by Meg Cabot
I raised my eyebrows. "You guys didn't catch him?"
"We might have," Special Agent Johnson pointed out—rather nastily, if you ask me, "if certain people had been a bit more forthcoming about their activities earlier today."
"Whoa," I said. "You are not pinning this on me. It doesn't have anything to do with me. I'm just an innocent bystander in this one—"
"Jess." Special Agent Johnson frowned down at me. "We know. Jonathan Herzberg told us everything."
My mouth fell open. I couldn't believe it. That rat! That dirty rat!
It was Rob who asked suspiciously, "He told you everything, did he? With a broken jaw?"
Special Agent Johnson flipped back a few pages in his notepad, then showed it to us. There, in shaky handwriting I didn't recognize—it certainly wasn't Allan Johnson's precise script—was Jonathan Herzberg's version of the events leading up to his assault by his ex-wife's boyfriend. My name appeared frequently.
The louse. The louse had ratted me out. I couldn't believe it. After everything I'd done for him …
"Jess." Special Agent Smith, in her powder blue suit, looked more like a real estate broker than she did an FBI agent. I guess that was the point. "Clay Larsson is not a particularly stable individual. He has an arrest record a mile long. Assault and battery, resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer … He is a very dangerous and volatile person, and from what Mr. Herzberg tells us, we have reason to believe that, at this point in time, he has a particular grudge against … well, against you, Jess."
Considering the foot I'd smashed into his face, I could readily believe this. Still, it wasn't as if Clay Larsson knew who I was, much less where I lived.
"Well, that's just the thing," Special Agent Smith said, when I voiced these thoughts. "He does know, Jess. You see, he … well, he pretty much tortured Keely's father until he told him."
Rob said, "Okay. That's it. Let's go get your stuff, Mastriani. We're out of here."
It took me longer than it had taken Rob to digest what I'd just heard, though. Clay Larsson, who clearly had even worse anger-management issues than I did, knew who I was and where I lived, and was coming after me to exact revenge for (a) kicking him in the face, and (b) kidnapping his girlfriend's daughter, whom she, in turn, had kidnapped from her ex-husband?
How did I ever get to be so lucky? Really. I want to know. I mean, have you ever, in your life, met anyone with worse luck than mine?
"Well," I said. "That's great. That's just great. And I suppose you two are here to protect me?"
Special Agent Johnson put his notepad away, and when he did, I saw that his pistol was in its shoulder holster, ready for action.
"That's one way of putting it," he said. "It is in the national interest to keep you alive, Jess, despite your assertions that you no longer possess the, er, talent that originally brought you to the attention of our superiors. We're just going to hang around here and make sure that, if Mr. Larsson makes it onto Camp Wawasee property, you are protected."
"The best way to protect Jess," Rob said, "would be to get her out of here."
"Precisely," Agent Johnson said. He looked Rob up and down, like he was seeing him for the first time—which I guess he was, up close, anyway. The two of them were about the same size—a fact which seemed to surprise Agent Johnson a little. For somebody who was supposed to be inconspicuous, the agent was pretty tall.
"We're planning on taking her to a safe house until Mr. Larsson has been captured," he said to Rob.
"I don't think so," Rob said at the same time that Ruth, standing behind him, went, "Oh, no. Not again."
"Excuse me," I said to Special Agent Johnson. "But don't you remember the last time you guys took me somewhere I was supposed to be safe?"
Special Agents Johnson and Smith exchanged glances. Agent Smith said, "Jess, this time, I promise you—"
"No way," I said. "I'm not going anywhere with you two. Besides"—I looked out the double glass doors at the rain which was still streaming down— "I've got some unfinished business here."
"Jess," Special Agent Smith began.
"No, Jill," I said. Don't ask me when my relationship with Special Agents Johnson and Smith had graduated to a first-name basis. I think it was around the time I'd bought them their first double cheeseburger meal. "I'm not going anywhere. I have things to do here. Responsibilities."
"Jessica," Special Agent Smith said. "This really isn't the time to—"
"I mean it," I said. "I have to go."
And I went. I walked right out of there, right out into the rain. It was still coming down—not as hard as before, maybe, but there was plenty of it. It only took a few seconds for my shirt and jeans to get soaked.
I didn't care. I hadn't lied to them. I had things to do. Finding Shane, wherever he was, was first and foremost on my list. Was he out, I wondered, as I stalked with my head bent in the direction of Birch Tree Cottage, in this storm? Had he found shelter somewhere? Was he dry? Was he warm? Did I even care? As many times as I'd wanted to wring his stupid neck—and I'd thought about it, fairly seriously, several times a day—did I really care what happened to him?
Yeah, I did. And not just because that oversized Mullet Head was capable of making such beautiful music. But because, well, I sort of liked him. Surprising, but true. I liked the annoying little freak.
Thunder rumbled overhead, though it was farther away than before. Then Rob came jogging up behind me.
"That was some dramatic exit," he said. His shirt and jeans, I noted, were also quickly becoming soaked.
"My specialty," I said.
"You're going the wrong way."
I stopped in the middle of the path and looked around, forgetting for a second that Rob had never been to Camp Wawasee, and so would have no way of knowing which way was the right way to Birch Tree Cottage.
"No, I'm not," I said.
"Yes, you are." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "The bike's that way."
I realized what he meant, then shook my head. "Rob," I said. "I can't leave."
"Jess."
Rob hardly ever calls me by my first name. More often than not, he refers to me the way he used to in detention, where we were, basically, nothing but discipline files, badly in need of sorting—by last name only.
So when he does call me by my first name, it usually means he's being very serious about something. In this case, it appeared to be my personal safety.
Unfortunately, I had no choice but to disappoint him.
"No," I said. "No, Rob. I'm not going."
He didn't say anything right away. I squinted up at him, the rain making it hard to see. He was looking down at me, his pale blue eyes filled with something I couldn't quite put my finger on. Not love, certainly.
"Jess," he said in a low, even voice. "You know I think you're a pretty down girl. You know that, don't you?"
I blinked. It wasn't easy to look up at him, with all that rain coming down in my eyes. Plus it was pretty dark. The only way I could see him was in the light from one of the lamps along the pathways, and that was pretty dim.
But he certainly looked serious.
I nodded. "Okay," I said. "We'll call that one a given, if you want."
"Good," he said. The rain had plastered his dark hair to his face and scalp, but he didn't seem to notice. "Then maybe when I say this next part, you'll understand where I'm coming from. I did not drive all the way up here to watch you get your brains hacked out by some psycho, okay? Now you get that ass"—he pointed to the one in question—"on my bike, or I swear to God, I'm going to put it there for you."
Now I knew what was in his eyes. And it wasn't love. Oh, definitely not.
It was anger.
I wiped rainwater from my eyes.
And then I said the only thing I could say: "No."
He made that half-disgusted, half-amused smile he seems to wear fifty percent of the time he's with me, then looked off into the distance for a second … though what he saw out there, I couldn't
say. All I could see was rain.
"I have to find Shane," I shouted above a rumble of thunder.
"Yeah?" He looked down at me, still smiling. "I don't give a crap about Shane."
Anger bubbled, hot and dark, inside me. I tried to tamp it down. Count to ten, I told myself. Mr. Goodhart had suggested a long time ago that I count to ten when I felt like slugging someone. Sometimes it even worked.
"Well, I do," I said. "And I'm not leaving here until I know he's safe."
He stopped smiling.
I should have guessed what was coming next. Rob's not the kind of guy who goes around saying stuff just to hear himself talk.
Still, he's never gotten physical with me before. Not the way he did then.
I like to think that, if it had come down to it, I could have gotten away. I really think I could have. Okay, yeah, he had me upside down, which is pretty disorienting. Also, my arms were pinned, which certainly puts a girl at a disadvantage.
But I am thoroughly convinced that, with a few well-placed head-butts—if I could have gotten my head near his, which I am convinced I could have, given enough time—I could have gotten away.
Unfortunately, our tender interlude in the woods was interrupted before I was able to bring it to any sort of head-butting climax.
"Son." Special Agent Johnson's voice rang out through the rain and mist. "Put the girl down."
Rob was already striding purposefully toward his bike. He did not even slow down.
"I don't think so," was all he said.
Then Special Agent Johnson stepped out from between the trees. Even though I was upside down, I could still see he had his gun drawn—which surprised me, I must say.
It seemed to surprise Rob, too, since he froze, and stood there for a second or two. Now that I was upside down, I began to realize that my previous assumption—you know, that I was soaked—had actually been erroneous. I was not soaked. There had been no rainwater, for instance, on my stomach.
But now that I was upside down, there certainly was.
And might I add that this was not a pleasant sensation?
"You," Rob said to Special Agent Johnson, "are not going to shoot me. What if you hit her?"
"It would be unfortunate," Special Agent Johnson said, "but since she has been a thorn in my side since the day we met, it wouldn't upset me too much."
"Allan!" I was shocked. "What would Mrs. Johnson say if she could hear you now?"
"Put her down, son."
Rob flipped me over, and put me back on my feet. While this was happening, Special Agent Johnson came up and took my arm. He still had his gun out, to my surprise. But he was pointing it into the air.
"Now get on your motorcycle, Mr. Wilkins," he said to Rob, "and go home."
"Hey." Now that some of the blood was receding from my head, I could think straight. "How did you know his last name? I never told you that."
Special Agent Johnson looked bored. "License plate."
"Oh," I said.
I glanced back at Rob, standing in the rain, with his T-shirt all sticking to him. You could see his abs through the drenched material. It occurred to me that this, too, was like a scene from a music video. You know, the totally hot guy standing in the rain after his girlfriend dumps him?
Except that I so totally was not dumping him. I was just trying to find a kid. That was all.
Only nobody was letting me.
Then something else occurred to me: If Rob's T-shirt was that wet, then what about mine?
I looked down, and promptly folded my arms across my chest.
It was better this way, I thought. I mean, not about our wet T-shirts, but the fact that they were making him go away. Because I knew it would be a lot easier to ditch the Wonder Twins than it would Rob. FBI agents I didn't mind head-butting. But when it came down to it, I think hurting Rob would have been hard.
"I'll call you," I said to Rob over my shoulder, as Special Agent Johnson started to pull me back toward the center of the camp.
"Do me a favor, Mastriani," Rob said.
"Sure," I said. It was hard to walk backward through the rain, but Special Agent Johnson was pulling so hard on me, I didn't have much choice. "What?"
"Don't."
And then Rob turned and started walking away. It didn't take long for the rain and mist to swallow him up. A minute later, I heard the engine of his Indian rev up.
And then he was gone.
I looked up at Special Agent Johnson, who, unlike Rob, did not look sexy drenched in rainwater.
"I hope you're happy now," I said to him. "That guy might have been my boyfriend someday, if you hadn't come along and ruined it."
Special Agent Johnson was busy dialing some numbers on his cell phone. He said, "Do your parents know about you and Mr. Wilkins, Jess?"
"Of course they do," I said very indignantly. "Though I have my own life, you know. My parents do not dictate whom I see or do not see socially."
This was such an outrageous string of lies, I'm surprised my tongue didn't shrivel up and fall off.
Special Agent Johnson didn't look like he believed any of them, either.
"Do your parents know," he went on, as if our conversation hadn't been interrupted, "that Mr. Wilkins has an arrest record? And is currently on probation?"
"Yes," I said, as sassily as I could. Then, because I couldn't resist, I went, "Although they aren't too clear on just what he's on probation for. . . ."
Special Agent Johnson just looked down at me, frowning a little. He went, "That information is, of course, confidential. If Mr. Wilkins has not chosen to share it with … your parents, I don't see that I can."
Jeez! Shot down again! How was I ever going to find out what Rob had done to land him in the cinderblock jungle? Rob wouldn't tell me, and, not surprisingly, I couldn't get a straight answer out of the Feds, either. It couldn't have been that bad, or he'd have served time and not just gotten probation. But what was it?
It didn't look like I'd ever find out now. No, I'd managed to ruin that little relationship, hadn't I?
But what was I supposed to do? I mean, really?
Whoever was on the other end of Special Agent Johnson's cell phone must have picked up, since he said into it, "Cassie secured. Repeat, Cassie secured."
Then he hung up.
"Who," I demanded, "is Cassie?"
"I beg your pardon," Special Agent Johnson said, putting his phone away. "I ought to have said Cassandra."
"And who's Cassandra?"
"No one you need to worry about."
I glared at him. Now that I'd been out in the rain so long, I didn't even care how wet I was. I mean, it wasn't like I couldn't get any wetter.
Or more miserable.
"Wait a minute," I said. "I remember now. Seventh grade. We did mythology. Cassandra was like a psychic, or something."
"She had a talent," Special Agent Johnson admitted, "for prophecy."
"Yeah," I said. "Only she was under this curse, and—" I shook my head in disbelief. "That's my code name? Cassandra?"
"You'd have preferred something else?"
"Yeah," I said. "How about no code name?"
I was having, I decided, a pretty bad day. First a psycho wife-beater tries to kill me, then my boyfriend walks out on me. Now I find out I have a code name with the FBI. What next?
Special Agent Smith appeared from the shadows, sheltered under a big black umbrella.
"Look at you two," she said when she saw us. "You're soaked." She moved until the umbrella was covering all three of us. Well, more or less.
"I managed to secure some rooms," she said, "at a Holiday Inn a few miles away. I don't think Mr. Larsson will think to look for Jess there."
"Do I get my own room?" I asked hopefully.
"Of course not." Special Agent Smith smiled at me. "We're roomies."
Great. "I'm a remote hog," I informed her.
"I'll live," she said.
This was horrible. This was terrible. I couldn't go stay in
a cushy Holiday Inn while Shane was out in the wilderness somewhere … or worse, dead. I had to find him.
Only how was I going to do that? How was I going to find him, and not let Allan and Jill know what I was up to?
"I have to," I said, my throat dry, "get my stuff."
"Of course." Special Agent Johnson looked at his watch. It was one of those ones that light up. "We'll escort you back to your cabin to gather your belongings."
Jeez!
Still, I think Special Agents Johnson and Smith began to regret their assignment to Project Cassandra more than ever when we stepped into Birch Tree Cottage and observed the level of chaos there. The kids were off the wall. When we walked in, we narrowly escaped being hit by a flying chunk of bow rosin. Arthur was playing his tuba, in spite of the no-practicing-outside-of-the-music-building rule; Lionel was screaming for silence at the top of his lungs; Doo Sun and Tony were sword-fighting with a pair of violin bows …
And in the middle of it all, a lady police officer was standing with her hands over her ears, pleading ineffectively with her charges: "Please! Please listen to me, we're going to find your friend—"
I strode into the kitchen, opened the fuse box, and threw the switches.
Plunged into semi-darkness, the boys froze. All noise ceased.
Then I stepped out from the kitchen—
—and instantly became part of a Jessica sandwich as all of the boys surrounded me, clinging to various parts of my body and crying my name.
"All right," I yelled, after a while. "Simmer down. Simmer down!"
I disentangled myself from their embrace, then sank down onto a bed—Shane's empty bed, I saw, when lightning again lit the now darkened room. The bed was haphazardly made, with musical note sheets. Shane would have preferred, I was fairly certain, bedding emblazoned with football paraphernalia. Nevertheless, the sheets gave off a Shane-like odor that, for once, I found comforting.
"All right," I said, interrupting the cries of "Jess, where have you been?" and "Didja hear about Shane?"
"Yes, I heard about Shane," I said. "Now I want to hear your version of what happened."
The boys looked at one another blankly, then shrugged, more or less in unity.
