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  Alex’s mouth drops open. “ You really think that’s what’s going on?”

  “What else could it be?” Pankaj asks with another shrug.

  “I don’t know . . . I think you’re partly right,” Alex says, staring off into space. “But I think the mall shooting was totally unrelated. I mean, this is America. Shootings in malls and office parks happen all the time. Give people easy access to guns, and that’s what you get: a personal vendetta becomes a bloodbath,” he says with disdain. “But bombing a college library is a different story. A college library is a symbolic target. You take out a nation’s best and brightest, you’re a hero to whatever screwed-up group with a screwed-up agenda you’re trying to impress.”

  I have to admit I’m as surprised by Alex’s idea as he was by Pankaj’s. “ You think the library has nothing to do with my uncle?” I ask him.

  “Random and reasonless except in the mind of the angry zealot behind it.”

  Chaos theory, I think.

  “There’s tons of online chatter about it.” Alex quickly types something into his laptop then turns it around for us to see. We slide off our stools and gather around him.

  At the top of the Poison Control homepage is the image of an X-rayed fish. In the fish’s belly is a man, swallowed whole, who appears to be struggling to get free. Beneath the picture is the site’s slogan: “ Your Antidote to the Mainstream Media.” Tabs to news on 9/11, Osama bin Laden’s “burial,” the Boston Marathon bombing, and vaccines are on the left side of the screen.

  Mara leans in first, her eyes darting across the screen. “What is this?”

  “It’s a conspiracy website,” Alex replies. “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I started doing some poking around online. Here.” He scrolls down the home page until we see an image of Amory Gate with the caption Henley University Library Bombing: Information Warfare. “Whoever writes for Poison Control specifically blames the ‘New World Order’ for planting the bomb.”

  “What’s the New World Order?” I ask. “This is some sort of joke, right?”

  Alex shakes his head. “Apparently it’s a repressive group of elites that seeks to rule the world.” He opens another window and pulls up Reddit. On that site, theories abound about which terror organization did it and why. “I almost feel bad for the National Counterterrorism Center,” Alex says, “because they have to look at all this stuff and then sort out claims of responsibility.”

  “ You think there will be multiple claims of responsibility?” I ask.

  “Oh yeah, of course.” He nods. “When a bomb goes off, loads of groups come forward so they can get the glory.”

  “That’s sick.”

  Alex tries to smile but can’t. “‘Sick’ is a euphemism for what it is.”

  “So how do they figure out who really did it?” Mara asks.

  “Well, they start by examining the signature of the explosive device—determining if it contains dynamite, C-4, fertilizer, or other high-grade explosives—and then based on the signature, they compare it to the group’s previous activities.”

  “ You know a lot about this,” Pankaj remarks.

  “Like I told you, I was a Boy Scout,” Alex says. “I got merit badges in chemistry and crime prevention.” Mustering a grin, he adds, “Also Indian lore and wood carving, which is why I’m never without my trusty knife.” He flashes the three-finger Boy Scout salute. “Be prepared!” He sighs, and the grin fades.

  As I stare at the conspiracy site and think about Alex’s words, it occurs to me that if perpetrators leave evidence behind at the crime scene, fingerprints are probably on their advance work as well. I reach into my pocket and retrieve the box of microfilm I’ve been carrying with me since I was last in the library. “I took this because I thought it would show that my uncle was trying to help people with his work. But now I’m thinking it might give us clues about who his enemies might be.”

  “Interesting,” Alex says, sliding off his stool. “ Yeah, let’s go find out.”

  “I bet you they have microfilm readers in the Elliot Center,” Mara adds. “That’s where the Film Department is.”

  At the word “film,” I remember something else: we need to get back to the CVS to pick up the pictures my new friend Zander was developing.

  “The Elliot Center,” Pankaj repeats, touching his midsection. “There’s a CVS near there, right? I need to stop in there to get some more Band-Aids.”

  I don’t need to hear his voice in my head to know we’re on the same page. “I’ll go with you . . . I need tampons,” I add, to quash any suspicion.

  “Okay,” Mara says impatiently, heading toward the door. “Alex and I will head over and try to find one of the microfilm machines.”

  “Great, we’ll meet you in the Elliot Center in twenty minutes,” I say.

  Before I enter my PIN into the CVS ATM, I scan my surroundings even more carefully than usual. But the pall over Henley has been cast over the entire town, and it’s quiet here in the store too. There are very few other customers.

  The machine spits out cash, and Pankaj and I head toward the photo center. Zander sees us approaching, nods slyly, and reaches under the counter.

  “Didn’t know if you guys were going to come with all the crazy stuff going on,” he says.

  “ Yeah, well.” I shrug, not wanting to get into it.

  “Pretty disturbing stuff.” He slides the envelope of pictures across the counter. “Fifty.”

  “Let’s ring these up,” I say, placing Pankaj’s box of adhesive bandages on the counter. “I’ll pay for the whole thing in cash.”

  “Good call.” He rings up the bandages on the cash register and then places everything in a white plastic bag. “So that comes to $7.89 with tax.”

  I hand him three twenties. “Keep the change.”

  We head straight for the Elliot Center, occasionally glancing around to see if anyone’s following us. But it isn’t until we arrive at the building that we’re stopped. Two guards sit behind a white folding table just beyond the door.

  “Open your bag,” one tells me after he pats me down.

  I glance at Pankaj, who gives a slight nod; we have nothing to fear from the rent-a-cops. They’re only here to make sure we’re not terrorists ourselves. So I open the plastic CVS bag, and the guard peers inside before letting us pass.

  Pankaj points to the end of the hallway.

  “Right here in the open,” he suggests when we get there, sliding down the wall to sit directly below the eye of the building’s security cameras.

  Once I’m seated next to him, I take the pictures out of the bag. The first photo is of a motel sign: the manor inn welcomes you! The next is a shot of the motel itself: one of those prefab, cookie-cutter buildings, the kind that look like the person who designed them had the artistic skills of a second grader.

  “Did I just pay fifty bucks to have my uncle’s vacation pictures developed?”

  “I don’t think so,” Pankaj replies, pointing to the next photo.

  My breath catches in my throat. It’s a picture of a dead girl—a child, maybe five years old. There’s a hideous gash on the side of her head and neck. Her lips are violet blue. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “ You don’t think this is real, do you? I mean . . .” I don’t even know what I mean.

  Pankaj takes the picture out of my hands and scrutinizes it. “It doesn’t look fake.”

  I shake my head and start shuffling through the rest of the photos. None of them are in a motel; most are in a classroom of some sort, but it’s not a warm and welcoming school. There are no construction-paper letters or inspirational posters taped to the walls, no displays of student artwork. It’s clinical, antiseptic . . . like our lab. The rest of the photos are mostly candid shots. Almost all feature a naughty-looking blond boy, smiling from ear to ear as he punches, pushes, or trips other children.

 
“Damn,” Pankaj says, “what is up with that kid? He looks like he’s possessed.”

  “What about her?” The very last photo is of a little South Asian girl wearing a frilly pink dress. She stands apart from the other children, who seem spooked. “Looks like a tough little cookie.”

  Pankaj gives a short laugh. “She reminds me of my older sister at that age. That I managed to survive Nisha’s reign of terror is a minor miracle. You know it’s funny, this girl even looks like her—or maybe it’s just the crazy in the eyes.”

  That’s when it hits me. The answer’s so clear. “Pankaj, this is Figg’s camp for the kids with behavioral issues . . . That is your sister.”

  “What?” Pankaj seizes the photo. “No, it can’t—”

  “ You both spent time here, right?” I interrupt.

  “Uh, no.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “I was not a camper in a program for screwed-up kids.”

  I wag my finger. “ You weren’t in the group for the ‘behaviorally challenged’ children. But you were a camper here. You were in the group with Mara and me.”

  “Kass, I think I would remember being in a camp with you and Mara.”

  “I don’t remember you being there either. But Uncle Brian told me you were.”

  Pankaj’s head shakes in disbelief as he continues to stare at the picture. “I mean, yeah, this does look a lot like Nisha. I guess it’s possible she was here. But why would I have no memory of me being here?” He turns to me again, and his amber eyes reveal his vulnerability.

  “Because memory is slippery,” I say, repeating what Uncle Brian told me. “Especially when trauma’s involved.”

  Pankaj hesitates. “Kass, if you know something, tell me,” he pleads.

  “I don’t.” I shake my head, adamant. “I don’t know anything, I swear.”

  But he and I both know these pictures are clues to the answers we seek.

  His phone pings with a text from Mara: on 2nd floor.

  “Come on, we need to find Mara and Alex,” he says after a moment. Let’s keep this to ourselves, he adds silently, though he didn’t have to. It’s understood.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  We race up the stairs to find Alex and Mara sitting side by side against a closed door.

  “No microfilm readers,” Mara says as she hops to her feet. “But the good news is that we found a screening room. Unfortunately,” she twists the doorknob, “it’s locked.”

  Alex stands and claps his hand on my shoulder. “But there are advantages to having sketchy friends, aren’t there?” He gives me a wink.

  No use trying to argue; he’s right. I glance back toward the stairwell. Though there were security guards and even some students milling around on the ground floor, the second floor seems deserted. I quickly pull my keys out of my pocket and insert the tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole, jiggling the rake in the top of the lock. When I feel the pins drop, I twist the knob, and the door swings open on a darkened room.

  I turn back to the others. “Okay, my job here is done. Now which one of you can thread this weird old film through a movie projector?”

  “Me.” Mara holds out her hand. “I can.”

  I’m doubtful, but I shove my keys back into one pocket and pull the microfilm from another. “All yours.”

  She takes the film from my hand and vanishes into the shadows.

  Alex follows, flicking on the lights. Pankaj and I exchange a wary glance and creep in after them, shutting the door behind us. The room is smaller than I expected, strewn with folding chairs and with a large screen at the far end. Several projectors, everything from a multimedia LCD to a Super 8mm film projector, sit on a table near the door.

  “One of these should do the trick,” Mara says, perusing the devices. She settles on the one that looks oldest to me and feeds the film through it. She pushes various levers until we hear a locking sound. “Good,” she says, flipping on the projector’s light. Images blink across the screen.

  “Nice!” Pankaj exclaims, sounding relieved something’s gone right.

  Alex flicks off the lights.

  But a moment later the picture turns back to black. The spinning wheel makes a slapping sound as the tail of the film smacks the metal reel.

  “Sorry, my bad for jinxing it,” Pankaj mutters.

  “I just need to find a way to slow it down,” Mara says, mostly to herself. After a few minutes of tinkering, she looks up. “It’ll be herky-jerky, but this should do it.”

  Images flash in front of our eyes: nondescript buildings, shot from various perspectives. It looks a lot like Google Street View. I can’t fathom why someone thought these places were important enough to catalog.

  “They’re targets,” Alex says, answering my unasked question.

  “What makes you say that?” I ask.

  “Because if I were planning an attack, this is exactly the type of information I’d want too.”

  None of us have an answer for that, but we all nod.

  Next, there’s a flowchart of hierarchy for the Counterintelligence Center Latin America team. I lean forward in my chair. Deputy Director Ellen Rios is at the top. Graham Pinberg, Brian Black, and Christopher Figg are below: “Analysts.” Next to Graham Pinberg’s name is a small x along with a hand-scribbled note reading Resigned 10/13/83. There’s nothing surprising or illuminating in this, and I slump back in my chair until the next document comes up:

  My eyes go directly to the cause of death box. Though I wouldn’t know how to state the “cause” of death when someone’s blown to bits, I’m pretty sure it should be considered anything but “natural.”

  I look to Pankaj, but his eyes are fixed on the screen as he scans the next document, a letter to Christopher Figg confirming his appointment to the position of Deputy Director of Latin American Operations. The one that follows is an interdepartmental memo stamped confidential.

  Due to BB’s erratic behavior the Agency can no longer consider him a trusted asset and recommends his ouster. The committee proposes two potential courses of action:

  1. Burn notice

  2. Neutralize

  Pursuant to the nature of these operations, sign-off is required from MKJ. We respectfully urge immediate action, whichever course is chosen.

  Pankaj whistles. “They don’t kid around.”

  “I don’t understand what that means,” Mara says from behind the projector.

  “A burn notice is something an intelligence agency issues to discredit an agent or informant,” Pankaj replies, flinching as he glances over his shoulder because of the pain in his side. “I knew all those hours I spent watching TV detective shows would come in handy one day . . . Anyway, a burn notice means a person has become unreliable. Maybe they’ve flipped allegiances or gone bonkers or whatever. So from burn notice forward, all the other agents are literally supposed to trash or ‘burn’ any information the person provides.”

  “And neutralizing an agent means offing him.” Alex illustrates with a finger slash across his throat. When I start shaking my head, he looks at me with surprise. “Seriously, Kass, that’s what it means. Trust me.”

  “No, Alex, I’m sure you’re right about that. I mean this doesn’t make sense.” I point to the memo. “After Ellen Rios was killed by ‘natural causes,’ Chris Figg took over her position, and Uncle Brian got booted from the Agency for acting crazy.”

  “ Yeah.” Pankaj rubs the bottom of his chin. “And that all kind of makes sense given what happened, doesn’t it?”

  “No, it doesn’t. Here’s why: If my uncle was really considered such a loose cannon that he could no longer be trusted by the CIA, why would Chris Figg, who had just been promoted within the organization, choose to run a camp with him here?”

  Nobody has an answer. I glance around the room; Alex shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair. “Th
ey were friends. Maybe Figg felt bad for him. Or maybe he, personally, never lost faith in Professor Black? Maybe Figg knew once he’d recovered he’d start working on something groundbreaking.”

  “Well, then he was right about that,” I mumble.

  Mara straightens. “What do you mean?” she asks. “Do you know something, Kass?”

  I wonder if she already knows what I know. But at this point, we have to share any information we have, redundant or not. “He’s working on a drug that will boost visions. A drug to get his ESP back.” Again, I scan the room and try to get a read on the others; again, I find them inscrutable.

  Alex lets his chair fall forward, and it hits the floor with a bang. “ You know what? I’m going to retract my earlier hypothesis about the library just being a symbol for a terrorist. The drug is obviously the motive. That’s why all of this stuff is happening.”

  “But if that’s the case, why not just bomb the lab?” Pankaj asks.

  “Think about it: the stuff in this archive is history.” Alex’s face is somber. “The drug is the future. Literally, it’s about seeing the future. So if I wanted to scare Professor Black, I’d start by annihilating his history to show him how easily I can erase any legacy he hopes to leave.”

  Alex’s theory makes a sick kind of sense. But agreeing with it doesn’t provide any solace. It just fills me with rage.

  “So Dan died because somebody wants to scare my uncle?”

  “Is Professor Black scared?” Alex asks me.

  I nod.

  “Then the plan worked.”

  As we leave the Elliot Center, Mara suggests we go back to her dorm room “to see what the cards have to say.” I don’t know that any of us wants a reading, but I’m certain none of us want to be alone.

  Mara’s room is pretty much what I imagined: tchotchke and candle filled, with a dream catcher tacked above her bed and a batik dragon on the wall.