Sanctuary 1-4

by Meg Cabot

  "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 mos
t 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-ins
ignificant 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.