28
Driving to Adeline
The little car hummed in my temples; otherwise, there was no sound.
“Hey Saunders, how come you won’t go through the drive-through?” I figured I’d throw some conversation out there.
“I don’t like to sit in the line, and I don’t like those little windows.”
“Little windows?” Brit sounded like she was on the verge of a giggle.
“I don’t trust little windows, okay?” He frowned and shifted his position, pulling at his collar like it was suddenly too tight.
“Okay,” Brit said.
“And I don’t like coffee. Agent Guy drinks way too much of it and he messes up the car. He’s always talking and joking and sloshing his coffee everywhere.”
“You like things tidy, don’t you, Saunders?” I deduced.
He wouldn’t answer me. After a few minutes he said, “Agent Guy was a good partner. Probably the best I ever had.”
I felt bad about my comment. He’d been complaining about coffee and a messy car because he was worried. The Partner had been his wingman, and now he was crazy—or maybe he was dead. I took Saunders’s hand again and gave him a pat. He just gazed out the window but I could have sworn his eyes got watery.
A bass undertone reverberated and joined in harmony with the droning buzz—and then it was silent. The fog thinned. We had stopped, and we seemed to be in downtown Adeline in the parking lot behind the Senior Center. It was dark out, but the activity sign was bright. It said Steak Night and 1-Buck Bingo, only there was hardly anybody in the lot. Probably all the seniors had stayed home because of the bad weather.
“Saunders, please don’t call your BETI pals—not yet,” Brit said. She had turned around to face him from the front seat. “You need to know what’s going on.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he said.
“Will you hand over your device?” she asked.
“I’m not the bad guy, you know,” he said defensively.
“But you are the heavy guy!” I complained. “Ouch—move your elbow, Saunders—I can’t breathe!”
Albert sent a memo that said SPLAT, along with a strangled feeling. His arms wriggled below Saunders’s big knees.
Hastily, Saunders opened the door and got out, but he immediately slipped on some ice. Just that quick he went down and was planted in the snow with his legs in a pretzel. I met his eyes from the open door. “You don’t look like a secret agent.”
“And what does a secret agent look like, Miss Day?” Saunders got back up with a very grumpy expression.
“I don’t know. Like Double-O-Seven, I guess. Not like Double-O-Butt-in-the-Snow.”
Saunders brushed the snow from his dark jacket and slacks. “Ha ha,” he said, sounding very un-agent-like. Brit and Lars chuckled quietly.
“So, Saunders, was Brit right in thinking that you guys were going to haul us off for questioning?” I asked.
“Brit is sharp,” Saunders said with a nod.
“Then why aren’t you busting us right now?” Lars asked.
“Even in my line of work, this is unusual. It’s more than unusual. And I didn’t exactly agree when my boss gave the order to—anyway, I want more information.”
Brit eyed him shrewdly. “And you’d get more information by tagging along with us—right?”
“Right again, Brit. You should come to work for us.”
Brit frowned. “I don’t think I’d like working for the military industrial establishment.”
Saunders made a sound like he was tired. “Sometimes I don’t like it either,” he said with a scowl. I figured he was thinking about the lie he’d told, about taking us to find Ma when really he had orders to lock us up. But he quickly shook off his guilt. “So where’s your Uncle Commodore?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.
I scanned the parking lot. A snowplow had scraped out about six parking places, piling the snow in a truck-size mound. The one street light that serviced the lot was glowing cheerfully, as was the Steak Night activity sign. But the three SMHR units were nowhere to be seen.
“Maybe they went inside,” I said, “to appear less conspicuous.”
Brit made a skeptical face. “It’s sort of hard for those three to be inconspicuous.”
Unexpectedly, Agent Saunders handed Brit his communication device. “Here, take it. I’m on your side. I want you kids to trust me.”
Brit took it. “The jury is still out,” she said coldly. She listened briefly to the earpiece and gave it a shake. “Hello, Commodore?” There was no response. “Well, let’s go check inside.”
We walked up the wheelchair ramp and opened the big door. I was hit with a blast of warmth and delicious aromas. “Mmm, something smells good.” The clock on the wall said seven-o-five. I realized I’d only gotten one piece of pizza, and I was starving again.
The barnlike community room was a sea of tables and chairs, but there were only four or five people eating. In the corner was the big-screen TV, droning on about the news of the snowstorm.
There was a noisy clinking and clanking coming from the kitchen, and the cooks emerged from a swinging door. They were wearing the “Adeline Seniors Rock” aprons that were popular in our town. The aprons had black silhouettes of rocking chairs above generous patchwork pockets. Laden with pans and platters of food, the cooks marched deliberately toward us, strangely choreographed tall to short, moving in robot lockstep.
It was our missing SMHR units looking weirder than ever.
They set the pans and platters down on a table by the emergency exit. There was a beautiful potato dish, a lush salad, and a three layer chocolate cake.
Mr. Noguchi, the regular cook, was peering from the kitchen service window with his hands on his hips and a very puzzled expression on his face.
The Commodore gestured to the little feast on the table. “We have mastered the culinary arts,” he announced.