Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover (24 page)

"Tell me
everything
,
Ms. Morgan."

"The last time I saw her was
last night."

"Everything."

"At
eight forty-seven p.m. last night we were in town…at the football game," I
admitted, expecting him to shout or at least look confused, but Joe Solomon
isn't one of the best covert operatives in the world for nothing, so he just
nodded and told me to go on. "And we saw Zach."

Maybe
it was my overactive imagination, but I could have sworn that
that
made Mr.
Solomon blink. I thought about the way he and Zach had rendezvoused in the
train tunnel in Philadelphia. A dozen questions sprung to mind, but as badly as
I wanted answers, I wanted Macey back more. So I said, "Do you want it
verbatim?"

He
seemed to appreciate the offer but shook his head. "Not now."

"Zach
and I were talking about the Circle of Cavan—I figured it out, you know. From
the ring and the sword?"

He smiled. "I knew you
would. Go on."

"Macey
overheard us. She didn't know she was related to Gilly. She wanted to know if
that was why she was admitted here. She didn't know about any of it until then,
and so she…ran. It was loud and crowded and I lost her." I couldn't look
at him. "I'm supposed to be a pavement artist, and I lost her."

"It's
what she does, Ms. Morgan." Mr. Solomon's eyes found mine, but there was a
change in him somehow. "Running," he added. "Of course,
technically, her pattern is to do something to get kicked out, but that's not
an option now, so she's taken matters into her own hands. Do you know what I'm
saying, Ms. Morgan?"

But sadly, I didn't.

"Sometimes
people run… to see if you'll come after them."

I've
seen Joe Solomon every school day for more than a year, but I don't think I'll
ever really know him. There are times when he's one of the strongest people
I've ever known, and then there are moments—like that one—when I think he might
be broken, deep down, in a place that will never mend.

And
then just like that, he became my teacher again. "Is anything missing from
your room?"

I
stopped for a second, closed my eyes, and visualized the space. "Her
passport."

"No clothes? No money?"

"She
has fourteen different credit cards and knows all the numbers by heart."

Mr.
Solomon looked as if he wanted to smile, as if he wanted to laugh. "She
also has the most famous face in the country right now, Ms. Morgan," he
told me, not a hint of worry in his voice. "I think we can track her
down." But then he read my expression, and the smile slid from his lips.
"What?"

"Well,"
I said slowly, "remember how we had that disguise class?"

There
wasn't time for yelling. It wasn't the place for mother-daughter lessons in
regret. As our teachers huddled around us, I gave them details of the items
Macey had taken with her. When I finished, my mother shook her head and started
for the phone. Unfortunately, Aunt Abby wasn't as easily distracted.

"I
know what I did," I said before my aunt could utter a word.

"Do
you?" There was something deeper in her eyes. She wasn't just Aunt Abby
then; she was more than Macey's protector; for a split second she was the
woman on the train, but then—just as quickly—that woman was gone. "You
went into town alone and…and now, come Tuesday, we are going to have to produce
Macey McHenry, and if we can't, every agent in the Secret Service and half the
FBI is going to descend upon this mansion, Cameron, and I don't know if even
your mother can keep them out. They're going to pull back carpets and knock
down doors until they track Macey's every step, and in the process, they might
take my head for good measure. And meanwhile, she's—" Abby placed a hand on
her hip, and for the first time, I saw a holster. Like smoke and fire, I knew
that somewhere there was a gun. "She's out there. She's goodness only
knows—"

"New
York!" Buckingham shouted and banged down a phone. "A young woman
matching Macey's description purchased a bus ticket to New York last night. And
someone using one of Macey's mother's business accounts reserved a private jet
to Switzerland."

Abby
looked at me. "Her family has a house there," I said. "It
fits."

Mom
turned to Buckingham. "We have alumni in Switzerland?"

"Of course," was
Buckingham's reply.

"Have
them sit on her until we can get a grab team in place." Professor
Buckingham turned to go, but Mom called after her. "And Patricia, tell
them she's a hard target. Tell them she's one of us."

I
would have given anything for Macey to have heard that. Maybe then she would
have believed me. Maybe then she wouldn't have run away. Maybe then things
would have been very different. But Macey didn't hear, and that was the
problem. She was half a world away. On her own. And one look at my mother's
worried eyes told me that we probably weren't the only ones looking for her.

As
Abby bolted for the door, Bex, Liz, and I rushed after

her.

"When do we leave?" Bex
said.

"We
aren't going anywhere," Abby snapped. Through the windows I could see that
a chopper was already spinning its blades, waiting for her. She rushed toward
the staircase, but then stopped short. "She'll be okay, you know."
For a second, Abby was her old self as she cocked a hip. "Trust me."

I know,
scientifically speaking, that all days have twenty-four hours. One thousand
four hundred and forty minutes. Eighty- six thousand, four hundred seconds. But
even Liz admitted that the days that followed seemed longer, as we stared out
every window we passed, expecting the gates to swing open, to see Aunt Abby and
Macey coming down the lane.

But
the gates stayed closed. The lane stayed empty. And Macey stayed gone.

By
Monday night, a feeling was resurfacing inside of me like a virus that had been
dormant for years, as I thought about when my parents would go away for days or
weeks on end; before the days when I knew my father wasn't coming back at all.
Walking downstairs for supper, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'm really
great at disappearing, but Macey might have been a whole different kind of
gone.

"Oops,
sorry," someone said, just as I looked up to see Tina Walters running up
the stairs. The sign above the Grand Hall told me we were going to be
conversing that night in Portuguese; the aromas that filled the foyer told me
we were having lasagna. But something in the way Tina looked at me told me that
none of the junior class was feeling very hungry.

"You
okay, Cam?" she asked, and I nodded, but for some reason I couldn't move
out of her way.

"Tina,
have you …" I started, then paused because I honestly couldn't quite
believe what I was about to ask. "Have your sources heard anything?"

I
wanted her to tell me that Macey was okay. I would have settled for a crazy
story about a girl matching Macey's description who had been staking out an
ex-KGB hitman in Bucharest. I needed anything but the sight of Tina shaking her
head and saying, "Not a word."

She
smiled sympathetically. "But no news can be good news, right?" she
asked. "Everyone's looking for her."

But
as I looked up into the Hall of History, all I could do was stare at the sword
that still stood gleaming inside its case, a sharp blade cutting through time,
and whisper, "That's what I'm afraid of."

I'm
an expert on hiding. Not to brag, but it's true, and as I sat staring at my
plate that night, something about Macey's disappearance didn't make sense.

"Both disguises," I
said.

"What?" Bex asked,
leaning closer.

"Both
disguises were gone when we went back—the one she wore and the one I
wore."

Then
Bex grinned at me. "You thinking what I'm thinking?" she asked, and
in a flash we were running up the stairs, Liz trailing along behind us.

The
Hall of History was dim. My mother's office door was closed, but I didn't slow
down until Madame Dabney appeared out of nowhere, firmly blocking my path.

"I need to see my mom,"
I blurted.

"Oh,
Cammie dear, I'm afraid your mother isn't here."

"But I need to see
her!"

"Well,
I don't doubt that, but given recent circumstances, the headmistress has gone
to see Senator and Mrs. McHenry to explain why their daughter might be…delayed …
in attending the campaign's watch party tomorrow night. That is, if we get her
back from Switzerland in time at all,"

Madame Dabney added just as Bex
and I lurched forward.

"But
Macey's not in Switzerland!" we blurted at the exact same time.

Madame
Dabney stopped. She turned. "Why do you say this? What do you know?"

"Well…"
Bex and Liz and I glanced at each other. "It's just that she took both
disguises. And you've been looking for her in Switzerland for three days. I
think the reason no one has found her is because she isn't there."

"Cameron,
dear, I understand your concern, but a girl fitting Macey's description took a
private plane to Switzerland—"

"But—"
I started, but Madame Dabney didn't let me finish.

"Her
passport was booked through. She's there, ladies." Madame Dabney patted my
arm. "She's there. And I don't want you to worry. We'll find her."

Walking
upstairs to our suite, I couldn't help but think that either Macey deserved to
be called a Gallagher Girl or she didn't; that she was either good enough or
she wasn't. We couldn't have it both ways, no matter what our faculty seemed to
think.

I
closed the door behind us and looked at Bex. "If you're Macey, what do you
do?" I asked.

"I
stay off the grid, for starters," Bex said, and I nodded. "Credit
cards and passports are amateur hour. I don't care what grade she's technically
in, Macey's no amateur."

Bex
gestured as if to say it was my turn. "If I had the most recognizable face
in the country and two disguises in my possession, no way I'd travel all the
way to Europe without using one of them."

Bex nodded and I looked at Liz,
who shrugged.

"I'm a nerd," she
admitted. "I don't know CoveOps."

"You
know Macey," Bex whispered, and it was maybe the truest thing any one of
us had said in a very long time.

Liz
settled back on her bed. I could see her flipping through the giant database
that is her mind, but the answer wasn't in there—it was in her heart. So
finally she took a deep breath and said, "I guess I'd just want to go
someplace safe."

The
mansion was quiet. I leaned against a drafty window, watching the pieces of
the puzzle float through my mind until I knew they didn't quite fit. I thought
about Liz's words, and the pale, ghostly look on Macey's face as we'd stood in
the too-bright light of a chilly football field. Cool air washed over my arms—I
saw our roommate shiver in the wind. And then … I knew.

"Get
the keys to the Dodge, Liz," I said as I stood and started for my closet.

Bex
was already gearing up—for what, it didn't matter. But Liz studied me.

"Where are we going?"

"To bring our sister
home."

I don't
think any girl in the history of the Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young
Women had ever run away from school before that weekend, but by Tuesday
morning, the total had climbed to four.

While
Liz slept and Bex drove, I sat in the passenger seat of the Dodge, worrying
that we might not find it. After all, at the end of summer, the forest had been
thick with green foliage, weeds, and tall grasses lining the narrow roads. But
by November, the fields were fallow, the trees were bare, and in the pale light
of dawn, the whole world seemed like a mirage, or maybe just like a very good
cover, and I couldn't help but think that, spy skills or not, I had been a girl
with a concussion the last time I'd been there.

Bex
drove slowly down a blacktop road until, finally, I saw a gravel lane no more
substantial than a trail, and said, "Turn here."

"What
is this, some kind of safe house?" Bex asked as we

both squinted through the pale
light and dense woods, and I thought about what our CoveOps teacher had said.

"It
had better
be,"
I
said as
Bex
came to a stop.
"Mr.
Solomon owns
it."

Covert
Operations Report

Operatives
Morgan, Baxter, and Sutton decided to proceed on foot, considering the
property's owner was a highly trained security professional (in addition to
being really, really hot).