Now You See Them, Now You Don't

by Gordon Korman

  The automatic doors slid wide and they stepped inside, striding briskly but without obvious hurry. Aiden sensed dozens of pairs of eyes on them.

  Stop shaking, he ordered himself. You’re just paranoid because those mug shots were in yesterday’s paper.

  With effort, he pushed the feeling from his mind.

  “We did it,” Meg whispered when the lobby was out of sight behind them.

  Aiden nodded breathlessly, pondering their next step. Two kids walking into a place like this looked like regular visitors. But two kids wandering the halls, peering in doors, was another matter. Pretty soon, some nurse or orderly might wonder why this pair looked so familiar.

  We’ve got to get this over with quickly.

  “We’ll split up,” he decided. “I’ll check the upstairs, you take the main floor.”

  “And if we see Frank Lindenauer?” she prompted.

  “Then we’ll find each other and go straight to the front desk. If he’s here, we’ve got nothing to worry about. But if he isn’t, the sooner we’re out of this place, the better.”

  * * *

  The upstairs was laid out more as a hotel than a hospital, with long hallways flanked by numbered rooms on both sides. This, Aiden guessed, was where the rehab center’s patients lived, leaving the ground level for doctors’ offices and medical facilities.

  The first door was open, and he poked his head inside. A small space, neat and spare, with a single bed. It was empty.

  “Looking for someone?”

  He was startled back out into the hall. A young nurse was regarding him.

  “My — uncle,” he managed. “I don’t know what room he’s in.”

  She pointed down the corridor. “Ask at the nurses’ station. They can help you.” She disappeared into the stairwell.

  Aiden let out a long breath and peered into the next door.

  “There you are!” cried a high-pitched, quavering voice. “I thought you were coming yesterday!”

  The gray-haired woman who appeared was so tiny that Aiden very nearly missed seeing her. She was quite simply the shortest, smallest adult he had ever laid eyes on. A clawlike hand, delicate yet at the same time powerful, closed on his arm. “Come and sit down. Did you bring your guitar? You know how I enjoy it when we sing together.”

  Aiden was at a loss. “I — I think you’ve got me mixed up with somebody else.”

  “Nonsense, dear. You’re Jonathan from the high school. Did you honestly think I could forget my favorite visitor?”

  “I’m not Jonathan,” Aiden said earnestly. The mini-person looked so crestfallen that he added, “But I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.”

  “Why don’t we play cribbage?” The little lady pushed a chair over to her closet, climbed up, and began rummaging around the top shelf. Her perch teetered dangerously.

  Aiden froze in the act of sneaking out the door, then rushed to her side. “Please come down, ma’am. If you need something, I’ll get it for you.”

  “Oh — lovely. Thank you.” She stepped gingerly to the floor. “We’ll need the cribbage board, and a deck of cards, of course. And while you’re up there, Jonathan dear, could you look for my crochet bag? I haven’t seen it in months. I’ll never finish that tablecloth if I don’t get to it, you know….”

  Up on the chair, Aiden began to do battle with a collection of belongings crammed into the top shelf under pressure. If this ever lets go, he thought, I’m going to be pinned to the far wall.

  Meg would strangle him if she could see him now. The clock was ticking, and he hadn’t even begun searching because he was afraid to offend a tiny person with a lot to say.

  * * *

  Meg scoured the cafeteria for a face to match the one on the posters.

  Nothing.

  Her unease was on the rise. If Frank Lindenauer wasn’t in the building, that meant Aiden was right.

  I hate it when Aiden is right.

  She didn’t even want to think about what that would mean — that she and her brother were not the hunters but the hunted, and they had walked into hostile territory.

  Quit whining! she ordered herself. You’re getting to be as bad as Aiden. For all you know, he’s sitting upstairs with Lindenauer this very minute.

  The rehab center, which had seemed fairly small from the street, turned out to be deep, extending all the way to the next block. On the main floor alone, there was a cafeteria, a full gym and weight-lifting facility, an indoor pool with Jacuzzi, a modest library, and dozens of therapy cubicles.

  Back out in the hall, she continued to work her way toward the rear of the building. The rooms here reminded her of doctors’ offices, with medicine cabinets and padded exam tables. Meg had to stand on tiptoe at each door, peering in the glass through angled venetian blinds.

  I look like a Peeping Tom, she reflected. How was she ever going to explain herself if somebody came along?

  Then she saw it: Between the thick slats at the window of room 41 — shoulder-length hair, very full. Dark reddish-brown, just the color of —

  Heart thumping, she burst through the door. “Uncle Frank!”

  A young red-haired woman in a surgical gown was perched on the table while a doctor examined her knee.

  “What do you want?” barked the doctor. His eyes narrowed at the youngster in the low-brimmed cap and dark shades. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  A dozen glib excuses popped into Meg’s head, but her silver tongue let her down. It was the “Who are you?” that did it. It was not a fugitive-friendly question. She fled without a word. She was so flustered that she ran headlong into a burly orderly. The collision sent her staggering backward, stunned. The sunglasses hit the floor beside her.

  And then she and the big man recognized each other.

  Oh, my God —

  The horror swelled, clogging her throat, making it difficult to breathe. Of the many dangers that competed for equal time in Meg’s nightmares, this was the one she thought she’d left back east in the twisted metal of a wrecked Hummer.

  The burn from an erupting air bag was still raw on the bald man’s forehead.

  The orderly was Hairless Joe.

  Neck muscles bulging, the mysterious assassin reached for Meg.

  The jagged bolt of terror that sizzled through her body jolted her into a split-second reaction that probably saved her life. She hurled herself down the corridor in a full sprint. Hairless Joe was right behind her, closing the gap with each stride of his powerful legs.

  Her high-stepping sneaker narrowly missed a lunch trolley standing by the wall. Pivoting like a ballerina, she whirled around and kicked the obstacle into her pursuer’s path. The cart upended right in front of Hairless Joe, depositing its cargo of meal trays on the floor. The assassin hurdled athletically over the trolley, but his foot slipped in a mound of creamed spinach, sending him crashing heavily to the linoleum.

  Meg kept on running, grudging herself the delay of a quick glance over her shoulder. A single thought flashed through her mind, eclipsing all others.

  Find Aiden.

  * * *

  For all her frailty and slight stature, Mrs. Enid Metcalfe was a force of nature. This was the fourth time Aiden had tried to finesse his way out the door only to be drawn back into a conversation about the late Mr. Metcalfe, Cousin Gertrude, assorted nieces and nephews, and the beastly woman who had run her down with a grocery cart at Winn-Dixie.

  “Not only did I break my hip,” she complained, “but I haven’t seen my hearing aid since.”

  Light dawned on Aiden. No wonder she doesn’t hear me when I tell her I have to leave.

  “I’ll come back and see you soon!” he all but bellowed, and made a determined exit. It would be up to the real Jonathan to make good on that promise.

  He had just started down the hall when Meg erupted from the stairwell, wide-eyed like a cornered animal.

  “What happened?”

  She grabbed him by the arm, threw open the nearest door, and ha
uled him inside — right back into Mrs. Metcalfe’s room.

  “No,” he hissed. He’d never be able to explain how hard it had been to escape from here the first time.

  “There you are, Jonathan,” the old lady was saying. “I looked up from my crocheting and you were gone. And who’s this lovely young girl?”

  Meg grasped their hostess’s narrow shoulders. “You’ve got to hide us!”

  Mrs. Metcalfe was mystified. “Hide you? Whatever for?”

  “Is it Harris?” Aiden demanded. “It’s Harris, right?”

  “It’s Hairless Joe!”

  The name was like a body blow, knocking the wind out of him.

  Hairless Joe? Here? But how?

  The answer was frighteningly simple. If the bald assassin could find them in Vermont and Massachusetts, he could find them in California. There were ways — news reports of the chase at the LA airport, the frequent-flier miles —

  Aiden dropped to his knees, pulling Meg down with him. The two scrambled under the bed.

  “Do you happen to see a silver brooch down there, Jonathan?” Mrs. Metcalfe asked. “In the shape of Rex Harrison’s hat from My Fair Lady — ”

  Aiden cut her off. “If a big bald guy knocks on the door, don’t let him in, okay? He’s dangerous.”

  “Like that woman at Winn-Dixie!” she exclaimed.

  Aiden pressed his face to the carpet, his pulse hammering in his ears. Hairless Joe. No one else conjured up such instant, unreasoning terror. Even Emmanuel Harris, the Falconer family’s archenemy, was an FBI agent — a real person with a real job. You understood what he was doing and why.

  But Hairless Joe was a killer without a name.

  We can’t even figure out why he wants us dead!

  It was like being stalked by a wild beast. No — worse. An animal acted on ancient instincts; Hairless Joe was an intelligent predator — cold, calculating, professional.

  And the only thing between him and us is the world’s smallest blabbermouth.

  Aiden fought to see beyond his panic, but he found only despair surrounding it. Even if they somehow managed to escape the bald assassin once again, then what? The posters were a trap, just as he’d feared. No Frank Lindenauer. They were right back where they’d started.

  How could it be worse?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp rap at the door.

  “Don’t answer it!” rasped Aiden.

  “Go away!” called Mrs. Metcalfe.

  The latch clicked, and Aiden could feel a breeze from the hall. He fought down an impulse to run out and protect their tiny hostess.

  Don’t be stupid! She’s got a whole lot less to be afraid of than you do.

  “Young man, get out of here at once or I’ll call security!”

  “Take it easy, lady, I saw them come in here.”

  Wait a minute, that’s not Hairless Joe! That sounds more like —

  The Falconers scrambled out from under the bed.

  “Bo!” Aiden exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to warn you this place is a trap, but I see you already figured that out.” He cast his goatee-framed grin in the direction of Mrs. Metcalfe. “Nice bodyguard. I guess the ex-wrestlers were all busy.”

  Not a ghost of a smile from either sibling.

  “It’s no joke, Bo,” Meg quavered. “The guy after us is a cold-blooded murderer!”

  Bo looked surprised. “What — you mean he’s here? In the building?”

  “I barely got away from him!” she exclaimed.

  “What’s his beef with a couple of kids?”

  “We don’t know!” Aiden answered. “He followed us all the way across the country — he’s already tried to kill us twice!”

  Bo took the practical approach. “Calm down. Teebs and Viv are outside in the car. Just stay close to me, and you’ll be fine.”

  Strange but true, thought Aiden as they ventured out of the room. He was relieved to have Bo on the scene. He may be a criminal, but he’s exactly the kind of guy you need to handle Hairless Joe.

  Still, he wondered if even a streetwise LA gang leader could be a match for a professional killer.

  They started down the stairs, with Aiden and Meg glued to the IC leader’s sides.

  “Chill out,” he told them. “It’s not a three-legged race.”

  An orderly appeared on the lower landing, and Meg nearly jumped out of her skin. Her reaction triggered Aiden’s startle reflex. But it was just an ordinary employee, not their enemy.

  He’s out there somewhere, though — around any corner, behind any door, watching and waiting….

  They reached the main floor and headed for the entrance. Aiden allowed himself to breathe a little easier. The lobby was a busy place. Surely, not even Hairless Joe would risk attacking them in front of a dozen witnesses.

  His sense of comfort lasted about three seconds. For there, at the front desk, towered the six feet seven inches of Agent Emmanuel Harris, holding the Sunnydale mug shots out to the receptionist.

  As a single person, the Falconers twirled away from Bo and began walking hurriedly in the opposite direction.

  Surprised, Bo rushed to catch up. “Now what?”

  “That big guy at the desk,” whispered Aiden. “He’s FBI.”

  Bo whistled under his breath. “You guys are like the king and queen at homecoming. Everybody wants a piece of you.”

  “This guy wants all the pieces,” Meg amended bitterly. “And he wants them in jail.”

  “Hey!” Harris said suddenly.

  Aiden’s blood frosted over in his arteries. He risked a backward glance, his body coiled like a spring, ready for full flight.

  Behind them, the FBI man had called over a nurse to look at the photographs.

  False alarm.

  Bo grabbed their wrists and yanked them back into the stairwell, out of view.

  “That was close,” panted Meg as they ran up the steps.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Aiden urged. “Sooner or later he’s going to show those pictures to somebody who’s seen us.”

  “There has to be another exit,” the IC leader said determinedly.

  “Not from the second floor,” Meg pointed out.

  “We’ll get as far from reception as we can up here,” Bo decided. “Then we can look for another way down.”

  They strode past Mrs. Metcalfe’s room, past the nurse’s station, and turned down the long hall that led to the rear of the building. Their eyes fell on the rear stairwell at the end of the corridor. All three broke into a run.

  Aiden got there first. He reached for the handle just as the heavy metal door swung open and a figure in pale blue scrubs stepped out.

  Hairless Joe.

  The shock wave traveled from Aiden to Hairless Joe, to Meg, and finally to Bo. The assassin was the first to react. With a well-practiced windmill motion, he reached into his elastic waistband and pulled out a pistol. A black cylinder was attached to the end of the barrel.

  A silencer.

  He’s going to shoot us right here in the open! Aiden thought, petrified.

  The weapon swung around until it was pointed at Aiden’s chest.

  With a battle cry, the leader of the International Crew flung himself at the bald man just as he squeezed the trigger. The pistol fired — a sound closer to a cough than a gunshot. Aiden felt the bullet whiz past his shoulder, missing him by an inch or less. It tore a small chunk out of the doorframe behind him.

  Viciously, Hairless Joe slammed the butt of the revolver into Bo’s head. The gang leader crumpled to the floor, out cold.

  “Bo!” Meg cried. Desperately, she grabbed the first thing she could get her hands on — a rolling cart bearing a portable heart defibrillator. With all her might, she swung the heavy device, sending it wheeling toward the assassin.

  It curved around and struck his elbow. The gun dropped from his hand and skittered across the floor. Hairless Joe dove for it, his hand reaching for the grip. Meg’s foot
came out of nowhere, stomping on his outstretched fingers. The bald man howled in pain.

  “Aiden, help me!” She gasped, grinding her sneaker down with all her might.

  But Aiden’s slack-jawed attention was focused not on the battle on the linoleum, but on the battery meter on the defibrillator. It read full power.

  As he took the paddles from the cradle, there was a high-pitched whistle like a camera flash recharging itself. “Get off him!” he ordered Meg.

  “No!” she cried, horrified.

  There was no time for an explanation. Aiden reared back his foot and delivered a swift kick to his sister’s hip, sending her sprawling. His hand now free, Hairless Joe picked up the pistol.

  And then Aiden pressed both paddles onto the assassin’s bald head.

  With a click and a power hum, the defibrillator pumped four hundred joules of electricity into Hairless Joe. It was enough of a shock to jump-start a stalled heart. To a healthy person, it was like being struck by lightning.

  The assassin’s body went rigid and jumped eight inches, knocking the paddles out of Aiden’s hands and sending him sprawling. The gun fired three quick muffled shots into the suspended ceiling. Then Hairless Joe dropped like a stone and lay there, unmoving, beside Bo’s unconscious form.

  Meg was wide-eyed. “Is he dead?”

  Aiden was practically hysterical. Hairless Joe had meant to kill. But was the real murderer Aiden Falconer?

  His heart fluttered out of control like he had taken that shock himself. “I don’t know if I can handle this,” he managed, his teeth beginning to chatter.

  Meg tried to reassure him. “It was self-defense! He was going to shoot us!”

  It didn’t change the fact that Aiden had deliberately acted to end someone’s life.

  His hand shaking, Aiden placed a finger lightly on the throat of the man who had nearly killed them yet again.

  A pulse — faint but strong.

  “He’s okay!”

  A groan escaped Hairless Joe’s pale lips, and he tried to raise his head.

  “Let’s fly!” Meg picked up the gun and heaved it with all her might down the long hall. She hesitated. “Bo — ”

  Aiden glanced at the trickle of blood oozing a crooked line from the spot where the pistol had struck … then saw Bo start to stir. “Someone will come. He’ll be fine.” He threw open the stairwell door.