A Spy Like Me (18 page)

I stopped inching away. “You are a washed up
pastry chef heading past his prime. Release the prisoners, and I
won’t report you to the police.”

His boisterous laughter made my blood run
cold in my veins.

“I’m serious.” I put my hands on my hips for
emphasis.

Suddenly he was by my side, his fingers
digging into my arm. “You can call the police if you’d like. I’ll
even give you your phone back.” He whispered in my ear. “It will be
a waste of time. The police know me and would never doubt a famous
chef.”

I snorted. “They probably know you because
you paid them off.”

“Possibly. But playtime is over. My interest
in you is waning. But thank you for the brief entertainment.”

He pulled me toward the back of the yard, his
footsteps quick and sure. His agility amazed me. I pulled back,
realizing that he might be more dangerous than his rolipoliness let
on.

“Well, thanks for the cookies. My dad’s
expecting me home.”

He grunted his disapproval as we reached the
back of the yard. The henhouse was a dingy gray and a distinct odor
wafted between its walls. I wrinkled my nose.

“Did you want me to make you scrambled eggs
for dinner? I’d be happy too.”

I regretted the words as soon as I said them.
He opened the door and pushed me toward the small opening. I pushed
back.

“I don’t think so,” I grunted, but his
powerful grip steered me toward the small house. This was it. I’d
be locked up with the hens for probably the next week living off
raw eggs. He didn’t think twice about keeping a prisoner, which was
more proof he’d taken Aimee and Marie captive. Okay so they weren’t
chained in the basement, but something was very wrong. Jolie and I
were caught in a push and shove battle. With one last shout, I let
a kick fly, hoping to catch him in the stomach. But he grabbed my
foot and with a twist that sent pain shooting up my leg, he pushed
me into the house and slammed the door.

I pounded on it. “You can’t keep me in
here.”

“I won’t keep you forever. Just a little
payback for the tranquilizer dart.”

I went silent. What could I say?

“What? No smart answer to that? Yes, I know
all about that.” The latch clicked. “Why don’t you think about how
wrong your actions were, and I’ll be back later.”

I was alone. In a henhouse. I still had my
phone, but who was I going to call? Dad? No way. Malcolm?
Impossible. I’d told him I wouldn’t spy on Jolie. Basically, I had
no one.

Feathers ruffled and one hen jumped to the
dusty floor. Were hens protective of their eggs? Would they attack?
Had Jolie left me to die at the claws of a bunch of chickens? I
wanted to send a quick text to Stephen King. I had the perfect idea
for his next horror novel. Crazy pastry chef collects prisoners
like keepsakes and tortures them with the smell of chicken
poop.

A cobweb brushed against my cheek, and I let
out a tiny scream. I pressed my back up against the door, ready to
kick any flying poultry that came at me. With a wave of my arms, I
tried to shoo the hen away. She cocked her head and stared at me. I
could see through its beady eyes to the small workings in its teeny
brain. It was debating if I was a threat or not.

I pasted on a cheesy smile. “Squawk! I’m a
friend. No worries. I won’t touch your eggs no matter how hungry I
get. I promise.”

After a three-second stare down, she turned
and pecked at a non-existent corn kernel on the floor. I breathed a
sigh of relief now that the immediate threat of death by pecking
had disappeared. I leaned my head against the strong but rickety
door, no longer caring about the cobwebs or the chickens. So much
for my 007 act. I never claimed to be a great spy and this proved
it. While thinking about my mom, her strange words, and Malcolm’s
double-dealings, I must’ve dozed off because when the door opened
and I tumbled backward down the small ramp, I wasn’t prepared.

At all.

I scrambled to my feet. Marie stood over me
with a finger to her lips, pointing to the side yard. “Leave.
Quickly.”

I searched her eyes but found nothing that
revealed the truth. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Is Aimee
okay?”

She shook her head. “You must leave now. I
must get back inside.”

“But. . .” I tried to argue, but she forcibly
pushed me away.

When I heard Jolie call to her from inside
the house, I took one last look at her warm eyes before
running.

The next morning, I was ready to go. But this
time I was prepared. Water bottles, granola bars, camera,
binoculars, hairpins, Band-aids, and a crowbar. If I were going to
end up in a dirty henhouse again, I’d have the basics. I strode
into the kitchen, confident, in control, ready to take on the world
of espionage with the best of them.

Dad sat at the kitchen table buried in the
newspaper as usual. I poured a cup of coffee, black this time. I
didn’t need a sugar crash later in the day. The steam coated my
face in warmth.

“Any more shootings?” I asked.

“Thankfully, no. But I’ve pulled shooting
blanks at our clients from the program, for now, until this dies
down.”

I bit into an apple and munched. “Good
idea.”

Every morning, any time Dad and I bumped into
each other, Spy Games became the topic of the day. I could change
and let him into my life by talking about Malcolm, or about Mom.
But if I brought those subjects up, and Dad asked questions or we
fell into a serious talk, I’d have to lie. I don’t think he’d do
well with, “Oh, by the way, Mom could be an assassin,” or “Yeah,
funny thing, Malcolm is spying on our family and might want to kill
me,” or even worse, “I have thousands of dollars stuffed in my
closet.” Yeah, no. He had experience running a business, and
anything I said he’d blow off as paranoia. Or he’d take over and
lock me in my room. No way.

So I played his game. “How’s the new route
coming along? Are we ready for Spy Games this weekend?”

He flipped down the newspaper and gave me the
eye, suspicious that I even cared. I don’t blame him because most
of me didn’t. It was called deflection. Let’s talk about you so we
don’t talk about me. And he always fell for it.

“It’s great. We’re all set for this Saturday.
I think the new addition will be perfect. I’m thinking of expanding
even more, trying for a game every weekend instead of twice a
month.”

“Money?” I asked, suddenly feeling guilty
about the hidden wads of cash, and remembering the phone call I’d
heard from under his bed.

But I had no idea where the money came from.
What if I used it and then found out it was stolen and some mad man
with muscles the size of a truck came after me and broke my
kneecaps? No thanks.

“Well, yes. And it will be good for the
business. Get the word out.” His eyes flicked to the clock on the
coffee maker and then to the front door.

“Expecting someone?” I finished my apple and
tossed it into the trash.

Dad nodded to the fridge. “There are some
leftover pancakes in the fridge if you want them.”

“Thanks.” I warmed them up in the microwave,
not falling for Dad’s trick of changing the topic. Maybe I learned
my conversational tactics from him. While dowsing them in syrup, I
said casually, “So, someone stopping by? Gray? Nancy?”

Dad coughed and lifted the newspaper. “Spy
Games business.”

“Don’t think,” I stuffed pancakes in my
mouth, “that I can’t see what you’re doing.”

“What?” Dad feigned shock.

“That’s right. Vague answers. What do you
want me to do?”

A smile lit up his face. “I thought you’d
never ask.”

Someone knocked on the door.

“And perfect timing,” Dad said. “Come on
in!”

Malcolm entered, and I about peed my pants.
Dad was setting me up with the guy who wanted to kill me. Good
going, Dad.

Thirty minutes later, Malcolm and I stood
outside the Notre Dame cathedral. Tourists brushed past us to enter
the old church, but I wasn’t ready. Again, the cobblestones got to
me. I loved them. I lifted my head straight back and stared up at
the stone structure carved with so many saints and intricate
details. Incredible. That might be why I barely noticed when
Malcolm slipped his arm around me.

“You ready?” he asked.

If history could be carried on a breeze, it
rushed and swirled around me. The sounds of ancient priests, the
clip clop of horses, the ring of the giant bell I knew was hidden
in the cathedral’s towers.

“Can you imagine?” I whispered.

“What?” he whispered back.

“Being here, living here. Sometimes I’d love
to touch the iron fence, the right one, and I’d travel back in
time.”

“That sounds great, but I have to work this
afternoon. And we’re on a mission for your dad.”

Right. I shook it off along with Malcolm’s
arm.

“Let’s go.”

As we walked under the arches, I felt the
crowbar press through the backpack into my back. I shouldn’t have
to use it if I played the game. And if Malcolm didn’t act like he
was going to murder me.

Again, an overwhelming sense of history in
the black and white checkered floor and the vaulted ceilings washed
over me. The long halls and the muted light filtering in through
the stained glass windows made me whisper.

“I don’t think this is going to work for Spy
Games.”

“Why not?” Malcolm spun, his outstretched arm
pointing to the interior. “I think it’s great. Another big tourist
place.”

“Yeah, but it’s a church. Isn’t it wrong to
play games here? And we have to pay to get to the towers. Dad’s
looking to cut costs.”

We paid the fee and headed toward the start
of the spiral stairs.

“That’s what your dad said when I suggested
we check this place out—”

“This was your idea?” I stopped in my tracks,
right at the bottom of the stairs.

A chill descended into my bones. He set this
whole thing up? Since I didn’t trust Malcolm, I had to look at the
deeper reason he brought me here. I knew he didn’t care about Spy
Games.

“Isn’t this the church famous for the
hunchback?” I asked.

“Yes, exactly. That’s why I think people will
love it, especially Americans.”

That hunchback was held prisoner in the
towers overlooking Paris. Held prisoner. Was this a veiled threat?
Or was I being too melodramatic? All of a sudden every tourist
pointing a camera in my direction became the enemy. Every man in a
suit coat with a Bluetooth in his ear became a possible assassin.
What if Jolie had goons following us with plans to shoot me down
with a special camera? It’s been done before. I could end up in
something worse than a smelly chicken coop. Like a coffin. After
they extracted whatever secret information they thought I had
embedded deep in my psyche.

Adrenaline rushed through my limbs, and I
wanted to whip out the crowbar, just in case. But I took a deep
breath and forced myself to climb the stairs. From the outside, I
had to look like I was enjoying myself, out on a date with a cute
boy. I grabbed Malcolm’s hand and with my other hand, I pulled his
head toward me and kissed him. Torture! Pure torture.

I pulled away, the show over, but he pulled
me right back and pressed his lips against mine again, holding me
there. His kiss deepened, and I forgot all about prisons,
assassins, and pastry chefs. I forgot I was standing in a medieval
church where past kings had been crowned. I almost forgot that a
gun could be aimed at my head. I thought about Malcolm, his touch,
his warmth, his dimples, the light in his eyes when he smiled at
me.

When he finally let me go, I gasped for
breath. He looked shaken too, his cheeks flushed. In that moment of
emotional honesty, I wanted to tell him everything. About the
money, the Extravaganza, that I had no clue what they wanted to
know. That I wasn’t a spy, that I wasn’t a danger to anyone. A part
of me trusted him, trusted the nice boy who planned picnics and
kissed me like it was his last kiss on earth.

“What?” He linked his fingers into mine.

But then I remembered his conversation with
Pouffant, his willingness to snuff me out if I got to be too much
trouble. I ripped my fingers away from him. “I was just thinking
how we’ve got a lot of stairs to climb. Let’s get started.”

And we climbed around and around and around.
The stairs were endless. My legs burned.

“How much longer?” I puffed out.

“We’re almost halfway. Trust me, the climb is
totally worth it. Even if we don’t use it in Spy Games, you’ve got
to make the climb at least once.”

“I’m not sure about that. There’s no way we
can do this for the games. Just climbing the stairs will take two
hours!”

I stopped to rest. An echo of footsteps
behind us also stopped.

“Okay,” I said, “Let’s do this.”

But after a couple minutes, I stopped. And
again a few seconds later, the footsteps behind us stopped too. We
were being followed.

“Come on,” Malcolm called over his shoulder.
“We’re almost halfway. And there’s a small café!”

I ran to catch up with him. I might not have
any real spy skills but I was a teenage girl with a healthy dose of
gut instinct. And my gut was telling me to get the hell out of
there. Fast. At the same time, my chest ached deep inside. I
couldn’t ignore the overwhelming sadness.

At the tiny but adorable café halfway up, I
begged off to use the bathroom. Locked in the stall, I sat on the
toilet and brought my legs up to my chest. I took little comfort in
the feel of the metal tray pressed against my chest. A plan formed.
Escape here, go to Jolie’s and rescue Aimee and Marie. Have Jolie
and Malcolm arrested, go to the Extravaganza to complete Mom’s
mission. And then forget all this ever happened.