And Aiden and Meg, whose very lives depended on the outcome — what had they found?
A key. A single key to we-don’t-know-what.
Could that be because there was nothing to find?
The wave of rage was white-hot and instant. Rage at himself, for entertaining such terrible thoughts. He had never — not once — given voice to his doubts. There were two reasons for this. First, an illogical, superstitious belief that saying it out loud might somehow make it come true.
But mostly, Meg would rip my lungs out.
He regarded his sister sacked out on the couch. Meg had zero doubt. In fact, he was certain that the possibility of guilt had never even crossed her mind. The whole world was clear-cut for Meg — black and white, good and bad, innocent and guilty.
Loyal and disloyal.
I want to believe! Who could be better parents — better people — than Mom and Dad?
Yet where was it written that good people couldn’t do bad things?
Aiden and Meg had journeyed thousands of miles and risked their lives again and again to get to the bottom of the Falconer case.
But when they found the truth, would they really want to hear it?
Aiden tossed and turned on the floor. His tortured dreams took him back more than a year to his last night in a sleeping bag.
March 7.
The day the world ended.
The day of the arrest.
With no close relatives, Aiden and Meg had spent that night with their father’s cousin and his new wife, people they hardly knew. It would have been uncomfortable under any circumstances. But especially that day — torn out of school by the police, eleven hours at the precinct house, watching the video clip of Agent Harris arresting Mom and Dad replayed endlessly on Fox News Channel.
“It’ll only be for a couple of days,” Dad said over the phone. “The whole thing’s a misunderstanding.”
Nobody realized the true scope of the nightmare that had just begun.
Meg got the guest bed. Aiden’s restless twists and turns were relegated to a sleeping bag on the den floor. He could still picture the large uncurtained window — the blazing sun that jolted him out of haunted semiconsciousness the next morning.
He didn’t just remember it — he felt it.
Not only the powerful sun streaming in through the panes, but the sound as well. A muted but excited babble.
A crowd?
He picked himself up, shaking loose stiff and twisted muscles — the full-body ache of a night on hardwood after an entire day of gut-clenching anxiety.
That discomfort was forgotten the instant Aiden got a look out the window.
The front lawn had disappeared to be replaced by a sea of humanity. Reporters, cameramen, sound engineers. Dozens of TV station mobile units clogged the road. A futuristic skyline of satellite dishes.
What’s going on?!
He ran for the front foyer. The cousin’s wife cowered at the glass sidelights, gaping at the press invasion.
She tried to stop him. “Aiden! No!”
He barely heard her as he pushed on past. This was a chance to help Mom and Dad. To tell the world what good citizens they were. That they couldn’t possibly have committed treason.
He threw open the door and ran outside. The throng of reporters closed around him like a giant amoeba absorbing its food. He was buffeted by bodies and equipment. A cable wrapped around his legs. He would have fallen, but the crush of people kept him upright.
Microphones came from nowhere. A blizzard of shouted questions.
“Did you know your parents were working for terrorists?”
“No!!” he howled, but the media onslaught prevented him from saying anything beyond that single syllable.
“Have you had any dealings with the HORUS Global Group?”
“When did you realize that the HORUS Global Group was funneling money to anti-American extremists?”
“My parents worked for the CIA!” Aiden shouted into the firestorm. “Ask Frank Lindenauer! He knows everything!”
That was when the real screaming started.
Meg.
She launched herself out of the house like a missile. Unlike Aiden, who thought he could set the record straight, his sister had a simpler purpose in mind.
“Get out of here! Leave us alone!!”
She blasted into the media swarm with such force that the entire crowd moved. The microphones that were shoved in her face she merely swatted away. He watched in amazement as she wrenched the camera out of the hands of a two-hundred-pound technician, reared back, and smacked him in the side of the head with it. If Aiden himself hadn’t been so agitated, he probably would have cheered.
But her voice — he had never heard such sounds from her before. Sharp staccato shrieks that sounded like high-pitched, hysterical laughter.
“Meg!” he shouted, trying to push through the crowd to comfort her.
But he could not budge the mass around him. He was stuck, imprisoned, not by steel bars like his parents but by tons and tons of reporters. Struggle as he might, he made no headway, wheezing in wasted effort as he listened to his sister’s cries….
* * *
“I’m coming, Meg!”
Aiden tossed himself awake, bumping his head on the armrest of the couch and scrambling to his feet.
No crowd. No media feeding frenzy. No Meg.
It all came back to him: LA. The “borrowed” house. The International Crew.
But I heard screams.
There it was again — an agitated yip, punctuated by the slamming of cabinet doors.
Meg!
Aiden burst out of the room and down the stairs. What was she saying?
“Hey, you’ve got Bisquick!”
Huh?
“You mean you’ve never made pancakes before?” More slamming. “There has to be a frying pan in this place somewhere.”
By the time Aiden got to the kitchen, a cozy domestic scene was in progress. Meg had Viv spooning batter onto a skillet while Teebs mixed up a new batch in a plastic bowl. Two more IC members, T-Dog and Pharaoh, looked on with rapt interest.
“That’s it, nice and round,” Meg advised Viv. “Don’t make them too big. They’ll fall apart when you try to flip ’em.” She looked up and noticed her brother for the first time. “Morning, bro. Hope you’re hungry!”
He could have cheerfully strangled her.
Calm down, he soothed himself. She can’t know you’ve been reliving the worst day of both your lives.
“Does anybody mind if I take a shower?” he asked aloud.
“Mmmm,” murmured Viv, concentrating on her pancakes like a diamond cutter evaluating a million-dollar stone.
Aiden climbed back upstairs and headed down the hall to the bathroom. No towel, no soap, no clean clothes. He was three for three. All the same, a shower was going to feel good. Then Meg could clean up, too, and they could get out of here before she was appointed Official Breakfast Chef to the Criminal Element.
He’d always envied his sister’s ability to make friends easily. But this was ridiculous.
On the other hand, Bo and his “autonomous collective” had showed them a decent amount of kindness and hospitality.
I just hope we get out of here before we meet their dark side.
He pushed open the bathroom door and froze. There, standing over the counter, was Zapp. In front of him was a tower of crisp fifty-dollar bills. He was counting out stacks of twenty, fastening each with a rubber band.
None of the fifties were faded or crinkled. It was perfect, brand-new money.
Aiden’s heart skipped a beat.
Counterfeit money.
“Oops, sorry — ” He attempted to back out.
An iron grip closed on the front of his shirt and hauled him inside. The bathroom door slammed behind him.
Zapp got right to the point. “If you ever, ever, tell anybody about this — ”
“It’s none of my business!” Aiden exclaimed quickly.
r /> He was shoved hard up against the door. “What’s none of your business?”
“Nothing!” Aiden stammered. “I didn’t see anything! I was just going to use the shower.”
Zapp looked at him with eyes that would have bored twin holes through titanium. Then he held out a stack of bills. “Take this.”
Aiden moved his hands away. “Oh, no, I don’t — ”
“Grab it for me,” Zapp commanded. “Now — put this on.” He plucked a rubber band from the pile and handed it to Aiden.
Gingerly, as if the rubber were radioactive, Aiden slid the elastic onto the bundle of cash.
“Thanks, kid.” Zapp peeled a fifty off the top of the tower and stuffed it into Aiden’s pocket.
“What — what’s that for?”
The reply was a vicious smile. “Now you work for me.”
“No!” Aiden exploded. “I mean, no offense, but — ”
“Bo’s got a thing about funny money,” Zapp explained. “It’s federal — heavy heat. But if I go down, you’re my partner. So keep your mouth shut. Got it?”
Aiden certainly did get it. Bad enough he was a fugitive. Now he had graduated to counterfeiter.
That day the Falconers found out how the International Crew made their living. It came up during an extended breakfast of Meg’s pancakes that lasted all morning and had several seatings. Pretty soon, Teebs was sent out to buy more Bisquick, and then again when they ran out of syrup. It was like a party, complete with jokes and laughter and good-natured ribbing.
The only pooper, Meg reflected, was Aiden. He sulked at the table, leaving his stack untouched on his plate. And not once did he pass up a chance to take Meg aside and lecture her on the dangers of getting too chummy with the gang members.
“I’m having fun,” she whispered. “Remember fun? Or have you always been a sad sack?”
“Meg — they’re counterfeiters!” He filled her in on the details of his brief but intense encounter with Zapp in the bathroom.
“Well, it’s just Zapp,” she said sharply. “Viv told me exactly what they do. They’re like couriers. They make pickups and drop-offs for people.”
“Criminals,” Aiden amended.
“But not counterfeiters. It’s mostly gambling stuff. Numbers, they call it.”
“And that’s not illegal?” Aiden challenged.
“So what if it is?” she said defensively. “Compared to what you hear about big city gangs these days — ”
She was interrupted by a commotion at the front door. Bo had arrived along with two other IC members, and they were a sight to behold. They were battered but triumphant, their clothing ripped and crimson-stained. Congratulations and high fives were flying in all directions, and Meg couldn’t help noticing that the knuckles of Bo’s right hand were dripping blood all over the carpet.
“What happened?”
Bo favored her with a goatee-framed grin. “We made a statement.”
“What statement? You’re bleeding!”
“Remember the guy with the knife? Well, forget him.”
Meg’s eyes were like saucers. “You mean he’s — ” Aiden delivered a sharp kick to the back of her ankle. “Is he all right?” she amended.
“That depends on the talents of the Emergency Room personnel.” Bo peeled off his tattered, bloody T-shirt and tossed it into a scorched metal wastebasket. He passed it to his two companions, who did the same with their blood-spattered shirts.
Meg watched in wonder as one of Bo’s companions squirted lighter fluid on top of the shirts and produced a book of matches.
“Not in here,” Viv ordered. “I’m not washing any more black soot off the ceiling.”
Meg turned even paler. Of all the International Crew, she felt closest to Viv. Viv was like a big sister, removed, somehow, from the uglier aspects of the IC. But it was pretty plain that the girl was in it up to her ears.
Meg heard a match strike outside, followed by the foom of an accelerated fire. She moved a step closer to her brother.
Bo noticed her distress. “It’s nothing for you to worry about,” he said kindly. “Just a little difference of opinion. We made a few pickups the Furies thought were theirs.”
“The Furies?” she repeated. “Are they another” — Aiden kicked her again — “autonomous collective?”
Bo laughed. “No, they’re a gang. They couldn’t even pronounce autonomous collective. Hey, what’s this? You’ve got pancakes?”
And pretty soon they were all sitting around the table, singing the praises of Erica Graham and her magic Bisquick. From pancakes to destroying evidence and back to pancakes in sixty seconds.
Is Aiden right? Are we risking our lives being with these people?
Bo clapped his hand onto Aiden’s shoulder. “You’re quiet today, Gary. Something on your mind?”
Aiden set his jaw. “Just thanks and good-bye,” he said with firm determination. “It’s time for us to move on.”
“You can stay as long as you want,” Viv offered. “Right, Bo?”
But Aiden was adamant. After breakfast, they said their good-byes, and Teebs drove them back to Venice Beach.
“Whatever you want to say about the IC,” Meg commented as the big old car disappeared in a cloud of burned oil, “we could do worse than staying in that house. It’s got to be the last place on earth the FBI would ever look.”
“Come on, Meg — they’re gang members. For all we know, Bo killed that guy today.”
Meg was bitter. “According to the newspapers, Mom and Dad are the worst criminals going. You and I are probably charged with more stuff than the IC.”
“We’re lucky to be out of there,” Aiden insisted. “In case you haven’t noticed, they’re in the middle of a war. When the Furies come for payback, they could be carrying Uzis! A fat lot of help we’d be to our parents if we got caught in the crossfire.”
Meg was silent. In her mind, there were different degrees of bad. Whatever Bo did today counts as self-defense. That other guy tried to kill him.
But she had to agree with her brother on one thing: Mom and Dad were all that mattered. Finding Frank Lindenauer was all that mattered. Bisquick pancakes and shady friends were fairly low on the list.
The first order of business was to get a hotel.
“Just a normal place,” Aiden ordered. “We don’t need hot bubbling mud wraps.”
They went back to @leaves.net and reserved a room in nearby Marina del Rey using Louise Graham’s SkyPoints.
Aiden replaced his sister at the screen and did a Google search for the initials “SMRC.” To his dismay, the search engine spat back more than seven thousand hits. These included the Sun Marketing Resource Center, the Scottish Motor Racing Club, and a site dedicated to the video game Super Mario Royal Castle.
“It’s a dead end,” Meg groaned. “It would take years to check the key against all this stuff.”
“Don’t be so quick to give up,” Aiden advised. “We can rule out most of these right away. Look — a video game can’t have lockers. And I doubt this key is from Scotland.”
“How do you know?” his sister countered. “There was stuff from all over the world in that shoe box. The CIA travels everywhere.”
It went back and forth like that — an argument over every item on the list. An hour later, they were at number forty-seven — the Sarasota Model Railroad Club — and Aiden looked every bit as discouraged as Meg felt.
To make matters worse, an obnoxious neighbor arrived at the next computer. This was a knuckle-cracking, under-his-breath-humming fat guy with a huge cowboy hat. He wished them “Howdy!” and plopped a gym bag onto the counter, crowding their space.
“Mister, would you mind moving that over a little?” Meg requested politely.
The man was slurping his tea so loudly that he didn’t even hear her.
Meg found herself staring at the gym bag, reading and rereading the words printed on the side.
Why is that name so familiar? I’ve never been to Californ
ia before….
And then she had the answer. “Aiden — health clubs have lockers, right?”
“I guess so,” he mumbled absently, concentrating on the Google list. “Why?”
“Look!”
He followed her gaze to the duffel: Santa Monica Racquet Club.
SMRC.
* * *
Out on the street, Meg could hardly contain her excitement. “What happens now? Where’s Santa Monica?”
“Hold your horses,” Aiden cautioned. “Let’s check into our hotel first and maybe buy some new clothes. We don’t want the racquet club guys to smell us coming. If we look like runaways, the cops will pick us up for sure.”
Getting around was a problem. Although Los Angeles was a big city, there was no subway, and the bus lines were confusing. Taxis were the best answer, but they were hard to find and also expensive. Aiden patted his pocket where the counterfeit fifty-dollar bill Zapp had forced on him now resided.
Phony money. Dirty money.
At first he had vowed not to spend one cent of it, to find some church or homeless shelter and give it away. But cash meant survival. And survival meant a chance to help Mom and Dad.
Whatever it takes.
But he couldn’t bring himself to be grateful to a counterfeiter.
The thought had barely crossed his mind when he glanced to his left and spotted none other than Zapp himself, open for business in the shadows of an alley. He was with a “customer,” handing over one of the packets of fifties, taking real money in return.
Aiden grabbed Meg, lowered his head, and chugged right on past.
“Gary!”
Zapp was behind him in an instant, spinning him around. “What are you, some kind of cop? Why are you following me?”
“I’m not!” Aiden defended himself. “Teebs drove us back to town — ”
“Teebs is here?” Zapp’s narrow weasely face had turned deathly pale.
“It was a couple of hours ago,” Meg supplied. “He just gave us a lift. He didn’t hang around.”
Zapp nodded, absorbing the information, breathing hard. “I don’t want to see you two around here anymore. Got it? This neighborhood is off-limits to you.”