Double Vision (17 page)

I felt a chill. They were talking about killing me, or their boss killing me, anyway. I had to focus on breathing so I wouldn't panic.

“I keep these heavy-duty plastic tarps in the backseat now. See? They cost you a few Euros, but they're well worth it.”

I tried to focus on listening, despite the raging panic that made my ears buzz.

“If you're smart about how you lay the tarp, and fold the edges up, tape the corners with some duct tape, it acts like a tray. Keeps the fluids contained.”

“I'll have to try that. Thanks for the tip. Last time, it took me hours to scrub all the blood out.”

“Uh-huh. I know what you mean.”

“How about the big dragon?”

“Not yet. Too valuable.”

Dragons? What was this, some wizard movie? Maybe that blow to the head had scrambled my brains a little more than I bargained for.

“And the little dragon?”

Nope, they really were talking about dragons.

“That one will be done soon.”

There was a really sharp left turn. I banged against the side of the trunk. Then a right turn, pushing me against my pack.

I reached inside my backpack, but all I had was a translator I didn't need, the tracking device, and the stickers. Just great: I could track the bad guys—but wait! I knew where they were already. Angry and scared, I peeled the back off one of the stickers anyway and pushed it against the side of the trunk. It couldn't hurt. Maybe they would find my body, I thought with a chill. Wrapped inside a heavy-duty tarp, so my blood wouldn't mess up the upholstery.

Then I flew against the back of the trunk as the bad guys hit the brakes. The engine died.

Doors slammed.

More laughter. Panic, inside my chest as I held my skateboard, ready to smack them—bam, bam!—in the head. I'd be quick. And I would skateboard away. I knew how to do that.

Footsteps. A key, turning in the lock. I felt the edges of the skateboard cut into my skin as I clutched it as tight as I could.

Bright light. Laughter. I reached up, but before I could bang anything, I got hit in the head.

And it was pitch-black again.

“NICE WORK, GENTLEMEN. NOW, THERE
won't be any unpleasant dealings with the French police, correct?” That was a new, nasal voice. An American.

“No problem, sir.” This was Agent Fullerton talking. “Nobody saw us. The kid was by himself. Albert Black runs his operations loose and sloppy.” He laughed. “We searched his backpack and took his translator and tracking device.”

They left me my two stickers—useless without the device.

“Good,” the other voice said.

I opened my eyes, just a slit. I was on a cold tile floor, watching several sets of feet. Two pairs of black lace-up boots—Agent Fullerton plus French Bad Guy, who'd been talking in the car about the heavy-duty plastic tarps for easy cleanup—and a pair of loafers with tiny tassels. That had to be the boss.

“Very well, gentlemen. You can wait outside while I have a little talk with Benjamin Green here.” I closed my eyes. “Should only be a minute, and then you can do what you do best.”

There was laughter, followed by heavy footsteps and a closing door.

The rustle of fabric and a sigh near my ear. “You can stop pretending now, Green. I know you've been listening.”

I opened my eyes and looked at a bright white smile. Slicked-back brown hair, blue eyes, a face I recognized from somewhere but couldn't place. “Hi,” I said, still a little woozy from being repeatedly whacked in the head. I blinked and realized: this was Françoise's uncle, the guy I'd seen in the photo next to her dad, in the hall at the bakery. Uncles Jules.

Our bad guy Drake was Françoise's uncle
.

“Get up.” Drake stood up himself and stepped back.

I got to my feet slowly, touching my head. It felt wet, and I moved my hand to find blood on my fingertips. I wiped them on my pants, trying not to freak out. When the room around me stopped spinning, I saw it was a big room, with fancy furniture, marble columns, and high windows all around. In a corner, a desk with a laptop computer sat next to a giant whiteboard. It had our two decoded ciphers on it and space for a third.

“Sit down,” Drake said as he settled on the sofa. I reminded myself that he thought I was Benjamin Green, who had done something so bad he was going to cut me into pieces.

So I sat.

There was an old, leather-bound book on the table in front of us. It had a dragon embossed and painted on the cover. The Vault ledger! Drake was the one who'd stolen it. Next to the ledger sat a tray of diced fruit and pastries. Drake leaned forward, took a piece of pineapple, chewed it, all while staring at me. “I hate these pastries, don't you?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“It seems this city is obsessed with its baked goods.”

“All those carbs, yuck.”

He laughed. “Exactly.”

What were we talking about here?

“Let's cut the nonsense, shall we?” Drake shifted position, and crossed his legs. “You were supposed to be following the girl to Montmartre.” That had to be Françoise. “But instead, I hear you're just sleeping in, watching movies—is that it?”

“No, of course not. Sir.” People like it when you call them sir, especially when you're apologizing. I figured that out long ago. Right now, I would have to apologize like my life depended on it. Because my life really did depend on it.

“I was gathering intel on this boy we've been seeing her with,” I continued in my best Ben voice. “Lincoln Baker, my lookalike.” I gave him the Benjamin Green trademarked serious frown. “He's really just a nuisance, but the boy seems to have stumbled onto some useful information.”

Drake reached forward to take another piece of pineapple. He raised one eyebrow and said, “This nuisance managed to befriend Françoise Mégère almost instantly, something you weren't able to do even with all your training. Now they're running all over town, deciphering my brother's ridiculous clues.” He leaned forward. “And you're useless.”

For once, it was Benjamin Green who'd messed up, and here I was taking the blame! I had to think of something, or I would be killed soon. I looked around the room, then at the whiteboard with codes.

Drake brushed some nonexistent lint off his suit. “I don't have room for error in my organization. Your time is up, Mr. Green.” And as if on cue, the door opened, and Agent Fullerton and French Bad Guy came in for me.

“Wait,” I said, jumping up. “I have the next coded message!”

Drake stopped in his tracks, looking at me. “You found the Montmartre cipher? Where?”

My mind was going a hundred miles an hour. “The cipher …” And I felt a dread turn into a brick inside my stomach. Not because I was about to be cut into little pieces, but because I actually knew where I'd seen the next cipher. And I was about to give it to Drake, the bad guy. Not to Françoise.

I reached in my back pocket, where I'd tucked the folded-up menu the day before.

“Le Moulin de la Galette.” Drake rolled his eyes. “Of course, that dump.” Then he looked back at me. “So the code—where is it?”

I took a breath, and hoped she would forgive me. And Pierre, too. “The menu,” I said. “The code is on the back.”

I was dead. Dead Linc walking. And not because of these Drake guys, Agent Fullerton, or their heavy-duty plastic tarp system—they needed me now, and I was pretty sure I'd redeemed myself by giving up the menu. It was Françoise I worried about. Once she found out I'd given the enemy the cipher we'd been running all over Montmartre for, she would get the biggest stick in Paris and finish what she started when we'd met.

“You're right,” Drake said with a giant white grin on his face. He pointed at the menu, at the pattern of boxes and dots that ran along the desserts. “This is a pigpen cipher.” He wagged his finger at me. “You just became my number one guy, Benjamin Green.”

Lucky me. “I told you I found it.”

Drake handed me the menu, and waved his hand toward the whiteboard, like I was the maid or something. “Go. Write it on the board, find out what it says.”

I got up, still feeling dizzy from all those blows to the head. Then I scribbled the boxes and dots on the whiteboard:

SO NOW WHAT? I MISSED FRANÇOISE—
together, we would have decoded this in a jiffy. Especially since she was the one with the codebook.

“Use the computer!” Drake hollered from his spot on the sofa while he ate another piece of pineapple. “Find out how that cipher works!”

I did, despite my pounding headache. But the message made no sense at all:
home sweet home
. Over and over, looping around the menu in that pigpen cipher. Huh?

Drake stood up, wiping his hand on a bright white cloth napkin. “Of course. Leave it to Jacques to be dull and predictable.” He clapped his hands, and Agent Fullerton and French Bad Guy jumped to attention. “Gentlemen, go get my brother. My buyer is expecting the painting at one tomorrow afternoon. It's time to finish this ridiculous treasure hunt.”

Agent Fullerton nodded, and they left.

“You have Jacques Mégère?” I asked before I could think.

“Of course I do. But you know this, Benjamin.” Drake walked over and studied my face. I swallowed, expecting him to clock me because he figured out that I wasn't Benjamin Green. Drake raised his hand, but then gently tapped my cheek. “Those blows to the head really have you all confused. I'm sorry about that. But now we can forge ahead, and collect the millions. Let's go.”

“Right.” The guy was a weasel. “Where are we going exactly?” I asked as I trailed behind.

“Where it all began, naturally. I should have known it would end up like this.” Drake gave me a smile that could only be called evil. “Home sweet home. We're going to Maison du Mégère.”

We took a dizzying ride in a shiny silver Mercedes—dizzying mostly because of my scrambled brain. It was dusk, and it took us awhile to make it through Paris rush hour traffic. Drake was a very calm driver, signaling at every turn, coming to a complete stop at every red light. He might be a ruthless killer who took his own brother hostage to make a buck, but he was an A-plus driver.

“How's the head, Lincoln?”

“It's good, I think. It only hurts when—”
He called me Lincoln
.

Drake smiled as he coasted to a stop at a red light. “It pains me to do this, really.” Then he raised his hand with a gun in it. Flipped it over, so the butt faced me.

And he whacked me in the head.

I walked in a green field, covered in fog, just like at home. There were brown and white chickens, peacefully doing their pecking thing, and Grandpa in a ninja suit, practicing his moves. He waved as I walked by.

As you've probably figured out by now, I was having some weird blackout. Being hit in the head does that.

Drake smacked me on the cheek.

“Wake up.”

I opened my eyes to see that he'd parked right in front of the bakery. It was pitch-dark inside. The car clock told me it was just after six. “Why are we here?” I tried to reach for the door, but realized my hands were bound by one of those plastic snap ties.

“Because of the cipher, of course.” Drake sighed. “I hate this place. The smell of the rising dough, the buttery croissants.” He opened his door. “Don't try anything. Or I'll kill the girl.”

I got out, too, and watched as he took off his suit jacket at the front door, wrapped it around his fist, and smashed the glass with the painted dragon on it. Drake opened the door, then pulled me inside by my sleeve. “Move it.”

There was no alarm, no flashing lights. Just the lingering smell of pastries, even though the shelves were empty. It looked sad and a little creepy like this.