Dr. Krantz's expression did not change. It never does. So I wasn't sure whether or not my words hit home.
"Jessica," Dr. Krantz said. "I want to show you something."
We were standing a little ways away from the circle the police officers and sheriff's deputies had made around the blue tarp covering Nate's body. But the glare from the floodlight was bright enough that, even though it was nighttime, I could see the details in the photo Cyrus Krantz pulled from inside his coat with perfect clarity.
It was, I realized, the overpass Mrs. Lippman had been talking about at dinner. The one with the graffiti spray-painted onto it. The graffiti she'd assumed was a gang tag. I myself had never noticed it.
Looking at it then, in the cold white glow of the floodlight, I saw that the red squiggle—that's all it looked like to me—seemed vaguely familiar. I had seen it before. Only where? There is not a lot of graffiti in our town. Oh, sure, the occasional Rick Loves Nancy out by the quarry. Every once in a while someone with a little too much school spirit painted Cougars Rule on the side of our rival high school's gymnasium. But that was it as far as graffiti went. I couldn't think where I could possibly have seen that red squiggle before.
Then, all at once, it hit me.
On Nate Thompkins's chest.
"So it is gang related?" I asked, handing the photo back to Cyrus Krantz. The two Thanksgiving suppers I'd eaten weren't sitting too well in my stomach all of a sudden.
Dr. Krantz tucked the photo back where he'd found it. "No," he said, rebuttoning his coat. Dr. Krantz was always very neat and tidy. At our house, he hadn't left a single crumb on his plate. And my mom's biscotti is pretty crumbly.
"This," he said, tapping the pocket that held the photo, "was a warning. That"—He nodded at the blue tarp—"is just the beginning."
"The beginning of what?" I asked. Mrs. Wilkins's pumpkin pie was definitely on its way back up.
"That," Cyrus Krantz said, "is what we're going to find out, I'm afraid."
Then he turned around and started striding from the cornfield, back to his long, warm car.
Wait, I wanted to call after him. What can I do? What can I do to help?
But then I remembered that I am not supposed to have my psychic powers anymore. So I couldn't really offer him my help.
Besides, what could I do? Nobody was missing.
Not anymore.
I didn't speed the rest of the way home. Not because I was afraid of getting caught, but because I was really afraid of what I was going to find when I pulled onto Lumbley Lane. Even the purr of Rob's motorcycle behind me—he followed me home—wasn't very reassuring.
When we pulled onto my street, I saw the flashing lights right away. The sheriff must have radioed in the information I'd given him, since there were already two squad cars parked outside the Thompkins house. As I pulled into our driveway, Dr. Thompkins was just opening the door to let in the officers who stood there, their hats in their hands. Neither of them turned around as Rob, with a wave to me, took off down the street, having successfully escorted me practically to my door.
My entire family had their faces pressed to the glass of the living room windows when I walked in. Well, everybody except for Douglas, who was probably hiding in his room (flashing lights are not among his favorite things: They tend to remind him of the several ambulance trips he has taken in his lifetime).
"Oh, Jess," my mom said, when she saw me. The dining room table was clear. Everyone except for Claire had left. "Thank God you're home. I was getting worried."
"I'm fine," I said.
"Where does this Joanne live, anyway?" my mom wanted to know. "You were gone for hours."
But I could tell she wasn't really interested in my answer. All of her attention was focused on the Hoadley—I mean, Thompkins—house across the street.
"Those poor people," she murmured. "I hope it isn't bad news."
"Ma," Mike said, in a sarcastic voice. "Two sheriff cars are parked in their driveway. You think they're there with good news?"
"Don't call me Ma," my mother said. Then she seemed to realize what everybody was doing. She looked shocked. "Get away from the windows! It's shameful, spying on those poor people like this."
"We aren't spying, Antonia," Great-aunt Rose said. "We are merely looking out the window. There's no law against that."
"Mrs. Mastriani is right," Claire said primly, getting up off the couch. "It's wrong to peep through other people's windows."
Claire obviously had no clue that Mike had been spying on her through her windows with a telescope for years.
I could have told them, I guess. I mean about Nate. But the way it was, I had barely been able to make it home with my dinner intact. I wasn't all that eager to risk losing it again. Instead, I said, "I'm going to bed," and I started up the stairs to my room. Only my mother said good night, and she sounded pretty distracted.
Upstairs, I saw that Douglas's bedroom light was still on. I thumped on his door instead of just barging in, like I used to do. Douglas has gotten a lot better since starting his job in the comic book store. I figured I'd reward him by letting him have some privacy for a change. Mr. Goodhart says this is called positive reinforcement.
"Come in, Jess," Douglas said. He knew it was me by my thump. My mom taps all timidly, my dad knocks Shave-and-a-Haircut, and Mike never visits Douglas, if he can help it. So Douglas always knows when it's me.
"Hey," I said. Douglas was lying on his bed, reading, as usual. Tonight it was the latest installment of Superman. "What time did everybody leave?"
"About an hour ago," he said. "Mr. and Mrs. Abramowitz had a big fight over where they're going to go for Christmas break, Aspen or Antigua."
"Must be nice," I said. The Abramowitzes are way rich.
"Yeah. Skip contributed by having an asthma attack. Between that and Aunt Rose, it was an evening to remember."
"Huh," I said.
He must have seen by my face that something was wrong, since he went, "What?"
I shook my head. For a minute, I'd been picturing Nate Thompkins, as I'd last seen him, lifeless in that cornfield. "Oh," I said. "Nothing."
"Not nothing," Douglas said. "Tell me."
I told him. I didn't want to. All right, I did. But I shouldn't have. Douglas has never been what you'd call well. I mean, he was always the one the other kids picked on in school, at the park, wherever. You know the kind. The one they call Spaz and Tard and Reject. I had spent much of my young adulthood pounding on the faces of people who'd dared to make fun of my older brother for being different.
And that's all Douglas is. Not crazy. Not retarded. Just different.
When I was through, Douglas, who knows the truth about my "special ability"—but not about Rob; no one knows the truth about Rob, except for Ruth who is, after all, my best friend—let out a big gush of air.
"Whoa," he said.
"Yeah," I said.
"Those poor people," he said, meaning the Thompkinses.
"Yeah," I said.
"I've seen the daughter," he said, meaning Tasha. "At the store."
"Really?" Somehow I could not picture shy, pretty Tasha Thompkins, always so conservatively dressed, in Underground Comix, where Douglas worked.
"She's into Witchblade," Douglas elaborated. He seemed really concerned. I mean, for Douglas. "What did it look like, anyway?"
He had thrown me. "What did what look like?"
"The symbol," Douglas said, patiently. "The one on Nate's chest."
"Oh," I said. I went over to his desk and drew it, not very expertly, on a pad of paper I found lying there. "Like this," I said, and handed it to him.
He took the pad and studied what I had drawn. When, after a minute, he continued to squint down at it, I said, "It's supposed to be a gang symbol, or something. It only makes sense if you're in the gang."