Sealed with a Lie (9 page)

Yet I walk on with Matthis and Evan, praying for a miracle. Everyone else can have their tinsel, their trees, their stockings, and piles of gifts. All I want on December 25 is Charlie, safe with me back at the Paris Institute.

We walk quite a ways before we find what we’re looking for: an unremarkably beige older-model Mercedes wagon that’s conveniently unlocked and parked on a quiet side street. It’s the perfect car to borrow, and its half tank of gas will get us to Murnau am Staffelsee with no problem.

It’s an uneventful journey south through the white, snowy hills for about seventy kilometers to Murnau. The main street of the old town is a living, breathing postcard, an advertisement for the charm of German villages. There are cobblestones and quaint shops, timbered inns and cafés wafting woodsmoke from their chimneys, and microbreweries rich with polished wood and shiny copper tanks. There are bakeries bursting
with pastries and confections. I see a little chocolate shop and think, with a pang, of Charlie.

Evan, full of odd information—who knows where he gets it?—tells us that it was once a spa town and the home of Der Blaue Reiter, a famous modern art movement. It seems to me that it’s a strange place for a juvenile detention facility, but then Evan goes on to say that Murnau was also the site of a prison camp during the Second World War. Maybe they turned the facility into a juvie jail. Who knows?

We ditch the car outside a Tengelmann, a German grocery franchise, then walk a few blocks before checking into a tiny timber-framed
gasthaus
(German for bed-and-breakfast). It’s a few blocks away from the juvie facility, which is a big, beige concrete structure surrounded by chain-link fence with loops of razor wire around the top.

“Cozy,” Evan pronounces it.

I’d call it intimidating, myself. I have no idea how we’re getting in there—I hope Rita’s uncovered some helpful information on their security.

We sign into the
gasthaus
under assumed names, with another of Evan’s credit cards and passports. He gets one room for Matthis and him and a separate one for me that’s right next door.

I ask Evan if he’s concerned that GI—or the bad guys, for that matter—may be tracing us through the credit cards and passports.

He gives me an angelic look. “They can’t trace what they don’t know about.”

“But . . . then where did you get them?”

“Got my ways and means, love.”

It’s his standard answer. I shouldn’t be surprised that Evan has somehow obtained multiple fake identities not issued by GI.

I throw open the door to my room. Ditching the heavy portfolio, I collapse on the big bed, exhausted, just as my cell phone rings. The ID says only “private caller.” Wearily, I pull off my blond wig and punch the on button.

“Hello?”

“We warned you,” says the menacing mechanical voice that called me in Paris. “Now Charlie will pay the price.”

Ice. I turn to ice. My mouth works, but only a croak comes out. Then I manage the word “NO!” at full volume.

Evan and Matthis come running into my room and stare at me.

“What are you talking about?” I say rapidly into the phone. “I haven’t involved police—”

“Don’t lie to us. We have eyes everywhere.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You sent your redheaded friend to the bosses at GI. That will cost your brother dearly.”

“No!”
I say again. My whole body starts to shake. “No, no.
Please
, don’t hurt him.”

Evan tries to grab the phone from me, but I dodge, feint, and hang on for dear life.

“I didn’t send anyone to GI!” I insist. “I haven’t told anyone—”

“Then who are the two boys you’re with?”

“My roommate and a friend of Charlie’s! I had to put together a team to help! Other than them, only Abby, my other roommate, knows . . . because she was there when you called and we couldn’t just disappear on her.”

“Charlie will lose the fingers on his left hand today, due to your carelessness. And perhaps an ear, if you don’t contain this. Are we clear?”

“No! He’s just a little boy! He’s innocent. You can’t hurt him—you can’t be such a monster—”

Evan immobilizes my wrist, peels my fingers off the phone, and puts it on speaker. “This is Evan Kincaid, Kari’s friend. How do you know about GI? It’s top secret.”

“We know everything,
Mister
Kincaid. We know that you’re Rebecca Morrow’s adopted son. We know that you’re at Apprentice status in GI, with her as your mentor. We know that you’re pushing to be an Initiate—to go on missions without her. Perhaps this is your chance to do that.”

Evan’s mouth tightens.

But I don’t care about any of this. Tears stream down my face, and I could give a crap what these people know or how they know it. There’s only one talking point in this conversation, as far as I’m concerned. “Don’t hurt my brother. Please. I’ll do whatever you ask . . . just don’t hurt him.”

I have this awful image of Charlie lying on his side on a dirty mattress in a dark basement. He’s bound and gagged and filthy. His hair is matted and his nose is bloody.

“You
will
do whatever we ask, Karina.” The mechanical
voice is menacing. “So will your friends. And now, here’s a little motivation for you—”

An earsplitting shriek comes over the speaker. It’s prolonged, heart-wrenching, bloodcurdling—I can’t even describe it. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard, and I cannot control my reaction.

Suddenly I’m screaming and crying and cussing and begging all at the same time. And I’m fighting Evan for the phone. “Wild” is not the word for me. It doesn’t cover it.

“Christ,” Evan exclaims, before tossing the phone to a freaked-out Matthis.

I’m still screaming as Evan tackles me onto the bed. “I will kill you! Don’t you touch my brother again! Don’t touch him! I will kill you!”

Evan rolls me over and sits on me before I can hurt him. He yells toward the phone.

“Listen! Listen to her. You want her this way? She is of
no use
to you if you do this. Understand?”

“Get her under control,” the mechanical voice says.

“I can’t do that, unless you stop what you’re doing. Lay another hand on that child and I’ll have to check Kari into a mental hospital.”

Silence.

I’m crying hysterically. “Charlie!” I keep screaming, over and over.

“Do you hear me?” Evan shouts in the direction of the phone.

More silence.

Evan says, his voice hard and cold, “I have already shut down the leak that’s occurred on our end. I will make
sure the information is contained and come up with a cover story so that you don’t have GI and all of Interpol breathing down your necks. But in return, please—
please
promise that you won’t hurt Charlie.”

A long pause ensues.

“You have twelve hours,” the voice says at last. “Twelve hours. After that, Charlie loses not just his fingers, but his hands and feet.”

This pronouncement is followed by a dial tone.

“Christ,” Evan says again.

Matthis drops the phone as if it’s poisoned.

And I keep sobbing incoherently and struggling to get up.

“Matthis, bring me that small black bag,” Evan orders.

I’m guessing Matthis complies, because the next words out of Evan’s mouth are, “Thanks. Unzip it. Give me—yeah. Uncap it.”

I feel a sharp pinch, then a burning sensation as a needle goes into my arm. “Nooooo! Damn it, Evan, you have no right to do that—”

But my lips stop working, and things go really fuzzy.

There’s regret in his eyes and in the twist of his mouth as he rolls me onto my back and looks down at me, as he cups my cheek with one hand and cradles his own phone with another. A touch of his thumb and he’s speed-dialing someone.

“Yeah, Kincaid here,” he says tersely. His eyes are flinty and his jaw’s like granite. “We have a situation. . . .”

And those are the last words I hear before darkness closes in.

When I return to consciousness, I’m disoriented for a moment. I can’t remember where exactly I am. I stare at a pale blue silk lampshade, then at a painting of a seascape, then into a gilt-framed mirror—one that happens to reflect the image of Matthis on his laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard.

That’s when it all comes roaring back to me. Charlie is in the hands of kidnappers, and they’re torturing him. They’re saying they’ll cut off his fingers, hands, and feet. They’ve threatened to send me his head in a box. . . .

How can I be this terrified and yet this weary simultaneously?

Add furious to the mix as I remember Evan jabbed a needle into my arm and sedated me—with Charlie’s life in danger.

“Where is he?” I yell at Matthis. “Where is the rat?”

Poor Matthis jerks, startled, and drops his laptop on the floor.

Evan pokes his head out of the bathroom. There’s water running, and he’s got toothpaste around his mouth. “I presume you mean me?”

“You’re damn straight I mean you!” I jump off the bed. “How could you? How could you drug me at a time like this?”

“I did what had to be done,” Evan says. He disappears back into the bathroom. I hear the toothbrush scrubbing away at his teeth.

Unbelievable.

I march straight into the bathroom, snatch up a paper
cup that’s on the sink, and throw the contents—water—into his face.

It runs down his forehead, nose, and cheeks. He says absolutely nothing.

Neither do I.

It’s Matthis who gives a shrill whistle, then shakes his head.

We ignore him.

Eventually he goes back to his laptop, his fingers clattering over the keys.

Evan stares at me evenly, then with deliberate slowness he reaches for a hand towel and mops at his face. “That was refreshing,” he says. “Feel better?”

That’s when I try my best to kick him in the balls. But I’m still muzzy and half-drugged, and Evan’s got very quick reflexes. He grabs my foot and holds on. “Don’t do that again.”

“I will!” I yell at him. “How can you knock me out and then stand there brushing your freakin’ teeth while Charlie’s being tortured?!” I try to jerk my foot out of his grasp, to no avail.

“Did you shave, too? Put on cologne? Because of course you’ve got to look all
GQ
while these people are killing my brother!”

“They’re not killing him. And you need to get ahold of yourself, Kari.” He says this forcefully. “You are no good to Charlie in this overly emotional state. As for whether I shaved or not—yes, I did. To kill some time until you woke up. Is that a crime?”

“I wouldn’t have been unconscious if not for you!” I
finally wrest my foot out of his grasp and stomp it to the ground. “And yes, I believe it
is
a crime to drug people without their permission.”

“Great. You can have me prosecuted later. For now, you need to trust me.”

I gape at him, then laugh in his face. “Trust you? Trust the person who just sat on me and jabbed a needle into my arm?”

“Yes.” He stands there looking reasonable and relaxed, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. Acting as if I’m the irrational one, not him—the guy who’s been carrying around a syringe full of God knows what.

“Why should I trust you? Why the hell are you packing needles and sedatives, anyway? Who were you planning to use them on?”

He shrugs. “Anyone I needed to incapacitate. I also carry zip ties—but you didn’t object to those when they came in handy.”

“What else do you have, Evan? A shovel? A tarp? Lime?”

“Very funny. Kari, you know me. You know my background. You know what I’m training to be—”

“Do I?”

“Yes.” His gaze is calm and steady and blue . . . and oddly enough, I find my anger dissipating. He seems to sense that.

“Kari. You need to trust me.”

And unwillingly, I do. I think about everything Evan has done for me and for Charlie over the past few months. We wouldn’t be in the GI program if not for him. We’d be in foster care. Separated.

He raises his eyebrows. “All right?”

Reluctantly, I nod. There are times when Evan makes me crazy. There are times when I hate him. There are times when I cannot stand the fact that my stupid body seems to be attracted to him. But facts are facts: He may piss me off, but he’s never let me down.

Not once.

He nods back. “Good. Now, just to give you a quick update, everything’s been taken care of at GI. The alarm that Cecily raised—it’s fine now.”

“Fine? Taken care of? How? And would you even have told me about it if the kidnappers hadn’t?”

He sighs.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” I glare at him.

“I’ll explain everything later. The
Reader’s Digest
version is that I made some calls.”

“Made some calls? But—”

“Later, Kari. Right now, it’s good that you woke up on your own, because we’ve got to get going. Rita Skyped in while you were asleep, with some good information. The juvie facility is actually relinquishing Gustav Duvernay to French officials in just a few hours. Very early tomorrow morning, he’ll be transported by van to a small private airfield right outside of Munich, where they’ll be flying him to Paris for trial. We need to snatch him before he makes it to the plane.”