The Secret Cipher (7 page)

“Whatever. She seemed fine with it. And I had to say something.” Does lying to your mom not count if you're trying to save humanity?

“This is a disaster. What are we going to do?” Ethan asked, his voice cracking. He always made such a big deal out of things. “Where are we going to sleep?”

“We'll be okay,” I said calmly. If we had to sleep in the car, what was the big deal? We could do it for one night. We could use a restaurant bathroom. We'd figure it out when the time came. But I didn't say those things to Ethan because he hated not having a plan. He worried about everything. I was worried about our great-aunt and the stolen urn, not where I'd brush my teeth.

“What do you think that girl's doing?” Tyler asked.

“Who cares?” I said. “Yeesh. A guy robbed a bank last night and turned the tellers into zombies. Let's think about important things.”

“Not technically zombies,” Ethan said.

When we got out of the car, both Ethan and I checked to make sure no one had followed us. Even though it was hot out, I put on my purple coat. It was my favorite thing to wear. It kinda felt like my adventuring uniform. Ethan tucked his phone into his back pocket. Tyler grabbed the last pastry, locked the car, then stuck his keys into his pocket. Then they followed me up the walkway.

The front door was super thick and heavy. I had to punch the handicapped button to get it to swing open. Ethan pulled his baseball cap low, hiding beneath its brim—something he always did when we were about to talk to strangers.

“Why do these places always smell so bad?” Tyler asked as we stepped inside. That was a funny comment coming from Tyler, whose bedroom smelled like a skunk's butt. Even though I'd never smelled a skunk's butt, I imagined it was pretty disgusting. I usually stayed as far away from Tyler's room as possible.

The Sisters of Mercy hallway was lined on both sides with old people in wheelchairs. Some were asleep, others were tapping their feet to music that streamed out of an open door. The sign on the door read,
Sing-along with Betty
. I peeked inside.
The room was super crowded. Warbly voices sang a Frank Sinatra song called “That Old Black Magic.” I recognized it because my mom is a big Frank Sinatra fan. I assumed Betty was the woman at the piano, leading the sing-along.

“Everyone in here looks like they're about to croak,” Tyler said. He hadn't even bothered to whisper.

“That's mean,” I told him. “One day you're gonna be old.”

“I don't think so.” A bunch of pastry crumbs had gotten caught in his stubble. “I'm going to grow clones and transplant my brain as soon as my body starts to wear out.” He was serious.

“Do you see Juniper?” Ethan asked, peering over my shoulder.

“No.” I scanned again, just to make sure there were no long white braids or red bandanas in the crowd. “She's not in here. Let's ask someone.” The reception desk was across the way. A sign read,
Visitor Check-In
.

Even though Tyler was the oldest, I'm the one who marched up to the counter. I wanted to do the talking because Ethan was a terrible liar and because Tyler was . . . well, Tyler.

“Hello,” I said. “We're here to see someone.” The lady behind the counter was dressed in a plain white blouse and black skirt. Her name tag read,
Sister Beatrice
.

“Hello.” Before she said another word, her phone rang. “Excuse me for a moment.”

I tapped my fingers on the counter as she answered the phone. She forwarded the call to someone else, then got distracted by two police officers who walked down the hall and stopped next to me.

“We just finished checking on Jane Doe, so we're headin' back to the station house now,” the tall one told Sister Beatrice. “We've got a bit of paperwork to write up.”

The other officer, a woman with a mole on her cheek, leaned on the counter. “If someone comes to identify her, give us a call. We don't want anyone talking to her unless there's an officer present.”

I looked over at Tyler and Ethan. They'd both heard the comment. How were we supposed to talk about the urn if there was a police officer in Juniper's room?

“Why?” Sister Beatrice asked. “Is she in trouble?”

The female officer answered. “It appears that
she'd been tampering with the museum's security system just before she had her stroke. The only reason to tamper with a security system is to steal something. The museum might press charges against her. We want to monitor all her conversations, for evidence.”

The other officer handed a card to Sister Beatrice. “Call us immediately if anyone comes in to see her.” Then he frowned. “What's her prognosis? Is she gonna make it?”

“Her condition is not terminal,” the sister replied. “But her memory is damaged. It will take time for her to recover.” The officers said good-bye, then headed out the front door.

Of course she wasn't going to die. This whole thing was a big act so she could have a place to hide out.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Sister Beatrice said to me. She set the card next to the phone. “Who are you visiting today?”

I glanced at the card. If I said I'd come to see Jane Doe, the police would come back. So I quickly scanned the files that were spread across the desk. One of the names caught my eye. “Herman Hoffsteder.”

“Are you a family member?”

“Yes.” I smiled sweetly. “My brothers and I are his family members.” I pointed to Ethan and Tyler, who were still standing next to the sing-along. Then I wished I hadn't called Ethan and Tyler my brothers because we looked nothing alike. What if Sister Beatrice questioned me? Would I have to provide more details? Lying to a nun was one of the worst things I'd ever done. But lucky for me, Sister Beatrice got distracted by another phone call. She pushed a pen and a clipboard across the counter. “Sign in, please.”

Out of pure habit, I started to sign,
Jax Ma
. . . but stopped. Oops. I shouldn't use my real name. What should I use? I'd often thought that if I could choose a last name, I'd choose something from one of my travel guidebooks, like London, or Paris. So I finished the signature—
Jax Madrid
. That sounded like a famous writer or designer. “What room is Uncle Herman in?” I asked, trying not to bounce on my toes. I looked at the desk again, to see if there were any notes about Jane Doe. Maybe I'd find her room number. But I found nothing.

“Herman's not in his room right now. He's over there.” She pointed to a man sitting in a wheelchair a little ways down the hall. “Herman!” she called. “You have visitors.” The old man rubbed
his bald head and frowned. Then Sister Beatrice's phone rang again and she started talking to somebody about medical supplies.

I walked over to Mr. Hofstedder. “Hello, Uncle Herman,” I said real loud.

“Do I know you?” His eyes were so cloudy it looked like milk had been spilled on his eyeballs.

“Yes. I'm your niece, Jax.” Lying to a nun
and
a nice old man—yeesh. Maybe this is the part of me that I got from my father, the criminal. I smiled and waved at Sister Beatrice but she barely noticed since she was still on the phone. I grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and started wheeling my victim down the hall. Ethan and Tyler hurried after me.

“What are you doing?” Tyler asked.

“We're taking Uncle Herman for a ride.”

“I ain't your uncle.” Herman grumbled. “I may be confused about what year this is, but I know I don't got any nieces or nephews. And I don't want to take no ride.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Just act like you're having fun.”

“Fun?” He snorted. “I haven't had fun since they stuck me in this place.”

“Do you have a plan?” Ethan asked as he
nervously looked around.

“Open every door until we find her,” I said. “That's the plan.”

Tyler and Ethan took one side of the hall, I took the other. I stopped at the first room and peeked in. The windowsill was decorated with porcelain figurines and doilies. The next room had lots of family photos and an orange crocheted blanket. Another nun greeted us as she pushed a cart up the hall. It was filled with medications. “Hello, Herman,” she said. “Nice to see you have visitors.” Her name tag read,
Sister Agnes
.

“They ain't my visitors,” Herman complained. “I was minding my own business and they kidnapped me.”

“That's nice,” Sister Agnes said, just before turning into a room. She probably heard stuff like that all day long. How could she know Herman was telling the truth and not just confused?

A few rooms later, the hallway branched out on either side to form a T shape. I was about to tell Tyler and Ethan to take one hallway, and I'd take the other, when a door marked 19 opened. A large man stepped out. He was dressed in white pants and a white shirt. He looked like he worked there, maybe an orderly or a nurse. After closing
the door, he walked down the hall and joined Sister Agnes, who was pushing her cart from another room.

“Hi, Louis. Did you just come from Jane Doe's room?”

“Yeah,” Louis told her.

I'd found her! Great-Aunt Juniper was behind door number 19. It was like a game show, where you hope that the door you choose has the biggest prize.

“She's agitated,” he said. “Her window was wide open. She said the gods had found her.”

“Poor thing,” Sister Agnes said.

The gods had found her? Wow, Juniper was really good at pretending to be confused.

“I gave her the sedative,” Louis said. “She should be going to sleep soon.”

Uh-oh. We needed to talk to her quick, before she fell asleep.

While they talked, I pretended to be adjusting Herman's blanket, making him more comfortable. “Leave me alone,” he snapped.

“Shhh,” I told him, trying my best to hear the conversation.

“Why were the police in her room?” Sister Agnes asked.

“Didn't you hear? She had her stroke at the Museum of Fine Arts. The police said she broke into the security office. But they haven't been able to figure out her motive.” He took the cart and began to push it farther down the hall. Sister Agnes followed alongside. “I'm going to lunch in twenty. You want to get a fozen yogurt?”

“Oh, that sounds good,” Sister Agnes said. They disappeared around the corner.

A small paper sign was taped outside room 19:
Hospital Staff Admittance Only
. “Hey,” I called to Ethan and Tyler, waving them over. “This is it.”

“That ain't my room,” Herman Hofstedder said.

Ethan stared at the sign. “We can't go in there.” I knew exactly what he'd say next—that we'd be breaking rules and that trespassing was illegal. He was right. But this was not the time to worry about rules. Louis had given a sedative to Juniper, and that meant she'd be asleep soon. We needed to get some answers now. I looked around. The hallway was empty. So I opened the door.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Ethan complained.

Mr. Hofstedder grunted. “That makes two of us.”

Tyler narrowed his eyes. “What if the urn's in there?”

I'd been thinking the same thing, but how could that be possible? “The bank robber has it, remember?”

“Yeah, but what if . . . ?” Tyler's face went pale. I felt as scared as he looked, but we couldn't back down now.

“Don't worry, I don't think it's in there,” I told him. “I'm not sensing anything.” During our adventure in Washington, DC, I'd felt the urn's presence. Even though it had been hidden in the Camels' motel room, I'd been able to feel it calling to me. But that did not happen as I stood outside room 19. “Let's go in and talk to her.”

Tyler straightened his back, as if pushing away the fear. Then he waved his arm. “After you, dweeboids.”

“Watch your language, young man,” Mr. Hoffsteder grumbled.

Tyler was the last inside and he closed the door behind us.

FACT:
Human cloning already exists in the form of identical twins. But that process takes place naturally.

W
hen Tyler says he wants to clone himself and replant his brain whenever his body wears out, he's talking about replacement cloning. It's theoretically possible that my generation could see this in our lifetime. Tyler could extend his life by generations. So could Jax and I. Which means Tyler would be calling us dweeboids for a very long time.

But Juniper couldn't have a brain transplant. So we could only hope that the damage she'd suffered
from her stroke was reversible. That her brain would repair itself. Jax was wrong about her not having a stroke.

The room was sparse, with one bed, one dresser, and a television set. There were no personal items like in the other rooms. She lay on the bed, metal handlebars perched on both sides. I guess they were meant to protect her so she wouldn't fall out. It reminded me of a crib.

She wore a plain light-blue cotton nightgown. Her white hair was unbraided and fanned across the pillow. Her eyes were closed. Jax let go of Mr. Hofstedder's handlebars, then leaned over the bed. “Great-Aunt Juniper?” she said quietly.

Juniper's eyes popped open. “Jax!” She reached out a trembling, pale hand. “Thank the gods you're here.” As Jax squeezed our great-aunt's hand, I wondered about Mr. Hofstedder. What if he had real visitors and they started looking for him?

“Shouldn't we put our
uncle
back in the hall?” I asked.

Herman Hofstedder snorted. “Yes. Put me in the hall. Leave me in peace.”

“Don't put him in the hall,” Jax whispered to us. “He might tell someone we're in here.” Then she patted
the old man's shoulder. “It'll be fine, Mr. Hofstedder. We'll take you back in a few minutes.”

Juniper turned her head and looked at me, her eyes watery and red. “Who are you?” she asked.