“Is this Jimi?”
“Yes?” I said, sounding more like I was asking a question than answering one.
“This is Claudia’s dad.” It still didn’t sound like him.
“Oh, um, hi, Mr. Bembry. Is Claudia there?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said. His voice was oddly flat. I was wondering if he was okay, when he said, “Are you okay?”
“Me? Yes, I’m fine.”
“That’s good to hear. You gave us all quite a scare yesterday. Claudia was most upset.”
“Sorry about that. Well, I’m okay.”
“Good. That’s good. Well, Claudia is out running some errands with her mother. I’ll tell her you called and that you’re okay.”
“Thanks, Mr.—” But then I realized he was gone. I looked at the phone to double-check, and sure enough, he had hung up on me.
I’d met Claudia’s dad a few times and spoken to him on the phone, briefly, many more. He was an odd guy, but he’d never sounded like that before. I wondered if maybe he was high. It wouldn’t have been out of the question.
I placed the phone back in its charger, and was stifling a yawn, thinking I really needed to lie down, when my mom appeared at my elbow.
“When is Rex coming?”
I shrugged and yawned again. “I don’t know. Before dinner, but probably not for a while.” Just as I said it, though, the doorbell rang. “Or maybe he’s here right now.”
I wasn’t disappointed that he was there—I don’t think I could ever be disappointed to see him—but I really, really wanted some alone time.
Then I opened the door, and Rex wasn’t there at all. Instead, there were two blue suits, and behind them, next to a pair of black, government-issue SUVs parked on the street, were two more. Wearing the blue suits were Agent Ralphs, standing on the welcome mat, and next to her, a foot taller, was another agent wearing dark shades the same color as the Wellplant embedded in his forehead.
My head sagged to the side as I let out an exasperated sigh. “Seriously?”
“Come on in, Rex,” Mom said, as she and Trudy came up beside me. Then she said, “Oh.”
Ralphs dipped her head at my mom. “Ms. Corcoran.” Then she did the same to Trudy. “Ms. Corcoran.” Then she looked at me and paused, I think trying to greet me in a way that would be consistent but not repetitive. She gave up with a sigh and said, “Ms. Corcoran.”
“We’ve been through a lot these last couple of days,” Mom said. “Jimi needs to rest. Can’t this wait?”
Ralphs smiled sympathetically but shook her head. “Sorry. This won’t take long, but it is urgent.”
“Do you have any information about my daughter’s abductors?” Mom said, her voice accusing.
“Actually, yes I do,” Ralphs replied.
Mom looked conflicted: relieved there was information, but maybe disappointed that she couldn’t tell them to go away. She turned to me and I shrugged, then she sighed and said, “Okay.”
She opened the door and led everyone into the dining room. Trudy kept going, straight through to the kitchen, to check on the coffee.
Ralphs smiled awkwardly and Agent Wellplant looked around like he was scanning the house. I wondered if he was recording it, maybe even transmitting that recording to headquarters or something, and if that was even legal. Ralphs didn’t show it in any specific way, but I got the feeling she was annoyed by him, which made me feel a little more warmly toward her.
Mom gestured for the agents to sit on one side of the table, then motioned me over to sit next to her. “Okay?”
I nodded and she turned and nodded to Ralphs.
“We found the white van,” Ralphs said. “The one used to abduct you. It was parked behind a house in Camden, where we found bomb-making equipment consistent with the device used in the Seaport Museum attack. Inside was hair that matches your DNA.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “You have my DNA on file?”
Ralphs smiled, but before she could respond, Agent Wellplant added, “Yes, that’s right.”
Ralphs gave him a sidelong look, her irritation a little closer to the surface.
My mom and I both started to speak at the same time. “I’m sorry…” we both said, then she trailed off as I continued with, “But who are you?”
Mom smiled at me with something like pride. She had been going to ask the same thing.
“Agent Scanlon,” he replied without emotion.
“Agent Scanlon is part of a program partnering up agents with Wellplants and those without,” Ralphs explained.
Mom ignored her. “And do you have identification, Agent Scanlon?”
Scanlon sat quietly for a moment, his face blank, but his aggravation somehow obvious anyway. He sighed and held up his badge.
Ralphs seemed to be biting back a smile as Mom and I studied the badge. Then he put it away and said, “We also found a photograph of you in the house.”
“A photograph?” I said, creeped out at the idea that a bunch of mad bombers in masks would have my photo. I turned to Ralphs. “What kind of photo?”
“We’re hoping you could tell us.”
She slid a photo out of her folder and put it on the table. My hair was tied back the way I used to wear it when I was younger. I was wearing a bright red sweater and a big goofy grin.
“That’s a school photo,” Mom said. “From last year’s yearbook.”
“The year before, actually,” I said. “Freshman year.” I looked so young, so different. It looked like a different person, a different lifetime. I glanced at my mom, incredulous that she might think that picture was only one year old.
“Oh, right,” she said. “The red sweater. You really did love that sweater.”
“Any idea how they got it?” Ralphs asked.
I shrugged. “Anyone at my school would have it, and anyone else could get it from my school. The yearbooks are all in the library. Digitized versions, too. But I don’t know why they would have it.”
“Well, that was my next question. Any thoughts?”
I considered it for a second, hard, not just because she was asking, but because it was starting to really bug me. Apart from killing people and screwing up the world with their misguided violence, these CLAD fanatics were seriously complicating my life. “I guess it would make sense that the people who grabbed me would need a photo, so they’d know what I looked like. But I still have no idea why they grabbed me in the first place.”
Ralphs nodded slowly, leaving that question out there.
Scanlon leaned over and slid the photo back away from us, saying, “We have footage of you and your friends running from the altercation yesterday at the Humans for Humanity convention.” His voice was flat, but he was clearly implying something, and as he did, a waft of halitosis rolled across the table, so intense and acrid I’m pretty sure I would have been able to see it if it hadn’t made my eyes water.
I turned to him, deliberately keeping my face expressionless. “And?”
“A bit of a coincidence.”
My expressionlessness faltered as I rolled my eyes. “How is that a coincidence?”
“Well, you were supposed to be at the meeting, but narrowly missed the bombing. Then you were at the protests, but you narrowly missed the violence. Were you tipped off?”