Twenty on the Fifth

The dark street is parked full of cars, two lines of banged up second-hands and new-money sports-cars packed tighter than a can of sardines. A dozen bikes are locked up against the fence outside the three-story house. I am sitting in the trunk of the car closest to the house, looking out the tinted back window, trying to ignore my phone. The dull glow of a streetlamp illuminates my field of view.

It’s been minutes since Erin’s last text. My finger itches on the lining of my right pocket, hovering inches above my phone.

Everything’s fine, I tell myself. They’re still eating dinner. No news is good news.

I was a mess of emotions yesterday night, so there was understandable hesitation from Erin and Genevieve when I pushed for this to happen. They thought I was being too paranoid, that it would be better to wait it out and play a safer hand. I told them that it was time for me to tip my hand, to execute on my idea. After all, Erin was pretty certain that something would happen during the Family Dinner.

Another bike pulls up to the house. The biker, a guy with his muddy brown hair cropped short, locks his bike up next to the others by the fence. He checks his phone, and then looks up at the house. On his way to the door, he passes within a foot of me, and I get a better look at him. He’s got a rounder face, he’s built a little lankier, but it’s a decent enough fit; the fact that he’s got grey eyes doesn’t matter.

My phone is silent. I begin to wonder if I’ve made a mistake, but there’s no way to take this back, now that everything’s been set up. Either I am the blasted, good-for-nothing screw-up that’s always putting the people I care about in danger, or I am a fucking genius.

That’s when the text from Erin comes in:

Father’s pulling me aside for a quick convo

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Genevieve’s reply comes a second later: Should we go?

With Erin having flown south in the morning, Genevieve’s done a ton of legwork over the course of the day, running the errands necessary to put this little gathering together. It means that she’ll have left a paper trail, but if all goes well, that won’t matter.

Let’s wait for the confirmation, I reply, and then I stare at my phone, willing it to update.

The chat remains empty, a small marker noting that Genevieve’s seen by message. Erin is currently talking to Father. It wasn’t unusual in the past, for him to talk to one of us privately, but with everything at stake, and Vidocq in Boston…

I can’t stand the silence.

I wonder if I should send another message. There must be something I can do, right? I look up at the house. Technically, it’s being rented by some grad students who’re out of town for a conference; I don’t know how Genevieve managed to get access to it on such a short notice.

I wonder how Genevieve is handling the mass of men inside the house. Some of them have been in there for the better part of an hour now. They must be getting—

My phone buzzes, and I jump.

Erin: He knows you’re in Boston.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Get out.

I knew this could happen, had banked on it being the case, but actually seeing the confirmation…

Genevieive: Are you implicated?

I pop open the trunk and slip out of the car and into the night air. I lock the car with a press of the keys. Apparently, this is also one of the grad students’ car. Nice vehicle.

I need to stay calm, order my racing thoughts.

Erin: Played dumb. Think I’m clear.

I need to blend in.

I text: Heading into the house now.

The door opens with a push; it’s unlocked. The living room is filled with a bunch of guys, most looking a little younger than me, all with the same half-blond half-brunette haircut that I’m currently sporting. They’re talking to each other in small groups, hands moving animatedly in the air, and hardly any of them notice me coming in.

Genevieve, the lone woman in the room, stands by the corridor leading deeper into the house. Spying me, she nods, and then clears her throat, loudly. It takes a few seconds for her to get everyone’s attention. She puts on a smile, though I see her holding onto the hem of her skirt—a small self-reassurance—and then she begins speaking:

“If you’re here, you successfully solved the first puzzle in front of Professor Najbreit’s office. You got a text last night telling you to show up at this house. A lot of you probably are wondering with the second challenge is, given the peculiar instructions I gave you: dye your hair a certain color, be of a certain build, have a certain appearance… I owe an apology to all those not in the room, who’ve been excluded from this challenge on the basis of their looks, but as you’ll see shortly, it was a necessary evil.”

One of the guys has his phone out, and is recording Genevieve speaking.

“Sorry, no photos or videos please,” Genevieve says to the guy. “What we’re doing tonight is top secret. There must be no record.” The guy puts away his phone, deleting the video with a swipe, and Genevieve pauses for dramatic effect. “Tonight, we are playing a very elaborate prank on my girlfriend, Professor Najbreit. She’s currently out of town, but when she gets back, we’re going to make her believe that her brother, Markus Najbreit—whom some of you rightly guessed you were meant to imitate—was here, and that he ran away somewhere. Where to exactly? That’s the fun. Our goal will be to make it as confusing and challenging for her to figure out as possible. Upon leaving the house, you’re all going to have to try to evade conventional forms of surveillance and tracking, and find a way to escape the city. Of course, you may come back whenever you’d like, but if you want to take a short vacation and stay away longer? Be my guest.”

“Quick question,” a guy with a high-pitched voice calls out, raising his hand high in the air. He talks on without being called on. “Markus isn’t actually here, is he? He lives in New York, right? Like, he’s not that guy over there, right?”

He points at a random guy in the crowd, and all of a sudden, everybody’s looking at each other, wondering the same question. The original asker of the question squints at the person he pointed at, as if trying to pierce through a disguise. I play the part too, meeting somebody’s eye and raising an eyebrow. The guy, wearing a popped collared shirt, raises an eyebrow back a me, but he’s looking back to Genevieve less than a second later.

“No, of course not, that’s why this is a prank,” Genevieve laughs. “We’re trying to see how long we can keep Erin fooled for.” She pauses for a second, checking her phone. I reflexively check mine too. There’s only a single message from Erin.

Vidocq is on the move. He’s heading north. Heading for you guys?

Genevieve looks back up, pretending like she’s seen nothing. “There are a few things that we can do to make her job harder. In the kitchen, you’ll see that we’ve laid out twenty identical hoodies, twenty identical pairs of sunglasses, twenty pairs of black gloves, as well as some other things you may find helpful. Wearing these will make it much harder to differentiate you from each other, and of course, as a token of my appreciation, you can keep the gear for yourself later.”

She heads into the kitchen, and the rest of use follow after her, crowding onto the linoleum floor. Laid out on the kitchen counters are the clothes that Genevieve mentioned earlier, as well as a stack of fresh CharlieCards for public transit, a small number of bills, some baseball caps, a few pieces of reflective glass, assorted electronic components that I wouldn’t know what to do with, bottles of hair dye, a number of wigs that I would know what to do with but wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole, some cheap razors, and a collection of other knick-knacks. It’s a lot of things, and I can only hope that it’s enough.

“Launch time is at nine at night. That gives you fifteen minutes to plan and prepare before you all have to get out of the house.” Genevieve pauses, making sure she that she has everyone’s attention, and then she smiles that faux-innocent smile of hers. “And finally, as an extra bit of incentive: the final person that Erin settles on as the real Markus Najbreit will be entitled to a special prize—an invitation to a ménage à trois that would make the rest of you boys jealous. Now go, put your big brains to work!”

She smiles, avoiding looking at me, and I can’t help but chuckle inside. The last twist was something Genevieve must have come up with herself. While the others rush to grab their materials, I stand back, waiting my turn to grab my hoodie, sunglasses and gloves. The others are coming up with a plan on the spot, while I’ve already been sitting on mine for the better part of a day.

The guys rush around me, lots frantically searching things up on their phones, one guy grabbing both the hair dye and a wig and rushing into a bathroom (what is he thinking?). The popped collar guy that I met eyes with earlier is fiddling with the electronics in the living room, pulling two phones out of his backpack and connecting them to a circuit board in a way that I would have called definite evidence of cheating if not for the two others tinkering with their own materials in the heat of the moment. You’ve got to love the MIT hacker mentality.

Fifteen minutes to prepare cuts it awful close if Vidocq does know where we are. He was about a half hour drive to the south from us, and who knows if he had other assets closer in the area?

After grabbing a CharlieCard and some loose change, I refresh my memory on a few details kept on my phone. Before I know it, Genevieve’s voice rings around the room.

“Time’s up! I’m opening up the door, and if you’re not out within two minutes, you’re kicked out of the challenge! Go, go, go!”

We rush out the door, a horde of storming dirty-brown-headed boys, all dressed in the same Adidas matte black hoodie, wearing the same dark sunglasses. I, at the back of the crowd, catch Genevieve’s gaze. Though she can’t know that I’m looking back, she must sense something, because a small smile crosses her lips, and her fingers, hanging by her waist, flutter a goodbye to me.

I smile back at her, and then I’m rushing out the door myself.

All around me, my look-a-likes are hopping on bikes, revving up engines, vaulting fences, and sprinting through backyards. I make a run for the nearest bus stop, following closely behind two others as we jog down the street.

My phone buzzes twice in quick succession.

Genevieve: We’ve launched.

A biker version of me whizzes by, cutting the street corner, the reflective glass on his strapped to his helmet blinding the traffic light camera there. I and the two other joggers speed up and follow close behind him, making sure that we’re not caught on camera before the effect fades out.

Erin: Vidocq’s stopped moving. Think he’s confused.

There are twenty of us and only one of him. What’s the fucker got on me now?

I am a fucking genius.