Alien Proliferation

between Christmas and when he left the Science Center, so he knew something was up before he ever took off. Which means he was always working on a different plan. He was never sneaking out to break the rules; he was sneaking out to save the day. But why didn’t he tell anyone straight out? Or leave me clearer clues?”
    I closed my eyes and tried to think like Chuckie. What was at stake? No, who was the person with the most to win or lose? Gaultier had a lot to gain financially, if he could sell this superdrug. But my mother had said he was clean. Why wouldn’t she know he was in illicit pharmaceuticals? Why didn’t Chuckie mention it? And why did Tim think he had a better chance of saving the day alone? I opened my eyes and looked at White. “Name your enemies.”
    “Beg pardon?”
    “Enemies. You have them. Who are Centaurion Division’s enemies? All of you have told me more than once that not every agency out there likes you. Who doesn’t like you? Or, let me ask it this way—why, during Operation Fugly, did Beverly call in the C.I.A.? They weren’t there to help—if my mother hadn’t been there, they’d have carted all of Alpha Team off.”
    White stared at me. “You, your mother, and both Abigail and Naomi have said this, many times—the only friend we have at the C.I.A. is Mister Reynolds. Of American organizations who know of us, our relationship with them is the most strained.”
    “When you described the person you thought was Gaultier, Chuckie described the real Gaultier. Who is Chuckie’s height, and has blue eyes, like Chuckie, and who could put on a blond wig and pass as Chuckie, at least from a distance.”
    “I don’t follow you.”
    “Alicia saw you and was alerted that something was off. She followed the person you were talking to, and I’ll bet she saw him meet up with someone who looked just like Chuckie, especially from a distance. Maybe she took a picture; most phones have cameras in them these days. So, Tim sees Chuckie in Paris, where he shouldn’t be, talking to a guy we all think was trying to kidnap you.”
    “But Mister Reynolds was in the room with you when I was in Paris.”
    “Yes, he was. Because Amy was able to warn us in time.” Which begged its own set of questions I wasn’t ready to deal with. “I’m betting you were supposed to ‘witness’ his murder in Paris—remember, we’re dealing with people who are good enough actors to convince Amy she saw a man killed in front of her. Chuckie was supposed to be dead—he was alone for Christmas and I’ll bet more than his parents and the Gowers knew that. But what I know is that he hasn’t told anyone he works with that he has gates in his office, home in Australia, and apartment in D.C. Without those gates, he’d be dead.”
    “Why?”
    “No freaking idea yet, just know it’s so.” I pondered. “That’s why they called the meeting.”
    “Beg pardon?”
    “Chuckie and I had a meeting while the superbeing cluster was going on in Paris. One or all of the people involved wanted said meeting to ensure Chuckie would be exactly where they wanted him—with me, having a pointless video conference, instead of potentially in Paris where action was going on.” I thought about the questions. “And they confirmed exactly what we’d do if we were threatened and that Christopher, who they’ve been drugging, would take over if Jeff and I were out of it.”
    I dug in my purse and pulled Harlie out. “Harlie, can you take us to where Jeff and Chuckie are?” Harlie mewled and didn’t move. “Oh, right. Jeff told Harlie to guard me and Jamie. I guess Jamie’s safe, so Harlie’s with me.” No worries, I could stay calm during this scary crisis. I dug through again and tried with each Poof. They all mewled and didn’t move.
    “Perhaps they were told to guard you as well.”
    “Maybe.” Pulled out Poofikins. “But no one’s told my Poofikins anything, have they? Poofikins, we need to find Jeff and Chuckie. Can you help us?”
    Poofikins mewled and stayed in my hand. There was much Poof mewling now. I looked back into my purse. The Poofs looked fine, but I noticed something else in there. Sure, my purse had been jostled a lot, particularly on the train, but my iPod was out of place, even for that.
    I pulled it out and turned it on. “That’s weird.”
    “What?”
    “I know the last thing I listened to was the Counting Crows. But my iPod’s tuned to the Nine Lives Mix.”
    “So?”
    “I don’t