If Looks Could Kill (9 page)

“Have you saved all this stuff?” Jo asked.

“Are you kidding? I downloaded it as soon as I found it. I wasn't going to let this guy get the best of—”

Theresa's eyes bugged at her screen.

“Oh no, not again!”

She typed frantically, then dove across the desk and yanked the cords out of the back of her little black box. The system shut down with an electronic thunk.

“They nuke you again?” Jo asked.

Theresa stood, frozen. “No. That was something different. Someone was tracking my hack. Not just back to my computer, but to our actual address.”

“Did you get out in time?” Jo asked nervously.

“I think so,” Theresa said, looking at the black box as if the bad guys were going to pop out of it.

“You
think
so?” Jo screeched. “If a bunch of bald bikers pull up outside, I'm handing you over.”

Theresa laughed. “Don't worry, Jo. I got out.”

Jo slumped against the wall. “So what do we do now?”

“We can show all this data to Sammy. He might have a suggestion. Or . . .”

“Or what?” Jo prompted.

“Well . . . there was something else in that ledger,” Theresa said, rubbing her weary eyes. “But I have no idea what it means. Something called ‘the Purchase.' ”

Jo shrugged. “What is it?”

“Earth to Jo,” Theresa said, waving a hand in front of Jo's eyes. “I just said I don't know. But think about it. What do you buy with that much money?”

“The Yankees,” Jo replied.

“I doubt it,” Theresa said. “But I bet all that cash would go a lot further in a third world country like Kinh-Sanh than it would in the United States. A
lot
further.”

“That makes sense,” Jo agreed. “But other than that, what do we really have?”

Theresa smiled lamely. “Nothing.”

“Right. Which either means you're going to have to do some more creative hacking, or we're going to have
to find an alternate means of fact-finding,” Jo said.

Theresa deflated and plopped back into her chair. “I'm done with the laptop for a while. Even if I could keep my eyes open, Lucien's computer squad is looking for me now. I wouldn't get anywhere.”

“I thought so,” Jo said with a nod. “That's why I took it upon myself to hit the streets while your nose was pressed up against your screen.”

She tossed a rumpled garment into Theresa's lap.

“What's this?” Theresa asked.

Jo grinned. “I don't know if it has anything to do with anything, but check out the print.”

Theresa's eyes widened in recognition. “It's the same silk pattern we found in the warehouse!”

“Correct-amundo,” Jo said, leaning against the desk. “Now check out the label.”

Theresa's eyes grew even wider. “My mom's label! It's a total rip-off!”

“Two for two,” Jo said, holding up her hands in two peace signs. “Aren't you glad you told that stupid story about the capital letters to us?”

“It's not stupid.” Theresa scowled. “It's a very fond memory of my childhood.”

“Then you had a lame childhood,” Jo teased. “The point is, I wouldn't have recognized it otherwise. But don't you think it's a little strange that the same pattern that is on the floor in Lucien's warehouse is available for ten bucks in the market district?”

Theresa blinked. “You paid ten bucks for this? Even the knockoffs are fifty in the States.”

“Can I sniff the bargains or what?” Jo said triumphantly.

Theresa smirked. “You're going to wear this?”

“Are you nuts?” Jo blurted out. “I wouldn't wear that to your funeral. I wouldn't wear that to Mike Schaeffer's funeral!”

“Who's Mike Schaeffer?” Theresa asked, her brow furrowing.

Jo scowled. “Nobody.”

“Jooooooo . . . ,” Theresa sang.

“He's nobody. Just an old—no, make that an
ancient
flame. He's the reason the word
jerk
is so deeply tattooed on my brain.”

Theresa's grin widened. “So . . . a little chunk of the past life breaks loose. Was he cute?”

Jo growled impatiently. “We're not talking about this now. End of story.
Finito.
Sign off, Little Miss Modem.”

“Well, pardon me all over town,” Theresa said, grinning up at Jo. “All I asked was if you'd wear my mother's designs.”

Jo held up one of the obnoxious knockoffs. “Your mother didn't design this! She'd keel over if she saw it. This is what frat boys wear to their spring flings.”

She tossed it over her shoulder in disgust.

“But Jo,” Theresa said playfully. “You bought
six
of them. Why did you buy so many if you weren't going to wear them? One would've been plenty if you were just going to show me the bogus label.”

“I was
not
going to wear them,” Jo said in a threatening voice. “I stand by my previous statements regarding funerals. Which is what you'll be attending if you don't lay off.”

“Oh yeah, the Mike Schaeffer affair,” Theresa replied. “Who was he again?”

“Auuuuugggggghhhhh!” Jo bellowed. She scooped up
the other obnoxious shirts and hurled them at Theresa. T. giggled and slipped out of her chair to the floor. Shirts hung off her as if she were a brightly dressed scarecrow.

After a few seconds of staring, all the two of them could do was sit there and laugh.

Finally Jo slumped to the floor with Theresa. “Before you took me on that charming trip down bad-memory lane, I did have a point.”

“I see,” Theresa replied. “And what might that point be?”

“I think a return trip to the warehouse is in order,” she suggested. “But we'll be a little more professional this time. We go under cover of night. With the proper gear. And the proper attire.”

“You mean the shirts?” Theresa asked.

“I mean proper evening wear,” Jo said, a sly grin appearing on her face.
“All black.”

•  •  •

It was nearly midnight when they were ready.

Jo emerged from her room clad in a black turtleneck and tight black jeans. She clicked on a leather fanny pack
that held a few basics: pepper spray perfume, compact communicator, mascara dart gun with sleep-tipped darts. You know, the essentials.

She caught a look at herself in the mirror. “Ooh, baby, you are just too hot to handle.” She smooched at her reflection.

“You're gonna make me puke,” Theresa muttered. She had opted for a black sweater and loose-fitting black jeans rather than the skintight outerwear.

“I'd love a black leather cat suit,” Jo remarked, inspecting her profile. She ran a hand over her stomach. “Sort of an Emma Peel thing.”

“The sailors down on the wharf would love it,” Theresa said. She tucked a minicamera and her glasses into a zipper pouch in the sweater. “But that
is
your crowd.”

Jo applied some lipstick and puckered her lips to even it out. “I am unappreciated in my own time. Are we ready to go yet?”

“I've been ready for ten minutes,” Theresa complained. “The bad guys could've taken over the Alamo by now, and you're primping.”

“I refuse to go into battle with a shiny nose,” Jo declared, applying powder.

“You're gonna go with a bloody nose if you don't—”

A loud beeping cut Theresa off. What was that? The phone. But who would be calling at this hour?

Jo and Theresa realized it simultaneously: “Caylin!”

They dove for the phone and snapped it up, holding it between their ears.

“Hello!” they said in unison.

“Hey, guys,” came Caylin's hushed voice. “It's me.”

“Where are you?” Jo asked.

“I'm in a shower stall. Everyone's asleep. I figured I should check in. It's been . . . interesting.”

“What happened?” Theresa asked, whispering, too.

Caylin quickly ran down her string of events, from meeting Lucien to seeing the computers to the men with guns and duffels.

“Yeah, well, those computer geeks are probably in it up to here,” Theresa said proudly. “I broke in tonight. And we got an eyeful.”

She and Jo shared their side of the story, down to the last brush burn from the cycle chase.

“So what do you think ‘the Purchase' is?” Jo asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Caylin replied. “The only thing Lucien talked about was a recreation facility downtown and a new retreat. Oh yeah, and franchises.”

“Franchises?” Jo asked. “Sheesh.”

Theresa frowned and shook her head. “That's small fries compared to the amounts of money we're talking about. This is going to be big, whatever it is.”

“I don't know,” Caylin said. “
Something
is going on. We just have to dig deeper.”

“Actually, we were just about to do that,” Jo replied. “We're hitting the warehouse again tonight.”

“That's probably a good idea,” Caylin said. “Be careful. There might be something worse than killer bikers this time.”

“Will do,” Theresa said. Then she smiled. “It's good to hear your voice. How are they treating you?”

Caylin laughed. “The place really is paradise, if you're
into that kind of thing. I prefer something a little more down-to-earth mys—”

Suddenly Caylin's voice was cut off. “Cay?” Jo called.

No answer. Something came across from the background. A gruff voice.

“Caylin, are you there?” Theresa asked.

There was a thunk. Some static.

Then the line went dead.

Caylin huddled in the cramped shower stall, smelling the mildew, gripping her tiny cell phone, and staring up at Jenny.

“What are you doing?” Jenny demanded, scowling. “That's an unauthorized phone. That should be in storage with the rest of your personal belongings. And you know the rules: No outside contact until your indoctrination period is over!”

Caylin slumped down farther. “I know, but . . .”

“But what?” Jenny scolded, obviously trying not to raise her voice. “If any of the others wake up and find us in here, we could both be excommunicated! I worked too hard, and I'm not going to get thrown out because of you.”

Easy, girl, Caylin thought angrily. This isn't NASA. The only hard work it took for you to get through the gate was
carrying a bag of cash and memorizing a Swiss account number.

Caylin stopped herself. She was undercover. But Jenny was really here, in every sense of the word. This was her world, no matter how Caylin felt about that.

“I'm sorry,” Caylin whispered, her shoulders sagging.

“Who are you talking to?” Jenny demanded.

Caylin fidgeted. “My, um . . . my boyfriend.”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “I should've known. If it's not parents, then it's boyfriends. Well, we haven't lost anyone yet to a boyfriend, and I'm not about to start now. Come out of there.”

“I'm sorry, Jenny,” Caylin said lamely. “He's in Berlin, and I just miss him so much. My parents were a nightmare, but he was the only person I could really talk to.”

Jenny nodded and offered her hand. “They always are. Come on.”

Caylin took her hand and stood, not quite sure how to take Jenny's reaction. So far, this seemed like a pretty normal thing. Even kids who hate their homes can get homesick.

“What's his name?” Jenny asked, hands on hips.

Caylin thought quickly. “Sam.”

“What's he doing in Berlin?”

Caylin smiled awkwardly and shrugged. “The same thing I'm doing in East Asia. Wandering around. He likes Europe too much to wander anywhere else.”

“How much did you tell him about this place?” Jenny asked, her tone very serious.

“Nothing,” Caylin replied, shivering. The cold and dampness of the shower room was taking its toll on her. “If he knew I'd joined up with something like this, he'd go nuts. He'd probably even tell my parents. As far as he knows, I'm just wandering from place to place.”

Jenny thought about her answer for a moment and apparently decided to accept it because she didn't ask anything else. Then she put out her hand.

“Give me the phone,” Jenny ordered.

She sounds like Miss Buszko in kindergarten, Caylin thought. Sheesh.

“Aw, Jenny,” Caylin whined. “Just let me keep it, huh? I promise I won't use it.”

“Then what's the point of keeping it?” Jenny challenged.

Caylin deflated. “Come on. . . .”

“Caylin, if you're going to stay here, you have to abide by the rules. Even the ones you don't agree with. That's part of the sacrifice we all make.”

“I'm trying, Jenny,” Caylin replied. “Really.”

“I know,” Jenny said, nodding. “But to find true inner peace, you must forget about the outside world. Even Sam in Berlin. He can't help you from thousands of miles away. When you have a problem or feel weak, come talk to me. I've been through it all, trust me.” Just when Caylin thought Jenny was softening, the glorious mentor held out her hand again. “But you have to start by giving up the phone. Right now.”

Caylin wasn't worried about losing the phone. She was worried about giving it up to Jenny. It was a Tower communications device, with all the bells and whistles. If Jenny decided to play with it, she might hit the wrong button and ring Uncle Sam's vacation home in Monte Carlo. Or worse.

She simply couldn't give Jenny that phone.

“I'll tell you what. I'll go you one better,” Caylin offered.

She set the tiny phone down on the tile floor. Then she stomped on it with all her might. The plastic gave a loud crunch. The soft white shoes didn't give much padding, and a bolt of pain shot up Caylin's leg. But she'd felt worse and didn't flinch.