A Spy Like Me (24 page)

His eyes cleared and he glanced down the
tunnels. “They will come. I’m not strong enough to escape. But you
are. And you must. I’ve been waiting, staying alive, for you.”

Crap. The guy was having delusions from
dehydration. I pulled out a water bottle and held it up to his
lips.

“Drink.” I tipped the bottle. “Then you’ll
see.”

The water spilled down his throat and the
sides of his mouth, making dark prints in the floor of the cavern.
He choked and pulled away.

“Thank you. Thank you. You’ve been too kind.
That’s enough. You need to listen.” He slipped into a different
language.

I gently gripped his arm to help him stand
and lead him away. Our time was running out. And I couldn’t just
leave him here.

“Come on, let’s go.”

He pulled away and spoke in English again.
“No. You must know!” His eyes held a hint of desperation and he
grabbed my arms with newfound strength. “I’ve been hiding the
truth. I left my brethren. I risked everything. To find you. To
tell you. To save your life.”

Clearly this guy wasn’t going stop. “Fine.
Tell me. But make it quick. We have angry French pastry dudes
coming after us.”

“That is not important. You have more
dangerous enemies than Jolie.” His voice grew scratchy, probably
from lack of talking during his captivity.

“More water?” I offered the bottle again.

“No. No. Not now. Last year I had visions. I
kept them to myself and did nothing because they made no sense. I
saw fire—great flames—leaping toward the ceiling. For many nights,
I stood at the edge of the vision and felt a rush of warm wind. I
thought the wind was from the fire. But then the vision changed,
and a set of large wings were above the fire, fanning the flames,
making them hotter, brighter, and bigger. And you were there.”

“Okay, listen.” This guy seemed nice and all
but being a hostage had affected his mind. “I think the air down
here has gotten to you.”

Was that muffled footsteps I heard? “They’re
coming. We have to go. Now!”

“No! I must tell you!” His voice rose to a
frantic pitch. “I tried to tell the brethren about my visions, and
how they tortured me. That you needed help. But they laughed me
off.”

“Now I know you’ve got the wrong girl. I’m
here to save you, not the other way around.” This guy had
completely lost his marbles.

“At first I thought it wasn’t important
either. As time went on,” his voice dropped low and he glanced
around, “the vision changed again. Out of the fire appeared a list,
written in an ancient tongue no longer spoken. The scroll caught
fire, and the edges curled. But it never burned up. Slowly the
ancient words turned to English.”

I tried to lead him out of the room but this
guy was much stronger than he looked. He gripped my arm and pulled
me close so I felt his breath on my face. His voice came out
raspy.

“Then I made the mistake of telling the
brethren about the new vision, the words, and the scroll. This time
they took my words very seriously. They figured out who you were.
That you are part of the ancient society. The unnamed. They will
come after you. And then I knew. It had to be me. These visions
were from a higher power. I was meant to save you.”

A voice rang through the cavern, sounding
like a gunshot. “Aha! And you thought you could get away?”

Both the prisoner and I turned. Jolie’s hired
gun, the
maitre d’
, stood in the doorway. He leaned against
the wall, chest heaving, sweat dripping like he’d just taken a
shower.

“You girl, have become too much trouble,” he
growled. “And your boyfriend doesn’t seem to be able to get the job
done.”

The prisoner pulled me behind him. The smell
of body odor drifted off him, but I didn’t care. The rough texture
of his robes hit my cheek. I realized they were the robes of a
monk. A monk? Malcolm had a picture of a monk in his file on me.
Could this guy be telling the truth? He sounded completely off his
rocker. An ancient society?

“You cannot save her!” The
maitre d’
stated with confident conviction. “And you cannot save yourself
either. You have been too much trouble for the master. You both
have run out of time!”

The barrel of a revolver faced us along with
the menacing glare of a butler with an anger-management problem.
Time seemed to freeze. The butler went on, but I blocked him out. I
couldn’t believe this was happening. Not to me, nice Savvy Bent.
The girl who never picked a fight, and who almost always followed
directions. Spying for the good of others was one thing, but
staring death in the face snapped something inside me. My fingers
curled even tighter around the knife still in my hand, and I
switched it open.

The monk whispered out of the side of his
mouth, “I’ll distract him. You run.”

My legs twitched with the desire to follow
his directions, to turn and flee up the stairs. To run away, search
for Mom, or to go get Dad. Then I could go into therapy and
hypnosis and brainwash the memories away. But no. Not this time. No
more running from the truth. My truth.

The butler waved the gun at the monk. “Back
on the chair.”

I gripped his robe, not letting him go. The
knife felt red hot in my hand, a burning that needed to be
released. I switched the knife to my right hand. With my left arm,
I shoved the monk to the side. The butler’s piercing black eyes
caught mine, and he grinned. I whipped my arm over my head and let
the knife fly. It soared toward its mark at the same time the
revolver went off.

Instinctively, I screamed, dropped to the
ground, and curled into a ball, waiting for a burst of pain. But I
felt nothing. Thankfully the butler was probably better at serving
pastries than shooting a gun. Someone groaned.

I crawled over to the monk, fearing for his
life. I patted his legs and up to his torso, then saw the dark red
stain spreading through his robes. He’d been shot in the side.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. You’ve been shot!” I
smoothed his hair away from his face.

His chocolate eyes were kind, but reflected
pain as he turned them on me.

“My time has come. I need to finish. Almost
done.” His breathing became quick and labored.

“No!” I pulled out my Band-aids and fumbled
with the wrapper.

Something had to help. This man did this for
me, or so he’d said. Even if he was crazy and had lost it, I
couldn’t let him die for me. No one had done that before. I just
wasn’t that important. Someone groaned again, but not the monk.

The butler was curled into a fetal position.
The knife stuck out of his side, and blood seeped through his
fingers. My body prickled with the heat of guilt and the dread that
followed. What had I done?

“Is, is he doing to die?” I stammered,
clutching the monk’s arm, forgetting the Band-Aids.

Spying on someone was one thing, but killing
a man? That was completely different. I didn’t want murder on my
resumé.

“That doesn’t matter. Listen.”

All I could see was the red stain, spreading,
growing.

“I don’t know what happened,” I started
babbling and couldn’t stop. “Something just came over me when I saw
the gun pointed at us. I’m not the kind of the girl who stabs men
in catacombs or anywhere for that matter. The most violent thing
I’ve done is to kill ants, but you should’ve seen them overrunning
our kitchen, swarming over the leftover candy canes. Yes, it was
probably my fault.”

Finally, I ran out of words and grabbed his
hand. I traced the chapped, worn skin trying to give him warmth, to
let him know I cared. I looked into his eyes. They were still full
of compassion. He wasn’t judging, just waiting.

He spoke slowly, with effort. “I found
scrolls. In the monastery library. Scrolls that talked about two
ancient societies with no name. Went way back. They existed, and
the monastery I joined had a mission to destroy these societies. I
was too young to know about them.”

His body relaxed as his words poured forth,
and peace spread across his face. He mumbled about searching for
me, finding my mom, arriving in Paris, and then Jolie finding him.
Finally he stopped, but his face was a pale yellow. I didn’t say
anything. I was wrapped in his words, hoping, wishing he knew where
to find my mom. And praying to God that he was making all of this
up.

He choked and blood dribbled out the side of
his mouth. I pressed harder against his robes to stop the
bleeding.

“Jolie thought I knew about your family. He
kept asking. But I didn’t say a word.” The monk could only manage
short sentences. Not a good sign. “One night. I knew. The place.
The fire. And I saw you caught in a bloody tug-a-war. I need to
tell you. The place. You must—”

A high-pitched scream interrupted his story.
And it wasn’t mine.

Aimee had entered, headlamp on, carrying a
tray of food.

“You!” she shouted.

“You!” I echoed back.

We fell silent, staring, barely acknowledging
the secrets that had torn us apart. Her frizzy blonde hair was
pulled back in a ponytail. She placed the tray on the floor.

My shock grew. I had absolutely no clue what
was going on. My fingers curled into tight balls and anger shot
through me like lightning. It felt like years had passed since I’d
seen her. I’d been shot at, I’d sneaked and spied, and I’d been
cooped up in a hen house. And she was fine!

“You’ve been feeding him?” I whispered.

I wanted to say so much more as the questions
piled up.

“
Oui
.”

Aimee grabbed the napkins. She ripped the
monk’s robes and pressed the napkins to his wounds.

“What happened?” she asked sharply, but then
she gasped at Jolie’s man lying on the floor and the revolver
several feet away.

My voice wavered. “I hoped my mom was down
here. But I found him.”

“Has he been talking?”

“Yes. But I think he’s lost it.”

Aimee didn’t say anything as she worked
quietly, cleaning up the monk’s wound the best she could. Her
forehead creased in thought, like she had a lot to say to me. Rage
built on days of worry simmered underneath my thinning veil of
patience.

My voice turned sharp and prickly. “Where the
hell have you been?”

Her movements became fast and jerky, but she
still did not answer. Oh, but I had lots to say.

“I thought you were gone! Missing! Kidnapped
by that lunatic Peyton! I didn’t believe your note for one second
and did everything I could to find you. All I needed was proof, a
real note, a good-bye, face-to-face. Was that too much to ask?”

She wrapped the monk’s wounds with precision,
her lips pressed tight together.

“Answer me!” My voice rang out loud and
clear.

I pushed her shoulder, angry, trying to get
her to say something. Anything.

“Or are you fabricating your story, your
lies, just like your grandfather, the great Jolie Pouffant? Maybe
you can tie me up, too. Heck, why stop there? Go after my dad and
mom too.”

“Enough!” Aimee dropped everything and rushed
at me.

Her arms wrapped around my middle and she
pushed. I landed flat on my back, and the air whooshed out of my
chest. I reached up, wrapped my fingers around her ponytail, and
yanked her off. We struggled, pushing and shoving, rolling in the
dirt. My face pressed into the floor. I managed to flip around and
twist her arm behind her back. She wiggled out and we locked arms,
unable to move each other. Finally, we let go and flopped down side
by side, spent, and breathing like racehorses.

“Why?” I asked, desperate to understand the
lies that surrounded me and pressed against me and freaked me out
even more than the bones and skulls in the walls.

Why had Aimee pretended not to know Jolie
Pouffant? Why wouldn’t she tell me? Why did she take off? And if
Jolie was a criminal what did Aimee know about it?

“I had my reasons.” Her voice sounded close
to breaking.

Tears might have streaked my dirty cheeks but
I didn’t pay any mind. “I thought you were gone. I thought you were
in trouble. I lied to my dad and broke rules so I could find you.
You were my friend. And you lied. The whole time. I know about you
and Jolie.”

“I know.” She couldn’t look at me. Guilt was
etched across her face.

The monk spoke softly, his calm words filling
the air like the glow of a burning candle. “Tell her.
Everything.”

Aimee pushed up but wouldn’t look at me.

“There is no time.” She grasped his hands.
“You must see a doctor. We wasted enough time already.”

“Tell her.” He closed his eyes, his chest
barely rising and falling.

“Tell me what?” My words sounded like an
accusation. I stood to my feet, ready for round two. “Do you know
where my mom is? Did your crazy grandfather lock her up too?”

Aimee shook her head sadly. “If my
grandfather had anything to do with your mother, I know nothing.”
Her voice grew desperate. “But he is in trouble.”

I snorted. “Like I care.”

She rubbed the monk’s hand but her words were
for me. “I do not expect you to care for him. But it has to do with
you, too.”

My body sagged, and the last bit of anger
trickled out. I didn’t know how much more truth I could take.

“I’m listening,” I said, broken but dreading
what was coming next.

“Months ago, a series of black circles
appeared on our backdoor, burned into the wood. My grandfather said
it was just teens making trouble, but I poked around and listened
to his phone calls.”

She stopped and her head dropped to her
chest. Tears splattered against her chest.

“Go on,” I said, my anger slowly
dissipated.

We had the same burned interlocked circles on
both our doors. Who made them? What was the connection? The monk
squeezed her hand and reached for mine.