The Secret Cipher (5 page)

The girl cocked her head. “Will you be going to the festival before or after you visit your great-aunt?”

I frowned. There was no one to blame but myself. I'd let that little bit of information slip when we were standing in the parking lot.

“You said she was sick. Did she contract the same . . .
virus
?” She was still touching his arm.

“She's had a stroke,” Tyler told her. “She's at a hospital.”

“Sisters of Mercy Convalescent Center,” Ethan corrected. I cringed. Then he cringed, realizing that maybe he shouldn't have revealed that.

“It's a
family
thing,” I said, trying to maintain some secrecy. Yeesh, what was with these guys? A pretty girl and they just start blabbing.

“I am very sorry to hear that your great-aunt is at the Sisters of Mercy Convalescent Center in Boston.” She leaned forward, her eyes widening. “Will she die?”

“Maybe,” Tyler said. “We don't know if she actually had a stroke. Jax thinks she's pretending.”

The girl narrowed her eyes. “Pretending?”

“It's possible,” I said. “People pretend things. They lie about things.” I looked at her hair.
That's
right, I'm looking at the sparkles that just naturally grow on your head
.

Ethan cleared his throat. “Look, I just want to point out, once again, that the hospital would not have sent Juniper to Sisters of Mercy unless she'd had a stroke. They would have taken a CAT scan. You can't fake a CAT scan.”

Were we going to argue about this again? I turned to Ethan and was about to explain . . . but then I realized that the girl was walking toward the exit.

“Hey,” Tyler called. “Where are you going? Do you want to meet at the festival?”

“Sorry to leave but I need to do something,” she said without turning around. Then she was out the door.

I crunched my paper bowl and threw it into the recycling. Tyler looked deflated, his shoulders slumped. “Maybe she had an appointment or something.” I wanted to make him feel better. But she sure looked like she was in a hurry to get away from us.

“Did her voice sound familiar to you guys?” Ethan asked.

“Not really.” I didn't know anyone from Greece, so I wasn't familiar with the accent. “You mean
like someone from television or the movies?”

“Maybe,” he said. “It's really bugging me.”

Tyler looked out the shop window. The girl had already crossed the street and was disappearing around the corner of the pharmacy. Even though he was trying to hide it, he looked super disappointed.

“Just call her,” I said.

“I didn't get her number.”

“That's no big deal.” I elbowed Ethan. “We can find her number, right? Ethan can find anything on his phone. What's her name?”

Tyler scratched his stubbly chin. We looked at each other.

Oops. No one had bothered to ask her name.

FACT:
Everyone in my family loves costumes, except me.

I
've hated costumes since the second grade, when Mom dressed me as a bumblebee and dropped me off at school. It was Halloween day but she hadn't read the latest email explaining that costumes were no longer a school tradition, thanks to a kid who'd hit another kid over the head with a toy sword. After Mom dropped me off, I learned a major life lesson—there is no way to blend in, no way to hide, not even in the corner, if you wear fluorescent yellow.

That's why I almost choked on a string bean when
Dad asked, “What costume are you going to wear to the comic-book convention, Ethan?” We were sitting at the kitchen table, eating dinner.

“Uh . . . I'm not going to wear a costume.”

“You have to wear one.” He leaned over and patted my knee. “You'll blend in better.”

“No, I won't. I'll look stupid,” I said.

“At a comic-book convention, the people not wearing costumes are the ones who look stupid,” Dad said. “Am I right?”

“Like freaks,” Tyler said, then stuffed an egg roll into his mouth. We were eating Chinese takeout—something we always did when Mom was away on business. My parents owned Rainbow Product Testing, and their main clients were toy manufacturers. Mom was in Chicago at an educational-toy fair and would be gone until next week.

“You're saying that if I go to the convention in a pair of jeans and a shirt, and I'm surrounded by guys dressed like My Little Pony, I'm the one who'll feel like a weirdo?”

“Uh-huh.” Tyler's mouth was full.

“I don't think so.” I scooped more fried rice onto my plate.

“At least wear a cape,” Dad said.

“Yeah.” Tyler snorted. “You can go as Factoid Boy.”

It had been way too easy to lie to Dad. He'd taken one look at the flyer and said, “Sounds like fun. When are you leaving?” He'd gone to dozens of comic-book conventions over the years. His Batman collection was even larger than Tyler's. I hated lying to him. So I promised myself that after we saw Great-Aunt Juniper, we would go to the convention, even if only for five minutes, just to make things right.

The television was on in the study. I could see it through the open door. I'd turned the volume down but I kept looking around my dad's shoulder to read the news feed at the bottom of the screen. My favorite stories were the ones about weather—freak storms, hurricane warnings, and anything to do with global warming. But the current story had to do with a tax increase.

Mom had only been gone a day but I missed her. Not just because she liked to watch the news with me, but because she'd tell Tyler to forget about going to Boston. He needed more time to recover from the “mysterious virus.” He needed rest. If Mom were here, she would be our excuse to not go.

As if reading my mind, Dad set his fork aside and looked at Tyler. “Your mom's still worried about your health.” He rested his elbows on the table. “How are
you feeling? Are you sure you're up to taking this trip?”

Tyler glanced quickly at me. Then he grabbed another egg roll. “Yeah, no problem.” He fake smiled at Dad. There was no mention of voices or darkness. I never knew my brother was such a good actor. “I'm totally back to normal.”

“Great.” Dad patted Tyler's shoulder.

He didn't ask if we needed a hotel. Dad didn't seem to care about things like that. Don't get me wrong. He was a good dad, but the only time he worried about details was in his lab.

But I was already wondering where we'd stay, and what time we'd leave.

Dad grabbed his plate and headed for the sink. “I wish I could go with you but I've got a report that can't be delayed.” Then he went upstairs to his office.

“Guess we're going,” I said with a sigh.

Tyler looked equally unhappy about the situation. He grumbled something about Jax and her stupid secret-box birthday present, then crammed another egg roll into his mouth.

A special report appeared on the television screen. While Tyler chewed, I read the streaming headline.

STRANGE BANK ROBBERY IN NEW YORK CITY. EMPLOYEES ACTED LIKE ZOMBIES
.

Huh?

I walked into the study and sat in the leather chair. Then I turned up the volume. “We don't have all the facts, but we do know that the robbery took place approximately one hour ago, at the Excelsior bank in Manhattan.” The news reporter stood across the street from the bank. Ambulances were lined up behind her. A police officer was shouting at people to stay behind the yellow tape. “According to one of the paramedics, the bank's interior looks like it was hit by a windstorm. Papers are scattered everywhere. Windows are shattered as if a tornado had been unleashed.”

Tornado?

“Tyler!” I hollered. “Tyler, get in here! Hurry!”

Tyler rushed in, a dumpling speared on the end of his fork. “What?” He stared at the screen.

The news reporter continued. “The security cameras recorded a man entering the bank just a few minutes before closing time. He was holding a leather bag. When he opened the bag, the cameras shattered, indicating the possible presence of a bomb, or some sort of terrorist weapon; we aren't certain at this point. What we do know is that whatever he had in that bag, it unleashed a powerful force that smashed glass and toppled furniture, but did not kill anyone.”

Tyler dropped his fork. His jaw went slack.

“Police have released this photograph of the suspect and are issuing a warning that he should not be approached. He could have another weapon.” A grainy photograph filled the screen. The man was dressed in a black shirt and black pants. He was tall and skinny and wore a fedora. But his face was hidden behind the collar of his shirt.

“According to the same paramedic, the bank staff and three customers who were inside during the robbery are all suffering from unusual physical symptoms. He described them as zombies.”

Tyler sank onto the couch, his face going white.

My hand, still holding the remote, began to tremble. Then my phone rang.

“Ethan?” Jax said on the other end of the line, her voice breathless. “Did you see the news?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Do you know what this means?” She didn't wait for my response. But I knew. And Tyler knew. That's why we were both staring at the TV screen, our mouths hanging open.

“That bank robber has Great-Aunt Juniper's urn.”

A
bank robber was using Juniper's urn for evil.

Who was he? And how had he gotten the urn? Is that why Juniper was at Sisters of Mercy, pretending to have had a stroke? I knew it! I knew she was hiding. Tomorrow we'd go to Boston and get some answers. I hated waiting. It made me feel jittery, like when I drank coffee, which I didn't do very often. I had enough energy without adding caffeine.

I turned on my computer. Ever since we'd gotten back from Washington, DC, I'd started keeping a journal. It felt too dangerous to write on paper, especially since my mom liked to go on cleaning sprees and attack every inch of my room. So I created a document with a password—Pandorasbox.
And I wrote and wrote and wrote. I wanted to keep track of the events. I tried to remember every word Great-Aunt Juniper had said about the urns—where they'd come from, how she'd found them. If a stranger hacked into this file, he'd think I was writing a story for English class. No one could possibly think it had actually happened!

As I wrote in my journal, I'd check my inbox, hoping to see an email from Juniper. There were so many questions I wanted to ask her, so many gaps in the story. But most of all, I wanted to know that she was safe.

But nothing came. Day after day had passed with no contact from her.

And then that single email had arrived.

FROM: Juniper

TO: Jacqueline Malone

SUBJECT: How Are You?

I'd opened it, but it was empty. Nothing. Had she started to contact me, then changed her mind?

But that night, after convincing Mom to let me go to Boston, and after watching the terrible news story about the bank robber, I got an email I never expected.

FROM: Isaac Romero

TO: Jacqueline Malone

SUBJECT: I'm Your Father

When I first read it, my stomach went into a knot. Was this some sort of trick? Normally I wouldn't open an email from someone I didn't know, and technically, I didn't
know
him. I'd spent most of my life not even hearing his name. Mom always told me he was someone she'd dated briefly, nothing more. She'd raised me on her own. Even though I'd asked about him lots and lots of times, she'd never told me the truth.

But then I met Great-Aunt Juniper, and it turned out she knew the truth about my father—that he was a professional thief. Mom had tried to protect me from the truth. Or maybe she was trying to protect herself from embarrassment. I'm not sure.

It turned out he'd been arrested. And he chose not to contact her, or tell her where he was, which is pretty cruddy. And so, I grew up not knowing him.

But now I knew the truth. And thanks to the internet, he'd found my address.

So I opened it.

Dear Jacqueline,

It must seem strange to hear from me after all of these years. How are you?

Your father, Isaac Romero

When I read that, I felt faint. I had to make sure this wasn't some kind of identity-stealing trick, so I wrote back.

FROM: Jacqueline Malone

TO: Isaac Romero

SUBJECT: Hello

Dear Mr. Romero,

I am fine but how do I know that you are who you say you are?

Sincerely, Jax

The reply took only a minute.

FROM: Isaac Romero

TO: Jacqueline Malone

SUBJECT: Re: Hello

Dear Jacqueline, I met your mother while I was working for your great-aunt Juniper. And I made you a special box, which Juniper mailed to you for
your birthday. I hope that information proves to you that I am your father.

I am currently incarcerated at Brookville Federal Prison Camp in Rhode Island. I am not allowed to make phone calls.

It was him! My father was contacting me!

I didn't call Ethan and tell him what was going on. Perhaps that was a mistake but the truth was, I was ashamed. Ethan's father was a great guy who spent time with his kids, did all the things fathers are supposed to do. And my dad was in jail. I wanted to talk to him without anyone knowing. This felt very private.

So I googled the prison and here's what I learned. Brookville Federal Prison Camp was called a camp because it was a minimum-security prison. If you're not a violent threat to society, you might go to one of those places. I read an article by a man who'd been in Brookville. Most of the Brookville inmates had committed “white collar” crimes—which meant they were greedy thieves but they weren't violent. Prison camps are sometimes called Club Fed because they have things
like tennis courts, running tracks, weight rooms, and libraries. The article was all about how the biggest problem inside was finding ways to fill the endless hours. Many inmates took classes. Some chose to work jobs they would have never worked on the outside, like in the kitchen, or doing clerical work or gardening. Reading was a favorite activity. Friends and family could send books to the inmates, but only paperbacks. I wondered if my dad liked to read travel guides. Did we have that in common?