Forever Lost

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Really, super weird. “So you decided to use it to build . . . Happyland?”

  Dr. Carrini shook his head. “It was years before the idea for Happyland occurred to me. As I established myself as a memory expert, I saw it over and over again: children troubled by things they’d witnessed early in life. Parents fighting over money, arguments they were too young to process.”

  “Is that what happened to you?” I asked. “Did bad memories from childhood haunt you, too?”

  Dr. Carrini looked angry, but then his expression softened. “I suppose you could say that,” he admitted finally. “My mother died when I was young, and my father was cold and distant. He made me do extensive chores around the house, and when I was just twelve, I began working outside the house to earn my keep. My father seemed to view me as free labor, not as a child to be loved. I couldn’t help feeling I’d missed out on my childhood.” He paused. “But then, don’t most children miss out on a true childhood?”

  I leaned closer. “What do you mean?”

  Dr. Carrini huffed. “In this modern world, parents are too concerned with their own lives—their complicated relationships, their guilt, their stress, and their money worries. That’s what I’ve witnessed in my practice. They push that stress onto their children, who never get to experience being truly young and carefree. Except in Happyland. Here, children are free to be children. They live a completely carefree and happy existence, playing with toys, using their imagination, having their every whim catered to. Here, the lifestyle is determined by the child, not by outside, adult sources. If a child wants to wear the same costume for weeks on end? No problem. We’ll launder it for them. If a child chooses to eat without silverware? That’s fine with us.”

  I watched Dr. Carrini in amazement, thinking of Justin’s behavior when he’d first turned up at the hospital—he’d seemed a little wild, a little unsure how to interact with people. And he hadn’t used silverware. It was all making sense.

  “So these kids are never unhappy?” I asked. I was thinking about Alice and how she’d wanted to escape with me, to find her brother.

  Dr. Carrini’s eyes narrowed. “They are never unhappy, except when they remember their old lives. And if stubborn unhappy memories pop up . . . well . . .”

  I knew where this was going. “Well?”

  Dr. Carrini’s eyes met mine, cold and hard. “We offer them some pharmaceutical relief.”

  I nodded. “Drugs. You drug children.”

  His eyes flashed. “We use pharmaceuticals to help them deal with their problems. Just like a psychiatrist will prescribe drugs to a schizophrenic patient.”

  “But these kids aren’t schizophrenics,” I pointed out. “They’re just kids who miss their parents.”

  Dr. Carrini glared at me. “I see that we have a different understanding of the issue,” he said, his voice cool. “I have some people you should meet.”

  Dr. Carrini grabbed my arm, pulling me off the gurney and dragging me out of the operating room. I cast one glance back at Justin and Detective Cole, both of whom seemed to still be out cold. Dr. Carrini led me down the hall to a part of the bunker I’d never seen before. He pushed me through the doorway of a brightly lit room decorated in cheery colors. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized that a gaggle of kids and teenagers were here, playing and hanging out.

  Dr. Carrini smiled. “Frank, allow me to introduce you to Kyle, Ellie, Luke, Tommy, Alice, and Kerry.”

  My blood ran cold. This was all of them—every member of the Misty Falls Lost—except for Justin and poor little Sarah. They looked up at me, some looking curious, some wary. Dr. Carrini was right about one thing, though—they looked happy. At least on the outside.

  “Children,” Dr. Carrini said, “please tell my friend Frank how happy you are to live here.”

  The children stared at me for a moment, and then Kerry, one of the older girls, spoke up. “Oh, we’re very happy,” she said. “We can do whatever we want here!”

  “We play all day,” a younger boy who I thought was Kyle added. “No school!”

  “And nobody telling us what to do,” a slightly older boy, Luke, explained.

  My mind was spinning. Could these kids possibly be telling the truth? I sputtered, “B-but how happy can you be? Taken away from your families and forced to live in an underground bunker . . . never seeing daylight . . .”

  The kids looked concerned, like they didn’t understand what I was saying and were worried about me. Before I could explain, Dr. Carrini gestured to Scar and Baby Doc, who were watching the kids in the room, to pull me out. Within seconds I was being dragged down the hall, the doctor following. Hoping the kids would overhear, I shouted, “What do they think happened to Sarah? Do they know you killed her for asking too many questions, like you tried to kill Justin?”

  Dr. Carrini’s face clouded over. “She had an abnormal reaction to drugs,” he said slowly and calmly, but I could tell I’d upset him. “It was an unavoidable tragedy.”

  “Meaning she was a problem for you, so you pumped drugs into her until she died?” I shouted again, hoping the kids were still listening. Dr. Carrini’s face darkened.

  “Did you kill Farley?” I shouted now. “Did he get too close to your little underground lair? Or how about Bailey? Did those two innocent people count as people you’d never intentionally hurt?”

  The doctor’s face was nearly purple now. I gulped; from his reaction, I was pretty sure my assertions were right.

  “Shut up,” he hissed, sticking a finger in my face. “Their lives were sacrificed to keep the peace in Happyland. To save these children’s childhoods!”

  A chill ran up my spine. Dr. Carrini was even crazier than I’d thought he was, if he was willing to murder to keep his beloved “Happyland” safe.

  Baby Doc and Scar dragged me back into the OR, where Justin and Detective Cole were still lying. I struggled to break free, but they shoved me back onto a gurney. Dr. Carrini drew closer, glaring at me and pulling a syringe from his lab coat pocket. “I think this is the end of your investigation,” he said in a grave voice.

  I felt ice down my spine. Was this it? Could it really end like this?

  Dr. Carrini held up the syringe, pushing the plunger so a tiny drop of liquid appeared on the needle. I could see Scar and Baby Doc glancing at each other like they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Chloe, who had followed us down the hall and back, looked from me to the syringe and then quickly looked away.

  Just then there was a horrible, deafening noise above—like someone shooting into metal!

  “What the . . . ?” muttered Baby Doc, as everyone turned to look up.

  “It’s the entrance,” Dr. Carrini said. “Someone’s out there. Boys . . . hurry! Chloe, watch your friend till I return.”

  Putting the syringe back in his lab coat, Dr. Carrini hustled out with the two young doctors.

  Going In

  I’m against them!” I sputtered, feeling the sharp blade kiss my skin. “I’m with you! I’m trying to save my brother.”

  Smith smiled, removing the knife from my throat and loosening his grip.

  I let out a huge sigh. “What,” I demanded, “are you doing here? The last time I saw you, you were threatening Detective Cole’s job.”

  Smith shook his head, still grinning. “Correction,” he said. “Jacob Greer was threatening Detective Cole’s job.”

  “Isn’t that your client?” I asked, shaking my head. “I seem to recall you at that meeting, making just as big a stink as he was.”

  Smith nodded thoughtfully. “At the time, I agreed with him that you and your brother were troublemakers. You stole my bike, after all.”

  I gulped. “Yeah,” I muttered, looking away. “Sorry about that.”

  Smith shrugged. “It’s a small thing. Anyway, the truth is, that same night you stole my bike, I witnessed something unusual in the forest. While I was hidden in a patch of blackberry bushes, a couple of men ran by me in, of all things, hospital scrubs
.”

  I gulped. Hospital scrubs? That sounded a lot like the orderlies Frank had described in the bunker.

  “They seemed agitated,” Smith went on. “Babbling to themselves about escape, and controlling the kids. When I heard your story the next day,” he went on, taking in a breath, “I had to admit that what I’d witnessed made that seem plausible.”

  It took a minute for that to sink in. “Wait a minute,” I said. “You believed us the whole time?”

  Smith shrugged. “Secretly,” he said, “I had to admit that what you described seemed . . . possible. At least enough for me to check out on my own. So this afternoon I made my move. I broke into Farley’s cabin to look for clues.”

  “Um, isn’t that illegal?” I asked. I was kind of hoping the police would show up soon, because I was beginning to doubt the sanity of this guy. “And directly in violation of the wishes of your client?”

  Smith snorted. “Son, I have a higher calling. The law and the wishes of my client must take a backseat to the truth.”

  I just stared at him. “Okay,” I said finally. “Did you find anything at Farley’s?”

  “Nothing,” he admitted, “so I moved on to Bailey’s cabin, figuring that she had been murdered for a reason—most likely because she had information she wasn’t supposed to. And there, I lucked out. I found her private laptop. In her e-mails to her supervisor, she’d made extensive notes about ‘markings’ . . . and finally about a ‘locked metal door’ she found in the woods and thought should be investigated. ‘Could this be related to the deaths?’ her e-mail had asked. But she was dead within hours of sending it, so she never found out. Fortunately, I was on the case, so I took her notes to find this entrance to what I believe may be the underground lab your brother visited.”

  “Wow,” I murmured. All this time, Smith had been working parallel to me, investigating the same thing? “Why didn’t you contact Detective Cole and me? We could have worked together.”

  Smith snorted again. “I work alone,” he replied. “And I do a fine job of it, I must say. Because here we are at the entrance to the bunker.”

  “Exactly,” I said pointedly. “Here we are. I found this place too, via notes from Farley and Alice, one of the Lost kids. And the police are on their way.”

  “The police?” Smith frowned. “Well, we’d better get moving then.” He pulled something out of his waistband that shone in the dim light. I looked down and started; it was a pistol.

  “Are you armed?” I asked.

  “And dangerous,” Smith agreed cheerfully. “When you’re in the service of the truth, you’d better have all the advantages available, don’t you agree?” He leaned down suddenly, and I backed up, not trusting this guy at all. But then he straightened out, having pulled a smaller gun from a holster on his ankle. He held it out to me. “Fortunately for you, I always carry a spare.”

  I swallowed. “Um, thanks,” I said, glancing from the cave to the woods and back to Smith. “I think we should wait for the police, though. You know, they’re licensed to use their weapons.”

  Smith scowled. “I’m licensed,” he insisted, like I’d made a playground taunt. “And between the two of us, we probably have more experience fighting crime than the rest of those bozos put together. Oh yes,” he went on, when he saw my jaw drop. “I know who you really are. Joseph Hardy, elite ATAC agent. Your brother, too. I didn’t get my PI license from a gumball machine, you know.” He grinned smugly.

  I wasn’t sure what else to say. “I really think we should wait for backup.”

  Smith sneered. “Those idiots will hurt us more than they’ll help us. Look how they’ve botched the investigation so far.”

  Well, he had me there. With the exception of Detective Cole, I didn’t exactly trust the Misty Falls PD. Not only had they failed to find any true leads about the Misty Falls Lost, they’d turned on Cole and me this morning. And I was a little concerned, I had to admit, about how they’d go about investigating a bunker they’d been convinced didn’t exist.

  “We don’t know how many people are down there,” I pointed out. “You go in shooting or whatever, you could incite an army. They could overpower the two of us and then what? Then the police are our only hope of saving everyone in the bunker.”

  Smith ignored me, looking up at the sky. “It’s almost dark,” he said, “and your brother is in imminent danger. Who knows what they’re doing to him down there? Are you willing to risk his safety for a little backup?”

  He held the gun out to me again. I didn’t take it. I looked into the woods; still no sign of the police.

  “I’m going in,” said Smith, placing the smaller gun on the ground in front of me. “I’ll leave you to make your own decisions. But this underground prison cell isn’t operating for one second longer. Not on Smith’s watch!”

  With that, he spun around and, brandishing his pistol, charged toward the cave.

  My heart jumped. “Smith!” I called. “Wait! Don’t do it! You could make things worse!”

  If he heard me at all, he gave no indication. He didn’t even slow his pace. He was maybe ten yards from the cave now.

  I looked back at the woods. No sign of the police, only dead silence. I swallowed hard and looked down at the gun Smith had left at my feet. This was insane. I had to be out of my mind to follow a narcissistic, arrogant, clearly unhinged PI—who’d spent part of the day working against me—into a mysterious bunker filled with unspeakable danger. And yet . . . the only other option was to let him go down there himself. With a big gun, an attitude, and serious delusions of grandeur. And my brother, my only brother, at the mercy of those inside.

  I took a deep breath and picked up the gun. “Wait, Smith!” I called, running after him before I could think better of it. “I’m coming!”

  Inside the cave, Smith had strapped on a headlamp that he’d gotten from who-knows-where and was pulling rocks away from a little alcove in the rear of the cave. I looked into the alcove, and sure enough, a reinforced metal door lay within. I helped Smith move the rocks until we had a good view of the door. Smith pulled out his gun.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, at the same time Smith fired a hail of bullets, shooting up the lock.

  “Aaauuugh!” I cried, ducking down to avoid the bullets ricocheting off the metal. “They’ll hear you! They’re going to know we’re coming now!”

  But Smith had stopped firing and was staring at the door, smiling. He gestured to the lock. Sure enough, it hung open, obliterated by a ring of bullet holes.

  Before I could speak, Smith disappeared through the door, and I heard him running down a hallway. I moved to follow him, but when I opened the door and peered down a dimly lit tunnel, he was already out of sight. I moved slowly and quietly down the tunnel, hoping that if the inhabitants had heard Smith’s attack, they would find him and assume he was alone, buying me a little time.

  At the end of the tunnel, I heard it.

  “And just who are you?” a deep male voice demanded. I snuck a little farther down the tunnel, getting close enough to peer around the corner. Just a few feet ahead, the leather-jacket-wearing Smith, still with the headlamp, was facing off against two twentysomething men in hospital scrubs.

  “I’m Michael Smith, PI,” Smith replied, not sounding the least bit threatened, “and I’ve figured all this out! I know the truth of what goes on down here, and you’re finished! Finished, do you hear me? Smith always gets his man! This little operation is done for, DONE FOR—”

  BANG!!

  I started as suddenly a shot was fired from behind the two doctors, taking Smith down. I stood silently watching as a new figure entered the scene, gun in hand—Dr. Carrini!

  Dr. Carrini turned calmly to the two in scrubs, as if he hadn’t just shot an intruder in cold blood. “Check the hatch, boys, and hide Mr. Smith until we can dispose of him. Chop-chop.”

  Without hesitating, the two men began walking swiftly toward the corner—where I was hiding. I looked around frantically, wondering
if I would have to back out the way I’d come, but then I spotted a small closet off the hall and darted in, managing to wedge myself into a corner.

  “See anything?” one of the men asked the other.

  “No, but we’d better keep looking. I’ll check the hatch, you look in that closet. Okay?”

  I felt my heart squeeze in my chest but forced myself to remain still. The door to the closet opened, and I saw the larger, baby-faced man peer in. He looked around at the mops, work suits, and cleaning supplies that filled the space. I pushed myself farther into the corner, praying that I was obscured by the hanging work suits.

  The man slammed the door. “All clear here,” he called to his partner.

  Relief flooded through me as I breathed out.

  But what now?

  Science and Logic

  I glanced over at Justin and Detective Cole, wondering if either was conscious. If there was any possibility for backup, I sure could use it now. But both were motionless, breathing heavily. I shivered. How long did I have before Dr. Carrini came back to finish me off?

  “It didn’t have to come to this, you know.” I almost started at the cold voice, but turned around to see Chloe watching me intently. “I liked you,” she continued. “You seemed like a smart person—a practical person. Someone who likes science and logic, like I do.”

  “I do,” I said, looking at her and wondering how I ever could have thought I had feelings for her. “The difference between you and me is, I also have a heart.”

  Chloe winced. “That’s not fair, Frank.”

  “Isn’t it?” I asked, sitting up on the gurney. “How could you possibly be involved in this, Chloe? Taking kids away from their parents? You sat there in that hospital and watched Edie and Jacob cry over their son, and the whole time you knew what had really happened to him, knew he had been stolen away from them and raised by strangers. How could someone with a heart do that?”