Code Name Cassandra

by Meg Cabot

  Paul, crazy as he was now, couldn’t think like a normal person—not that he’d ever been able to before. But after a steady diet of bats and garbage, which was all he’d had to eat for the past few years, he’d gotten much worse. So what seemed to Paul like a really good idea—he ought to give Claire a wedding present, to show there were no hard feelings—well, that just wouldn’t have occurred to a normal person.

  “What was worse,” I said, “Paul’s idea of a wedding present was to go through all the yards in the town and pick every rose he could find. He did this, of course, in the middle of the night, and all over town children woke up and looked out the window and said, “There’s Paul Huck again,’ and they wondered what he was going to do with all the roses.

  “What Paul did with all the roses was, he piled them up on Claire Lippman’s front porch, so she’d see them first thing when she came out of her house to go to work.”

  And there, I told the kids, for the first time ever, an adult woke up and heard Paul Huck. It was Claire’s new husband, Simon, who was a stranger to the town. He didn’t know who Paul Huck was. All Simon knew was, when he came downstairs into the kitchen to get a glass of milk before going back to sleep, he saw this gigantic, shaggy-haired man, covered in dirt and blood—because the roses’ thorns had cut Paul everywhere he touched them—standing on his front porch. Simon didn’t even think about what he was doing. Since he was in the kitchen, he grabbed the first thing he saw that he could use as a weapon—a carving knife—and went to the front door, threw it open, and said, “Who the hell are you?”

  “Paul was so surprised that someone was speaking to him—no one had said a word to him, not in five long years—that he spun around, just as he’d been about to leave the porch. Simon didn’t understand that Paul was just startled. He thought this giant, hairy, bloody guy was coming after him. So Simon swung the carving knife, and it caught Paul just beneath the chin, and whoosh … it cut off his head. Paul Huck,” I said, “was dead.”

  Silence followed this.

  I went on to describe how Claire’s husband, in a panic after seeing what he had done, ran inside the house to call the police. Hearing all the commotion, Claire woke up and came downstairs. She went out onto the porch. The first thing she saw was all the roses. The second thing she saw was this great big bloody body laying on top of them. The last thing she saw was a head, almost buried in the roses.

  And even though the head had this long beard, and the eyes were all rolled back, Claire recognized Paul Huck. And she put together the roses and the fact that it was Paul and she knew that her husband had just killed the man that, because of her, had been living like an animal for five long years.

  Claire wouldn’t let Simon call the police. He had killed, she insisted, an innocent man. Paul had never meant to hurt either of them. If word got out about this, Claire and her new husband—who was this very important surgeon—were going to be socially ruined in town, and she knew it. She explained all this to Simon. They had, she said, to hide the body, and pretend like nothing had happened.

  Simon was disgusted, but like Claire, he enjoyed his status high at the top of the town’s social ladder. So he made a deal with her: he’d get rid of Paul’s body, if Claire got rid of the head.

  Claire agreed. So while Simon wrapped Paul’s body in sheets—so he wouldn’t bleed all over the back of his new car while Simon drove over to the lake, where he intended to dump the body—Claire lifted up the head and threw it in the first place she thought of: down the well in her backyard.

  When Simon got back from the lake, the two of them cleaned up all the blood and roses. Then, exhausted, they went back to bed.

  Everything seemed to go okay at first. Nobody except the children of the town had ever believed Paul Huck was still alive anyway, so nobody noticed that he was gone. Little by little, Claire and Simon were able to put from their minds what they had done. Their lives went back to normal.

  Until the first full moon after Paul’s murder. That night, Claire and Simon were awakened from their sleep by a moaning they heard coming from the backyard. At first they thought it was the wind. But it seemed to be moaning words. And those words were, “Where’s … my … head?”

  They thought they must have been hearing things. But then, sounding even closer than the first moan, they heard the words, “Down … in … the … well.”

  Claire and Simon put on their bathrobes and hurried downstairs. Looking out into their backyard, they got the shock of their lives. For there, in the moonlight, they saw a horrifying sight: Paul Huck’s headless body, all covered with lake weeds and dripping wet, moaning, “Where’s … my … head?”

  And, from deep inside the well, the echoing reply: “Down … in … the … well!”

  Claire and her husband both went instantly insane. They ran from the house that night, and they never went back, not even to move out their stuff. They hired a moving company to do it for them. They put the house up for sale.

  “But you know what?” I looked at all the faces gazing at me in the soft glow of my single flashlight. “No one ever bought the house. It was like everyone could sense that there was something wrong with it. No one ever bought it, and little by little, it began to fall apart. Vandals threw rocks through its windows, and rats moved in, and bats, just like the ones Paul used to eat, lived in the attic. It is still empty, to this day. And on nights when the moon is full, if you go into the backyard, you can still hear the wind moaning, just like Paul Huck: ‘Where’s … my … head?’”

  From the dark kitchen came a deep, ghostly wail:

  “Down … in … the … well!”

  Several things happened at once. The boys all screamed. Scott, grinning, emerged from the kitchen. And the front door burst open, and Shane, panting and white-faced, cried, “Did you hear that? Did you hear that? It’s him, it’s Paul Huck! He’s coming to get us! Please don’t make me sleep outside, I promise I’ll be good from now on, I promise!”

  And with that, I began to see a little—just a little—more clearly how it might be possible for a kid like Shane to make that beautiful music.

  C H A P T E R

  9

  When I woke up the next morning, I knew where Keely Herzberg was.

  Not that there was much I could do with the information. I mean, it wasn’t like I was going to run over to Pamela’s office and tell her what I knew. Not yet, anyway. I needed to check the situation out, make sure Keely wanted to be found.

  And, thanks to Paul Huck, I knew exactly how I was going to do it.

  Well, not thanks to Paul Huck, exactly. But thanks to the fact that I’d had Scott and Dave and their kids over the night before, I was a lot more savvy to the whole phone situation than I’d been before. It turns out all the counselors have cell phones. Seriously. Everyone except Ruth and me … and Karen Sue Hanky, I suppose, since she’d never do anything that might be construed as breaking the rules.

  I don’t know why Ruth and I are so out of it. We’re like the only two sixteen-year-old girls in Indiana without cell phones. What is wrong with our parents? You would think they would want us to have cell phones, so that we could call them when we’re going to be out late, or whatever.

  But then, we’re never out late, because we never really get invited anywhere. That would be on account of our being orchestra nerds. Oh, and on account of my issues, too, I guess.

  But everybody else on the camp counseling staff had cell phones. They’d been making and receiving calls all week, just keeping them on vibrate and picking up out of Pamela’s and Dr. Alistair’s sight.

  So now, thanks to my scaring their charges so thoroughly the night before that they apparently did everything their counselors asked them to afterward—like go to sleep—both Scott and Dave were eager, when I asked them at breakfast, to lend me their phones.

  I took Dave’s, since it had less buttons and looked less intimidating. Then I ducked out of the dining hall and went to the Pit, which was empty this time of day. I figure
d reception there was bound to be good… .

  And it didn’t seem likely that if the Feds were still monitoring my activities they’d be able to sneak up on me without me noticing.

  Rob’s phone rang about five times before he picked up.

  “Hey, it’s me,” I said. And then since, for all I knew, there might be dozens of girls calling him before nine in the morning, I added, “Jess.”

  “I know it’s you,” Rob said. He didn’t sound sleepy or anything. He usually opened the garage for his uncle, so he gets up pretty early. “What’s up? How are things up there at band camp?”

  “It’s orchestra camp.”

  “Whatever. How’s it going?”

  What is it about Rob’s voice that makes me feel all shivery, the way I’d felt in the super air-conditioned practice room the day before … only inside, not outside? I don’t know. But I strongly suspect it had something to do with the L word.

  Though it was just plain wrong, my having fallen so hard for a guy who so clearly wanted to have nothing to do with me. Why couldn’t he see we were made for each other? I mean, we’d met in detention, for God’s sake. Need I say more?

  “Things are okay,” I said. “Except I sort of have this problem.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  I tried to picture what Rob looked like, sitting there in his kitchen—he and his mom only have one phone, and it’s in the kitchen. I figured he was probably wearing jeans. I’d never seen him in anything but jeans. Which was just as well, because he looks extraordinarily fine in them. It was like his butt had been designed to be molded by a pair of Levi’s, his broad shoulders contoured specifically to fill out that leather jacket he always wore when he rode his motorcycle.

  And the rest of him wasn’t that bad, either.

  “Well,” I said, trying not to think about the way his curly dark hair, which was usually in need of a trim, had felt against my cheek the last time he’d let me kiss him. It had been a long time ago. Too long. Oh, God, why couldn’t I be just a couple years older?

  “Look,” I said. “Here’s the thing.” And I told him, briefly, about Jonathan Herzberg.

  “So,” I concluded, “I just need a ride into Chicago to sort of check out the situation, and I know you have work and all, but I was kind of wondering if, when you get a day off, or whatever, you wouldn’t mind—”

  “Mastriani,” he said. He didn’t sound mad or anything, even though I was trying to use him … and pretty blatantly, too. “You’re four hours away.”

  I winced. I’d been hoping he wouldn’t remember that until after he’d said yes. See, in my imagination, when I’d rehearsed this call, Rob had been so excited to hear from me, he’d hopped right onto his bike and come over, no questions asked.

  In real life, however, guys ask questions.

  “I know it’s far,” I said. You dope. What did you expect? He said he doesn’t want to go out with you. When are you going to get that through your thick skull?

  “You know what?” I said. “Never mind. I can just get somebody else—”

  “I don’t like it,” Rob said. I thought he meant he didn’t like my asking somebody else to drive me, and I got kind of excited for a minute, but then he went, “Why the hell did your brother tell this guy where you were in the first place?”

  I sighed. Rob had never met Douglas. Or anybody in my family, for that matter, except my dad, and that was just for a minute once. I don’t think any of them would be that thrilled by the fact that I was in love with a guy I’d met in detention.

  Or that the reason—at least the one that he gives me—that we aren’t going out is that he’s on probation, and doesn’t want to screw it up by dating a minor.

  My life has gotten seriously complicated, I swear.

  “How do you know,” Rob demanded, “that this isn’t a setup by those agents who were after you last spring? I mean, it very well could be a trap, Mastriani. They might have arranged this whole thing as a way to prove you lied when you said you didn’t have your powers anymore.”

  “I know,” I said. “That’s why I want to check it out first. But I’ll just get someone else to take me. It’s no big deal.”

  “What about Ruth?” Rob had only met Ruth once or twice. He had called her the fat chick the first time he’d ever referred to her, but he’d quickly learned I don’t let people dis my best friend that way. Nor do I let Ruth call Rob what she calls everybody in our town who lives outside the city limits: a Grit. If Rob and I ever did start going out, there’d definitely be a little friction between the two of them. So much for me being able to tell he secretly loves me by the way he treats my friends. “Can’t Ruth take you?”

  “No,” I said. I didn’t want to get into the whole Ruth-being-no-good-in-a-crisis thing. “Look, don’t worry about it. I’ll find someone. It’s no big deal.”

  “What do you mean, you’ll find someone?” Rob sounded exasperated with me, which he didn’t have any right to be. It’s not like he’s my boyfriend, or anything. “Who are you going to find?”

  “There are a couple people,” I said, “with cars. I’ll just have to see if I can get any of them to take me, that’s all.”

  Dave appeared suddenly at the top of the stairs down into the Pit. He called, “Hey, Jess, you almost through? I gotta take my crew on over to the music building now.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Yeah, just a minute.” Into the phone, I said, “Look, I gotta go. This guy loaned me his phone, and I have to give it back now, because he’s leaving.”

  “What guy?” Rob demanded. “There’s guys there? I thought it was a camp for kids.”

  “Well, it is,” I said. Was it my imagination, or did he sound … well, unsettled? “But there’s guy counselors and all.”

  “What’s a guy doing,” Rob wanted to know, “working at a band camp for little kids? They let guys do that?”

  “Well, sure,” I said. “Why not? Hey, wait a minute.” I squinted up at Dave. Even though it wasn’t quite nine yet, you could tell from the way the sun was beating down that it was going to be a scorcher. “Hey, Dave,” I called. “You got a car, right?”

  “Yeah,” Dave said. “Why? You planning on staging a breakout?”

  Into the phone, I said, “You know what, Rob? I think I—”

  But Rob was already talking. And what he was saying, I was surprised to hear, was, “I’ll pick you up at one.”

  I went, totally confused, “You’ll what? What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll be there at one,” Rob said again. “Where will you be? Give me directions.”

  Bemused, I gave Rob directions, and agreed to meet him at a bend in the road just past the main gates into the camp. Then I hung up, still wondering what had made him change his mind.

  I trudged up the steps to where Dave stood, and handed him back his phone.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  Dave shrugged. “You really need a ride somewhere?”

  “Not anymore,” I said. “I—”

  And that’s when it hit me. Why Rob had been so blasé about my going away for seven weeks, and why, just now on the phone, he’d changed his mind about coming up:

  He hadn’t thought there’d be guys here.

  Seriously. He’d thought it was just going to be me and Ruth and about two hundred little kids, and that was it. It had never occurred to him there might be guys my own age hanging around.

  That was the only explanation I could think of, anyway, for his peculiar behavior.

  Except, of course, that explanation made no sense whatsoever. Because for it to be true, it would mean Rob would have to like me, you know, that way, and I was pretty sure he didn’t. Otherwise, he wouldn’t care so much about his stupid probation officer, and what he has to say on the matter.

  Then again, the prospect of jail is a pretty daunting one… .

  “Jess? Are you all right?”

  I shook myself. Dave was staring at me. I had drifted off into R
ob Wilkins dreamland right in front of him.

  “Oh,” I said. “Yeah. Fine. Thanks. No, I don’t need a ride anymore. I’m good.”

  He slipped his cell phone back into his pocket. “Oh. Okay.”

  “You know what I do need, though, Dave?” I asked.

  Dave shook his head. “No. What?”

  I took a deep breath. “I need someone to keep an eye on my kids this afternoon,” I said, in a rush. “Just for a little while. I, um, might be tied up with something.”

  Dave, unlike Ruth, didn’t give me a hard time. He just shrugged and went, “Sure.”

  My jaw sagged. “Really? You don’t mind?”

  He shrugged again. “No. Why should I mind?”

  We started back toward the dining hall. As we approached it, I noticed most of the residents of Birch Tree Cottage had finished breakfast and were outside, gathered around one of the campground dogs.

  “It’s a grape,” Shane was saying, conversationally, to Lionel. “Go ahead and eat it.”

  “I do not believe it is a grape,” Lionel replied. “So I do not think I will, thank you.”

  “No, really.” Shane pointed at something just beneath the dog’s ear. “In America, that’s where grapes grow.”

  When I got close enough, of course, I saw what it was they were talking about. Hanging off one of the dog’s ears was a huge, blood-engorged tick. It did look a bit like a grape, but not enough, I thought, to fool even the most gullible foreigner.

  “Shane,” I said, loudly enough to make him jump.

  “What?” Shane widened his baby blues at me innocently. “I wasn’t doing anything, Jess. Honest.”

  Even I was shocked at this bold-faced lie. “You were so,” I said. “You were trying to make Lionel eat a tick.”