Chapter 38
Braedon can’t hide his surprise. His facade of anger melts away and his curiosity takes over. Curiosity and astonishment that his tactic worked and gratitude for his father’s forthcomingness. “What is it?”
“Can you keep a secret, Brae?” says Clay.
“Yeah,” says Braedon.
“Because if I tell you this, you have to promise you won’t tell anyone else.
And I mean anyone. Not Daniel. Not Emily.
Not Sue or Carol. Not Deb. Not Teddy. Not your mother if you get in contact with her.
Not the school counselor. And when you go talk to a therapist, you can’t even tell them.
The only person you can talk to about it, other than me, is Grandpa Judd.
And that’s because he already knows. But no one else. Can you make that promise?”
Braedon nods, his eyes big and open and inquisitive.
“It’s a matter of safety for you and safety for me.”
“I promise, Dad. Really. I swear I won’t tell anyone.”
“Okay. I believe you.”
Braedon smiles for the first time since Clay came into his room.
“When I was playing professional soccer in Europe and when I was a coach over there, I was also working for the United States government as an intelligence agent.”
Braedon’s smile fades. His eyes get even bigger and he says, “You mean you were a spy?”
“Yes,” says Clay. “Not like James Bond or anything. I mostly just went out to bars and restaurants in whatever city I was playing in and listened to people talking, hoping to pick up information from diplomats and the people who make and sell weapons. Once in a while, I delivered a hand-written message. Or maybe I put it in a dead letter box.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a place or a thing where spies leave messages for each other. Like under a rock in a park or in the toilet tank of a bathroom.”
“Cool.”
“Yep,” says Clay, “spies have been using them for hundreds of years. Still a good method.”
“Are you still a spy?” says Braedon.
“That’s a good question,” says Clay. “I’m not working as a spy now—there’s not a whole lot to spy on in Riverwood—but I am still in contact with my superiors in Washington. They may want me to work for them at some point in the future. But not anytime soon.”
“Why not?”
“Because in Europe I was working undercover. No one knew I was a spy. Not my teammates or coaches. No one knew except for the United States government. Then my cover was blown by a double agent.”
“Is that a traitor?” says Braedon.
“Yes. Someone who says they’re a spy for one country but they’re really spying for the other country.
And once my cover was blown, I couldn’t do it anymore, plus it was dangerous for me to stay in Europe.
And it was dangerous for you, too. That’s one of the reasons we moved back here so fast. Didn’t even wait for your school year to end—just took off and begged them to let you finish the year remotely.
And everyone thinks I’m doing such a nice thing, turning down offers to coach in Europe or MLS so I can give back to my high school soccer team, but it’s a little more complicated than that. ” Clay shifts in his seat. “Questions?”
Braedon thinks for ten seconds and says, “Did you ever shoot anyone?”
“I never did,” says Clay. “Not when I was in the army and not when I was working in intelligence.”
“Did anyone ever try to hurt you?” says Braedon.
“Only once. When my cover was blown. I was lucky to get out of there without being seriously injured. That experience is what helped convince me it was time to get out of Europe.”
“But you said we could visit.”
“We can. And we will. But we can’t go for at least a year or two. I need to lay low for a while.”
Braedon thinks again. It’s not easy. His head is spinning from Clay’s admission of wrongdoing and this new information about being a spy. But he manages to formulate a question. “Are we safe now? Is there any chance they can find us?”
“We’re safe, Braedon. When a spy leaves the game—that’s what we call it sometimes—or the theater of espionage—they’re usually left alone. The other side may or may not know I’m here in Riverwood—but they know I can’t do any damage from here.”
Braedon says nothing. He feels his father’s hand on his shoulder, and tilts his head to rest it there.
“You and me, Brae, we have to stick together. So let’s keep the communication open between us. Even if you think I won’t like something, you can tell me. And I’ll do the same and tell you.” There’s a knock on the door. Clay says, “Come in.”
The door opens just a fraction and Zoey’s head pops in. “Need you ASAP.” There is nothing light in her tone or her expression.
Clay knows that look, and his heart sinks. He drops his head into his hand and says, “If you want to know what’s going on, Brae, come out to the kitchen with me.”
The color has drained from Judd’s face. That’s the first thing Clay notices when he enters the kitchen. Braedon notices, too, and without thinking takes a step back and leans against the refrigerator door. It feels safer a few steps away because something’s wrong. Something is very wrong.
Zoey takes her seat at the kitchen table next to Judd and says, “I just got a call from Thomas Becker.” She looks at Clay and then Braedon and then back to Clay.
“Thomas told me he has nightmares every night. He said he thinks he’s having these nightmares because when they found Teddy’s things, they also found Teddy. ”
“What?” says Braedon, unable to prevent the word from escaping his mouth.
Clay looks back at his son and says, “Let’s just listen, Braedon.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Not unless that would make you more comfortable,” says Clay. “Your choice.”
Braedon knows what his father is doing. Treating him more like a grown-up after having lied by omission because he thought Braedon was too young. Braedon isn’t sure if he likes his new status. “I’m okay,” he manages.
Clay looks at Judd, who is focused on Zoey. Stoic. Tight-mouthed. Breathing slow and steady.
“Thomas thinks,” says Zoey, “that when they found Teddy, he wasn’t breathing.”
Judd shakes with restraint. Like he’s using both feet in the car, pressing one down on the gas and the other on the brake.
Zoey continues. “Thomas said he wants his nightmares to stop. He hopes that telling me the truth will make them go away. But I don’t know what to believe because all three boys, in our separate interrogations, said Teddy wasn’t there when they found his belongings.
” She looks at Clay. “I suggest we drop in on each house unannounced and press them on their story.”
Something clicks in Clay’s head. It’s a vision.
Nothing supernatural or clairvoyant or anything like that.
It’s from his imagination, the greatest gift an investigator can possess.
And for the first time since Teddy disappeared, he thinks he might know what happened to his uncle. At least part of the story.
“Yeah,” says Clay. “I think we should do that right away. Dad?”
Judd nods and says nothing.