The Dead Drop (20 page)

“He likes knitting and bowling, too?”

“I looked over, and who do I see at a nearby table but your brother and your friend Wendy just sitting there drinking Frappuccinos.”

“You saw
what
??!!” What on earth was Wendy doing drinking Frappuccinos with Stephen? Even more appalling: why was she hearing this news from her mother?

“They were pretty surprised to see me, too.”

“What were they
doing
? Why doesn’t anyone ever tell me
anything
??”

“Gilda, they were just working on a problem from their math camp together. Seems they got paired up on an advanced project of some kind, and on their way home they decided to stop for coffee and try to do some work. I can’t make heads or tails of that stuff; I really don’t know how your brother knows how to—”

“I can’t
believe
Wendy didn’t call to tell me that. She owes me several letters and phone calls.”

“Gilda, I’m sure she’s just as busy as you are.”

“Believe me, she’s much
less
busy than I am. Nobody is as busy as I am right now.”

“Honey, maybe you need some sleep. You sound a little grouchy.”

You’d be grouchy, too, if you were being haunted by Abraham Lincoln and stalked by a short man with a red beard while also trying to train a group of children to become spies within a week,
Gilda thought.

“Sorry, Mom,” said Gilda, “I just realized I left something on the stove.”

“Are you eating any vegetables? I hope you’re taking a vitamin, because—”

“I’ll call you back later, Mom. Bye!” Gilda hung up and immediately dialed Wendy’s number.

“Hey!” Wendy answered. “I was just about to call you.”

“Is there something you want to share with me?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Frappuccinos with Stephen? My mother on a date? No phone calls to report on any of the above?”

“Oh—that.”

“Yes—that.”

“It wasn’t a big deal, Gilda. Your mom didn’t look too into that guy; he kind of looked like someone’s grandpa or something. I doubt you’ll be seeing him again.”

“The point is, you should have
told
me about it.”

“But you always have a stress fit about that stuff.”

“I’m not having a ‘stress fit.’ Although I’m not sure exactly what a ‘stress fit’ even means. Is that some kind of Chinese term?”

“You know what I mean.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What about your math date with Stephen?!”

“This problem we were working on was super-difficult, and Stephen’s been giving me a ride to camp during the past few days—”

“Stephen’s been giving you a ride to camp?”

“I mean, we’re both going to the same place.”

“But you didn’t tell me that.”

“I’m telling you now.”

Now isn’t soon enough,
Gilda thought.
That’s the problem with being a spy based in another city; all the regular people you want to keep tabs on keep going about their business and you lose track of them.

“Anyway,” Wendy continued, “we stopped at the coffee shop to sit down and work on this assignment.”

“Does Stephen get on your nerves when you’re riding in his car?”

“No. He’s actually really nice.”

“Because when I ride with him in his car he always tells me, ‘Stop touching stuff.’”

“Well, I didn’t change the radio station every two minutes or grab the rearview mirror to check my lipstick, so I guess he didn’t have to.”

“I bet he’s acting dweeby at math camp. Is he making jokes about numbers and stuff like that?”

“He’s actually one of the cool ones at math camp.”

“No way.”

“Gilda, your brother is really smart.”

“He gets that from me.”

“He’s funny, too.”

“Again—from me.”

“And he’s kind of cute.”

Gilda felt a seismic shift taking place in her friendship with Wendy, as if everything she had always counted on was getting ready to change. “Omigod. Are you actually telling me you’re in love with a doofus?”

“I’m not in
love
with him. Maybe just a little crush.”

“That is so sick.”

“Why is it sick?”

“You’re practically like my sister. It’s illegal, Wendy.”

“I’m
not
your sister.”

“How long has this little infatuation been going on?”

“Not very long. I mean, I always thought he was kind of cute—”

“You always thought my brother was ‘kind of cute,’ and you never
told
me?”

“Because I knew you would act this way. And I don’t necessarily tell you every single thought that passes through my head.”

“Why not? I’d be interested.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Wendy, I just think you should know that my brother can be really gross. My mom told me that once, when he was a baby, he ate his own poop.”

“I assume he doesn’t do that anymore.”

“When he goes in the bathroom, he stays in there a really long time. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate you talking this way about him.”

Gilda looked out the window and felt her spirits lift ever so slightly when she found she could peer directly into the bathroom window of the suit-wearing man whom she thought of as “the politician.” He was gazing into a mirror and shaving his chin very carefully. “Is this a mutual thing between you and Stephen?”

“I don’t know. I mean, it was his idea to go get a coffee together and work on this project. And we had a really great conversation. I guess we’re friends.”

Why does that bother me?
Gilda wondered. “Hey, I know! I’ll call my brother and find out if he’s going to ask you on a date, and then I’ll give you the scoop.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Don’t you want to know if he thinks you’re cute?”

“You won’t be able to find out.”

“I’m a spy, Wendy; it’s my job.”

“He wouldn’t tell you. And besides, if you say anything about it, he’ll think of me as your little friend instead of a potential girlfriend.”

“But you are my little friend.”

“You know what I mean. Like, ever since math camp, Stephen sees me differently. Before, he never knew that I was smart or cute or a real person or anything; he just thought we were little kids doing dumb stuff around the house.”

That’s why it bugs me that she likes Stephen,
Gilda thought. “Wendy, Stephen wouldn’t know a psychic investigation if it came up and bit him on his skinny butt.” Gilda resented Stephen’s skeptical and often condescending attitude toward her interest in paranormal phenomena. It sometimes seemed that no matter what she did, he always thought of her as a mere “little sister.”

“Just don’t say anything to him, Gilda. Promise?”

“Okay.” Gilda sighed. “I promise I won’t say anything.”

Gilda watched with fascination as the man in the window secured his hair with a cap and began carefully applying makeup: thick foundation, then blush, powder, eye shadow, eyeliner, and mascara.

When he was nearly finished, he seemed to realize that he had left the blinds up and pulled them shut abruptly, blocking Gilda’s view.

It’s amazing what you can learn about people just by peeking in their windows,
Gilda thought.

She crawled into bed but she couldn’t sleep. She felt strangely uneasy being in the apartment by herself. Every sound seemed magnified: footsteps pacing overhead in the room above hers, the hum of the refrigerator, the rush of the air conditioner, the sounds of murmuring voices and keys turning in hallway locks.

I wish Caitlin would get home,
Gilda thought. I’d tell her about decoding the message and the man on the Metro.

But Caitlin didn’t get home; she had gone to meet some coworkers at an after-work “happy hour” gathering that was showing signs of morphing into a club-hopping late night.

When the flashing lights began their rhythmic blinking, illuminating her blinds like a bright neon sign (
on, off, on, off),
Gilda squeezed her eyes shut and buried her head under a pillow. She finally fell asleep that way, never seeing the pale face watching her from the vanity table mirror—a ghostly face with dark eyes, a bloodstained forehead, and a perfect red star around her neck.

26

The Graffiti Ghost

April pointed accusingly at a graffiti-covered wall. She had called an emergency meeting with her Spy Camp counselors because something had been discovered earlier that morning in the “Cold War in East Berlin” exhibit—a portion of the museum designed to re-create the experience of being a spy in the Communist-controlled sector of Berlin.

At first, Gilda couldn’t tell what April was so upset about, because the graffiti-spattered city wall spray-painted with the phrase “THE COLDEST PLACE ON EARTH” looked just the same as it always had. Near the wall there was a model of a Berlin café, a black sedan parked next to an old-fashioned telephone booth, and a government office that contained sinister-looking jars of scented rags—bits of clothing used to set attack dogs on the trail of any individual regarded as “suspicious” by the secret police.

Roger stood a few feet away with his hands on his hips and a dirty rag hanging from his back pocket. A sullen female security guard leaned against a wall next to him.

Finally, Gilda saw what April was pointing at: further down on the wall, in spooky-looking black letters, was a single word:

Gilda felt a tickle in her left ear. She remembered the cryptic phrase in the dead-drop message:
Look for my usual signal: blue gum marking
Anna
.

Gilda scooted in front of the other counselors to take a closer look at the wall. She rubbed the wall and examined her fingers, but saw no residue of ink or paint. There was definitely no sign of gum. The other counselors regarded Gilda with interest: she wore her
Avengers
-style spy catsuit (actually black leggings, high-heeled ankle boots, and a sleeveless black tunic) and her hair in a high ponytail in honor of a special event taking place at the museum later that afternoon.

“Gilda, what are you doing?” April demanded. “Roger has already been trying to get rid of this graffiti all morning. In fact, I only found out about it because I saw the poor guy trying to wipe it off with a rag.”

“So what are you saying, April?” one of the counselors demanded. “You’re saying one of us did this?”

“Of course not. I’m saying that one of the campers did it. We want the kids to have a great time—even get a little silly and crazy.” April glanced in Gilda’s direction. “But we do
not
want them defacing museum property.”

“I didn’t let my campers out of my sight all day,” said a tall, athletic counselor named Raymond.

“Me, either,” said another counselor standing next to him. “None of my campers would have done this.”

“Mine, either.”

“Well, didn’t any of the security guards see who did it?”

Shauna, the security guard standing nearby, piped up. “I was standin’ right here the whole time. I turned my back for maybe half a minute to check the other room. Half a minute, okay? I didn’t see any campers or counselors do this.”

More evidence of a supernatural cause,
Gilda thought.

“What about your team, Gilda?”

Gilda wasn’t entirely certain that one of her campers
wouldn’t
have done this if given the opportunity. After all, there was The Misanthrope with his history of picking locks; and Agent Moscow, who was something of a mystery; and Baby Boy, who might have regressed into toddlerhood for a moment. On the other hand, why would any of her recruits write a single word—
Anna
? And what about the fact that this exact name also appeared in the dead-drop message?

As Gilda contemplated these questions, she pulled her Polaroid from her bag and snapped a photograph of the word on the wall, thinking she should record the evidence just in case it was relevant to her psychic research.