Sanctuary Page 4

  "Miss," a sheriff's deputy said, getting up from the cold hard soil upon which he'd been kneeling. "I'm sorry, miss, but you need to stand back. Marty? Marty, what are you thinking, letting people through here?"

  Marty came hurrying up, looking red-faced and ashamed.

  "Sorry, Earl," he said, panting. "I didn't see her, she came by so fast. Come on, miss. Let's go—"

  But I didn't move. Instead, I pointed.

  "I know him," I said, looking down at the body that lay, shirtless, on the frozen ground.

  "Jesus." Rob's soft breath was warm on my ear.

  "That's my neighbor," I said. "Nate Thompkins."

  Marty and Earl exchanged glances.

  "He went to get whipped cream," I said. "A couple of hours ago." When I finally tore my gaze from Nate's bruised and broken body, there were tears in my eyes. They felt warm, compared to the freezing air all around us.

  I felt one of Rob's hands, heavy and reassuring, on my shoulder.

  A second later, the county sheriff, a big man in a red plaid jacket with fleece lining came up to me.

  "You're the Mastriani girl," he said. It wasn't really a question. His voice was deep and gruff.

  When I nodded, he went, "I thought you didn't have that psychic thing anymore."

  "I don't," I said, reaching up to wipe the moisture from my eyes.

  "Then how'd you know"—He nodded down at Nate, who was being covered up with a piece of blue plastic—"he was here?"

  "I didn't," I said. I explained how Rob and I had come to be there. Also how Dr. Thompkins had been over at my house earlier, looking for his son.

  The sheriff listened patiently, then nodded.

  "I see," he said. "Well, that's good to know. He wasn't carrying any ID, least that we could find. So now we have an idea who he is. Thank you. You go on home now, and we'll take it from here."

  Then the sheriff turned around to supervise what was going on beneath the flood lamp.

  Except that I didn't leave. I wanted to, but somehow, I couldn't. Because something was bothering me.

  I looked at Marty, the sheriff's deputy, and asked, "How did he die?"

  The deputy shot a glance at the sheriff, who was busy talking to somebody on the EMS team.

  "Look, miss," Marty said. "You better—"

  "Was it from those marks?" I had seen that there'd been some kind of symbol carved into Nate's naked chest.

  "Jess." Now Rob had hold of my hand. "Come on. Let's go. These guys have work to do."

  "What were those marks, anyway?" I asked Marty. "I couldn't tell."

  Marty looked uncomfortable. "Really, miss," he said. "You'd better go."

  But I didn't go. I couldn't go. I just stood there, wondering what Dr. Thompkins and his wife were going to do, when they found out what had happened to their son. Would they decide to move back to Chicago?

  And what about Tasha? She seemed to really like Ernest Pyle High School, if her enthusiasm about the yearbook committee was any indication. But would she want to stay in a town in which her only brother had been brutally murdered?

  And what was Coach Albright going to say when he learned he'd lost yet another quarterback?

  "Mastriani." Rob was starting to sound desperate. "Let's go."

  I didn't realize precisely why Rob was sounding so desperate until I turned around. That was when I very nearly walked into a tall, thin man wearing a long black coat and a badge that indicated that he was a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  "Hello, Jessica," Cyrus Krantz said to me, with a smile that I'm sure he meant to be reassuring, but which was actually merely sickening. "Remember me?"

  C H A P T E R

  5

  It would be hard to forget Cyrus Krantz. Believe me, I've tried. He's the new agent assigned to my case. You know, on account of me being Lightning Girl and all.

  Only Cyrus Krantz isn't exactly a special agent. He's apparently some kind of FBI director. Of special operations, or something. He explained the whole thing—or at least he tried to—to my parents and me. He came over to our house not long after Mastriani's burned down. He didn't bring a pie or anything with him, which I thought was kind of tacky, but whatever. At least he called first, and made an appointment.

  Then he sat in our living room and explained to my parents over coffee and biscotti about this new program he's developed. It is a division of the FBI, only instead of special agents, it is manned by psychics. Seriously. Only Dr. Krantz—yeah, he's a doctor—doesn't call them psychics. He calls them "specially abled" individuals.

  Which if you ask me makes it sound like they must all take the little bus to school, but whatever. Dr. Krantz was very eager for me to join his new team of "specially abled" secret agents.

  Except of course I couldn't. Because I am not specially abled anymore. At least, that's what I told Dr. Krantz.

  My parents backed me up, even when Dr. Krantz took out what he called "the evidence" that I was lying. He had all these records of phone calls to 1-800-WHERE-R-YOU, the missing children's organization with which I have worked in the past, that supposedly came from me. Only of course all the calls, though they were from my town, were placed through pay phones, so there was no real way to trace who'd made them. Dr. Krantz wanted to know who else in town would know the exact location of so many missing kids—a couple hundred, actually, since that day I'd been hit by lightning.

  I said you never know. It could be anybody, really.

  Dr. Krantz made this big appeal to my patriotism. He said I could help catch terrorists and stuff. Which I admit would be pretty cool.

  But you know, I am not really sure that is something I would like to subject my family to. You know, the vengeful wrath of terrorists, peeved that I caught their leader, or whatever. I mean, Douglas gets freaked by call-waiting. How much would terrorists rock his world?

  So I politely declined Dr. Krantz's invitation, all the while insisting I was about as "specially abled" as Cindy Brady.

  But that didn't mean Dr. Krantz had given up. Like his protégés—Special Agents Smith and Johnson, who'd been pulled off my case and whom I sort of missed, in a weird way—Dr. Krantz wasn't about to take no for an answer. He was always, it seemed, lurking around, waiting for me to mess up so that he could prove I really did still have my psychic powers.

  Which was unfortunate, because he was neither as pretty as Special Agent Smith, or as fun to tease as Special Agent Johnson. Dr. Krantz was just …

  Scary.

  Which was why when I saw him there in that cornfield, I let out a little shriek, and must have jumped about a mile and a half into the air.

  "Oh," I said, when I'd pulled myself together enough to speak in a normal voice. "Oh, Dr. Krantz. It's you. Hi."

  "Hello, Jessica." Dr. Krantz has kind of an egg-shaped head, totally bald on top, only you couldn't tell just then, because he was wearing a hat pulled down low over his eyes. I guess he thought this made him look like Dr. Magneto, or something. He seemed like the kind of guy who'd want to be compared to the X-men's Dr. Magneto.

  His gaze flicked over Rob, whom he'd met before, only not in my living room, of course.

  "Mr. Wilkins," he said, with a nod. "Good evening."

  "Evening," Rob said, and, letting go of my hand to grab my arm instead, he began pulling. "Sorry. But we were just leaving."

  "Slow down," Dr. Krantz said, with a creaky laugh. "Slow down there, young man. I'd like a word with Miss Mastriani, if I may."

  "Yeah?" Rob said. He was about as fond as scientists in the employ of the U.S. government as he was of cops. "Well, she doesn't have anything to say to you."

  "He's right," I said, to Dr. Krantz. "I really don't. Bye."

  "I see." Dr. Krantz looked faintly amused. "And I suppose it was only by coincidence that you stumbled across this crime scene?"

  "As a matter of fact," I said, in some surprise, since for once I was telling the truth, "it was. I was just passing by on my way home from Rob's."

&n
bsp; "And the fact that I overheard you tell those gentlemen over there that the victim happens to be your neighbor?"

  I said, "Hey, you're the government operative, not me. You ought to know more about this than I do. I mean, I'd feel pretty bad if a kid got killed during my watch."

  Dr. Krantz's expression did not change. It never does. So I wasn't sure whether or not my words hit home.

  "Jessica," Dr. Krantz said. "I want to show you something."

  We were standing a little ways away from the circle the police officers and sheriff's deputies had made around the blue tarp covering Nate's body. But the glare from the floodlight was bright enough that, even though it was nighttime, I could see the details in the photo Cyrus Krantz pulled from inside his coat with perfect clarity.

  It was, I realized, the overpass Mrs. Lippman had been talking about at dinner. The one with the graffiti spray-painted onto it. The graffiti she'd assumed was a gang tag. I myself had never noticed it.

  Looking at it then, in the cold white glow of the floodlight, I saw that the red squiggle—that's all it looked like to me—seemed vaguely familiar. I had seen it before. Only where? There is not a lot of graffiti in our town. Oh, sure, the occasional Rick Loves Nancy out by the quarry. Every once in a while someone with a little too much school spirit painted Cougars Rule on the side of our rival high school's gymnasium. But that was it as far as graffiti went. I couldn't think where I could possibly have seen that red squiggle before.

  Then, all at once, it hit me.

  On Nate Thompkins's chest.

  "So it is gang related?" I asked, handing the photo back to Cyrus Krantz. The two Thanksgiving suppers I'd eaten weren't sitting too well in my stomach all of a sudden.

  Dr. Krantz tucked the photo back where he'd found it. "No," he said, rebuttoning his coat. Dr. Krantz was always very neat and tidy. At our house, he hadn't left a single crumb on his plate. And my mom's biscotti is pretty crumbly.

  "This," he said, tapping the pocket that held the photo, "was a warning. That"—He nodded at the blue tarp—"is just the beginning."

  "The beginning of what?" I asked. Mrs. Wilkins's pumpkin pie was definitely on its way back up.

  "That," Cyrus Krantz said, "is what we're going to find out, I'm afraid."

  Then he turned around and started striding from the cornfield, back to his long, warm car.

  Wait, I wanted to call after him. What can I do? What can I do to help?

  But then I remembered that I am not supposed to have my psychic powers anymore. So I couldn't really offer him my help.

  Besides, what could I do? Nobody was missing.

  Not anymore.

  I didn't speed the rest of the way home. Not because I was afraid of getting caught, but because I was really afraid of what I was going to find when I pulled onto Lumbley Lane. Even the purr of Rob's motorcycle behind me—he followed me home—wasn't very reassuring.

  When we pulled onto my street, I saw the flashing lights right away. The sheriff must have radioed in the information I'd given him, since there were already two squad cars parked outside the Thompkins house. As I pulled into our driveway, Dr. Thompkins was just opening the door to let in the officers who stood there, their hats in their hands. Neither of them turned around as Rob, with a wave to me, took off down the street, having successfully escorted me practically to my door.

  My entire family had their faces pressed to the glass of the living room windows when I walked in. Well, everybody except for Douglas, who was probably hiding in his room (flashing lights are not among his favorite things: They tend to remind him of the several ambulance trips he has taken in his lifetime).

  "Oh, Jess," my mom said, when she saw me. The dining room table was clear. Everyone except for Claire had left. "Thank God you're home. I was getting worried."

  "I'm fine," I said.

  "Where does this Joanne live, anyway?" my mom wanted to know. "You were gone for hours."

  But I could tell she wasn't really interested in my answer. All of her attention was focused on the Hoadley—I mean, Thompkins—house across the street.

  "Those poor people," she murmured. "I hope it isn't bad news."

  "Ma," Mike said, in a sarcastic voice. "Two sheriff cars are parked in their driveway. You think they're there with good news?"

  "Don't call me Ma," my mother said. Then she seemed to realize what everybody was doing. She looked shocked. "Get away from the windows! It's shameful, spying on those poor people like this."

  "We aren't spying, Antonia," Great-aunt Rose said. "We are merely looking out the window. There's no law against that."

  "Mrs. Mastriani is right," Claire said primly, getting up off the couch. "It's wrong to peep through other people's windows."

  Claire obviously had no clue that Mike had been spying on her through her windows with a telescope for years.

  I could have told them, I guess. I mean about Nate. But the way it was, I had barely been able to make it home with my dinner intact. I wasn't all that eager to risk losing it again. Instead, I said, "I'm going to bed," and I started up the stairs to my room. Only my mother said good night, and she sounded pretty distracted.

  Upstairs, I saw that Douglas's bedroom light was still on. I thumped on his door instead of just barging in, like I used to do. Douglas has gotten a lot better since starting his job in the comic book store. I figured I'd reward him by letting him have some privacy for a change. Mr. Goodhart says this is called positive reinforcement.

  "Come in, Jess," Douglas said. He knew it was me by my thump. My mom taps all timidly, my dad knocks Shave-and-a-Haircut, and Mike never visits Douglas, if he can help it. So Douglas always knows when it's me.

  "Hey," I said. Douglas was lying on his bed, reading, as usual. Tonight it was the latest installment of Superman. "What time did everybody leave?"

  "About an hour ago," he said. "Mr. and Mrs. Abramowitz had a big fight over where they're going to go for Christmas break, Aspen or Antigua."

  "Must be nice," I said. The Abramowitzes are way rich.

  "Yeah. Skip contributed by having an asthma attack. Between that and Aunt Rose, it was an evening to remember."

  "Huh," I said.

  He must have seen by my face that something was wrong, since he went, "What?"

  I shook my head. For a minute, I'd been picturing Nate Thompkins, as I'd last seen him, lifeless in that cornfield. "Oh," I said. "Nothing."

  "Not nothing," Douglas said. "Tell me."

  I told him. I didn't want to. All right, I did. But I shouldn't have. Douglas has never been what you'd call well. I mean, he was always the one the other kids picked on in school, at the park, wherever. You know the kind. The one they call Spaz and Tard and Reject. I had spent much of my young adulthood pounding on the faces of people who'd dared to make fun of my older brother for being different.

  And that's all Douglas is. Not crazy. Not retarded. Just different.

  When I was through, Douglas, who knows the truth about my "special ability"—but not about Rob; no one knows the truth about Rob, except for Ruth who is, after all, my best friend—let out a big gush of air.

  "Whoa," he said.

  "Yeah," I said.

  "Those poor people," he said, meaning the Thompkinses.

  "Yeah," I said.

  "I've seen the daughter," he said, meaning Tasha. "At the store."

  "Really?" Somehow I could not picture shy, pretty Tasha Thompkins, always so conservatively dressed, in Underground Comix, where Douglas worked.

  "She's into Witchblade," Douglas elaborated. He seemed really concerned. I mean, for Douglas. "What did it look like, anyway?"

  He had thrown me. "What did what look like?"

  "The symbol," Douglas said, patiently. "The one on Nate's chest."

  "Oh," I said. I went over to his desk and drew it, not very expertly, on a pad of paper I found lying there. "Like this," I said, and handed it to him.

  He took the pad and studied what I had drawn. When, after a minute, he continue
d to squint down at it, I said, "It's supposed to be a gang symbol, or something. It only makes sense if you're in the gang."

  "This isn't a gang symbol," Douglas said. "I mean, I don't think so. It looks familiar."

  "Yeah," I said. "Because you've probably seen it before, driving under the overpass. Somebody spray-painted it there."

  "I never go by the overpass," Douglas said. Then he did something really weird. I mean weird for Douglas.

  He got out of bed and started pulling books off his shelves. Douglas has more books—and comic books—than anyone I know. Still, if you wanted to borrow one, and took it down off the shelf and forgot to mention it to him, Douglas would notice right away it was missing, even though there are maybe a thousand other ones that look exactly like it right there on the shelf beside it.

  Douglas is one of those book people.

  Seeing that he was going to be occupied until well into the night, I left. I doubted he even noticed. He was way too absorbed in looking things up.

  In my own room, I undressed quickly, slipping into my pajamas—a pair of fleece warm-up pants and a long-sleeved tee—with lightning speed. That is because my room, which is on the third floor, is the draftiest room in the house, and from Halloween until Easter it is freezing, in spite of the space heater my dad had installed.

  I don't mind the cold, however, because I have the best view of anybody from my bedroom windows, and that's including Mike, whose view into Claire Lippman's bedroom is what caused all that trouble a few months ago, when he decided to drop out of Harvard because he and Claire were in love. My view, which is from some dormer windows high above the treetops, is of all of Lumbley Lane, which in the moonlight always looks like a silver river, the sidewalks on either side of it mossy banks. In fact, when I'd been younger, I used to pretend Lumbley Lane was a river, and that I was the lighthouse operator, high above it. . . .

  Whatever. I'd been a weird kid.

  That night, as I undid Rob's watch, which he'd given me a few months earlier, and which I wore like an ID bracelet, (much to the bewilderment of my parents, who thought it was a bit odd that I went around with this bulky man's watch weighing my hand down all the time), I didn't look down at the street. I didn't pretend Lumbley Lane was a river, or that I was the lighthouse operator, guiding tempest-tossed ships safely to shore.