Gone

by Michael Grant

  She could explain away the words Drake had put in her mouth. They were meaningless words. Just words. Little Pete didn’t care.

  But she could not explain away the fear. It shamed her.

  She put a cold hand to her face, to see if it really was as hot as it was in her imagination.

  “Where are we going, Sam?” Quinn asked anxiously. They were moving at an easy lope, not an all-out run, but a jog they could sustain.

  Sam was leading them straight through town, straight through the plaza, as if indifferent to pursuit.

  “We’re going to find Astrid before Drake does,” Sam said.

  “Let’s go check her house.”

  “No. The good thing about a genius is, you don’t have to wonder if she’s doing the stupid thing. She’ll know she has to get out of her house.”

  “Where would she go?”

  Sam thought for a moment. “Power plant.”

  “The power plant?”

  “Yeah. So we’re going to grab a boat and head up the coast.”

  “Okay. But, brah…I mean, dude, shouldn’t we be a little more sneaky instead of just running right through town?”

  Sam didn’t answer him. Part of the reason he was going in a straight line rather than being sneaky was that he hoped to pick up Edilio at the fire station. The other was that he needed to know whether Quinn would betray him the first chance he got.

  And there was a matter of tactics that Sam understood intuitively: Caine had more power, so Sam would need more speed. The longer he let the game go on, the more likely it was that Caine would win.

  They reached the fire station. Edilio was sitting in the cab of the fire engine with the engine running. He spotted Sam and Quinn and leaned out of the window. “Good timing, man, I’m going to try it out, take it on a…” He fell silent when he saw Sam’s blood-streaked face.

  “Edilio. Come on. We have to go.”

  “Okay, man, just let me get—”

  “No. I mean right now. Drake’s looking for Astrid. He’s going to kill her.”

  Edilio jumped down from the fire engine. “Where to?”

  “The marina. We’re going to take a boat. I think Astrid will head for the power plant.”

  The three of them jogged toward the marina. Sam knew that Orc and Howard were up at the school with Caine. Drake was on his way to Astrid’s house. That would leave a few thugs still roaming loose, but Sam wasn’t too worried about any of them.

  They spotted Mallet and a Coates kid lounging on the steps of town hall. Neither challenged them as they ran past.

  The marina wasn’t large, just forty slips, about half of them full. There was a drydock, and the rattling, rusty, tin warehouse that had once been a cannery and now housed boat-repair shops. A lot of boats were up out of the water on blocks, looking ungainly and like a stiff breeze might topple them.

  No one was there. No one was blocking their path.

  “What do we take?” Sam wondered. He had reached his first goal, but he knew nothing about boats. He looked to Edilio and got a shrug.

  “Okay. Something that will carry five people. Motorboat. With a full tank of gas. Quinn, take the boats on the right, Edilio, left. I’ll go to the end of the dock and work back. Go.”

  They split up and started working their way along, jumping into each likely looking boat, looking for keys, trying to figure out how to check the gas as time ticked away.

  In his mind’s eye Sam saw Drake searching Astrid’s house. A gun in his hand. He would be slowed down a little by fear that Astrid and Little Pete would simply teleport again. Drake wouldn’t know that Little Pete was not really in control of his powers, so he would try to be stealthy, he would be patient.

  That was good. The more uncertainty Drake had, the slower he’d go.

  Suddenly an engine roared to life. Sam jumped back onto the dock from the boat he’d been exploring. He raced back along the dock and found Quinn sitting proudly in a Boston Whaler, an open motorboat.

  “She’s gassed up,” Quinn said over the sluggish chugging of the engine.

  “Good job, man,” Sam said. He jumped into the boat beside Quinn. “Edilio, cast off.”

  Edilio whipped the ropes off the cleats and jumped in. “I gotta warn you, man: I get seasick.”

  “Not our biggest problem, huh?” Sam said.

  “I started it, but I don’t know how to drive it,” Quinn said.

  “Neither do I,” Sam admitted. “But I guess I’m going to learn.”

  “Hey. Hey.” It was Orc’s booming voice. “Don’t you pull away.”

  Orc, Howard, and Panda were at the end of the dock.

  “Mallet,” Sam said. “He saw us. He must have told them.”

  The three bullies started running.

  Sam looked frantically at the controls. The engine was chugging, the boat, unmoored, was drifting away from the dock, but too slowly. Even Orc could easily jump the gap.

  “Throttle,” Edilio said, pointing at a red-tipped lever. “That makes it go.”

  “Yeah. Hang on.”

  Sam moved the throttle up a notch. The boat surged forward and slammed into a piling. Sam was knocked almost but not quite off his feet. Edilio snatched at the railing and held on tight. Quinn sat down hard in the bow.

  The bow scraped past the piling and almost by accident ended up aimed toward open water.

  “You might want to take it slow at first,” Edilio said.

  “Stop! Stop that boat,” Orc yelled breathlessly, pounding down the dock. “I’ll beat your stupid head in.”

  Sam steered—he hoped—in the right direction and chugged slowly away. There was no way Orc could clear the distance now.

  “Caine will kill you,” Panda shouted.

  “Quinn, you traitor,” Howard yelled.

  “Tell them I made you do it,” Sam said.

  “What?”

  “Do it,” Sam hissed.

  Quinn stood up, cupped his hands, and yelled, “He made me do it.”

  “Now tell them we’re going to the power plant.”

  “Dude.”

  “Do it,” Sam insisted. “And point.”

  “We’re heading to the power plant,” Quinn yelled. He pointed north.

  Sam released the wheel, spun, and landed a hard left hook into Quinn’s face. Quinn sat down hard again.

  “What the—”

  “Had to make it look good,” Sam said. It was not an apology.

  The boat was in the clear now. Sam raised his hand, middle finger extended, high above his head, moved the throttle up another notch, and turned north toward the power plant.

  “What’s the game?” Edilio asked, mystified. He stood well back from Sam, just in case Sam decided to punch him next.

  “She won’t be at the plant,” Sam said. “She’ll be at Clifftop. We’re just going north as long as Orc is watching us.”

  “You lied to me,” Quinn accused. He was playing with his chin, making sure his jaw was still attached.

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t trust me.”

  Orc, Howard, and Panda disappeared from view, presumably running back to town to report to Caine. As soon as he was sure they were gone, Sam spun the wheel, pushed the throttle all the way up, and headed south.

  Drake lived in an empty house just off the plaza. It was less than a minute’s walk away from town hall. It once had belonged to a guy who lived alone. It was small, just two bedrooms, very neat, very organized, the way Drake liked things.

  The guy, the homeowner, Drake forgot his name, had been a gun owner. Three guns in all, a twenty-gauge over-under shotgun, a thirty-ought-six hunting rifle with a scope, and a nine-millimeter Glock semiautomatic pistol.

  Drake kept all three guns loaded all the time. They were set out on the dining room table, a display, something to be gazed at lovingly.

  Now he hefted the rifle. The stock was as smooth as glass, polished to a high shine. It smelled of steel and oil. He was hesitant about taking the rifle becaus
e he’d never fired a long gun before. He had no real idea how to use the scope. But how hard could it be?

  He slid into the leather strap and tested his shoulders for freedom of movement. The rifle was heavy, and a little long. The rubber-cushioned butt came down to the back of his thigh. But he could manage it.

  Then he hefted the pistol. He squeezed the cross-hatched grip and wrapped his fingertip around the trigger. Drake loved the feel of this gun in his hand.

  His father had taught him to shoot, using his service pistol. Drake still remembered the first time. The loading of shells into the clip. Sliding the clip into the butt of the gun. Ratcheting the slide to lift a round into place. Clicking the safety.

  Click. Safe.

  Click. Deadly.

  He remembered the way his father had taught him to grip the butt firmly but not too tight. To rest his right hand in the palm of his left and sight carefully, to turn his body sideways to present a smaller target if someone was shooting back. His father had had to yell because they were both wearing ear protection.

  “If you’re target shooting, you center the front sight in the notch of the rear sights. Raise it till your sights are sitting right under your target. Let your breath out slowly and squeeze.”

  That first bang, the recoil, the way the gun jumped six inches, the smell of powder—it was all as clear in Drake’s mind as any memory he had.

  His first shot had completely missed the target.

  Same with the second because after feeling the kick the first time, he had flinched in anticipation.

  The third shot he had hit the target, catching just a piece of the lower corner.

  He had shot up a box of ammo that first day and by the time he was done, he was hitting what he aimed at.

  “What if I’m not shooting targets?” he’d asked his father. “What if I’m shooting at a person?”

  “Don’t shoot a person,” his father had said. But then he relented, relieved no doubt to find something he could share with his disturbing son. “Different people will tell you different techniques. But if it’s me, say I’m doing a traffic stop and I think I see the citizen reaching for a weapon, and I’m thinking I may have to take a quick shot? I just point. Point like the barrel is a sixth finger. You point and if you have to fire, you shoot half the clip, bang, bang, bang, bang.”

  “Why do you shoot so many times?”

  “Because if you have to shoot, you shoot to kill. Situation like that, you’re not aiming carefully for his head or his heart, you’re pointing at the center of mass and you’re hoping you get a lucky shot, but if you don’t, if all you’re hitting is shoulder or belly, the sheer velocity of the rounds will still knock him down.”

  Drake didn’t think it would take six shots to kill Astrid.

  He remembered with vivid, slow-motion detail the time he had shot Holden, the neighbor’s kid who liked to come over and annoy him. That had been a bullet to the thigh, with a low-caliber gun and still, the kid had nearly died. That “accident” had landed Drake at Coates.

  He was holding a nine-millimeter Glock right now, less powerful than his father’s forty-caliber Smith & Wesson, but a lot more gun than the target twenty-two he’d used on Holden.

  One shot would do it. One for the snooty blonde, one for the retard. That would be cool. He would come back, give his report to Caine, and say, “Two targets, two rounds.” That would wipe the smirk off Diana’s face.

  Astrid’s house was not far. But the trick would be to get her before her little brother used the power to disappear again.

  Drake hated the power. There was only one reason why Caine and not Drake was running the show: Caine’s powers.

  But Caine understood that the kids with powers had to be controlled. And once Caine and Diana had all the freaks under control, what was to stop Drake from using his own nine millimeters of magic to take it all for himself?

  First things first.

  He stared at Astrid’s house from halfway down the block. Looking for any sign of which room she might be in.

  He crept around to the back and up onto the back porch. The door was locked. Anyone who locked their back door locked their front door. But maybe not their windows. He hopped up onto the deck railing and leaned out to get a purchase on the window. It slid up easily. It was not an easy thing getting through the window without making a lot of noise.

  It took him ten minutes to go through every room in the house, look in every closet, under every bed, behind every curtain, even look into the attic crawl spaces.

  He felt a moment of panic then. Astrid could be anywhere. He would look like a fool if he didn’t get her.

  Where would she go?

  He checked the garage. Nothing there. No cars, certainly no Astrid. But there was a lawnmower, and where there was a lawnmower, there would be…yes, a gas can.

  He wondered what would happen if Astrid and the retard magicked their way into a burning building?

  Drake opened the gas can, went to the kitchen, and began drizzling the gasoline across the counters, into the family room, a splash for the drapes, trailing into the dining room, across the table, and another splash for the front curtains.

  He couldn’t find a match. He tore a piece of paper towel and lit it on the stove. He tossed the burning twist of paper onto the dining room table and left by the front door, not bothering to close it.

  “That’s one place she won’t be able to hide,” he told himself.

  He raced back to the plaza and up the stairs of the church. The church had a steeple. It wasn’t very tall, but it would give him a pretty good perspective.

  Up the circular stairs. He pushed a hinged hatch and climbed up into a cramped, dusty, cobwebbed space dominated by a bell. He carefully avoided touching the bell—the sound would carry.

  The windows were shuttered, covered with angled vents that let airflow through and sound resonate out, but only allowed him to see down. He used the butt of the rifle to knock the first vent out. It tumbled to the ground below.

  Kids in the plaza looked up. Let them. He smashed the other three vents out and they clattered down. Now he had an unrestricted view in every direction across the orange tile roofs of Perdido Beach.

  He started from Astrid’s house, which was already beginning to smoke. He worked his way methodically, a hunter, looking for any movement. Each time he spotted someone walking or running or biking, he would take a look at them through the rifle scope, line them up in the crosshairs.

  He felt like God. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger.

  But none of the moving shapes far below was Astrid. There was no way to miss that blond hair. No. No Astrid.

  Then, just as he was giving up, he spotted a flurry of activity down at the marina. He swiveled the scope, and suddenly Sam Temple was clear in the bright circle. For a moment the sights were on his chest. But then he was gone. He had jumped onto a boat.

  Impossible. Caine had Sam up at the school. How had he gotten away?

  Edilio and Quinn were on the boat too, pulling away. Drake could see the water churning from the motor.

  Quinn. That’s how Sam had gotten away. It had to be.

  Drake would have to have a nice talk with Quinn.

  On the dock he could make out Orc waving a bat, yelling, unable to do anything. The boat gathered speed and arced north, leaving a long white wake drawn like an arrow on the water.

  There was no question Sam would try to find Astrid. And he was heading north.

  The power plant. Had to be.

  Drake cursed and, again, for just a moment, felt the almost desperate fear of failing Caine. He wasn’t worried what Caine would do to him—after all, Caine needed him—but he knew if he failed to carry out Caine’s orders, Diana would laugh.

  Drake put down the rifle. How could he reach the power plant ahead of Sam?

  There was no way. Even if he took a boat he would be playing catch-up. A car? Maybe. But he didn’t know the way, and the trip by boat would be more direct. It
would take him a while to get down to the marina and…but, wait. Wait a minute.

  The motorboat was pulling a U-turn.

  “Aren’t you clever, Sam?” Drake whispered. “But not clever enough.”

  Through the scope he could just make out Sam’s face as he stood at the wheel, wind in his face, having escaped from Caine, having outwitted Orc, and now all cocky and sure of himself as he sped south.

  There was no way to take a shot from this distance. Drake knew that.

  He traversed the gun sight south and stopped at the barrier. Sam wouldn’t have far to go in that direction.

  The beach at the bottom of the cliffs? If she was down there, Drake could never reach her before Sam got there in the motorboat. If she was down there, the game was over.

  But if not…if she was, say, in the hotel, Clifftop? Then, he had a chance if he moved fast.

  How great would it be to shoot her right where Sam Temple could watch?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  127 HOURS, 45 MINUTES

  ASTRID ALMOST MISSED spotting the boat. She had gone to the window only to draw the shades. But out of the corner of her eye she saw the motorboat out there, the only thing on the water.

  For a brief moment she’d wondered if it was adults, someone coming to rescue them from the FAYZ. But no, if rescue was coming from outside the FAYZ, it wouldn’t be a single open boat.

  And, anyway, Astrid was convinced, no one was coming. Not now. Probably not ever.

  She squinted but could not tell who was on the boat. If only she had binoculars. It seemed like it might be three people. Maybe four. She couldn’t tell. But the boat was speeding closer.

  She knelt to see what was still available in the minibar refrigerator. During their last stay, she and Sam and Quinn had almost cleaned it out. All that was left to eat were some cashews.

  She would need to feed Little Pete sooner rather than later. Before whoever was on the boat got here.

  “Come on, Petey,” she said, and guided him up from the end of the bed. “Come on, we’re going to get some food. Munchy munchy?” she said, using a trigger phrase that sometimes worked. “Munchy munchy?”

  They could head for the Clifftop restaurant and probably find something there, maybe cook a chicken sandwich or something, or at least find some yogurt or whatever. Or they could play it safe and just empty out the minibars in other rooms.