Wake Up Missing (16 page)

Ben climbed in and sat on the bench behind the driver's seat. He turned his whole body toward the window.

Quentin stepped up next and sat behind Ben. Sarah sat next to Quentin on the middle bench.

Dr. Ames crossed his arms in front of him. “Cat?”

I blinked hard, once, and climbed up next to Ben. Dr. Ames slammed the door, and the thump shook my whole body, straight to my heart. I forced myself to take a deep breath. And coughed.

“It smells like my hockey bag in here,” Sarah said behind me as Dr. Ames climbed into the front passenger seat.

I'd never smelled a hockey bag, but if they smelled like dirty, wet clothes left to mildew in the heat, then Sarah was right. There was stale cigarette smoke, too, and something else, pungent and sweet. None of it was helping my clenched-up stomach.

The driver pressed a button and his window closed; he flicked
on the air-conditioning, and cooler air poured out from the vents in front. “That any better?” His voice was as rough as the dusty road. I leaned forward to see him, but his face was shaded by a red baseball cap, pulled down low. The skin I could see in the shadows was leathered and tan. He reached for the gearshift with a hand marked with sun spots, scratches, and dried mud.

We didn't talk. There was no airboat engine to drown out our whispers. The radio was off, the only sound a quiet rush of air-conditioning that was only halfway reaching the backseats.

We pulled out of the long gravel driveway onto a paved road just as Dr. Ames's cell phone rang. I leaned forward and saw GUNTHER on the screen before he pressed the phone to his ear. “What is it?”

I couldn't make out exact words, but I could hear the rise and fall of Dr. Gunther's voice on the other end. He was talking fast.

“You will make the calls
exactly
as we discussed,” Dr. Ames said into the phone, his voice rising, “and you'll do it in . . .” He pushed the sleeve of his windbreaker up over his watch, then looked at the van's driver. “How long? Thirty minutes?” The driver gave a quick nod.

“Get it done, Rudolph.” Dr. Ames clicked a button on top of his phone and dropped it into his lap.

What calls? Get what done? Hadn't they already called our parents and told lies? Told them we were coming home?

I twisted in my seat and stole a glance at Quentin. He was looking out the window, frowning.

The van sped up, past roadside stands advertising airboat rides and pictures taken with baby alligators, power lines that
seemed to go nowhere, dried-out ditches crisscrossed with animal tracks in what was left of the mud. The landscape didn't look any different than it had when Mom and I drove into town from the airport.

How could that have been only a week ago? It felt like so much longer. And that life back home that I'd been so anxious to fix, to change . . . I'd give anything now to have it back, concussion and messed-up friendships and all. I wanted the chance to make things right, with Amberlee, and Lucy, and with myself. I wanted to go home so badly it was all I could do not to curl up on the floor of the van and cry.

I breathed in. And got a big gulp of smoke, thicker than we'd smelled out in the swamp.

I turned to Quentin, leaned back, and raised my eyebrows. He came forward and rested his arms on his knees.

“Can you smell that?” I whispered.

He nodded. “Fires must be closer.”

I turned to face forward. Dr. Ames had lowered his visor and was peering back at us in the mirror.

I met his eyes, straight on. “How long until we get there?”

“Miami's still about ninety minutes away,” he said.

“I thought you said thirty minutes.” My heart felt like it was racing around my chest, looking for a way out. I knew Miami was more than half an hour away. Where were we
really
going?

“Oh, that. We . . . uh . . . may need to take a slight detour if the roads are blocked off because of wildfires. But don't worry. I'm sure Gus knows some shortcuts.”

Traffic slowed in front of us, and Gus's hands clenched on the
steering wheel. His shortcuts apparently didn't keep us from getting stuck in traffic. Cars in front of us crawled along. Who was in those cars? Anyone who could help us?

I turned to Quentin. “Want to play the alphabet game?”

“What?” He looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. “Now?”

“Yes, now.” My eyes narrowed. “Lean up; you'll be able to see better.”

He hesitated, but I reached back and pulled his hand until he was leaned over the seat, just inches from my face. “See? There! On that sign—GAS-FOOD-CAMPING—I got an A.” I leaned so close my nose brushed his hair, and I whispered, “Should we try to jump out while traffic is stopped?”

He nodded slowly. “Maybe,” he whispered, then shouted, “B! Boat launch!”

In front, Dr. Ames poked at his cell phone.

“We'd have to all go at once,” Quentin whispered. He pulled Sarah up next to him and leaned over, his mouth to her ear. I watched her eyes get wide. He whispered to her again.

Dr. Ames was watching in the mirror.

“I got B, another boat launch!” I said loudly. “Plus C, Camping, and D, Road Work Ahead.”

“Is that why we slowed down?” Quentin called up to the front. “Construction?”

“No.” Gus's hands were tight on the steering wheel. “It's a roadblock.”

“For what?” I asked.

“Nothing to worry about,” Dr. Ames said, but he was looking at Gus—not us. “Stay cool. I'll get us through.”

Police lights flashed five or six cars ahead of us. Gus kept looking in the rearview mirror. He was having trouble staying cool. How come?

“You said this job would be quick and easy.” Gus put the van in park—traffic had come to a complete stop—and turned his body toward Dr. Ames. “What if they look in back?”

“Shh!” Dr. Ames growled, and even though he was half Gus's size, Gus backed off. “I told you, we're fine. Just drive.”

“E, Exit nineteen!” I shouted, and turned back to Quentin and Sarah. “If we jump out, we can bang on somebody's car window . . . and . . .”

Quentin shook his head. “And tell them that one of the most well-respected clinics in the country has kidnapped us?” he hissed. “We'd be back in this van, buckled in our seat belts so fast it'd make—”

Sarah interrupted him. “D! Speed Limit sixty-five.” She leaned closer to us. “He was looking again.”

Dr. Ames's cell phone rang as we pulled up to the flashing lights.

Quentin looked longingly at the police cars. “Maybe we could . . .”

“No. Remember what Molly said about the police around here? We can't take that chance.” I took a deep breath.

Four cars—two sheriff's vehicles, a U.S. Fish and Wildlife SUV, and a van that said DRUG ENFORCEMENT AGENCY—lined the shoulders of the road.

Gus tugged the brim of his baseball hat and cursed under his breath.

“Stay cool,” Dr. Ames growled. His phone kept ringing, but he ignored it as a sheriff's deputy motioned for Gus to roll down the van's window.

“Morning,” the deputy said. “We need you to turn right on the county road up ahead. Fire's taken a turn in this wind, and we can't have anybody in its path.”

“No problem, sir.” Gus wiped sweat from his nose, even thought the AC was blasting inside the van.

Dr. Ames leaned toward the driver's window and gave a small wave. “We're transporting some patients from I-CAN, the head-injury clinic, sir. Don't want to put them in any danger, so we appreciate the heads-up.”

The sheriff's deputy peered into the backseats and paused.

“All righty. Pull over up here,” he said. “Ted will have a quick look in the back and then you can go ahead.”

“Excuse me, sir? Ah . . . Ted?” Dr. Ames's voice was tight, his smile forced.

“They're running a DEA checkpoint while we're set up.” The sheriff's deputy shrugged. “Two birds with one stone, I suppose. I'm sure he'll wave you right through.”

Gus gave Dr. Ames a panicked look, but he put the van in gear and pulled ahead to the next set of flashing lights.

I don't know how I knew—but all of a sudden, it all came together in my head: Molly's warnings of drug runners in the swamp, the funny smell in the van, the crates in the back. I leaned close to Quentin. “He's got drugs in here,” I whispered.

His eyes flashed with shock—and then with knowing. They darted to the seat behind him, where Trent hadn't even looked
up, and behind that, where our bags hid whatever was in the crates underneath. He nodded.

“I think we should run.” The words were easy to say, but my body was afraid to move.

“Run where?” Sarah clutched Quentin's arm so hard her fingernails dug into his flesh. “What about our stuff?”

I looked over my shoulder. All our bags were heaped in the back of the van. My clay birds were probably already crushed. And none of it would matter if we couldn't get away. “We leave it.”

Dr. Ames started talking into his phone again. “R. J.?” His voice was urgent. “We're at a roadblock. No, no. A
real
roadblock with federal agents. I need you to get us through!”

“Who's R. J.?” Sarah hissed in my ear. “And how's he going to get us through?”

I turned and whispered, “It must be R. J. Wiley, that guy from the e-mail. He's a senator or something, Molly said, and Dr. Ames is related to him.”

“Well, you'd bloody well better be able to call them off.” Dr. Ames glanced over his shoulder and must have seen us staring because he lowered his voice and turned up the radio, and we couldn't hear the rest. But his attention was divided. Our chance was now.

“We should run,” I whispered again.

“
Where?
” Sarah nudged Quentin. She looked at me. “To the police?”

I shook my head. “We can't. Not yet.”

Gus had pulled the van forward to the DEA car. He slammed the gear shift into park, leaned back, and glared at Dr. Ames.
Then he rolled down the window and smiled. “Morning, officer.”

“Step out of the van, please.”

Dr. Ames leaned over. “I'm sorry, officer, but we're from the International Center for Advanced Neurology, and we have some young head-injury patients in the back. Their conditions are rather fragile, and we need to get them to Miami, so if—”

“I didn't say for
them
to step out of the van.” The officer lowered his mirrored sunglasses and gazed in through the window. “I said for
you
to step out.”

Dr. Ames nodded quickly at Gus, and they opened their doors. A second DEA officer was at Dr. Ames's side as soon as he stepped down from the van.

“Ready?” Quentin whispered, reaching for Sarah's hand next to him.

But she pulled back. “
Where?
” she said again, and shook her head. “Into the swamp? We're safe right now.” She gestured out the window, where Dr. Ames was talking with the DEA officer. “Nothing's going to happen to us with all these cops around.”

“But what if the police let them go?” Quentin whispered.

Dr. Ames's phone dinged in the front seat—he hadn't taken it out with him—and I leaned forward. “It's his voice mail.” I looked out the window. Dr. Ames was still talking with one officer, while the other headed toward the back of the van with Gus behind him. Gus had taken off his hat, and sweat soaked his hair. I reached between the seats and grabbed the phone.

Ben turned away from the window. “Don't do that,” he warned. “You're going to get us in trouble.”

“You don't think we're already in trouble?” I snapped.

“Hurry up!” Quentin whispered.

I pressed the voice mail button and waited.

“Ames,” the voice said. It was so quiet, so tight it sounded like it might break in two. “It's done.”

“It's Dr. Gunther,” I said.

“What'd he say?” Quentin asked.

“Wait!” I held the phone out from my ear a little so they could lean in and hear, too.

“It's done,” Dr. Gunther said again, and this time, his voice shuddered. “God help me, I did it; I called them. I got through to all the parents—and I told them . . .” He choked on a sob. “I told them the kids are dead.”

Everything happened at once.

Before we could process what we'd heard, the back hatch flew open, the DEA officer called for backup—“Dan, over here!”—and Gus shoved the officer hard, face-first, into the rear door of the van and took off running into the woods.

We knelt on the seats staring back, even Trent. Dr. Ames rushed to the back of the van. We caught snatches of his frantic conversation with the DEA officer, who was holding his hand to his bloody nose.

“. . . have no idea how this could have happened . . . hired through a car service . . . can't imagine . . .”

Whatever he said, it wasn't good enough. The DEA officer grabbed Dr. Ames roughly by the arm as the other officer arrived at the back of the van.

The chance we'd hoped for—the chance we thought we'd never get—was here.

I pulled on Quentin's shirt. “Now!” It shook him out of the
spell of the drama unfolding behind us. I tugged Ben's sleeve—“Come on, let's go!”—and reached for the handle of the side door.

It was locked.

“Hit the unlock button!” I motioned for Ben to reach up between the seat and the front driver's door, but he didn't move. I figured he was in shock—so much had happened—so I climbed up and did it myself.

I pulled the handle, and this time, the side door slid open. I lowered myself to the ground and crouched beside the van, motioning for Quentin and Sarah to get down, get hidden. “Grab his phone! Come on!”

Quentin shoved Dr. Ames's phone into his pocket and jumped down. “Ben, come on! We need to get out of here!” Behind the van, Dr. Ames faced away from us, talking with the DEA officers. The one officer had let go of his arm and was nodding. “Ben, let's
go
!”