Safe House 1-3

by Meg Cabot

  "What are you doing?" Karen Sue hissed. "Get back to your seat. It's not over yet."

  I clutched my stomach. Not enough to draw attention to myself. The last thing I wanted was for Special Agents Johnson and Smith to notice me. But enough to get the point across.

  "Karen Sue," I hiccuped. "I think I'm going to—"

  I stumbled past her and dove through the doors. They let out into the music wing. Free. I was free! Now all I had to do was make my way to the student parking lot, and wait for Ruth to get to her car when they let everybody out. I might even get a chance to stretch out on her hood and work on my tan.

  Except that Karen Sue followed me into the hallway, throwing a definite crimp in my plans.

  "You are not sick, Jessica Mastriani," she said firmly. "You are faking it. You do the exact same thing in PE every time Mrs. Tidd announces the Presidential Fitness tests."

  I couldn't believe this. It's not enough she has to go around outing me as a psychic to everyone. No, Karen Sue has to bar my escape from the Feds who are after me, too.

  But I was not about to let my anger get the best of me. No way. I'd turned over a new leaf. It was already day two of the new school year, and guess what? I did not have detention.

  And I was not going to ruin this excellent record by letting Karen Sue Hankey get under my skin.

  "Karen Sue," I said, straightening up. "You're right. I'm not sick. But there are some people out there I don't want to see, if it's all the same to you. So could you please be a human being"—I barely restrained myself from adding, for once in your life—"and let me go?"

  "Who do you not want to see?" Karen Sue wanted to know.

  "Some Feds, if you must know. You see, I've had a lot of problems with people thinking I still have psychic powers, when in fact"—I added this last part with all the emphasis I could muster—"I do not."

  "You are such a liar, Jess," Karen Sue said, shaking her head so that her honey-blonde hair, the ends of which curled into perfect flips just above her shoulders, swung. "You know you found that Shane kid at camp this summer, when he got lost inside that cave."

  "Yeah, I found him," I said. "But not because I'd had a psychic vision he was there or anything. Just because I had a hunch he'd been in there. That's all."

  "Is that so?" Karen Sue looked prim. "Well, what you call a hunch, I call ESP. You have a gift from God, Jessica Mastriani, and that makes it a sin for you to try to deny it."

  The problem, of course, is that Karen Sue goes to my church. She's been in my Sunday school class since forever.

  The other problem is that Karen Sue is a goody-two-shoes suck-up we used to lock in the janitor's closet whenever the Sunday school teacher didn't show up on time. Which happened quite often, actually.

  "Look, Karen Sue," I said. It was getting harder to repress my urge to knock those booklets out of her arms and grind her face into them. "I appreciate everything you've tried to do for me, in the name of the Lord and all, but could you just once try that whole turning-the-other-cheek thing—turn it toward the wall so you don't see me while I get the hell out of here? That way, if anyone asks, you won't be lying when you say you didn't see where I went."

  Karen Sue looked at me sadly. "No," she said, and started for the door, clearly to seek the aid of someone larger than she was in detaining me.

  I grabbed her wrist. But I wasn't going to hurt her. I swear I wasn't. I'd turned over a new leaf. I was in a brand new crocheted sweater set and espadrilles. I had on cherry Chap Stick. Girls dressed like me do not get into fights. Girls dressed like me reason with one another, in a friendly manner.

  "Karen Sue," I said. "The thing is, the whole thing with the psychic power and all, it really upsets my brother Douglas, you know? I mean, the reporters coming around the house and calling and all of that. So you can see why I want to kind of keep it a secret, right? I mean, because of my brother."

  Karen Sue's gaze never left mine as she wrenched her wrist from my hand.

  "Your brother Douglas," she said, "is sick. His sickness is obviously a judgment from God. If Douglas went to church more often, and prayed harder, he would get better. And your denying your God-given gifts isn't helping. In fact, you are probably making him worse."

  Well. What could I say to that?

  Nothing, really. I mean, something like that, there's no appropriate response.

  No appropriate verbal response, that is.

  Karen Sue's screams brought Principal Feeney, Coach Albright, Mrs. Tidd, most of the student council, and Special Agents Johnson and Smith running. When she saw Karen Sue, Special Agent Smith got on her cell phone and called an ambulance.

  But I guarantee her nose isn't even broken. She probably only burst a blood vessel or two.

  As Principal Feeney and Special Agent Johnson led me away, I called out, "Hey, Karen Sue, maybe if you pray hard enough, God'll make the bleeding stop."

  Taken out of context, I could see how this might sound callous. But none of them had heard what Karen Sue had said to me. And no amount of me going, "But she said—" seemed to impress upon them the fact that I was completely justified in my behavior.

  "And I thought you'd been making some real progress," Mr. Goodhart said sadly when I was dragged into the guidance office.

  "I was making progress." I threw myself onto one of the orange couches. "I'd like to see how long you could put up with Karen Sue's stuff before hauling off and slugging her."

  Only I didn't say "stuff."

  "I'll tell you one thing," Mr. Goodhart said. "I wouldn't let a girl like that push my buttons."

  "She said it's my fault Douglas is sick," I said. "She said his sickness is a punishment from God for me not using my gift!"

  Special Agent Johnson, who'd been sequestered away with Principal Feeney—consulting about me, I was sure—chose this moment to emerge from the principal's office.

  "Really, Jessica," he said, sounding surprised. "I wouldn't have thought you'd be susceptible to that sort of nonsense."

  "Well, if I am," I said, "it's because you're making me. Following me around all the time. Showing up at school. Badgering me. Well, I had nothing to do with finding that girl in San Francisco. Nothing!"

  Special Agent Johnson raised his eyebrows. "I wasn't aware a girl in San Francisco had been found," he said mildly. "But thank you for letting me know."

  I eyed him. "You . . . you aren't here about Courtney Hwang?"

  "Contrary to what you apparently believe, Jessica," Special Agent Johnson said, "the world, much less my job, does not revolve around you. Jill and I are here for something quite unrelated to you."

  The door to the guidance office opened, and Special Agent Smith came in.

  "Well," she said. "That was exciting. The next time, Jessica, you feel the need to plunge your fist into a girl's face, please do it when I'm not around."

  I looked from her to Special Agent Johnson and then back again.

  "Wait a minute," I said. "If you two aren't here because of me, what are you here for?"

  The door to the guidance office opened yet again, and this time, Mark Leskowski walked in, looking bewildered and strangely vulnerable for a guy who, at six feet tall, probably tips the scales at one eighty.

  "You wanted to see me again, Mr. Goodhart?" Mark asked.

  Mr. Goodhart glanced at Special Agents Johnson and Smith.

  "Uh," he said. "Yes, Mark, I did. Actually, these, um, officers here wanted a word with you. But before you meet with him, um, officers, can I just have a word with you?"

  Special Agent Johnson smiled. "Certainly," he said, and he and Special Agent Smith disappeared into Mr. Goodhart's office, and closed the door behind them.

  Incredible. More than incredible. Indescribable. I punch Karen Sue Hankey in the face and get summoned to the guidance office for disciplinary action, only to be forgotten about?

  What's more, my two archenemies, Special Agents Johnson and Smith, show up at Ernest Pyle High School, not to give me a hard time, but someone
else?

  Amber Mackey's murder had done a lot more than rob us of Amber. It had turned the universe as I had once known it upside down and backward.

  This became even more apparent when Mark Leskowski—quarterback, senior class vice-president, and all-around hottie—smiled down at me—me, Jessica Mastriani, who's spent almost more time in detention than she has in class—and said, "Well. We meet again, I guess."

  Oh, yeah. Call the Pentagon. Someone's gone and created a new world order.

  C H A P T E R

  6

  "So Mark Leskowski said to me. "What are you in for this time?"

  I looked at him. He was so beautiful. Not as beautiful as Rob Wilkins, of course, but then what guy was?

  Still, Mark Leskowski was a close second in the dreamy department.

  "I punched Karen Sue Hankey in the face," I said.

  "Whoa." He actually looked impressed. "Good for you."

  "You think so?" I asked. I can't tell you how good it felt, having the approval of a guy who looked that good in a pair of 505s. Seriously. Most of what I did on a regular basis, it seemed, Rob didn't approve of. Primarily because he was afraid it was going to get me killed, but still. He didn't have to be so bossy about it.

  "Heck, yeah," Mark said. "That girl's such a wannabe, it hurts."

  My God! My feelings about Karen Sue exactly! And yet somehow, when expressed through a set of such masculine lips, they seemed to have more validity than ever.

  "Yeah," I said. "Yeah, she is, isn't she?"

  "Is she! I'll tell you what. Amber used to call her the Klingon. You know, because she was always clinging onto the rest of us, trying to get in with the in crowd."

  His mention of Amber snapped me back into reality. What was I doing? What was I doing, sitting on an orange vinyl couch in the guidance office, lusting after Mark Leskowski? He was being pulled in for questioning by the FBI. The FBI! That was some serious stuff.

  "So," I said, my gaze darting toward the glass window in Mr. Goodhart's office door. Through it, I could see Special Agent Johnson speaking rapidly. Mr. Goodhart was Mark Leskowski's guidance counselor, as well as mine. Mr. Goodhart had all the Ls through Ps.

  Mark noticed the direction of my gaze and nodded. "I guess I'm in some trouble now, huh?"

  I said carefully, "Well, you know. If they're bringing in the FBI …"

  "They always do," he said. "In cases of kidnapping. Or at least, that's what Mr. Goodhart says. Those two in there are the regional operatives."

  Special Agents Johnson and Smith, regional operatives? Really? It had never occurred to me that Allan and Jill might actually have homes. I had always pictured them living out of skanky motel rooms. But of course it made sense that they lived in the area. I heaved a shudder at the idea that I might one day bump into one of them at the grocery store.

  "They are classifying what happened to Amber as a kidnapping/murder," Mark went on, "because Amber was . . . alive for a while before she got killed."

  "Oh," I said. "Shouldn't you … I don't know. Have a lawyer, or something?"

  "I have one," he said, looking down at his hands resting between his thighs. "He's on his way. My parents, too. I thought I had explained it all to the sheriff, but I guess … I don't know. I'm going to have to do it again. With those guys."

  I followed his gaze. Now Mr. Goodhart was speaking to Special Agent Johnson. I couldn't see Special Agent Smith. She was probably sitting in my chair, the one by the window. I wondered if she was looking out at the car wash, the way I always did when I sat there.

  "I just don't get it," Mark said, staring at a spot in the center of the coffee table between us, at a brochure that had I'M AN ARMY OF ONE written on it. "I mean, I loved Amber. I would never hurt her."

  I glanced at the secretary. She was totally listening, but she was pretending not to, seeming to be very absorbed in a game of Minesweeper. She would click a button on her keyboard if Principal Feeney wandered this way, and the computer game would disappear, to be replaced by a spreadsheet.

  I should know. I had spent enough time in this office.

  "Of course you wouldn't," I said to Mark.

  "The thing is," he said, raising his gaze from the Army brochure and looking at me with soulful brown eyes. "I mean, it isn't like we weren't having problems. Every couple has problems. But we were working them out. We were totally working them out."

  I'll say. At least if what Claire Lippman had told me was any indication. He and Amber had been the Make-out King and Queen of that little barbecue, anyway.

  "And then, for this to happen . . ." He let his gaze drift away from me, toward the clock on the wall behind me. "Especially when everything else was going so great. You know, we have a real shot at the state championship this year. I just …"

  I swear, as I was sitting there, looking at him, I noticed an unnatural glimmer in his eyes. At first I thought it was just a trick of the flourescent lights overhead. And then it hit me.

  Mark Leskowski was crying. Crying. Mark Leskowski. A football player. Crying because he missed his dead girlfriend.

  "And there are going to be scouts, you know, from all the major universities," he said, with a barely suppressed sob. "Checking me out. Checking me out. I have a solid chance at getting out of this Podunk town, of going all the way."

  Or maybe it was because his football scholarship was going down the drain. Whatever the reason, Mark was crying.

  I flung a startled glance in the secretary's direction, because I did not know what to do. I mean, I have never dealt with crying football players before. Suicidal brothers, sure. Homicidal maniacs who wanted to kill me, easy. But crying football players?

  The secretary was no longer pretending to be absorbed in her game of Minesweeper. She, too, had noticed Mark's tears. And she, too, looked as if she did not know what to do. Her startled gaze met mine, and she shrugged in bewilderment. Then, as if she'd had an idea, she jumped and waved a box of Kleenex at me.

  Oh, great. Some help.

  Still, there didn't seem to be anything else I could do. I got up and took the Kleenex box from her, then went and sat down beside Mark, and offered it to him.

  "Here," I said, laying one hand on his shoulder. "It's okay."

  Mark took a handful of Kleenex and pressed them to his eyes. He was swearing softly beneath his breath.

  "It's not okay," he said vehemently, into the Kleenex. "This is unacceptable. All of this is unacceptable."

  "I know," I said, patting his shoulder. It felt strong and muscular beneath my fingers. "But really, it will all work out. Everything is going to be okay."

  It was at that moment that the door to Mr. Goodhart's office swung open, and Special Agents Johnson and Smith came out. They looked down at Mark and me curiously, then seemed to realize what was happening. When they did, both their faces grew hard.

  "Mark," Special Agent Smith said, in a voice that I did not think was very friendly, as she took a step toward us. "Would you please come with me?"

  When she reached the couch, she bent down and slipped a hand beneath Mark's arm. He rose without protest, keeping the Kleenex to his eyes. Then he let her lead him away, toward one of the conference rooms down the hall.

  Special Agent Johnson stood looking down at me, his arms folded across his chest.

  "Jessica," he said. "Don't even think about going there."

  "What?" I spread my hands out in the universal gesture for innocence. "I didn't say anything."

  "But you were about to. Jessica, I'm telling you now, leave this one alone. Unless you know something—"

  "Which I don't," I said.

  "Then stay out of it. A young woman is dead. I don't want you to be next."

  Whoa. Okay, Officer Friendly.

  As if realizing how unctuous he'd sounded, Special Agent Johnson changed the subject. "I'm still anxious to hear"—he unfolded his arms—"about this girl in San Francisco."

  "There is no girl in San Francisco," I protested. "Really. I swear."
>
  Special Agent Johnson nodded. "Right. Okay. If that's the way you want it. Read my lips then, Jess. Stay out of this one. Way out."

  Then he turned around and followed his partner and Mark.

  I looked at the secretary. She looked back at me. Our looks said it all. No way was Mark Leskowski, a boy unafraid to cry in public about his dead girlfriend, a murderer.

  "Jessica." Mr. Goodhart came out of his office and looked surprised to see me still sitting there, waiting for him. "Go home."

  Go home? Was he nuts? I had just sunk my fist into another student's face. And he was just letting me go home?

  "But. . ."

  "Go." Mr. Goodhart turned to the secretary. "Get Sheriff Hawkins on the line for me, will you, Helen?"

  Go? That was it? Just go? I thought I had one more strike, and then I Was Out? Where was the anger-management lecture? Where were the sighs, the "Oh, Jess, I just don't know what I'm going to do with you"s? Where was my week-long detention? That was it? I could just … go?

  Helen, noticing that I was still sitting there, put her hand over the phone receiver so whoever she was calling wouldn't hear her when she hissed to me, "Jess. What are you waiting for? Go, before he remembers."

  I didn't waste any more time after that. I went.

  I was sitting on the hood of Ruth's Cabriolet when she came out of the assembly, looking vaguely harassed.

  "Oh, hey," she said in surprise when she saw me. "What are you doing here? I thought Mulder and Scully were on your case again."

  "It wasn't me they were after this time," I said. I still couldn't keep the wonder out of my voice. The whole thing had just been so bizarre.

  "Really?" Ruth unlocked the door to the driver's side and climbed into her car. "What did they want, then?"

  "Mark," I said.

  "Leskowski?" Ruth looked shocked as she leaned over to unlock the door to my side. "Oh, my God. They must really think he did it."