Safe House 1-3

by Meg Cabot

  "Mark's biggest mistake," I went on, "was enlisting the help of someone like Jeff Day in getting him out of his little jam. I mean, on the one hand, it makes sense, since Jeff is used to taking direction from Mark, on account of Mark being the team quarterback and all. But Jeff needs a lot of direction. He was always coming up to Mark and asking him what to do … especially right before the first class of the day, homeroom."

  "Where Mark sat in front of me," Claire said. She was taking her role as victim very seriously, and waved her arm, the one with the IV in it, as much as possible, to bring attention to her infirmity. "So of course this morning, when he and Jeff were whispering before the bell rang, something about the way they looked … so sneaky . . . triggered something. I just knew. I can't say how I knew. I just put two and two together. But you can't go to the police, you know, with a hunch. But I figured I could go to Jess—"

  "But when she tried," I said, "Mark caught her. And she was so startled—"

  "I ran," Claire said gravely. "Like a startled fawn."

  I wasn't so sure about the fawn part. Claire was kind of tall for a fawn. A gazelle, maybe.

  "But Mark went around the side of the building," I said, "and caught up with her, and—"

  "—hit me right back here," Claire said, touching the back of her head, "with something heavy. And when I woke up again, I was in his trunk."

  "My guess is he was going to take her to the house on the pit road," I said, "and do to her what he'd done to Amber...."

  "So what," Ruth asked, "is going to happen? To Mark, I mean?"

  "Well," I said. "With the help of Jeff's testimony—which I'm sure he'll give in exchange for a reduced sentence for his part in the whole thing—Mark's going to prison. For a long time."

  Which was really going to mess up his plan for getting drafted right out of college by the NFL.

  Before anyone could say anything in reply to this, Claire's parents, Dr. and Mrs. Lippman, came back into the room.

  "Oh, thanks, kids," Mrs. Lippman said, "for keeping our baby entertained while we were gone. Here, Claire, a mint-chocolate-chip shake, just like you asked."

  Claire immediately lost all of the animation she'd had when talking to Ruth and Skip and me. Instead, she fell back against the pillows, and let her head loll a little.

  She was really milking this for all she was worth. Well, she was in the drama club, after all.

  "Thanks, Mom," she said weakly.

  "Well, uh," I said. "We better go."

  "Yeah," Ruth said, slipping off the windowsill. "Visiting hours are up anyway. Bye, Claire. Bye, Dr. and Mrs. Lippman."

  "Bye, kids," Dr. Lippman said.

  But Mrs. Lippman couldn't let it go with a simple good-bye. No, she had to come over and give me a big hug and call me her little girl's savior and tell me that if there was anything—anything at all—she or her husband could do for me, I needed only to ask. The Lippmans—along with, surprise, surprise, Heather's parents—were starting a Restore Mastriani's Fund. I wished that instead they were starting a Pay Off Karen Sue Hankey's Medical Bills Fund, so that Mrs. Hankey would drop her suit against me.

  But beggars can't be choosers, I guess, so all I said, as Mrs. Lippman attempted to squeeze the life out of me, was, "Uh, you're welcome."

  Barely escaping with my ribs intact, I followed Ruth and Skip out into the hall.

  "Whew," Ruth said. "Now I know where Claire gets her sense of the dramatic."

  "Tell me about it," I said, scrubbing Mrs. Lippman's lipstick off my cheek, where she'd kissed me.

  "Should we stop by and see Heather?" Skip asked as we made our way to the elevators.

  "They released her already," I said. "Broken arm, couple of busted ribs, and a concussion, but otherwise, she's going to be all right."

  "Physically," Ruth said, punching the button marked DOWN. "Mentally, though? After having been through what she went through?"

  "Heather's pretty tough," I said. The elevator came, and we all got on it. "She'll be back out there, shaking her pompons, in no time."

  "Yeah, but what is she going to shake those pompons for?" Ruth wanted to know. "I mean, without Mark and Jeff, the Cougars don't have much of a chance of making it to State. Or anywhere, for that matter."

  "Well," I said. "There's always the basketball team. None of them, as far as I know, have murdered anyone lately."

  "So, Jess," Skip said, as the doors opened to the hospital lobby. "How does it feel to be a hero? Again?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Not so great, really. I mean, if I'd have been able to figure it out sooner, I might have saved Amber. Not to mention Mastriani's."

  "How did you figure it out?" Ruth asked. "I mean, how'd you know Claire was locked inside Mark's trunk?"

  It was a question I knew I'd get asked eventually, though I'd been hoping against hope to avoid it. How was I going to explain that for a moment, I'd been Claire, inside that trunk? And all because she'd dropped her sweater … a sweater I'd just returned to her, by the way.

  "I don't know," I lied. "I just … I just knew is all."

  Ruth looked at me sarcastically. "Yeah," she said. "Right. Just like this summer, with Shane and the pillow. I get it."

  Ruth got it, all right. I just hoped nobody else did.

  "What pillow?" Skip wanted to know.

  "Never mind," I said. "Listen, you guys, I better get home. My mom's having a big enough cow as it is, what with the restaurant, and now Douglas and this job thing. Not to mention Karen Sue's lawsuit—"

  "I can't believe she's really suing," Skip said, looking indignant. "I mean, after Jess pretty much single-handedly caught a murderer and all, in her own school."

  "Well," I said, a little sheepishly. "I did almost break Karen Sue's nose. Not that she didn't deserve it."

  Ruth tactfully changed the subject.

  "So what's with that, anyway?" Ruth asked. "Douglas, I mean. Comix Underground is totally skeevy. Why would anyone want to work there? It's always packed with members of the turtle patrol."

  "Hey," Skip said, sounding offended. Skip, I knew, often shopped at Comix Underground.

  "I don't know," I said with a shrug. "He's Douglas. He's always marched to a different drummer."

  "I'll say." Ruth shook her head. "God, I'm sure glad I'm not living in your house. It's going to be like World War—" She broke off, and, looking toward the sliding doors by the ambulance bay, said, "Well, I was going to say World War Three, but I think I'm going to have to amend that to World War Four."

  I followed her gaze. "What? What are you talking about?"

  Skip saw him before I did. "Whoa," he said. "Alert the Pentagon. The Mastriani household has just gone to Def Con One."

  And then I saw him. And froze in my tracks.

  "Mike!" I couldn't believe it. "What are you doing here?"

  Mike had obviously just come from the airport. He had an overnight bag with him and looked, to put it mildly, like crap. He hurried up to us and said, "How is she? Is she all right?"

  "Why are you here?" I demanded. "Didn't Mom and Dad just drop you off at Harvard last week? What are you doing back?"

  Michael glared down at me. "You think I could stay there, knowing what happened?"

  "Mike," I said. "For God's sake. The insurance is going to pay to rebuild the place. It is not that big a deal. I mean, yeah, it's sad and all, but when I talked to Dad a little while ago, he was totally into the idea of redesigning, He is going to kill you when he finds out you—"

  "I don't care about the stupid restaurant," Mike said, his voice filled with scorn. "I didn't come back for that. It's Claire I care about."

  I blinked at him. "Claire?"

  "Yes, Claire." Mike looked down at me worriedly. "Claire Lippman. How is she? Is she going to be all right?"

  I could only stare up at him with, I am sorry to say, my mouth hanging open. Claire? He'd come all the way back from college—probably blown an entire semester's allowance buying an airline ticket at the last minute—becau
se of Claire, a girl who'd never spoken to him before in her life? Were both my brothers insane?

  It was Ruth who said, "Claire's going to be fine, Michael." I was proud of her for being so calm. Ruth had had her own little crush on Mike awhile back. Her summer romance with Scott had apparently cured her of it, however. "She's just, you know, being held overnight for observation."

  "I want to see her," Mike said. "What room is she in?"

  "Four-seventeen," Skip said, at the same time that I finally burst out with, "Are you crazy? You flew a thousand miles just to make sure a girl who doesn't even know you're alive is okay?"

  Mike looked down at me and shook his head, completely unimpressed by my outburst. "Tell Mom and Dad," he said, "that I'll be home in a little while."

  Then he started for the hospital elevators with a little swagger in his step, as if he were Clint Eastwood or somebody.

  "Visiting hours are over," I yelled after him.

  But it didn't do any good. He was like a man possessed. He disappeared into an elevator, his shoulders thrown back and his head held high.

  "That," Ruth said, gazing after him, "is the most romantic thing I have ever seen."

  "Are you kidding?" I was appalled. "It's completely … well, it's … it's …"

  "Romantic," Ruth finished for me.

  "Sick," I corrected her.

  "I don't know," Skip said. "Claire's kind of hot."

  Ruth and I looked at him. Then we both looked away in disgust.

  "Well," Skip said, "she is."

  Ruth took me by the arm and started steering me from the hospital. "Come on," she said. "We'll stop at the Thirty-one Flavors on the way home, and you can pick up a pint of Rocky Road for your mom. That'll help, you know, when you break the news about Mikey."

  We walked out into the mild evening air. The sun had only just set, and the sky to the west was all purple and red. It occurred to me that Mark was probably looking at the same sky. Only he'd be looking at it from behind bars—from now on.

  Talk about unacceptable.

  "First thing we'll do tomorrow," Ruth was saying as we started for her car, "is reschedule your chair audition—"

  I groaned. I had forgotten all about Mr. Vine and my after-school appointment with him.

  "Then," Ruth said, "you're going to have to get Rosemary to send you some photos of kids who've got some reward money posted for their return. You're going to need some extra cash, what with the restaurant and Karen Sue's lawsuit and all."

  I groaned louder.

  "And then, I'm sorry, but we're going to have to do something about your hair. I've been thinking about this, and I really believe what you need are some highlights. Saturday nights they do free coloring at the beauty college—"

  "Hey," Skip said. "Saturday night Jess and I are going to the movies."

  "Oh, you are not," Ruth said grumpily. "I can't have my brother dating my best friend. It's too gross."

  Skip looked taken aback. "But—"

  "Shut up, Skip," Ruth said. "It's gross, and you know it. Besides, she doesn't like you. She likes that guy over there."

  Curious what she meant, I looked where Ruth was pointing. . . .

  And saw Rob, leaning against his bike, waiting for somebody.

  And that somebody, I knew, was me.

  He straightened up when he saw me and waved.

  "Oh," I said. "Uh, I'll see you guys later, okay?"

  "Whatever," Ruth said airily. "Come on, Skip."

  "But—" Skip was looking at Rob with suspicion and, it must be admitted, a small amount of dismay.

  "Sorry, Skip," I said, patting him on the arm as Ruth led him away. "But Ruth's right, you know. It'd never work. I can't stand all that hobbit stuff."

  Then, giving Skip a big smile to show how sorry I was, I hurried over to where Rob was standing.

  "Hey," I said, my smile turning shy.

  "Hey," Rob said. His smile wasn't shy at all. "How are you doing?"

  "Oh," I said with a shrug. "Okay, I guess."

  "How about Claire?"

  His mentioning Claire reminded me of Mike. I couldn't help scowling a little as I said, "Oh, she's going to be fine."

  Rob didn't seem to notice the scowl. "Thanks to you," he said.

  "And you," I said. "I mean, you kept Mark from getting away."

  "That was nothing," Rob said modestly. "Anyway, I stopped by to see if you wanted a ride home. Do you?"

  "You bet," I said. "Hey, did your mom tell you about my dad's scheme to keep all the staff from Mastriani's on payroll while the new restaurant's being built? He's converting Joe Junior's from counter service to waitress-only service."

  "She told me," Rob said with a grin. "Your dad's a good guy. Oh, hey, here, I almost forgot."

  He turned from the side compartment, where he'd been fishing out his spare helmet for me, and dropped something heavy into my hand. I looked down and was shocked to see that I was holding his watch.

  "But," I said, "this is your watch."

  "Yeah," Rob said, "I know it's my watch. I thought you wanted it."

  "But what are you going to use?" I wanted to know. Although I have to admit that, while I was asking this, I was already strapping the thing on.

  "I don't know," Rob said. "I'll make do." When he turned to hand me the helmet and saw that his watch was already on my wrist, he shook his head. "You really are weird," he said. "Do you know that?"

  "Yes," I said, and stood up on my tiptoes to kiss him....

  Only before I got a chance to, somebody nearby cleared his throat and said, "Uh, Miss Mastriani?"

  I turned my head. And stared.

  Because there, standing in front of a black four-door sedan—clearly an unmarked law-enforcement vehicle—stood a tall man I had never seen before. The man, who was wearing a hat and a trench coat even though it was like seventy degrees outside, said, "Miss Mastriani, I am Cyrus Krantz, director of Special Operations with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I happen to be Special Agent Johnson and Smith's immediate supervisor."

  I glanced at the car behind him. It had tinted windows, so I couldn't tell if anyone else was inside of it.

  "Yeah," I said. "So?"

  Which probably sounded pretty rude and all, but I had way better things to do than hang around outside the county hospital talking to the FBI.

  "So," Cyrus Krantz said, seemingly unmoved by my rudeness, "I'd like a word with you."

  "Everything I've got to say," I told him, pulling Rob's spare helmet over my head, "I already told Jill and Allan." I swung a leg over Rob's bike and settled in behind him. "Ask them about it. They'll tell you."

  "I have asked Special Agents Johnson and Smith about it," Cyrus Krantz replied, enunciating their proper titles, which I had neglected to use, with care. "I found their answers to my questions unsatisfactory, which is why I've had them removed from your case, Miss Mastriani. You will now be dealing with me, and me alone. So—"

  I lifted up the visor to my helmet and stared at him in shock. "You what?"

  "I've removed them from your case," Cyrus Krantz repeated. "Their handling of you has, in my opinion, been amateurish and entirely unfocused. What is clearly needed in your case, Miss Mastriani, is not kid gloves, but an iron fist."

  I could only stare. "You fired Allan and Jill?"

  "I removed them from your case." Cyrus Krantz, director of Special Operations, turned around and opened the rear passenger door of the car behind him. "Now, get into this car, Miss Mastriani, so that you can be taken to our regional headquarters for questioning about your involvement in the Mark Leskowski case."

  I tightened my grip around Rob's waist. My mouth had gone dry.

  "Am I under arrest?" I managed to croak.

  "No," Cyrus Krantz said. "But you are a material witness in possession of vital—"

  "Good," I said, snapping my helmet's visor back into place. "Go, Rob."

  Rob did as I asked. We left Cyrus Krantz in our dust.

  The only problem, of co
urse, is that I'm pretty sure he knows where I live.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: 382d2454-2e59-4e1b-91e0-af3f6bd2b1bc

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 18.4.2011

  Created using: calibre 0.7.52 software

  Document authors :

  Meg Cabot

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