Unravelling

We decided to hit S&E, the science and engineering library at UCSD, because his aunt works here, which means she’ll let us in and she’ll report back to his mom and tell her that we’re studying. And we are, just not anything school related.

“Please tell me it’s something productive and not another outdated copy of Maxim? Just because your mom won’t let you read it, doesn’t mean—”

Alex ignores me and dumps his books onto our table with the rest of them. I try not to be annoyed—though I don’t try too hard. Adding more books to this stack hardly seems to solve our problem. I’ve got everything from the 9/11 Commission Report to a Michael Crichton novel, not that any of it has turned out to be particularly helpful so far. The Crichton novel and a couple of other thrillers are pure fantasy or speculative fiction grounded in paranoia and conspiracy theory. And some of the more scientific bioterrorism books read as a sourcebook or guidebook for how to handle an outbreak. Then there are the true accounts of outbreaks of smallpox in the Soviet Union and Ebola in a Washington, DC, lab.

In other words, nothing even remotely helps me figure out how my John Doe ended up dead of radiation poisoning while he was driving a truck.

“You going to tell me what’s so exciting?” I ask. My phone starts vibrating against the table, but I’m not a hundred percent sure where it is under all these freaking books.

Alex grins before leaning forward and picking up one of the thickest books and thumbing through it. “I was looking through The Handbook of Viral Bioterrorism and Biodefense, and I found this.” He opens the book wide to page 428, where the chapter heading reads “Biological Warfare of the Future: Viral Bioengineering.”

“Right now bioterrorism is based on bacterial agents,” Alex says. “Category A are the worst, like anthrax—they spread easily and quickly, and could lead to a wide-scale outbreak.”

“I know that. Everything we’ve read so far says that.”

“Which is why this book is so cool. It’s speculating what’s next. Viral engineering isn’t that far off. In fact,” he adds, pushing the book toward me, “look right here. It asks whether radiation can be harnessed into a transmissible virus. And it gives a detailed explanation of what geneticists might have to do in order to come up with something that could be engineered.”

He’s still smiling. Which doesn’t make sense, now that we’ve just proven finding information on how to become a bioterrorist isn’t all that hard.

But I’ve seen this look before. It’s the same look Struz and my dad get when they’re close to cracking a case, like they’ve discovered the secrets of the universe. It makes me think Alex is doing the right thing by deviating from his mother’s life plan. He doesn’t want Stanford undergrad and Johns Hopkins medical. He wants West Point and the FBI—like my dad. And the thought of Alex actually working for my dad someday makes me smile.

Then it hits me.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “Maybe we’re coming at this from the wrong angle. Maybe it doesn’t matter how the virus is being spread—someone from the CDC can figure that out. What’s important is the countdown.”

I stand up and push in my chair, stretching my legs. My phone vibrates again, and this time I see that it’s Nick. Again.

“Let’s say, for argument’s sake, someone has managed to engineer a virus. Whether it’s radiation poisoning or not, it’s ugly and it’s going to kill people. So how does picking people off one at a time—what does that have to do with the countdown?”

Alex gasps and sits up straighter. “That’s how they connect!” He looks at me, and I’m tempted to prompt him to tell me, but I know better than to interrupt his train of thought. “The UIED. It’s not a bomb. J, it’s something that will disperse the virus. Make it airborne or make it catch fire.”

A shiver moves between my shoulder blades. “But why would terrorists give the FBI a heads-up like that?”

“Because they’re sociopaths? I don’t know, but it makes sense. If the UIED goes off, the virus goes airborne, maybe it’s some kind of chemical explosion that triggers it. And maybe the FBI got their hands on the UIED earlier than they were supposed to. Or maybe the terrorists want us to know it’s coming. Think of the panic it would incite. And isn’t wrecking our way of life part of the whole terrorism package?”

My phone buzzes again, and this time I pick it up and toss it carefully from hand to hand. “So with that theory, my John Doe and the other victims, they’re test subjects?”

Alex shrugs. “Maybe people who pissed off the terrorist group?”

Somehow I’m not satisfied. This theory doesn’t give me an identity to associate with the guy who died the same day and time that I did on Torrey Pines Road.

“J?” Alex says.

“Hmmm?”

“You think it’s time we tell your dad?”

I’m about to nod. After all, it’s past time we shared our theories with him. It could be totally off, and it could be something someone already thought of. Or it could be right. Or it could fall somewhere in between. Either way he needs to know. But as I’m about to say that, the door to our room slides open and Nick sticks his head in and says, “Tell her dad what?”

Inwardly, I groan. I wouldn’t have told him where I was headed after school if I thought he and his other half were going to show up.

Kevin pops in behind him and pushes the door wider. “You confess your true feelings yet, Trechter?”

“Kevin, shut up,” I say as I focus on Nick. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been looking for you for, like, an hour,” Nick says. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

I gesture to the books. “I’m working?”

Nick picks up one of the books closest to him, and I’m tempted to take it away from him, but that’ll just look more suspicious, and I don’t trust him with this.

“You work too hard, J,” Kevin says. Shocking that he thinks so.

Nick puts the book down and leans against the door. “I know what the problem is. You need to have fun. Come with me to Hines’s place tonight.”

“Alex and I are going to finish studying and then . . .”

Alex knows me well enough to know I’m looking for an excuse, so he jumps in. “We’re going to watch Tron: Legacy.”

Since this is the Lamest Excuse Ever, there’s no way I can stand behind it.

“Um, no we’re not. That movie is only about a tenth as good as its soundtrack.”

Alex just smirks—I will totally get him back for this.

Nick says, “So it looks like you can come with me.”

“It’s Tuesday,” I say, even though I know that to Nick this isn’t an excuse. Especially not this year. His dad used to be strict about where he went—more because of sports than school— but his parents are getting divorced and he and his dad aren’t speaking, which means he’s been doing pretty much whatever he feels like since this summer.

“His parents are out of town until Friday.”

“I can’t,” I say without looking at Nick. Even I’m not immune to how gorgeous he is. I know how easy it is to be charmed by those almond eyes.

“I promise I won’t keep you out late,” he says, holding his hand over his heart. And when I look at him, I can’t help thinking of the first night we talked—really talked—this summer. He’d just found out his dad was having an affair with a girl who graduated from Eastview five years ago, and instead of getting wasted at one of the beach bonfire parties, he was just sitting by himself when I closed up the lifeguard stand and was getting ready to go home. I asked him how he was doing, and everything just poured out. We talked for three hours. About his family and their failings. About how we were afraid of disappointing people the way they disappointed us.

“I promise,” Nick says again. “Scout’s honor.”

“You must have been a horrible Boy Scout.”

“I wasn’t a Boy Scout,” he says, as if he can’t figure out why I would say such a thing.

“Seriously. I already have an essay to write, three chapters of history to read, a shitload of physics and calc problems, plus Spanish review.” I gesture to the mound of books all over the table, even though they have nothing to do with anything I’ve just rattled off.

He pouts. “You deserve a rest from taking care of everybody. A night of fun before diving back into the books. You didn’t get to come to the bonfire.”

Not that I’m disappointed about the bonfire, but I do work too hard.

“Just an hour,” I say, wondering when my willpower decided to go on vacation—and when it will be back.

“Of course.” Nick laughs. “I’ll have you home before eleven.”

“Let me pack up here,” I say. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

After Kevin and Nick leave, I look at Alex. He jams his books back into his backpack. “Maybe you should trade those crappy vintage T-shirts and ripped jeans for short skirts and tank tops. You can start hanging out with Brooke, too.”

“You’re the one who ruined tonight with a lame excuse. I wanted to do something else, and you came up with a movie that only has a plot in the first thirty minutes?”

“It’s got great visual effects,” Alex says as he goes back to shoving his stuff into his backpack, and I grab the couple of books I do want to take home with me.

“Wait,” I say, reaching out to grab Alex’s shoulder. “Did you call my Great Gatsby T-shirt crappy? I fucking love this shirt.”

“Fine. Abandon me so I have to hang out with my mother,” Alex says, but he’s smiling again. Which is all I really needed to see.

An hour and forty-five minutes is my threshold—and of course he’s so drunk he can’t stand up without leaning on me for support. I try to take his keys but give up on those after he bellows at me that he’s “just fine to drive, woman.”

I get yelled at enough by my mother—someone I’m obligated to love. I don’t need it from some shithead who slams two beers and then lets his friends pressure him into doing five shots of tequila in the span of an hour.

Plus, what the hell am I going to do with his keys anyway? Unlike 18 percent of my graduating class, I’m planning to not have a DUI on my record when I graduate. And since my license is already suspended because of the stupid seizure, driving really isn’t an option anyway.

I should have left a half hour ago when Cecily’s sister picked her up and offered me a ride, but I was still under the delusion that Nick would have an ounce of reliability. Now the problem, of course, is that Alex is asleep—not that his mom would let him out this late anyway—my mother lost her driving privileges ages ago, and Jared is too young. Both my dad’s cells have gone straight to voice mail for the past half hour. And no one else is sober or worth asking for a ride. I even glanced around for Reid Suitor, since he played baseball his freshman and sophomore years and I’ve seen him around this crowd before. Not that I’d really want a ride from him.

I suck it up, walk out to the front porch, and call Struz.

“J-baby!” he says with his usual enthusiasm, even though he’s whispering. “Whatever you need, it’s gotta be quick. We’re on something big tonight.”

“I’ve got a code twenty-one,” I say. My dad thought the whole FBI thing might hurt my social life when I was in junior high, so he and Struz came up with a bunch of numbered codes so I could call him from a friend’s house without people thinking I was some kind of snitch. He thought it’d be hard to explain to a bunch of teenagers that counterintelligence doesn’t really care about underage drinking.

Right this instant, though, I wouldn’t have stopped them from coming over here and busting up this party.

“Shit.” I hear rustling over the phone for a second. “Where are you?”

I give Struz the address, and he promises to send a junior agent or an analyst to come get me, then he’s got to run. I want to grill him about what they’re doing, but I know enough—and I respect them and their jobs enough—to let him go.

“You call for a ride?”

I turn to see Kevin in a wife beater, baggy jeans, and a sideways baseball hat. He looks ridiculous.

“What of it?”

Instead of spouting off some nonsense like I expect, he smiles and thrusts his hands into his pockets. “I’ll make Nick crash here if he doesn’t pass out.”

“Whatever, I don’t care.” Though that’s hardly true.

“I’ve had a lot of practice at ganking his keys,” Kevin says, and collapses into a porch chair. “I’d offer you a ride home, but . . .” He holds up a mostly empty bottle of beer.

“It’s fine.”

Kevin nods, and we sit in silence as the minutes tick by.

The cul-de-sac is quiet—most of the other houses have their lights off already, and not a single car turns onto the street, despite all the vibes I’m sending out into the atmosphere, hoping for headlights to appear. A breeze picks up, rustling through my hair, and I pull my hoodie over my head and fold my arms across my chest.

“It’s cool that you came tonight,” Kevin says suddenly, and I wonder why he even cares. “I know my man Nick fucked up and you didn’t have a good time or anything, but it’s cool that you came.”

“I’ll probably opt to stay home next time.”

“I don’t blame you. Some nights I’d rather just stay home and read.”

I turn to face Kevin. Other than the idiotic hat, the dirty wife beater, and the jeans that are belted around his thighs, he looks perfectly serious. But I know what this is. An act, a play, because this is Kevin and he’s like that.

Before he realizes what I’m doing, I snap a picture of him— beer in hand—with my cell. “If you try to hit on me again, I’ll show this to Coach Stinson and he’ll have you running stadium steps until baseball starts this spring,” I say, because Nick once confessed their baseball coach was a stickler about drinking. And because I’m like that.

But Kevin doesn’t get pissed off or nervous. He just takes another sip of his beer. “Touché, Tenner. Touché.” A word I didn’t even think was in his vocabulary.

Apparently this month is full of surprises. No one is as dumb as I thought they were.

“I’ll make sure Nick doesn’t drive,” he says again. I look back in time to see him raise his beer bottle in a salute.

“Thanks,” I say, even though I’ve pretty much decided I don’t want Nick Matherson to be my responsibility—no matter how pretty he is or how many great late-night talks we had sitting on the beach. I just don’t have the time or the patience.

The TrailBlazer stops at the edge of the Hineses’ driveway, and even though I knew it wouldn’t be Struz, I’m still disappointed when I see a dark brown head and a scruffy layer of facial hair. He’s an agent I don’t know, and he’s on his cell, not paying any attention to me when I open the door and slide into the passenger seat.

“—and now I’m stuck playing babysitter. This is ridiculous.” Nothing makes you feel uncomfortable quite like when you first meet someone who’s not just talking, but complaining, about you. “Yeah, well, next time we’re switching positions on this. I’m not playing this angle again.”

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