“I love chocolate,” he says.
“Everybody does,” I say. “So why do you have to hide it?”
Lee lowers his voice. “My father puts this stuff out on the table so he can see who eats it.”
“He watches?”
“Everything,” Lee says. “Nothing gets by him. Kids who eat the wrong snacks don’t get the invite. He considers it an indication of weakness.”
“That’s a little weird,” I say.
“Never let him hear you say that,” Lee says.
It tells me a lot about Moore. It tells me how careful I’ll need to be in the next ten minutes.
“Do you want something from the table?” he says.
“After what you just said?”
“It’s between you and me,” he says.
I look at the snacks on the table. Do I throw myself in with Lee, or do I set myself apart from him?
I turn my back to the anteroom like Lee did, and I select a chocolate chip cookie.
When in doubt, emulate. That’s what I’ve learned.
“Nice,” he says.
Lee finishes his brownie as I gobble down the cookie. When we’re finished, he wipes his chin and checks his sweatshirt for evidence of crumbs.
“You ready?” he says.
“Hold up,” I say.
I brush a couple of crumbs off his sleeve.
“You’re good to go,” I say, giving him the thumbs-up.
“Thanks,” he says. “You’re an okay guy, Daniel.”
“I hope your father thinks so.”
“Me, too,” he says. “Let’s see what happens.”
“Let’s,” I say.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A DOZEN KIDS HAVE BEEN SELECTED.
They form up outside the anteroom, each with a minder from Liberty next to them.
Lee motions me forward. I reach up to my glasses, refamiliarizing myself with the invisible latch that detaches the temple arm from the frame of the glasses.
We move past a woman in her midforties, wild black hair with blond dyed streaks, sweating in the air-conditioned room. She hangs around the side of the room, not in line but not far from it. Something about her energy doesn’t seem right.
Lee nods to her as we pass by.
“Is that someone’s mom?” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “She also teaches English classes at camp sometimes.”
“Interesting hairstyle.”
“You know English teachers,” Lee says. “They’re creative.”
To my surprise, Lee bypasses the line of candidates waiting for Moore, taking us right up to the front.
“No waiting?” I say.
“You’ve got VIP status because you’re with me,” Lee says.
“It’s good to be the heir apparent,” I say with a smile.
“Some days yes, some days no,” Lee says.
I look through the door into the anteroom. Eugene Moore is sitting behind a table in the back of the room.
He is not alone.
Flannel is standing next to him but slightly away from the table, a defensive position that gives him a clear line of sight and movement. Moore’s daughter, Miranda, comes in and sits next to her father. By her side is the wiry bodyguard with the swivel neck.
Moore, Miranda, Flannel, and Swivel Neck.
That makes four people in the room. When Lee takes me in, there will be five.
I’m going to have to create enough of a distraction to allow me to inject Moore without anyone noticing. I project myself through the process. I imagine taking off my glasses, dropping them at Moore’s feet, arming the weapon at the same time. Maybe Moore leans down to help me pick them up, and a forearm is exposed. Or maybe I get them myself, and I press the needle into his calf.
It will be tricky, but not impossible.
Twenty feet away now, moving through the last line of security. Lee puts his arm on my shoulders, an indication to all that we’re together. He’s personally bringing me through to meet his father.
All my senses are firing. I will my body to relax and I steady my breathing.
The room becomes a physics equation.
I register people’s expressions, map their bodies, calculate the angle of their sight lines as they shift in the room.
I note the distance to Moore, the closeness to Lee, the nods of the security men as they allow us to pass by without interference.
I’m ten feet away when Flannel looks up. Our eyes meet.
His expression changes the instant he sees me, but I can’t understand why. I showed him what I wanted him to see, the same thing I showed Moore earlier, excitement and doubt in equal measure.
But something is wrong.
Flannel touches Moore’s shoulder. Moore stops what he’s doing and leans toward him.
Flannel whispers something in Moore’s ear.
“Hey, Dad,” Lee calls as we move into the anteroom. “I want to introduce you to somebody.”
Six steps away now. I slip the glasses from my head, rock them back and forth in my hand, establishing a natural pattern of motion.
Flannel finishes whispering. Moore nods once, then he looks over at us, first at his son, then at me.
His look is intense, not at all friendly.
I counter his energy, allowing my face to slip into an easy smile, relaxing my body posture, placing my shoulders at their lowest, nonthreatening position. I tap the glasses against my thigh, my hand moving into position to detach them.
I take the final few steps toward Moore.
Lee begins to speak. “Dad, this is Daniel Martin—”
Moore cuts him off, shaking his head in a no gesture.
Things happen quickly after that.
Flannel steps in front of Moore, obscuring my view. Swivel Neck joins him, his hand rising in a blocking gesture.
Lee’s arm slips from around my shoulder and grips my bicep.
“Hold up,” he says.
Swivel Neck comes toward us.
“What’s going on?” I say, allowing my voice to rise.
“He doesn’t want to meet you,” Lee says.
“What do you mean? He chose me.”
“He changed his mind. I’m sorry. It happens sometimes.”
Lee is pulling me away from Moore now, and Swivel Neck has slipped his arm low around my waist, making sure I keep moving.
I could get away from both of them in a second, but it would bring more attention toward me.
“What about camp?” I say, desperation creeping into my voice.
“Camp is not an option,” Lee says.
“Maybe another session? Next summer or something?”
“When my father says no, the decision is made. I’m sorry you came all the way out here. I didn’t know it would go like this.”
Additional security people are moving toward us, tightening the circle around me. People around the room are craning their necks to see what’s going on.
Something off to the side catches my eye. The English teacher with wild hair is moving behind the security people. She’s using my distraction to push forward, past the remnants of the line to Moore.
She fumbles with her purse, trying to get ahold of something.
“You’re going to have to leave,” Swivel Neck says, and he clamps down on my arm.
I look to Lee for help, but he’s moving away, no longer willing to engage with me.
I resist Swivel Neck, and his grip tightens on my arm. He’s strong, obviously a guy who works out, but he’s not an expert. His grip is too low. Grab higher up on someone’s arm and you lock out the shoulder joint. Even more effective would be to bear hug me out of the space. That’s how bouncers are trained to deal with drunks. Come up behind and clamp them around the middle, pinning their arms against their bodies.
Swivel Neck doesn’t do that. He grips me low and by the elbow, and while it’s painful because of the nerve plexus there, it allows the rest of my body full range of motion.