Spy Ski School (18 page)

And then I'd wipe out again.

I got back up every time, though. By the time I finally made it back to the base of the mountain, I was a significantly better skier than I'd been when I'd gone up. I was also a significantly colder, wetter, and more exhausted skier. I staggered into the ski rental to store my equipment for the night, wanting only to get back to the motel, take a hot shower, and crawl into bed.

Erica had other plans, though. She ambushed me the moment I exited the ski storage area and said, “Come with me. I need your help.”

“Doing what?”

“What do you think? Investigating.”

“I thought you might need to meet up with Mike today.”

“This is much more important. I texted him to say I had a headache.”

We walked through the wide pedestrian concourses of Lionshead Village, which were almost empty. The snow had chased everyone inside—except for a few kids who had come out to have snowball fights. Erica led me away from the Arabelle into an area devoted to shopping. Strangely, every store seemed to sell either ski equipment or T-shirts, as though there were nothing else to buy in the entire world.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To get some answers. Speaking of which, was Mike any help?”

“I think so.” For now I decided to leave out the part where Mike had figured out I was a spy. “He said that if I wanted to win Jessica back over, you need to pretend as though you really like me in front of her.”

Erica gave me a sidelong glance. “I'll bet.”

“He did. I swear. He says that once Jessica sees that
you
like me, that will make
her
interested in me again.”

“If Jessica doesn't like you now, why would she like you more once she realizes that I'm interested in you?”

“Because she
did
like me before. But then she liked Mike. Only Mike liked
you
instead of her. Which is why she doesn't like you. So now, if she thinks you like me, she'll want to make me like her again to get even with you for making Mike like you instead of her.”

Erica shook her head, dumbstruck. “The mind of a teenage girl is the most complicated thing I've ever encountered. And I know how to defuse a nuclear bomb.”

“
You're
a teenage girl,” I pointed out.

“So I've heard. Here we are.” Erica stopped in a small public square and pointed to a doorway wedged between two ski equipment shops. The name on the door said Epic Heli-Skiing. Erica yanked me toward it.

I dug my heels in. Or at least, I tried to. The ground was slippery with new snow, and Erica ended up dragging me across the pavement. “Hold on,” I said. “This is the company Leo Shang used.”

“Yes.”

“So you want to find out where he went in the helicopter yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Well, don't you think we ought to have a plan first?”

“I
do
have a plan.”

“Is it a plan where you create a diversion by knocking me over or shoving me down a flight of stairs or something else painful like that while you break in and hack the computer?”

“Yes.”

“That's a lousy plan.”

“No, it's not. It works all the time.”

“I mean it's lousy for
me
,” I said. “Isn't there some sort of diversion that doesn't involve me getting hurt?”

Erica sighed like I was being unreasonable. “Fine. But I'm going to need you to cry.”

“Why?”

“I need you to pretend that you're a lost and scared kid, and while they're diverted with that, I'll hack the computers.”

This didn't sound much better than the previous plan. “Um, Erica . . . I'm not six years old. I'm thirteen.”

“Yeah, but you can act younger. And a crying kid is a crying kid. Now, can you fake tears—or do you need me to hurt you?”

“I can fake them!” I said quickly. Erica was the school expert at producing pain. Before I could protest any more, she'd yanked me through the door into Epic Heli-Skiing.

Even though heli-skiing was expensive, it didn't look like much money had been spent on decorating the offices. A long, dingy hallway led between the ski shops toward a room tucked behind them. The walls had ancient wood paneling,
the floor was cement—and though there were lots of framed photos of people going heli-skiing, they were all dusty and hanging askew. I could hear a male voice on the phone at the far end of the hall, selling the experience. “Dude, you don't even have to come here. We'll pick you up at your hotel and take you right to the helipad.”

“Start crying,” Erica whispered to me, in a way that indicated she'd make me cry if I didn't obey her.

I did my best, sniffling quietly.

Erica frowned, unimpressed. “I need
major
crying. Like a kid who's lost and frightened. Not a kid who just bit his lip.”

I gave it another shot, bawling loudly.

The guy on the phone in the office paused in midsentence. “Uh . . . Hold on,” he said.

Erica morphed from her normal, cold self into a surprisingly concerned persona. “That's all right,” she cooed in a soothing tone. “We'll find your parents, I promise. I'm sure someone here can help us.”

We entered the main office. If anything, it was less impressive than the entry hall had been. Apparently, most clients never visited the offices of Epic Heli-Skiing. Most of the room was used for storage. The walls were lined with high-performance skis and boots, as well as some high-tech black vests that looked like something commandos would wear. In the middle of it all was a single desk piled high with
medical release forms. A guy who looked like he'd barely graduated from high school sat at it, the phone cupped to his ear, gaping at us as if he wasn't used to seeing people there. He wore an official Epic Heli-Skiing parka with a name patch that said
SLEDGE
. There was a vacancy in his gaze that indicated he wasn't the brains of the operation. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Something wrong?”

Erica gave me a hard stare, indicating it was time for me to start playing my role. “I lost my mommy!” I bawled.

“I found him wandering by the gondola,” Erica told Sledge, speaking as though she were fifteen years older than me, rather than merely two and a half. “I'd have called his mom myself, but the battery on my phone died.”

“Aw, man, that stinks,” Sledge said. “I hate when my phone dies.”

It was evident that Sledge found Erica attractive and that he was far more interested in trying to connect with her than he was in trying to help me.

“Could we use
your
phone?” Erica asked.

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Sledge returned his attention to his call and said, “Can I ring you back in a few? Thanks.” Then he hung up and started to hand the phone to Erica, although he got distracted by her beauty. “So . . . how long are you in town for?”

I was forced to kick things up a notch to get him back on
track. I started crying even harder, making a scene. “I want my mommy! I want my mommy!”

Sledge turned back to me, making a show of being cool for Erica. “Don't worry, little dude,” he said. “We'll find her. How old are you?”

“Nine,” I said, hoping that wasn't too much of a lie.

Apparently, it was. “Nine?” Sledge asked. “You look pretty old for nine.”

“He obviously has some sort of gland problem,” Erica whispered to him. “Don't rub it in. He's upset enough as it is.”

“Oh,” Sledge said, worried he'd just made an awful mistake.

“Do you know your mom's phone number?” Erica asked me. Behind Sledge's back, she nodded, indicating what my answer should be.

“Uh-huh.” I sniffed. And then I rattled off a phone number I knew wouldn't be answered by a person. One of the perks of being extremely gifted in math is that I never forget a phone number. Like the information line for the Smithsonian's National Air and Space Museum.

Erica took the phone from Sledge, dialed it, and let it ring until the automated voice came on. She allowed Sledge to overhear just a second of this—enough to recognize it was a recorded message, rather than a human being—then hung up. “She's not answering,” Erica told me.

“Oh no!” I cried. And then I pretended like I was on the
verge of completely freaking out, whimpering and hyperventilating.

Sledge stepped away from me warily, as though I might explode. “What's wrong with him?”

“He's panicking,” Erica said. “We need to calm him down. Can you get him a glass of water or something?”

“Uh . . . There's no bathroom here,” Sledge said. “We have to use the public one by the gondola.”

I saw my opening and went for it. “I think I'm gonna throw up,” I wailed.

“No!” Sledge yelped, far more worried about me puking in his office than he had been about me being lost. “I don't want to clean that up! Can you hold it?”

I slapped my hands to my lips and bulged my cheeks out, as though I were trying to hold the vomit inside at that very moment.

Sledge leapt into action, grabbing me by the arm and racing me back down the hallway. “Keep it in! Keep it in!” he ordered, close to panic himself.

We barged back outside. Rather than lead me to the bathroom, Sledge aimed me directly for a decorative planter. In the summer, it probably held flowers, but now it only had a few inches of snow piled up in it. “There you go,” he told me. “Puke away.” Then he quickly backpedaled away from me, like he was allergic to vomit.

He gave me plenty of room and was desperately trying to look anywhere but at me, so I figured he'd never notice if I actually threw up or not. I bent over the planter and pretended to barf, nice and loud for him. “Bleeeeeeaaaarrrrghhhhh.”

“Are you done?” Sledge asked hopefully.

I shook my head no, wanting to buy Erica as much time as possible. I stayed hunched over the planter, clutching my stomach. Then I waited, letting the seconds tick by.

Eventually, Sledge edged a little closer to me. “You sure that wasn't it?”

“Bleeeeeeaaaarrrrghhhhh!” I gagged, pretending to throw up again.

Sledge scrambled away from me once more. A few passing tourists did the same, giving me a wide berth.

I waited some more, giving Erica more time, until I sensed Sledge nearing once again.

I added a third fake vomit. A nice long one. “Bleeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaarrrrrggghhhhhhhhh!” And then I steadied myself against the planter, trembling like I was ill.

“Are you okay?” Sledge asked, finally sounding worried about me.

“I could really use some water,” I gasped.

“Right. Okay. I'll go get you some.” Sledge seemed thrilled to have a reason to get away from me and the pile of
theoretical vomit I was creating. “I'll be back in a bit!” He raced off toward the public bathroom.

The moment he had disappeared around the corner, I ducked back inside Epic Heli-Skiing. Erica was bent over the computer, quickly dragging files to a flash drive.

“Sledge went to get me some water,” I told her. “It ought to take him a minute or two.”

“Don't need it. I'm done.” Erica plucked the flash drive out of the computer, stuck it in her pocket, and blew past me, heading for the door. “They didn't have any security at all on this computer. Not even a password. It was so easy to crack, even
you
could have done it.”

I let this dig slide and dropped in behind her as we emerged back outside. “What'd you get?”

“The logs for the past few days of helicopter skiing. So I could see exactly where Leo Shang went.” Erica sniffed the air, then looked at me curiously. “I don't smell any vomit,” she said. “Didn't you vomit?”

“Nope. I faked it.”

“You did a heck of a job. I could hear you all the way inside. It sounded like you were puking up your own intestines.”

“Thanks.” Erica didn't compliment me much. I was willing to take whatever I could get.

She led me across the public square, in the opposite
direction Sledge had gone, and we slipped into yet another ski equipment store, where we hunkered down between some racks of winter jackets. Erica pulled a small computer from her pocket. I'd seen her father use a similar one once before; it looked like an amped-up mobile phone. Erica jacked the flash drive into it and brought up the data she'd swiped. It appeared as several long columns of numbers, each with a time next to it.

I smiled. I wasn't particularly good with most spy things, like fighting or shooting. But I was great with numbers. “Those are coordinates?”

“Exactly.” Erica unzipped her parka, revealing that she was now wearing one of the high-tech black vests from Epic Heli-Skiing. “This is a backcountry skiing vest. It has built-in GPS tracking.”

“You stole that!” I said, a little too loudly.

“I commandeered it,” Erica corrected. “It's evidence. When heli-skiers go into the backcountry, there's serious avalanche danger. This vest has some built-in protection against those, but should all that fail and someone end up buried, the GPS will lead rescuers to them. When Epic Heli-Skiing is out there, their clients wear these at all times—and they always have the GPS on.” She pointed to the columns of coordinates. The numbers changed slightly every few seconds, though only by a fraction of a decimal point. “As you can see,
the GPS is incredibly accurate, pinpointing the location of each skier down to the inch throughout the entire day.”

Out the window, I saw Sledge returning with a cup of water for me. He paused in the public square where he'd left me and looked around. He seemed quite relieved I was no longer there for him to deal with. Then he drank the water himself and headed back into the office.

Erica pointed to the last column of coordinates. “Now, the helicopter also has a GPS unit, so if it crashes, rescuers can find it. This is the data from a heli-skiing trip five days ago, and you can see that the coordinates from the helicopter match those of the skiers when the skiers are in the helicopter, but differ when the skiers are actually skiing.”