39 Clues _ Cahills vs. Vespers [03] The Dead of Night (2 page)

“Honestly, you
stood
there while they took the boy away?” asked Ian Kabra.

Amy shrank into the hotel room sofa. She felt numb. On Dan’s laptop, Ian’s features were exaggerated, his eyes wide and accusing. Behind him was the gleaming high-tech Cahill headquarters in Attleboro, Massachusetts, which Amy had designed. Once upon a time, Ian’s dark, dreamy eyes had made her melt inside. The angle of his head, the wrinkle in the left corner of his lip — they’d obsessed her. And he’d been obsessed right back.

Now all Amy wanted to do was throw her shoe at the screen. She hated him. She hated his tone of voice.

She hated that he was right.

Reagan Holt, Ted Starling, Natalie Kabra, Phoenix Wizard, Alistair Oh, Fiske Cahill, and Nellie Gomez — seven people she cared about were festering in a jail cell. And now Atticus was gone.

What kind of family leader lets those kinds of things happen?

“Yeah, that’s exactly what they did,” Jake Rosenbloom blurted out, pacing the floor. “Nothing!”

“It’s my fault.” Amy glanced at her brother, who was curled up on the sofa in the fetal position. “Just me. Not Dan. I should have seen this coming.”

On the screen, Sinead Starling elbowed Ian aside. Her red hair was pulled back with a rubber band, her delicate features taut with urgency. “I’ve alerted every Cahill in the area, our contacts at the Prague police, the Czech embassy, airports, limo services, every bakery from Pilsen to Hradec Králové. Nothing yet. I’m thinking the Wyomings used a private jet. Short flight, no conspicuous-looking fuel drain.”

“They told me not to call the police!” Jake fumed, as if Sinead hadn’t said a word. “Then they shoved me into a cab and took me here! Some family you have — thieves
and
cowards.”

Amy bit her lip. She wished she
could
have called the authorities. But she and Dan were wanted for stealing a world-famous Caravaggio painting called the “Medusa,” at the demand of Vesper One. Jake himself had turned them in to Interpol. Police were the last people they could afford to see now.

“Coming to us was the right thing to do,” Sinead said. “We’ll find him. We have the resources.”

“What if you can’t find him?”
Dan’s outburst startled them all. He looked up from his smartphone, his eyes streaked with tears. On his screen was an image of a skinny kid with dreads and a goofball smile. Atticus.

Amy ached for her brother. It hadn’t been easy for Dan to make friends after the Clue hunt. He’d survived a collapsing cave, been helicoptered to the top of Mount Everest, become trapped in an Egyptian tomb, watched a man die in Jamaican quicksand, and been entrusted with a complex five-hundred-year-old formula. What other kid could relate to that?

Atticus could. He was the only one who really “got” Dan.

“I jinxed him . . .” Dan murmured. “It
is
my fault.”

Jake’s breath caught in his throat. He let out an explosive moan, more animal than human. A sound impossible to hear without becoming physically ill.

Amy knew what it felt like to fear for your own brother’s life. She had been lucky. Dan was alive.

And she felt guilty she hadn’t shown Jake the text message Dan had received from Vesper One:

You had Il Milione all this time. You really shouldn’t keep secrets from me. Your punishment this time: A Guardian goes down.

Despite all her training, she’d been caught totally unaware.
Because she and Dan had been making a drop, and drops were always safe.

I should have been watching Atticus like a hawk. How could I have been so stupid?

As much as she’d wanted to tell Jake about the note, she couldn’t. Jake was a powder keg. He hated the Cahills and he’d betrayed Dan and Amy once. If he did it again, it meant jail time. Which meant death to the hostages.

And no hope for Atticus.

“This is about that Guardian nonsense, isn’t it?” Jake said, nearly spitting his words. “Atticus’s grandmother guarded some ancient map, which you guys stole from the library. My stepmother must have guarded something, too. Tell me, what was it? And what was Att supposed to be guarding?”

Amy replied with the truth. “We d-d-don’t know,” she said, fighting back the stammer that kicked in whenever she was bottoming out.

“And neither does he,” Jake said. “So whatever this secret unknown thing is, it must be . . . unguarded. Am I right?”

Amy shook her head helplessly. “M-maybe.”

“So whoever wants it wouldn’t want the Guardian to find out about it,” Jake barreled on, his voice rising in fury. “Because then he would go and guard it. So these Vespers . . . it would be in their interest to . . . to kill . . .”

Logic. Stupid, cold, awful, cruel logic. Stop it!

“They’re lying!” Dan blurted out, his words sounding hollow and desperate. “That’s what they do best. They said they would kill a hostage, too. But they didn’t.”

“They shot someone in the shoulder,” Jake said. “That’s close enough!”

Amy winced at the memory of the hideous footage of Nellie Gomez, their onetime au pair and now legal guardian, writhing bloody in the hostages’ secret location.

Sinead’s voice blared from the laptop. “Our operatives found a suspected Vesper command center in Legnica, Poland. Former Tomas territory. We’ve got the place under surveillance. Atticus could be there. So could the hostages.”

Jake turned and bolted for the door. “I’m out of here. I will find my brother if it kills me. And if it does, I will take you all down with me.”

Amy raced after him. “Jake, you can’t!”

“’Sup, Attleboro-o-o-o?” came a loud stadium cheer from the monitor. Despite the fact that the image was mostly cap, sunglasses, chains, and radiant smile, there was no mistaking the face of world-famous rap artist Jonah Wizard. “Yo, my homeys, listen up — okay, my boy Hamburger and me? We’re waiting here in Roma so long I’m afraid my cover is going to stop working. Do you know how hard it is to hide from fans in a country where my sales are through the roof?”

Jake paused for a moment, startled. He turned briefly to the screen, giving Amy just enough time to dart between him and the door.

On-screen, someone was bumping Jonah from the side.

Despite his muscle-packed, two-hundred-pound physique, Hamilton Holt had a hard time jostling Jonah for screen time. “Sorry, dude, but it’s grub time and I’m wasting away. What Jonah means to say is, we were supposed to meet Erasmus, but he didn’t show up.”

“You guys are related to Jonah Wizard?” Jake asked, his lip curled disdainfully.

“And the other guy,” Dan grumbled. “Vin Diesel’s stunt double.”

Jonah pushed his way into view again. “Yo, also? My man, Mac and Cheese? He didn’t show up, either.”

“He means McIntyre,” Hamilton clarified. “Is this a lawyer thing, to miss meetings?”

“That’s not like him,” Sinead replied. “Or Erasmus.”

“Did you say
McIntyre
?” Jake said. “As in
William
McIntyre?”

“You know him?” Jonah asked. “Skinny guy, a little dusty, nose like a screwdriver, kind of boring?”

“Yeah, I know him,” Jake replied. “He’s my dad’s lawyer. And he’s tough. Anything happens to Atticus, I will get him to sue you blind.”

Amy took a deep breath. McIntyre was their confidant and friend, the man who set the hunt for the 39 Clues in motion. He had been there in the background, watching over them, like the eyes and ears of their late grandmother Grace. Painfully formal, he was the last person in the world who’d appreciate being called Mac and Cheese.

He was also the last person who would ever sue Dan and Amy.

“Sit, Jake,” she said firmly. “This is more complicated than you think.”

Dan shut the bedroom door quietly behind him. No more noise.

Enough of Jake’s anger. Enough thinking about what happened to Atticus. One more moment and he would split apart.

He needed hope. Now.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked his most recent text:

Suspend judgment. The whole story is always more complex than its parts. Wait.

AJT

The words made his blood race. The sight of those initials: AJT. The initials of his long-dead father. Arthur Josiah Trent.

Dan had only known him by the stories Amy told. By a blurry face in a tattered photograph he’d lost in the Paris Métro. AJT had died in a fire nine years ago. A fire that consumed his house and both of Dan’s parents.

When this message came in, Amy had scoffed.
It could be anyone
. Which was logical.

But life was not ruled by logic. If the 39 Clues had taught Dan one thing, that was it. Sometimes good was bad, sometimes dead was alive.

Dan poised his thumbs over the keypad. There were so many questions he could ask to prove the ID.

Then, if AJT did prove to be real, Dan could ask him . . . well, everything. Whether Erasmus’s tale was true — that Dad had been recruited by the Vespers as a young man. That Dad had renounced them, married Mom, and become a Cahill. He could find out how Dad had miraculously survived the fire.

But Dan’s thumbs were frozen. The truth terrified him. Either way.

If AJT wasn’t his dad, hope would be completely lost. Somehow, if you didn’t know the truth, the possibility stayed alive.

But if he
was
, how could Dan adjust to his father coming back to life? Could he forgive the lack of contact? What kind of man would let his own son think he was dead for nine years?

And how could Dan deal with a father who was a Vesper?

Suspend judgment. . . .

Dan’s eyes filled with tears. Images raced through his mind — helicopter blades cutting the cable of the gondola in Zermatt. The sight of Nellie, bloody and pale. The boat chase that had nearly killed them on Lake Como, and the halon gas in the library in Prague.

“Suspend judgment for what?” he murmured under his breath. “For nearly allowing your own kids to die?”

No. He couldn’t complete this circuit.

He tossed the phone into a corner. It bounced harmlessly on the rug. That was exactly how he felt — harmless. Powerless. Tiny. Confused.

He was tired of being the helpless kid. The victim. The chased. The lackey for a voiceless Vesper. When would it stop? Why could they never be on top — why was it that
he
never scared anyone?

It doesn’t have to be this way. . . .

Numbers and symbols spilled from his memory — a complex set of ingredients and precise formulas. It was the life’s work of their ancestor, Gideon Cahill. A formula thought to have been destroyed in 1507, discovered in a cave in Ireland, and now known only by Dan. It granted superhuman abilities. Strength to overcome any attack. Speed to move great distances. Intelligence to outthink an army.

With it, every decision was clear. Every enemy was doomed.

Every mystery yielded to utter clarity.

Cheyenne and Casper Wyoming wouldn’t stand a chance. The mystery of AJT would be resolved.

Dan wouldn’t wonder if he had a father. He would know. He would know whether he was the one thing he wanted to be, more than anything else.

A son.

A son to the most detestable man in the world
.

Twenty-six more ingredients. That’s what he needed. He had thirteen of the difficult ones already — myrrh from a Chinese herbalist, iron solute and a solution containing tungsten ions from a machine shop, amber from a jeweler, iodine from a pharmacy, and a bunch of stuff from various chemical suppliers: mercury, liquid gold, zinc, magnesium, phosphorus, sulfur, calcium carbonate, and soluble silver in the form of silver nitrate. Some of the others, like water, clover, salt, and cocoa, would be easy.

“Dan, what are you doing?” Amy’s voice suddenly called from the doorway.

Dan jumped. “Come on in, the door’s open, thanks for knocking.”

“I wanted to talk about Jake,” she said softly.

“Oh, great,” Dan grumbled. “Mr. Congeniality.”

“He’s so angry all the time. I can’t bring myself to show him the text from . . .” Amy’s eyes locked on the phone, resting on the carpet. Its screen glowed with the text from AJT. She sighed.

Dan scowled. “Here comes the lecture.”

She sat on the floor next to him. “Dan, Dad was a Cahill. Through and through. Even if he wasn’t born one. I wish you could remember his eyes. When you were little, he’d hold you up to everyone and say —”