Now You See Them, Now You Don't

by Gordon Korman

  For Jon Batchelor, Web guru and friend

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  First things first: We’re fine. You don’t need to know where we are.

  Don’t worry about us. You should be thinking about yourselves right now. You’re the ones who are in prison for a crime you didn’t even commit. Just hang on. Believe this — we’re going to prove you’re innocent. Every breath we take is dedicated to that. It’s the only thing that matters.

  Don’t listen to the lies the FBI tells you. We didn’t burn down Sunnydale Farm, even though no place ever needed a good fire more than that one. Anyway, it serves them right for sticking us on a prison farm just because our parents were in jail. It’s true that we’ve broken the law a few times since then, but only when there was no other way. Nothing is more important than staying free so we can clear your names.

  That’s all for now. As you can guess, we don’t have a ton of time for letter writing. One last thing: We saw you on TV. Please stop asking us to turn ourselves in. It’s not going to happen.

  We never stop thinking about you….

  * * *

  Fifteen-year-old Aiden Falconer signed his name and then slid the letter in front of his eleven-year-old sister, Meg. “Stop it,” he said gently. “If Mom and Dad see tears on the paper, they’ll think we can’t handle it.”

  She sniffled, but her tone was strong. “We’re running for our lives, our last name has turned into a synonym for terrorist, and on top of it all some bald wacko is trying to kill us. Mom and Dad have Ph.Ds. They can probably guess we’re a little freaked out.”

  Aiden leaned back in his seat at the secluded corner table. The food court wasn’t crowded, but a fugitive could never be too careful. In the past few days, their pictures had been on CNN and in USA Today.

  That’s the problem with the outlaw business, he reflected nervously. Success works against you. The longer you stay ahead of the cops, the more famous you become. And celebrities get noticed.

  Meg scribbled her name, and Aiden folded the letter and sealed it in the envelope. The address sickened them — their father, at the McAllister Maximum Security Correction Facility in Florida. They hoped he would have a chance to share it with Mom at a women’s prison not far away.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get to the gate.”

  “Aren’t you going to mail it first?”

  Aiden shook his head. “Airports have their own postmarks. When this letter shows up at the jail, we don’t want the cops to know we got on a plane in Providence. Then they could check airline records to see where we went.”

  They were traveling under fake names, of course. But the tickets had been purchased online using their mother’s SkyPoints on Trans-Atlantica Airlines. The government had seized the Falconer family’s home and had frozen their bank accounts and assets. All that was left were their frequent-flier miles. Mom had always traveled under her maiden name, Louise Graham. That meant Aiden and Meg could use the points without using the name Falconer, which was as well known as that of any sports hero or movie star … for all the wrong reasons.

  Falconer equaled traitor, betrayer, terrorist. Husband and wife criminologists, convicted of aiding and abetting enemies of the state.

  And these days, it also equaled fugitive. As they ducked and dodged the FBI, the juvenile authorities, and dozens of local police forces, the Falconer children were becoming every bit as notorious as their parents.

  Aiden felt every eye in the concourse boring into him. This was the scariest part of being a fugitive. The danger was invisible until it was too late.

  Until somebody’s dialing 9-1-1 …

  The agent checked their boarding passes and examined their school IDs. These had been purchased just the day before from a joke shop near Harvard University in Massachusetts. The cards identified them as Gary Graham and his little brother, Eric.

  Meg wasn’t thrilled about pretending to be a boy. But the blow to her pride was still a thousand times better than getting caught. In a pharmacy bathroom, Aiden had used a sideburn trimmer to buzz her hair down to a crew cut. Scowling into the mirror, even Meg had been forced to admit she was a dead ringer for a boy of eight or nine.

  Their scam: The police were looking for a brother and sister, not two brothers. It wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. But it just might get them on this plane. At fifteen, Aiden was too young to hold a driver’s license but old enough to accompany a younger sibling without parental consent forms. They had done research to make sure of that.

  The security checkpoint. Aiden took a deep breath. Whatever went wrong, it was going to happen right here.

  As they’d rehearsed, the Falconers turned and waved good-bye to the crowd of total strangers assembled outside the entrance to the gates. They didn’t know any of the people, of course. But it looked much more natural for two kids to have somebody seeing them off.

  Meg passed through the metal detector first, and Aiden followed.

  Beeeep!

  The guard approached him. “Please empty your pockets, sir.”

  Aiden fought down a wild desire to turn tail and run. Calm down, idiot! You have nothing to hide.

  But the truth was, Aiden and Meg had everything to hide. Especially if the guard happened to notice who the letter was addressed to.

  Carefully, as if handling nitro, Aiden placed the envelope facedown in the plastic basket.

  The next item in his pocket was almost as dangerous. It was a nine-year-old faded photograph of a family friend named Frank Lindenauer. “Uncle” Frank had been their parents’ CIA contact. He was the one person on earth who could prove that John and Louise Falconer were innocent of treason and had been working for their own government the whole time.

  Facedown, he repeated to himself, slipping it under the letter.

  The last item, placed carefully on top of the other two, was a change-of-residence confirmation from the California Department of Motor Vehicles. The address on it was Aiden and Meg’s only clue to where Frank Lindenauer might be found.

  His stomach knotted like a pretzel, Aiden watched his family’s entire future disappear into the X-ray machine. He waited until the basket had safely emerged on the other side before stepping back through the metal detector.

  Beeeep!

  He nearly hit the ceiling. What was going on here? Could this machine somehow read his guilt? His fear? Was it picking up the machine-gun rhythm of his hyperactive heart?

  It turned out to be much simpler than that. The guard reached around and pulled something out of Aiden’s back pocket. Aiden stared. It was the metal pen they had used to write the letter.

  “That should help,” the woman said with a slight smile.

  There was a smattering of applause from the lineup of passengers when Aiden made it through the detector without incident.

  “Way to keep a low profile,” snickered Meg when they were side by side on the moving sidewalk.

  Classic Meg. She could laugh off a near miss like that. But not Aiden. Not with the stakes so high.

  This was what their lives had become. This was the new reality — hanging by the narrowest
of threads over a pit of disaster. One misstep, one unlucky break, and they were back in custody. Who would search for Frank Lindenauer then?

  It would be the end of all hope for Mom and Dad.

  A pen! A lousy fifty-cent pen!

  Any chance of a future for the Falconer family could crumble over something as insignificant as that.

  Minneapolis, Minnesota.

  Not their destination, not yet. But the trip to Los Angeles included a plane change here, with a two-hour layover between flights. It was the perfect opportunity for the Falconers to mail their letter in a non-airport mailbox.

  Meg gazed out the window of the taxi, enjoying the view. Minneapolis seemed like a nice place, dotted with parks and small lakes. It reminded her of her own neighborhood.

  Not anymore, she thought bitterly. Her last view of the Falconer home had featured fluorescent yellow crime-scene tape and a padlock from the Department of Homeland Security.

  And Mom and Dad being handcuffed by a cop the size of an NBA power forward.

  Agent Emmanuel Harris — J. Edgar Giraffe. It was a funny nickname for a very unfunny person. Harris was the man who had ruined all their lives.

  I wish I could see the look on his face when that letter shows up postmarked Minnesota.

  The thought of Harris and his FBI cronies tearing Minneapolis apart for two fugitives who were in California put a satisfied smirk on Meg’s face all the way back to the airport.

  They had no problem re-entering security, and boarded the plane for their connection to Los Angeles.

  It was over the Badlands of South Dakota that Meg noticed the flight attendant staring at them.

  “Excuse me, but do I know you kids? You look so familiar.”

  “We fly a lot,” Meg replied readily. “We’re constantly winging it to LA to visit our dad.”

  Meg was a smooth liar — a useful skill for a fugitive. Her brother had book smarts, but he couldn’t live by his wits the way she could.

  “That must be it,” the steward said dubiously. “You’ve probably been on this flight before.” He didn’t look convinced.

  As the journey progressed, the young man continued to cast frowning looks in their direction.

  Typically, Aiden was ready to panic. “He isn’t buying it,” he whispered anxiously. “He definitely recognizes us, and he knows it isn’t from some flight.”

  “Take it easy,” Meg soothed.

  But it was difficult to follow her own advice. If the flight attendant made the connection between their faces and the Falconer fugitives, he could radio airport security in Los Angeles. There was no escape from a plane, which had only one door for hundreds of passengers. She and Aiden would be trapped like rats on a Boeing 757.

  At last, the seat belt sign came back on. Meg peered out the window at the vast city below, sprawling from the ocean to the desert. There was only one word to describe it — humongous. Finding one person in LA would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

  If he’s even in LA …

  Meg didn’t allow herself to breathe again until the wheels of the plane had lurched onto the runway. California. She’d never thought they would make it this far.

  It happened in the first-class cabin as they waited in the long line to exit the flight. A businessman pulled his briefcase from the overhead luggage compartment. The clasp came undone, and a folded newspaper fell onto the seat.

  Meg gawked. The tabloid was open to a screaming headline:

  NOW YOU SEE THEM, NOW YOU

  DON’T! FALCONER KIDS ESCAPE

  POLICE A SECOND TIME

  In the center of the page were two photographs — the Department of Juvenile Corrections mug shots of Aiden and Margaret Falconer.

  There was a gasp of recognition from the flight attendant. He looked from the siblings to the newspaper and back again.

  The Falconers’ eyes locked, the message passing between them as if by radar: Get off this plane!

  But how? We’re packed in like sardines!

  Meg reached up and yanked a small suitcase from the overhead rack. She swung it in a reckless arc, trying to clear some space around her. The passengers ducked and leaned out of the way.

  “Hey, watch it!” complained the businessman as the carry-on smacked him.

  He wheeled to face his attacker, and Meg deftly sidestepped him. When he reached for her, she dropped to the floor, scrambling on all fours through the obstacle course of purses, computer bags, and legs.

  Aiden was too tall to follow her. He grabbed hold of the overhead rack and swung himself to seat 1B.

  “Stop those kids!” ordered the steward.

  The gate agent grabbed Aiden at the door. At knee level, Meg snatched a briefcase off the carpet and slammed the brass corner onto the woman’s foot.

  “Ow!”

  In the chaos, Meg clambered up beside her brother and hauled him out onto the bustling jet bridge. It was packed, with a second flight emptying from the other side.

  It’s too crowded! she thought desperately. We’ll never get away from all these people.

  There was only one other exit — a door at the end of the jetway. They burst through it and found themselves on a metal platform fifteen feet above the busy tarmac of LAX airport.

  Aiden started for the rickety ladder. Meg was about to follow when she saw it — a small tractor pulling three open luggage carts. It was about to pass right below them.

  Her brother swung a leg over the side, but she froze him with a single syllable: “Jump!”

  “What?”

  “Jump!” And before he could stop her, she stepped off the platform.

  “Meg!” he howled in dismay.

  At first she thought she’d mistimed her leap, that she was about to plunge fifteen feet to hard pavement and broken bones. But as she fell, the tractor veered left to avoid an orange cone, bringing the three carts into perfect position. She landed in the middle trailer, bouncing like a rag doll off a stack of garment bags. The back of her head struck the metal clasp of a valise, and she saw stars.

  Fighting through the pain, she looked up just in time to see Aiden drop into the rear cart. He hit the pile of suitcases with a muffled Oof! and burrowed, a mole tunneling through a mountain of luggage. Meg did the same. The tractor chugged on, its driver completely unaware of his two hitchhikers.

  The flight attendant ran out of the jet-bridge door, yammering into a cell phone. “Of course I know where they are! They’re right over — ”

  He scanned the tarmac in disbelief. Not fifteen seconds before, the Falconer fugitives had been right before his eyes.

  He thought back to the newspaper headline: NOW YOU SEE THEM …

  Where had they gone?

  Aiden pressed his face into the soft side of a duffel. The thumping of his heart in his ears drowned out the roar of the baggage tractor. Desperately, he tried to calm himself to the point of rational thought:

  1. We’re in an airport.

  2. Airports are packed with security people.

  Any way he tried to twist it, the conclusion was the same: If he and Meg were spotted, a well-trained high-tech army would descend on them. They wouldn’t stand a chance.

  His stomach still churned from the leap off the platform. Meg was fearless.

  I have enough fear for the two of us, Aiden figured.

  All at once, the bright sunlight dimmed. Aiden peered between the pieces of luggage. They had entered some kind of warehouse. He hoisted himself up by the rim of the cart and risked a look out. The tractor navigated a dark, cluttered structure with suitcases stacked all around. Several trailers were parked at the far end, where uniformed agents unloaded bags onto conveyer belts.

  We’re in the guts of the baggage claim!

  In the cart behind him, Meg’s head surfaced between backpacks. Aiden gestured for her to stay down. But they couldn’t hide forever. In a few minutes, somebody was going to be unloading these carts.

  Can we make it back outside?

  Diffic
ult, he decided. The warehouse was full of baggage handlers. And with each passing second, the tractor pulled them farther away from the only exit —

  No, wait — there’s another way out of here!

  A simple hand gesture was all it took to transmit the plan to Meg. One advantage of life on the run — the Falconers had become experts at silent communication. It was the telepathy of desperation. They were constantly trapped, constantly fleeing. Escape had become second nature.

  Aiden held up three fingers. Meg nodded — three seconds. The siblings did the countdown together: three … two … one …

  At the same instant, they vaulted out of the carts and hit the cement floor running.

  “Hey, you’re not allowed back here!” barked an angry voice behind them.

  “Now!” Aiden cried.

  They sprung onto the baggage conveyer. Aiden hit the moving rubber, somersaulted, and righted himself just in time to see three airport employees sprinting toward them. The belt carried them through a divider of hanging canvas straps into the baggage retrieval system.

  The passage was narrow, and he whacked his head on a low-hanging bar. Plastic rollers buffeted them on both sides. Ahead they could see hydraulic plates and rotating wheels designed to keep bags from getting stuck.

  “Is this safe for people?” Meg called over the mechanical racket.

  “Safer than getting caught.” But in truth, Aiden had his doubts.

  Suddenly, the belt deposited him on a slick metal chute, and he was sliding. He burst through another canvas divider to see the teeming arrivals level of Los Angeles International Airport. People stared as he hit the circling carousel, stumbled unsteadily to his feet, and jumped to the floor. A split second later, Meg came sailing down the chute. He yanked her off the baggage claim, his heart soaring.

  We’re out!