Code Name Cassandra 1-2

by Meg Cabot

  "He was with us on the way to the lake," Sam volunteered.

  Lionel's accent worsened, I realized, when he was stressed. It took me a minute to figure out his next words: "But I think he did not go in the water."

  "Really, Lionel?" I peered down at the little boy. "Why do you think that?"

  "If Shane had gone into the water," Lionel said thoughtfully, "he would have tried to push my head under. But he did not."

  "So he didn't actually make it into the lake?" I asked.

  The boys shrugged again. Only Lionel nodded with anything like assurance.

  "I think," Lionel said, "that Shane ran away. He was very angry with you, Jess, for not giving me the strike."

  As usual, he pronounced my name Jace. And, as usual, Lionel was right. At least I thought so. I think Shane had been angry with me … angry enough that maybe—just maybe—he wanted to teach me a lesson.

  Shane, I thought to myself. Where are you? And what are you up to?

  Suddenly, the lights came back on. Special Agent Smith came out of the kitchen, then nodded toward my room. "Are those your belongings in there?"

  I nodded.

  "I'll pack them for you," she said, and disappeared into my room, while her partner leaned against the front doorjamb and looked at his watch again.

  "Who's that guy?" Tony wanted to know.

  "Is that your boyfriend?" Doo Sun asked.

  "Is that Rob?" Arthur started to ask, but I slapped a hand over his mouth … probably as much to my own surprise as his.

  "Shhh," I said. "That's not Rob. That's just a, um, friend of mine."

  "Oh," Arthur said, when I'd removed my hand. "Have you been eating McDonald's?"

  I picked up Shane's pillow and lowered my face into it. Oh, Lord, I prayed. Give me the strength not to kill any more little boys today. One is really enough, I think.

  Special Agent Smith came out of my room, holding a duffel bag.

  "I think I've got everything," she said. "Are these Gogurts yours, or should I leave them for the children?"

  Arthur, his eyes very bright, swiveled his head toward me.

  "Hey," he said. "What is she doing? Is that your stuff?"

  "Are you leaving?" Lionel's chin began to tremble. "Are you going, Jace?"

  Exasperated—this was not how I'd wanted to break the news to the boys that I was leaving—I said to Special Agent Smith, "The Gogurts and the cookies and the chips and stuff aren't mine. Don't pack them."

  Special Agent Smith looked confused. "There are no cookies, Jess. Just these Gogurt things."

  "No cookies?" I stared at her. "There should be. There should be cookies and chips and Fiddle Faddle."

  "Fiddle what?" Special Agent Smith looked more confused than ever.

  "Fiddle Faddle," the boys shouted at her.

  "No." Special Agent Smith blinked. "None of that. Just these Gogurts."

  Still clutching Shane's pillow, I stood up and looked down at the boys.

  "Did you guys eat all that candy and stuff I confiscated from you the other day?"

  They looked at one another. I could have sworn they had no idea what I was talking about.

  "No," they said, shaking their heads.

  "I tried," Arthur confessed. "But I couldn't reach it. You put it up too high."

  Too high for Arthur.

  But not, I realized, for the largest resident of Birch Tree Cottage … besides me, of course.

  I became aware of several things all at once. One, that Ruth and Scott—followed by Dave—were stepping up onto the front porch … come to say goodbye, I guessed.

  Two, the rain outside had suddenly stopped. There was only the most distant rumbling from the sky now, as the storm moved out toward Lake Michigan.

  And three, the smell from Shane's pillow, which I still clutched, had become overwhelming.

  And that was because all at once, I knew where he was.

  And it wasn't at the bottom of Lake Wawasee.

  C H A P T E R

  15

  Look, what do you want me to say? I don't understand this psychic stuff any more than you do. Back when I'd been a special guest at Crane Military Base, they'd run a bunch of tests on me, and basically what they'd found out was that when I slip into REM-stage sleep, something happens to me. It's like the webmaster of my brain suddenly downloads some information that wasn't there before. That's how, when I wake up, I know stuff.

  Only this time, it had happened while I was awake. Really. Right while I was standing there clutching Shane's stinky pillow.

  And I hadn't felt a thing. In the comic books my brother Douglas is always reading, whenever one of the characters gets a psychic vision—and they do, frequently—he scrunches up his face and goes, "Uhnnnn …"

  Seriously. Uhnnn. Like it hurts.

  But I am telling you, downloading a psychic vision—or however they come—doesn't hurt. It's like one second the information is not there, and a second later, it is.

  Like an e-mail.

  Which was why, when I looked up from that pillow, it was really hard to contain myself. I mean, I didn't want to shout out what I knew for Special Agents Johnson and Smith to hear. I wasn't exactly anxious to let them in on this new development, considering all the time and effort I'd spent, assuring them I'd lost all psychic power entirely.

  Still, when I finally did get a chance to impart what seemed, to me, like some pretty miraculous stuff, no one was very impressed.

  "A cave?" Ruth's voice rose to a panic-stricken pitch. "You want me to go into a cave to look for that miserable kid? No, thanks."

  I shushed her. I mean, it wasn't like the Feds weren't in the next room, or anything.

  "Not you," I said. "I'll do the actual, um, cave entering." I didn't want to offend her by telling her the truth, which was that Ruth was the last person I'd ever pick to go spelunking with.

  "But a cave?" Ruth still looked skeptical. "Why would he run off and hide in a cave?"

  "Two words," I said. "Paul Huck."

  "Who," Ruth whispered, "or should I say, what is a Paul Huck?"

  "He's a guy who ran away to a cave," I explained quietly, "when he felt he was being persecuted."

  We had to talk in whispers, because we were sequestered in my tiny cubicle of a bedroom, while outside, Special Agents Johnson and Smith sat guarding the perimeter. I was supposed to be saying good-bye to the boys and my friends. The Feds had very generously allotted me ten minutes to do this. I suppose their line of thinking was, Well, she can't get up to much trouble in that tiny room, now can she?

  What they did not know, however, was that (a) the window in my tiny room actually opened wide enough for just about any size body to slip through, (b) two bodies had already slipped through it, in order to perform a small favor for me, and (c) instead of saying good-bye, like I was supposed to be doing, to Ruth and Scott and Dave, I was waiting for an opportunity to sneak out and find Shane, whom I knew now was not only not dead, but still on Camp Wawasee property.

  "Remember," I whispered to Ruth, "at the first Pit, when they read off the rules and regulations? One of them was that Wolf Cave was off-limits. What kid, hearing about Paul Huck and feeling persecuted himself, isn't going to make a beeline for that cave? Plus he took all the junk food, and my flashlight is missing."

  Ruth went, in this very meaningful tone, "Do you have any other reason to suspect he might be there, Jess?"

  The surprising answer was, "Yes."

  Ruth raised her eyebrows. "Really? What about all that stuff about how you need to enter REM-stage sleep in order to achieve … you know?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Maybe I don't need it, if I'm worked up enough. . . ."

  I didn't know how to put into words what had happened when I'd hugged Shane's pillow. How the smell of his shampoo had filled my head with an image of him, huddled in the glow of a flashlight, and stuffing his face with Fiddle Faddle.

  I don't know how it had happened, or if it would ever happen again. But I had had a vision,
while wide-awake, of a missing person. . . .

  And I was going to act on that vision, and right what I'd made wrong.

  "If you ask me," Ruth said, "the stupid kid isn't worth the trouble."

  "Ruth." I shook my head at her. "What kind of Camp Wawasee attitude is that?"

  "He's a pill," Ruth said.

  "You wouldn't say that," I assured her, "if you'd ever heard him play."

  "He can't be that good."

  "He is. Believe me." The memory of the hauntingly beautiful music Shane had played was as sharp in my head as the vision I'd had of him, shoveling Doritos into his mouth by flashlight.

  Ruth sighed. "If you say so. Still, if I were you, I'd let him stay out there and rot. He'll come back on his own when the food runs out."

  "Ruth, a kid got lost in that cave and died, remember? That's why it's off-limits. For all I know, Shane might not be able to find his way out, and that's why he's still in there."

  Ruth looked skeptical. "And what makes you think you'll be able to find your way out, if he can't?"

  I tapped my head. "My built-in guidance system."

  "Oh, right," Ruth said. "I forgot. You and my dad's Mercedes."

  Suddenly, the stillness that had fallen over the camp after the heavy rainstorm was ripped apart by an explosion so loud it made thunder sound like a finger-snap. Ruth clapped her hands over her ears.

  "Whoa," I said, impressed. "Right on cue. That boyfriend of yours sure knows how to create a diversion."

  Ruth lowered her hands and went primly, "Scott isn't my boyfriend." Then she added, "Yet. And he should know about diversions. He was an Eagle Scout, after all."

  The door to my bedroom flew open. Special Agent Smith stood there, gun drawn.

  "Thank God you're all right," she said when she saw me. Her blue eyes were wide with anxiety. "That can only be him. Clay Larsson, I mean. Stay here while Agent Johnson and I go to investigate, all right? We're leaving Officer Deckard and one of the sheriff's deputies, too—"

  "Sure," I said calmly. "You go on."

  Special Agent Smith gave me a nervous smile I suppose she meant to be reassuring. Then she shut the door.

  I stood up. "Let's get out of here," I said, and headed for the window.

  "I hope you know what you're doing," Ruth muttered unhappily as she followed me. "You know, they're probably overreacting with this whole Clay Larsson thing, but what if he really is, you know, out there, looking for you?"

  I gave her a disgusted look over my shoulder before I dropped out the window. "Ruth," I said. "It's me you're talking to. You think I can't handle one little old wife-beater?"

  "Well," Ruth said. "If you're going to put it that way …"

  We slithered out the window as quietly as we could. Outside, except for a mysterious bright orange glow from the parking lot, it was dark. It wasn't as hot as it had been, thanks to the rain.

  But everything, everything was wet. My sneakers, and the cuffs of my jeans, which had only just started to dry off, were soon soaked again. Drops of water fell down from the treetops every time a breeze stirred the leaves overhead. It was quite unpleasant … as Ruth did not hesitate to point out, at her first opportunity.

  "My ankles itch," she whispered.

  "No one said you had to come," I whispered back.

  "Oh, sure," Ruth hissed. "Leave me behind to deal with the cops. Thanks a lot."

  "If you're going to come with me, you have to quit complaining."

  "Okay. Except that all of this rain is making my allergies act up."

  I swear to you, sometimes I think it would be easier if I just didn't have a best friend.

  We'd only gone about a dozen yards when we heard it—footsteps swiftly approaching us. I hissed at Ruth to put out her flashlight, but it turned out our caution had been for nothing, since it was only Scott and Dave, hurrying to join us.

  "Hey," I said to them as they came trotting up. "Good job, you guys. They totally fell for it."

  Scott ducked his head modestly. "You were right, Jess," he said. "Tampons do make good fuses."

  I glanced at Ruth. "And you said detention was a waste of my time."

  Ruth only shook her head. "The American public education system," she said, "was clearly not designed with ingrates like you in mind."

  Dave glanced over his shoulder at the thick black smoke pouring from the parking lot into the night sky.

  "Oh, I don't know," he said. He was panting, smudged with dirt, and covered in dead leaves and clearly exhilarated. I knew what he was thinking: Never, in his seventeen years of trumpet-playing, Dungeons-&-Dragon-dice-throwing geekdom, had he ever done anything so dangerous … and fun. "I was going to see if I could get extra credit for this from my chemistry teacher next semester. Lighting a van on fire with a Molotov cocktail has to be good for at least ten bonus points."

  "You guys," Ruth said, "are insane."

  Scott looked wounded. "Hey," he said. "We used appropriate caution. No children or animals were harmed in the execution of this prank."

  "No law enforcement officials, either," Dave added.

  "I am surrounded," Ruth murmured, "by lunatics."

  "Enough already," I whispered. "Let's go."

  We ended up not actually needing our flashlights to see our way around the lake. The storm had passed, leaving behind a sky that was mostly clear. A shiny new moon shone down on us—just a sliver, but it shed enough of a glow for us to see by, at least while there were no trees overhead to block its light—along with a light dusting of stars.

  If I hadn't realized it before, from the allergy remark, I knew by the time we were halfway around the lake that bringing Ruth along had been a big mistake. She simply would not shut up … and not because she wanted the whole world to know about her itching, watery eyes, but because she wanted Scott to know how big and brave she thought he was, taking on the FBI all by himself … well, okay, with Dave's help, but still. I sincerely hoped I didn't sound like that when I talked to Rob—you know, all sugary sweet and babyish. I think if I did, Rob would have told me to knock it off already. I hoped so, anyway.

  I don't know what Dave was thinking as we made our way along the shore. He was pretty quiet. It had been, I reflected, a big day for both him and Scott. I mean, they had gotten to meet a real live psychic, thwart some FBI agents, and blow up a van, all in one day. No wonder he wasn't very talkative. It was a lot to process.

  I was having trouble processing some stuff of my own. The Rob thing, if you want the truth, bothered me a lot more than the whole thing where I managed to find a kid without catching forty winks first—especially considering the fact that I am a vital, independent woman who has no need of a man to make her feel whole. I mean, I said I'd call him, and he'd said don't? What kind of baloney was that? Is it my fault I have this very important career, and that sometimes I am forced to think first not of my own personal safety, but about the children? Couldn't he see that this wasn't about him, or even me, but a missing twelve-year-old, who, it's true, couldn't stop making fart jokes, but nevertheless didn't deserve to perish in the wilds of northern Indiana?

  Of course, there was also the small matter of my having dragged poor Rob into all of this in the first place. I mean, he'd come all the way up here, and driven me all around Chicago, and helped me deal with Keely, just because I'd asked him to. And he hadn't expected anything at all in return. Not even a single lousy kiss.

  And all he'd gotten for it was a pistol brandished at him by a member of the FBI.

  I guess, when you took into account all of these facts, it wasn't any wonder he didn't want me to call him anymore.

  But while this was perhaps the most personally troubling of the problems that were on my mind as we trudged toward Wolf Cave, it was by no means the only one. There was also, of course, the puzzling little matter of just how Dr. Alistair had found out about me. I didn't believe Pamela had told him. It was strange that he had known where I was that afternoon, when Pamela hadn't even known. I mean, I'm sure she su
spected, but I hadn't discussed my plans concerning Keely Herzberg with her. I figured the less people who knew about it, the better.

  So how had Dr. Alistair known?

  Then the moonlight vanished as we moved from the lake's shore to the deeply wooded embankment where Wolf Cave was located. If I had thought the wet grass was bad, this was about ten times worse. The incline was really steep, and since it was mostly unused, there was no path to follow … just slick, wet ground cover, mostly mud and dead leaves. The others had no choice but to turn on their flashlights now, if we didn't want to break our necks tripping over some root, or something.

  In spite of our efforts to approach the cave quietly, we must have made a considerable amount of noise—especially considering the fact that Ruth would not shut up about her stupid ankles. It was pretty quiet, that deep in the woods. There were crickets chirping, but for the first time since I'd arrived at the camp, no cicadas screamed. Maybe the rain had drowned them all.

  So it couldn't have been all that hard for Shane to hear our approach.

  Which might have explained why, when we finally reached the mouth of Wolf Cave—just a dark spot under an outcropping of boulders, jutting from the side of the steep hill we'd just climbed—there was no sign of Shane. . . .

  Well, unless you count the candy wrappers and empty boxes of Fiddle Faddle that lined the narrow entrance.

  I borrowed Ruth's flashlight and shined it into the cave—really, the mouth was surprisingly small … only three feet high and maybe two feet wide. I did not relish squeezing through it, let me tell you.

  "Shane," I called. "Shane, come out of there. It's me, Jess. Shane, I know you're in there. You left all this Fiddle Faddle out here."

  There was a sound from within the cave. It was the sound of someone crawling.

  Only the sound was going away from us, not coming closer.

  "Let's just leave him in there," Ruth suggested. "The little jerk completely deserves it."

  Scott seemed sort of shocked by her callousness. "We can't do that," he said. "What if he gets lost in there?"

  Ruth's eyelashes fluttered behind the lenses of her glasses. "Oh, Scott," she cooed in that unnaturally sweet voice. "You're so right. I never thought of that."