Special Agent Smith looked confused. "There are no cookies, Jess. Just these Gogurt things."
"No cookies?" I stared at her. "There should be. There should be cookies and chips and Fiddle Faddle."
"Fiddle what?" Special Agent Smith looked more confused than ever.
"Fiddle Faddle," the boys shouted at her.
"No." Special Agent Smith blinked. "None of that. Just these Gogurts."
Still clutching Shane's pillow, I stood up and looked down at the boys.
"Did you guys eat all that candy and stuff I confiscated from you the other day?"
They looked at one another. I could have sworn they had no idea what I was talking about.
"No," they said, shaking their heads.
"I tried," Arthur confessed. "But I couldn't reach it. You put it up too high."
Too high for Arthur.
But not, I realized, for the largest resident of Birch Tree Cottage … besides me, of course.
I became aware of several things all at once. One, that Ruth and Scott—followed by Dave—were stepping up onto the front porch … come to say goodbye, I guessed.
Two, the rain outside had suddenly stopped. There was only the most distant rumbling from the sky now, as the storm moved out toward Lake Michigan.
And three, the smell from Shane's pillow, which I still clutched, had become overwhelming.
And that was because all at once, I knew where he was.
And it wasn't at the bottom of Lake Wawasee.
C H A P T E R
15
Look, what do you want me to say? I don't understand this psychic stuff any more than you do. Back when I'd been a special guest at Crane Military Base, they'd run a bunch of tests on me, and basically what they'd found out was that when I slip into REM-stage sleep, something happens to me. It's like the webmaster of my brain suddenly downloads some information that wasn't there before. That's how, when I wake up, I know stuff.
Only this time, it had happened while I was awake. Really. Right while I was standing there clutching Shane's stinky pillow.
And I hadn't felt a thing. In the comic books my brother Douglas is always reading, whenever one of the characters gets a psychic vision—and they do, frequently—he scrunches up his face and goes, "Uhnnnn …"
Seriously. Uhnnn. Like it hurts.
But I am telling you, downloading a psychic vision—or however they come—doesn't hurt. It's like one second the information is not there, and a second later, it is.
Like an e-mail.
Which was why, when I looked up from that pillow, it was really hard to contain myself. I mean, I didn't want to shout out what I knew for Special Agents Johnson and Smith to hear. I wasn't exactly anxious to let them in on this new development, considering all the time and effort I'd spent, assuring them I'd lost all psychic power entirely.
Still, when I finally did get a chance to impart what seemed, to me, like some pretty miraculous stuff, no one was very impressed.
"A cave?" Ruth's voice rose to a panic-stricken pitch. "You want me to go into a cave to look for that miserable kid? No, thanks."
I shushed her. I mean, it wasn't like the Feds weren't in the next room, or anything.
"Not you," I said. "I'll do the actual, um, cave entering." I didn't want to offend her by telling her the truth, which was that Ruth was the last person I'd ever pick to go spelunking with.
"But a cave?" Ruth still looked skeptical. "Why would he run off and hide in a cave?"
"Two words," I said. "Paul Huck."
"Who," Ruth whispered, "or should I say, what is a Paul Huck?"
"He's a guy who ran away to a cave," I explained quietly, "when he felt he was being persecuted."
We had to talk in whispers, because we were sequestered in my tiny cubicle of a bedroom, while outside, Special Agents Johnson and Smith sat guarding the perimeter. I was supposed to be saying good-bye to the boys and my friends. The Feds had very generously allotted me ten minutes to do this. I suppose their line of thinking was, Well, she can't get up to much trouble in that tiny room, now can she?
What they did not know, however, was that (a) the window in my tiny room actually opened wide enough for just about any size body to slip through, (b) two bodies had already slipped through it, in order to perform a small favor for me, and (c) instead of saying good-bye, like I was supposed to be doing, to Ruth and Scott and Dave, I was waiting for an opportunity to sneak out and find Shane, whom I knew now was not only not dead, but still on Camp Wawasee property.
"Remember," I whispered to Ruth, "at the first Pit, when they read off the rules and regulations? One of them was that Wolf Cave was off-limits. What kid, hearing about Paul Huck and feeling persecuted himself, isn't going to make a beeline for that cave? Plus he took all the junk food, and my flashlight is missing."
Ruth went, in this very meaningful tone, "Do you have any other reason to suspect he might be there, Jess?"
The surprising answer was, "Yes."
Ruth raised her eyebrows. "Really? What about all that stuff about how you need to enter REM-stage sleep in order to achieve … you know?"
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe I don't need it, if I'm worked up enough. . . ."
I didn't know how to put into words what had happened when I'd hugged Shane's pillow. How the smell of his shampoo had filled my head with an image of him, huddled in the glow of a flashlight, and stuffing his face with Fiddle Faddle.
I don't know how it had happened, or if it would ever happen again. But I had had a vision, while wide-awake, of a missing person. . . .
And I was going to act on that vision, and right what I'd made wrong.
"If you ask me," Ruth said, "the stupid kid isn't worth the trouble."
"Ruth." I shook my head at her. "What kind of Camp Wawasee attitude is that?"
"He's a pill," Ruth said.
"You wouldn't say that," I assured her, "if you'd ever heard him play."
"He can't be that good."
"He is. Believe me." The memory of the hauntingly beautiful music Shane had played was as sharp in my head as the vision I'd had of him, shoveling Doritos into his mouth by flashlight.
Ruth sighed. "If you say so. Still, if I were you, I'd let him stay out there and rot. He'll come back on his own when the food runs out."
"Ruth, a kid got lost in that cave and died, remember? That's why it's off-limits. For all I know, Shane might not be able to find his way out, and that's why he's still in there."
Ruth looked skeptical. "And what makes you think you'll be able to find your way out, if he can't?"
I tapped my head. "My built-in guidance system."
"Oh, right," Ruth said. "I forgot. You and my dad's Mercedes."
Suddenly, the stillness that had fallen over the camp after the heavy rainstorm was ripped apart by an explosion so loud it made thunder sound like a finger-snap. Ruth clapped her hands over her ears.
"Whoa," I said, impressed. "Right on cue. That boyfriend of yours sure knows how to create a diversion."
Ruth lowered her hands and went primly, "Scott isn't my boyfriend." Then she added, "Yet. And he should know about diversions. He was an Eagle Scout, after all."
The door to my bedroom flew open. Special Agent Smith stood there, gun drawn.
"Thank God you're all right," she said when she saw me. Her blue eyes were wide with anxiety. "That can only be him. Clay Larsson, I mean. Stay here while Agent Johnson and I go to investigate, all right? We're leaving Officer Deckard and one of the sheriff's deputies, too—"
"Sure," I said calmly. "You go on."
Special Agent Smith gave me a nervous smile I suppose she meant to be reassuring. Then she shut the door.
I stood up. "Let's get out of here," I said, and headed for the window.