Okay, it isn’t much, and it doesn’t prove anything, but it does kind of explain Needles. There’s no lizard quite like him anywhere around here. And the way he would hover in the water, just below the surface, watching and waiting. His meat diet. What he did to that mouse. He’s a baby alligator! I can’t believe we never saw it before.
And where there are babies, don’t there have to be parents . . . ?
But there can’t be parents! There are no alligators around the Oasis! Which means they would have to be brought here—
Like you’d do if you’re stocking an alligator farm.
The thought of innocent animals kept in cruel captivity and sold for their leather and meat is so upsetting that I have to get up and pace around my room. The next thing I know, I’m getting dressed and easing myself out the door of our cottage. I don’t believe for a second that Ivory would be involved in something so awful. But I have to get to the bottom of this.
I have to talk to Jett.
It’s after midnight, and the Oasis is deserted. At cottage 29, I go straight to Jett’s window and tap gently on the glass—I want to wake him but not Matt in the other room. We’re going to have this out once and for all.
That’s when I notice the curtains are open. The light from the path casts enough glow that I can see into the cottage. The bed is neatly made and obviously hasn’t been slept in. There’s no sign of Jett.
His words flash back to me: If you won’t help me do the right thing, I’ll do it myself.
Oh, no! What would someone in his half-loopy state of mind consider to be “the right thing”?
I spot something else: A large box has been pulled halfway out from under the bed. The logo on the side reads: www.LightUpTheNight.com.
The fireworks! Jett showed them to Tyrell and me back on the day of the Dance Dance Revolution machine. I assumed that when all that other stuff got sent back, the cartons of fireworks went back with it.
That’s the thing. Cartons—plural. Jett had two boxes then. I scan the darkened room. One of them is gone.
It’s like a jolt of electricity through me. Jett is out there somewhere with the missing carton, planning to blow something up, because he believes it’s “the right thing.”
But what? The mansion, probably, in the mistaken belief that it has something to do with Ivory, master criminal. Not that even a whole truckload of fireworks could do much to a house that size. Chances are, what Jett’s really going to succeed in blowing up is himself.
For an instant, I get so overwhelmed that I spin around in a circle, as if I’m trying to run in all directions at the same time.
One thing is definite. I can’t face this alone. Tyrell is Jett’s closest friend at the Oasis. Maybe he’ll know what to do.
Tyrell is a light sleeper, since he wakes up a lot to scratch. So I’m only tapping at his window for a few minutes before the front door of the cottage opens, and he comes out to join me, rubbing his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Twenty after twelve.” Keeping my voice low, I update him on the absence of Jett and the box of fireworks.
He wakes up in a hurry. “You don’t think he’s nutty enough to try to burn down that house, do you?”
“I don’t know what to think, except that he’s going to do something stupid, and we should stop him if we can.”
Tyrell’s amazed. “You mean go to Hedge Apple? Now? In the boat?”
“Think,” I insist. “If Jett took those fireworks to Hedge Apple, then he’s got the boat.”
“But with no boat,” Tyrell reasons, “how can we get ourselves to Hedge Apple?”
I have no answer for that—until a bright light cuts the night from the direction of the main road. One of the golf carts pulls up to the welcome center. The buddy at the controls—Michael, who does odd maintenance jobs as well as nighttime security—parks the cart and heads off to his own cottage. We duck behind a hedge as he passes.
“That’s our transportation,” I decide.
Tyrell is skeptical. “Those things don’t go very fast.”
“They go faster than we walk,” I assure him, dragging him toward the cart. It’s something Jett might have said, and I feel a stab of horror. Actually, this whole mission sounds more like Jett than Tyrell or me. For sure, it’s not very whole, but we’ve got no choice. Jett could be headed for big trouble right now.
We can blame him later. First we have to try to rescue his sorry butt.
Staying in the shadows in case someone happens to glance out a window, we sneak over to the electric golf cart and unplug it from its outlet. Luckily, it’s a push-button start—no key.
We decide Tyrell should drive, since he has longer legs, and can reach the pedals more easily.
He pauses with his finger over the button. “What if we don’t have enough power to get there and back?”
“We’ll worry about that if it happens,” I tell him. “Just drive.” Seriously, I barely recognize the words coming out of my own mouth. This is not the Grace Atwater I’ve been for twelve years up until tonight—follower of rules, asker of permission, recipient of awards for good behavior and perfect attendance. Thanks a lot, Jett. When I rescue you, my first act will be to punch you in the face—which is also nothing like me.
Tyrell starts the cart and I’d love to be able to say that we roar off in the direction of Hedge Apple. What really happens is a wide turn into the northbound lane, moving so slowly that ants are probably passing us.
“You can go a little faster, you know,” I prompt.
“I get itchy when I’m nervous.” And he actually stops to scratch.
“That’s it. Shove over.”
We switch seats and I take over the wheel. It’s a bit of a stretch to the pedal, but at least now we’re making some progress. I picture myself riding on the back of Dad’s motorcycle, grooving on the acceleration while the wind whips through my hair. This is . . . not exactly that.
A car approaches us from behind, which is pretty terrifying. I move over to the shoulder to let it pass, and at one point, we’re half tipped over into the ditch. We survive it, though, and I get the cart up to top velocity—which is still a joke.
After another ten minutes, a road looms up on our left. There’s no sign, but it feels like we’ve covered the same distance as our boat trips to Hedge Apple. I take the turn a little too sharply and we almost tip over again, but we manage to right ourselves and keep on going.
“Is this the way?” Tyrell shrills. “How do we know this is the way?”
Eventually, that question answers itself. There’s Hedge Apple, dark and deserted, dead ahead. We pass through the small strip of downtown until our headlamp illuminates the dock. A few boats are tied up there, bobbing gently in the river. The launch is not one of them.
“The boat’s not here!” Tyrell exclaims. “That means Jett isn’t either.”
I don’t freak out, but inside, I’m just as agitated as my passenger. We’re pretty big idiots if we came riding to the rescue of someone who doesn’t need rescuing and might not even be here.
“Well, he’s definitely not at the Oasis . . . ,” I reason.
“But where’s the boat?”
“He must have docked someplace else,” I conclude. “Or maybe he found another way to go.”
“How?”
“I don’t know!” I shoot back. “This is the guy who got a Dance Dance Revolution machine shipped to nowhere! There’s probably nothing he can’t do!”
I’ve never seen the mansion at night before. All the outside lights are on, so the big house looms like a distant castle, overlooking Hedge Apple and the river. I steer onto the road heading in that direction. Pretty soon, we leave pavement and are jouncing along on gravel and then hard-packed dirt.
“I get carsick on bumpy rides,” Tyrell complains.
“Suck it up,” I tell him. Who am I tonight?
I steer the golf cart into a stand of tall grass just before the driveway that leads to the mansion. It’s as close as
we dare get without risking being seen. From there, we approach on foot, staying in the cover of bushes and underbrush. Up close, the house is even bigger and more amazing than from a distance. Jett always raved about how out of place it was in Hedge Apple. He sure was right about that.
We’ve almost reached the side when a fabulous black sports car comes roaring up the driveway and squeals to a halt. The door is flung wide and a towering figure unfolds itself from the driver’s seat. Platinum-blond crew-cut hair; broad, athletic shoulders. It’s Ivory, resplendent in a midnight-blue evening gown. Clearly in a hurry, she rushes in the front door.
“I can’t believe it!” Tyrell hisses. “Jett’s right. Snapper is Ivory.”
“Not necessarily.” I struggle to make sense of this latest development. “Just because she’s here doesn’t mean she’s Snapper. Maybe she’s—just dropping by.”
“Yeah, right—to borrow a cup of sugar in a fancy designer dress,” Tyrell snorts. “Get real, Grace. Check out the car. Check out the clothes. That’s not any meditation pathfinder. That’s the person who owns this house.”
I swallow hard. As much as I’ve always admired Ivory, I have to admit that she has some kind of secret life here, a crazy-rich one. And—I have to force myself to make the next mental leap—if Jett’s right about Ivory and the house, could he be right about Ivory and the alligators?
“Come on,” I whisper to Tyrell. “Let’s take a look around.”
We weave our way to the back, which is where the property meets the Saline River. Tyrell spots it first. Beached against the shore, next to a motorized inflatable raft, is the launch.
“The boat!” he breathes.
“But where’s Jett?” I add.
We start toward the launch, the ground beneath our feet becoming softer and muddier the closer we get to the river. Whoever built such a magnificent home didn’t invest a penny on the backyard and riverfront. The only “improvement” I can see is an ugly wire fence, which stretches from the mansion all the way to the water.
By the time we reach the boat, our sneakers are sinking into the mud up to the sock line. How I’m going to explain the mess to Mom I have no idea.
The launch is empty. No sign of Jett or his missing fireworks.
“Grace—” Tyrell intones. “Look.”
I follow his pointing finger. There’s something attached to the fence, a large white package hanging from the wire mesh. Wet feet and all, we squish out toward it, tightrope walking on a narrow spit of land outside the barrier, right at the river’s edge.
We’re about twenty feet away when we identify the “package.” Miles of white tape have been wrapped and rewrapped around a mass of skyrockets, roman candles, and other fireworks, fastening them to a padlocked gate in the middle of the fence.
Tyrell takes a step back and so do I.
“Jett’s going to blow up that gate!” Tyrell whispers in a strangled voice.
I nod. That’s definitely what the plan seems to be. The only question is—
Tyrell beats me to it. “But why?”
I squint through the fence into the darkness behind the house. Hundreds of red glowing eyes are peering back at me. Tyrell sees it at the same time, and lets out a short gasp. We hang there, clutching at each other, frozen with shock.
Alligators.
Real alligators. Dozens—no, hundreds of them. As our night vision grows accustomed to the gloom, we start to see them. There are monsters ten, fifteen, even twenty feet long. There are younger, smaller ones, at only a few feet. And—I spot the kiddie pool Jett told us about—there are babies who look exactly like Needles.
Tyrell sounds about three years old. “Can we go away now?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. The two of us retrace our steps to where the boats are beached.
“This isn’t far enough,” he comments, his voice still shaking.
“Alpha Centauri isn’t far enough,” I agree. “But they can’t get at us through the fence.”
“Fences have holes, you know,” he says feelingly. “How do you think Needles got out?”
“We don’t have to worry about babies like Needles,” I try to soothe.
“Yeah, but that big guy with the lumpy nose is smiling like he’s thinking about how I’m going to taste.”
We retreat a little faster, as if they’re chasing us, which of course they’re not. As an animal lover, I never blame any living creature for doing what’s in its nature. But there’s something horrifying about coming face-to-jaws with an ancient reptile whose only thought is to eat you.
“Jett was telling the truth,” Tyrell pants, struggling along beside me. “And we didn’t believe him.”
I’m sure my complexion is glow-in-the-dark red. If I wasn’t so freaked out about so many other things, I’d be better able to focus on how ashamed I am. Not only was Jett right, but so far, every single thing has turned out exactly the way he described it. Then he asked for our help, and we turned him away.
One of my wet sneakers slips out from under me, and I go down face-first.
“Are you okay?” comes Tyrell’s panicked voice.
I’m lying on the ground, staring at a black plastic object about an inch from my right eye. I pick it up and scramble to my feet. It’s a small remote control with a single button. The only identifying mark is a company name—FlareWorks.
Tyrell frowns. “What’s FlareWorks?”
It hits me. “The company that made the fireworks! This must be the detonator!”
He’s confused. “You think Jett dropped it here?”
That seems like the only explanation. And when I consider how that might have happened, the possibilities chill me. I remember the stories of big, scary-looking guys hanging around the place—employees of the mysterious Snapper.
Please don’t let Jett be caught. . . .
Tyrell’s shoulders rise up around his ears. “You think he’s in trouble?”
For the first time in my life, I’m furious at the Oasis for confiscating our technology. If anybody ever needed a phone, it’s us right now. How can we call the police without one?
“Maybe we can get into the house, find a phone, and dial nine-one-one,” I suggest.
Tyrell isn’t a fan of that idea. “What if we get caught ourselves?”
Good point. “I’ll go in, and if I don’t come out in a few minutes, you take the golf cart and try to find help.”
From the look on his face, I get the feeling that this option is only slightly more appealing than feeding himself to the alligators. But I give him credit—when I approach the side of the mansion, he comes with me.
We sneak up to a set of French doors and flatten ourselves against the wall. Slowly, I lean over to the glass and risk a peek inside. The scene that unfolds before me shakes me to my core.
Two large men flank a muddy and disheveled Jett, their hands clamped on his shoulders, imprisoning him in a chair. Ivory stands directly opposite him, moving a lighted pen back and forth in front of his terrified face.
I already know Ivory isn’t the mentor and wonderful person I always thought she was. But to see her like this—doing exactly what Tyrell told me she did to Mr. Karrigan—is a body blow.
I pull back, and Tyrell leans over me to see what’s happening inside. A gasp is torn from his throat. “We’ve got to do something!” he hisses. “We’ve got to stop it!”
I’m almost hysterical. “I know! But how?”
“We have to create a distraction!” he raves. “Something that will take their attention off Jett!”
“What distraction?”
My eyes fall on the fireworks detonator in my hand.
25
Jett Baranov
Ivory’s goons may be able to kidnap me, rough me up, and hold me in this chair. But they can’t force me to look at their boss and her magic pen.
I squirm in the seat, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to tune out that melodic voice telling me how relaxed I am.
I’m not relaxe
d. I’m pretty much the polar opposite of relaxed. I’m freaked out; I’m scared to death; and mostly, I’m furious at this liar, this crook who brainwashes people and calls it meditation.
“This is a safe place,” Ivory goes on silkily. “A comfortable place. You want to be here. You’re among friends.”
I keep my lids pressed tight. “How about the hundreds of alligators out back? Are they friends too?”
Ivory doesn’t miss a beat. “If only you’d open your eyes—”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I spit at her. “Then you could brainwash me the way you brainwashed everybody else. A Baranov writing you checks—how many alligators would that buy?”
Although my eyes are still shut, I detect a slight shift in Ivory’s tone. It’s still rich and smooth, but her meditation voice is gone. Now she’s more conversational. “You’re a pretty smart kid, Jett. I should have expected that, considering who your father is. Not even Magnus ever came close to finding out about my little secret life.”
“What part?” I demand, opening my eyes to glare at her. “The big house? The fancy car? The alligator farm you pay for with other people’s money? Or maybe you just like being called Snapper.”
“Very easy for you to say,” Ivory replies bitterly, “when your bank account was bursting before you were even born. You may disapprove of my methods, but the end result is the same for both of us. We have.”
“But I didn’t brainwash anybody to get it.”
“Ah, that.” Ivory looks pensive. “It brings up the problem of what I’m going to do with you. An intelligent boy like you must surely see that I can’t release you until I’ve had a chance to change your attitude.” She holds up the pen and flicks on the light. “You understand you have no choice.”
I close my eyes again, but for the first time, I actually see it from Ivory’s point of view. If she lets me go, what I know can send her to prison for a lot of years. So believe it or not, my only way out of this pickle is to let myself be brainwashed!
My fevered mind races, struggling to come up with another way out, but there just isn’t one. “Sometimes,” Vlad always says, “there’s nothing you can do but pray for a miracle.”
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