Lost: The Novels

by Catherine Hapka

  Dexter glanced at her in surprise. It was amazing how fast news traveled around the beach. “Yeah, I guess I was,” he admitted. “It was kind of a shock.”

  “Here.” She handed him a piece of orange, looking sympathetic. “I heard it was someone you knew. That must’ve been hard. I hope it wasn’t anyone too special to you?”

  “Not really.” Dexter popped the orange into his mouth and bit down. The juice that squirted out was so sweet it made his lips pucker. “I didn’t know him that well,” he said after he swallowed. “It was my girlfriend’s older brother—I only met him a couple of weeks ago when we all went on vacation together in Australia.”

  “Oh.” Claire cleared her throat, looking uncertain. “Um, your girlfriend, then. Was she—was she on the plane, too?”

  Dexter hesitated, then opened his mouth to answer. Before he could get the words out, he heard someone calling his name. Glancing up, he saw Jack jogging toward them.

  “There you are,” the doctor said, sounding harried. “I’ve been looking for you.” Noticing Claire, he shot her a quick smile. “Feeling okay this morning?”

  Claire put a protective hand on her belly. “Fine, thanks,” she said. “He’s been kicking again.”

  “Good, good.” Jack returned his gaze to Dexter. His eyes looked weary and a little distracted. “Listen, Dexter, I hear you have some experience in psychology.”

  “What? Not really,” Dexter protested, a little alarmed. “I’m just a psych major in college, that’s all. A freshman. I’ve only had a couple of classes so far.”

  “Close enough,” Jack said. “See, a lot of people are having trouble dealing with being here.” He waved a hand to indicate the survivors going about their business up and down the beach. “No wonder, right?”

  Claire laughed softly. “Yeah,” she said, her hand still resting on her belly.

  “Anyway, I’m too busy right now to do much about it.” Jack’s gaze wandered up the beach toward the infirmary tent, a makeshift shelter built out of blue and yellow tarps and bits of wreckage. Inside, Dexter knew, lay a man with a large, ugly, oozing wound in his gut. The man—nobody knew his name—had come out of the crash alive but with a jagged bit of metal jutting out of his side, and the previous day Jack had removed the shrapnel and stitched up the wound. People on the beach had been talking about the man in hushed tones all morning. Those few who had seen him didn’t think he looked too good. Dexter was sure Jack was doing all he could under the circumstances, but if rescue didn’t arrive soon…

  “I know,” Dexter said with a shudder. “I understand.”

  “So that’s where you come in.” Jack smiled and swiped one hand across his brow, which was dotted with sweat. “I’d appreciate it if you could talk with some of them a little—see what you can do. Can’t hurt, might help, right?”

  “I don’t know…” Dexter began uncertainly, rubbing the scar on his chin. He was afraid Jack might be expecting too much from his first-year psychological training. Besides, Dexter had planned to head back into the jungle to continue his search for Daisy.

  “Oh, go on, Dex,” Claire encouraged. “Talking with you just now certainly made me feel better. You have a really nice way about you, you know. You’ll make a great psychologist someday.”

  Dexter blushed at the compliment. “Thanks.” He hesitated another moment, still thinking of Daisy. But finally he glanced at Jack and nodded. “All right. I’ll try to help if I can.”

  “Great,” Jack said.

  “After all, my family’s always been big into helping others,” Dexter went on, trying to psych himself up for the task. “There’s even a Cross Foundation dedicated to stuff like…like…” He paused, puzzled when no examples came readily to mind. “Like, um…” he tried again. “I—I can’t remember right now. But it’s good, important stuff, I know that. It’s one of the most respected charitable organizations in the world. Maybe one of the biggest, too—I’m not really sure.…”

  He frowned slightly, wondering what was wrong with him. He’d been careful to drink plenty of water to keep dehydration at bay, and his mind felt as clear as it ever had. So why couldn’t he remember such a basic detail from his own life?

  Finally he shook his head and let it drop. Jack didn’t seem very interested in the details, anyway. He gave Dexter a short list of people he thought could use his help, then thanked him and hurried off toward the infirmary tent.

  “Wow, your family has its own charity organization?” Claire commented when Jack was gone. “That’s impressive.”

  “Yeah.” Dexter shrugged. “My—my Grandfather Cross…no, my great-grandfather…one of them started it after he made his fortune in the stock market. I think.”

  He did his best to focus his mind and summon up the right information, annoyed with the odd gaps in his memory. How was he supposed to help other people regain their sanity when big chunks of his own mind seemed to be drifting off in space? But try as he might, the only thing he could bring to mind when he thought of the Cross Foundation was the fuzzy, inexplicable image of a paramedic pushing a stretcher.

  He shook his head, frustrated with himself. “Oh well,” he told Claire, pushing himself to his feet. “I’m sure it’ll all come back to me. We’re probably all still in shock, at least a little bit.”

  “Probably,” she agreed.

  Leaving her to finish her breakfast, Dexter headed down the beach in search of the first person on his list, a woman named Rose. He found her sitting just above the tide line staring out to sea.

  “Hi there,” he said, flopping down on the sand beside her. “Remember me? We met yesterday—my name’s Dexter.”

  She didn’t respond. Her hand was at her throat, clutching the necklace she was wearing. There was a faint smile on her face, and her eyes never wavered from the horizon.

  Dexter tried to get her attention a few more times, but it was no use. She remained silent and distant, hardly seeming to know he was there. Finally he left her, feeling a bit discouraged by his first attempt at therapy.

  Fortunately he fared better with the next couple of “patients.” First he spent about twenty minutes talking with Janelle, a nervous-eyed young woman he’d met the day before, and by the time they parted ways he was pretty sure he’d managed to cheer her up a little. Then he spoke more briefly with Arzt, who despite Jack’s concern seemed okay to Dexter—just cranky and sunburned.

  Next on the list was Hurley, the big guy who’d taken on the task of organizing the food and water supplies from the plane. Over the past twenty-four hours he had also seemed to be serving as Jack’s amateur nurse, spending a lot of time with him and the injured man in the infirmary tent.

  Dexter found him digging through a suitcase in the shade of the airplane wing. “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “Dude.” Hurley glanced up at him, red-faced, panting with exertion. “People pack some really bizarre stuff in their suitcases.”

  Dexter grinned. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Hurley tossed his head to get his curly hair out of his sweaty face. “Totally. I’ve been through these bags like three times now looking for medicine and stuff, and you wouldn’t believe what I’ve found.”

  “You’re looking for medicine?” Dexter glanced toward the infirmary tent. “For that guy up there?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Hurley shrugged and added in a mutter, “Not that it’ll do him much good…”

  Ignoring that, Dexter glanced down into the suitcase. “So are you finding much?”

  “Not really,” Hurley said with another shrug. “Jack said to look for, you know, antibiotics. But there isn’t much here. I’ve been through everything.” He waved a hand toward the piles of luggage stacked nearby. Then he swallowed hard and glanced at something over Dexter’s shoulder. “Almost everything.”

  Dexter glanced back and realized he was staring at the fuselage. “Did you look inside there?”

  Hurley nodded. “Dude. No way. Bodies.”

  Dexter shuddere
d, thinking of the crash victims still trapped inside the body of the plane. After a couple of days under the hot tropical sun…

  “I hear you,” he told Hurley, banishing the sudden, gruesome image of Daisy strapped lifeless into an airline seat while flies crawled across her blank blue eyes. “I don’t blame you.”

  He immediately changed the subject, and the two of them discussed the anticipated rescue party and various other topics while Dexter helped Hurley dig through several more bags. But Dexter couldn’t help noticing that the other guy kept glancing over at the fuselage, his normally cheerful expression darkening each time. It unnerved him a little, especially when he thought about the horrors that lay inside.

  I should look for Daisy in there. The thought scampered across his mind, unasked for and unwelcome. What if she’s in there?

  He glanced nervously up at the fuselage rising up from the sand like a burnished metallic tombstone. No. She couldn’t be in there.

  What if she is?

  The more Dexter tried to squelch the idea, the more irrationally convinced he was that Daisy was lying in there, baking in the ovenlike metal shell of the plane. It was almost as if someone else were controlling his mind, someone rational and heartless.

  She isn’t on the beach, the voice insisted with cold, clear logic. She isn’t in the jungle. Where else could she be?

  “Dude. You okay? You look kind of sick or something.”

  Realizing that Hurley was peering at him with concern, Dexter forced a smile. “I’m okay,” he said. “I think I’d better get out of the sun for a while, though.”

  Hurley looked sympathetic. “Good idea,” he said, mopping his brow with a pair of boxer shorts he’d just pulled out of one of the suitcases. “It’s brutal out here.”

  Dexter said good-bye and hurried toward the tree line, carefully keeping his gaze averted from the looming bulk of the fuselage. He knew all he had to do to settle his mind was go in there and take a look around. No big deal.

  But somehow he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t go in there. Maybe Hurley’s aversion had rubbed off on him, or maybe he just couldn’t face the idea of the smell, the flies, the sadness.

  I have to, he told himself. I need to know if she’s in there.

  He was so focused on trying to convince himself that he almost crashed into Jack, who was hurrying toward him. “Sorry,” Dexter blurted out.

  “How’s it going?” Jack asked. “There’s someone else I think you should talk to—Scott got lost in the jungle, and now that he’s back he’s kind of freaking out about it. Do you have a minute to talk him down?”

  “Sure,” Dexter said, glad for any excuse to interrupt his previous train of thought. “I’ve got a minute for that. Definitely.”

  He hurried after Jack, his relief only slightly tarnished by a brief pang of guilt.

  8

  DEXTER GLANCED DOWN AT the class schedule in his hand, then up at the handwritten sign tacked beside the classroom door, feeling a brief pang of guilt. “Intro to British Literature,” the sign read. Dexter could imagine what his aunt would say if she knew he was taking that sort of class: Why are you wasting your time and my money on that fruity-loopy kind of garbage? she would demand with a snort. Use that brain everyone says you have and sign up for something useful instead. When you’re a rich doctor, you can afford to buy yourself all the high-falutin’ literature-type books you want.

  Dexter grimaced at the thought. Most of the classes he’d signed up for were more than practical enough to please Aunt Paula—Chemistry, Biology, Economics, Spanish. But he couldn’t graduate without a few credits in the humanities. So why not take something he might actually enjoy, even if it might not pay off financially someday? He’d always loved English class in high school, devouring the books his teachers assigned before the other kids had finished complaining about having to read them.

  Anyway, SuperDexter doesn’t let a couple of sour old women tell him what to do, he thought rather defiantly. SuperDexter wants to expand his mind, and he does whatever it takes to do that.

  He grinned and glanced around the crowded hallway, glad that no one could hear his thoughts. Feeling better, he stepped toward the doorway and glanced into the classroom. Inside, there was no sign of the professor yet, though about a dozen other students were already seated at the battered old built-in desks or milling around near the front of the room.

  “Yo, Dex,” a familiar voice called out. “How you doing, brother?”

  Dexter leaned back out of the doorway and glanced down the hall. Coming toward him was Lance, a guy who lived across the hall in his dorm. Lance was a freshman, too, and had been recruited for the university’s basketball team. In addition to being tall, athletic, and popular, he was one of the smartest guys Dexter had ever known. Ever since they’d met, it had been a struggle for Dexter not to fall back into his lifelong habit of being completely intimidated by people like Lance. But he was doing his best to fight that habit, and so far it seemed to be working.

  “Hey, buddy,” he said, his voice sounding as casual and easygoing as Lance’s own. As Lance loped up to him, he held out his hand for a high five. “What’s going on?”

  Lance slapped his hand with a grin. “Just trying to survive the first week,” he said. “Man, the professors here are brutal—I already have a paper to write and like eight chapters to read, and I’ve only been to one class so far today!”

  Dexter chuckled. “I hear you. I think my chemistry prof is trying to kill us. Bet I’ll have some reading to do for this one, too.” He hooked a thumb at the sign by the classroom door. “You taking this class?”

  “No way, man.” Lance shook his head. “I had enough lit classes in high school. I’m taking Psych 101 for my freshman humanities requirement—way easier.”

  “Sounds good. I’d better get in there,” Dexter said. “See you later.”

  “Yeah. If you want, knock on my door when you go to dinner, okay? Maybe we can head over to the dining hall together.” Lance tossed him a mock salute and turned away. “Don’t think too hard, brother!”

  “See you.” Dexter felt like a million bucks as he headed into the classroom. If someone like Lance wanted to be his friend, how much of a loser could he be? Maybe the people back home—Aunt Paula, the kids at school—had been wrong about him all these years.

  He looked around for an empty seat. Just as he was about to take a spot near the back of the room, he glanced forward…and his heart skipped a beat. There, sitting in the front row, was the girl from the green! Her blond head was bowed over some papers on her desk, but he would have recognized her anywhere. He’d been keeping his eyes peeled for her since that first encounter a couple of days ago, but hadn’t seen her. Until now.

  His throat had suddenly gone dry, and he swallowed hard. This was his chance. Would he dare to take it?

  What would SuperDexter do? he asked himself.

  That gave him courage. Taking a deep breath, he walked forward and slipped into the empty desk beside hers.

  She glanced up at him. He smiled at her.

  “Hey,” he said, feigning surprise. “It’s you.”

  For a split second she looked puzzled, then her smiled widened. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “The guy who couldn’t find the registrar’s office.”

  Her tone was playful rather than mean, and he laughed. “Yeah, that’s me,” he said. “If I’d been any closer, I would’ve tripped over it.”

  She giggled, then stuck out her hand. “I’m Daisy,” she said. “Daisy Ward.”

  “Dexter Stubbs,” Dexter responded, taking her hand. Her skin felt soft and warm to the touch, and he didn’t want to let go. “Are you a freshman?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “English major—at least for now. My father claims I’ll probably change my mind at least fifteen times before graduation.” She let out one of her merry little musical laughs. “I think he’s secretly hoping I’ll major in Econ, just like he did when he was a student here a million years ago.
What about you?”

  “Freshman. Undeclared,” Dexter said. “I’m thinking about—about being an English major, too.” That was true, technically. He had thought about it. He just knew his aunt would never allow it, not while he was on her dime.

  Forcing such gloomy thoughts out of his mind, he did his best to focus on what Daisy was saying. She was talking about her favorite authors and the classes she’d taken in high school. Before long, they were chatting about books and literature as if they’d known each other forever. Even though he’d been looking forward to this class all day, Dexter was disappointed when the professor came in and called for order.

  As the class wound down an hour later, Dexter frantically searched his mind for something witty to say to Daisy to get her to stay and talk to him for a few minutes. He still barely knew anything about her, and he couldn’t stand the thought of waiting until the next meeting of the literature class, two days later, to find out more.

  To his surprise, she was the first one to speak after the professor dismissed the class. “So what did you think, Dexter Stubbs?” she asked. “You’re not going to drop the class or anything, are you?”

  “No way,” he said quickly, feeling a moment of panic. He’d never even considered that possibility, but what if she had? What if she dropped the class and he never saw her again? “What about you?” he asked as casually as he could manage.

  She started gathering up her notebooks and tucking them into her bag. “Nope,” she said lightly. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for the whole semester. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind,” he choked out, overwhelmed at the realization that the most beautiful, amazing girl he’d ever met was…yes…flirting with him!

  She smiled. “Good. Where are you going next?”

  Before he quite realized what was happening, the two of them were strolling down the campus walk together on their way to a local coffee place. “So you said your dad went to school here too, right?” he said. “That’s cool.”

  She shrugged. “I guess. Although I guess some people think I have it easy, being a legacy and all.”