by Tess Sharpe
I don’t get it. Izzie’s notes are so meticulous, and several other maps in the notebook don’t have X’s. So what do they mean?
I flip past the map, searching for another diary entry among the endless Brachiosaurus statistics, but before I can find it, I hear a loud cracking noise behind me.
I turn, my heart knocking against my ribs as I peer into the thick maze of rain forest and mountain before me, trying to make out what made the noise.
There’s something moving in there. Something big.
This whole side of the island is dinosaur free, which means it might be one of the native animals. I lick my lips, trying to decide. I want to look over my shoulder and see if Justin and the rest are within calling distance, but I know they won’t hear me over the crash of the falls.
I edge forward until I’ve left the rocky shoreline for the wet press of leaves and soft branches under my feet. A yard ahead of me, I see it: a wet smear of blood dripping off a waxy leaf.
A pit begins to form in my stomach. I move forward, noticing that the sun’s setting to my left as I venture deeper into the snarl of trees and vines. Ferns as tall as I am brush against my shoulders as I look for more signs of blood.
The light barely filters through the thick canopy of trees above me, and the green-tinged darkness that envelops the world makes everything look enchanted, unreal. But when I spot another smear of blood on a tree trunk, I frown.
Is that…a handprint?
I immediately dismiss it, even though shivers are trickling down my spine. It can’t be. It’s just the way it dried on the bark.
Crack.
I jump, my head whipping toward the sound to my left. I bite my lip to keep from crying out as I see a flash of purple, something fast and distinctly human streaking through the rich greens and browns of the rain forest. It’s a blink-and-miss-it thing, and I’m doubting my eyes almost as soon as my brain catches up to what I think I may have seen.
I’ve just gotten myself convinced I was wrong—that there isn’t another person here with me—when swift, unmistakable footsteps break through the jungle’s hum, drip, and chirp.
I steel myself, my hands balling into fists, preparing to turn.
“Claire! There you are!”
Everything inside me turns over in relief when I hear Justin’s voice. I turn and see him pushing through a bunch of vines just a few yards ahead of me. My knees almost buckle as all the energy that’s been pumping through my body drains away.
His eyes narrow in concern when he gets a look at my face. “Hey,” he says, reaching out and touching my shoulder gently. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. “Sorry. It’s just…I saw blood. Did you see it coming in?”
“No,” he says. “But I wasn’t looking for it, I was looking for you. I probably missed it. Do you think someone’s hurt in here?”
“It was smeared on a leaf and then on a tree farther in. I thought there was a hurt animal. But I think…” I pause, turning back to look at the spot where I swear someone passed in front of me.
But no. It can’t have been. Unless one of the park employees is playing tricks on me.
“It must’ve been an animal,” I say. “Maybe one of the Compsognathuses snuck into this side? I know they like to bite. Maybe they got a bird or something.”
“If it’s a Compsognathus skittering around, we should get out of her way,” Justin says. “They’re small, but they can get chompy when they’re in a mood. We can let the vets know so they’ll be on the lookout. I’m sure they have trackers on them.”
I smile shakily. I feel all wobbly as I put one foot in front of another, his arm still around me.
“I’m sorry I missed your jump,” I say.
“Possibly injured animal is much more important,” Justin says easily, and we begin to pick our way back to the shore through the forest. He’s helping me over a huge fallen palm tree when my heel crunches against something.
I stop, bending down to look. Underneath a few soggy brown fern leaves is a memory card. The kind that goes into a video camera. It’s got a spiderweb of cracks across the plastic.
“What’s that?”
“Some sort of memory card,” I say, wiping it off on my shorts. “Looks pretty new.”
“Weird,” Justin says. He waggles his eyebrows. “Maybe you’ve found some top-secret information. You’ll have to ask Eric about it.”
“Wouldn’t it be wild to find something from the original park out here?” I ask, pocketing the memory card and ducking beneath a particularly tall fern bed. “Do you think they kept stuff from the original park? I mean, the gates are modeled after the original ones…and there’s got to be existing infrastructure—at least underground what was part of the original park.”
“I think the command center is in the same place Hammond’s was,” Justin says as we finally reach the edge of the rain forest, the foliage thinning. “Just rebuilt.”
“Oh, see, I thought Hammond’s original command center is where the Educational Center is now,” I say, and wave as I spot our group in the distance.
“There you are! We thought you’d been lured away by some jungle cat!” Tanya declares when she catches sight of us emerging from the rain forest.
“There aren’t any jungle cats,” I scoff, though I can’t help but think about whatever streaked in front of my jeep the other night, nearly causing me to crash. And whatever the heck that flash of purple was just now. Are my eyes playing tricks on me? Maybe it’s just poor lighting and my own fear that made me think it looked like a human.
My rationalizations sound weak even to myself, but I try to put it all out of my mind as we gather our stuff and head back to our rooms before we eat. I have to take another shower to get some of the algae out of my hair, and I’m running late for dinner, so I tell Tanya to go ahead without me.
By the time I get to the dining room where the tables are set up with our mentors, the rest of the girls are already with Bertie and the food’s already been served.
“There’s Claire!” Amanda says, waving me over.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I say. I see that there’s a mound of lasagna and salad on my plate, and my stomach grumbles gratefully.
“It’s okay—I heard it was manure processing day,” Bertie says.
The table titters. “We got the job done,” Ronnie says with a note of pride.
“I’m used to compost,” Tanya says cheerfully. “Smells like home!”
“I like your attitude,” Bertie says.
For a while, it’s mostly just the clink of forks and glasses and can you pass the garlic bread? as we all attack our dinners. We definitely need the fuel after the day we’ve had. When our plates are clean, Bertie sets her fork down and says, “I believe Beverly said you requested this time with me because you had something to propose?”
“We do,” Amanda says. “Claire, do you want to take it?”
I nod. We practiced our pitch together over lunch, just so we’d be prepared. “The four of us have been brainstorming ways to help Pearl,” I say. “And we think we came up with a good one. We wanted to see if you think it would work or not.”
“What do you propose?” Bertie asks, taking a sip of water.
“Stop trying to distract her completely from the Gyrospheres,” Amanda says, taking the lead like we practiced. “And instead, start training her to differentiate the Gyrospheres by painting patterns on some that are visually appealing to her. That way, she’ll be attracted to the patterned balls and not want to chase after the spheres that have people in them.”
“We got the idea—well, Claire did—from the surfers who use striped boards to ‘hide’ from sharks,” Tanya explains.
“This is just flipping the idea. The anti-camouflage,” Ronnie adds.
For a long moment, Bertie just regards us, and t
hen she smiles. “I must say, I’m impressed. That’s a clever idea.”
“Do you think it’d work?” I ask.
“I think it’s definitely worth trying,” Bertie says. “I’ll have to consult with the vets about the best visual and color choices to make when creating patterns for the balls, but…this could be very helpful to Pearl’s development. I will draft a proposal this week and get it sent in.”
“Really?” Amanda squeaks.
“Really,” Bertie says. “And I will make sure to credit all of you as the source of this idea.”
I feel like laughing and hugging Bertie at the same time.
I settle on beaming at the rest of the girls, who look just as excited.
As dinner finishes and the adults get up to leave, Bertie bids us good night and thanks us again for sharing our idea.
I wait until she’s walked halfway across the room before I stand up. “Be right back,” I tell the girls.
“Hey, Bertie,” I call, hurrying up to her through the press of tables and people. We’re out of earshot of my friends, which is what I wanted.
“Yes?” she asks.
“Do you know an Izzie?” I ask—because how else am I going to find out what happened to her if I don’t? “Her full name’s Isobel, probably? She would’ve come here in January to work with the Brachiosauruses. Right around when Olive needed to have surgery on her throat.”
“Hmm, no, I don’t remember anyone by that name,” Bertie says. “But I’m not the best person to ask. I wasn’t on the island during that ordeal. We were preparing for the Triceratops transport at that time, and there was a big storm. It delayed everything, so I ended up coming to Isla Nublar later in the spring.”
“A storm?” I ask. That’s what Wyatt mentioned in his phantom intern story. Odd…but that has to be him just making things up. The more real details you put in a lie, the harder it is to spot.
“It’s an island; there are always storms,” Bertie says. “Anyway, you might ask Tim,” she continues. “He’d know old staff members better than me. He was part of the original team that came over with Olive and Agnes.”
“I’ll do that,” I say. “And thanks for listening to our idea.”
“Of course, Claire,” Bertie says. “I’m glad you girls took the initiative and brought it to me.”
Over her shoulder, I can see Tim talking to Mr. Masrani, who claps him on the back before Tim turns to leave the deck.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go ask Tim my question,” I tell Bertie, who nods.
I hurry after the vet—he’s already halfway down the hall before I catch up with him.
“Dr. O’Donnell!”
Tim turns, flashing a quick smile when he sees me. “Hi…which one are you?” he asks. “Forgive me. I don’t think you’ve been on assignment with me yet.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m Claire. I just have a quick question for you.”
“Sure,” he says.
“I’m wondering if you could tell me where I could find Izzie,” I say. “The Izzie who worked with the Brachiosauruses when Olive had her surgery.”
When I mentioned the name to Bertie, there was no ripple of recognition in her face. No tension or worry. But Tim?
His thin lips twist and his ruddy face falls for a second; then he seems to realize it, and a cool mask falls over his features. “I’m afraid I can’t recall an Izzie. And I was second surgeon on Olive’s case, so I’d know.” He shifts nervously from foot to foot.
His ruddy face reddens even further, his ears joining in on the crimson party. He’s a bad liar, this guy.
“I’m…I’m wondering who told you an Izzie worked for us. Maybe she goes by another name?”
He’s trying to cover now. I smile, hoping it doesn’t look too fake as the corners of my mouth tremble. “You know what, that’s probably it. I probably got the name wrong,” I say. “My sister, she said one of her sorority sisters had gotten a job here in the early days and told me to look her up. But I’m terrible with names. I really need to start doing some mnemonic devices or something.”
The tightness in his face begins to ease. “I’ve heard those are helpful,” he says. “Anything else?”
“No, I’m sorry to have bothered you,” I say. “I’ll check with my sister for the right name.”
“Not a problem,” he says, but I can’t tell if I’ve convinced him or if he’s still suspicious of me.
“I’ll let you go,” I say.
He gives me a nod and walks away, leaving me teetering on an uncertain seesaw, wondering, wondering….
And then, at the end of the hall, he turns, shooting me a curious look before he disappears through the door.
My stomach sinks.
Crap.
I’ve stumbled onto something. I just can’t quite fit the pieces of it together, and now that Bertie’s mentioned a storm…my mind’s full of wild possibilities.
I need more information. Fast. Because I’ve just tipped off the adults that I know something. Tim isn’t going to keep quiet.
I need to find out who Izzie is. Where she is. And I think I know how.
The next morning, as Tanya and I take the elevator down to the labs, I’m trying to figure out the best way to get the information I want from Wyatt. If there’s some kernel of truth to his phantom intern story, maybe that’s why bringing up Izzie’s name seemed to spook Dr. O’Donnell so much. Was she an intern and not a staff scientist, as I assumed from her notes? She mentioned that she’d gone to Yale in one of the entries, but it didn’t occur to me that she might have still been in school when she was writing in the notebook.
What part of Wyatt’s story is true? Some of it? All? Or none? Am I making too much of a leap thinking Izzie was an intern?
But I can’t shake Dr. O’Donnell’s spooked look when I mentioned her name. Something is going on here, even if it isn’t as nefarious as Wyatt’s tall tale implies. And wherever Izzie went, she left her notebook behind. That’s suspicious in itself. A person like that never leaves her notebook behind. Not someone who likes taking notes as much as she does. I know, because I’m the same way.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. But instead of Wyatt standing there, waiting for us as he has the last week—he seems to get some weird, perverse pleasure in getting here earlier than us, like it’s a power play or something—an Asian woman with a pixie cut and houndstooth heels I’d covet forever is standing there.
“Which one of you is Claire?” she asks.
“Um, me,” I say.
“Ms. Jamison would like to see you,” she says. “She asked that I bring you to her.”
“Okay,” I say. “Tanya, can you tell Dr. Wu that I’ll be late?”
“Why don’t you tell Dr. Wu he’ll have to do without Claire for today,” the woman corrects me, a bland smile on her face that does nothing to make me feel better. Dread seeps through my stomach as Tanya shoots me a quizzical look.
“I’ll see you at lunch, I guess,” I tell her.
“See you then,” she says.
“I’m Miranda,” the woman says as she steps inside the elevator and hits the button for the very top floor of the command center. “I run Ms. Jamison’s day-to-day.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
I want to ask her why Beverly wants to see me, but I’m pretty sure that’s what she—and Beverly—want me to do. Because I know. Oh, I know.
I asked too many questions. And now I’m being brought in to figure out just what I know.
Will they kick me out? Are my bags packed and already waiting for me in Beverly’s office?
The elevator ride is totally silent, and the higher we climb, the sicker I feel.
I’m a rule follower. I’ll be the first to admit it.
But there’s a streak in me that’s part
ruthless, part righteous—a twist of opposites, stronger together than apart. It’s why I defied Oscar when it came to Pearl. It’s why I asked about Izzie, even though I obviously shouldn’t have.
The elevator doors slide open when we reach the top floor, and Miranda leads me down a long hall and gestures to the waiting area in front of the corner office. “She’ll be with you shortly,” she says before disappearing inside the office, her truly enviable heels clicking against the shiny bamboo floor.
I force myself to breathe normally even though my heart’s knocking against my chest. This is part of the game: she wants me to sweat. To worry.
I admire Beverly. She’s made her way to the top, and I’m just beginning at the bottom.
But she shouldn’t underestimate me. I press my lips together and breathe deep, steeling myself, preparing myself for the next move. Like a chess game.
Finally, after what feels like forever, the door in front of me opens.
“Ms. Jamison will see you now,” says Miranda.
I try to look calm as I walk through the door and into Beverly’s office. It’s all white—not in a soothing way, but cold and sterile. Her desk is white, her office chair is white, even the chair set in front of her desk—the chair I’m clearly supposed to sit in—is white. In contrast, she is a wash of blue silk in the pale sea.
“Claire, come in.”
It’s like being pulled into a high-tech dean’s office. I know exactly why I’m here and so does she, but I’m guessing she’s going to dance around it, which makes this even more panic-inducing. I don’t want to be in trouble.
But I also want to do the right thing. And if I’ve accidentally stumbled onto some sort of conspiracy, if Izzie’s journal is the key to something…
I don’t know. There’s a hypothesis forming in my mind that I don’t quite want to voice, because it means all sorts of bad things. Not just for Izzie. But for me. For Jurassic World.
I shift the strap of my bag on my shoulder, resisting the urge to pat the place where Izzie’s notebook is tucked.