Furious Jones and the Assassin’s Secret (14 page)

“Really?” I asked. “Do you know what his name was?”

“James Dutton,” Emma said.

James Dutton was the Sicilian's alias. Obviously the Galena police never figured out James's real identity.

“Yeah,” Emma continued. “Apparently he died trying to steal a canoe.”

“That must have been some canoe,” I said.

“Yeah, they said he slipped and broke his neck. They actually found him under the canoe.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You don't sound convinced,” Emma said.

“I'm not.”

“You don't think it was an accident?”

“I know it wasn't,” I said.

“Care to tell me how you know?”

Emma sounded like a reporter now.

“Tell me more about this trip you're on,” I said.

“You're trying to change the topic,” Emma said.

“No,” I said. “I'm serious. You said it was for young journalists, right?”

“Yes. The top high school writers from around the country were invited to spend ten days at Northwestern and work on the craft. One of us will even get to write a feature story for the
Chicago Tribune
before we leave. Why?” she asked.

“I might have the story of a lifetime for you,” I replied honestly.

I told Emma that she would have the first crack at the
largest story of the year, but I needed a couple more days to put the pieces together and find some proof.

“Proof of what?” she asked.

“You'll see. I'll call you soon.”

I slipped my phone into my pocket and headed to Main Street. To apartment 22B.

M
ain Street was deserted when
I got there. And Dirty Gert's was closed for the night. I walked around the block and down the alley that ran behind Gert's. The alley was a mess of rickety old stairs and catwalks. It looked more like parts of Thailand than Illinois.

The staircase shook as I climbed to the second level and stood outside 22B. What now? God, this was a bad idea. There was a curtain over the door's window. The apartment looked dark, but the reflection from the alley light made it difficult to know for sure. I cupped my hands over my face and pressed against the glass when—

BEEP BEEP!

BEEP BEEP!

BEEP BEEP!

My heart raced. I was shaking. My pocket was shaking. It was my phone. I reached into my pocket just as a light came on inside the apartment.

Crap! Should I run? Hide?

The door swung open. “Who's there?” A woman stepped out onto the catwalk. “Who are you?”

“Ah, I'm looking for James?” Man, what if she was with the Salvatores too?

“There's no James here,” she said.

I tried to look over the woman's head into the apartment. It looked just like my dad had described it in the book. Or, perhaps more actually, like my mom had described it to my dad.

“I said there's no one by that name here.” The woman rose up on her toes in an effort to block my view.

“Do you know where he went?” I asked.

“If he's the guy that lived here before me, I think he's dead,” she said as she stepped back into the apartment and closed the door.

I made my way up the bluff stairs, thinking about the Sicilian. My dad had written that he was the best assassin in the world. And Anton was one of the CIA's best killers. Now he had turned out to be a traitor and was working for the Salvatores. So Galena was full of ex-Mafia bad guys turned rats and one highly talented CIA assassin sent here to kill them all. Or, at least all the ones that the Sicilian had not already killed.

I knew I would find out soon enough who killed my mom. The whole world would find out on Thursday when my dad's book came out. My mom's killer would be Carson Kidd's killer in the book. And based on the title
Double Crossed
, my money was on Anton.

But thanks to the popularity of my dad's books, almost everyone on the planet would read the book. And with my dad using all real names this time, it wouldn't take people long to realize the book was a true story. And with his name and the names of his victims in print, it wouldn't take Anton long to go into hiding. Even though Anton's name was in the excerpts, I doubted he was a big fan or avid reader.

I twisted the handle to Betty's Bluff Inn and pushed the door open. The living room was dark and I hurried up to the Second House. I sat on the futon, under the giant eye, and thought about my dad's story. I needed to find Anton before the book came out on Thursday. Before he could slip into the shadows. I wanted revenge. I wanted justice. But I would need proof. Who would believe a twelve-year-old kid? Especially a kid who, according to the media, wasn't even alive.

I thought about the Sicilian's apartment. And the photo album he used to record his hits. If I could get ahold of the photo albums with the names of the people killed, and those names matched up with actual dead people—that would be enough proof. Then Emma could write a story about how my dad chronicled my mom's death and the murders of dozens
and dozens of witnesses in Galena. That would do it. The world would have to pay attention.

But how could I do that? The Sicilian was dead and Anton was trained to not be found. By anyone! Certainly not a twelve-year-old kid. I had no idea what he even looked like—or did I? Maybe my messed-up photographic memory would come in handy. According to my dad's book, my mom and Anton had trained together at the CIA's assassin training grounds. So maybe they had worked together too. Maybe Anton had been in the same cities as my mom and me. My mind would register a faint flicker of recognition if I had ever seen Anton. Even if I don't realize it. If he ever stood in line with us at an airport or coffee shop, pretending not to know my mom, there was still a chance I would feel something. Some deep, distant tingle in the back of my mind that would tell me this person was familiar. I made a mental note to pay attention to those faint feelings this week.

I thought about Anton again. My dad had said he was the best. That he got the important jobs. The
can't miss
hits. And, according to my dad's book, he worked fast. In fact, there were only two people left on his list when Carson Kidd killed him. My dad had written that there was a woman in her forties and a young girl. He wrote that the girl in the photo was about sixteen years old with long dark hair and green eyes. The book said she was beautiful but tough. It also said she was alive. Maybe that was still true. Everything else
in my dad's book had proven true so far. And my mom had killed the Sicilian before he could finish his job. If I couldn't find Anton, maybe I could find one of the targets. Alive. And Emma could write the story of the girl who survived. The girl whose name will be in my dad's book when it comes out on Thursday. Maybe that would be enough to get people interested. It was a long shot, but it was all I had.

It wasn't all that crazy. She would be a lot easier to find than a CIA-trained killer. The book said she was sixteen. Which meant there was only one place she could be tomorrow morning: Galena High School—assuming my mom hadn't moved her before she was killed. The school was on the way to the Pig. There was a chance that the proof I needed might be a sophomore or junior at Galena High School tomorrow. I knew she had long dark hair and green eyes. I knew it was a long shot, but it was the only shot I had. I set the alarm for 6:15 a.m. and decided to go try to find out.

I
woke up before the
alarm went off. It was 6:15 a.m. I had no idea what time school started, but I figured I should get there early. No one was around at Betty's and I quietly slipped out the door and set off for Galena High.

I wasn't worried about showing up at a school I didn't go to. I had spent most of my academic career bouncing from one school to another. I knew it would take days, maybe even weeks, before the school would realize my paperwork and transcripts weren't ever going to arrive. And I'd be long gone by then. There was no point in me staying in Galena after my dad's book was released. Anton's name and actions would be known worldwide and he'd disappear. And I wasn't too worried about passing as a high school student.
At my height, everyone always assumed I was older.

I stopped at the Pig on the way to school and bought a Mountain Dew, a few cupcakes, a five-subject notebook, and a pen. The total was $12.67.

I sat down on a small hill next to the school, ate my breakfast, and watched the parking lot start to fill up. A woman in a pink suit was standing in front giving an interview to a reporter. I assumed she was the principal.

As I walked past her, I heard her say something about Schneider and the cheerleaders. She had a dead teacher to deal with. It was going to be a long week for her. She was going to have a lot more to worry about than who I was and why my paperwork was missing.

Galena High was nice. Much nicer than most of the cinder block military base schools I had attended. It actually looked a lot like my New Canaan school, except the Galena students weren't showing up in Ferraris and Porsches.

I wandered around for a few minutes before finding the office in the basement. There was a large group of teachers standing behind the counter. They stopped laughing as I walked in. I guess I wasn't going to be privy to the teacher jokes.

“Can I help you?” an older woman asked, stepping away from the group and approaching the counter.

“Yes, I'm—” Oh, geez. I hadn't thought about a name. I couldn't use Furious. Furious was supposed to be dead. Should I just use Finbar? I hated it more than Furious, but
I wasn't coming up with any other good
F
names in the moment.

“I'm Finbar. Finbar Jennings.”

“Yes?” She looked puzzled.

“I'm a new student. It's my first day,” I said.

“A new student?” she repeated.

“Yes, ma'am.”

She turned toward the group of teachers. They were laughing again.

“Carol, do you know anything about a new student? I didn't see anything on the report.”

Another woman stepped to the counter.

“What new student?” Carol asked.

“He says it's his first day.”

Carol looked at me. “Are your parents with you?”

“My mom is still overseas. I'm staying with my aunt. I'm transferring from an international school in Italy. I bet they're just slow on sending paperwork.”

“Italy? Wow. A world traveler,” Carol said.

The door slammed behind me. I turned around to see the woman in the pink suit. She didn't look happy. The group dispersed quickly.

“Ah.” Carol looked at the woman in pink and then back at me. “We'll get this straightened out. What grade are you in, hon?”

“Tenth,” I lied.

She was now filling in some sort of form on the computer. “Can you spell your name for me, please?”

I spelled Finbar's name and gave her the name and address of a school I had attended in Italy.

“And you said you're staying with your aunt here in Galena?”

“Yes.”

“And who is your aunt?”

Galena was a very small town. I was sure Carol knew everyone. She would know if I was lying. I decided to go with the only person I knew in Galena.

“Betty O'Malley,” I said.

“Betty O'Malley? From Betty's Bluff Inn?” Carol asked.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I didn't know Betty had a nephew. Did you know that, Marge?” Carol asked the other woman.

“No. But I don't know Betty very well,” Marge said.

“No, me neither,” Carol quickly followed.

Considering how friendly Betty was and how small this town was, this surprised me. Maybe I lucked out. Maybe Betty's good-luck amulet was working.

“Well, I'll give Betty a call later and we'll straighten all this out,” Carol said.

So much for luck.

“We'll put you in basic geometry,” Carol said, “until we can test you.”

“Great,” I said quickly.

“Okay. And you would normally get to choose an elective, but most of them fill up so quickly that I can only offer you two choices,” Carol said. “Computer Animation or Medieval Russian History?”

That was it? Computer Animation or Medieval Russian History. That's like asking a guy if he wants a punch to the face or a swift kick to the stomach. How about neither. I hated the thought of an animation class and, while I had been to Russia several times with my mom, I didn't care about their—or anyone else's—medieval history.

“Animation,” I said meekly. “I guess.”

“Oh, cheer up.” Carol laughed. “You're going to love it.

“So, Finbar,” Carol continued as she tapped on the keyboard, “we utilize the buddy system here in Galena.”

“The buddy system?” I asked.

“Yeah, I'm going to pair you up with someone. They will take care of you while you make your transition. They will have all the same classes. Answer questions. Introduce you to people. That kind of stuff,” she said, clacking away on the computer.

“Okay,” I said, praying to God that she paired me with one particular sixteen-year-old girl with long dark hair and green eyes.

Carol finally stopped clicking and picked up the telephone. “Will Mike Marius please report to the office. Mike
Marius,” she repeated. “Please report to the office.”

I could hear her words bouncing off the hall walls outside the office.

“I'm going to pair you with Mike. He's a good kid and fairly new himself,” she said. “He'll show you around and keep you safe.” Then she winked.

Safe? What was Mike going to keep me safe from?

M
ike came down to the
office and actually seemed like a pretty good guy.