Death by Denim

Table of Contents

 

 

NO ESCAPE

Hand in hand we sprinted for the station, arriving out of breath just moments before the train was supposed to leave. The ticket windows were closed so we had to buy our tickets from the machines. It felt like forever that Mom was feeding coins into the slot and another eternity for the machine to print and spit out our tickets. We grabbed them and raced through the turnstile, reaching the train car just as the warning chimes sounded, signaling that the doors were about to close.

The train had already started to move by the time we settled into our seats. I leaned back against the upholstery, silently saying my good-byes to Lyon. Then I noticed Mom’s grip on the armrest tighten and I followed her gaze out the window.

Marlboro Man was running onto the platform. Late. Too late. I smiled at his failure . . . until it hit me. My ticket. I flipped it over and my heart dropped. Ours was an express train. No stops between Lyon and Paris. He may have missed us, but he would know exactly where we were headed. And when we would get there.

One glance at Mom and I knew she was thinking the same thing.

We were in trouble.

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SLEUTH / SPEAK
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Copyright © Linda Gerber, 2009

eISBN : 978-1-101-05263-1

Acknowledgments

The writing of this book was made possible by the encouragement and support of my family who continue to be my number-one cheerleaders. Thanks, guys!

 

Also, special thanks to my CPs, Jen, Ginger, Barb, Nicole, Julie, Kate, Karen, and Marsha for their wisdom and patience, and to Davide and Natalie Lorenzi, Jonathan Neve, and Ammi-Joan Paquette for their generous language and translation help.

 

As always, I am indebted to the fantastic team at Puffin for bringing the book to life. Heartfelt thanks to Angelle Pilkington (welcome to the new addition!), Grace Lee (best of luck with nursing!), and Kristin Gilson (I appreciate the 11th hour save!) for their editorial genius, and to designers Theresa Evangelista and Linda McCarthy for their brilliant cover designs. It’s been my sincere pleasure to work with the best people in the business!

I
knew it was just a matter of time before they caught up with us. Knew it every morning as I kissed my mother good-bye and walked out the door. Knew it every afternoon as I rode my bike home from the school in Lyon, France, where I had enrolled under a counterfeit name. Knew it every minute of every day, so it shouldn’t have hit me with such a jolt when I noticed the man following me. But it did.

Part of the shock, I suppose, was the realization that I’d seen him before. Despite all the rules and techniques my mom had tried to drill into my head since we’d slipped underground, his presence hadn’t more than grazed my consciousness before. Looking back, I recognized how often he’d been in shadows or hovering around the periphery of my attention. It wasn’t until he grew bold and walked right past me, though, that all the other sightings registered in my head. Then everything fell into place—
thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk
—like bars in a cage locking tight.

We’d been out to dinner, my mom and I. It was a beautiful evening with the first promise of summer riding on the breeze, and a sky so clear above us that the stars shone like a million tiny lanterns. We strolled along the Rhône River on our way home, watching the barges glide past, the reflection of their lights stretching across the inky water like shimmering tentacles.

I let my mind wander; I imagined those barges following the river until eventually it emptied into the open sea. How long would it take them to sail from ocean to ocean and finally reach the island I used to call home?

Like before, I was so preoccupied that the man’s presence barely registered. He’d been leaning against the stone retaining wall, smoking. Watching us, I know now. As we neared, he pushed away from the wall and dropped his cigarette, grinding it out with the toe of a snakeskin boot. I’m not sure if it was the movement or the boot that drew my attention. All I know is that I was suddenly very aware of him striding toward us.

As I’d been taught, I made a quick catalog of his features without letting my eyes fully rest on his face. He stood a full head taller than me, broad-shouldered but thin almost to the point of being lanky. Even in the darkness, I could see the leathery texture of his skin, like he’d spent a lot of time in the wind and sun. He reminded me of the kind of rugged outdoorsy types they featured in those old Marlboro cigarette ads.

Mom must have felt me stiffen next to her as he neared because she slipped her arm through mine to propel me forward. “Keep walking,” she whispered. She didn’t have to remind me, though; I knew the drill.
Head up, no eye contact. Just. Act. Casual.

I patted her hand and laughed as if she’d said something really clever. Okay, so maybe the pat and the laugh were overkill, but I had to do
something
to mask the pounding in my chest and the weird catch in my throat as I drew each breath.

The man brushed past me, so close that the sleeve of his denim shirt touched my arm and I could smell the sharp burnt-roofing-tar stench on his breath. The vibration of his snakeskin boots striking the stones so close to my feet seemed to echo
run, run, RUN!
But even then, I didn’t know exactly why.

It took several steps for the dark, smoky stink to register in my head as familiar. And the boots. I’d seen them before. That’s when it all came flooding back. That’s when I knew.

We’d been found.

 

To be honest, I was surprised we lasted as long as we did. Despite my very real-looking fake passport and student visa, I had been sure from the moment my mom and I arrived in France that everyone we met must know we were imposters. We kept to ourselves at home and I didn’t make friends at school, but no one seemed to notice. I was one of the few students who wasn’t boarding there as well and, from the talk I heard in the hallways, they just thought I was a stuck-up American.

By the time we passed the half year mark without incident, I had dared to believe that we might be safe after all. We lived a quiet expat life, me going to a real school instead of taking online classes, and my mom acting like a normal mother instead of a CIA agent. I think we both liked the role-playing reality so much that we wanted it to be true. Little by little, despite the constant training to be vigilant, we began to slip into our faux identities. We began to relax.

Maybe that’s why they waited so long to hunt for us. They must have known that once our guard was down, we’d be easier to catch. Exactly who “they” were, I couldn’t say, except that they worked for a man called The Mole. He was the leader of a sleeper cell who had turned to organized crime to fund his operation. Both my mom and I had gotten in his way at one point or another, and the man held a grudge.

The Mole and his minions remained faceless to me, which made them all the more terrifying; I never knew who to trust. Plus, I had seen what those minions could do. Twice I had watched people die because of them—first a woman named Bianca on our island back home and then Joe, my mom’s CIA partner, in Seattle.

All I could think as the man’s footsteps echoed behind me was that the past had caught up with us. It was starting all over again. And I could be next.

Mom’s fingers pressed into my skin. “Up,” she whispered, steering me toward the stairs that led to street level. We climbed slowly, casually, even as panic swelled in my chest, urging me to move faster.

As we reached the top of the stairs, I could see a night-club about half a block to the left, music and patrons filling the street in front of it. I grabbed my mom and tried to drag her toward the safety of lights and people. It was all I could do not to break into a run, but she held me back.

“What’s the matter?” she asked in a low voice. “Who was that man?”

“I don’t know who he is but I think he—” My throat constricted, pinching off the words. I had to take a breath and start again. “I think he’s following us.”

Her brows shot up. “You’ve seen him before?”

She didn’t have to voice the reprimand behind her words; I knew I should have been more aware. I nodded miserably.

She pressed her lips together and nodded. That was enough for the moment, but I knew I would have to explain once it was over. “Let’s go.”

Even in the balmy night air, my stomach had turned to ice. I focused on the lights of the club and tried not to think about the man behind us. I could feel Mom close behind me and that gave me some comfort, but I still felt as if I had a huge bull’s-eye painted between my shoulders.

As we got closer to the club, the music thrummed so loud that I could literally feel the beat. I had to yell to be heard as I pushed my way through the crowd to the open door.
“Pardon. Pardon. Excuse-moi.”