“Where the hell have you been!?” I could hear how angry he was from across the tree.
“Farrah got hurt last night, and I had to get her inside quickly, and I lost cell service at our location.”
“Where are you now?”
“We are walking, on our way to a more secure spot. I am going to try the equipment shed in Central Park after six p.m. when ops close for the day. We should be secure there for the night.”
“Which shed?” Weird question, right?
“The one right off of Sheep Meadow.”
“All right, be safe and call me in the morning.”
Sitting in an oak tree at dusk in Central Park in April with the crush of your life is something I’d recommend to anyone. The air was crisp, there were pink and white blossoms on the trees, and we had found two perfect branches to accommodate us. I could see across Sheep Meadow and above it the Midtown skyline. I wondered if I could see the top of the building we’d stayed in. I wondered if I’d ever go back there. I wondered if John was for real or if this was a stress-induced romance. I decided I didn’t care. Even though my life was for sure in danger and I was dealing with a side of humanity that I’d rather not know about, I felt happier than I had since I was a kid.
Two hours later it got dark and much less fun. I was freezing, my butt was numb, and my nerves were shot. Central Park is filled with a variety of animals during the night, human and otherwise, and they are all a little scary. But none were moving toward the shed with any intention of killing us and taking our precious diaper bag.
“This is ridiculous. Can’t we just go back to your secret lair?”
“No, my parents are there. And we have to wait this out to see if the operation is secure.”
I rolled my eyes. I’d had enough. “Right.”
“You getting a little sick of this particular branch of the legal system, Digit?”
“Don’t.”
“You feeling a little up a tree?”
“Please.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb here . . .”
Mercifully, the murderers arrived just then. Leaves rustled under the Japanese maple that was to the right of the shed. I couldn’t make out how many there were, but I could see movement in the darkness. John grabbed my arm and motioned for me to be quiet. Duh, like I was the one making the corny jokes.