Two Lies and a Spy (20 page)

Sophie’s shot goes wide, and instead of embedding itself in my brain, the bullet tears into my right shoulder. At first I don’t even realize it. I’m not even sure if I’m alive or dead. Could I be seeing all of this from the other side? I definitely saw a brilliant white light, that’s for sure.

I suck in a breath and realize that my right shoulder hurts worse than the time I dislocated it. It’s on fire and throbbing so much that tears run down my face before I even realize I’m crying.

Mom is now sitting on Sophie, her knee in the small of the psycho’s back. She jerks Sophie’s arms behind her and trusses her wrists together as if Soph is our Thanksgiving
turkey and Mom is Rachel Ray.

If the throbbing in my shoulder were audible, it would sound like a tuba.

Dad runs toward me with a towel and a medical kit.

“This is going to hurt, kiddo,” he says gruffly, and without warning he presses the towel to my shoulder. I scream—can’t help it—and he claps a hard, suffocating hand over my mouth. It’s so alien to me that I almost take a chunk out of his palm, and we lock eyes furiously.

“Kari . . . I’m sorry. I was afraid someone would hear.”

Like the gunshot was silent?

I shake my head, then clamp my own hand down on the towel against my shoulder, which hurts beyond belief. But I stand up.
“Where’s Charlie?”

Images of him tied up or terrified or wounded flash through my mind. My voice goes an octave higher. “Where
is
he?!”

“I’m right here, Kari.” He steps into the living room, all forty-two pounds and three and a half feet of him. I’m so relieved to see him, not a hair on his strawberry blond head harmed, that I almost pass out. Instead I close my eyes for a second, then blink back more tears.

“Kari?” Charlie’s eyes go owl-like behind his glasses. “Kari, you’re . . .” He runs for me. “Bleeding!” He throws his arms around me and starts to hyperventilate. “You can’t die,” he says into my stomach.

“I’m not dying, kiddo. I swear.” I stroke his sweet, cowlicked head and try to swallow past a lump in my throat the size of a Volkswagen.

His little body shudders against mine, and his face is
tearstained when he looks up at me. “Promise?”

I nod.

“Swear? Cross your heart and hope to—” He breaks off, disturbed by what he almost says.

“I cross my heart and swear,” I say with all the reassurance I can muster. “I feel great.”

I grab Charlie’s hand and turn to look down at Evan’s prone form on the floor. My God, I hope Sophie hasn’t killed him. “But I don’t think
he
does. Doc, will you check his pulse? Is he okay?”

Charlie gasps as he sees Evan, nods, lets go of my hand, and kneels next to him, solemnly placing two fingers to the side of his patient’s neck.

God, I love that kid.
I am so proud of the way he’s keeping his head.

Dad is advancing on me with the first aid kit again. I don’t resist this time as he makes me sit on the sofa, then cuts off the blood-soaked sleeve of my white T-shirt. He cleans the wound while Charlie places his ear against Evan’s heart.

“He’s okay.” Charlie bends over him again. “He’s breathing steadily.”

The guy’s got a thick skull. “Thanks, doc. Good deal.” I release a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding. “Now,” I say to my parents, as Dad gently presses clean gauze to the wound in my shoulder. “What . . . how . . . where . . .”

“Dad’s a hero!” Charlie announces. “He rescued Mom from the bad guys—”

Is that a scoffing noise coming from Psycho Sophie?
Even with her face pressed into our Oriental rug?

“And then they came and got me. Dad knocked out one guy with his fist and the other guy with the butt of his gun, and then Mom tied them up. Mom’s real good at tying people up, did you know?”

This time there’s an unmistakable snort out of Sophie.

My formerly chic and classy mom drives a fist into the vicinity of Soph’s kidneys.
Ouch.

Then Mom gets off Sophie, stands up, and brushes the beige carpet fibers off her black business slacks. “Cal,” she says in close to normal tones, “are you almost done, there? We’ve got to go.”

“Go?” Charlie asks. “We just got home.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Mom pastes on a smile. “But . . . we broke out of the Agency, honey. And we assaulted federal officers when we took you. So we’re in trouble—and we’ve got to leave.”

“But, Mom,” I say. “This is all a big misunderstanding. You’re innocent! And you went into that hotel room to rescue your
child
. You came here to ensure the safety of your
other
child. The Agency will understand.”

“Kari, I know you have a lot of questions,” Dad says smoothly. “But—”

“We don’t have time to answer them at the moment. Let’s hustle,” Mom orders. “A plane is coming for us in half an hour, and the airstrip is a good forty minutes away.”

“What airstrip?”

“Grab your backpacks,” Mom orders.

“Really, Mom? You think we still have those, after everything we’ve been through? I’ll go pack a bag for me
and Charlie.”

“No time,” she says. “Come on, everyone. Get out the door and into the Suburban. Grab Sophie.”

“What about Evan?”

“What about him?” Dad asks, casting a dismissive glance his way. “The Agency people will find him. I’m sure they’re on their way.”

“You guys, it doesn’t make any sense for us to leave!” I say. “Running will just make you look guilty of something. You have to talk this out with your handlers, with your superiors at work.”

Mom has a tic at the corner of her left eye. “Kari.” Her voice is strained. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, and you’re feeling weak.”

True. She can always read me.

“So I know that nothing about this seems logical at the moment, but we have to leave,
now
.” Her voice rises on the last word. “We can talk everything through later, once we’re on the plane.”

“But—” I scratch my itchy nose.

Dad has Charlie by the elbow and is steering him toward the door.

“Stop giving me lip, young lady!” Mom snaps.

At which point I hear Evan’s voice, as British and upper-crust as ever. “I beg your pardon,” he says from the floor. “But why
can’t
you clarify things for your daughter—and other interested parties—right now? It seems to me that Kari’s got the right of it—innocent families don’t normally flee the country on private jets, eh?”

“Who said anything about a private jet?” Dad growls.

Evan gingerly sits up, then raises an eyebrow and pokes his tongue into his cheek. “Oh, of course. You’re taking a US Airways flight out of Dulles, sir, going through security—with that disassembled sniper rifle in your rucksack.”

Only Sophie laughs at his sarcasm.

Evan has a good eye—sure enough, Dad’s backpack is lying half open on the floor, and a scope is visible. Dad’s eyes narrow. Then he moves Charlie another couple of steps toward the exit.

Mom runs to the pack, scoops everything back into it, and hands it to him. Then she reaches for my arm, but I sidestep and spin away from her. “You tell me what’s going on, right now. Why do we have to run?”

Nobody says a word. Nobody makes a sound.

And then simultaneously, I sneeze and Sophie lets loose with another nasty cackle.

“Kari,” she says, rolling onto her side. “Once again, I gave you credit for being more intelligent.”

I stare at her.

She smirks. “Think about it. Who sent you the charms with the microchips inside? Your mother and father
are
Russian spies, doll.”

Silence.

The room shrieks with it, with the lack of denial from either one of my parents.

My nose no longer tickles, but I can’t breathe. And clarity is cold in my mind. The chill seeps from there downward, into my neck and shoulders, down my spine . . . all
the way to my feet, now frozen and rooted to the ground.

I turn my head and stare at Mom—who simply closes her eyes.

Since she has nothing to say, I look to Dad, who drags a weary hand down his face and drops Charlie’s hand.

Poor Charlie looks flabbergasted; his posture’s like a plush toy’s with the stuffing ripped out.

“Irina,” Dad grates out. “Was there a
reason
you didn’t gag that woman?”

“I could ask you the same, Cal.”

Irina?
My mom’s name is Irene.

“Nooooooooooooooooo!” Charlie howls, and launches himself at Dad. He beats at his chest with his small fists. “You’re
not
Russian spies, you’re not, you’re not, you’re
not
!” He bursts into tears. “Tell her, Daddy! Tell her. . . .”

Dad’s face is ashen. “Charlie—” He tries to put his arms around my brother.

“TELL HER!” Charlie screams, tears and spittle flying from his mouth, hitting Dad’s face as he bends down to hug him.

“Charlie,” Dad says. “I love you.”

“Nooooo!” my brother shrieks. He throws himself down to avoid Dad’s encircling arms, and when Mom rushes to him, he slaps at her knees. “I hate you!”

Charlie scrambles over to me on all fours, and I pick him up, hugging him tightly despite the agony this causes my shoulder. He sobs out his heartbreak, his disillusionment, his disgust.

Mom is trembling from head to toe, but her eyes are
icy and her jaw is like granite.

Dad looks broken. Just . . . defeated.

Mom’s mouth opens, and these are the words that I hear, as if from a long way off. “All right. That’s enough drama. Now we’re leaving.”

Is she kidding? What is she smoking?

“We’re not going anywhere with you,” I manage to say over Charlie’s tousled head. He’s still weeping into my good shoulder.

My mom curses—something I’ve never, ever heard her do. “Kari, get moving! Cal, muscle her into the Suburban.”

Evan hauls himself to his feet. “Not going to happen,” he says firmly.

Like some crazed action figure, Mom takes two steps, wrenches a Sig Sauer out of her Fendi bag, and takes aim at Evan.

“Sorry, Charlie,” I say, and toss him bodily onto an overstuffed love seat. I step between Mom and Evan. Her eyes widen, but even now, the gun doesn’t waver. I stare into the black barrel, rather than into the eyes that have now betrayed everything I can think of: ideals, country, family, the very concept of motherhood.

She has used me, her own daughter, to pass information. She’s teaching Charlie foreign languages so she can use him, too—a seven-year-old!—if she hasn’t already.

“We’re not going anywhere with you,
Irina
. At this point we don’t even know who you people are.”

“Kari, we’re your parents.”

“Right . . . that’s why you’ve got a gun trained on me.”

Charlie suddenly clues in and goes ballistic, screaming “No! No! No!” over and over again. He hurls himself off the sofa and crawls to me on all fours. He clings to my knees as if he’s drowning and I’m a life preserver.

Mom’s face crumples. She drops the Sig onto the floor, and Evan swoops around me and kicks it toward the fireplace.

“Charlie,” Mom says. “Come on, baby. You know I’d never hurt your sister. Let’s go, sweetheart.”

“No! I hate you! I hate you!” Charlie shrieks. “You’re a liar! You’re a bad person!”

Mom looks sucker punched.

“Charlie, don’t speak to your mother like that,” Dad says sternly. “Now, come on.” He grabs my brother’s arm and tries to pull him away from me. Charlie screeches. He kicks backward. Then he turns his head and sinks his teeth into Dad’s hand.

“Turn him loose!” I scream simultaneously.

Dad recoils, stares down at his now bloody hand and then at his son in disbelief.

I look at my father with loathing. “He’s. Not. Going. With you.”

Dad’s face goes blank. He backs up, walks over to Mom, puts his big hand on the back of her neck, and pushes her toward the door. “We’re done here.”

She blinks rapidly, then stumbles as she cranes her head to look back at us.

He drives her forward, shaking his head. “Time to go. They’re minors. They’ll be okay.” Dad’s gaze locks with mine. “We
will
come back for you.”

“Don’t bother.” I force out the words. I’m so cold, so appalled, so . . . shell-shocked . . . that I can’t access my emotions, much less process them. I just want to hurt them as much as they’ve hurt us.

“Kari and Charlie—” His voice breaks, and his eyes fill with tears. “Whatever happens, please know that we love you more than anything on this earth.”

“Right.”

“I swear it.”

My mom is sobbing now, her shoulders shaking. She evidently can’t speak. She blows a wet, tearful kiss at us.

Dad shoves her out the door and into the Suburban. Then he comes back for hog-tied Sophie, who’s lost a lot of her bravado and now seems actively scared.

“Kari, don’t let them take me!” she begs. “They’ll kill me . . .”

“You,” I say slowly, “
disgust
me. I could care less what happens to you. Or them.”

“Kari!” she pleads.

But I don’t answer, and my father shoves a rag into her mouth.

My last image is of my dad hoisting her up by the rope that connects her bound hands to her bound feet. He grunts and walks out with her, as if she’s a heavy stack of old newspapers he’s carting to the curb.

I stare stonily, unforgiving, as the door closes behind
them. I feel weathered and petrified, a thousand years old. I sway on my feet and dimly note the pain still in my shoulder.

It’s nothing compared to the ache in my heart, the suffocating bile rising in my throat, the nausea invading my stomach.

My parents are Russian spies?
Traitors?

I’m so cold.

So very cold.

And then I’m falling, but I can’t be bothered to even flail my arms. It’s just too much effort, and I’d have to care—which I’m beyond doing.

Charlie yells something.

I hear footsteps running toward me—Evan’s?

Then everything goes black.

“Wake up, Shrew,” Evan’s voice pleads with me. “C’mon. Wake up and say something rude. Please.”

I hear the words as if from a long way off.