Sanctuary 1-4

by Meg Cabot

  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 Fede
ral 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

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