Labyrinth Society (8 page)

"Scat!" he yelled. We knew what he meant, and as much as we hated to leave him behind, I grabbed my backpack and Lily and I took off running in opposite directions.

You're probably thinking Lily and I are cold for leaving Alex with those goons. But rule number three is: Alex is in charge. Do what he says. When he says scat, which by the way doesn't mean he was treating us like pesky felines, we do. Scat is short for scatter. Meaning we stop what we're doing and run in opposite directions, forcing whoever is chasing us to decide who they'll follow. The momentary pause by our pursuers gives us the best chance for getting away. It seemed like I ran forever and finally ended up hiding in an alley behind a dumpster for half an hour before I got the courage to check to see if anyone was following me. No one was.

I didn't want to take a chance on running into Dr. McFarland and her thugs, and I had just the thing for situations just like this. It was plain brown tweed cap from the 1800's and it belonged to Sherlock Holmes. I know what you're thinking. Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character. Not. I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was not Sherlock Holmes's creator. He was his biographer. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes was a memoir. Sherlock was a real detective.

And if you've read about Sherlock's adventures then you already know he was a master of disguise. Sherlock's cap had the ability to completely transform whoever wears it. All you have to do is put a picture or drawing of what you wanted to look like inside the pocket in the cap's lining before putting it on and — voilà — you've got a new face. As you can imagine, the cap's power would be pretty dangerous in the wrong hands, which is why the cap stays locked up in the vault back home. Mrs. T. would kill me if she knew I had it. But it was no biggie. All I had to do was put it back when I got…yikes! My backpack was a wet sticky mess inside. When the bald goon and I had gotten into a tug of war, it must have punctured my carton of chocolate smoothie. Sherlock's cap was now dripping in chocolate goo! I quickly rummaged through my picture collection until I found one of my favorites, Shirley Temple. Don't laugh. The picture wasn't too wet. I wrung out the cap, put the picture inside, and put it on. Nothing happened. No blonde curls. No cute frilly dress. No tap shoes. This was not happening!

I took a deep cleansing breath because panicking is so bad for my disposition. I'd just have to wing it and hope Sherlock's cap would be back to normal once it dried out. In the meantime, I still needed a disguise. There was nothing I could do about my sparkly tennis shoes. But two minutes later, my short red-streaked hair was tucked under the soggy tweed cap. I searched for a better place to hide, hoping Alex and Lily were okay. I could call them but the rules of scatter dictated I wait at least an hour.

I found a tiny café away from the center of town. I settled at one of the tables in back with a hot chocolate so I could think. I took a sip and sighed in contentment. It was perfect. Not too sweet or bitter and with the right amount of milk. But, I digress. I didn't believe for a second Father Billon's journal belonged to Dr. McFarland. What I couldn't figure out was how she knew we had it. Alex and Mrs. T. always carefully screen any new clients the society takes on. The Price Institute was no different. Unless the Price Institute was in on whatever crap McFarland was trying to pull. And if so, one well-placed phone call from Everett Tarpley's widow would ensure they never got another dime in funding. The Price Institute would be toast. Speaking of Mrs. T., I knew she was going to flip out when she woke up and found Mia gone. So I texted her a brief message letting her know she was with us and leaving out the fact McFarland was here until I could reconnect with Alex and Lily.

I shoved my cell phone in my pocket and my fingers brushed against the card Father Crozier had given me. I'd forgotten all about it. Since, he'd wanted me to look for his cat, I figured the card might have his address on it or something. But it was a just a white business card with two things on it: a picture of a black cat, with its tail curled into a question mark and a phone number. No name or address. Weird. Why did he give this card to me? He'd been hit on the head pretty hard and probably had some of his marbles knocked loose. I started to pitch the card in a nearby trashcan when I remembered the priest's reaction when I asked him about Father Billon. I called the number on the card but only got a recording in French and English asking me to leave a name and number. I couldn't figure out what to do and must have been staring off into space because I didn't even notice Bald Guy walk up on me until he ripped the cap right off my head and tossed it over his shoulder. He towered over me.

"Hello, Sunshine. Miss me?" A bloody tissue had been shoved up one of his nostrils. Blood stained the front of his shirt. He had two black eyes and a big bruise on his jaw from where Lily had socked him. I was paralyzed with fear until I saw gold lame sequins from my tennis shoe on the left knee of his pants. The sequins formed a smiley face. I burst out laughing. Bad idea.

"Think I'm funny, eh? Let's see how funny you think this is." He took his meaty fist and slammed it down on the small round table I was sitting at, smashing my cell phone to pieces and spilling hot chocolate all over me. Not cool. So not cool.

I jumped up from the table poised to run but he was blocking the entrance. The café was tiny with only a few tables, and he took up most of what was left of the space. He swung at me and I ducked, dropped to the floor, and scooted backwards like a crab. He started knocking over tables and flinging chairs trying to get to me. He had me backed against the wall with nowhere to go until someone started yelling.

"
Arret! Arret!"
It was the café owner, waving his arms and running from behind the counter.

But Bald Guy just turned and shoved him hard, the same way he'd done me, only instead of landing on the floor he went flying right through the café's big picture window. A crowd quickly gathered around the café owner, who lay groaning on the pavement. Bald Guy glanced over his shoulder to check out his handy work and I jumped up and kicked him in his other knee. This time I added the anger over my smashed cell phone and the waste of a perfectly heavenly cup of hot chocolate into it. Bald Guy shrieked — some people never learn — and I scooped up Sherlock's cap from the floor and ran out the door just as the scrappy café owner ran back in to confront Bald Guy. Before I rounded the corner, the café owner went sailing back through the window. Poor dude.

****

I was trying to be philosophical about the fact I was running, again, for the third time in less than two hours. I still couldn't believe Bald Guy had found me, and I needed to make sure it didn't happen again. I still had my backpack but no phone, which meant I had no way to contact Alex and Lily, and they had no way to contact me. It was still twenty minutes before we could touch base. I wondered where they were and if they were safe. But first, I had to make sure I was safe. I don't know how far I ran. I didn't feel safe standing still. Bald Guy had caught up with me in the first place, because I dropped my guard and wasn't paying attention. Rule number four was always be aware of your surroundings. And I had failed miserably.

Since it was Sunday, many of the shops and restaurants were closed. And even if I could find another café to hide out in, I was too afraid of being cornered again. I finally had to stop running because my side hurt and I was out of breath. If I were Devon, Lily or Alex, I could run for miles. But I couldn't and there was no use dwelling on my lack of athletic ability because it wouldn't help me stay out of Bald Guy's clutches. Plus, obsessing over perceived shortcomings was so bad for your self-confidence. Boy, did I need some chocolate.

I found an open patisserie down a deserted side street and after looking up and down the street to check for any big bald men, I went in and bought two chocolate hazelnut tarts. The French know their chocolate. I was shoving one of them into my mouth as I left the shop, and trying not to swoon over how incredibly delicious it was, when I saw something and stopped dead in my tracks. Directly across the street was a sign mounted over a black door. The sign had no words, just the picture of a black cat with its tail curled into a question mark. I pulled the card Father Crozier gave me out of my pocket and compared the two images. They were the same black cat.

Not even bothering to see who might be watching, I ran across the street and tugged on the doorknob of the black door. It opened and I ducked inside. I was in a dark foyer with a flight of stairs in front of me. I ate the other tart for strength and climbed the stairs. At the top was another door with a window in it and another image of the black cat painted on it. This time there were words underneath the cat. They read:
Le Chat Noir Recherchez
. Black Cat Research. It was some kind of business. I went inside expecting to find an office; instead, I found myself in a small room with three rows of chairs facing a podium.

There was an enormous fat man sitting in the front row with his large backside draped over two chairs. He was asleep with his mouth hanging open and the red suspenders of his pants trailing the floor. He was snoring loudly, and I was hypnotized by how his enormous belly shook each time he breathed in and out. Crumbs decorated the front of his blue shirt.

"
Bonjour
!" A woman wearing a green, striped dress, who had frizzy black hair and glasses with lenses so thick they made her eyes look enormous, came out of a back room, she was carrying a tray of luscious-looking fruit, cheese and bread. "You can hang your backpack on the hook over there; we'll be starting the meeting in ten minutes." She spoke to me in English.

"You're American?" I said, in surprise.

"As are you," she replied in amusement.

"How could you tell?"

"Those are," she pointed at me feet, "decidedly American shoes."

My gold high-tops, which had been so shiny and new just two hours ago, were now ruined. There were dirt and smudges all over them and the right one was bald in places where the sequins had come off when I kicked Bald Guy. But it had been so worth it.

"Oh," I said, backing out of her way as she set the tray of food on a table behind me. "Well, I'm Tomiko Sato and—"

Before I could finish what I was saying, the fat man suddenly blurted in heavily accented English, "Took to aims!"

"Um… I was sent here by—" I tried again, ignoring him.

"Moats I took," he interrupted again. As far as I could tell was still asleep. "Father—"

"Ask too omit!" he practically shouted.

"Bravo, Gervais, bravo!" The frizzy haired woman started clapping. Gervais farted, scratched his armpit, and continued sleeping.

"Okay," I said, giving up. "What's his deal?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "This is your first time here so you don't know the rules."

"What rules?"

"The rules of the association." She cocked her head to one side and gave me a confused look.

"What association?" Now, I was confused.

"The RAA: Royal Anagrammatist Association. We're," she said, gesturing to the fat man, "the Versailles branch. The rules state members must greet each other after an introduction with an anagram of their name. Gervais is our best anagrammatist. Three anagrams of your name in under a minute
and
in English! Isn't he brilliant?"

"Uh, yeah, cool," I said, still wondering why Father Crozier had sent me to this place. "Well, what about Black Cat Research? Aren't you a business?"

"Yes, of course. I research property listings for Americans who want to buy or rent homes here in Versailles and Paris.
Le Chat Noir Recherchez
is an anagram of my name. I'm Heather Clench Crozier," she said, holding out her hand. "And Gervais is my husband."

"You're related to Father Crozier?" I shook her hand and my spirits deflated.

"You know my brother-in-law Alain?"

"Sort of," I replied, feeling stupid. I'd thought Father Crozier had sent me here for information about Father Billon. But he was just sending me to get his family.

I told her about the break in at the church and Father Crozier being attacked.

"Oh, dear! Oh dear!" she said, waving her hands in alarm. She ran into the next room and I could hear her on the phone.

If Gervais had been listening to what I'd just told his wife about his brother, I sure couldn't tell. He kept right on snoring. I went over to the nearest window. Across the street below, Bald Guy and Track Suit Guy were arguing in front of the patisserie. I couldn't believe it. How did they keep finding me? I couldn't tell what they were saying, but Track Suit Guy kept waving something in Bald Guy's face and pointing across the street to the building I was in. Yikes!

The thing in Track Suit's hand was either a cell phone with an old fashioned antenna or a walkie-talkie. When they got closer I realized what it was, a handheld GPS locator. They were tracking me. But how? Where could he have planted a GPS device on me? I thought about it and realized it hadn't been me he'd been after. It was the journal he wanted and it was in my backpack. And he'd touched my backpack.

I searched my backpack inside and out and found a tiny round transmitter, smaller than a penny, stuck to one of the front pocket flaps. I peeked out the window again; they were still arguing. Bald Guy was pointing at the buildings on either side of the one I was in. I hoped it meant they didn't know which building I was actually in. I had to get this thing away from me and shake these guys fast. They were still arguing but had stepped off the curb like they were about to cross the street. I had to think of something. I peeled off the transmitter and quickly scanned the room. There was a restroom right next to the room where Helen Clench Crozier was still on the phone. I rushed in and flushed the transmitter down the toilet. Then I ran back to the window. The two goons were standing in the middle of the street. After a minute I saw both their heads jerk towards the GPS. The transmitter must have made its way into the sewer and was floating off to wherever sewage in France went because Bald Guy and Track Suit Guy went running down the street. Whew!

Helen Clench Crozier was a lot less freaked out when she got off the phone. She was putting on her coat.

"Then I suppose you're not here for the meeting? And I was so hoping you were going to be a new member. It's not easy being an association of two."

"Sorry," I said. I didn't know what else to say.

"Not at all young lady, and thank you for letting me know about poor Alain. I've just spoken to the hospital and he's been admitted. I must go! Please close the door on your way out." And then she was gone, leaving me alone with Gervais, who was still asleep.

There was no reason for me to stay, especially since the coast was clear outside, and I was headed out the door. Since there was nothing chocolate, I grabbed a pear from the platter of food on the tray. Something sitting on the table made me stop. It was a stack of pamphlets about the Royal Anagrammatist Association. There was a picture of a man with shoulder-length black hair, a mustache, and a goatee. He was dressed in a suit of armor and held a sword. It was Louis XIII. I picked up the pamphlet and started reading about the history of the RAA and a name popped out at me and made gasp. Thomas Billon, who'd been appointed by King Louis XIII as his royal anagrammatist, had founded the Royal Anagrammatist Association. His job had been to entertain members of the royal court with amusing anagrams of their names.

Could Thomas Billon have been an ancestor of Father Jean Billon? Wow. This was major, because if Father Billon had inherited his ancestor's talent for anagrams, then it could only mean one thing. I needed to find out just how good an anagrammatist good old Gervais was to prove what I was thinking. I already knew he could turn people's names into anagrams. But could he turn an anagram back into the original words? I crept close to him as he continued to snore like a bear, then I leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Renee LaFaussi."

Gervais immediately stopped snoring. He sat up and stared at me with bleary eyes still heavy-lidded with sleep. He yawned so wide I could see his molars, and then he uttered three words and I gasped. I had to find Alex and Lily.

"Merci Monsieur Crozier," I yelled over my shoulder as I ran out of the room.

Once I was out of the building, I went the opposite way Bald Guy and his buddy had gone, hurrying past an alley. I was trying to figure out where Alex and Lily may have gone, when someone grabbed me from behind and slammed me against the alley wall, pulling my right arm up painfully behind me. Not again. Fear is so bad for my psyche.

"You're hopeless!" said Lily's voice in my ear. "How many times have I told you to pull your head out of the clouds and pay attention to your surroundings? I could have been a mugger or worse, one of McFarland's flunkies."

"Chill out! You almost gave me heart failure!" I pulled out of her grasp and rubbed my arm. The last thing I was in the mood for was one of Lily's teachable moments. "Where's Alex?"

"Isn't he with you?" she asked. "And why haven't you been answering your phone?"

"No. I thought he was with you." I quickly explained what had happened since we separated, and Lily got a look in her eyes. The look she gets when she wants to punch someone. "We need to get back to Versailles, Lily," I said, tugging on her sleeve and pulling her out of the alley.

"Why? And what about Alex?"

"I'm sure Alex is okay. He can take care of himself better than any of us."

"Uh-oh. You've figured something out, haven't you?"

"I know who… uh… I mean I know what Renee LaFaussi is!" I said with just a hint of smugness. "Come on! Let's go!"