Revealed (10 page)

Stepping through the doors really
was
like stepping back in time. Where before the station had been all plastic, metal, and neon, here was wood and leather, a beautiful waiting room out of a different century. A huge old clock on the wall had stopped forever at five minutes past nine, and smoked glass skylights let in the gray light of the day. I could see why someone would have wanted to preserve this space—as a restaurant or a gallery or a store—anything to make sure its finely wrought metal grilles and worn wooden floor weren't ripped up for scrap.

“Hal.”

I spun around. Across the room from where I'd entered stood Frieda, her head swathed in a dark scarf against the wet rainy day.

“You made it,” she observed, and a moment later I'd crossed over to her and she was grabbing both of my hands, hard, in hers.

“Hi, Frieda,” I said. She looked older than she had the last time we met, or maybe she was just tired. As she loosened her scarf, I saw that her salt-and-pepper hair still framed her face in a crazy, frizzy halo, but her eyes weren't quite as shiny as I remembered, and there was something about how she immediately led me over to a nearby bench that made me think she needed to sit down.

Her eyes darted nervously around the dusty, empty space. “We have so much to discuss, and I'm not sure how much time we have.” She wasn't whispering, exactly, but her voice was low. I realized just how quiet it was compared to the hustle and bustle of the new station.

“You've heard from her.” The sentence was out of my mouth even before I realized I was going to speak it.

Frieda's eyes suddenly bore into mine, a question as much as a look. I met her gaze, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, she nodded. My heart hammered in my chest.

“What did she—”

But Frieda cut me off before I could finish my question. “I can't tell you what she said, so don't even ask.”

I remembered now just how definite Frieda could be.
Jasper Johns is the only true genius of modern art. Impressionism is so overrated it makes me want to throw up. A society that values artists as little as ours does gets what it deserves.

There'd been no arguing with her at lunch that day, and there was no arguing with her now. But that was okay—there were other questions I had to ask.

“Frieda, what do you know about Dr. Joy?”

If Frieda had looked tired before, suddenly she was on high alert. Her nose practically quivered with amazement. “What do
you
know about Dr. Joy?” she countered.

“He—” Suddenly I realized I didn't even know for sure Dr. Joy
was
a he—god, Nia would have
killed
me for making such a sexist assumption. “
Or
she,” I self-corrected, “has a lab here in Baltimore. He signed our vice principal, Mr. Thornhill, out of Orion General.”

Frieda folded her hands together and pressed them against her chin. For a moment, she was silent, as if weighing what she wanted to tell me. When she spoke, she said simply, “Dr. Joy is a man. And you can't find him now.”

How could Frieda possibly be so sure? We'd
seen
the paperwork with our own eyes. He had a lab right here in Baltimore. “Of course we can. He's—”

Frieda raised her voice only slightly, but her announcement silenced me. “Joy's lab was dismantled extremely suddenly two days ago. He's gone into hiding.”

Facts were coming at me too fast for me to respond. It was like swimming against a powerful riptide. “But—Callie and Nia and I, we
saw
the letter signing him—”

Now it was Frieda's turn to look shocked. “Callie, you, and Nia?” She reached across the space that separated us and grabbed my shoulder. I was surprised by the strength of her grip. “What were you doing together?” There was something in her voice that made her seem . . . panicked.

Her anxiety confused me. Had we done something wrong? “What were we doing together?” I repeated. “We were looking for Amanda.” Frieda had found me through the website. She must have seen Nia's and Callie's names there as well.

Letting go of my shoulder, Frieda dismissed my explanation with a wave of her hand. “Yes, I know that you're looking for her. But are you saying you were together at the hospital?”

“Of course we were.” Did Frieda think the three of us were, like, just virtual friends, people who hung out together online but never in the actual world?

To herself, Frieda muttered, “I had no idea . . .” and then she was clutching my hand again, her voice urgent. “Don't you know it's dangerous for the three of you to be together? When you're together you're—”

Far off, we both heard a sound, like a pile of paint cans or some other stacked metal had toppled over. Our eyes met, and I could see my own thought mirrored in Frieda's face.

That noise did not come from the new station.

For a long moment, neither of us so much as breathed. Then, so quietly it took me a second to even realize she was speaking, Frieda began whispering at breakneck speed. “Go back to the station. Stay in a crowded area. Get on the first train headed for Orion and board a car with as many other people as possible.”

“Wait!” My voice was pitched as low as hers. “What were you going to say? Why is it dangerous for us to be together?”

Again a sound, this time of a circular piece of metal spinning, spinning, and finally coming to rest on a wooden floor.

“Go!” she hissed. “And don't look for Dr. Joy anymore. They've got him. I'm sure of it.”

“But, Frieda, what about you? I can't just leave you here.”

She pulled me to my feet, turned me toward the door, and literally pushed me back in the direction from which I'd come.

“I know how to disappear. Now run.”

The time for questions had passed. It was time to start following orders.

I ran.

They've got him.

It's dangerous for you to be together.

They've got him.

It's dangerous for you to be together.

The whole ride back to Orion, the wheels of the train seemed to churn out the rhythm of Frieda's warnings until my own heart actually seemed to beat along with her words. I remembered Amanda's final note to Thornhill, the reference to danger, her plea for help.

What the hell was going on here?

My fingers shaking, I dialed Callie's number, but as soon as I heard the outgoing message on her voice mail, it was all I could do not to hang up.
It's dangerous for you to be together
. What part of dangerous did I not understand? Was I seriously going to put Callie and Nia in danger just because I needed to share, spread the wealth?

“Hey, it's Callie. Leave me a message.” Hearing her voice made me see the red of her hair, smell her shampoo or perfume or laundry detergent that made me think of a sunny April morning whenever I smelled it.

Was I going to put that in danger?

“Um, hey, Callie, it's, um, Hal. I . . . guess that . . . I'll see you. On Monday. In play rehearsal. So, bye.” My message was so random and disjointed even the woman sitting across from me raised an eyebrow in disdain as I flipped my phone shut and shoved it into my pocket. It was all I could do not to shout at her,
Hey, lady, my friend's life might be in danger if I talk to her, so maybe you could excuse me for panicking over here, all right?
Instead, I turned my head and stared out at the sky, so gray it was almost black. What had appeared beautiful on the way down now felt ominous. I thought of everything that might be hiding beyond the brightly lit windows of my train car and shuddered.

If we were in danger when we were together, did that mean we were safe when we were apart? The question formed itself in my mind as I rode my bike home, glad for the first time ever that there was no way to get from my house to the train station without traveling the busy streets of downtown Orion.

This was insane. I had to tell Callie and Nia what had happened. I tried them both but neither picked up, and
We might be in serious danger
isn't exactly a message you leave on a voice mail. I figured I'd call later, but then my mom came home ranting about how she and Cornelia and I were going to watch
The Philadelphia Story
together because driving home from the conference she'd realized neither of us had ever seen it and that was, like, a criminal offense. By the time we'd eaten and watched the movie, Callie and Nia must have been asleep because both their cells went right to voice mail. I got in bed and lay there not sleeping, for hours. Finally, just as the sky was getting light, I dozed off.

When I woke up it was after ten. Without even getting out of bed, I texted Callie and Nia.

Rosie's was this total old-school diner where my family went a lot. Thinking about their Belgian waffles was enough to tempt me to hop on my bike and meet my mom and my sister downtown.

Half planning to get dressed and head out, I walked past the den. It's supposed to be a home office for both my parents: In the corner is a desk with a computer and a filing cabinet, but most of the time when my mom has work to do she just stays at the office, and if my dad brings work home, he's always got a company laptop to do it on. I've got a computer in my room, so the only person who actually uses the office (as my mom insists on calling the room; the rest of us call it the den) is Cornelia, who does all her homework in it.

I stopped at the doorway and surveyed the room, my eyes lingering on the filing cabinet. My mom was always sticking stuff in there, but I didn't know what.

It's dangerous for you to be together.

Bennett, Henry.

Bennett, Cornelia.

Bennett, Katharine.

Bennett, Edmund.

It wasn't like I'd been told never to open the filing cabinet, but as I crossed the room, I found myself making up excuses to use for why I was there if my mom and my sister suddenly arrived home and found me snooping in the family files.
Do we have any blank paper anywhere? Is this where we keep the printer cartridges?

Are you and Dad engaged in some kind of secret or illegal activity?

I grabbed the handle of the top drawer and pulled it slightly. The cabinet was old and wooden, but my mom hates drawers that stick, so after she'd bought it at some yard sale, she'd gotten all new works for it and the drawers slid easily on their ball bearings. I pulled it out as far as it would go and began thumbing through the files.
American Express. Cornelia, report cards. Katharine, business receipts. Cornelia, medical forms. Frequent flier stuff.
I shut the drawer and went to the next one. Used date books were piled high—both of my parents are pretty old school about stuff like calendars, and my mom likes to keep hers. She says it's for tax purposes, but I think it's because she likes when we're all arguing about whether the four of us went to dinner at Luigi's the night we went to see
The Lion King
, she can grab the appropriate book and announce with complete authority that we did.

I reached down and grabbed one from the pile. It was from 2006, and I flipped open to September 14.
1:30. Dr. Pinto
.

Dr. Pinto was our dentist. And at 1:30 on September 14, 2006, my mother had gone to see him.

Clearly, this was a woman who was hiding something.

My phone buzzed a text from Nia.

CHURCH/FAM DAY/ENG ESSAY. C U TMRW.

I slid the drawer shut, feeling a little dirty for having opened it in the first place. And what was I hoping to find, anyway? If my parents were hiding something, was it really going to be shoved in a drawer somewhere with Cornelia's old report cards? Didn't spies have safe deposit boxes? Safe houses?

I decided that my punishment for having invaded my parents' privacy would be that I'd stay home and not meet my mom and Cornelia, thereby depriving myself of a Rosie's Belgian waffle. I'd eat the muffin they brought me, though. I mean, it wasn't like I'd found anything.

As I headed into the kitchen to grab some pre-muffin OJ, my phone buzzed a second text. Callie.

Strike two.

Should I call them? Tell them what Frieda had said? Or was it the kind of news you had to deliver in person?

As I wondered what to do, the warning bell Callie's and Nia's texts had rung in my brain began to toll louder—I'd gotten an extension on my bio lab, and I still hadn't written much more than a sentence for my history essay. Would my mom even let me
go
to rehearsal if my teachers started sending warning notes home? I gulped down my orange juice and headed upstairs. Homework may have just been another brick in the wall, but try telling my mom that.

An hour later, as I was finishing up my lab report, I heard the garage door open, then my mom calling my name as she headed upstairs. “Hal, you awake?” she called as she got to my room. She stopped at the threshold. “Hi, honey. How's it going?”

I kept my eyes on the page, sure if she looked into them, she'd know I'd been poking around in her stuff. “Fine.”

“We brought you a muffin.” I glanced over at where she stood. She was holding a white paper bag in front of her and she looked like she always did—medium-length hair up in a sloppy ponytail, sweatshirt, red jeans with a pair of bright green Converse sneakers. She smiled at me and nodded toward the bag. “Blueberry.”

Why were you on Thornhill's list, Mom? Is there something about our lives that you're not telling me?

But to ask her that, I'd have to tell her how I knew she was on Thornhill's list. And it wasn't like my mom would be all,
I understand, Hal. If you don't want to tell me anything about why you were able to see a secret list of names on your vice principal's computer, that's okay. Even if this is the same vice principal who's now in a coma and being held at Orion General—wait, what's that you say? He's
not
at Orion General anymore? He's been moved to an undisclosed location? Well, that's certainly none of my business, but if you want to continue investigating these crimes, more power to you. I'll help you in any way I can.

I shook my head to clear the silent conversation I was having with myself. “Thanks, Mom.”

She stepped into my room, kissed me gently on the top of my head, and dropped the bag with the muffin in it onto my desk. “Sure, sweetheart.” Then she reached down and gave me a quick hug. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

As I opened the bag, I realized those were the only honest words I'd spoken to my mother in weeks.

I slept like crap, and I must have looked at least as bad as I felt because at lunch Nia asked me if I was okay. I wanted to tell her about what had happened in Baltimore, but the lunchroom was packed and way too noisy for a whispered conversation to have been audible even to someone with senses as keen as hers.

“Fine,” I snapped, irritated about having to wait.

“O-
kay
.” She held up her hands as if to show there wasn't a weapon in either of them, then began opening the containers that held her food. One had an elaborate collection of vegetables, one held some kind of tomato-y sauce, and one was a packet of what I swear was homemade bread.

I looked down at my slightly crushed peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. “Our parents have
nothing
in common!”

Nia dipped a pepper into the sauce and took a bite. “Oh, I wouldn't say that.” She considered them for a moment. “They're alive.”

I rolled my eyes. “You're hilarious.”

“They are,” she insisted, shrugging. “And they're married.”

“So, what, you think Thornhill's list is just people who are alive and married? And then a few random Orion teenagers thrown in for good measure?” Uttering the words “Thornhill's list” made me lose my appetite, and I pushed the tinfoil with my sandwich on it away from me.

“They all live in Orion,” Nia continued calmly. “They're all college educated; they all have at least one child—”

“You're describing
thousands of people
!” I practically shouted. A guy I didn't know sitting at the next table looked over at us, and I glared at him until he looked away before muttering to myself, “I am so mad at Amanda for doing this to us.”

“Were you guys a couple?”

“What?”
I was so surprised by Nia's non sequitur I nearly fell off my chair. She was studying me across a fork that had a piece of green pepper laced delicately through the tines.

“What what?” Nia asked. “Amanda was hot, there's no denying that. And you're a guy. It's hardly the weirdest question to ask.”

“You couldn't . . . go
out
with Amanda,” I stuttered.

“
One
couldn't or
you
couldn't?” Nia popped the pepper into her mouth, still staring at me.

“Some girls are just . . .” I shook my head and opened my eyes wide, as if I'd just made a definitive point.

Unfortunately, I hadn't.

Nia continued to stare.

“Okay, you know how . . .” I began. Then I thought about it. What I wanted to tell her about was white-water rafting with my family years ago, the crazy rush of the fall down the chutes, the sickening, fantastic, intense way we spun out of control and seemed about to hit the enormous boulders that lined the river we were flying down.

That was what it was like to be with Amanda. Thrilling. Stomach dropping. It made you glad to be alive, but it also made you scared for your life.

How could you be on a ride like that and think about romance?

And then, the last few miles of that trip, the river widened and the rapids evaporated. I could lie back in my raft and look at the sky and see the bluish mountains way off in the distance. It was a hot summer's day, and the water shimmered in the sun and the air smelled thick and wonderful, and every once in a while we'd pass a bank of wildflowers so colorful and brilliant you couldn't believe they were real. Life felt perfect and peaceful; I wanted the afternoon to last forever.

The only other times I ever felt like that were when I was with Callie.

Was this information I really needed Nia Rivera to have? Being with Nia was like a day spent ice-skating on a frozen lake—bracing, fun, kind of exhilarating even, but proceed at your own risk.

As it became clear I wasn't going to finish my sentence, Nia shrugged. “I sense you're pleading the Fifth.”

Girls talked to one another. I might have had mostly guy friends and a sister who's not exactly president of a sorority, but my mom spends about half her life on the phone. Callie and Nia didn't strike me as the kind of girls who'd describe themselves as BFF, but did I want to risk Nia's telling Callie that I had a thing for Amanda?

I forced myself to meet her gaze. “I did not like Amanda, Nia,” I said. “Not like that.”

She nodded in a way that made me think I'd made my point. “Got it,” she said.

By the time school ended, I was so tired I could have curled up anywhere—even the floor of the lobby—and easily lost consciousness for about a month.

Apparently I looked as exhausted as I felt because the first thing Callie said when she saw me at rehearsal was, “Are you sick, Hal?” She started to lift her hand, and for a second I thought she was going to check my forehead like my mom does when she wants to know if I have a fever. The thought of Callie's warm hand against my skin was so nice I almost forgot that I was supposed to be keeping her safe by keeping her away from me.