The Vanished (3 page)

He started off with the strongest image of Alex he could remember — Alex sitting in front of Isabel's closed bedroom door, keeping a vigil when Isabel was too destroyed over the death of her boyfriend Nikolas to get out of bed. Alex had stayed there, talking to Isabel through the door, saying anything that popped into his mind — jokes, stories, one-sided arguments — anything to keep Isabel connected to the world. His patience had been endless, and his inventive mind had never run out of things to say.

A murmur rolled through the network of beings. A good number of them turned their attention to Max, and he could feel them considering his image of Alex as a good friend.

What else could he tell them to make them understand?

Humor, Max thought. Above all else, Alex is funny.

Would the web of alien minds understand human humor? Max had to try — any picture of Alex would be incomplete unless his humor was factored in. He concentrated on sharing memories of Alex at his goofiest.

Alex mocking DuPris with an overdone, corn-fried southern accent.

Alex making his silly lists to post on the Internet. The twenty best-tasting fried snack foods. The ugliest American presidents in order of hideousness, from Taft to Kennedy. The top ten reasons why goldfish made lousy pets. The fifty funniest words in the English language. (Number one was
panty
.)

Even when Alex was most down, when he was crushed over Isabel or struggling against his got-to-be-a-military-man father, that spark of light that allowed him to find the humor in any situation never went out.

Max tried to express this all to the consciousness, flashing memories of Alex goofing around, his friends cracking up beside him. The collective absorbed those memories, and Max was relieved to feel amusement from some of the beings in response.

They were getting what Max was trying to tell them.

That Alex was good, Alex was his friend. It was as easy and as difficult to express as that.

There were still some rumblings in the corners of the collective that insisted Alex didn't belong on their planet. Dark rumblings.

Max couldn't agree more. He wanted Alex back on earth more than any of them. Max sent an image of the beings in the consciousness forming another wormhole and sending Alex back. Could they do it?

No, came the reply, they couldn't. Max received a sense of pure weariness and exhaustion from the friendlier members of the collective. A picture of a group of glowing moons traveling slowly through a dark, acid green sky flashed in front of him. Because he didn't know how fast the moons passed over the home planet, Max couldn't be sure how long it would take before the beings in the consciousness were recovered enough to send Alex back. But he understood that it would be a long while.

Max suddenly felt very tired. He wasn't strong enough for this kind of prolonged communication yet.

But before he detached himself, he sent one last message into the darkness.

Tell Alex I'm going to help him. Please tell him I'll find a way to bring him back.

He wasn't sure if the message would get to his friend, but it was the best he could do. Max separated from the collective consciousness and let himself slump down in his soft bed. Every limb on his body felt like it weighed about a hundred pounds.

All he could do now was wait. Wait and hope the collective would get his message to Alex. Hope that he could figure out a way to get his friend home.

Isabel couldn't relax. All her usual tricks — organizing her jewelry, refolding all her clothes, giving her long blond hair one hundred strokes with a brush — had failed her tonight. She had even arranged the shoes in her closet by designer, subdivided by color, but that hadn't calmed her down, either. Isabel stood in the center of her room, surveying the impeccable order. There was nothing left that needed to be done.

Flopping down on her back on the fluffy bed, Isabel let out a long sigh. As soon as she closed her eyes, she thought about Alex. Alex, who she was trying so hard to avoid thinking about. Alex, who had loved her far more than she had deserved.

She missed him. That sounded so lame. Like he was on vacation with his parents or something. But she couldn't think of a better way to say it. She missed him.

Isabel turned onto her side, pulling her legs up to her chest. Things had been bad between them before he disappeared. And it was her fault. Guilt — her least favorite emotion — churned in her gut.

She sat up on the edge of the bed, clutching a pillow to her chest. You apologized to him for the way you broke up with him, she reminded herself.

Not that some lame apology could make up for the way she'd done the deed. She'd been ruthless and harsh. Maybe there wasn't any good way to break up with somebody, but
any
other way would have been better than the irrational tirade she'd subjected him to.

A memory of how hurt Alex's eyes had looked when she'd told him off forced its way into Isabel's mind. He had loved her, through some intensely bad times. He'd always been there, even when she tried to shove him away. And how had she repaid him?

Isabel covered her eyes with her hands.

She'd treated him like a toilet.

Flush
.

Isabel couldn't stand it any longer. She had to do something to make herself feel better. She hopped to her feet and shook out her arms. Maybe she should exercise a little — sweat it out of her system. Or she could reorganize her nail polish, maybe catch up on some homework. She glanced at her small white desk.

Or she could write a letter to Alex.

Before she could convince herself that writing a letter to someone trapped in another galaxy was a waste of time, Isabel sat down and pulled out a piece of cream-colored stationery. She grabbed a green fountain pen and started to write.

Dear Alex,

Now what? Should she say she'd be waiting for him when he came back, in that girlfriend kind of way? She nibbled on the end of her pen cap. Even if Alex still wanted that, she wasn't sure if she did. She decided to stick with what she knew with absolute certainty.

I need you to know how much I care about you. You've been a true friend to me. I miss you every day you're gone. I miss the way you acted like the entire world was created just for me. You're the sweetest guy I've ever met, and I know we need to be important to each other, in whatever way that turns out to be.

I hope you're safe. And believe me when I say that I will do anything in my power to make sure you get back to us safely. Soon.

Love,

Isabel

Isabel put the pen down on the desk and stared at the long letter in front of her. God, it was so mushy — so unlike her. But she couldn't deny that she'd been as honest in it as she knew how to be. She wished she could give it to Alex. If he could read it, Isabel was certain he'd forgive her.

But Alex was trapped in another galaxy. That would take some serious postage.

In a flash, she had an idea. It was a goofy plan, but that meant Alex would love it. Isabel grabbed the paper and folded it into her pocket.

Twenty minutes later she was driving the Jeep through the desert. The night was chilly, and Isabel pulled her pink-and-gray sweater close to her skin.

A mile or so away from the site Isabel pulled over to the side of the road. Before she got out of the Jeep, she opened the glove compartment and took out the bottle rocket she'd brought with her. Her father loved the Fourth of July, and he always kept extra fireworks in a metal box in the garage. The box had been locked, but a simple turnkey clasp couldn't keep out someone with Isabel's powers.

Isabel tied the rolled-up letter to the bottle rocket, high enough on the thin red stick so that the paper wouldn't get burned. Then she got out of the Jeep and walked a few paces into the scrubby vegetation of the desert.

Isabel stuck the bottle rocket into the ground, leaning it against a small rock. Then she realized she'd forgotten to bring matches.

Not a problem. She took a deep breath, reached out with her mind toward the wick, and
scratched.
The friction produced a tiny spark, which was enough to get the wick sizzling.

As she stepped back, the rocket launched, whistling into the dark sky. Isabel watched its smoky path through the air until she lost sight of it against the canopy of stars.

Go, she thought. Go to Alex. Tell him how I feel.

The only reply was a sharp report and a shower of sparks as the rocket exploded in the distance.

Isabel smiled as she looked out across the desert. She'd just done a really silly thing, but it made her feel slightly better, and that was all that mattered.

A sudden breeze picked up, and Isabel realized with a chill that she wasn't far from the ruins of the compound. An inexplicable fist of fear gripped her heart, erasing any warm and fuzzy Alex feelings. She felt like she was being watched.

Okay. Enough with the midnight hike, Isabel thought.

She turned and hurried back to the Jeep, fully prepared to gun the engine and speed back to town. But the moment she slammed the door behind her, she realized she was acting like a child. No one was watching her. There was nothing out here for miles. She was perfectly safe.

And just to prove it to herself, she was going to drive over to the charred stretch of ground and check on the ship. It was the least she could do since she was already out here.

As she drove through the eerie darkness of the desert, Isabel felt the uneasiness start to creep up her spine again, and she gripped the steering wheel tightly. She tried to ignore the fear, but she couldn't. All she could do was defy it.

Something told her to stop a quarter mile from the compound and walk the rest of the way. Anyone who might be watching would see the headlights — hear the engine. But Isabel wouldn't give in. Swallowing back her instincts, she floored the accelerator and drove right up to the perimeter of the compound.

Taking a deep breath, Isabel stepped out of the Jeep and looked around defiantly, tossing her long blond hair over her shoulder.

See? There's no one here, she told herself, climbing the small hill she, Max, Michael, and Adam had formed while digging the hole.

“Valenti's dead, so no Valenti,” she muttered, scrambling over the loose dirt. “No DuPris. No cops. No news anchors —”

Isabel reached the top of the hill and looked down into the gaping hole. Her heart dropped through her hiking shoes, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

“No . . . ship,” she said quietly.

She
shoved
at the dirt with her mind. The digging went much slower now that she was alone, but she went deep enough to convince herself that she was right.

The hole was empty.

The ship was gone.

“The ship doesn't look anything like that,” Adam said, stopping in the middle of Main Street. He pointed at a big plastic flying saucer that had been built into the side of a tourist souvenir shop as if it had crashed there.

Michael slammed into him from behind and gave him a little shove to get him moving again. A car sped by, narrowly missing their heels.

“Okay, you can't be stopping in the middle of the street like that,” Michael said, trying hard to keep his voice from sounding harsh. “We'll be dead before we ever get to breakfast.”

Adam wandered over to the souvenir store, staring up at the pseudo–flying saucer.

“Too bad it's not the real one,” Michael said, standing next to Adam. “But somehow I don't think whoever stole it is going to make it that easy to find.”

“Whoever?” Adam asked, raising his eyebrows. “I just figured that Project Clean Slate had it.”

Michael's stomach twisted just from hearing the organization's name. “Clean Slate's history, remember? The place was flattened.” He eyed Adam carefully. “Unless . . . wait,” Michael said. “You don't know of other compounds or something, do you? There aren't . . . more of them.”

Adam shrugged. “Not that I know of, I guess.”

Michael wished he'd sounded a little more definite. Swallowing hard, Michael stared up at the fake ship. If there were more Clean Slate agents out there and if they'd somehow gotten the ship . . .

“How will we get Alex back now?” Adam asked, putting Michael's fears into words.

Michael's stomach turned. “I don't know,” he replied. “We'll think of something.”

“Can we get some toast for breakfast?” Adam asked suddenly.

“No toast,” Michael said, managing a small smile. Adam's life was so simple. But Michael supposed that was what happened when you grew up with no knowledge of the outside world. “This morning I've got a surprise for you.”

Michael led Adam down the sidewalk toward the doughnut shop on the corner. Wait till Adam gets his first taste of crullers with hot sauce, Michael thought. I'll never hear about toast again — it'll be doughnut shop, doughnut shop, doughnut shop until we feed him his first slice of enchilada with toothpaste.

As soon as Michael opened the door of the tiny shop, he was hit by a blast of greasy, sweet-smelling heat. He looked up at the rack behind the counter to see which doughnuts were left and caught a glimpse of mustard-colored aura out of the corner of his eye. A very familiar aura.

Two places ahead in line was Mr. Cuddihy, Michael's social worker.

Damn, Michael thought. He hadn't been home to his foster family, the Pascals, in a week or so. Hadn't been to school, either. First he was in the compound. Then he was trying to save their collective butts from DuPris. And now there was the Alex situation. There was no way he could follow all the Pascals' two billion rules and do what needed to be done to get Alex home.

He had to get out of there, pronto. He grabbed Adam and started to steer him toward the door.

“Michael, wait, what's a bagel?” Adam asked in a loud voice. “Can I get it toasted? With butter?”

At the sound of Michael's name, Mr. Cuddihy turned around and locked eyes with him.

Michael froze in his tracks. Busted. He gave his social worker a shrug and a rueful smile.

Mr. Cuddihy stepped out of line and put his arm around Michael's shoulders. “Look who it is!” he said. “Michael Guerin, my favorite magician. I heard you've pulled off quite a disappearing act.”

Cuddihy's idea of humor. Ha. Ha.

“You heard that, huh?” Michael said. “Listen, I can explain — ”

“No need,” Cuddihy interrupted. “I don't know what you had planned this morning, Guerin, but your plans have changed. You and I have an immediate appointment back at my office.”

“I'll meet up with you later,” Michael told Adam. He definitely didn't want Cuddihy asking the toast boy any questions.

“Much later,” Cuddihy added.

Great, Michael thought. I wish my powers included the ability to mute people.

Michael faced Mr. Cuddihy across a large cluttered desk. Mr. Cuddihy's office was cramped and reeked of the peppermints he ate constantly since he quit smoking, but Michael had spent so many hours in this room that he felt comfortable. Comfortable enough to space out during Cuddihy's predictably endless lecture on responsibility.

After a few minutes Cuddihy seemed to be winding down, more or less, so Michael tuned him in again.

“. . . without even calling,” Cuddihy was saying. “That doesn't sound like any kind of respect to me. The Pascals were good enough to take you into their home, give you a roof over your head, and you didn't even let them know if you were dead or alive. And it was something that could have been avoided if you'd bothered to pick up the phone.”