Infiltrate_Retribution Page 3
Cody. And his friend Jonah. But I could
barely process what I was seeing.
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They both stood frozen in place. Jonah
had his arms outstretched, reaching for
Cody, though not in a violent way. This
wasn’t a middle-of-the-class throwdown.
It was something else. Something way
worse.
“Let me have that,” Jonah pleaded,
motioning for Cody to hand something
over.
But what?
I peered through the bodies that had
shifted into an instinctive spectator circle
around the action. Slipped between a few
kids. And then I saw it.
Cody held a broken thermometer in
his hand, with the sharp, jagged edge
pressed against his own throat. A bead
of blood slipped down his neck, the
stark red shocking against the white and
chrome surrounding us.
“I need to,” he mumbled. “I need it to
stop. I can’t live like this.”
This couldn’t be happening.
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Not right in front of me.
Not again.
Skirting the wall of students, I
approached Cody from behind and to
the side. Jonah shot me a panicked look,
shaking his head wildly to hold me off.
It was enough of a distraction that Cody
lowered the makeshift knife a few inches.
He turned my way.
This was my only chance.
I held my breath and charged,
knocking the thermometer out of his
grip. As if released from a spell, the others
jerked into action. A girl snatched up the
weapon and handed it over to a shaken
Ms. Scott, who was using her cell phone
to call the office for assistance. Two boys
now restrained Cody in a concerned but
firm clasp.
Knowing Cody was contained and
more help was on the way, I stepped back
toward the exit. Several kids watched me
go, probably freaked that I’d taken such
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a risk and wondering why I didn’t stay to
see what happened next.
But I’d had enough for one day.
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SIX
“You’re such a diva.” Jace threw the
words at a very animated Jo, who caught
them from across the marble countertop
of the island unit smack dab in the
middle of Jace’s oversized and rather
industrial kitchen.
“And you’re a Jackson Pollock gone
bad,” she replied with a decidedly unroyal
sneer. Always with the art references.
Jace laughed. “Is that an insult?
Because I’m sure any Pollock is worth
a fortune.”
“There’s no accounting for taste.”
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A dark eyebrow rose. “You’re trying to
tell me you don’t believe Pollock was one
of the most innovative painters…”
And on they went, with Jo
backpedaling because she was an artist
herself and, of course, appreciated
Pollock, but had talked herself into a
corner.
Usually these two provided endless
opportunities for amusement, but the
craziness of the day was sticking in my
gut. I wasn’t in the mood for I-want-
to-kiss-your-face-off-but-for-whatever-
reason-I-won’t banter.
It was cute. But under the
circumstances? Unacceptable.
“Newb!” I glared at Jo. “Silver Spoon,”
I snarled at Jace. “Can we please just let
Sir Bentley call this meeting of headcases
to order?”
Bentley sat at the end of the island,
hidden behind his laptop. As usual.
At the mention of his name, he peered
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over the screen. “I like the Sir, Raven.
That works for me. Everyone please use it
in the future.”
Jace’s hand moved with swift
precision as he smacked the back of his
brother’s head. “Careful, egghead. You
sound an awful lot like—”
He stopped himself at the look on
Bentley’s face, but we all filled in the
blanks.
The one thing that got Bentley’s
back up? Anything to do with Jace
and Bentley’s doctor father. And being
compared to him? Not cool. Now that
man was a bona fide mad scientist. He
made good old Frankenstein seem like
a preschooler forging mutants out of
mismatched lego pieces.
Bentley hopped off his stool and
stood to his full height. “You had to go
there, didn’t you?”
Jace held up a hand. “I’m sorry, that
was out of line.”
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“Oh, a lame apology from Jace
Almighty and everything’s okay?” Bentley
closed his laptop with the formality
of a spaghetti-Western sharpshooter
holstering his sidearm.
Jo and I exchanged a worried look.
Jace was Bentley’s older brother, his
protector. They joked, they might get into
heated debates, but they didn’t outright
fight. But we’d all been under increasing
pressure now that more and more kids
were contacting us and wanting our
help taking down their own big bads. It
was a responsibility we all felt compelled
to meet, but the retribution gig wasn’t
without stressors.
Ripping each other new ones wasn’t
the solution. Sometimes it felt like this
team of ours was hanging together by
threads. Ever since we’d rescued Jo’s
friend Amanda from an undercover
fight ring, we’d all been on edge. But we
needed to get our act together. People out
there were counting on us.
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I slapped my hand on the cold marble.
“Is there a full moon I don’t know about?
Would everybody please just chill and
focus on the end game?”
“Raven’s right,” Jo said, hands on her
hips. It didn’t escape my notice that Jace
was getting focused all right. On Jo’s curves.
I rolled my eyes. Guys. They were so
predictable.
“To answer your question, Raven,”
Bentley said from his perch back behind
his laptop. Thankfully, he’d moved on and
back to business. “According to nasa’s
online Sky Events Calendar, the next full
moon will occur in seven days. There’s
also a blue moon, or two concurrent full
moons in one lunar cycle, set to appear
next month.”
Bentley’s timing, innocently pretending
to answer my clearly rhetorical question,
was perfect. It was hard to resist the smile
pulling at my lips.
“Thank you, Bent.” I noticed Jo and
Jace fighting grins as well.
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j u d i t h g r a v e s
“Anytime. Now, if you could all take
your seats. I’ve got a few potential cases,
but one is time sensitive, and I suggest we
start there.”
Weird how we’d gone from one
random kid contacting Bentley, and us
agreeing to work as a team, to these
meetings. Here was where we evaluated
and deliberated and then selected which
cry for help seemed the most desperate.
The most worthy.
And, frankly, the most fun.
Sometimes revenge really was sweet.
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SEVEN
And sometimes revenge was just plain
boring. Ugh. Stakeouts were the worst.
I’d taken what I thought was going to be
a case I could sink my teeth into, yet here
I was, only a few days in and chomping at
the bit for some real action.
According to Bentley, Jonathan
McNair’s brand-new stepmother, who
was only a few years older than his own
sixteen years of age, was trying to kill him.
She was doing this, Jonathan claimed,
so she could inherit all of his middle-
class, working-stiff father’s fortune.
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Which, Bentley admitted, was pretty
measly. The guy worked at a recycling
plant.
Still, Jonathan was convinced
stepmommy dearest was poisoning
his food. She’d made no secre
t of her
disregard for his love of video games and
cosplay. Said he’d never get a girlfriend
that way, and she wasn’t going to let him
live in their basement until he was thirty-
five. He knew she wanted him out of the
way as soon as possible.
Then he’d started to feel off. He’d
been getting worse every day since she’d
suddenly developed a fixation with
bulking him up. According to our guy,
this was a ploy to get him and his father
out of the kitchen while she prepared
complex meals.
Gone were the days of his father’s
super-garlicky, super-spicy, super-good
spaghetti and meatballs. Now Jonathan
could hardly pronounce the ingredients
his stepmother used in her dishes.
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Jace, our resident boxer and fitness
guru, was familiar with a strict diet, but
even he scarfed down a greasy hamburger
now and then. He’d had no interest in
taking on this case, and Jo was recovering
from her last one.
So here I was, parked across the street
from Jonathan’s place, my wheels for the
evening a black Mazda3 Sport—not flashy
enough to get noticed on the streets of
this neighborhood, but with the guts to
make the risk worthwhile.
Once a car thief, always a car thief.
Besides, I would return it to the
parkade as soon as I was done. I didn’t
steal for keepsies anymore—just
borrowed here and there.
I jogged across the street, careful to
keep to the shadows, and slunk around to
the side entrance. Jonathan had promised
to leave the door unlocked that night.
They’d gone to the movies, a tradition
started by his real mother that he had
insisted his father uphold.
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The handle turned easily. I was kind
of disappointed. I needed to keep my
lock-picking skills at their prime.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Bentley, checking in.
“Yo.” I spoke as I made my way to the
kitchen.
“Yo back,” Bentley said. “Jonathan has
texted me a thousand times wondering if
you’ve found anything yet. Are you in?”
“Yeah.” I began opening cupboards,
looking for a bag of pills or vial of some
toxic liquid. “I’ve got a ton of Tupperware
without lids, your basic canned goods and
the normal spices.”
A pop-down tv was mounted under
one of the cupboards. For kicks, I turned
it on. The laugh track from a sitcom
echoed through the room.
“Is someone there?” Panic laced
Bentley’s voice.
“Nope, just put the boob tube on for a
little mood setting.”
“You’re odd.”
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“Why, thank you.” I opened the pantry.
Blinked in awe at the amount of product
I saw on the middle shelf. “Bent, text
Jonny boy. Ask him what kind of
symptoms he’s been having.”
“You found something?”
“Just do it.” I ended the call, confident
I’d cracked the case. Thank god they
weren’t all this easy or I’d be out of the
retribution gig in a heartbeat.
This wasn’t even challenging. Another
gut-bursting round of laughter from the
tv. I couldn’t get sympathy anywhere.
My phone pulsed.
“His guts have been in knots,”
Bentley said in my ear. “Anything he eats
comes out as liquid. Number one and
number two.”
Ugh. Not a great visual.
“She’s not trying to kill him.” I sighed.
“She’s on a health kick. Looks like she’s
been adding bran to everything. There’s
enough here to unblock a T. rex after an
all-you-can-eat Triceratops buffet.”
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Bentley laughed. “I’m thinking you
went through a dinosaur phase when you
were a kid. I’m right, aren’t I?”
He was, but I’d never admit it. Our
resident hacker already had too much
potential blackmail material on me. “Tell
Jonathan we’re done. He can handle it
from here.”
“It’s a crappy job—” Bentley began.
“But somebody’s got to do it.” I finished
with a laugh of my own.
Then the laughter died in my throat
as a montage clip on the screen drew my
eyes to the mini tv. Photos of a young girl.
And a guy about my age. I moved closer.
He looked familiar. The haggard faces of
two tearful parents filled the screen. What
were they saying? A murder-suicide?
The reporter began filling in the details.
“In a tragic series of events, fifteen-year-old
Cody Fisher ended his life after taking
that of his twelve-year-old sister Emma.
The parents discovered their children
upon arriving home from work…”
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I should have stayed. I should have
made sure Cody was okay. That they’d
followed up properly. This was on me.
All the way.
“Raven? You still there?”
“Bentley,” I choked out. “I need you
to do me a favor. Please.” He must have
heard the desperation in my voice.
“Anything.”
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EIGHT
By the time I pulled up in front of the
East Hastings Community Kitchen to
pick up Jo, Bentley had hacked into my
school’s server and accessed the records
on Kendra and Cody. It was just too weird
that two kids from my school had killed
themselves in the same week.
“Both of them had been sent to the
school counselor, Mrs. Chappet, for help
dealing with test-anxiety issues,” Bentley
informed us during a conference-call
update. “Unfortunately, the electronic
trail ends there. I haven’t been able to
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scare up any other details online, but I’ll
keep digging.”
Jace was on the line too. “If Chappet
is old school, there might be handwritten
files with more information in her office
somewhere.”
It was as good a lead as any.
“Jo and I will look into it,” I said as
Jo approached the car. She opened the
Mazda’s passenger door and climbed
inside.
“You borrowing this one too?” She
glanced around the hatchback’s slick
interior.
“I’ll have it back by morning. Pinky
swear.”
We peeled away from the curb.
Jo volunteered plenty of hours at the
kitchen in exchange for groceries. The guy
who ran the place, Clem, was ex-military
and looked out for Jo and other teens
who just needed someone to give them a
break. Recently, while we were helping Jo
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find Amanda, we’d learned there was a lot
more to Clem than we’d thought. A good
thing—we needed everyone we could get.
“Thanks for this,” I said, keeping my
eyes on the road.
“My pleasure.” Jo lowered the
passenger window and wove her hand
through the rush of air. “We both know
you need me to watch your back.”
“Riiighhht,” I drawled. That wasn’t
why I was dragging her along. I might
not need her assistance to get inside my
school and do some digging around in
filing cabinets. But if I was being honest
with myself, my head was seriously
messed up—I wanted Jo around to keep
me in the here and now.
I was wrecked after not once but
twice failing to help kids who deeply
needed it. When Supersize died,
I’d promised myself I would do whatever
I could, whatever it took, to not feel like
that again. And yet here I was, the same
raw mixture of guilt, regret and rage