Authors: Lynn Barnes
THE LONG GAME (4 page)
Whatever Walker’s problem was, it had even Bodie on edge. “Not joking, kiddo.” Bodie turned in his seat and fixed me with a stare. “No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—you say nothing.”
Dangerous
. The word Adam had used the day before echoed in my mind.
My stomach
tightened. “I won’t.”
After two or three seconds, Ivy’s driver gave a slight nod. “Get out of here,” he said, jerking his head toward the school. “And good luck with the campaign.”
“We’ll begin with nominations for class presidents and then proceed to the school-wide offices.” The Hardwicke headmaster was a small man with glasses, a finely tuned sense of his own importance, and a voice that
carried. “Are there nominations for freshman class president?”
The nominations began to trickle in, and I leaned back in my seat. Once a month, the entire Hardwicke Upper School was shuffled into the chapel for an all-school meeting. Today’s meeting, as Emilia had indicated, was devoted to the upcoming student council elections.
It was hard to bring myself to care about student council when
my gut said that Ivy was on the verge of something big—something awful.
No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—you say nothing.
Bodie’s warning lingered in my head. Each time I went back over the words, they were more chilling. What exactly did Bodie
think I might see or hear that would cause me to say something about Walker Nolan’s visit to our house?
Why does the president’s son
need Ivy’s services?
Adam worked for the Pentagon. Since I’d moved to DC, he’d only consulted with Ivy on one other case: the assassination of Justice Marquette.
No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—
“And now we’ll open up nominations for student-body president.” Headmaster Raleigh’s voice broke through my thoughts. My whole body felt stiff, and I wondered how long I’d been sitting
there, playing Bodie’s warning over and over in my head.
“The office of student-body president is open to any junior in good academic standing,” the headmaster continued with the solemnity of a jury foreman delivering a verdict. “I encourage you to think long and hard about who will best represent both you as a student body and the principles of the Hardwicke School.”
There was a moment of silence,
broken by Asher rising to his feet and calling out, “Hear ye, hear ye!”
The headmaster did a good impression of someone who was developing a migraine. “Mr. Rhodes,” he acknowledged. “A bit less with the dramatics, if you please.”
In response, Asher placed one hand over his heart. “I, Asher Rhodes, being of reasonably sound body and mind, do hereby nominate the honorable—and, I might add, ridiculously
good-looking—Henry Marquette.”
Asher really didn’t know the meaning of the word
less
.
“Who among you stands with me?” he asked, punching both fists into the air.
It occurred to me then that Emilia had told me that John Thomas would be
one
of her opponents.
As Henry’s nomination was seconded, Emilia caught my eyes and gave a small shrug. Clearly, she still expected me to hold up my end of the
bargain.
“Do you accept this nomination?” the headmaster asked Henry.
“I’ll accept,” Henry said, “if and only if Asher agrees to never refer to me as good-looking again.”
I snorted.
“I regret nothing!” Asher yelled.
A second later, someone called out, “I nominate John Thomas Wilcox.”
The lacrosse player who’d been so fond of hazing—until I’d shut him down—seconded the nomination.
“I am
John Thomas Wilcox,” John Thomas said, with what passed as a good-natured grin, “and I accept this nomination.”
That got a few snickers.
“The floor remains open,” the headmaster declared. “Do we have a third nomination?”
Emilia shot laser eyes at me. After returning her glare, I stood up.
“Ms. Kendrick,” the headmaster said. “Err . . . Keyes,” he corrected himself. “Tess.”
My last name was
still a matter of some contention.
“Do you have a nomination?” Raleigh asked me.
I avoided looking at Henry as I answered, “I nominate Emilia Rhodes.”
“Blackmail or bribe?” Asher caught up to me on the way back to the main building after chapel let out.
I didn’t answer.
“Blackmail or bribe?” Asher repeated. “Because I have some serious doubts that you were overcome by a swell of civic admiration for my twin, lovely though she may be.”
Right now,
lovely
wasn’t a word I would have used to describe Emilia Rhodes.
“My dearest, darling
sister didn’t happen to mention she was running against Henry, did she?” Asher asked.
“She left that tidbit out,” I said dryly.
Vivvie popped up on my other side. “Henry’s been our class president since kindergarten. Everyone figured he was a shoo-in for student-body president this year.”
“You guys had a class president in kindergarten?” I asked incredulously.
Asher nodded. “Henry was the
only five-year-old to run on a three-pronged platform.”
I honestly couldn’t tell if Asher was joking or not.
“The third prong,” Asher continued, “was cookies.”
We hit the door to the main building a second before the art teacher came striding out. “Inside,” he called. “Get to class, everyone.” The teacher’s whole body was as tight as a rubber band on the verge of snapping.
We crossed the threshold
into the building. All up and down the main corridor, teachers were ushering students into classrooms. A feeling of unease slithered down my spine.
No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—
Henry appeared beside me. From the expression on his face, it was clear that student council elections were the last thing on his mind. His jaw muscles were tensed, brown skin pulled taut across his
cheekbones, his full lips set into a grim line.
“What’s going on?” I asked him as we stepped into the classroom. I could hear murmurs all around me, was vaguely aware of the teacher telling us to take our seats—but my attention was focused on Henry.
Wordlessly, he passed his cell phone to me. I forced myself to look at the screen.
BOMB DETONATES IN DC HOSPITAL
The headline froze the air in
my lungs. I couldn’t inhale. I couldn’t exhale.
No matter what you see
, Bodie had told me,
no matter what you hear—you say nothing.
I had no way of knowing if Walker Nolan’s problem had anything to do with what the media were calling an act of terrorism. I texted Ivy with shaky hands. I needed her to tell me she was okay.
Ivy called Adam in on this one. Adam works for the Pentagon. Bodie told me not to say anything—
Ivy texted back less than a minute after I’d texted her.
I’m fine. Can you get a ride home from
school today?
In other words: she needed Bodie with her.
What’s going on?
I texted back.
The reply came an instant later.
Can you get a ride home from school today?
My Spanish teacher saw the cell phone in my hand but said nothing. I wasn’t the only one texting my parents.
Yes.
I typed in my reply, pressing down on the urge to repeat my question to Ivy the way she’d repeated hers to me. Henry
had a car. So did Emilia—and Asher was pretty liberal about “borrowing” it. I could manage a ride home from school.
I’d just spend the next six hours wondering what Ivy was doing that she needed Bodie with her.
Spanish class flew by, then physics. Since chapel had replaced my first-period English class, fifth period—the only class I shared with John Thomas Wilcox—came quickly.
“Word on the
street is that you’re helping Emilia Rhodes with her campaign.” John Thomas clearly wasn’t having any trouble shaking off the news of the bombing. The rest of the school was on edge, a pallor cast over the student body at the reminder that bad things could and did happen close to home. The expression on John Thomas’s face was appropriately somber, but mismatched to the glint in his eyes.
“Just
like your sister helped President Nolan with his campaign,” John Thomas continued. “And look how well that turned out. Nolan has made a mess of national security. Whatever casualties there are today, that blood is on your precious president’s hands—and your sister’s.”
No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—you say nothing.
“Class is starting.” Henry took the seat in front of me and
leveled a stare at John Thomas. “Eyes to the front, Wilcox.”
“Protective, isn’t he?” John Thomas asked me. “You do have a way with the opposite sex.”
Among the limited tricks in John Thomas’s repertoire was suggesting that I’d cemented my position at Hardwicke by sleeping my way through the junior class. He’d never managed to get a rise out of me on the topic, but that didn’t keep him from trying.
Mr. Wesley—who taught Speaking of Words, the Hardwicke version of “speech”—seemed to sense that today wasn’t a good
day to even attempt a lecture. He put on a video of a poetry slam and turned off the lights.
“Girls like you, women like your sister—they’re only good for one thing,” John Thomas whispered. “And it’s not running campaigns.”
“Mr. Wilcox,” the teacher called out. “Watch the video.”
John Thomas let his eyes linger on me. “I’m watching.”
“Sources are reporting that there were no casualties in today’s bombing—thanks, in large part, to an anonymous tip that Homeland Security received last night about this woman.”
The moment World Issues had started, Dr. Clark had dimmed the lights and turned on the news. In sharp contrast to the video in Speaking of Words, everyone’s attention was focused on the screen now.
This woman.
The picture that accompanied the anchor’s words was a profile shot, taken from a distance. The woman was young—dark hair, fair skin, athletic build.
“While the Nolan administration has issued no confirmation of the woman’s identity, documents leaked to the press suggest she was a medical researcher living in Bethesda under the name Daniela Nicolae. It is unclear at this time whether or not that
is her actual name.”
At the front of the classroom, Dr. Clark watched us watching the news report. I glanced at Henry, whose eyes were locked
on the screen, then at Asher, who was sitting as still as I’d ever seen him. Beside me, Vivvie’s fingers worried at the sleeve of her blazer, her dark brown eyes cast downward.
“No casualties. A suspect in custody. I don’t see how this is anything other
than a victory for the current administration.”
While I’d been assessing my friends, the program had switched to a “he said, she said” format. Pundits sat to either side of the anchor.
He
had no sooner given his opinion than
she
chimed in.
“Who is this Daniela Nicolae? How did she get into the country? And why is an anonymous tip the only thing standing between us and a terrorist attack on American
soil?” The female pundit was a redhead in her early forties. She was girl-next-door pretty and utterly without mercy. “Under the Nolan administration,” she continued, letting loose at rapid fire and not giving her opponent an opportunity to interject, “our intelligence agencies have become more concerned with spying on American citizens and policing
our
private communications than in tracking
foreign nationals like Nicolae.”
An argument erupted between the two pundits. When the anchor took over again, he addressed the camera, his voice solemn. “This is what we know: according to her passport, Daniela Nicolae is twenty-eight years old, with dual citizenship in Venezuela and Belarus. She was educated in England and graduated from Oxford with a degree in medicine at the age of twenty-four.
She spent three years with Doctors Without Borders before beginning a research fellowship here in the States.”
“And the only reason we know any of that,” the female pundit said when the floor was hers once more, “the only reason we even know this woman’s name, is because of a security leak. Quite
frankly, I don’t know whether to be more concerned that we still haven’t heard from the president
on any of this, or about the fact that under his watch, our national security is springing leaks.”
Dr. Clark lifted the remote and hit the power button. As the screen went black, she said something about us breaking into small groups to discuss our own reactions to the day’s events, but I barely heard her.
I was still stuck on three words, buried between the female pundit’s diatribes.
Doctors
Without Borders.
Walker Nolan had volunteered his medical services overseas for two years under the Doctors Without Borders banner. I wanted to believe that it was a coincidence that Daniela Nicolae had worked for the same group.
I wanted to, but I didn’t.
Homeland Security apprehended her based on an anonymous tip
, my brain kept reminding me.
Ivy solved problems. Walker Nolan had one—and his problem
had required the help of Ivy’s contact at the Pentagon.
“You are being suspiciously quiet.” Henry had volunteered to drive me home. Until now, both of us had passed the ride in silence. Henry slanted his eyes briefly toward mine. “The last time you were this quiet, Kendrick, you were plotting the downfall of Jeremy Bancroft’s father.”
I’d promised Bodie I wouldn’t say a word to anyone about
Walker Nolan. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d kept something from Henry.
It probably wouldn’t be the last.
“I’m not plotting anything,” I told the boy next to me. “Promise.”
“I feel so very comforted,” Henry said. He came to a stop at a red light and turned to look at me head-on. “This is my comforted face.”
“You sound like Asher,” I retorted. “He has a face for every occasion.”
“Whereas
you
,” Henry said, “just have a poker face, the appearance of which is typically a cause for concern.”