Meg Cabot - When Lightning Strikes

"No," Sean said, shaking his head. "Don't you get it? I've heard about you."

I blinked at him. "What are you talking about?"

"I saw on the news how they've got you up at that place, that military base."

"Yeah? So?"

"You're so stupid," Sean said. "You don't know anything. I bet you don't even know why they got you there. Do you?"

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "Sure, I do. They're doing some experiments on me. You know, to figure out how it is I know where people like you are. That's all."

"That isn't all . They've got you lookin' for people, don't they?"

I thought about those photos, all those middle-aged men it had seemed so important to the colonel for me to look at.

"May be …"

"So, don't you get it? You're not helping anybody. You don't know who those guys were. Some of those people they want you to find might be on the run for a reason, like me and my mom. Some of them might actually be innocent. And you're servin' 'em up to the cops like big old plates of chocolate-glazed donuts."

I don't like to hear the police disparaged, especially by someone so young. After all, the police provide a vital service for our society, for little pay and even less glory. I said, my voice sounding lame even to my own ears, "I am sure that if someone is wanted by the U.S. Government, he must be guilty of something. . . ."

But the truth was, he wasn't saying anything I hadn't already thought of myself. For some reason, he reminded me of my dream. Marco. Polo. Marco. Polo . So many people, so many voices.

And I couldn't reach a single one of them.

Sean's face was white beneath his freckles. "What about The Fugitive , huh? He hadn't done anything. It was that one-armed man. For all you know, one of those people they want you to find for them might be just like Harrison Ford in that movie. And you're Tommy Lee Jones." He shook his head disgustedly. "You really are a nark, you know that?"

Nark? Me? I wanted to wring the little twerp's neck. I was totally regretting having come after him like this.

Marco.

"Nark's not even the word for it," he said. "You know what you are? A dolphin."

I gaped at him. Was he kidding? Dolphins were friendly, intelligent animals. If he was trying to insult me, he'd have to try a little harder.

"You know what the government used to do?" Sean was on a roll. "They used to train dolphins to swim up to boats and tap them with their noses. Then, when World War I started, they strapped bombs to the dolphins' backs, and made them swim up to enemy boats and touch them with their noses. But this time when they did it, what do you think happened? The bombs went off, and the enemy ships—and the dolphins—were blown to smithereens. Oh, sure, everybody says, 'Think how many people would have been killed by that boat, if it hadn't been blown up. The dolphin gave its life for a worthy cause.' But I bet the dolphin didn't feel that way. The dolphin didn't start the war. The dolphin had nothing to do with it."

He narrowed his eyes at me. "Do you know what, Jess?" he said. "You're the dolphin now. And it's just a matter of time before they blow you up."

I narrowed my eyes right back at him, but I had to admit, the story about the dolphins gave me the chills.

Polo.

"I'm no dolphin," I said. I was beginning to regret having found Sean Patrick O'Hanahan. And I definitely regretted having bought him two individual pizzas and a large Pepsi.

Unfortunately, though, the more I thought about it, sitting there in the restaurant, with the Paoli High cheerleaders giggling in the next booth, and the mall Muzac playing softly around us, the more I realized that was exactly what I was … or rather, what I'd almost let myself become. I'll be right back . That's what I'd said in the note I'd left that morning. Had I really meant that? Had I really meant to come back?

Or had I actually meant hasta la vista, baby, this tuna is dolphin-free?

Marco.

"Look," I said to Sean. "We aren't here to discuss my problems. We're here to discuss yours."

He eyed me. "Fine," he said. "What am I supposed to do?"

"In the first place," I said, "stop using your dad's credit card. Here." I dug around in my pocket, then pushed what was left of my dad's hundred dollars at him. "Take this. Then we're going to get you into a cab."

"A cab?"

"Yeah, a cab. You can't go back to the bus station, and we've got to get you out of Paoli. I want you to go to my school—" I'd reached into my backpack and brought out a pen. I was scrawling the address of Ernest Pyle High School on a Pizza Hut napkin. "Ask for Mr. Goodhart. Tell him I sent you. He'll help you. Tell him he needs to call Ruth's dad, Mr. Abramowitz. Here, I'm writing it down for you. Quit grabbing my hand, I'm writing it down for you."

But Sean kept on pawing at my hand. I didn't know what the kid wanted. The pen? What did he want the pen for?

"Cool it, would you?" I said, looking up at him. "I'm writing as fast as I can."

But then I got a look at his face. He wasn't even looking at me. He was looking just past me, at the door to the restaurant.

I turned around, just in time to make eye contact with Colonel Jenkins. When he saw me, his big hands balled up into fists, and I was reminded, inexplicably, of Coach Albright.

And that wasn't all. Marching behind him was a whole pack of meaty-fisted guys in army fatigues and crew cuts, who just happened to be armed.

Polo.

"Shit," I said.

The colonel nodded at me. "There she is," he said.

Sean may only have been twelve, but he sure wasn't stupid. He whispered, "Run!"

And even though he was only twelve, that sounded like pretty good advice to me.

C H A P T E R

16

Colonel Jenkins and his men were blocking the doorway, but that was okay. There was a side door that had the word Exit over it. We dove through it, and found ourselves right in front of JCPenney.

"Wait," I said to Sean as he was preparing to flee. I had had the presence of mind to hang on to the napkin I'd written on. I reached out and grabbed him by his shirt collar, then shoved the napkin in the front pocket of his jeans. He looked a little surprised.

"Now go," I said, and shoved him.

We split up. We didn't discuss it or anything. It just happened. Sean took off toward the Photo Hut. I headed for the escalators.

Back when I'd first started having to defend Douglas at school, and I hadn't known too much about fighting, my dad had taken me aside and given me a few pointers. One of the best pieces of advice he gave me—besides showing me how to hit—was that if I ever found myself in a situation where I was outnumbered, the best thing to do was run. And, specifically, run downhill. Never, my father said, go uphill—or stairs, or whatever—during a chase. Because if you go up, and the people after you block the only way down, you have no way of getting out—except by jumping.

But I had Sean to think about. Seriously. Thanks to me, there were armed men chasing us, for Christ's sake. I was not going to let them get hold of a little twelve-year-old kid, a kid who'd only gotten involved in this in the first place through my own fault.

So I knew that I was going to have to let myself get caught in the end … but, in the meantime, I had to make this chase last as long as possible, in order to give Sean a solid chance at escaping. I was going to have to create another diversion. . . .

And so I headed for those escalators.

And, by God, they followed me right up them.

It was still lunchtime so, except for the food court, the mall wasn't that crowded. But what few people there were I managed to weave around pretty good. The soldiers chasing after me weren't quite so nimble: I heard people screaming as they tried to get out of the way, and things like a vending cart called the Earring Tree, which I whizzed by with no problem, crashed to the floor as the soldiers stumbled into it.