Code Name Cassandra 1-2

by Meg Cabot

  The way I see it, it's exactly like all those times you've been sitting there thinking to yourself, Gee, So-and-So hasn't called in a while, and all of a sudden the phone rings, and it's So-and-So. And you're all, "Dude, I was just thinking about you," and you laugh because it's a big coincidence.

  Only it's not. It's not a coincidence. That was the psychic part of your brain working, the part hardly any of us ever listens to, the part people call "intuition" or "gut feeling" or "instinct." That's the part of my brain that the lightning, when it struck me, sent all haywire. And that's why I'm a receiver now for all sorts of information I shouldn't have—like the fact that Taylor Monroe, who'd disappeared from a shopping center in Des Moines two years ago, was now living in Gainesville, Florida, with some people to whom he wasn't even remotely related.

  See, ordinary people—most everyone, really, even smart people, like Einstein and Madonna—use only three percent of their brain. Three percent! That's all it takes to learn to walk and talk and make change and parallel park and decide which flavor of yogurt is your favorite.

  But some people—people like me, who've been hit by lightning, or put into a sensory deprivation tank, or whatever—use more than their three percent. For whatever reason, we've tapped into the other ninety-seven percent of our brain.

  And that's the part, apparently, where all the good stuff is. . . .

  Except that the only stuff I seem to have access to is the current address of just about every missing person in the universe.

  Well, it was better than nothing, I guess.

  But yeah, okay? In spite of the psychic vision thing, I'd slept great.

  I don't think the same could be said for my fellow campers—and their counselors. Ruth in particular looked bleary-eyed.

  "My God," she said. "They kept me up all night. They just kept yakking. . . ." Her blue eyes widened behind her glasses as she got a better look at me. I was in my bathing suit, just like my boys, with a towel slung around my own neck. "God, you're not actually going in, are you?"

  I shrugged. "Sure." What else was I supposed to do? I was going to have to call Rosemary, as soon as I could get my hands on a phone. But that, I was pretty sure, wasn't going to be for hours.

  "You don't have to," Ruth said. "I mean, it's just for the kids. . . ."

  "Well, it's not like I could take a shower this morning," I reminded her. "Not with eight budding little sex maniacs around."

  Ruth looked from me to the bright blue water, sparkling in the morning sun. "Suit yourself," she said. "But you're going to smell like chlorine all day."

  "Yeah," I said. "And who's going to get close enough to smell me?"

  We both looked over at Todd. He, too, was in a bathing suit. And looking very impressive in it, as well, I might add.

  "Not him," I said.

  Ruth sighed. "No, I guess not."

  I noticed that while Todd might be ignoring us, Scott and Dave definitely weren't. They both looked away when I glanced in their direction, but there was no question about it: they'd been scoping.

  Ruth, however, only had eyes for Todd.

  "And you have your tutorial today," she was pointing out. "I thought that flute guy was pretty hot. You don't want to smell chlorine-y for him, do you?"

  "That flute guy" was the wind instructor, a French dude name Jean-Paul something or other. He was kind of hot, in a scruffy-looking French kind of way. But he was a little old for me. I mean, I like my men older, and all, but I think thirty might be pushing it a little. How weird would that look at prom?

  "I don't know," I said as our line moved closer to the water. "He's Do-able, I guess. But no Hottie."

  I hadn't realized Karen Sue Hanky was eavesdropping until she spun around and, with flashing but deeply circled eyes, snarled, "I hope you aren't speaking of Professor Le Blanc. He happens to be a musical genius, you know."

  I rolled my eyes. "Who isn't a musical genius around here?" I wanted to know. "Except you, of course, Karen."

  Ruth, who'd been chewing gum, swallowed it in her effort not to laugh.

  "I resent that," Karen said, slowly turning as red as the letters on the lifeguard's T-shirt. "I will have you know that I have been practicing for four hours a day, and that my dad's paying thirty dollars an hour to a professor who's been giving me private lessons over at the university."

  "Yeah?" I raised my eyebrows. "Gosh, maybe you'll be able to keep up with the rest of us now."

  Karen narrowed her eyes at me.

  But whatever she'd been going to say was drowned out when the lifeguard—who was also pretty cute: definitely Do-able—blew a whistle and yelled, "Birch Tree!"

  My fellow birches and I made a run for the water and jumped in simultaneously, with much shrieking and splashing. Some of us were better swimmers than others, and there was much choking and sputtering, and at least one attempted drowning, which the lifeguard spotted. Shane was forced to sit out for twenty minutes. But, otherwise, we had a good time.

  I was teaching them a new song—since Pamela had put the kibosh on "I Met a Miss"—when Scott and Dave and Ruth and Karen strolled by with their campers. All of them, I noticed, looked a little bleary around the edges.

  "I don't understand how you can be so wide awake," Scott said. "Didn't they keep you up all night?"

  "No," I said. "Not at all."

  "What's your secret?" Dave wanted to know. "Mine were bouncing off the walls. I had to sleep with a pillow over my head."

  Ruth shook her head. "Their first night away from home," she said knowingly. "It's always the toughest. They usually settle down by the third or fourth night, out of sheer exhaustion."

  Karen Sue exhaled gustily. "Not mine, I'll bet." She glared at some passing Frangipanis, who giggled and tore off along the path, causing all of us to chime, in unison, "Walk, don't run!"

  "They are little monsters," Karen muttered, under her breath. "Won't do a thing I say, and the mouths on them! I never heard such language in all my life! And all night long, it was giggle, giggle, giggle."

  "Me, too," Ruth said tiredly. "They didn't nod off until around five, I think."

  "Five-thirty for me," Scott said. He looked at me. "I can't believe that Shane of yours just slipped off to Slumber land without a fight."

  "Yeah," Dave said. "What's your secret?"

  I honestly didn't know any better. I said, cheerfully, "Oh, I just told them all this really long story, and they nodded off right away. We all slept like stones. Didn't wake up until reveille."

  Ruth, astonished, said, "Really?"

  "What was the story about?" Dave wanted to know.

  Laughingly, I told them. Not about Rob, of course, but about the killer car, and the appropriating of some of Mr. King's works.

  They listened in stunned silence. Then Karen said vehemently, "I don't believe in frightening children with ghost stories."

  I snorted. Karen, of course, didn't know what she was talking about. What kid didn't love a ghost story? Ghost stories weren't the problem. But the fact that a three-year-old could be kidnapped from a mall and not be found until two years later?

  Now that was scary.

  Which was why, instead of joining my fellow Birch Trees for breakfast that morning—even though I was starving, of course, after my swim and my Fiddle Faddle dinner of the night before—I snuck back into the camp's administrative offices, in the hopes of finding a phone I could use.

  I scored one without a lot of trouble. The secretary with the NASCAR-driving boyfriend wasn't in yet. I slipped into her chair and, dialing nine first to get out, dialed the number to the National Organization for Missing Children.

  Rosemary didn't pick up. Some other lady did.

  "1-800-WHERE-R-YOU," she said. "How may I direct your call?"

  I had to whisper, of course, so I wouldn't be overheard. I also assumed my best Spanish accent, just in case the line was being monitored. "Rosemary, por favor."

  The lady went, "Excuse me?"

  I whispered, "Rosemary."<
br />
  "Oh," the lady said. "Um. One moment."

  Jeez! I didn't have a moment! I could be busted any second. All I needed was for Pamela to walk in and find that not only had I abandoned my charges, but I was also making personal use of camp property. . . .

  "This is Rosemary," a voice said, cautiously, into my ear.

  "Hey," I said, dropping the Spanish accent. There was no need to say who was calling. Rosemary knew my voice. "Taylor Monroe. Gainesville, Florida." I rattled off the street address. Because that's how it comes. The information, I mean. It's like there's a search engine inside of my brain: insert name and photo image of missing child, and out comes full address, often with zip code attached, of where child can be located.

  Seriously. It's bizarre, especially considering I've never even heard of most of these places.

  "Thank you," Rosemary said, careful not to say my name within hearing of her supervisor, who'd sicced the Feds on me once before. "They're going to be so happy. You don't know—"

  It was at this point that Pamela, looking troubled, came striding down the hall, heading straight toward the secretary's desk.

  I whispered, "Sorry, Rosemary, gotta go," and hung up the phone. Then I ducked beneath the desk.

  It didn't do any good, though. I was busted. Way busted.

  Pamela went, "Jess?"

  I curled into a tight ball underneath the secretary's desk. Maybe, if I didn't move, didn't even breathe, Pamela would think she had seen a mirage or something, and go away.

  "Jessica," Pamela said, in the kind of voice you probably wouldn't use if you were talking to a mirage. "Come out. I saw you."

  Sheepishly, I crawled out from beneath the desk.

  "Look," I said. "I can explain. It's my grandma's ninetieth birthday today, and if I didn't call first thing, well, there'd be H to pay—"

  I thought I'd get brownie points for saying H instead of hell, but it didn't work out that way. For one thing, Pamela had looked as if she'd already been in a bad mood before she saw me. Now she was even more upset.

  "Jess," she said in a weird voice. "You know you aren't supposed to be using camp property—"

  "—for personal calls," I finished for her. "Yes, I know. And I'm really sorry. Like I said, it was an emergency."

  Pamela looked way more upset than the situation warranted. I knew something else was up. But I figured it was some kind of orchestra camp emergency or something. You know, like they'd run out of clarinet reeds.

  But of course that wasn't it. Of course it turned out to have something to do with me after all.

  "Jess," Pamela said. "I was just going to look for you."

  "You were?" I blinked at her. There was only one reason for Pamela to have been looking for me, and that was that I was in trouble. Again.

  And the only thing I'd done recently—besides make a personal call from a camp phone—was the whole ghost story thing. Had Karen Sue ratted me out for that? If so, it had to be a record. I had left her barely five minutes ago. What did the girl have, bionic feet?

  It was clear that Pamela was on Karen Sue's side about the whole not frightening little children thing. I could see I was going to have to do some fast talking.

  "Look," I said. "I can explain. Shane was completely out of control last night, and the only way I could get him to stop picking on the littler kids was to—"

  "Jessica," Pamela interrupted, sort of sharply. "I don't know what you're talking about. There's … there's actually someone here to see you."

  I shut up and just stared at her. "Someone here?" I echoed lamely. "To see me?"

  A thousand things went through my head. The first thing I thought was … Douglas. Douglas's phone call the night before. He hadn't just been calling to say he missed me. He'd been calling to say good-bye. He'd finally done it. The voices had told him to, and so he had. Douglas had killed himself, and my dad—my mother—my other brother—one of them was here to break the news to me.

  A roaring sound started in my ears. I felt as if the bottom had dropped out of my stomach.

  "Where?" I asked, through lips that felt like they were made of ice.

  Pamela nodded, her expression grave, toward her office door. I moved toward it slowly, with Pamela following close behind. Let it be Michael, I prayed. Let them have sent Mikey to break the news to me. Michael I could take. If it was my mother, or even my father, I was bound to start crying. And I didn't want to cry in front of Pamela.

  It wasn't Mikey, though. It wasn't my father, either, or even my mother. It was a man I'd never seen before.

  He was older than me, but younger than my parents. He looked to be about Pamela's age. Still, he was definitely Do-able. He may have even qualified for Hottie. Clean-shaven, with dark, slightly longish hair, he had on a tie and sports coat. When my gaze fell upon him, he climbed hastily to his feet, and I saw that he was quite tall—well, everyone is, to me—and not very graceful.

  "M-Miss Mastriani?" he asked in a shy voice.

  Social worker? I wondered, taking in the fact that his shoes were well-worn, and the cuffs of his sports coat a bit frayed. Definitely not a Fed. He was too good-looking to be a Fed. He'd have drawn too much attention.

  Schoolteacher, maybe. Yeah. Math or science. But why on earth would a math or science teacher be here to break the news about my brother Douglas's suicide?

  "I'm Jonathan Herzberg," the man said, thrusting his right hand toward me. "I really hope you won't resent the intrusion. I understand that it is highly unusual, and a gross infringement on your rights to personal privacy and all of that … but the fact is, Miss Mastriani, I'm desperate." His brown-eyed gaze bore into mine. "Really, really desperate."

  I took a step backward, away from the hand. I moved back so fast, I ended up with my butt against the edge of Pamela's desk.

  A reporter. I should have known. The tie should have been a dead giveaway.

  "Look," I said.

  The icy feeling had left my lips. The roaring in my ears had stopped. The feeling that the bottom of my stomach had dropped out? Yeah, that had disappeared. Instead, I just felt anger.

  Cold, hard anger.

  "I don't know what paper you're from," I said stonily. "Or magazine or news show or whatever. But I have had just about enough of you guys. You all practically ruined my life this past spring, following me around, bugging my family. Well, it's over, okay? Get it through your heads: lightning girl has hung up her bolts. I am not in the missing person business anymore."

  Jonathan Herzberg looked more than a little taken aback. He glanced from me to Pamela and then back again.

  "M-Miss Mastriani," he stammered. "I'm not … I mean, I don't—"

  "Mr. Herzberg isn't a reporter, Jess." Pamela's voice was, for her, uncharacteristically soft. That, more than anything, got my attention. "We never allow reporters—and we have had our share of illustrious guests in the past—onto our properly. Surely you know that."

  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.