by Meg Cabot
I suppose I did know that, somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind. Lake Wawasee was private property. You had to be on a list of invited guests even to be let through the gates. They took security very seriously at Camp Wawasee, due to the number of expensive instruments lying around. Oh, and the kids, and all.
I looked from Pamela to Mr. Herzberg and then back again. They both looked … well, flushed. There was no other way to put it.
“Do you two know each other or something?” I asked.
Pamela, who was by no means what you’d call a shrinking violet kind of gal, actually blushed.
“No, no,” she said. “I mean … well, we just met. Mr. Herzberg … well, Jess, Mr. Herzberg—”
I could see I was going to get nothing rational out of Miss J Crew. I decided to tackle Mr. L.L. Bean, instead.
“All right,” I said, eyeing him. “I’ll bite. If you’re not a reporter, what do you want with me?”
Jonathan Herzberg wiped his hands on his khaki pants. He must have been sweating a lot or something, since he left damp spots on the cotton.
“I was hoping,” he said softly, “that you could help me find my little girl.”
C H A P T E R
6
I looked quickly at Pamela. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Jonathan Herzberg.
Great. Just great. Mary Ann was in love with the Professor.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time,” I said. “I don’t do that anymore.”
A lie, of course. But he didn’t know that.
Or maybe he did.
Mr. Herzberg said, “I know that’s what you told everyone. Last spring, I mean. But I … well, I was hoping you only said that because the press and everything … well, it got a little intense.”
I just looked at him. Intense? He called being chased by government goons with guns intense?
I’d show him intense.
“Hello?” I said. “What part of ‘I can’t help you’ don’t you understand? It doesn’t work anymore. The psychic thing is played out. The batteries have run dry—”
As I’d been speaking, Mr. Herzberg had been digging around in his briefcase. When he stood up again, he was holding a photograph.
“This is her,” he said, thrusting the photo into my hands. “This is Keely. She’s only five—”
I backed away with about as much horror as if he’d put a snake, and not a photo of a little girl, into my fingers.
“I’m not looking at this,” I said, practically heaving the photo back at him. “I won’t look at this.”
“Jess!” Pamela sounded a little horrified herself. “Jess, please, just listen—”
“No,” I said. “No, I won’t. You can’t do this. I’m out of here.”
Look, I know how it sounds. I mean, here was this guy, and he seemed sincere. He seemed like a genuinely distraught father. How could I be so cold, so unfeeling, not to want to help him?
Try looking at it from my point of view: It is one thing to get a package in the mail with all the details of a missing child’s case laid neatly out in front of one … to wake the next morning and make a single phone call, the origins of which the person on the receiving end of that call has promised to erase. Easy.
More than just easy, though: Anonymous.
But it is another thing entirely to have the missing kid’s parent in front of one, desperately begging for help. There is nothing easy about that.
And nothing in the least anonymous.
And I have to maintain my anonymity. I have to.
I turned and headed for the door. I was going to say, I staggered blindly for the door, because that sounds all dramatic and stuff, but it isn’t true, exactly. I mean, I wasn’t exactly staggering—I was walking just fine. And I could see and all. The way I know I could see just fine was that the photo, which I thought I’d gotten rid of, came fluttering down from the air where I’d thrown it. Just fluttered right down, and landed at my feet. Landed at my feet, right in front of the door, like a leaf or a feather or something that had fallen from the sky, and just randomly picked me to land in front of.
And I looked. It landed faceup. How could I help but look?
I’m not going to say anything dorky like she was the cutest kid I’d ever seen or something like that. That wasn’t it. It was just that, until I saw the photo, she wasn’t a real kid. Not to me. She was just something somebody was using to try to get me to admit something I didn’t want to.
Then I saw her.
Look, I was not trying to be a bitch with this whole not-wanting-to-help-this-guy thing. Really. You just have to understand that since that day, that day I’d been struck by lightning, a lot of things had gotten very screwed up. I mean, really, really screwed up. My brother Douglas had had to be hospitalized again on account of me. I had practically ruined this other kid’s life, just because I’d found him. He hadn’t wanted to be found. I had had to do a lot of really tricky stuff to make everything right again.
And I’m not even going to go into the stuff about the Feds and the guns and the exploding helicopter and all.
It was like that day the lightning struck me, it caused this chain reaction that just kept getting more and more out of control, and all these people, all of these people I cared about, got hurt.
And I didn’t want that to happen again. Not ever.
I had a pretty good system in the works, too, for seeing that it didn’t. If everyone just played along the way they were supposed to, things went fine. Lost kids, kids who wanted to be found, got found. Nobody hassled me or my family. And things ran along pretty damn smoothly.
Then Jonathan Herzberg had to come along and thrust his daughter’s photo under my nose.
And I knew. I knew it was happening all over again.
And there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it.
Jonathan Herzberg was no dope. He saw the photo land. And he saw me look down.
And he went in for the kill.
“She’s in kindergarten,” he said. “Or at least, she would be starting in September, if … if she wasn’t gone. She likes dogs and horses. She wants to be a veterinarian when she grows up. She’s not afraid of anything.”
I just stood there, looking down at the photo.
“Her mother has always been … troubled. After Keely’s birth, she got worse. I thought it was post-partum depression. Only it never went away. The doctors prescribed antidepressants. Sometimes she took them. Mostly, though, she didn’t.”
Jonathan Herzberg’s voice was even and low. He wasn’t crying or anything. It was like he was telling a story about someone else’s wife, not his own.
“She started drinking. I came home from work one day, and she wasn’t there. But Keely was. My wife had left a three-year-old child home, by herself, all day. She didn’t come home until around midnight, and when she did, she was drunk. The next day, Keely and I moved out. I let her have the house, the car, everything … but not Keely.” Now his voice started to sound a little shaky. “Since we left, she—my ex-wife—has just gotten worse. She’s fallen in with this guy … well, he’s not what you’d call a real savory character. And last week the two of them took Keely from the day care center I put her in. I think they’re somewhere in the Chicago area—he has family around there—but the police haven’t been able to find them. I just … I remembered about you, and I … I’m desperate. I called your house, and the person who answered the phone said—”
I bent down and picked the photo up. Up close, the kid looked no different than she had from the floor. She was a five-year-old little girl who wanted to be a veterinarian when she grew up, who lived with a father who obviously had as much of a clue as I did about how to braid hair, since Keely’s was all over the place.
“He’s got the custody papers,” Pamela said to me softly. “I’ve seen them. When he first showed up … well, I didn’t know what to do. You know our policy. But he … well, he …”
I knew what he had done. It was right there on Pamela�
�s face. He had played on her natural affection for children, and on the fact that he was a single dad who was passably good-looking, and she was a woman in her thirties who wasn’t married yet. It was as clear as the whistle around her neck.
I don’t know what made me do it. Decide to help Jonathan Herzberg, I mean, in spite of my suspicion that he was an undercover agent, sent to prove I’d lied when I’d said I no longer had any psychic powers. Maybe it was the frayed condition of his cuffs. Maybe it was the messiness of his daughter’s braids. In any case, I decided. I decided to risk it.
It was a decision that I’d live to regret, but how was I to know that then?
I guess what I did next must have startled them both, but to me, it was perfectly natural. Well, at least to someone who’s seen Point of No Return as many times as I have.
I walked over to the radio I’d spied next to Pamela’s desk, turned it on very loud, then yelled over the strains of John Mellencamp’s latest, “Shirts up.”
Pamela and Jonathan Herzberg exchanged wide-eyed glances. “What?” Pamela asked, raising her voice to be heard over the music.
“You heard me,” I yelled back at her. “You want my help? I need to make sure you’re legit.”
Jonathan Herzberg must have been a pretty desperate man, since, without another word, he peeled off his sports coat. Pamela was slower to untuck her Camp Wawasee oxford T.
“I don’t understand,” she said as I went around the office, feeling under countertops and lifting up plants and the phone and stuff and looking underneath them. “What’s going on?”
Jonathan was a little swifter. He’d completely unbuttoned his shirt, and now he held it open, to show me that nothing was taped to his surprisingly hairless chest.
“She wants to make sure we’re not wearing wires,” he explained to Pamela.
She continued to look bewildered, but she finally lifted her shirt up enough for me to get a peek underneath. She kept her back to Mr. Herzberg while she did this, and after I’d gotten a look at her bra, I could see why. It was kind of see-through, quite sexy-looking for a camp director and all. I don’t know much about bras, not having much of a need for one myself, but couldn’t help being impressed by Pamela’s.
When they had both proved they weren’t wearing transmitters, and I had determined that the place wasn’t bugged, I switched the radio off. Then, holding up Keely’s photo, I said, “I have to keep this awhile.”
“Does this mean you’re going to help?” Mr. Herzberg asked eagerly, as he buttoned up again. “Find Keely, I mean?”
“Just give your digits to Pamela,” I said, putting Keely’s photo in my pocket. “You’ll be hearing from me.”
Pamela, looking kind of moist-eyed, went, “Oh, Jess. Jess, I’m so glad. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
I’m not one for the mushy stuff, and I could feel a big wave of it coming on—mostly from Pamela’s direction, but Keely’s dad didn’t look exactly stone-faced—so I got out of there, and fast.
I would say I’d gotten approximately five or six steps down the hall before I began to have some serious misgivings about what I’d just done. I mean, okay, Pamela had seen some papers giving the guy custody, but that didn’t really mean anything. Courts award custody to bad parents all the time. How was I supposed to know whether the story he’d told me about his wife was true?
Simple. I was going to have to check it out.
Great. Not like I didn’t have enough to do. Like, for instance, look out for a cabinful of little boys, and, oh yeah, practice for my private lesson with Professor Le Blanc, flutist extraordinaire.
I was wondering how on earth I was going to accomplish all of this—find Keely Herzberg and make sure she really wanted to go back to living with her dad, keep Shane from killing Lionel, and brush up on my fingering for Professor Le Blanc—when I noticed that the secretary whose phone I’d borrowed was in her seat.
And oh, my God, she looked just like John Wayne! I’m not joking! She looked like a man, and she had a boyfriend. Not just any boyfriend, either, but one who raced cars for a living.
I ask you, what is wrong with this picture? Not like unattractive people don’t deserve to have boyfriends, but hello, I have been told by several people—and not just by my mother, either—that I am fairly attractive. But do I have a boyfriend?
That would be a big N-O.
But Ms. John Wayne over here, she not only has a boyfriend, but a totally hot one, who drives race cars.
Okay. There is so not a God. That’s all I have to say about that.
C H A P T E R
7
“Hey.” I put my tray down next to Ruth’s. “I need to talk to you.”
Ruth was sitting with the girls of Tulip Tree Cottage. They were all eating the same thing for lunch: a large salad, dressing on the side; chicken breasts with the skin removed; cottage cheese; melon slices; and raspberry sherbet for dessert. I am not even joking.
Not that the boys of Birch Tree Cottage were any different. They were following their counselor’s example, too. Only their trays were loaded down with pizza, Tater Tots, coleslaw, baked beans, peanut butter bars, macaroni and cheese, ice cream sandwiches, and chocolate chip cookies.
Hey, I’d missed dinner and breakfast. I was hungry, all right?
Ruth looked down at my tray and then glanced quickly away, with a shudder.
“Is it about your saturated fat intake?” she wanted to know. “Because if you keep eating like that, your heart is going to explode.”
“You know I have a high metabolism,” I said. “Now, listen, this is serious. I might need to borrow your car.”
Ruth had been delicately sipping her glass of Diet Coke. When I said the words “your car,” she sprayed what was in her mouth all over the little girl sitting opposite her.
“Oh, my God,” Ruth said as she leaned across the table to mop up the soda from the little girl’s face. “Oh, Shawanda, I am so sorry—”
Shawanda went, “That’s okay, Ruth,” in this worshipful voice. Like getting sprayed in your face by your counselor was this big honor or something.
“Jeez.” Ruth turned to me. “Are you high? You think I’m going to let you borrow my car? You don’t even have a license!”
I know it sounds hard to believe, but Ruth was telling the truth. I don’t have a driver’s license. I am probably the only sixteen-year-old in the state of Indiana without one.
And it’s not because I can’t drive. I am a good driver, I really am. Better, probably, than Ruth, when it comes down to it.
I just have this one little problem.
Not even a problem, really. More like a need.
A need for speed.
“Absolutely not,” Ruth said, spearing a melon wedge and stuffing it into her mouth. Ruth and I have been best friends since kindergarten, so it’s not like we ever bother being polite around one another. Ruth spoke around the food in her mouth. “If you think for one minute I would ever let you touch my car, Miss But-I-Was-Only-Going-Eighty-in-a-Thirty-Five-Mile-an-Hour-Zone, you must be on crack.”
“I am not,” I hissed at her, conscious that the gazes of all the little residents of Tulip Tree Cottage were upon us, “on crack. I just might need a car tomorrow, is all.”
“What for?” Ruth demanded.
I didn’t want to just come right out and tell her. Not in front of all those inquisitive little faces. So I said, “A situation might arise.”
“Jessica,” Ruth said. She only calls me by my full name when she is well and truly disgusted with me. “You know we aren’t allowed to leave the campgrounds except on Sunday afternoons, which we get off. Tomorrow, I shouldn’t need to remind you, is Tuesday. You can’t go anywhere. Not without losing your job. Now what’s so all-fired important that you are willing to risk losing your job over it?”
I said, “I think I have management’s okay on this one. Come on, Ruth, it will only be for a couple of hours.”
Ruth’s eyes, behind the lenses of her glasses, w
idened. “Wait a minute. This isn’t … this isn’t about that, you know, thing, is it?”
“That, you know, thing” is how Ruth often refers to my newfound talent. The fact that “you know, thing” is pretty much all her fault has never seemed to occur to her. I mean, she was, after all, the person who made me walk home the day of the lightning storm. But whatever.
“Yes,” I said. “It is about that, you know, thing. Now are you going to let me borrow your car, or not?”
Ruth looked thoughtful. “I’ll tell you what. If you can promise we won’t get into trouble, I’ll take you wherever it is you want to go.”
Great. Just what I needed.
Don’t get me wrong. Ruth’s my best friend, and all. But Ruth isn’t what you’d ever call good in a crisis. For example, once Ruth’s twin brother, Skip, who is allergic to bees, got stung by one, and Ruth responded by clapping her hands over her ears and running out of the room. Seriously. And she’d been fourteen at the time, fully capable of dialing 911 or whatever.
I tell you, it’s enough to make you question the judgment of Camp Wawasee’s hiring staff, isn’t it?
I went, carefully, “Um, you know what? Just forget about it, okay?” Maybe Pamela would let me borrow her car.
But what if Pamela was in on it? I mean, what if, despite the fact she and Jonathan Herzberg hadn’t been wearing wires, the two of them were in cahoots with the Feds? What if this whole thing was an elaborately orchestrated sting set up by my good friends with the FBI?
Which was why I needed a car. I needed to check out the situation for myself first.
And not just because there was a chance this might be a setup, but because, well, Keely had rights, too. One thing I had learned last spring—one thing that had been taught to me, and very emphatically, by a boy named Sean who I’d thought was missing, but who, when I found him, turned out to be exactly where he wanted to be—is that when you are in the missing person business, it is a good idea to make sure the person you are looking for actually wants to be found before you go dragging him or her back to where he or she came from. It just makes sense, you know?
