Spy Mom (30 page)

Once inside, he is off like a shot. There is nothing better than IKEA for a little kid. Running, food, everything on the floor, nothing you can't touch. Wonderful. I manage to direct him toward the children's section, but not without some effort. Finally, we circle the whole joint and end up right where I want to be.

The toddler beds are pushed up against a wall. I squat down to touch the mattresses, the wood, the sheets. So cozy, these tiny beds with their miniature blankets and pillows. I try to picture a sleeping Theo in each bed. “How about this one?” I ask, pointing to a bed with cute animal cutouts on the headboard.

“Blah, yuck. That one,” Theo says. He points to the row of bunk beds.

“Too big for you still, honey.”

“No. I'm big. I want that one.”

“You have to choose from one of these on the floor here, okay?” He pushes his lower lip out in a pout and tilts his head to the left. Then he stamps his foot.

“No. Never. I'm never sleeping in one of those. I hate those.” He stamps the other foot for emphasis. I sense that my day is actually going to get worse.

“Why don't you sit on one and tell me if you like it.”

“No. I want meatballs.”

“Please?” I beg. “Here, try this one.” I try to maneuver him onto one of the beds, but he is having none of it. Before I know it, he collapses in a boneless heap at my feet and starts shrieking as if I just dunked him in a pot of boiling oil. I pretend he's not mine, but nobody is buying that.

“Okay,” I say, bending to scoop up this mush of a child, “that's enough. Get up.”

“Nooooo,” he wails. Magically, he slips out of my grasp and back onto the floor. Someone is standing too close to me, probably a person wanting a better view of what a lousy parent looks like up close. I turn toward the person, ready to dispatch them with some searing sarcasm. But instead, I find myself looking up into the clear eyes of the Blind Monk.

“It's been such a long time, Sally,” he says. And my heart feels like it has actually stopped beating. I can hear the hollow reverberations of the last beat followed by nothing. I put my hand on my chest. Nope. Nothing. I must be dead and yet I'm still standing up. Strange. Theo's screaming intensifies, breaking through my shock at no longer having a beating heart.

The Blind Monk looks the same. Somehow he hasn't aged a minute. Why is that these terrorist types seem to have such good skin while the rest of us are covered in wrinkles?

“You have got to be kidding me,” I say. “Now is not a good time, as you can probably see. But if you intend to kill me, please do it immediately so I don't have to listen to any more of this noise.” I shove the Blind Monk out of my personal space and bend down to get Theo again. Once I have him, I hold him tightly to my chest. He twists violently, trying to escape. I hold him tighter, turning his face toward mine.

“Stop it right now.”

“I haven't done anything yet,” the Blind Monk replies.

“I wasn't talking to you. Theo, stop it.”

“Mommmmmmmyyyyyyyy. Down. Put me down!”

“Forget it,” I say to my child. “What do you want?” I say to the Blind Monk.

“There are people in my organization,” he says, “who are not able to see how toxic you are. But I know. And it is my duty to dispatch you.”

“You tried that a few times already, remember?”

His face darkens. Maybe now is not such a good time to remind him that I killed his friend in the Chao Phraya river, or about the gun with no bullets.

“If you had permitted your karma to go at the river, as it was meant to, we would not be in this situation,” he says.

“You are not allowed to talk about murder and karma in the same sentence. That is just wrong on so many levels.”

“Down!” Theo screams again. In his rage, he kicks the Blind Monk, who for a moment looks surprised and confused by how this is unfolding.

“Nice one,” I say.

“You always seem so sure of yourself, Sally,” he says. “It will be your downfall.”

I start to laugh. Me? Sure of myself? He clearly doesn't know me as well as he thinks he does. The Blind Monk backs me into a corner. There are all these people around, all these shoppers. I want to scream that there is a terrorist in their midst, a real one, but I know better. Screaming for the police would only make things more complicated. I back up slowly, still holding tightly to Theo.

“Who's that?” Theo asks suddenly, pointing to the Blind Monk. “He looks funny.”

“How about those meatballs, Theo?”

“Yeah! Meatballs!” My back is against the wall. The Blind Monk is too close. I catch a glimpse of the Heckler & Koch machine gun hidden discreetly under his black overcoat.

“You have to go, Sally. You are too much of a distraction.”

“I'm not with the Agency anymore. I am completely uninteresting. Trust me, you are wasting your time. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get back to my shopping.” The Blind Monk grabs my arm. His grip is like a tourniquet.

“Let me go,” I say quietly. With Theo in my arms, I can't do anything. I am pushed against the wall and a bunk bed.

“I will savor this moment for many reasons,” he says, making me feel a little like a lamb chop.

“Let me go,” I say again.

“I don't think so.”

“You know, I'm trying to have a nice shopping experience here, buy a new bed for my kid. And you are really starting to piss me off.”

The room is crowded, the space around me and the Blind Monk tight. I am still holding Theo, with no room to maneuver. So he doesn't expect it when I lift Theo onto the top bunk of the bed next to us. I take my free arm and, using his grip on me as leverage, flip him over so he lands with his full weight over the rail of one of the toddler beds. The bed immediately collapses under the force of one falling Blind Monk. Okay, so that bed is out, I think. He lays at my feet, on his back, the splinters of wood fanned out around him. A small bit of blood appears where his head hit the concrete floor. But he breathes regularly. Unfortunately for me, it appears there is no permanent damage and IKEA is really not the proper place for me to finish the job. By now, about a hundred shoppers are staring at me with disbelief. No one will ever believe that someone like me could do what I just did to the Blind Monk. I'm counting on it sounding ridiculous.

“This man collapsed!” I shout. “Call an ambulance right away. Stay with him. I'm going to call store security.” I grab Theo, wide-eyed, off the top bunk and slip through the gathering crowd.

“I didn't like any of those beds. Did you?” I ask Theo as we head for the exit. He shakes his head solemnly. I want to pretend he didn't see me drop the Blind Monk to the floor, that instead he was gazing at the butterflies strung from the ceiling, floating on a climate-controlled breeze. A girl can dream.

“Let's go to Discovery Lane and buy you that Thomas the Train bed that you liked. What do you think? And maybe pizza afterwards?”

“Oh, yes, Mommy. I like that one!” My child is happy once again. But I feel sick to my stomach.

On Monday morning, Nanny Pauline is getting into it. I can see the wheels turning in her head. She won't last at the Agency. In a few years, she'll start to panic about not having any children and throw herself off the Agency bus. If she lives that long.

Today, she shows up in jeans, a worn black hoodie, running shoes, and white socks.

“I hope it's okay that I dressed down,” she says, following me to the kitchen.

“I was wondering when you were going to ditch the white shirts. White and children, not compatible.”

Nanny Pauline smiles, a real smile. She suddenly looks very young.

“I'll be gone a few hours. You can take Theo to the playground. Directions on the table.”

“Where are you headed?” Pauline asks. The red floods her cheeks. She is embarrassed that she is supposed to spy on me. And not very good at hiding it.

“Simon is following me anyway,” I say. “No need to report to him what you uncover while in my house.”

Pauline examines her feet. “No. Of course not,” she says.

“Don't apologize. But don't keep doing it.”

“Right.” At that moment, Theo comes bursting into the room with his human-size stuffed Elmo. He's shrieking something about Elmo and Big Bird and how they are coming down the hallway. I see Pauline's hand go unconsciously to where her gun should be.

“Relax,” I say quietly. “Elmo and Big Bird are the least of our problems.”

Pauline sits down, a shocked look on her face. The Agency excels at convincing you that behind every smiling face is a potential nuclear holocaust. It's not easy to admit you've been drinking the Kool-Aid.

As I'm about to leave, Pauline shouts after me, “Are you coming back again? Should I get the frying pan?”

I poke my head back into the room. “No,” I say. “I trust you.”

This time I use my neighbors' fancy new deck, a bit uphill from us, as a launching pad onto my roof. I almost don't make it. How embarrassing it would be to fall off my own roof and have to explain why I was trying to break into my own house to the nice doctors in the emergency room. I climb up to the top of the roof and make my way across to a crawl space window that is slightly open. I wedge myself in through the tiny window and feel carefully along the floor for the drop-down ladder. Slowly, I lower it and unfurl the ladder. I climb down as quietly as I can. The house seems oddly silent. I begin to creep toward the staircase. As I pass Theo's bedroom I hear, “I brought a rolling pin this time. Thought it might work better than a frying pan. You know, easier to manage.”

I turn around slowly, unable to stop myself from smiling.

“Nice work,” I say.

“Not really. You've established a pattern. Simon says that anyone who establishes a pattern is easy prey.”

“Ah, that Simon is wise, don't you think?” Before she can answer, Theo comes out of the bathroom, still hitching up his pants.

“Mommy? I thought you were leaving.” I kiss him on the head.

“I am, sweetheart. Just forgot something.” I give Pauline a wink, dash down the stairs and out the door.

At the university, I pull into what is now my usual parking place. Talk about establishing a pattern. If my information is correct, Professor Malcolm should be coming down the path toward the labs building in about five minutes. I drink what's left of my coffee and check my mirrors for Simon. Two minutes. Time to go.

“Excuse me, Professor,” I say. With my body, I block the path of the gray-haired and stooped Albert Malcolm. He mutters something about being late, never looking up from his feet. This is the evil genius? I'm a little disappointed.

“I know, sir, but this will only take a second,” I say. I wrap my fingers around his frail forearm and squeeze enough to make a point. My touch startles him and he finally looks at me, a combination of anger and fear sweeping across his face.

“Well, what is it?” he says, pulling himself up straighter.

But for a second I can't say anything. His eyes, piercing blue lost in a sea of wrinkled flesh, glare at me. I fumble for words, completely forgetting my rehearsed monologue from seconds before.

“I'm working on an article,” I start, “for a magazine.”

“Why do you people insist on bothering me? I don't talk to your kind. And now you are making me late.” He begins to walk around me. I grab him again.

“It's about your flower project,” I say. This seems to stop Professor Malcolm dead in his tracks.

“I don't work on flowers. I'm not a botanist. Your information is wrong.” But I've regained my composure.

“No,” I say, “my information is not wrong. It comes from the source.” I hand him one of the pages of notes from his own lab books. Albert Malcolm turns white as a sheet.

“Where did you get these?” he asks. His voice is hushed, steely. “Did Barry give these to you? Stinking traitor.”

“You are going to end up dead, Professor. Guys like Blackford, they make you feel really special. Powerful, even. But don't be deluded. It won't end well for you.”

The professor stands completely still for a moment, the page of ill-gotten notes clutched in his hand. Finally, he looks right at me. “I don't recall asking for advice. Do you?”

“No. But it's free. You should take it.” This was getting away from me again.

“Who are you?”

“Doesn't matter. You'll find out eventually. Do yourself a favor and remember what I said.”

I've had better closing lines, but unable to come up with something more memorable, I leave the professor standing on the sidewalk outside his lab, trying to piece it all together.

Simon Still is parked next to me.

“You're always a little late to the party,” I say. “Do you do that on purpose?”

Simon smiles, but I see fatigue in his eyes. His whole body sags.

“You are making things worse, Sally. Why can't you be good and do as I ask?”

“And what is that? Sit around waiting to get my head blown off? Forget it. Your plan is lousy. My plan is better.” Or it will be when I get around to coming up with one.

Simon gets out of his car, lights up, paces.

“What happened to the gum?” I ask. “And your life of good health and all that shit?”

“Shut up, Sally. If I want to smoke myself to death, that is my business. And don't you even start in on secondary smoke or I will shoot you right here in this parking lot.”

I give him a small salute. Touchy.

“So?” he says finally.

“So the professor denies that he knows anything, but he's lying. He's working on the Death Lily. You ever hear of the Death Lily?”

Simon looks at me like I'm an imbecile. “Of course,” he says. “Everyone knows about the Death Lily.”

“Well, I didn't.”