The Dead Drop Read online

  Gilda enjoyed testing her profiling skills to see if she could accurately anticipate personalities based on the objects people kept lying around, and Caitlin’s absence gave her a perfect opportunity to get to know a little about her roommate before meeting her in person. Gilda wandered around the living room, noticing that the windowsills displayed an assortment of candid photographs of college-age young people with broad, goofy smiles and arms around one another’s shoulders. Peering at the pictures, Gilda decided that Caitlin must be popular and very social. She has a lot of friends, Gilda thought. For a moment, she imagined returning to school and posting pictures in her locker of herself clowning around with Caitlin’s entourage. I wonder if she’ll introduce me to her friends, or if she’ll think it’s too uncool to hang out with a high school kid.

  Gilda looked at the titles of the books on Caitlin’s shelf and noticed a law school entrance exam workbook and several books with titles like Turbo Dating that appeared to be about finding either a boyfriend or a husband. She was particularly intrigued by a book on handwriting analysis and made a mental note to study it later.

  Gilda peeked into one of the bedrooms and felt pleased when she found an unmade bed, a pile of law school study guides, and a tornado of shoes, socks, panty hose, suit jackets, and skirts that appeared to have been taken off in a great hurry and abandoned exactly where they fell. I wish Mom could see this, Gilda thought. She’d see I’m not the only person who has a messy bedroom.

  Gilda carried her suitcase into the second bedroom and discovered a striking contrast with the rest of the apartment: a bed with a white, lacy bedspread; a cream-colored dresser; a small vanity table with a mirror; and off-white walls that were almost completely bare except for a few tranquil watercolor paintings of Washington, D.C., settings—the National Cathedral, the Washington Monument, the Tidal Basin surrounded by cherry blossoms. It was the sort of room that was both pretty and impersonal enough to be a guest room in a bed-and-breakfast.

  Caitlin’s usual roommate was gone for the summer; Gilda was renting her room at the suggestion of a Spy Museum employee who volunteered to help Gilda find housing. Gilda snooped around the room, trying to get a sense of the absent roommate’s identity. While Caitlin’s belongings were strewn everywhere, yielding obvious clues, this girl had left scarcely a trace of herself behind. There were no incriminating journals, letters, books, or receipts. Aside from the fact that she was clearly very neat, clean, and feminine, the room conveyed little evidence of her personality and interests. I wonder if she and Caitlin get along, Gilda mused.

  Gilda noticed that her bedroom window gave her a clear view into the apartment windows on a parallel wing of the building overlooking a small courtyard. A promising people-watching opportunity! she thought happily. At the moment, however, she couldn’t see anything interesting: the apartments in view were all concealed by closed blinds or curtains.

  Gilda unpacked her suitcase, then carefully placed her manual typewriter on the vanity table. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she noticed that her Jackie Kennedy-style flip hairstyle was drooping after a day of travel and afternoon humidity. She found a comb in her cluttered handbag and energetically backcombed sections of hair, then spritzed the gravity-defying ’do with a cloud of hairspray. “The goal is big hair that doesn’t move in a windstorm,” she had read in an article about “spy chic” of the 1960s. “A minidress, knee-high boots, perfectly molded curls piled high, and dramatically upswept eyeliner and false eyelashes complete your spy look.”

  Gilda had just begun to type a journal entry when she heard a key turning in the apartment door. A moment later, Caitlin Merrill appeared in her bedroom doorway, wearing a slim black pantsuit and carrying a backpack over her shoulder. “Hey!” Her face was shiny with perspiration.

  Caitlin’s expression tensed as she absorbed the visual impression of her new roommate for the summer: a freckle-nosed teenager with a hairsprayed flip—a girl who wore a pink dress and sat typing at a manual typewriter.

  “I’m Gilda.” Gilda stood up and extended a hand to Caitlin in what she hoped was the right gesture to greet her new roommate. “Nice to meet you.”

  Caitlin shook Gilda’s hand and stared at her with boldly inquisitive blue eyes, her long brown lashes layered with mascara—the only makeup she wore. She eyed Gilda’s typewriter. “Do you always travel with a typewriter?”

  Gilda was so used to keeping her typewriter on hand whenever possible, she sometimes forgot that her choice of writing tools seemed odd to other people. “I’m a writer, so I just like to have it with me in case I get any ideas for new projects.”

  “Wouldn’t a laptop be easier to carry when you’re traveling?”

  Gilda knew that Caitlin had a point, but her love for her typewriter had nothing to do with convenience; it was simply the way she preferred to write. “It’s kind of a long story,” she said. “The typewriter was a gift from my dad. Something he owned when he was a kid. I guess I just feel better when it’s around.”

  “Your dad’s a writer, too?”

  “He wanted to be, but it never really worked out for him. He died a few years ago.”

  Caitlin shifted her weight, clearly wishing that she hadn’t brought up the subject of the typewriter. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “I guess the typewriter just makes me feel more creative or something.” Gilda sensed it was best not to tell her new roommate that her typewriter was almost magical to her: it was a machine, but it was also something akin to an invisible friend to whom she confided all of her problems and dreams—a friend who seemed to help her solve mysteries.

  Apparently deciding that it was safe to make herself comfortable in her new roommate’s living quarters, Caitlin walked over to the bed, dropped her shoulder bag on the floor, and flopped down. Supporting her weight on her elbows, she regarded Gilda through narrowed eyes. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Fifteen.” Gilda reasoned that it would be best to keep the details of her cover identity consistent just in case Caitlin talked to any of her new colleagues at the Spy Museum.

  “Fifteen?! When that lady at the Spy Museum said an intern needed an apartment, I didn’t realize they meant a mere child. I guess it’s my job to be your substitute mom this summer.”

  “I’m actually totally independent.” Gilda felt glad she hadn’t told Caitlin she was actually fourteen. “I traveled all over England by myself this year.” Gilda didn’t mention that the trip had actually been chaperoned by Wendy’s piano teacher.

  “Still,” said Caitlin, “I’ll feel responsible. I’m twenty-two years old, Gilda.”

  “Practically old enough to be my grandmother,” Gilda joked.

  “In some circles,” Caitlin added, playing along.

  “Anyway, a lot of people tell me I’m old for my age, so you don’t have to worry about me.” Gilda had also once been told that she acted “young for her age,” but there was no way she was going to tell Caitlin about that.

  Caitlin stood up and peered over Gilda’s shoulder at the journal entry Gilda had been typing. She frowned. “You’re writing a letter to your dad?”

  “Oh, it’s just a story I’m making up.” In truth, Gilda often kept a diary in the form of letters to her dad, but she realized that her new roommate might not understand her penchant for writing to a dead person. Gilda quickly rolled the paper out of the typewriter. She also didn’t want Caitlin to see what she had written about hoping to be included in escapades with Caitlin’s college buddies and the list of famous D.C. ghosts she hoped to investigate, including the ghost of Abraham Lincoln.

  “I’d like to write a book someday.” Caitlin flopped back down on Gilda’s bed. “Maybe I’ll write a comedy about my dating experiences in this city since I graduated from college.”

  “Like what?”

  “Let’s see.” Caitlin counted off examples on her fingers. “Like people who post pictures of themselves on Internet dating sites that don’t reveal the fact that they’re actually
about three hundred pounds heavier and thirty years older in real life. Like guys who tell you they only have ten minutes to meet you for lunch because they have ‘another lunch date’ lined up before they have to get back to work at the Senate office building. Like a guy who actually hired someone to pretend to be his friend and tell the girls standing around the bar how great he is. It’s just crazy around here, Gilda.” Caitlin clearly enjoyed talking about the “crazy” frustrations of her dating life, and Gilda suspected that she was secretly pleased with the experiences.

  I wonder if hanging out with Caitlin is going to require going on dates with three-hundred-pound men who work as staffers in the House and Senate buildings, Gilda wondered. On the positive side, I read in my Spy Savvy handbook that spying is primarily a social skill. I bet Caitlin is in the perfect position to get lots of information when she’s out meeting all those people.

  Caitlin peered into Gilda’s mirror and attempted to reshape her limp, dirty-blond hair with her fingers. “Hey, since I’m home from work so early, what do you say we go grab something to eat and do some sightseeing? You can see the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial and all that touristy stuff on the mall.”

  “Sounds great.”

  Caitlin stared at Gilda’s high-heeled pumps. “Those shoes are cute, but they’re going to hurt your feet.”

  “I’m used to it,” said Gilda.

  “I wish I could dress fancy like you, but I wear sneakers with my suits any chance I get.” Caitlin took off her suit jacket. “I’m just going to throw on a pair of jeans and then we’ll go.”

  Gilda stood up in her high heels and decided that on second thought, it made more sense to change into one of her less interesting “blend-into-the-crowd” tourist disguises. I have a better chance of picking up some secret information on the National Mall if people assume I’m just an ordinary kid from the backwoods of Michigan, she thought. After all, I’m in D.C. now, so you never know what I might overhear.

  3

  The Psychic Spy

  In a secret room inside a Washington, D.C., apartment complex, a man readied himself to steal secrets from a foreign government. He was about to spy on people thousands of miles away from his own location, but to do this, he would use no satellites, telescopes, or secret cameras. He would use only one tool—his mind.

  Barefoot, he reclined on a soft chair. Wires connected several machines to his body to monitor his pulse, brainwaves, and other vital signs. He closed his eyes, preparing himself to receive instructions about his target from his supervisor, who observed and monitored him from a few feet away. His instructions might be coordinates for a specific geographical location or nothing more than a name used to track down a person of interest. On other occasions, he was simply tested to see if he could perceive details of random distant objects without ever seeing or touching them.

  Most often, he was disturbingly accurate.

  His body relaxed and he felt himself become weightless. After floating for a few moments, he felt himself plunging down very quickly into a fine mist, as if he were skydiving through endless clouds. In fact, his body was completely motionless; only his mind moved through space and time in search of his target—in search of secret information.

  Finally, he reached a clear place where he expected to find her—the girl who would help him. The girl always led him to the information he was seeking; she was his most secret source of intelligence—his “trick of the trade.”

  The girl was dead.

  But this time, something was wrong, almost as if some interference from another person’s mind was blocking his own perception. The girl was nowhere to be found.

  Someone else turned up instead.

  The psychic spy was used to seeing frightening visions, but the face that appeared was upsetting in a way he couldn’t understand. It was a woman’s face with dark eyes and bloodstained crimson lips: strangely, the blood had dried in the shape of an asymmetrical red-black star. The face that didn’t belong there; it had no connection to anything he expected to see.

  “I need to stop,” the psychic spy called out to his supervisor—a man sitting across the room who wore a yellow bow tie and took notes steadily. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Keep looking for your target,” his supervisor replied. “You can’t stop now.”

  4

  A D.C. Tour Guide for Math-Camp Shut-Ins

  Dear Wendy,

  Here I am in Washington, D.C.--writing you a letter at 11:00 P.M. in my new apartment! It’s late and I need to get some sleep before my first day of work at the Spy Museum, but I promised you I’d write you on my first day here, so here ‘tis:

  General summary: things are awesome so far. The only thing missing is my best friend (that’s you, in case you’ve forgotten about me already).

  How are things going at math camp? Have you learned to multiply fractions yet? ⇦joke--haha.

  Remember how we were trying to guess what my roommate would be like, and we agreed she sounded “perky” when you listened in on my phone conversation with her? Well, we were right! Except she’s not quite as girlie as we expected. For example, I don’t think she even owns a comb or even any makeup. As we were walking around the city, she kept combing her fingers through her hair, twisting it up in a bun, and trying to keep it in place with a ballpoint pen (which didn’t work). She’s really nice, and I think we’re going to be friends. However, she seems concerned that she’s going to have to be my babysitter all summer.(We know how wrong she is about that!)

  Caitlin took me on a tour of the national monuments today. Since I know you haven’t had a chance to visit D.C. yet, I thought I’d write you a little tour guide to keep in your files for future reference.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.--

  A TOUR GUIDE FOR MATH-CAMP SHUT-INS

  By Gilda Joyce

  THE D.C. METRO SYSTEM:

  The Metro system is the subway system of our nation’s capital. It’s also a great people-watching venue! If you have nothing else planned, just ride the Metro from one side of the city to the other, and you’ll get a sense of who the American people really are.

  In the middle of the afternoon, there are two basic types of people on the train: people wearing shorts and baseball caps, who smile and look out the window as if the train is a fun ride at an amusement park (because they’re on vacation), and people wearing suits, who view the ride as a tedious journey from one point to another. I was dressed like a tourist at that point (and yes, I DID wear the Jackie Kennedy get-up on the plane even though you thought I wouldn’t have the nerve or the stamina!) but I tried to look bored, as if I was on break from my work at the Senate building.

  Here and there, standing out like little islands, you see the true Americans, who look totally different from everyone else.

  PEOPLE-WATCHING HIGHLIGHTS:

  1. Standing next to me was a guy with the body of a sumo wrestler and a tall spiky Mohawk. His arms were covered with tattoos like patterned shirtsleeves. The surprising thing was the way he gazed down at the baby carriage he was pushing, smiling and making gooey faces at an infant dressed in the frilliest pink outfit you’ve ever seen.

  2. A nun in full habit sat on the Metro stitching embroidery, surrounded by mustachioed men wearing security clearance badges and dark suits. It’s unusual enough to see a nun in that get-up in the middle of the summer, but I also got the feeling she was surrounded by a bunch of FBI agents who were planning to arrest her as soon as she stepped off the train.

  HIGHLIGHTS FROM THE NATIONAL MALL:

  First of all, Wendy, the National Mall is NOT a giant shopping mall. (I know; I was disappointed, too.) It’s more like a big open space devoted to monuments of important people and events in American history. It also serves as a running track where portly government employees shuffle their sagging bodies to and fro during their lunch hours.

  The most important thing about the National Mall is the feeling of vast, open space. “We can afford to take up a lot of space,” the
National Mall seems to announce to visitors from foreign lands. “We’ve got plenty of it! And furthermore,” the Mall declares to old ladies tottering from their air-conditioned tour buses, “If you’re too weak to climb all these steps and too squeamish to use a Porta-Potty, you can just turn around and go home right now.”

  THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT:

  If you want to think about big, inspirational ideas (for you that might mean a division problem with a really long remainder), just go sit at the foot of the Washington Monument, which is basically a giant arrow pointing up to the sky. It’s very uplifting, and you also have the feeling that it just might fall over on top of you since it’s so much taller and more important than the antlike people walking around it. (Slight disappointment: Caitlin didn’t want to wait in line to ride the elevator up to the top.)

  THE LINCOLN MEMORIAL:

  The Lincoln Memorial contains a truly giant statue of President Lincoln sitting on a big throne and gazing at the U.S. Capitol building. Something about the sheer giantness of this statue (yes, Wendy, giantness should be a word) and the serious look on his face makes even the most sweaty, hyper kids fall silent when they enter the memorial.

  Did I ever tell you Lincoln is my favorite president from history? Why?, you ask?

  1. Our nation’s tallest president (so far)

  2. Liked the theatre (although getting shot to death while watching a “funny” play is a big price to pay)

  3. Just about the best writer we’ve ever had as a president

  4. Psychic abilities! (Lincoln had a premonition of his own death--a dream in which mourning people gathered around a coffin in the White House. When he asked what was going on, someone said, “The President is dead.” Very spooky.)

  5. Numerous sightings of his ghost by foreign dignitaries visiting the White House

  6. He knew what it’s like to lose a close family member. (Lincoln’s mom died when Lincoln was only nine years old and Willie, Lincoln’s twelve-year-old son, died while Lincoln was serving his term in the White House. Sad!) President Lincoln was thoughtful and sometimes moody--a man of deep thoughts. Not the cheer-leader type!