She tried not to, but she smiled.
“And you’re better at it than both of us,” she said.
V
MOM AND I SPENT the next hour discussing the implications of what I had told her. With her experience, she mentally hunted down what she called “ramifications” like a fox after chickens.
“The phone’s a bit of a problem,” she said. “If these guys are up to something deeply illegal, especially activity that touches on national security, then it’s evidence and our possession of it is a crime-even for a journalist. Withholding information is a crime. We could both end up in jail.”
“But we don’t need the phone or GPS after today.”
“Explain,” she demanded.
“I copied the GPS files onto my laptop and my own GPS before I junked it. Do you have software that will copy the data card in the phone I found?”
“No, but I can get it.”
“Okay. Problem solved. Download the data card onto your computer. I’ll take the phone back where I found it and leave it there.”
I would rather have stuck my hand into a blender than go back to the camp, but I had to persuade her.
“No, that’s too dangerous, especially if you’re right about the machine pistol.”
“Not really,” I argued, not quite honestly. “I can go out there, and if there’s anyone around I’ll take off and try another day. If there isn’t, I’ll replace the phone.” Recalling some of the crime movies I’d seen, I added, “After wiping it clean of prints, of course. And remember, those guys probably don’t even know about the phone. It had been hidden.”
“All this assumes that the GPS belonged to the drowned man, and that the phone was his, too.”
“True. But it’s a solid assumption. Whoever owned the GPS made a lot of visits to the place where the phone was stashed.”
“In any case, I need to have a long gab with Mabel Ayers, a lawyer I’ve worked with in the past. She’s up on all the national security implications for journalists. I may need to protect myself, and you. I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, let me download your pictures, then I’ll erase them from your phone and give it back to you. The mystery phone stays here. Okay?”
“Okay, Mom.”
“And let’s keep this between the two of us for now.”
“The two of us?” I repeated, meaning I shouldn’t even mention it to Dad.
“Yup.”
As I was leaving her study, she called me back.
“Thanks, Garnet,” she said.
When I walked outside I felt like I was floating.
Two
I
I TOOK ONE LOOK out the window the next morning and groaned.
The sun was off somewhere in a sulk. Drizzle seeped from the sullen grey sky and dripped off the limp leaves of trees and bushes. It was the kind of day that made me grumpy and tempted me to crawl back under the blankets.
But I forced myself through my morning rituals. Dad was out somewhere and Mom had been self-exiled behind her office door since yesterday afternoon, researching, writing, making calls, and recording interviews-a good sign that what I thought of as the “paintball gang” story had pushed Herat off her agenda. While I was making toast, she called me into her office.
“I’ve finished with the phone,” she said, nodding to the cell, back in its plastic bag. “I’d like you to take it to your workshop and leave it there.”
“Okay, sure.”
“Do you have a place where you can lock it up?”
“Yeah. Well, I can improvise something.”
“And for the next little while,” she added mysteriously, tucking her hair behind her ear in a transparent effort at nonchalance, “you should leave your laptop there as well, okay? Keep them away from here.”
“Um, sure. What’s this all about?”
“I’ll let you know.”
After breakfast I drove through wet streets toward Raphaella’s house, wondering what-if anything-was waiting for us in the Corbizzi library. I couldn’t shake off a sense of foreboding as gloomy as the sky over my head. I hoped the rain that began to lash the windshield wasn’t an omen.
When she climbed into the van, Raphaella’s forced smile did little to brighten my mood.
“Lovely day,” she muttered, shoving her pack between the seats. “How did things go with your mom?”
I had updated Raphaella on my trip to paintball heaven and shared my plan to tempt Mom with the story.
“So far, so good. I think she’s hooked.”
Raphaella nodded. We drove in silence to Wicklow Point and exchanged a worried glance as the estate gates closed behind us. I parked by the coach house. The grounds looked as if some bad-tempered sprite had crept around during the night, draining the colour from leaves, lake, and grass. Even the flower beds looked bleached. The mansion’s dagger-shaped upper windows reflected the grey light, like blank eyes squinting at nothing. I went inside the shop and put the phone in my toolbox and spun the dial on the combination lock.
Mrs. Stoppini opened the kitchen door to us and I saw my second strained smile of the day. Her haggard features and more-than-customarily pale skin suggested that she had had a rough night.
“Good morning, Miss Skye, Mr. Havelock. You’ll take tea before you begin your day’s work.”
The kitchen was warm and fragrant, a welcome contrast to the outside. I smelled biscuits baking in the oven and there was a stockpot on the stove giving off a savoury aroma. A cup of tea around the kitchen table sounded good to me. Before long Raphaella and I were spreading butter on hot steaming biscuits and sipping strong tea.
“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Stoppini?” I enquired.
The protruding eyes widened. Her teacup clunked into its saucer. “Why do you ask?”
Raphaella’s hand on my knee under the table stopped me from answering.
“It’s just that you look a little tired,” she replied for me. “It must be difficult at times, running a big house like this alone.”
“To tell the truth, Miss Skye, my sleep has not been very restful of late,” she said, dropping her eyes as if she’d just confessed to a crime.
“This weather…” Raphaella suggested.
But our hostess sidestepped the invitation to explain further.
“Indeed” was all she said.
We ate and sipped in silence for a little while, then I got to my feet. “Well, hi-ho, hi-ho,” I said.
“It’s off to work we go,” Raphaella finished.
Mrs. Stoppini looked confused. We collected our packs, thanked Mrs. Stoppini for the tea, and headed for the library. As soon as we turned into the hallway, Raphaella stopped in her tracks. She looked at me, an unasked
