Agents of the Glass (32 page)

When Andy rejoined Winter, Silas checked the time and then made his way to the concession stand, where he listened at the door before pulling it open and stepping inside.

Behind the counter, the tanks looked the way Andy had described them, except for one important difference: Now
both
tanks were connected. A clear plastic hose, three-quarters of an inch in diameter, was screwed into the top of the tank with the blue stripe and led directly to the soda machine. It was the second tank, though, that worried Silas. For one thing, the stripe painted around it was
red,
not green.

“What the…Didn't he say blue and green?” he wondered aloud. He reached up and turned the valve to open it ever so slightly. A pale green, lethal-looking gas began to creep along the transparent hose, and he quickly shut the valve, turning it until his hand ached.

Silas breathed in deeply and pulled up his wool socks, trying to maintain his own heart rate. It was really happening: NTRP was going after a bunch of kids. Snapping a picture of the hose and nozzle, he allowed himself a smile and sent it to Mrs. Cardigan with this message:
Not today, NTRP.

With the help of his flashlight, he followed the hose, which ran under the counter for about eight feet and then turned downward, straight through the floor and into the basement. Silas had to be absolutely certain that the tank and the hose were exactly what he thought they were, so he got his bearings, measuring the approximate distance from the walls, and quietly slipped down the stairs. The basement was remarkably clean and well lit, and he set out to find the spot directly beneath the concession stand. He shone a flashlight at the ceiling above him. It was too high to reach, so he found a stepladder and climbed it. Poking his head up into the ductwork and conduit, he felt around for that plastic hose until he finally had it between the fingers of his left hand. Without letting go, he reached into his pocket and unfolded the small blade of his Swiss Army knife.

“Try a little to your right,” said a man's voice.

Silas froze, grasping the hose and waiting for the ladder to be kicked out from under him.

“Don't stop now. You're so close,” the man said. “Did you find it? It runs along the electrical conduit and then back up into the auditorium's ventilation system. But then you already knew that, didn't you? Now drop the pocketknife. Nice and easy. No sudden moves.”

Silas dropped the knife, and it clattered against the concrete floor. He cursed himself for allowing himself to be caught so completely off guard. His left hand still held on to the flimsy plastic hose, however, and thinking quickly, he pressed it into the narrow space between two ceiling beams, kinking it and squeezing it shut. Some gas might get through, but the flow would be reduced by ninety percent. Enough, he hoped, to foil NTRP's plan. Then he lowered his head and turned to see who had joined him in the basement.

Naturally, he was dressed in a shark-gray suit that perfectly matched the color of his hair. His gun, pointed at Silas's heart, was the same cold gray.

“Come on down from there,” said St. John de Spere. “That's good. Hands where I can see them. No reason for anyone to get hurt here. Now have a seat over there on the floor, with your back to those pipes.” He placed a hand on Silas's shoulder and gave a gentle push.

Instinctively, Silas recoiled from the touch, moving forward and out of reach.

De Spere laughed. “Oh.
Riiight.
I forgot. You don't like to be touched. Sorry about that. Here, you can put these on yourself.” He tossed a couple of heavy-duty plastic ties to Silas. “Slip those on your wrists and pull them tight. I'm afraid I may have to touch you again.” He used a third tie to strap Silas to a two-inch steel pipe.

“Now, your phone. Where is it?”

“Coat pocket. Right side.”

De Spere reached in and took the phone, examining it carefully before asking, “Password?”

“I forget.”

De Spere laughed aloud. “Fine. We'll talk later. I'll keep this safe for you in the meantime, in case you suddenly remember.”

“You won't get away with this. We know who you are. James Thorneside. Grootman College, Cambridge, class of…Oh, right, you didn't graduate. You were expelled. For conducting unauthorized experiments, which you're
still
doing. The only difference is that instead of laboratory rats, now you're experimenting on human beings.”

“Bravo. Shall I tell you everything I know about you? You might be surprised. You see, I know things about you that even you don't know. To tell you the truth, though, you're quite boring—you and your zebra finches. I even know the reason for your special interest in them. It seems there's no end to your idealism. Your protégé, on the other hand, young Mr. Llewellyn, is another story. Ah, I see that you're surprised that we know about him. That, in a nutshell, is why you pathetic Agents of the Glass will fail. You're constantly underestimating us. Well, that ends today. And good riddance to all that mumbly-jumbly piffle about altruism and compassion. That's all so…twentieth century.”

He strode toward the door, turning back with that coy I-know-something-you-don't smile that infuriated Silas. “Talk to you later,
Roger.
No point in calling out for help—it's like that line from the movie. This place is like space: No one can hear you scream.”

Meanwhile, Andy and Winter continued their reporting of every behind-the-scenes moment they could stick their noses into. Every chance she had, Winter stopped by the concession stand for a soda refill.

“As long as NTRP is paying for it, we might as well take advantage of it,” she said.

Andy stared uncertainly into his cup of root beer, his third. “You didn't say that NTRP was paying for it. You just said one of the sponsors.”

“What difference does it make? Do you really think it matters if two more kids get some free stuff? Those kids who won the contest—they're all getting brand-new tablets, along with bags of cool gear. So drink up.”

A check of his watch told him that it was time to meet Silas backstage. “I, uh, need to, uh, you know…”

“You are
adorable,
” said Winter. “It's okay. You can say you have to go to the bathroom. I understand. As a matter of fact, I need to go, too. Let's take a little break. Meet me in the back of the auditorium in…say, ten minutes.”

He ran to the bathroom and then to the stage, looking for Silas. When he still hadn't shown up five minutes later, Andy sent a text—which, of course, Silas didn't receive because his phone was in St. John de Spere's pocket. Andy had no choice but to contact Mrs. Cardigan, so he sent this text:
Checked in on time, but S didn't show up.

She responded immediately:
Don't worry. He contacted me. Everything is under control.

And then Andy got his first real surprise of the day.

He left through the wings, started up the center aisle of the auditorium, and stopped in his tracks. Standing a few feet inside the swinging doors at the main entrance to the auditorium was Jensen Huntley, wearing, to Andy's surprise, a sweatshirt with the NTRP logo plastered across the front.

“Jensen!”

She turned, her face emotionless. “Oh. Hey, Andy. How are you?”

“How am
I
? Where have you
been
? First I thought you were arrested, then kidnapped, then I hear that you're in California. And now you're here. Wearing…
that.
What is going on?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. All that was…It's
over
now. I just wanna see the concert. You know, I'm actually starting to like Karina Jellyby. I didn't think I'd be able to get in, but your friend Winter…I guess she has some good connections, 'cause she got me this,” she said, holding up a VIP pass.

Andy was seething. “Wait a minute. Nothing is ‘over.' You
hate
NTRP. Do you even know what's happened since the night I saw them dragging you away? Remember Ilene Porter? The woman from the Halestrom Conference? Well, she's
dead.
We found her…right after
you
interviewed her. Even the police don't know that she's…They just think she's missing.”

“
C'est la vie.
Nothing to do with me.”

“Are you kidding me? It has
everything
to do with you. It was
your
story—the library books and the fire at that warehouse where they burned all those books, including
Jane Eyre
! And then you gave me the Porter interview. You clipped the flash drive to Penny's collar. Do you even remember that?”

Jensen continued to look completely uninterested, which aggravated Andy to the point of making him want to take her by the arms and shake her.

“Come on, Jensen! Don't you get it? You were right about NTRP. They're doing things…things I can't tell you about. That Halestrom Conference? They were there. They made it all happen. Your interview with Ilene Porter helped
prove
it.”

“Dude, chill. It didn't prove anything. So what if a bunch of rich people decided to stop giving away their money? Can you blame them? The past few days, I've had a lot of time to think, and you know what? Nothing ever changes. Rich people, poor people. Winners, losers. That's the way it goes. Except that now I get the best seats in the house. I'm in the same section as your dad. That reminds me—did you hear his show this morning? He is
hilarious.
God, you're lucky. My parents are so boring.”

Andy shook his head. “They got to you, didn't they? They brainwashed you, Jensen. How did they do it?”

“Oh, cut the
drama,
Andy. Brainwashing. As if. This isn't some cheesy sci-fi movie, Andy. This is the real world. The same old boring world it was a couple of days ago. And I'm still the same old Jensen.”

But she wasn't, and Andy knew it. He reached for his Lucian Glass to see if she had suddenly sprouted a
lumen,
but Winter was fast approaching, calling his name, so he let it fall back under his shirt.