Sanctuary

The big question, of course, was would it work. I mean, would Chick and his friends show up in time for us to get Seth out? And what about Dr. Krantz? Let's not forget about him. The Feds had a major tendency to mess things like surprise attacks up, big time. Would Chick be able to get around whatever idiot scheme Dr. Krantz was probably, at this very moment, cooking up?

I hoped so. Not for my own sake. I didn't much care what happened to me. It was Seth I was worried about. We had to get Seth out.

Oh, yeah. And kill every True American we possibly could.

I don't normally go around wanting to kill people, but when I'd seen that burn on Seth's hand, I'd felt something I'd never felt before. I am no stranger to rage, either. I get mad fast, and I get mad often. But I could never remember feeling the way I had when I'd seen that burn.

I'd felt like killing someone. Really killing them. Not breaking someone's nose, or kicking someone in the groin. I wanted him to pay for branding that kid, and I wanted him to pay with his life.

And I had a pretty good idea who that someone was.

When I got back into the barn, everyone had calmed down from Rob's little speech, and was busy chowing down again. Being the mashed potato girl, I was pretty popular. Guys kept on raising up their plates as I passed, holding them out for me to glop mashed potatoes onto. I obliged, since what else was I supposed to do? I got through it by pretending I was a prison guard, and all these guys were demented serial killers that I was mandated by the state to keep fed.

In the back of my mind, however, this mantra was playing over and over. It went, Hurry up, Chick. Hurry up, Chick. Hurry up, Chick. Hurry up, Chick.

When I reached Rob, I saw that he and Henderson were already well on their way to becoming best friends. Well, and why not? Rob would be a boon to any hate group. He was good-looking, great with his hands, and—though I hadn't been aware of this talent until very recently—he was obviously a passionate and lucid orator. I had a feeling that, given enough time, Rob would have been appointed Jim Henderson's right-hand man.

Too bad for the True Americans that it was all an act.

A good one, though. Claire Lippman would have been astounded by Rob's theatrical flair. As I leaned over his chair to lump potatoes onto his plate, he didn't even seem to notice me, he was so wound up in what he was saying … something about how the criminals in Washington were selling us out with something called GATT.

Wow. Rob had obviously been watching a lot more CNN than I had.

After piling some potatoes onto Jim Henderson's plate—only for a second did I fantasize about pretending to accidentally drop them into his lap—I moved on to the rest of the table, trying not to notice as I did so a disturbing thing. There were lots of disturbing things to notice in that barn, but the one that I kept coming back to was the men's hands. Each and every one of them had the same tattoo on the webbing between the thumb and forefinger of their right hand. And that was the coiled snake of the "Don't Tread On Me" flag. The same snake that had been on Nate's chest. The same snake that had been burned into Seth's hand. This was some fraternity, let me tell you.

It wasn't until my bowl was almost empty that I felt the cold, wet nudge on one hand. I looked down and saw Chigger, his big brown eyes rolling up at me appealingly. Gone was the menacing growl and raised back hairs. I had food, and Chigger wanted food. Therefore, if I gave Chigger food, I would be Chigger's friend.

I let Chigger lick what remained in the bowl.

I fully intended to go back to the ranch house kitchen and refill that bowl without rinsing it out first. In fact, I was headed toward the barn door to do just that when I noticed something that I didn't like … that I didn't like at all. And that was Kerchief-Head, over at Jim Henderson's table, leaning down to whisper something in his ear. As she whispered I saw Jim glance around the room, until at last his gaze found me. Those piercing blue eyes stayed on me, too, until Kerchief-Head finished whatever it was she'd had to say and straightened up.

Look, it could have been a lot of things. It could have been the thing with the roll. Heck, she could have seen me letting Chigger lick the bowl.

But I'm not stupid. I knew what it was. I knew what it was the minute Jim Henderson's gaze landed on me.

Kerchief-Head had told him about catching me in the hallway near where they were keeping Seth. That was all.

We were dead.

It took a little while for it to happen, though. Henderson whispered something back to Kerchief-Head, and she scuttled out of there like a water bug. For a little while, I thought maybe we were all right. You know, that maybe I'd made a mistake. Rob was going on about abominations of nature and how America would never be restored to the great nation it had once been until all Christians banded together, and Henderson seemed to be listening to him pretty intently.

But then I saw something that made my heart stop.

And that was Red Plaid Jacket with the end of his rifle pointed at the back of Seth Blumenthal's neck as he forced the boy to walk across the barn floor, right up to where Jim Henderson and Rob sat.

Everyone stopped talking when they saw this, and once again, the silence in the barn was overwhelming. The only sound I could hear was the sound of Seth's sobs. He had started crying again. I saw him look frantically around the barn, and I knew he was looking for me. Fortunately, I was far enough in the shadows that he hadn't been able to see me, or without a doubt, I'd have been dead.

If I'd known, of course, what was going to happen a minute later anyway, I probably wouldn't have cared so much. As it was, I was actually relieved Seth hadn't spotted me. I sunk my fingers into Chigger's soft fur and willed my heart to start beating again. Hurry up, Chick. Hurry up, Chick. Hurry up, Chick!

"Americans," Jim Henderson said to the assembled masses. I could see at once that he was every bit the orator Rob was. Everyone looked at him with that glazed expression of adoration I recognized from that movie about the Jim Jones massacre. Henderson was these people's messiah on earth.

"We've made some fine new friends tonight," Henderson went on, slapping a hand to Rob's shoulder. The only reason he'd been able to reach it was that Rob was sitting and he was standing. "And I for one am grateful. Grateful that Hank and Ginger found their way to our little flock."

Ginger? Who the hell was Ginger? Then, as a good many heads turned in my direction, I realized Rob had told them my name was Ginger.

He is such a card.

"But however impressed we may be by Hank and Ginger's professed dedication to our cause," Henderson went on, "there's really only one way to test the loyalty of a true American, isn't there?"

There was a general murmur of assent. My heart thudded more loudly than ever. I did not like the sound of this. I did not like the sound of this at all.

"Hank," Henderson said, turning to Rob. "You see before you a boy. Seemingly innocent enough looking, I know. But innocence, as we all know, can be deceiving. The devil sometimes tries to fool us into believing in the innocence of an individual, when in fact that individual is laden with sin. In this case, this boy is soaked in sin. Because he is, in fact, a Jew."

I dug my fingers so hard into Chigger's coat, a smaller dog would have cried out. Chigger, however, only wagged his tail, still hoping for another crack at the bowl I held. Apparently, nobody had ever bothered to feed Chigger before. How else could you explain how easily I'd won over his allegiance?

"Hank," Henderson said. "Because you've already, in the short time I've known you, so thoroughly impressed me with your sincerity and commitment to the cause, I am going to allow you a great privilege I've heretofore denied both myself and my other men. Hank, I am going to let you kill a Jew."

And with that, Jim Henderson presented Rob with a knife he pulled out of his own boot.

A lot of things when through my mind then. I thought about how much I loved my mom, even though she can be such a pain in the ass sometimes, with her weird ideas about how I should dress and who I should date. I thought about how mad I was going to be if I didn't get to stick around to find out if Douglas ever did anything about his crush on Tasha Thompkins. I thought about the state orchestra championship, and how for the first time in years, I wouldn't be bringing home a blue ribbon cut in the shape of the state of Indiana.

It's strange the things you think about right before you die. I don't even know how I knew I was going to die. I just knew it, the way I knew that eventually, all that snow outside was going to melt, and it would be spring again someday. Rob and I were going to die, and the only thing we had to make sure of was that they didn't try to kill Seth along with us.

"Well," Henderson was saying to my boyfriend. "Go on. Take my knife. Really. It's okay. He's just a Jew."

Seth Blumenthal, I have to say, was being pretty brave. He was crying, but he was doing it quietly, with his head held high. I guess after what he'd been through, death didn't seem like such a bad thing. I don't know how else to explain it. I kind of felt the same way. I wasn't scared, really. Oh, I didn't want it to hurt. But I wasn't scared to die.

All I wanted was to take as many True Americans down with me as I could.

Rob reached out and took the knife from Jim Henderson.

"Thataboy," Henderson said, smiling in a sickly way beneath his mustache. "Now go ahead. Show us you are true believer. Stick it to the pig."

So Rob did the only thing he could. The same thing I'd have done, in his situation.

He threw an arm around Jim Henderson's neck, brought the knife blade to his jugular vein, and said, "Anybody moves, and Jimbo here gets it."

C H A P T E R

14

Have you ever been to a football game where the higher ranked team was so certain of winning, there wasn't even a doubt in the minds of their fans that they wouldn't? And then, through some total miscalculation on the part of the superior team, the underdog got the upper hand?

The faces of the True Americans looked like the faces of the fans of the winning team, seconds after their team mangled some play so horribly, their opponent, against all odds, scored a touchdown.

They were stunned. Just stunned.

"Thanks," I said to Red Plaid Jacket, as I relieved him of his rifle. "I'll take that."

I had never held a rifle before in my life, but I had a pretty good idea how one worked. You just pointed at the thing you wanted to hit, and pulled the trigger. No big mystery in that.

Of course, if you thought about it, there was no reason in the world for us to be so cocky. Okay, so yeah, Rob had a knife to a guy's throat, and I had a rifle. Big deal. It was still about fifty to two. Well, three, if you counted Seth. Four, if you included Chigger, who was still following me around, hoping for more mashed potatoes, even though I'd put down the bowl.

But hey, we had the upper hand for the moment, and we were going to take advantage of it while we could.

"Okay," Rob said, as the blood slowly drained from Jim Henderson's face. Not because Rob had poked a hole in him or anything. Just because the leader of the True Americans was so very, very scared.

"Okay, now. Everybody just stay very calm, and no one is going to get hurt." Hey, he had me convinced. Rob seemed totally believable, as far as knife-wielding hostage-takers went. "Me and the girl and the kid and Jimbo here are going to take a little walk. And if any of you want to see your fearless leader live through this, you're going to let us go. Okay?"

When no one objected, Rob went, "Good. Jess. Seth. Let's go."

And so started what had to have looked like one weird parade. With me leading the way, rifle in hand and dog at my heels, a dazed-looking Seth following me, and Rob, with his arm around Henderson, taking up the rear, we made our way down the length of the barn. I wouldn't want to give you the impression that Mr. Henderson was playing the silent martyr in all of this, however. Oh, no. See, people who haven't the slightest qualm about doing unspeakably horrible things to others are always the ones who act like the biggest babies of all whenever anybody in turn threatens them.

I'm not kidding. Jim Henderson was practically crying. He was wailing, in a high-pitched voice, "You may think you're gonna get away with this, but I'll tell you what. The people are gonna rise up. The people are gonna rise up and walk the path of righteousness. And traitors like you, boy—traitors to your own race—are going to burn in hellfire for all eternity—"

"Would you," Rob said, "shut up?"

Only Jim Henderson was wrong. The people weren't going to rise up. Not all at once, anyway. They were too shocked by what was happening to their leader even to think about lifting a finger to help him. Or maybe it was just that they really did believe that if they tried anything to stop us, Rob would slit their beloved Jim Henderson's throat.

In any case, the people did not rise up.

Just one person did.

Kerchief-Head, to be exact.

I should have seen it coming. I mean, it had been way, way too easy.

But I'll admit it. I got cocky. I started thinking that these people were stupid, because they had these stupid ideas about things. That was my first mistake. Because the scariest thing about the True Americans was that they weren't stupid. They were just really, really evil.

As became all too clear when I heard, from behind me, the sound of breaking glass.

I realized my second mistake the second I turned around. The first had been in assuming the True Americans were stupid. The second had been in not covering Rob's back with the rifle.

Because when I spun around, what I saw was Kerchief-Head standing there with two broken pieces of my mashed potato bowl in her hands. The rest of the pieces were all over the floor … where Rob also lay. The bitch had snuck up behind him and cracked his skull open.

Hey, I didn't hesitate. I lifted that rifle, and I fired. I didn't even think about it, I was so mad … mad and scared. There was a lot of blood coming out of the gash in Rob's head. More was pouring out every second.

But I had never fired a rifle before. I didn't know how they kicked. And it is not like I am this terrifically large person or anything. I pulled the trigger, the gun exploded, and the next thing I knew, I was on the floor, with Chigger licking my face and about a million and one handguns pointed at my face.

Whatever else the True Americans might have been, lacking in firearms was not one of them.

The worst part of it was, I didn't even hit Kerchief-Head. I missed her by a mile.

I did, however, manage to do some major damage to the "Don't Tread On Me" flag.

"If you've killed my boyfriend," I snarled at Kerchief-Head, as a lot of hands started grabbing me and dragging me to my feet, "I'll make you regret the day you were ever born. Do you hear me, placenta breath?"

It was childish, I knew, to stoop to name-calling. But I'm not sure I was in my right mind. I mean, Rob was lying there, completely unconscious, with all this blood making a puddle around his head. And they wouldn't let me near him. I tried to get to him. I really did. But they wouldn't let me.

Instead, they locked me up. That's right. In that little room Seth had been locked in. They threw me right in there. Me and Seth. In the dark. In the cold. With no way of knowing whether my boyfriend was dead or alive.

I don't know how much time passed before I stopped kicking the door and screaming. All I know was that the sides of my wrists hurt from where I'd pounded them against the surprisingly sturdy wood. And Seth was staring at me like I was some kind of escapee from a lunatic asylum. Really. The kid looked scared.

He looked even more scared when I said to him, "Don't worry. I'm going to get you out of here."

Well, I guess I couldn't blame him. I probably wasn't exactly giving off an aura of mature adulthood just then.

I crossed over to where he was sitting and sank down onto the bed beside him. Suddenly, I was really tired. It had been a long day.

Seth and I sat there in the dark, listening to the distant sounds of the women banging pots and pans around in the kitchen. I guess no matter what kind of murder and mayhem was happening over in the barn, dinner still needed serving. I mean, all those men needed to keep their strength up for making the country safe for the white man, right?

Finally, after what seemed like a million years, Seth spoke. He said, in a shy voice, "I'm sorry about your friend."

I shrugged. I didn't exactly want to think about Rob. If he was dead, that was one thing. I would deal with that when the time came, probably by throwing myself headfirst into Pike's Quarry, or whatever.

But if he was still alive, and they were doing stuff to him, the way they had to Seth....

Well, let's just say that whether Rob was dead or alive, I was going to make it my sole mission in life to track down each and every one of the True Americans, and make them pay.

Preferably with a flame-thrower.

"How …" Seth scratched his head. He was a funny-looking kid, tall for his age, with dark hair and eyes, like me. "How did you find me, anyway?"

I looked down at my Timberlands, though I wasn't exactly seeing them, or much else, for that matter. All I could see was Rob, lying there with his head bashed in.

"I have this thing," I said, tiredly.

"A thing?" Seth asked.

"A psychic thing," I said. Which is another thing. If Rob were dead, wouldn't I know it? I mean, wouldn't I feel it? I was pretty sure I would.

But I didn't. I didn't feel anything. Except really, really tired.

"Really?" In the moonlight, Seth's face looked way younger than his thirteen years. "Hey, that's right. You're that girl. That lightning girl. I thought I'd seen you before somewhere. You were on the news."

"That's me," I said. "Lightning Girl."

"That is so cool," Seth said, admiringly.

"It's not so cool," I told him.

"No," Seth said. "It is. It really is. It's like you've got kid Lojack, or something."

"Yeah," I said. "And look what good it's done for me. You and I are stuck in here, and my boyfriend's out there bleeding to death, and another kid is dead, and possibly a cop, too—"

I saw his face crumble, and only then realized what I had said. I had let my personal grief get the better of me, and spoken out of turn. I bit my lip.

"You said he was all right," Seth said, his dark eyes suddenly swimming in tears. "That cop. You said he was okay."

"He is okay," I said, putting my arm around the little guy. "He is, really. Sorry. I just lost it for a minute there."

"He's not okay," Seth wailed. "He's dead, isn't he? And because of me! All because of me!"

It was kind of amazing that after what this kid had been through, the only thing that really got him upset was the idea that a cop that had been trying to save him had ended up catching a bullet for his troubles. Seth Blumenthal, bar mitzvah boy, really was something else.

"No, not because of you," I assured him. "Because of those asshole True Americans. And besides, he isn't dead, all right? I mean, he's hurt bad, but he isn't dead. I swear."

But Seth clearly didn't believe me. And why should he? I hadn't exactly been the most truth-worthy person he'd ever met, had I? I'd told him I was there to rescue him, only instead of rescuing him, now I was just as much a prisoner as he was. I'll tell you what, I was starting to agree with him: As a rescuer, I pretty much sucked.

I was just thinking these pleasant thoughts as the door to the room we were locked in suddenly opened. I blinked as the light from the hallway, which seemed unnaturally bright thanks to my eyes having adjusted to the dimness of our cell, flooded the room. Then a figure in the doorway blocked out the light.

"Well, now." I recognized Jim Henderson's Southern twang. "Ain't that cozy, now, the two of you. Like something out of a picture postcard."

I took my arm away from Seth's shoulders and stood up. With my vision having grown accustomed to the light from the hallway, I was able to see that Henderson looked slightly disconcerted as I did this, on account of him being only an inch or two taller than me.

"Where's Rob?" I demanded.

Henderson looked confused. "Rob? Who's Rob?" Then comprehension dawned. "Oh, you mean Hank? Your friend with the smart mouth? Oh, I'm sorry. He's dead."

My nose was practically level with his. It took everything I had in me not to head-butt the jerk.

"I don't believe you," I said.

"Well, you better start believing me, honey," Henderson said. His eyes, blue as they were, seemed to have trouble focusing, I noticed. He had what I, having been in enough fights with people who have them, call crazy eyes. His gaze was all over the place, sometimes on the boarded-up windows behind me, sometimes on Seth, sometimes on the ceiling, but rarely, rarely where it should have been: on mine.

See? Crazy eyes.

Unfortunately, I knew from experience that there was no predicting what someone with crazy eyes was going to do next. Generally, it was just about the last thing you'd expect.

I'd have taken my chances and reached out and wrapped Jim Henderson's crazy-eyed neck into a headlock if it hadn't been for Red Plaid Jacket standing there in the hallway behind him. Red Plaid had retrieved his rifle, and had it pointed casually at me. This was discouraging, to say the least. I had a bad feeling his aim was probably better than mine.

"You know," Henderson said. "It's not just minorities like the Jews and the blacks who are ruining this country. It's people like you and your boyfriend back there. Traitors to your own race. People like you who are ashamed of the whiteness of your skin, instead of being proud—proud!—to be members of God's chosen race."

"The only time I'm ashamed to be a member of the white race," I said, "is when I'm around freaking lunatics like you."

"See," Henderson said to Kerchief-Head, who was behind Red Plaid, and was watching her leader's dealings with me with great interest. "See what happens when the liberal media gets their hands on our children? That's why I don't allow the sons and daughters of the True Americans to watch TV. No movies or radio, neither, or any of that noise people like you call music. No newspapers, no magazines. Nothing to fog the mind and cloud the judgment."

I couldn't believe he was standing there giving me a lecture. What was this, school? Hello, get on with the torture already. I swear I'd have rather been held down and branded than listen to this dude's random crap much longer.

But unfortunately, he wasn't through.

"Who sent you?" Henderson asked me. "Tell me who you work for. The CIA? FBI? Who?"

I burst out laughing, though of course there wasn't anything too funny about the situation.

"I don't work for anybody," I said. "I came here for Seth."

Henderson shook his head. "So young," he said. "Yet so full of lies. America doesn't belong to people like you, you know," he went on. "America is for pioneers like us, people willing to work the land, people who aren't afraid to get their hands dirty."

"You certainly proved that," I remarked, "when you killed Nate Thompkins. Can't get much dirtier than that."

Henderson smiled. But again, thanks to the crazy eyes, the smile didn't quite reach all the way to those baby blues of his.

"The black boy, you mean? Yes, well, it was necessary to leave a warning, in case any more people of his persuasion took it into their heads to move to this area. You see, it's important for us to keep the land pure for our children, the sons and daughters of the True Americans."

"Well, congratulations," I said. "I bet your kids are gonna be real happy about what you did to Nate, especially when they're frying your butt for murder up in Indianapolis. I know how proud I'd be to have a convicted felon for a dad."

"I don't worry about laws made by man," Mr. Crazy Eyes informed me with a smile. "I worry only about divine law, laws handed down by God."

"Huh," I said. "Then you're gonna be in for a surprise. Because I'm pretty sure 'Thou Shalt Not Kill' came straight from the big guy himself."

But Jim just shook his head. "It's only a sin to kill those God created in his own image. In other words, white men," he explained, tiredly. "People like you will never understand." He sighed. "Living as you always have in the comforts of the city, never knowing what it is to work the soil—"

"I've got news for you," I said. "There are a lot of people I know who don't live in town and who've worked the soil plenty but who feel the same way about you freaks that I do."

He went on like he hadn't heard me. Who knew? Maybe he hadn't. Clearly Mr. Henderson was only hearing what he wanted to hear anyway.

"Americans have always dealt with adversity. From the savages they encountered upon their arrival to this great land, and then from foreign influences who threatened to destroy them. Pretty ironic, ain't it, that the greatest threat of all comes not from forces overseas, but from within the country of America itself."

"Whatever," I said. I'd had about as much as I could take. "Are you here to mess me up, or what?"

Crazy Eyes finally looked me full in the face.

"You will be disposed of," he said, in a voice as cold as the wind outside. "You, your boyfriend, and the Jew will all be disposed of, the same way we disposed of the black boy. Your bodies will be left as a warning to any who doubt that the new age has arrived, and that the battle has begun. You see, someone has got to fight for this great nation. Someone has got to keep America safe for our children, prevent it from succumbing to hate and greed. . . ."

The great Jim Henderson broke off as, from outside the ranch house, an enormous explosion—rather like the kind that might occur if someone threw a lit cigarette down a trailer's septic tank—rocked the compound.

I smiled sweetly up into Jim Henderson's crazy eyes and said, "Uh, Mr. Henderson? Yeah, I think that someone you were talking about, the one who is going to make America safe for our children? Yeah. He and his friends just arrived. And from the sound of it, you've really pissed them off."

C H A P T E R

15

And then I hauled off and slugged him. Right between those crazy, shifty eyes.

It hurt like hell, because mostly what my knuckles caught was bone. But I didn't care. I'd been wanting to punch that guy for a long, long time. The pain was totally worth it, especially when, as I'd known he would, Henderson crumpled up like a doll, and fell, wailing, to the floor.

"She hit me," he cried. "She hit me! Don't just stand there, Nolan! Do something. The bitch hit me!"

Nolan—aka Red Plaid Jacket—was too busy squawking into his Walkie-Talkie however to pay attention to his fearless leader. "We got incoming! Do you copy, Blue Leader? We are under attack. Do you copy? Do you copy?"

Red Plaid might have been more interested in what was happening to the rest of the compound, but that certainly wasn't the case with Kerchief-Head. She was pretty hacked that I'd taken a poke at her spiritual guide—hey, for all I know, Henderson might even have been her honey. She could easily have been Mrs. Henderson.

I was hopping around, waving my sore knuckles, when Kerchief-Head, with a snarl that would have put Chigger to shame, launched herself at me.

"Ain't nobody gonna do Jim like that," she declared, as her not-insignificant weight struck me full force, and sent me back against the bed, pinned beneath her.

Mrs. Henderson—if that's who she really was—was a big woman, all right, but she had the disadvantage of not having been in many fights before. That was clear from the fact that she did not go directly for my eyes, as someone better accustomed to confronting adversaries would have.

Plus, for all her doughiness, Mrs. Henderson wasn't very muscular. I easily twisted to sink a knee into her stomach, then accompanied that by a quick thrust of one elbow into the back of her neck while she was sunk over, clutching her gut. And that took care of Kerchief-Head.

Meanwhile, outside, another explosion ripped through the compound.

"Save the children," Kerchief-Head gasped. "Somebody save the children!"

Like Chick and those guys would even be targeting the kids. I am so sure.

"Who do you people think we are?" I demanded. "You?"

Then I reached out, grabbed Seth by the arm, and said, "Come on."

We would have gotten safely out of there, too, if I'd just hit Henderson a little harder. Unfortunately, however, he recovered all too quickly from my punch … or at least quickly enough to reached out and wrap a hand around my ankle, just as we were stepping over him.

"You ain't goin' nowhere," Jim Henderson breathed. I was delighted to note that blood was streaming from his nose. Not as much blood as had streamed from Rob's head, but a fairly satisfying amount, nonetheless.

"It's all over, Mr. Henderson," I said. "You better let go now, or you're going to regret it."

"You stupid bitch," Henderson wheezed. He couldn't talk too well, on account of the blood and mucous flowing into his mouth thanks to what I'd done to his nose. "You have no idea what you've done. You think you've done this country a favor, but all you've done is sign its death warrant."

"Hey, Mr. Henderson—" Seth said.

When the crazy-eyed man looked up at him, the boy brought his foot down with all the force he had on the hand that was grasping my ankle.

"—eat my shorts."

Henderson, with another cry of pain, released me at once. And Seth and I took off down the hallway.

Red Plaid Jacket, aka Nolan, had disappeared. There were plenty of other people, however, creating chaos in the ranch house. Women and children were darting around like goldfish in a bowl, calling each other's names and falling over one another. I couldn't blame them for panicking, really. The acrid smell of smoke was already thick in the air, and it got even thicker when Seth and I finally burst outside …

… to be greeted with the welcome sight of Jim Henderson's barn and meeting house in flames.

Both trailers were on fire, as well. All around the snowy yard ran True Americans, waving rifles and looking panicked. The panic wasn't just because most of their compound was on fire. It was also because extremely large men, many of whom were wearing cowboy hats, were whipping back and forth across the yard on the backs of snowmobiles. It was a truly magnificent sight, seeing those sleek vehicles sailing over the snow in direct pursuit of an overalled True American. I saw Red Plaid Jacket try to take aim at one with his rifle. Too bad for him that the minute he did, another snowmobiler, yelling, "Yeehaw!" darted forward and knocked the gun right out of his hands.

Meanwhile, not far away, another snowmobiler had lassoed an escaping True American neatly as if he'd been a fleeing heifer, bringing him down to the snow with a satisfying thud. Elsewhere, two snowmobilers had cornered a pair of Jim Henderson's followers, and were just gliding around and around them, giving them a tiny bit of room to escape, then cutting off that escape route at just the last moment, entirely for kicks.

"Whoa," Seth said, his eyes very wide. "Who are these guys?"

I sighed happily, my heart filled with joy.

"Grits," I said.

And then I remembered Rob. Rob, who, last I'd seen him, had been spread-eagle on the floor of the True Americans' meeting house.

Which was now in flames.

I forgot about Seth. I forgot about Jim Henderson and Chick and the True Americans. All I thought about was getting to Rob, and as fast as humanly possible.

Unfortunately, that meant running across the snow toward a burning building while Hell's Angels and truckers on snowmobiles were ripping the place apart. It was a wonder I got as far I did. Part of it was due to the fact that Chigger appeared from out of nowhere, and, apparently thinking I still had mashed potatoes on me that he might be able to score, loped after me.

I didn't recognize him right away, however—there were other dogs running around the place, barking their heads off thanks to all the shooting—and I thought he'd been trying to bring me down. So I kicked up my heels, let me tell you.

But when I got to the barn doors and peered inside, all I could see were flames. The tables were on fire. The rafters were on fire. Even the walls were on fire. Though I couldn't lean in very far, due to the extreme heat, I could see that no one was inside … not even any unconscious motorbike mechanics who happened to be on probation.

Then I was suddenly yanked off my feet. Thinking a True American had gotten hold of me, I lashed out with my feet and fists. But then a familiar voice went, "Simmer down, there, little lady! It's me, old Chick! What choo want to do, light your hair on fire? Get away from those flames, they're hot!"

"Chick!" I squirmed around in his arms until I was facing him. He was barely recognizable in his winter gear, which included a thick pair of aviation goggles. But I didn't care how he looked. I had never been so happy to see anyone in my life.

"Chick, have you seen Rob? They got him. The True Americans, I mean. They got Rob!"

Chick looked bored. "Wilkins is fine," he said, jerking a thumb at a rusted-out pickup sitting half-buried in snow about twenty yards away. "I put 'im in the back of that old Chevy. He's still out like a light, but it don't look too bad."

I clung to the front of his leather jacket, hardly daring to believe my ears. "But the blood," I said. "There was so much of it. . . ."

"Aw," Chick said, disgustedly. "Wilkins was always one to bleed like a stuck pig. Don't worry about him. He's got a head like a rock. He'll be all right, after a coupla stitches. Now what about this kid? Where's he?"

I looked around, and saw Seth still standing over by the ranch house door, shivering in the winter cold despite the heat from the many fires all around him.

"Over there," I said, pointing.

At that moment, a shot rang out. I ducked instinctively, but ended up with my face in the snow, thanks to Chick practically throwing me to the ground, then trying to shield me with his own body.

"Idiots," he muttered, not seeming the least discomfited by the fact that he was laying on top of a girl he hardly knew. "Told those boys we had to take out their muni shed first. But they said no way would the fools shoot at us with women and children around. They're true Americans, all right. True American assholes. Damn! You all right?"

I could barely breathe, he was so heavy. "Fine," I grunted. "Seth. Got to get Seth … out of range … of gunfire."

"I'm on it," Chick said. Then, mercifully, he climbed off me, and back onto his snowmobile. "You get on over to Wilkins," he said. "I'll get the kid and meet up with you, then we'll figure out a way to get the three of you outta this hellhole."

He took off with a spray of snow and gravel. I was still spitting tiny ice particles out from between my teeth when I heard a strange noise and looked down.

Chigger was still with me, and was doing the exact same thing I was—trying to get rid of all the snow and bits of dirt clinging to his hair.

I had, I realized, a new friend.

"Come on, boy," I said to him, and the two of us raced for the abandoned pickup.

They'd wrapped Rob in something yellow, then laid him out across the bed of the pickup. I scrambled up into it, Chigger following close behind. It wasn't so easy to see Rob's face in the dark, but there was still enough glow from the moon—not to mention the many fires all around us—for me to make out the fact that, as Chick had promised, he was still breathing, deeply and regularly. The wound on his head had stopped bleeding, and didn't look anywhere as serious as it had back in the barn. There it had looked like a hole. Now I could see that it was merely a gash, barely an inch wide.

Which was lucky for Mrs. Henderson. Because if she'd given my boyfriend brain damage, that would have been the end of her.

"It's okay," I said to Rob, brushing some of his dark hair from his forehead, and carefully kissing the place on his face that was the least smeared with blood. "I'm here now. Everything's going to be all right."

At least that's what I believed then. That was right before I heard the deep rumble in Chigger's throat, and looked up to see a wild man standing beside the pickup, his arms raised, and his face hidden by all his long, straggly hair.

Okay, okay. That's just what it looked like at first. I realize there's no such thing as wild men, or Sasquatch, or Bigfoot or whatever. But seriously, for a minute, that's what I thought this guy was. I mean, he was completely covered in snow, and standing there with his arms out like that, what was I supposed to think? I screamed my head off.

I think Chigger would have gone for the guy's throat if he hadn't waved the hands he had extended toward me and cried, "Jessica! It's me! Dr. Krantz." I grabbed hold of Chigger's thick leather collar at the last possible minute and kept him from leaping from the cab bed to Cyrus Krantz's neck.

"Jeez!" I said, sinking back onto my heels in relief. "Dr. Krantz, what is wrong with you? Don't you know better than to sneak up on people like that?"

Dr. Krantz flipped back his enormous, fur-trimmed hood and blinked at me through the fogged-up lenses of his glasses.

"Jessica, are you all right?" he wanted to know. "I was so worried! When these animals on the snowmobiles showed up, I thought I'd lost you for sure—"

"Take it easy, Doc," I said. "The guys on the snowmobiles are on our side. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought I told you to go home."

"Jessica," Dr. Krantz said, severely. "You can't honestly think I would leave you out here in the middle of nowhere, can you? Your welfare is extremely important to me, Jessica. To the whole Bureau, in fact."

"Uh, yeah, Dr. Krantz," I said. "And that's why you're out here on your own. Because the Bureau was so concerned for my welfare, they sent out backup right away."

Dr. Krantz pulled a cell phone from his pocket. "I tried to call for help," he explained, sheepishly, "but there must not be any relay centers this far into the woods. I can't get a signal."

"Huh," I said. "That'll make Jim Henderson happy. He's all against contact with the outside world, you know. It infects the youth with liberal ideas."

"This Henderson is an extremely unsavory character, Jessica," Dr. Krantz said. "I can't understand why you felt compelled to take him and his lot on all by yourself. You could have come to us, you know. We would gladly have helped."

"Well," I said. I didn't mention that I hadn't been too impressed by the way Dr. Krantz and his fellow law enforcement officers had handled the True Americans so far. "What's done is done. Look, Doc, I gotta get Rob to a hospital. Do you think you could help me carry him to your car? I know he's heavy, but I'm stronger than I look, and maybe between the two of us—"

But Dr. Krantz was already shaking his head.

"Oh," he said. "But I didn't drive out here, Jessica. It would be quite impossible to get an automobile way out here. The way is virtually impassable thanks to the snow, and besides, there aren't really any proper roadways to speak of. I suppose that is part of the allure of places like these for folks like Jim Henderson—"

"Wait a minute," I said. "If you didn't drive, how did you follow us out here?"

Dr. Krantz, for the first time since I'd met him, actually looked a little embarrassed.

"Well, you see, I followed you in my car as far as that extraordinary little bar you went to. Chick's, I believe it is called? And then when I saw the two of you—you and Mr. Wilkins—leave by snowmobile, why, I got my skis out of the trunk and followed your tracks."

I stared at him. "Your what?"

"My skis." Dr. Krantz cleared his throat. "Cross-country skiing is one of the finest forms of cardio-vascular exercise, so I always keep my skis with me in the winter months, because you never know when an opportunity might arise to—"

"You're telling me," I interrupted, "that you skied all the way here. You. Cyrus Krantz. Skied here."

"Well," Dr. Krantz said. "Yes. It wasn't far, really. Only twenty miles or so, which is nothing to a well-conditioned skier, which I happen to be. And really, I don't think it at all as extraordinary as you're making it out to be. skiing is a perfectly viable form of exercise—"

When the shots rang out, that's what we were doing. Talking about skiing. Cross-country skiing, to be exact, and its viability as a form of cardiovascular exercise. One minute I was sitting there next to Rob, listening to Dr. Krantz, a guy that, it had to be admitted, up until then I really hadn't liked too well.

And the next, I was talking to air, because one of the bullets the True Americans sent flying in my direction pierced Dr. Krantz, and sent him flying.

C H A P T E R

16

It was my fault, really. My fault because I'd known people were shooting off guns, and I hadn't mentioned anything to Dr. Krantz like, "Oh, by the way, look out for flying bullets," or, "Hadn't you better stand behind this truck instead of in front of it? It might make better cover."

Nope. I didn't say a word.

And the next thing I knew, the guy was curled up in the snow beside the pickup, screaming his head off.

Well, if you'd been shot, you'd have screamed your head off, too.

I was out of the cab bed and into the snow beside him in a split second.

"Let me see," I said. I could tell the bullet had gotten him in the leg, because he was clutching it with both hands and rocking back and forth, screaming.

Dr. Krantz didn't let me see, though. He just kept rocking and screaming. Meanwhile all these spurts of blood were coming out from between his gloved fingers, and hitting the snow all around us, making these designs that were actually kind of pretty.

But you know, I took first aid in the sixth grade, and when blood is spurting out that hard and that far, it means something is really wrong. Like maybe the bullet had hit an artery or whatever.

So I did the only thing I could do, under the circumstances.

I punched Dr. Krantz in the jaw.

I felt pretty bad about it, but what else could I do? The guy was hysterical. He wouldn't let me look at the wound. He could have bled to death.

After I hit him, though, he kind of fell back in the snow, and I got a good look at the damage the bullet had done. Too good a look, if you ask me. Just as I suspected, the bullet had severed an artery—I can't remember what it's called, but it's that one in the thigh. A pretty big one, too.

Fortunately for Dr. Krantz, however, I was on the case.

"Listen," I said, to him, as he lay in the snow, moaning. "You are in luck. I did my sixth grade science fair project on tourniquets."

For some reason, this did not seem to reassure Dr. Krantz as it should have. He started moaning harder.

"No, really," I told him. I had pulled his coat up, and was undoing the belt to his pants. I was relieved to see he was wearing one. I know I sure wasn't. Though I could have used one of the laces from my Timberlands in a pinch.

"My best thing," I told him, "was tourniquets made from found objects. You know, like if you were out camping, and a big stick went through you, or whatever. You know. Maybe you wouldn't have a first aid kit with you." I ducked, and looked under the pickup. As I'd hoped, the snow wasn't so deep beneath it. I was able to find a good-sized rock … not too big, but not too small, either. Artery sized. I tried to get the dirt off it as best I could.

"The major thing you have to worry about," I assured Dr. Krantz—it's important that you talk to a victim of a major injury like this one, in order to keep him from slipping into shock—"isn't secondary infection so much as blood loss. So I know this rock looks dirty, but—" I jammed the rock into the wound in Dr. Krantz's leg. The blood stopped spurting almost right away. "—it's performing a vital function. You know. Keeping your blood in."

I took Dr. Krantz's belt, and looped the other end through the belt buckle, then pulled until the belt buckle wedged the rock deeper into the wound. I wasn't too thrilled about having to do this, but it didn't help that Dr. Krantz screamed so loud. I mean, I felt bad enough. Besides, all the screaming was making Chigger, still in the cab bed with Rob, whine nervously.

"There," I said to Dr. Krantz. "That will keep the rock in place. Now we just need to find a stick, so we can twist the belt, and cut off the circulation—"

"No," Dr. Krantz said, in what sounded more like his normal voice—although it was still ragged with pain. "No stick. For the love of God, no stick."

I looked critically down at my handiwork.

"I don't know," I said. "I mean, we may not be able to save the leg, Dr. Krantz. But at least you won't bleed to death."

"No stick," Dr. Krantz gasped. "I'm begging you."

I didn't like it, but I didn't see what else I could do. Fortunately at that moment, Chick sped up to us, Seth clinging tightly to his waist.

"What the hell happened?" Chick was down off his snowmobile and into the snow beside us in a flash. For a big man, he could move like the wind when he needed to. "Christ, I leave you alone for a second, and—"

"Somebody shot him," I said, looking down at Dr. Krantz's leg, which, truth be told, looked a lot like a raw hamburger. "He won't let me use a stick."

"No stick," Dr. Krantz hissed, through gritted teeth.

Chick was examining my field tourniquet with interest. "For torsion, you mean?" When I nodded, he said, "I don't think you need it. Looks like you've got the bleeding stopped for now. Listen, though, we don't have much time. You gotta get this guy out of here. Wilkins, too. And the little guy." He nodded his head at Seth, who was looking owlishly down at the crazy pattern of blood in the snow, as if it were the worst thing he had ever seen. As if what had happened to his own hand was just, you know, incidental.

"I know," I said. "But how am I going to do that? Dr. Krantz can't drive a snowmobile. Not in his condition. And Rob'd never stay on one. . . ."

"That's why—" Chick stood up, and started for the front of the pickup. "—you gotta take the truck."

I looked skeptically at the ancient vehicle. "I don't even know if it runs," I said. "And even if it does, I don't know where we'd find the keys."

"Don't need keys," Chick said, opening the driver's door, then ducking beneath the dash, "when Chick is on the case."

I looked over my shoulder. Up the hill from us, the flames from the barn now seemed to be reaching almost to the moon. Thick black smoke trailed into the sky, blocking out the cold twinkle of the Milky Way. True Americans were still running around, shooting off guns. I could dimly make out the small figure of Jim Henderson waving his arms at his brethren. He seemed to be encouraging them to fight harder.

Behind me, the pickup suddenly sputtered to life.

"There ya go," Chick said, with a chuckle. He came out from beneath the dash and blew on his fingertips before slipping his gloves back on. "Oh, yeah," he said. "I still got the touch."

I stared at him, as wide-eyed as poor Seth.

"Wait a minute," I said. "You want me to drive these guys out of here?"

"That's the general idea," Chick said, not looking very perturbed.

"But there's no road!" I burst out. "You told me over and over, there's no road to this place."

"Well," Chick said, reaching up to stroke his beard. "No, you got that right. There ain't no road, exactly."

"So just how—" I realized Seth, along with Dr. Krantz, was listening to us with a great deal of interest. I reached out, grabbed Chick by the arm, and started walking him away from the truck, lowering my voice as I continued. "—am I supposed to get them back to town, if there's no road?"

It was at that exact moment that something in the barn blew up. I don't know what it was exactly, but I had a feeling it was that muni supply Chick had been talking about. Suddenly, tiny bits of metal and wood were raining down on us.

Chick let out a stream of very colorful expletives that I was just barely able to hear above all the explosions. Then he darted around to the pickup and hauled a protesting Dr. Krantz to his one good foot.

"Sorry, girlie," Chick yelled at me, as he dragged Dr. Krantz around the truck and started stuffing him into the passenger seat. "But you gotta get these folks outta here before all hell breaks loose."

"Before?" I couldn't believe any of this was happening. "Um, correct me if I'm wrong, but from the looks of things, I think it already has."

"What?" Chick screamed at me, as the sky was lit a brilliant orange and red.

"Hell," I yelled back. "I think we're already in it!"

"Aw, this is nothing." Chick slammed the door on Dr. Krantz, then hurried around to make sure Rob was secure in the cab bed. "Kid," he yelled at Seth. "Get in here and make sure this guy don't slide around too much. And shield him from that crap flying around, would ya?"

Seth, white-faced but resolute, did as Chick asked without a single question. He climbed into the back of the pickup and knelt down beside Rob … after giving Chigger a few wary looks, that is.

Then, taking me by the elbow, Chick pointed down the hill, into the thick black copse of trees that separated Jim Henderson's property from the county road far, far below.

"You just head straight down," he yelled, as, up by the ranch house, what I could have sworn was machine-gun fire broke out. "So long as you're going down, you're headed for the road. Understand?"

I nodded miserably. "But, Chick," I couldn't help adding. "The snow—"

"Right," Chick said, with a nod. "It's gonna be more of a slalom than a drive. Just remember, if you get into trouble, pump the brakes. And try not to hit anything head on."

"Oh," I said, bitterly. "Thanks for the advice. This may not be the right time to bring this up, but you know, I don't even have a driver's license."

"That guy's leg ain't gonna wait," Chick told me. "And Wilkins won't last long out here, neither." Then, perhaps noting my nauseous expression, he slapped me on the shoulder and said, "You'll be fine. Now get going."

Then he hoisted me in the air and set me down behind the wheel, beside a panting, sweating Dr. Krantz.

"Uh," I said, to Dr. Krantz. "How you doin', Doc?"

Dr. Krantz gave a queasy look.

"Oh," he said. "I'm just great."

Chick tapped on the closed window between us. With some effort, I managed to get it rolled down.

"One more thing." Chick reached under his leather jacket and drew out a stubby black object. It took me a minute to realize what it was. When I did, I nearly threw up.

"Oh, no!" I said, putting out both hands, as if to ward him off. "You get that thing away from me."

Chick merely stuck his arm through the open window and deposited the object on my lap.

"Anyone comes near you or the truck," he said, not loudly enough for Dr. K to hear, but loudly enough for me to hear him over the sound of gunfire behind us, "you shoot. Understand?"

"Chick," I said, looking down at the gun, and feeling sicker than ever. It had been one thing when I'd try to blow Kerchief-Head away. That had been in the heat of the moment. But this …

"Hey," Chick said. "You think Henderson's the only crazy in these woods? Not by a long shot. And he's got a lot of friends. You just drive, you'll be all right. Only shoot if you have to."

I nodded. I didn't dare look at Dr. Krantz.

"Remember," Chick said through the driver's side window. "Pump the brakes."

"Sure," I said, still feeling like throwing up.

Chick smacked the rusted hood, knocking off several inches of snow, and said, "Get going, then."

Fighting back my nausea, I rolled up the window then glanced through the rear windshield and yelled to Seth, "You ready back there?"

Seth, his arms around Rob's shoulders, nodded. Beside him, Chigger sat with his tongue lolling, happy to be going for a ride.

"Ready," Seth yelled.

I looked beside me. Dr. Krantz did not look good. For one thing, he was in a pretty awkward position, with one leg stretched out at an odd angle in front of him. The lenses of his glasses were completely fogged up, he was almost as pale as the snow outside his window. But he was still conscious, and I guess that's all that mattered.

"Ready, Dr. Krantz?" I asked.

He nodded tensely.

"Just do it," he rasped.

So I put my foot on the gas. . . .

C H A P T E R

17

Once when we were little, Ruth had a birthday party at the Zoom Floom. The Zoom Floom was located on the same hillside as Paoli Peaks Ski Resort. It was a water slide that only operated in summertime. The way you went down it was, you laid down on this rubber mat, and an attendant pushed you off.

Then, suddenly, you were plummeting down a mountain, with about fifty billion tons of water pushing you even faster downward, and when you opened your mouth to scream, all of that water got into your mouth, and you went around these hairpin curves that seemed like they might kill you, and usually your mat slipped out from under you and you were skidding down the slide with just your suit on. And the surface of the slide was rough enough to take the skin off your hipbones, and with every second you were certain you were to going drown or at least crack your head open, until at last you plunged into this four-foot-deep pool at the bottom and came up choking and gasping for air, only to be hit in the head by your mat a moment or two later.

And then you grabbed your mat and started up the stairs to go again. You had to. Because it was so freaking fun.

But sliding down the wooded hill from Jim Henderson's militia compound? Yeah, so not fun.

And if we lived through it—which I doubted we would? Yeah, so never doing it again.

I realized pretty early on as we plunged straight at the pine trees that formed a thick wall around the True Americans' compound that Chick was right about one thing: The plows certainly hadn't been near Jim Henderson's place. I found the road pretty quickly—or what passed for a road, apparently, in the opinion of the True Americans. It was really just a track between the pine trees, the branches of many of which hung so low, they brushed against the top of the cab as we went by.

But the snow that lay across the so-called road was thick, and beneath it seemed to be a real nice layer of ice. As the truck careened down the hillside path, branches whipping against it, causing Seth and Chigger, in the back, to duck down low, it took every ounce of strength I had just to control the wheel, to keep the front tires from spinning out and sending us—oh, yes—into the deep ravine to my left. A ravine that I was quite sure in summertime made a charming fishing and swimming hole, but which now appeared to me, as I barreled alongside it, without even a token guardrail between it and me, a pit to hell.

All this, of course, was only visible to me thanks to the moonlight, which was fortunately generous. I had the truck's brights on, but in a way that only made things worse, because then I could plainly see every near-catastrophe looming before us. I probably would have been better off just closing my eyes, for all the good my jerking on the wheel and pumping the brakes, as Chick had suggested, seemed to be doing me.

None of this was helped by the fact that all the jolting seemed to have brought Dr. Krantz out from his state of semi-consciousness. He was awake, all right, and hanging on for dear life to the dashboard. There were no seatbelts in the cab—apparently, passenger safety was not of primary concern to the True Americans. Dr. Krantz was being jounced all over the place, and there wasn't a blessed thing I could do about it … or about Rob and Seth, in the back, who were receiving the same nice treatment.

I have to admit though that Dr. Krantz wasn't helping very much by grabbing his leg with the tourniquet on it and sucking air in between his teeth every time we passed over a particularly large rock in the road, hidden beneath all that snow. I mean, I know it must have hurt and all, but hello, I was driving. I kept glancing over to make sure the tourniquet was still tight. I had to, since he hadn't let me torque it off.

I was glancing over at Dr. Krantz's leg when I suddenly heard him suck in his breath, and not because we'd gone over a bump. I quickly glanced through the windshield, but could see nothing more horrifying that what we'd already encountered, treacherous drop-offs and looming trees. Then I heard a tap at the back window, and turned my head.

Seth, white-faced and panicked-looking, pointed behind him.

"We got company!" he yelled.

I glanced in the rearview mirror—then realized that, disobeying one of the first rules of driving, I had not thought to adjust my mirrors before I put my foot on the gas. I couldn't see squat out of them, thanks to their having been tilted for a much taller person than me.

Reaching up, I grasped the rearview mirror and tried to adjust it so that I could see what was behind us, while at the same time navigating a ten-foot dip in the road that sent all of us airborne for a second or two. . . .

And then I saw it. Two True Americans barreling after us in a four by four. A pretty new one, too, if you asked me. And these guys seemed to know what they were doing. They were gaining on us already, and I hadn't even noticed their headlights, which meant they couldn't have been behind us for all that long.

I did the only thing I could, under the circumstances. I floored it.

This strategy, apparently, was not one Dr. Krantz seemed prepared to fully embrace.

"For God's sake, Jessica," he said, speaking for the first time since being put in the cab. "You're going to kill us all."

"Yeah," I said, keeping my eyes on the road. "Well, what do you think these guys are going to do to us if they catch us?"

"There's another way," Dr. Krantz said. "Give me that gun."

I nearly cracked up laughing at that one. "No freaking way."

"Jessica." Dr. Krantz sounded mad. "There's no alternative."

"You are not," I said, "starting a shootout with those guys with my boyfriend and Seth in the back there, completely unprotected. Sorry."

Dr. Krantz shook his head. "Jessica, I assure you. I am an expert marksman."

"Yeah, but I'll bet they aren't." I nodded toward the rearview mirror. "And if they start aiming for you, chances are, they're going to hit me. Or Seth. Or Rob. So you can forget"—We hit a particularly large bump in the road and went flying for a second or two—"about it."

Dr. Krantz, it was clear, wasn't about to forget about it. Fortunately, however, that last bump sent him into paroxysms of pain, so he was too busy to think about the gun for a little while. . . .

But not too busy to see, as I soon did, the horrifying sight that loomed before us. And that was a large portion of the road that had disappeared.

That's right, disappeared, as if it had never been there. It took me a minute or two to realize that what it was, in fact, was a small wooden bridge that, undoubtedly due to rotting wood, had collapsed under the weight of all that snow. Now there was a six-foot-wide gap between this side of the ravine and the far side … the side to medical care for Rob and Dr. Krantz. And to freedom.

"Slow down!" Dr. Krantz screamed. I swear, if his leg closest to me hadn't been all busted up, he would have tried to reach over with it and slam down the brakes himself. "Jessica, don't you see it?"

I saw it all right. But what I saw was our one chance to get away from these clowns.

Which was why I pressed down on that gas pedal for all I was worth.

"Hang on!" I screamed at Seth.

Dr. Krantz threw his arms out to brace himself against the roof of the cab and the dashboard, as the ravine loomed ever closer. "Jessica!" he yelled. "You are insane—"

And then the wheels of the pickup left the ground, and we were flying. Really. Just like in dreams. You know the ones, where you dream you can fly? And while you're in the air, it's totally quiet, and all you can hear is your heartbeat, and you don't even dare breathe because if you do, you might drop down to the ground again, and you don't want that to happen because what you are experiencing is a miracle, the miracle of flight, and you want to make it last as long as you possibly can. . . .

And then, with a crash, we were down again, on the far side of the ravine … and still going, faster than ever. Only the jolt of our landing had sent all of our bones grinding together—I know I bit my tongue—not to mention, it seemed to blow the shocks out of the truck. It certainly blew something out, since the truck shimmied all over, then made a pathetic whining sound. . . .

But it kept going. I kept my foot to that gas pedal, and that truck kept on going.

"Oh my God," Dr. Krantz kept saying. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. . . ."

Cyrus, I knew, was gone. I dared a glance over my shoulder, as the truck ground up a steep incline on the far side of the ravine we'd jumped.

"You guys okay back there?" I yelled, and was relieved to see Seth's white face, and Chigger's laughing one, right there.

"We lost 'em!" Seth yelled, triumphantly. "Look!"

I looked. And Seth was right. The four by four had tried the same jump we had, but hadn't been able to get up as much speed as we had. Now it lay with its crumpled nose in the creek bed, the two men inside struggling to get out.

Something burst from within me. Suddenly, I was yelling, "Yeehaw!" like a cowboy. I never lifted my foot off the gas, but it was all I could do to stay in my seat behind that wheel. I wanted to jump out and kiss everyone in sight. Even Dr. Krantz. Even Chigger.

And then, without warning, we were bursting through the trees, and sliding onto the main road. Just like that. The moon was shining down hard, reflecting off the snow carpeting the barren fields all around us. After being so deep in the dark woods, all that light was almost blinding … blinding and the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen. Even as I was slamming on the brakes and we went sliding across the icy highway, I was smiling happily. We'd made it! We'd really made it!

When the truck finally slid to a halt, I risked a glance at the wooded hill behind us. You couldn't tell, just by looking at it, that it housed a bunch of wacko survivalists. It just looked, you know, like a pretty wooded hill.

Except for the smoke pouring from the top of it out into the moonlit sky. Really. It kind of looked like pictures I'd seen of Mount St. Helens, right before it blew up. Only on a much smaller scale, of course.

I looked around. We were in the middle of nowhere. There wasn't a farmhouse, or even a trailer, to be seen. Certainly nowhere I could make a phone call.

Then I remembered Dr. Krantz's cell phone.

I glanced over at him, but the guy was out. I guess that last burst of speed did him in. I leaned over and pawed around in his coat for a minute, then finally located the phone inside a pocket that also contained a Palm Pilot, a pack of Juicy Fruit, and a lot of used-up Kleenex. I helped myself to a piece of the Juicy Fruit, then opened up the rear window and passed the pack, along with the cell phone, to Seth.

"Here," I said to him, as he took both. "Call your parents to let them know you're all right, and that they can pick you up in five minutes at County Medical. Then call the cops and tell them what's happening up at Jim Henderson's place. If the fire department's going to get up there, they'll need to bring a plow." Then I remembered the blown-out bridge. "And maybe a road crew," I added.

Seth, after stuffing the Juicy Fruit in his mouth, eagerly began to dial. I turned back to face the road. My arms ached from my battle with the steering wheel, and despite the cold, there was a ribbon of sweat running all up and down my chest. But we had made it. We had made it.

Almost.

I committed twenty-seven traffic violations getting Rob and Dr. Krantz to the hospital. I went thirty miles over the speed limit—forty outside of town—went through three stoplights, made an illegal left-hand turn, and went the wrong way down a one-way street. Not that it mattered much. There was practically no one out on the streets, thanks to all the snow. The only time I ran into traffic was outside the Chocolate Moose, where a lot of kids from Ernie Pyle High hang out. It was after eleven, so the Moose was closed, but there were still kids around, necking in their cars. When I blew past them, I laid on the horn, just for the fun of it. I saw a number of startled heads lift up as I flew by. I yelled, "Yeehaw," at them, and a couple of irritated jocks yelled, "Grit!" back at me. I guess because of the truck. And maybe because of the yeehaw. And quite possibly because of Chigger.

But you know what? They couldn't have called me something that filled me with more pride.

When I swung around the entrance to the hospital, I saw that I had a choice of two entrances: the one for emergency vehicles only, and the one for general admittance.

Of course I chose the one for the emergency vehicles. I figured I'd come skidding to a halt in front of it, you know, like on The Dukes of Hazard, and all these emergency room personnel would come running out, all concerned about hearing the brakes squeal.

Only it didn't happen quite like that, because I guess most emergency vehicles don't go skidding into that entrance very much, and even though it had been plowed and salted, there was still a lot of ice. So instead of skidding to a halt in front of the emergency room doors, I sort of ended up driving through them.

But hey. All the emergency room personnel did come running up, just like I'd thought they would.

Fortunately the emergency room doors were glass, so crashing into them really didn't cause that much damage to my passengers. I mean, once the front wheels hit the emergency room floor and got some traction, the brakes worked, so Seth and Rob were fine. And Dr. Krantz was unconscious anyway, so when his head hit the dashboard, it probably didn't even hurt that much. It was more like a little tap. I know that's how it felt when I was flung against the steering wheel. Fortunately the truck was so old, it didn't have air bags, so we didn't have to deal with that embarrassment.

Still, the people in the emergency bay were surprisingly unsympathetic to my predicament. I mean, you would think that after what I'd been through, they'd be a little more understanding, but no. They didn't act at all like the emergency room people on that show on TV.

"Are you crazy?" one nurse in blue scrubs was yelling, as I lifted my head from the steering wheel.

That made me mad. I mean, all I'd done is gotten a little glass on the floor. It wasn't like I'd run over anybody.

"Hey," I said. "There's a guy in the back of this truck with a head injury, and this guy next to me is about to lose a leg. Get a couple gurneys, then get off my back."

That shut her up, let me tell you. In seconds, it seemed, they'd gotten Dr. Krantz out of the cab, then helped me back the truck up so they could get outside, and help move Rob. Seth was able to climb down from the cab bed unaided, but Chigger didn't seem too pleased to see his rescuers. He did a lot of growling and snapping until I told him to knock it off. Then, ever hopeful of more mashed potatoes, he leapt from the back of the truck and followed me inside, as I trailed after the gurney Rob was on.

"Is he going to be all right?" I kept asking all the people who were working on him. But they wouldn't say. They were too busy barking off his vital signs and writing them down on charts. The weirdest part was when they unwrapped him, and I saw what the yellow thing that had been around him the whole time was.

Oh, just the "Don't Tread On Me" flag from the True Americans' meeting house.

The one with the giant hole in it, from where I'd accidentally blasted it with a shotgun.

It was as I was standing there staring at this that I heard a voice call my name. I looked around, and saw that Dr. Krantz, who was being worked on over on the next gurney, had regained consciousness. He gestured for me to come close. I edged in between all the doctors and nurses who were hovering around him and leaned down so that he could whisper to me.

"Jessica," he hissed. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, sure," I said, surprised. "I'm fine."

"And Mr. Wilkins?"

"I don't know," I said, throwing a glance over my shoulder. I couldn't see Rob, for all the doctors and nurses crowded around him. "I think he's going to be okay."

"And Seth?"

"He's fine," I said. "Really, Dr. Krantz, we're okay. You just concentrate on getting better, okay?"

But Dr. Krantz wasn't through. He had something else to say to me, something that seemed of vital importance for him to get off his chest. He reached out and grabbed the front of my coat, and pulled me closer.

"Jessica," he rasped, close to my ear.

I had a feeling I knew what he was going to say, so I tried to head him off at the pass.

"Dr. Krantz," I said. "Don't worry about thanking me. Really, it's all right. I'd have done the same for anybody. I was happy to do it."

But Dr. Krantz still wouldn't let me go. If anything, his grip on the front of my coat tightened.

"Jessica," he breathed, again. I leaned even closer, since he seemed to be having trouble making himself heard.

"Yes, Dr. Krantz?" I said.

"You," he rasped, "are the worst driver I have ever seen."

C H A P T E R

18

The county hospital saw a lot of action that night. And that's not even counting having a pickup ram through its ambulance-bay doors.

It also admitted forty-eight new patients, seven of them in critical condition. Fortunately none of the people listed as critical were friends of mine. No, it looked as if most of the damage that was done that night was done to the True Americans. As I sat in the waiting room—they wouldn't let me in to see Rob once he'd been admitted, because I wasn't family—I saw each person as they were wheeled in.

Of course, that didn't start happening for a while, because it took a pretty long time for the fire engines and ambulances and police to get out to Jim Henderson's place. In fact, merely my explanation of how to get out there took a while. The police interviewed me for about forty minutes before the first squad car even started off in the direction of the True Americans' compound.

And I'm not too sure they believed what I told them. That might be one of the reasons they didn't go tearing off right away. I mean, a militia group, under attack by a ragtag band of bikers and truck drivers? Fortunately at some point, Dr. Krantz regained consciousness, and they were able to go in and confirm everything I'd said. He must have been pretty persuasive, too, because when I saw the sheriff leaving the examination room Dr. Krantz had been shoved into while the hospital staff scrambled to find a surgeon skilled enough to sew his leg back together, he looked pretty grim.

For a short while, the only person in the emergency waiting room with me was Seth. Well, Seth and Chigger. The hospital people weren't too happy about having a dog in their waiting room, but when I explained that I couldn't leave Chigger outside in the truck, as he would freeze, seeing as how the truck had no heat—nor much of a windshield left—they relented. And really, once I'd gotten him a few packs of peanut-butter Ritz crackers from the snack machine, Chigger was fine. He curled up on two of the plastic chairs and went right to sleep, worn out from his long ride and all that barking.

Seth's reunion with his parents, which came about ten minutes after our arrival, was touching in the extreme. The Blumenthals wept with happiness over seeing their son alive and in one piece. When they heard about my part in bringing Seth home, they pulled me into their group hug, which was fun, even though I assured them that I had, in fact, played only a very small role in the liberation of their son from the militia group that had kidnaped him.

But when Seth, while explaining precisely what the True Americans were all about, showed his parents the burn on his hand, which I had sort of forgotten about, they freaked out, and Seth got whisked off to the burn unit to have the wound treated.

So then it was just Chigger and me in the waiting room.

Finally, though, my parents, along with Douglas and Mike and Claire (because the two of them are attached at the hip) showed up, and we had our own tearful reunion. Well, at least, my mom cried. No one else did, really. And my mom only cried because she was so relieved that Great-aunt Rose had been wrong: Apparently the whole time I'd been gone, she'd been telling everyone that I had probably run off to Vegas to find work as a blackjack dealer. She had seen a show about teenage runaway blackjack dealers on Oprah.

Great-aunt Rose, my dad said, was leaving on the first bus out of town in the morning, whether or not she was ready to go.

It was a little while after this that Mrs. Wilkins showed up. I had called her right after I called my parents. But Mrs. Wilkins, being family, was let into the room where they were keeping Rob, so it wasn't like we had a chance to visit or anything. She only came out once, and that was to tell me that the doctor had said Rob was going to be all right. He had a concussion, but the doctor didn't think he'd have to stay in the hospital for more than a day or two, so long as he regained consciousness by morning. My dad told Mrs. Wilkins not to worry about her shifts at the restaurant while Rob was convalescing, so that was all right.

One thing my dad didn't ask—no one in my family did—was what Rob and I had been doing, saving Seth Blumenthal and battling the True Americans together. Mike and Claire and Douglas already knew, of course, but it didn't seem to occur to my parents to ask. Thank God.

All they wanted to know was was I all right, and would I come home now.

I said I was fine. Only I couldn't come home. Not, I told them, until I'd heard that Dr. Krantz was safely out of surgery.

If they thought this was weird, they didn't say so. They just nodded and went to get coffee from the machine over by the cafeteria, which, this late at night, was unfortunately closed. I was famished on account of having had nothing to eat since lunch, so we raided the snack machines some more. I had a pretty good dinner of Hostess apple pie and Fritos, some of which Chigger helped me eat. Much to my surprise, no one in my family seemed really to like Chigger, who was quite charming to all of them, sniffing each one carefully in case he or she had food hidden somewhere. My mom looked a little taken aback when I asked if I could keep Chigger. But she softened when I explained that the police had told me any pets found on seized property would be impounded and probably put down.

Besides, no one could deny Chigger made a very good guard dog. Even the cops had given him a pretty wide berth while they were questioning me.

And then, just as I'd suspected, about an hour after this, the first of the casualties from the battle of the Grits versus the True Americans began to flood the ER. I'm not sure, but I think it was around then that my parents began to suspect that my real motivation for staying at the hospital wasn't to find out whether or not Dr. Krantz's surgery had been successful. No, it was because I wanted to be there when they brought in Jim Henderson. I wanted to be there really, really bad.

Not because I had anything to say to him. What can one say to someone like him? He is never going to realize that we were right and he was wrong. People like Jim Henderson are incapable of changing their ways. They are going to believe in their half-assed opinions until the day they die, and nothing and no one is ever going to convince them that those beliefs might be mistaken.

No, I wanted to see Jim Henderson because I wanted to make sure they'd gotten him. That's all. I wanted to make sure that guy didn't slip away, didn't run off deeper into the hills to live in a cave, or escape to Canada. I wanted that guy in prison, where he belonged.

Or dead. Dead wouldn't have been too bad, either. Although I didn't think Jim Henderson could really ever be dead enough for me. At least in prison, I'd know he was suffering. Death seemed like too good a punishment for the likes of him.

And I wouldn't have been too sad to see Mrs. Henderson there in the morgue with him.

But though they brought in plenty of people I recognized as True Americans—all men, including the two from the four by four that had been chasing us, and Red Plaid Jacket, suffering from a bullet wound to the thigh—none of them were Jim Henderson. This was pretty disappointing, but certainly not unexpected. Of course a guy like him would run at the first sign of trouble. He wouldn't get far, though. Not with me on the case. I would make it my personal psychic business to know where he was and what he was doing at all times. That way I could alert the authorities, who would hopefully catch him when he least expected it. Like when he was sleeping, or maybe making more baby True Americans. Some time when he wasn't likely to be able to reach for a gun.

It was as I was examining the faces of the people being wheeled in, searching for Jim Henderson, that I saw one that looked more than a little familiar. I was up and out of my plastic seat in no time, and hurrying to the side of the gurney he was being wheeled in on.

"Chick," I cried, reaching for his arm, which had already been attached to an IV bottle. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Chick smiled wanly up at me.

"Hey, there, little lady," he said. "Glad to see you made it. Wilkins and the kid all right? How about the professor?"

"They're all fine," I said. "Or going to be fine, anyway. But what about you? What happened?"

"Aw." Chick looked irritably at the nurse who was trying to get a thermometer into his mouth. "Stun grenade went off early." He lifted his hands. I gasped at how raw and bloody they were.

"Chick!" I cried. "I'm so sorry!"

"Ah," he said, sheepishly. "It was my fault. I shoulda just thrown the stupid thing. But then I saw the guy had got all the women and children lined up in front of him, and I hesitated—"

"Jim Henderson, you mean?"

"Yeah," Chick said. "Bastard was using his wives and kids as the old human shield."

"Wait." I stared down at him. "Wives?"

"Well, sure," Chick said. "Guy like Jim Henderson's gonna keep God's chosen race going, he can't afford to be monogamous. Lady," he said, to the nurse with the thermometer, "I ain't got no fever. What I got is burnt-up hands."

The nurse glared at both Chick and me.

"No visitors," she said, pointing imperiously at the plastic chairs, "in the ER. Get back to your seat. And keep that dog out of the trash cans!"

I looked and saw that Chigger had his head buried in the ambulance-bay trash can.

"But what about him?" I asked Chick, as the nurse, disgusted with me, began physically to push me from the crowded ER. "Jim Henderson? Did they catch him?"

"Don't know, honey," Chick called. "Place was a zoo by the time they got me out of there, cops and firemen and what all—"

"And stay out," the nurse said, as she closed the ER doors firmly on me.

I walked disconsolately over to Chigger and pulled on his leather studded collar, eventually managing to drag him away from the garbage … though I had to pull his nose out of a Dorito bag. "Bad dog," I said, mostly for my parents' benefit, so they could see what an excellent and responsible pet owner I was going to make.

It was as I was doing this that I heard my name called softly from behind me. I turned around, and there was Dr. Thompkins, in a blood-smeared operating gown.

"Oh," I said, holding onto Chigger's collar. The smell of the blood was making him mental. I swear, it was enough to make me think the True Americans never fed their dogs. "Hey."

My parents, seeing their neighbor from across the street, got up and came over, as well.

"I just operated," Dr. Thompkins said to me, "on the leg of a man who told me he had you to thank for keeping him from bleeding to death."

"Oh," I said, brightening. "Dr. Krantz. Is he all right?"

"He's fine," Dr. Thompkins said. "I was able to save the leg. That was certainly one of the more … interesting tourniquets I've seen applied."

"Yeah," I said, humbly. "Well, I did get an A. In sixth grade first aid."

"Yes," Dr. Thompkins said. "I imagine you did. Well, in any case, Dr. Krantz is going to be fine. He also explained to me how he happened to have been shot."

"Oh," I said, not certain where Tasha's dad was going with this part. Like if he was going to yell at me for being irresponsible or something. Had someone told him it was me who'd rammed a pickup through the ambulance bay doors? I wasn't sure. "Well," I said, lamely. "You know."

Dr. Thompkins did a surprising thing. He stuck his right hand out toward me.

"I'd like to thank you, Jessica," he said, "for your part in attempting to bring my son's killers to justice."

"Oh." I was a little shocked. Was that what I had done? I guess it was, sort of. Too bad I hadn't been able to catch the guy who'd been ultimately responsible. . . .

"No problem, Dr. Thompkins," I said, and slipped my hand into Nate's father's.

Just as I did so, yet another ambulance came wailing up to the doors I'd smashed. The doors to the back of the vehicle were flung open, and the paramedics wheeled out a man who had been severely injured. In fact, he was practically holding his intestines in place with one hand. He was still conscious, however. Conscious and looking all around him with wild, crazy, blue eyes.

"Dr. Thompkins," one of the paramedics cried. "This one's bad. BP a hundred over sixty, pulse—"

Jim Henderson. It was Jim Henderson on that gurney, with his guts hanging out.

So they'd got him. They'd got him after all.

"All right," Dr. Thompkins said, looking over the chart the paramedics handed to him. "Let's get him upstairs to surgery. Now."

A pair of ER nurses took over from the paramedics, and began wheeling Jim Henderson down the hall, toward the elevator. Dr. Thompkins followed them, and I followed Dr. Thompkins. Chigger followed me.

"Hey, Mr. Henderson," I said, when the nurses pulled the gurney to a halt outside the elevator doors.

Jim Henderson turned his head to look at me. For once, his crazy-eyed gaze focused enough to recognize me. I know he did, because I saw fear … yes, fear … in those otherwise vacant orbs of blue.

"Get that dog," one of the nurses said, "away from here. He'll infect the patient."

"Jessica," Dr. Thompkins said. The elevator doors opened. "I'll finish talking to you later. But right now, I have to operate on this man."

"You hear that, Mr. Henderson?" I asked the man on the gurney. "Dr. Thompkins here is going to operate on you. Do you know who Dr. Thompkins is, Mr. Henderson?"

Henderson couldn't reply because he had an oxygen mask over his mouth. But that was okay. I didn't need an answer from him anyway.

"Dr. Thompkins," I said, "is the father of that boy you left dead in that cornfield."

Dr. Thompkins, with a startled look down at his patient, took an involuntary step backward.

"Yes," I said to Dr. Thompkins. "That's right. This is the man who killed your son. Or at least ordered someone else to do it."

Dr. Thompkins stared down at Jim Henderson, who, it had to be admitted, looked pretty pathetic, with his guts out all over the place like that.

"I can't operate on this man," Dr. Thompkins said, his horror-stricken gaze never leaving the man on the gurney.

"Dr. Thompkins?" One of the nurses slipped into the elevator and lifted a phone from a panel in there. "You want me to page Dr. Levine?"

"Not to mention," I said, "this guy's also the one who kidnapped Seth Blumenthal, burned down the synagogue, and knocked over all the headstones in the Jewish cemetery."

The nurse hesitated. Dr. Thompkins continued to stare down at Jim Henderson, disgust mingling with disbelief on his face.

"How about Dr. Takahashi?" the other ER nurse suggested. "Isn't he on duty tonight?"

"Hmmm," I said. "Mr. Henderson doesn't like immigrants very much either. Right, Mr. Henderson?" I bent down so that my face was very close to his. "Gosh, this must be very upsetting to you. Either a black guy, a Jewish guy, or an immigrant is going to end up operating on you. Better hope all those things you've been saying about them are wrong. Well, okay, buh-bye, now."

I waved as the two nurses, along with a dazed Dr. Thompkins, stepped onto the elevator with Jim Henderson. The last thing I saw of him, he was staring at me with those wide, crazy eyes. I can't be sure, but I really do think he was reevaluating his whole belief system.

C H A P T E R

19

Jim Henderson didn't die. Not on the operating table, anyway.

Drs. Levine and Takahashi operated on him, in the end. Dr. Thompkins excused himself. Which was pretty noble of him, actually. I mean, if it had been me, I don't know. I think I would have gone ahead. And let the scalpel slip at a crucial moment.

But Jim Henderson lived through his surgery. He owed his life to two people who came from religious and ethnic groups he'd been teaching his followers to hate. I kind of wondered how he felt about that, but not enough actually to ask him. I had way more important things to worry about.

Primarily, Rob.

It wasn't until the next day that Rob finally woke up. I was sitting right there when he did it. I did go home right after the thing with Jim Henderson—actually, hospital security came along and threw me out, which is a terrible way, if you think about it, to treat a hero. But one of the ER nurses who'd escorted Jim Henderson to surgery apparently finked me out, saying I'd "threatened" a patient.

Which of course I had. But if you ask me, he fully deserved it.

Anyway, I went home with my parents and brothers and Claire, and got a few hours of sleep. I showered and changed and ate and walked Chigger and went a few rounds with my parents over him. They were not too thrilled to have a trained attack dog living under our roof, but after I explained to them that the cops would have sent him to the pound, and that the True Americans were not the world's best pet owners, as far as I can see, they came around. They weren't exactly thrilled with the way Chigger had chewed through an antique rug while we'd all been asleep, but after three or four bowls of Dog Chow, he was fine, so I don't see what the problem is. He was just hungry.

It hadn't been much of a surprise to me that on top of everything else, Jim Henderson and his followers turned out to be lousy pet owners.

Anyway, I was sitting there flipping through a copy of the local paper, which mentioned nothing about me and the important role I'd played in the capture of the dangerous and deranged leader of the largest militia group in the southern half of the state, when Rob started to come round. I put the paper down and ran for his mom, who'd also been waiting for him to wake up. She'd been down the hall getting coffee when he finally opened his eyes. She and I both hurried back to his room. . . .

But at the door, a voice from across the hall called weakly to me. When I turned, I saw Dr. Krantz lying in the bed of the room across from Rob's. Gathered around his bed were a number of people I recognized, including Special Agents Smith and Johnson, who used to be assigned to my case. Until Dr. Krantz fired them from it, that is. It was good to see they could all let bygones be bygones and get along.

"Well, well, well," I said, strolling into the crowded room. "What's this? A debriefing?"

Dr. Krantz laughed. It was a startling sound. I wasn't used to hearing him laugh.

"Jessica," he said. "I'm glad to see you. There are a couple of people here I want you to meet."

And then Dr. Krantz, whose leg was in a long sling, with spikes coming out of a metal thing around the patched-up wound where I'd stuffed my rock, pointed to various people crowded into the small room, and made introductions. One of the people was his wife (she looked exactly like him, except that she had hair). Another was a little old lady called Mrs. Pierce, whose name suited her, since she had very piercing eyes, as blue as the baby bootie she was industriously knitting. The last was a kid about my age, a boy named Malcolm. And of course I already knew Special Agents Johnson and Smith.

"That was quite the invasion of the True Americans' Compound you launched, Jessica," Special Agent Johnson said.

"Thanks," I said, modestly.

"Jessica's always impressed us," Special Agent Smith said, "with her communication skills. She seems to have a real flair for rallying people to her cause … whatever cause that happens to be."

"I couldn't have done it," I said, humbly, "without the help of many, many Grits."

There was an awkward silence after this, probably on account of no one in the room knowing what a Grit was, except for me.

"You'll be happy to know," Dr. Krantz said, "that Seth is going to be fine. The burn should heal without leaving a scar."

"Cool," I said. I wondered what was happening in Rob's room. He and his mom had probably had a nice little reunion by now. When was my turn?

"And the police officer," Dr. Krantz went on, "who was shot should be fine. As should all of your, um, friends. Particularly Mr. Chicken."

"Chick," I corrected him. "But that's great, too."

There was another silence. Malcolm, who was sitting over on the windowsill, playing with a Gameboy, looked up from it briefly, and said, "Jeez, go on. Ask her, already."

Dr. Krantz cleared his throat uncomfortably. Special Agents Johnson and Smith exchanged nervous glances.

"Ask me what?" I knew, though. I already knew.

"Jessica," Special Agent Smith said. "We all seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot with you. I know how you feel about coming to work for us, but I just want you to know, it won't be like it was with … well, the first time. Dr. Krantz has been doing groundbreaking work with … people like yourself. Why, Mrs. Pierce and Malcolm here are part of his team."

Mrs. Pierce smiled at me kindly above the baby bootie. "That's right, dear," she said.

"It just really seems to me," Special Agent Smith said, reaching up to fiddle with her pearl earring, "that you would enjoy the work, Jessica. Especially considering your feelings about Mr. Henderson. Those are the kind of people Dr. Krantz and his team are after, you know. People like Jim Henderson."

I glanced at Dr. Krantz. He looked a lot less intimidating in his hospital gown than he did in his usual garb, a suit and tie.

"It's true, Jessica," he said. "Someone with powers like yours could really be a boon to our team. And we wouldn't require anything from you but a few hours a week of your time."

I eyed him warily. "Really? I wouldn't have to go live in Washington, or anything?"

"Not at all," Dr. Krantz said.

"And I could keep going to school?"

"Of course," Dr. Krantz said.

"And you'd keep it out of the press?" I asked. "I mean, you'd make sure it was a secret?"

"Jessica," Dr. Krantz said. "You saved my life. I owe you that much, at least."

I looked at Malcolm. He was absorbed in his video game, but as if he sensed my gaze on him, he looked up.

"You work for him?" I asked, gruffly. "You like it?"

Malcolm shrugged, " ’s okay," he said. Then he turned back to his game. But I could tell by the way color was spreading over his cheeks that working for Dr. Krantz was more than just okay. It was a chance for this otherwise average-looking kid to make a difference. He'd wanted to seem cool about it in front of the others, but you could totally tell: This kid was way psyched about his job.

"How about you?" I asked Mrs. Pierce.

"Oh, my dear," the old lady said, with a beatific smile. "Helping to put away scumbags like that jerk Henderson is what I live for."

After this surprising remark, she turned back to the baby bootie.

Well.

I looked at Dr. Krantz. "Tell you what," I said. "I'll think about it, okay?"

"Fine," Dr. Krantz said, with a smile. "You do that."

I told him I hoped he felt better soon, said goodbye to the others, and drifted back across the hall.

So? Stranger things have happened than me joining an elite team of psychic crime-fighters, you know.

And it had felt pretty good when I'd seen them wheeling Jim Henderson in on that gurney. . . .

Inside Rob's room, Mrs. Wilkins had been joined by her brothers and Just-Call-Me-Gary.

"Oh," Rob's mom said, as I came in. "Here she is!"

Rob, his hair looking very dark against the whiteness of the bandage around his head, and the pillows behind his back, smiled at me wanly. It was the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. Instantly, all thoughts of Dr. Krantz and the Federal Bureau of Investigation left my head.

"Hi," I said, moving toward the bed. I had, for the occasion, donned a skirt. It was no velvet evening gown, but judging by the appreciative way his gray-eyed gaze roved over me, he sure thought it was.

"Well," Rob's uncle said. "What say we check out this cafeteria I've heard so much about, eh, Mary?"

Mrs. Wilkins said, "Oh, yes, let's." Then she and her brothers and Just-Call-Me-Gary left the room.

Hey, it wasn't subtle. But it worked. Rob and I were alone. Finally.

It was a little while later that I lifted my head from his shoulder, where I'd been resting it after having become exhausted from so much passionate kissing, and said, "Rob, I have to tell you something."

"I didn't ask you," he said, "because I didn't want you getting in trouble with your parents."

I looked at him like he was nuts. For a minute, I thought maybe he was. You know, that Mrs. Henderson had scrambled his brains with that mashed-potato bowl. "What are you talking about?"

"Randy's wedding," Rob said. "It's on Christmas Eve. No way your parents are going to let you go out on Christmas Eve. So you'd just have ended up lying to them, and getting in trouble, and I don't want that."

I blinked a few times. So that was why he hadn't asked me? Because he'd thought my parents wouldn't have let me go in the first-place?

Happiness washed over me. But still, he could have just said so, rather than let me think he had some other girl in mind he wanted to take instead. . . .

I didn't let my relief show, however.

"Rob," I said. "Get over yourself. That's not what I was going to say."

He looked surprised. "It wasn't? Then what?"

I shook my head. "Besides," I said. "My parents would so totally let me go out on Christmas Eve. We don't do anything on Christmas Eve. It's Christmas Day that we do church and present opening and a big meal and everything."

"Fine," Rob said. "But don't tell me that you'd tell them the truth. About being with me, I mean. Admit it, Mastriani. You're ashamed of me. Because I'm a Grit."

"That is not true," I said. "You're the one who's ashamed of me! Because I'm a Townie. And still in high school."

"I will admit," Rob said, "that the fact that you're still in high school kind of sucks. I mean, it is a little weird for a guy my age to be going out with a sixteen-year-old."

I looked down at him disgustedly. "You're only two years older than me, nimrod."

"Whatever," Rob said. "Look. Do we have to talk about this now? Because in case you didn't notice, I've suffered a head injury, and calling me a nimrod is not making me feel any better."

"Well," I said, chewing on my lower lip. "What I'm about to say probably isn't going to make you feel better."

"What?" Rob said, looking wary.

"Your dad." I figured it was better if I just blurted it all out. "I saw a picture of him in your mom's room, and I know where he is."

Rob regarded me calmly. He did not even drop his hands from my arms, which he'd reached up to massage.

"Oh," was all he said.

"I didn't mean to pry," I said, quickly. "Really. I mean, I totally didn't do it on purpose. It's just, like I said, I saw his picture, and that night I dreamed about where he is. And I will totally tell you, if you want to know. But if you don't, that's fine, too, I will never say another word about it."

"Mastriani," Rob said, with a chuckle. "I know where he is."

My mouth dropped open. "You know? You know where he is?"

"Doing ten to twenty at the Oklahoma Men's State Penitentiary for armed robbery," Rob said. "Real swell guy, huh? And I'm just a chip off the old block. I bet you're real eager to introduce me to your parents now."

"But that's not what you're on probation for," I said, quickly. "I mean, something like armed robbery. You don't get probation for stuff like that, they lock you up. So whatever you did—"

"Whatever I did," Rob said, "was a mistake and isn't going to happen again."

But to my dismay, he let go of me, and put his hands behind his head. He wasn't chuckling anymore either.

"Rob," I said. "You don't think I care, do you? I mean, about your dad? We can't help who are relatives are." I thought about Great-aunt Rose, who'd never committed armed robbery—at least so far as I knew. Still, if being unpleasant was a crime, she'd have been locked up long ago. "I mean, if I don't care that you were arrested once, why would I care about—"

"You should care," Rob said. "Okay, Mastriani? You should care. And you should be going out on Saturday nights to dances, like a normal girl, not sneaking into secret militia enclaves and risking your life to stop psychopathic killers. . . ."

"Yeah?" I said, starting to get pissed. "Well, guess what? I'm not a normal girl, am I? I'm about as far from normal as you can get, and you know what? I happen to like who I am. So if you don't, well, you can just—"

Rob took his hands out from behind his head and took hold of my arms again. "Mastriani," he said.

"I mean it, Rob," I said, trying to shake him off. "I mean it, if you don't like me, you can just go to—"

"Mastriani," he said, again. And this time, instead of letting go of me, he dragged me down until my face was just inches from his. "That's the problem. I like you too much."

He was proving just how much he liked me when the door to his room swung open, and a startled voice went, "Oh! Excuse me!"

We broke apart. I swung around to see my brother Douglas standing there looking very red in the face. Beside him stood, of all people, a very abashed Tasha Thompkins.

"Oh," I said, casually. "Hey, Douglas. Hey, Tasha."

"Hey," Rob said, sounding a bit weak.

"Hey," Tasha said. She looked like she would have liked to run from the room. But my brother put a hand on her slender shoulder. My brother, Douglas, touched a girl—and she seemed to regain her composure somewhat.

"Jess," she said. "I just … I came to apologize. For what I said the other night. My father told me what you did—you know, about catching the people who did … that … to my brother, and I just …"

"It's okay, Tasha," I said. "Believe me."

"Yeah," Rob said. "It was a pleasure. Well, except for the part where I got hit with a mixing bowl."

"Mashed potatoes," I said.

"Mashed-potato bowl, I mean," Rob said.

"Really," I said to Tasha, who looked faintly alarmed by our banter. "It's okay, Tasha. I hope we can be friends."

"We can," Tasha said, her eyes bright with tears. "At least, I hope we can."

I held out my arms, and she moved into them, hugging me tightly. It was only when she got close enough for me to whisper into her ear that I said, softly, "You break my brother's heart, I'll break your face, understand?"

Tasha tensed in my arms. Then she released me and straightened. She didn't look upset, though. She looked excited and happy.

"Oh," she said, sniffling a little, but still reaching for Douglas's hand. "I won't. Don't worry."

Douglas looked alarmed, but not because Tasha had taken his hand.

"You won't what?" he asked. He darted a suspicious look at me. "Jess. What'd you say to her?"

"Nothing," I said, innocently, and sat down on Rob's bed.

And then, from behind them, a familiar voice went, "Knock knock," and my mother came barreling in, with my dad, Michael, Claire, Ruth, and Skip trailing along behind her.

"Just stopped by to see if you wanted to grab a bite over at the restaurant. . . ." My mom's voice died away as soon as she saw where I was sitting. Or rather, who I was sitting so closely beside.

"Mom," I said, with a smile, not getting up. "Dad. Glad you're here. I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, Rob."

About the Author

Jenny Carroll

Born in Indiana, Jenny Carroll spent her childhood in pursuit of air conditioning - which she found in the public library where she spent most of her time. She has lived in California and France and currently resides in New York City with her husband and a one-eyed cat named Henrietta. Jenny Carroll is the author of the hugely popular Mediator series as well as the bestselling Princess Diaries. Visit Jenny at her website, www.jennycarroll.com