Bridget Wilder #3 Page 5

  Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t I mention I NOW HAVE X-RAY GLASSES! The geniuses at the Forties’ Research and Development department made them for me. I can see through wood, stone, and steel. You can surround yourself with solid concrete, but you can’t hide from Bridget Wilder. Well . . . that’s not entirely accurate. You actually can hide from me any time other than the SIX SECONDS the glasses are active. After that, it takes them another eight hours to recharge.

  That’s probably why the Research and Development guys were so happy to let me have them. But six seconds is better than no seconds. So, while my little scared friend squeezes my hand and attempts to stay calm, I allow a little time to elapse. By my estimation, T-shirt will have been examined by the dental hygienist. I see the receptionist dart a quizzical look my way so I engage in conversation with my weepy companion for a few moments. Then I let my finger stray back to the leg of my glasses.

  The white wall behind the receptionist melts away. I see straight through the small hallway that connects the reception desk and the exam room. I see Dr. Klee, a thin spindly guy with slicked-back hair. There’s no dental assistant with him. T-shirt’s eyes are closed and his mouth hangs open. Dr. Klee isn’t examining him. The dentist is leaning over him, beaming a thin metal flashlight into his eyes, and talking to him.

  The white reception walls reappear, barring my view. I let out a moan of frustration.

  “Are you scared?” gasps the girl by my side who I’d completely forgotten about.

  I jump to my feet. The girl gets up with me. “You’ll be fine,” I say, shaking her off. “It hardly hurts at all.”

  I hurry out of the dentist’s office, trying to make sense of what I just witnessed.

  My phone has access to the Forties’ massive bulging criminal archive. I search for Dr. Klee. Nothing. I take a screenshot of his photo from his office website and download it to the archive’s facial recognition technology.

  By the time it makes a match, I have already walked home, watched three clips of Rose Murphy, a squeaky-voiced singer from the twenties recommended to me by YouTube because of my Ruth Etting love, eaten a sandwich, and—worst of all—been wounded by a message from Adam Pacific. “Have fun at school today?” it said. Attached to the message was a picture of Pacific lounging in a dressing room with Cadzo, Lim, and Beano! Did I mention I hate him? Luckily, my phone distracted me from the Pacific injustice by making a ding sound to tell me the information I needed had been found.

  The dentist in Reindeer Crescent Medical Center may call himself Martin Klee, but that’s not the name on the criminal records the archive dug up. When he lived in Florida five years ago, he was known as Wyngarde Nacht, Insect Activist!

  That is correct: our local dentist used to devote his life to protecting ants, worms, caterpillars, beetles, flies, and every other creepy-crawly you never think twice about stepping on. Except in Wyngarde Nacht’s mind, that made you no different than a murderer. Our dentist used to break into supermarkets and destroy their stock of bug repellent. His home was filled with beehives, ant colonies, and spiderwebs the size of curtains. He was eventually arrested for repeatedly harassing a Florida politician for not doing enough to protect insects. Wyngarde Nacht was a drooling, babbling nutcase who, at one point, went out in public wearing a beard of live bees. Dr. Martin Klee is something else. But what? And what is T-shirt doing making repeated visits to his office?

  Luckily, I’m still grounded, so I have plenty of time to sit in my room and think through all the possible angles of this strange situation. I fixate on the image of Klee/Nacht on my phone and wonder what’s going on in his bizarre insect-infested mind.

  “What’s happening with the T-shirt investigation?” says Joanna, pushing my closed door open and making herself at home in my room, as she does most nights. I go to click the image of the dentist from my phone. But then I stop. If Nola Milligan hadn’t talked to me, I would never have found out about the dentist’s former identity. It gets lonely keeping all this stuff to yourself. Maybe Joanna will see T-shirt in a new light if I tell her everything. Maybe she’ll stop idealizing him and realize he’s just as flawed as the rest of us.

  I have to be careful, though. New Joanna has feelings now. Sensitivities. She has a heart, and that heart can be broken. I have to baby-step her through the truth about T-shirt. I reach for a box of tissues as I talk, just in case I have to deal with a tsunami of tears.

  “That’s his type? Nola Milligan?” are her first words after I’ve told her the strange story of my trip to the dentist. “So over him.”

  Oh. Okay then.

  “But that thing he said when Ebola Milligan murdered the fly, ‘All life is precious.’ Do you think the crazy dentist has been converting T-shirt to the cause of insect activism?”

  I . . . would have made that connection eventually. I’m a little put out that Joanna made it instantly.

  “What’s the plan?” she says, sitting on the end of my bed, her face all eager.

  “My plan,” I reply, emphasizing the my part, “is to find out from T-shirt what Klee’s been filling his head with.”

  “Right, but what if he doesn’t know?” argues Joanna. “What if . . .” She gnaws on a fingernail, working the problem around in her head. “What if he’s under the power of suggestion? What if there’s something lodged in his subconscious. Like, the dentist told him to go free a bunch of bees from their beehives or something?”

  I struggle to keep up with her. “And he doesn’t know it until someone coughs three times or says ‘submarine’ or something equally random?”

  “Maybe.” She nods.

  Can I admit to being a little bit jealous here? Spying is my thing. New Joanna shouldn’t be that good at it. Or maybe I’m just bad? Maybe I really am a gimmick like Adam Pacific said. God, seeing that picture of him with Cadzo and the boys really dented my self-confidence.

  “We need to get back into the dentist’s office,” says Joanna. “And I know how.”

  She sticks half of her hand into her mouth.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Ah ja be a mu” is what I think she says.

  Then a thin sliver of blood trickles down her chin.

  “Ack!” I exclaim.

  Joanna pulls her hand out of her mouth, and clutched between thumb and forefinger is her last baby tooth. She points to my phone and says something that sounds like Make an appointment for me. She gives me an excited nod, while blood continues to dribble out of her mouth.

  I look at Joanna in disbelief.

  “Have some tissues,” I say, passing her a handful from the box I brought to mop up her heartbroken tears.

  T-shirt. Nola Milligan. Dr. Klee. New Joanna. No one’s exactly who they seem to be anymore.

  What’s going on?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Spider Man

  “You’re a smart young person,” says Dr. Klee. “The first lady is visiting your school today, but you chose to come here rather than waste your morning on phony promises and hot air, which means I can give your cavities the attention they deserve.”

  Joanna was fizzing over with excitement about her big plan to uncover the truth about Dr. Klee. So much so that on the way to the dentist’s office she began spontaneously singing a theme song dedicated to the mission.

  “Here come the spy twins on another adventure, here come the spy twins coming to your town.”

  Her catchy chorus runs through my head as I sit back in the dentist’s chair with a bib around my neck staring up at the spindly Dr. Klee. Yes, even though Joanna yanked out her own baby tooth with her own hand, I couldn’t put her in the path of potential danger. Instead, I’ve put myself in the path of unexpected dental work. (Luckily, Dr. Klee offers free consultations for first-time patients.) But I have a plan, and Joanna’s out in the reception area, ready to put her part of the plan into operation should things go hinky on my end.

  Before Dr. Klee can start stabbing and scraping inside my mouth, I raise a hand to scratch my nose,
at the same time giving him a clear view of the spider tattoo that temporarily occupies the back of my hand.

  “You know, that’s the St. Andrews cross spider,” announces Dr. Klee. “Indigenous to Australia.”

  “So called because of the cross he forms in the center of his web,” I retort knowledgably. “His distinguishing feature is his yellow-and-brown-striped abdomen.” (Exchanging spider trivia was a private little joke between me and D——— T————. I’m sure he and Ur5ula have their own secret jokes. Not that I care.)

  The expression on Klee’s face is somewhere between surprised and suspicious.

  “Ah, we have a young arachnologist in our midst,” he says, testing me.

  “I wouldn’t say I’m a spider expert,” I volley back. “Not when there’s so many other species out there.”

  Klee’s big eyes and droopy mouth turn sorrowful. “Unfortunately, there are less and less. Our bees are facing extinction, and that’s just the start. The leaf beetle. The stone fly! They’re vanishing before our eyes, and no one seems to care.”

  “I care,” I pipe up, though, honestly, I’d never heard of the stone fly until Klee brought it up, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to survive its sad loss. “If enough of us raise our voices, we can still save insects in peril.”

  Klee gives me a sad smile. “To the people in power, we don’t matter any more than the black-backed meadow ant.” His face darkens. “But they might not feel that way when something happens to one of their own.”

  “One of their own what?” I ask.

  “Enough talk,” says Klee. “Let’s take a look in there.” I open my mouth. He holds up a penlight and moves it toward my open mouth. As soon as the thin metal flashlight gets close, I involuntarily shut my mouth.

  “Don’t be scared,” says Klee in a low, smooth voice. “Eeeverything’s fiiine. Nooothing to worry about. Truuust me. Thaaat’s riiight.”

  The drone of his voice causes my fear to fade. I open my mouth. He pushes the flashlight toward me and moves it slowly in a semicircle. “You’re doing greeeaaat,” he intones. “Niiice and wiiide for me. Gooood girl.”

  The exam room seems to get hotter. The chair vibrates ever so slightly. I feel myself start to drift away. It’s like I’m not in Klee’s office anymore. I’m floating in warm blue water, the sun caressing my face.

  “Concentrate on the sound of my voice. Nothing but my voice. Save the insects by any means necessary. Just my voice, Bridget. That’s gooood.”

  And then, like a shark causing the calm sea to ripple, I hear Joanna in my head: What if he’s under the power of suggestion? What if there’s something lodged in his subconscious?

  My eyes spring open. That’s what Klee’s doing to me! He’s planting a suggestion, just like he must have done with T-shirt.

  “Clooose your eeeyyyes. Let yourself floooaaat away.”

  What does he want with me? What suggestion is he trying to implant into my subconscious mind? Did he say something about saving the insects by any means necessary? I not only open my eyes, I touch my X-ray glasses. I have six brief seconds to search Klee’s exam room for clues. The room turns transparent. I see dental records, scary metal instruments, and, on the top of a medical cabinet shelf, I see a row of plastic vials. Each one contains a winged insect. There’s a space in the middle. One vial is missing. My six seconds come to an end. The exam room returns to normal.

  “Alllmooost done,” Klee purrs. “A feeewww moments more.”

  My mind unclouds. Fresh thoughts pour in. T-shirt’s frequent visits. One missing insect. “They might not feel that way when something happens to one of their own.”

  I shoot out an arm and grab for the nearest dental instrument lying in the metal tray at the side of the chair. As I shove it into Klee’s face, I see that I’m clutching my old enemy, the Waterpik. I spray it in his open mouth. He starts gurgling and choking. Now you know how I feel!

  I give him another spray in the eyes, and then, faster than lightning, I jump up on the dentist’s chair, kick out, and slam my foot into the still-choking Klee’s shoulder. He staggers backward, falling onto a footstool. I rush at him, holding the Waterpik out at his soaking face.

  “What did you tell T-shirt to do?”

  “HEEELP!” Klee starts to screech.

  From outside the exam room, I hear far louder screams. The other spy twin, Joanna Conquest, has just swung into action. By action, I mean that she pretended to sneeze and, at the same time, bit into a packet of ketchup, to give the impression that blood is pouring from her mouth, thus distracting the dental staff from responding to Klee’s cries for help.

  “Marlon Moats!” I yell over the dentist’s screams. “You planted a suggestion in his head.”

  “HEEELLLPPP MEEE!!!” Klee continues to screech.

  I run to the medical cabinet, wrench the door open, and reach up to the top shelf. I grab a plastic vial with what looks like a wasp inside it.

  “Don’t touch that!” Klee gasps.

  I start to unscrew the top.

  “No,” begs Klee. “It’s not ready.”

  “For what?” I snarl, brandishing the Waterpik and the insect vial in his wet, twitchy face. “Tell me everything, Klee. Or should I say Nacht?”

  He shrinks at the mention of his real name.

  “It’s a common household fly implanted with the stinger of a tarantula hawk wasp. It’s been kept unconscious until the body accepts its new part, and then I’ll get one of my army to use it as a weapon.”

  I stare at him in horror. No wonder people are scared to visit the dentist!

  “Can’t you see?” he wails. “This has to be done. It’s the only way to get the insects the attention they deserve.”

  “Is Marlon Moats part of your insect resistance?” I demand. “Does he have the missing bug vial? What sort of hybrid monster is in it?”

  “A wasp implanted with the stinger of the Japanese giant hornet,” Klee says proudly.

  “Who are you using it against?”

  Klee gives me a defiant look. “It’s too late,” he says. “You can’t stop him. It won’t hurt her. She’ll be paralyzed. And if they want the antidote, they’ll have to do what I say.”

  I start to ask, “Who’ll be paralyzed?” But I already know. “It’s the first lady, isn’t it? You sent T-shirt to unleash one of your creatures on Jocelyn Brennan?”

  “By any means necessary!” Klee yells.

  I suddenly feel faint. “My little sister’s going to be on that stage alongside the first lady.”

  I want to rip Klee to screaming shreds, but I can’t waste another second. So I give him a final blast of Waterpik to the face and then I charge out of his exam room.

  At the start of my spy career, I saved Natalie from being drugged and abducted by the evil, psychotic head of Section 23. Now I’m rescuing her from being stung by a mutant insect.

  Best big sister EVER!

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Sting

  “Faster, Uber driver!” Joanna and I both scream at Jesse, whose only crime was his promptness in picking us up the second we fled the Reindeer Crescent Medical Center. Big Log got Joanna an Uber account in case of emergencies. She probably didn’t think we’d be using it to rush to our school to stop a hypnotically suggested soccer player from letting a wasp fitted with the stinger of the deadly Japanese giant hornet attack the first lady of the United States of America, or my sister, Natalie, the face of the Say Hello campaign. But if this doesn’t qualify as an emergency, I don’t know what does.

  Jesse flinches as we scream at him, and he drives his little blue Mini Cooper toward our school as fast as it is capable of going on an unusually busy weekday morning. I texted Strike and Irina the shocking details of Klee’s scheme and tipped off the local police that the dentist was a threat to the first lady. If Jesse can’t get us to the school on time, at least I know I’ve alerted reinforcements.

  “You think T-shirt was under suggestion when he dated Nola?” Joanna asks,
breaking my concentration. “She has insectoid features.”

  I give Joanna a pained look. Her face is still smeared with ketchup.

  “Just trying to keep things light,” she says. “We’ll get there in time to save the most important woman on the planet. And also Jocelyn Brennan.”

  I laugh out loud. Joanna, it turns out, is fun to have around on spy missions.

  She breaks into our catchy theme song. “Here come the spy twins on another adventure, here come the spy twins coming to your town. . . .” I join in for a reprise of the chorus.

  “Uh-oh,” says Jesse.

  I stop singing as I see the reason for his uh-oh.

  A police car signals us to pull over. Maybe they got Klee to confess? Maybe they want me to help them catch T-shirt? Maybe I’ll get to ride in the cop car with the siren wailing!

  Jesse stops his Mini Cooper and rolls down his window.

  A uniformed cop leans inside and looks back at us. “Bridget Wilder?” he says.

  “Did you get Klee to talk?” I ask, sounding brisk and businesslike, as if we’re fellow law enforcers.

  “Step out of the car please, miss,” says the cop.

  I’m getting a ride in the police car!

  I climb out. The cop peers down at me. “Dr. Klee made a complaint against you. He says you assaulted him, disrupted his place of business, and caused him emotional distress.”

  My mouth opens and closes. “He what . . . I what . . . he what?”

  “His receptionist saw you get into this car. I need you to come with me to the precinct.”

  “You’re taking Klee’s side?” I yelp. “Didn’t you get my tip? He’s a threat to . . .”

  This is pointless. Whatever I say next will make me sound like a hysterical nut job. I nod sadly, lower my head, chew on my lip, and put my hand in my pocket. I pull out a tissue to dab my eyes.