Return to Paradise

CHAPTER TWELVE

MY DAD’S ALREADY HOME BY THE TIME I GET back from school that night, which is strange, because he’s recently been getting home about an hour after I do. I back my truck around the side of the house—there’s a good-size dent in my bumper and some scraped paint on my tailgate that I’d like to hide from him as long as possible. Stupid tree.

I can hear fighting when I walk inside. I rush to the dining room, where Nana’s reprimanding Dad about something. There are several cans of beer on the table.

I walk in on him midsentence.

“. . . bastards have no right to kick me out of my own damned office.”

“You may be an adult,” Nana says, “but you won’t use language like that under my roof.”

They notice me at the same time, and Nana moves to usher me out of the dining room while my dad swigs back a beer.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Apparently the FBI has completely taken over your father’s station,” Nana says, pushing me into the kitchen and pointing at a plate of cookies. I shake my head.

“What?”

“He’s less than pleased. Apparently a man named Perty or Purdy or some such kicked him out of his own office.”

Purdy.

“How can they even do that?” I ask.

Nana just shrugs. “I wouldn’t ask him right now if I were you. Let’s give him some space.”

I nod. I’ve seen my dad drink beer all my life, but I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him day drinking like this. Or even actually drunk. So I head upstairs to put my stuff away and check in on what I’ve missed online during the drive home from Helena while trying to figure out why the FBI might have taken over the police station. The logical part of me says that it’s just because John’s escaped and they’re concerned he’s going to come back here, but there’s also a nagging thought in the back of my mind: Does this have anything to do with the fact that I was digging around at the Goodes’ today? Is this another FBI warning—one more subtle than a car trying to run me off the road but definitely more personal?

I shake my head. This has got to be about the search for John and Six. That’s what I have to believe.

I’m bummed Sarah’s not online to chat with. I want to tell her about these new developments, but now that her cell is gone and her parents are wardens of the landline, the internet’s my only way of communicating with her. When I see she’s not there, I email her, telling her I’ve got some news she’ll want to hear but don’t actually mention anything specific.

Later that night—when my dad has passed out watching reruns in the recliner downstairs—I get a text from a weird number I don’t recognize:

Hi. Have you heard of any sightings of John?

I guess Sarah got a new phone after all. Hopefully a burner. I text her back:

No I think that’s good tho.

A few seconds pass and I get a response:

Yeah, I guess. I just wish we could help more

I sigh and text back.

We’re doing all we can. Can you call me?? I have stuff 2 tell u

And then nothing.

I lie on the foldout couch with my phone on my chest, waiting to feel it vibrate as I stare at the ceiling. I try to work things out in my head. The FBI has basically taken over Paradise. They’re working for the Mogs, or at least aren’t on the Loric’s side of things. And earlier today, some crazy person tried to kill me and Sarah. Or just scare us badly enough that we’d stop poking around.

But I can’t stop digging—can’t just go back to the way things were before everything went nuts at the school. Which means that things could get even more dangerous for me, and for Sarah.

I start to wonder what my family would do if I just disappeared one day. If the FBI or Mogs took me. What would the editors of the blog think?

Would all the research and fact-finding I’ve tried to do have been for nothing?

After a while I pull my computer to the bed and start typing up everything I can remember about the Mogs from the attack on the school. It’s part eyewitness account, part profile on the evil aliens. I don’t want to forget any details, and it may come in handy one day if we ever have to try to explain to people what really happened that night—or how to fight the Mogs. Or if I get in over my head and suddenly disappear.

I leave the document saved as a private draft on the blog, unsure of what to do with it. Posting it will just send the FBI after me—or the Mogs. They’d probably show up in the middle of the night and gut me with their glowing weapons. It’s not a pleasant thought, which is probably why I have a terrible dream once I finally go to bed. It starts off great—one of those dreams where it seems so mundane at first that there’s no question that what you’re seeing is reality. Sarah and I are in an old cabin that my family used to vacation at up in Michigan—one that I don’t think I’ve been to since I was twelve years old. We’re sitting in the room I always used to claim as my own, the one with two twin beds that were covered with these amazing electric blankets that I’d refuse to get out from under on cold mornings. But it’s not cold in the dream. In fact, it feels like spring, everything bathed in this peaceful golden light.

Sarah’s on one of the twin beds and I’m on the other, and we’re just talking. She’s saying something about an upcoming cheerleading competition, and I’m telling her she’ll be perfect. And she’s smiling so much. We’re both so happy. The dream is filled with happiness, like it’s in the air we’re breathing.

And then there’s a noise outside. I look through the window and see a huge beast—one of the creatures that attacked the school. A Mog monster, all yellow eyes and claws and horns. It’s coming right for us.

I turn away and go to grab Sarah, but she’s gone. Mog soldiers have poured into the room, their swords glowing different colors. They’re all grinning this sick grin, showing off their gray teeth.

One of them has Sarah.

She reaches out and calls my name. I step towards her. And then something juts out of her chest, right where her heart is. Something long and sharp and glowing.

Sarah screams. Her eyes go wide, and then her body goes slack. And then she’s gone. Her body turns to ash and blows away as if she were an alien.

It’s my own shout that wakes me up, sweating in the upstairs office. I text Sarah on the new number, but she doesn’t answer.

She must be asleep.

At some point I must pass out again, because the next thing I know, light is filtering in through the windows and I can smell bacon cooking downstairs. I’m a little disoriented but head to the bathroom and brush my teeth and stuff before meeting Nana in the kitchen.

“Your father’s still asleep up in his room,” she says with a bit of an edge to her voice. “Probably will be for a while. And he’ll wake up in a crappy mood.” She smirks a little. “Serves him right.”

I grab a slice of bacon from the ever-growing stack she’s got going beside the stove and devour half of it in one bite.

“He’ll be okay, right?” I ask.

“Oh, of course. The James men have always just been a stubborn brood.” Nana raises a white eyebrow towards me. “You’re no exception.”

I act hurt, as if she’s wounded me with some imaginary bullet. She chuckles to herself. Then there’s a knock on the door. She gives me a questioning look, but I just shake my head. She sighs.

“They’ll be for your father, I bet.” She looks down at her apron, which is smudged with grease.

“I’ll stall them,” I say. “You go get him up. He won’t yell at you as much.”

She pats me on the shoulder and walks away. I shove the rest of the bacon slice into my mouth and head for the front door, expecting to find Todd or one of Dad’s deputies.

Instead, I open the door and see Agent Walker. At the foot of the porch, Agent Noto stands tall, with his hands clasped in front of him.

My face must register my surprise, because Agent Walker raises a hand in front of her chest as if to calm me down.

“What do you want?” I ask, not trying to hide the anger in my voice. For all I know, it was these two who tried to run me and Sarah off the road yesterday.

“Calm down, Mr. James,” Walker says. She frowns. “We’re only here to ask you a few questions.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Mr. James—Mark—it’s imperative that you tell us anything you know about what Sarah Hart was doing after school yesterday.”

“Why should I tell you anything?” I ask.

“Because Sarah never made it home last night,” Walker says.

There’s a silence that settles over the porch. I can’t tell if I’m imagining it or if it’s just being caused by the sudden pounding in my ears.

“Wh-what do you mean?” I manage to stammer.

“Her parents filed a report last night,” Walker explains. “Since Ms. Hart is a person of interest, we’re bypassing the normal waiting period required to declare someone a missing person and jumping straight into the investigation. So I ask you again, Mark: What did Sarah do after school yesterday?”

I shake my head. None of this makes sense. I talked to her just last night. She texted me. She—

The text. From a number I didn’t recognize. It could have been anyone.

A voice keeps repeating in my head. Sarah’s gone. Sarah’s gone.

“Nothing,” I say. “I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her since lunch yesterday. She took the bus home.”

Agent Walker nods. She seems satisfied with this answer. For a moment her face changes—like some kind of mask slips away—and she looks at me with concern. Maybe even pity, as if she wished she could do something for me. Maybe even give me a hug. But the moment passes, and her steely expression resurfaces, her mouth with a glued-on smile.

“We’ll be in touch,” she says, turning away from the door. And then she’s gone, into one of the ubiquitous black SUVs that have flooded our town.

Sarah’s gone.

I failed to protect her.

What am I supposed to do now?

No, that’s an easy question to answer. I find her.

But how am I supposed to do that?