Meg Cabot - Sanctuary

"No law against fences and guard dogs," Chick said, with a shrug. "And a man's allowed to carry a rifle on his own property—"

"But he's not allowed to shoot cops," I pointed out. "And if what you're saying about these True Americans is accurate, then somebody in that group did just that, earlier today, over at the trailer park by Mr. Shaky's. They got away—with a twelve-year-old hostage. I'm willing to bet they're holed up now with this Jim Henderson guy. And if we don't do something, and soon, that kid is going to end up in a cornfield, same as Nate Thompkins."

Rob and Chick exchanged glances. And in those glances, despite the darkness of the bar, I was able to catch a glimpse of something I didn't like. Something I didn't like at all.

And that was hopelessness.

"Look," I said, my hands going to my hips. "I don't care how secure their fortress is. Seth Blumenthal is in there, and it's up to us to get him out."

Chick shook his head. For the first time, he looked serious … serious and sad.

"Little lady," he said. "Jimmy's crazy as they come, but one thing he ain't is stupid. There ain't gonna be a scrap of evidence to connect him with any of this stuff, except the fact that he's head of the group that claimed responsibility. Bustin' in there—which'd be damn near impossible, seeing as how you can't even approach Jim's place by road. It's so far back into the woods, ain't no way the plows can get to it—to rescue some kid is just plain stupid. Ten to one," Chick said, "that boy is long dead."

"No," I said, quietly. "He isn't dead, actually."

Chick looked startled. "Now how in hell," he wanted to know, "could you know that?"

Rob lifted his forehead from his hands, into which he'd sunk it earlier.

"Because," he answered, bleakly. "She's Lightning Girl."

Chick studied me appraisingly in the neon glow. I'm sure my face, like his, must have been an unflattering shade of purple. I probably resembled Violet from that Willy Wonka movie. You know, after she ate the gum.

But Chick must have seen something there that he liked, since he didn't end the conversation then and there.

"You think we should go busting in there," he said, slowly, "and get that kid out?"

"Busting," I said, "is not the word I would use. I think we could probably come up with a more subtle form of entry. But yes. Yes, I do."

"Wait." Rob shook his head. "Wait just a minute here. Mastriani, this is insane. We can't get involved in this. This is a job for the cops—"

"—who don't know what they're up against," I said. "Forget it, Rob. One cop already got shot on account of me. I'm not going to let anyone else get hurt, if I can help it."

"Anyone else," Rob burst out. "What about yourself? Have you ever stopped to think these guys might have a bullet with your name on it next?"

"Rob." I couldn't believe how myopic he was being. "Jim Henderson isn't going to shoot me."

Rob looked shocked. " Why not ?"

"Because I'm a girl, of course."

Rob said a very bad word in response to this. Then he pushed away from the bar and went stalking over to the jukebox … which he punched. Not hard enough to break it, but hard enough so that Chick looked up and went, "Hey!"

Rob didn't apologize though. Instead, he said, looking at Chick with appeal in his gray eyes, "Can you help me out here? Can you please explain to my girlfriend that she must be suffering from a chemical imbalance if she thinks I'm letting her anywhere near Jim Henderson's place?"

Which was a horribly sexist thing to say, and which I knew I should have resented, but I couldn't, since he'd called me the G word. You know. His girlfriend . It was the first time I'd ever heard him call me that. Within earshot of someone else, I mean.

Being his date at that Christmas Eve wedding didn't look so far out of the realm of possibility now.

But Chick, instead of doing as Rob had asked, and telling me to forget about busting in on the True Americans, stroked his goatee thoughtfully. "You know," he said. "It isn't the worst idea I ever heard."

Rob stared at him in horror.

"Hey," Chick said, defensively. "I ain't saying she should go in alone. But a kid's dead, Wilkins. And if I know Henderson, this other one hasn't got much time left."

I threw Rob a triumphant look, as if to say, See? I'm not crazy after all .

"And you might say," Chick went on, "this is a homegrown problem, Wilkins. I mean, Henderson's one of our own. Ain't it appropriate that we be the ones to mete out the justice? I can put in a few calls and have enough boys over here in five minutes, it'd put the National Guard to shame."

I raised my eyebrows, impressed by the mete out the justice line.

Rob wasn't going for it, though. "Even if we did agree this was a good idea," he said, "which I am not doing, you said yourself it's inaccessible. There's nearly two feet of snow on the ground. How are we even going to get near the place?"

Chick did a surprising thing, then. He crooked a finger at us, then started walking—though, given his girth and height, lumbering was really more the word for it—toward the back door.

I followed him, with Rob reluctantly trailing behind me. Chick went down a short hallway that opened out into a sort of a ramshackle garage. Wind whistled through the haphazardly thrown up wooden slats that made up the walls.

Flicking on the single electric bulb that served as a light, Chick strode forward until he came to something covered with a tarp.

"Voilà," he said, in what I assumed was a purposefully bad European accent.

Then he flung back the tarp to reveal two brand-new snowmobiles.

C H A P T E R

11

Hey, I'll admit it. I wanted on that snowmobile. I wanted on it, bad.

Can you blame me? I'd never been on one before.

And for someone who likes going fast, well, what's more thrilling than going fast over snow? Oh, sure, I'd been skiing before, over at the dinky slopes of Paoli Peaks. It had been fun and all. For like an hour. I mean, let's face it, Indiana is not exactly known for its mountainous terrain, so the Peaks got old kind of fast for any thrill seeker worthy of the name.

But nothing could compare to the sensation of zipping over all that thickly packed white stuff with my arms wrapped tightly around the waist of my hot, if disapproving, boyfriend.

Oh, it was good. It was real good.

But I have to admit, the part after we'd pulled up in front of the True Americans' barbed-wire fence, and just sat there with the engine switched off, gazing at the lights of Jim Henderson's house, glimmering through the trees?

Yeah, that part wasn't so fun.

That was on account of the fact that deep in the backwoods of Indiana, on a late November evening, it is very, very cold. Bone-chillingly cold. Mind-numbingly cold. Or at least toe and finger-numbingly cold.

You would think that Rob and I could have thought up something to do, you know, to pass the time—as well as keep warm—while we waited for Chick to catch up to us with the backup he'd promised. But given the fact that Rob was still so mad we were here at all, there hadn't been much, you know, of that going on. In fact, none at all.

"So what are we waiting for, again?" I asked.

"Reinforcements," was Rob's terse reply.

"Yeah," I said. "I get that part. But can't we just, you know, go and wait inside?"

"And what are we going to do," Rob said, "if we find Seth?"

"Bust on out of there," I said.

"Using what as a weapon?"

I thought a minute. "Our rapier wit?"

"Like I said."

Well. So much for that.

Rob didn't seem as cold as I was. Why is that? How come boys never get as cold as girls do? And also, what's with the peeing thing? Like how come I totally had to pee, and he didn't? He'd had as many Cokes back at Chick's as I did.