Which means that most likely, Thompson would never have seen inside the box, never looked at the actual codex.
“Maybe he kept it a secret,” I suggest.
“Maybe,” replies Tyler. But he doesn’t sound convinced. “So what’s the plan?”
“We go in, we act natural at the party, we try to chat with the owners about Thompson. Then we mention my dad, see if it gets any reaction.”
“And if they ask us who the heck we are … ?”
“Easy,” I tell him. “We tell them to try to guess. No one recognizes their friends in costume.”
“But we’re dressed like Batman and Robin.”
“Yeah, so?”
Tyler shrugs. “Seems like a waste to me. If we won’t be recognized, we could go unnoticed forever. We’d have a chance to snoop around first.”
“Now that is not a bad idea …”
It’s easy to see there’s a party going on at the Thompson house. Balloons are strung around the front yard. Christmas decorations hang in the leafless branches of a small tree. Light blazes from every window in the house, the only light for at least half a mile. It’s a big timber-framed country house, with deep brown logs that crisscross the walls, covered by ivy. The windows look old and rickety. The downstairs windows have tiny leaded panes.
A car passes when we’re only a few yards from the gate. It catches us in the full beam of its headlights for a second, then swings in and parks in the already-crowded, gravel-covered front yard.
We hang back for a minute, waiting. I’m impressed when I see who gets out of the car: it’s Batman!
Batman according to the latest movie incarnation, mind you. Not the cheesy TV version, like our costumes. Compared to me, this guy is huge, menacing. Batman Suit knocks on the door, glancing for a second in our direction. I push back against the hedge. But it’s pretty likely that he’s spotted us already.
Someone opens the front door; Batman Suit steps through. We wait for a few more seconds, then creep up to the door.
“We should go in around the back,” Tyler says. “If the hosts have to greet us, there might be questions.”
Maybe it’s the kind of party where people spill out into the backyard. So we slip around there.
It isn’t that kind of party. Behind the house it’s dark.
We try all the doors and downstairs windows. There’s one open window, and we let ourselves in. The window leads to a utility room, piled high with laundry. Both the washing machine and the dryer are on, so any sound we make is masked. We open the door to the kitchen, wait until there’s no one in sight, then sneak in.
The very next second, the kitchen door opens. A woman walks in, dressed as a flapper girl from the Roaring Twenties.
“Lovely, Batman and Robin! You’re … ooh, wait, don’t tell me. You’re Poppy’s friends, aren’t you? You boys lost? Or looking for food?”
“Looking for food!” Tyler says, giving her a wide grin.
She directs us through the large hall and toward the main living room, where the party seems to be in full swing. The room’s packed with people wearing elaborate costumes—priest outfits, girls in bunny costumes with fancy face masks, a couple of Supermen, an Elvis, two James Bonds, a Darth Vader, and a whole crew of pirates.
We wait until Flapper Girl is out of eyeshot, then turn around and head for the staircase. It isn’t easy—the hall is crammed with people drinking mulled wine and talking loudly. From wall speakers, Christmas music blares—that song by Mariah Carey. I spot Batman Suit in the far corner, still by the door, with his back to us. He’s with a woman dressed as a Bond girl. At least I assume she’s a Bond girl, with such a skimpy outfit and handguns strapped to her thigh.
Tyler and I try to sidle casually up the stairs. Once upstairs, we pad down the corridor, away from the festivities.
“Where are we going?” Tyler asks.
“No idea,” I reply, trying a door. It’s open. A bedroom. “Not there.”
“Look for a library,” he whispers.
“Thanks, Einstein, ’cause I was thinking the bathroom …”
“Oh, shut up.”
The third door we try leads to a room that’s a cross between a study and a library. I switch on the light. Three of the walls are lined floor to ceiling by shelves covered with books and some computer equipment. Against the fourth wall is a huge oak desk, with drawer handles carved into open lions’ mouths. Toward the center of the room, a red leather sofa sits in front of a low coffee table, which is stacked high with magazines. I pick one up—Architectural Digest.
“What are we looking for?”