The Assassin Game (25 page)

“Really?” I say. “Because it freaked me the hell out.” I gesture to his arms. “You're strong, Daniel. Probably stronger than you realize.”

He stares at me. “Well…I know I was a little out of control, but you didn't say no.”

“Ha!” I cry out and jump up from the bed, walking toward where he's standing. “You really thought I was into it, did you, Daniel? Maybe I couldn't say no because your tongue was down my throat, did you ever think of that?”

He shakes his head. “No—I know, and, Cate, I am sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll never do that again. You pushed me, and then I was just so, I don't know, overcome with—”

“Sit down.” I push his chest—gently but firmly—so that he backs into the chair and falls onto it. “And shut up.” I look down at him. “This is what we're going to do. I don't think you're a bad person, Daniel, and I don't think you meant to frighten me, but you need help dealing with all your pent-up…stuff.” I walk back to the bed and sit again. “I'm not going to tell anyone here what happened, as long as you do one thing: talk to a therapist. There's one here on the island—for post-traumatic Game-playing disorder or something—you've seen him around?”

Daniel nods quickly.

“Good. He seems OK. Came to see me but I was too zonked to talk. Anyway. Talk to him, tell him what happened. Get some help.”

“Yes.” He nods again. “I can. I can do that.”

“You'd better,” I agree. “And one more thing. I'm writing to your parents and telling them everything.”

“No!” He leaps up from the chair. “You can't do that!”

I hold a hand out. “I can, Daniel. I have to. Now if you don't sit down, I'm screaming for the policeman outside that door.” He looks at me, his eyes full of anger and fear, but sits down anyway. I take a breath. “You scared me, Daniel. Do you understand how that feels? Of course you do; you feel scared every day.”

He deflates in front of me, bows his head. My voice softens.

“We're kids, Daniel. We like to think we're on top of it all, but living is really, really difficult sometimes. We can't be expected to deal with this all by ourselves.” He starts to cry. “I don't want to ruin your life by telling anyone, but I've gone back and forth on what I should do, and I've decided that, actually, this is not my problem to solve.”

He is sitting there, sobbing gently. In spite of it all, I feel sorry for him. “Your parents are OK, Daniel, you know? They'll freak out a bit, but they love you, and they'll help you.”

I walk to the chair, pick up the violin case, and hand it to him. He snatches it from me, and as he does my nail catches on one of the stickers, his favorite one with the cat drawn in a red swirl.

“Oh!” I say. “Sorry, I didn't mean to—” The sticker rips and half hangs off the case in a curl.

Daniel looks at me, and this time his eyes are filled with nothing but hate.

“Die, Cate. Just go away and die.” He rushes for the door, flings it open, and leaves.

The policeman comes in. “You OK, miss?”

“Fine, thank you.” I nod. “Could I have a piece of paper and a pen, please? I need to write a letter.”

It takes a while to write that letter. Firstly because my hand is shaking so much, and then it takes time to find the words. Halfway through, the nurse brings me lunch, and I have to start again because I get minestrone on the paper. Once it's done, I find Daniel's home address on my tablet. The nurse is kind and finds me an envelope and a stamp.

“Hmm, missed the collection today, I think.” She looks at her watch and nods. “Do you want me to put it in the box for tomorrow?” she asks. The school's outgoing mailbox is in the courtyard at Main House. I nod and thank her and return to my room.

Exiting my contact list on my tablet, I give it one more go. I log in to Crypt, but I am the only one there again. On the map, one little red skull hovering over the sick bay. Clouseau. Yeah, that's about right. A rubbish detective, me. Laughable. As I stare at the skull, Crypt auto logs me off, and the tears come, tears of self-pity, tears of the stress of dealing with Daniel, and the creeping realization that maybe—just maybe—everyone else is right about Vaughan, and I am wrong. My whole body starts to shake, and I have to put the tablet down to hold on to the windowsill for support.

The nurse opens the door.

“It's time for your pills, but I was wondering if you want to ease off them now—oh.” She sees my face, sees the tears falling, and my shoulders shaking. She comes to me, comforts me, wraps a blanket around me while I cry, and presses the small plastic cup of two blue pills into my hand. She watches me, nodding, while I swallow them with a sip of water.

“Let's get you into your bed,” she soothes.

“I will.” I nod. “Just shutting this down,” I say, looking at the tablet.

“I'll check on you in a few minutes.” She gives me a sympathetic smile and leaves.

I let out a sigh and reach over to close the tablet down. But it's like a sickness, an addiction even stronger than Kreepy Klowns. I log on to Crypt again.

Two red skulls.

The pills are making me see double. I blink, look again.

Clouseau is hovering over the sick bay. Me.

Another red skull at the caves.

I tap on the skull, and the username comes up.

DeadMcTavish

My mouth opens, gulping for air, I feel those walls start to wobble again, and this time I don't think it's the medication.

And then, a message appears.

DeadMcTavish

OK, darlin'. Let's do this. It's time to catch a killer.

The first thing, the very first thing I do, is go to the bathroom and throw up those pills. They stare up at me from the toilet bowl; some of the blue has rubbed off, but they're intact. I grab a glass of water and down it in one.

And then I race back to my tablet and type furiously.

Clouseau

Vee?! Is that really you?

At first there's no reply, and I begin to think I'm going crazy, but then, a ping.

DeadMcTavish

It's me.

I gather my thoughts for a millisecond and then type.

Clouseau

Where the hell have you been? Are you OK??? Why did you disappear? What were you thinking? Where are you hiding—are you really in the cave? Are you OK??? Oh God, I can't believe this is happening!!!!

Nothing appears for a moment, then…

DeadMcTavish

Disappeared to protect you, to catch the killer. Only way.

I rub my face, frantically, then type again.

Clouseau

Who, Vaughan? Who is it?

DeadMcTavish

Just come. 6 p.m.

I pause, my heart beating so hard I think I'm having some kind of coronary event. But I can't listen to my heart here; I have to use my head. I type.

Clouseau

How do I know this is you?

I wait. And wait…

Ping.

DeadMcTavish

I love you.

A hot and cold wave flushes over me. I think I'm going to pass out. But I type again.

Clouseau

HOW DO I KNOW IT'S YOU???

I wait. Listen for the ping. And wait. And wait.

The little red skull over the caves disappears.

“Jesus Christ on a bike!” I shout at the tablet and then slap a hand over my mouth. I get up, look out the window. I look at the clock; it's just after 3 p.m. Nearly three hours to wait? Is Vaughan insane?

But I can't be angry with him—the relief, the sheer, wonderful relief that he is alive is so immense that I feel like I am exploding with joy and strength. I have the power of a hundred Cates, and I will get this done.

OK, OK, now…how do I get out of this joint? That's the first hurdle. You can bet that the nurse and my police guard aren't just going to let me go for a stroll. I stare out of the very locked window, and then it comes to me. I walk to the door and open it.

“Could you get the superintendent, please?” I say to the police officer. “I have some very important information.”

He stands up, surprised. “What information?”

I take a breath. “I want to make a statement. To the superintendent. Could you get him?”

He nods, and as he reaches around to the front of his chest, my heart sinks. He grabs a walkie-talkie and clicks on a button.

Nope. Nope. Nope. I wanted him to actually leave, not call him!

He talks into the walkie-talkie, trying to raise the superintendent. But luck is on my side. Either the Skola wind is blowing in the wrong direction, or strange magnetic fields from whatever weird science our geeks are currently conducting in the nearby labs prevents the superintendent from answering. Eventually, some other police bod tells my cop that the super is at the sports center.

“Affirmative, mate,” my cop says. “I'm nearer. I'll walk there. Over.” He looks at me. “Sit tight in your room. I'll go and get him. Two minutes.”

I nod and shut the door. Act One, done. Now for Act Two.

I reach for the half bowl of minestrone, still on the windowsill by my tablet, and I slosh my glass of water into it, the carrots and peas floating there ominously, alongside bloated pasta pieces. I pour a little of the mixture back into the glass, then pull the sheets back from my bed, and toss the contents of the bowl slap-bang in the middle of the mattress. Then it's back to the window, where I press my face against the glass to watch the policeman walk away.

Now, to leave it as long as I dare…I count up to ten, slowly—one assassin, two assassin, three assassin—then duck into the bathroom, splash my face with water, and think sad thoughts.

I open the door to the waiting room. The nurse looks up at me.

“Hi—sorry—I'm, er—can you help?” I shudder and squeeze out a tear.

“What's happened, love?” She comes in, and I point in anguish at the bed. “Oh, don't you worry. I'll get this cleaned up in no time.” She grabs some towels from the bathroom, mops up the worst of it, and begins to strip the bed.

I stand by the open door and wait until she has her arms full before letting out a moan. “Ugh, I think I'm going to—” I bend over, facing out of the door, and making a retching noise, I splash a concealed glass of the lovely minestrone blend onto the linoleum floor of the waiting room. Great sound effect. “I'm so sorry. I'll just grab another towel from your room.” Before she can object, I've scooped my tablet and my coat from behind the door and am running out of the waiting room to blessed freedom, outside.

Eyes darting, I dig in and sprint. My legs scream with the sudden renewed activity, but I ignore them. I only have seconds to disappear, only seconds. I clear the hedge, make for the woods, run flat-out, and don't look back. If the nurse is yelling at me, I don't notice. If the police have spotted me, I'm not aware. I just run and run until I'm covered by trees and jumping over undergrowth and dodging around scrubby bushes.

But where to?

The urge to go to the caves now is extreme. But I mustn't. Vaughan said 6:00 p.m., and he has his reasons. He said we're going to catch the killer, and I have to trust he has a plan.

That's if I trust that the messages were from Vaughan.

Amid all the happy, I cannot help but have a little bit of doubt, a tiny little nugget of fear that those messages aren't from Vaughan. Guess what? It's called self-preservation. I may not be the cleverest kid at Umfraville, but I'm no fool. One thing keeps coming back to me, and that is this: I was numero uno. I was top of the hit list. The killer tried to poison me—not Rick—and he or she did not succeed. What's to say they're going to stop trying now?

I need backup, and I know what I have to do. It's not going to be a pretty scene. I head for the art studio.

It's time to cash in my chips with Mr. Flynn. If these messages are not from Vaughan, I'd be stupid to go to the caves alone. But I believe, strongly, that Vaughan will be there, and if I'm right, we're still going to need someone to help us convince the rest of the world of his innocence. I think—I hope and pray—that I can persuade Flynny just to give Vaughan a chance before he tells the police he's alive.

Breaking from the trees, I see that the lights are on in the art studio. I peep into the window in case there are any other kids in there, but it looks empty. Completely empty, no Mr. Flynn. OK—well, maybe he's rummaging in the store cupboard. I duck inside the studio, panting. If he's not here, I'll rest up for a minute if nothing else.

Nobody is home. I flop down at my table, dejected. Damn. Where could he be? Anywhere, potentially. Main House? On the mainland, for all I know. There's only one more place to safely search for him, and that's his quarters: a cottage on the southern tip of the island. A minute to catch my breath, and then I'll go.

I switch on my tablet and log on to Crypt. One skull on the map shows over the studios, me, Clouseau. No messages waiting for me. I'm about to log off when another skull appears hovering over the studios, right by mine. Vaughan! I tap my finger on it, to see the username.

Skulk

My chair makes a scraping sound as I jerk back in my seat. Skulk is here. Skulk is online, somewhere near me, right now.

Skulk's skull hovers ominously. I look around me, then grab my tablet and hit the floor, hiding under the table. How much do I wish the lights weren't on? Anyone looking in would have seen me in here, plain as day.

Skulk

Hello, Cate.

Damn! I move my finger over the log-off button, but I can't. Skulk knows I'm here already. If I log out, I'll be in the dark.

Skulk

Missed you.

I crawl over to one of the windows and peer outside. OK, think…this Wi-Fi signal originates from the newspaper office and covers the little area that makes up the art studio, photography studio, and the toilet block. He or she could be anywhere out there. Even skulking behind a frigging tree, for all I know.

Skulk

Aren't you going to say hi?

“No, you moron, I am not,” I mutter as I crawl over to the other window and bob my head up quickly. Nothing out of that one either. No Skulk, no police chasing after me, no Mr. Flynn strolling down to his art studio, and no Vaughan to the rescue. Great. I crawl to the door and stand up, hand on doorknob. Before I open it, I glance down at the tablet again.

Skulk

Any final words?

I slump by the door, terror threatening to drill me to the spot. I press my back against the door and force air into my lungs, eyes scanning the room. There are some clay modeling knives sticking out of a pot on the counter. Get armed and get out of here. I scrabble to the counter, reach up, and snatch the longest, pointiest-looking one from the pot, the rest of them clattering to the ground.

Ping.

Skulk

I'm coming to get you.

No. No, you are not. I look at the door. Time to move.

A third little red skull pops up alongside mine.

DeadMcTavish

Not if I get you first, Skulk.

Oh, jeez, Vaughan, thank you.

I open the door to the outside, my tablet under my arm, clutching my knife in my hand, head whipping from side to side. For the millionth time I curse the incessant screams of distant seabirds that make me jump out of my skin.

I press myself against the outside wall and glance at Crypt. Nobody is online. Everyone's suddenly logged off except me. Where did they go? I shut it down and get ready to run. As I do, I think I see a shadow move through the trees in the direction of the newspaper office. Every bone in my body is telling me to run in the opposite direction, but I can't. I can't leave Vaughan. If that's him, I have to see him, have to know he's there, he's safe. Against all my better judgment, I sneak down the path, sticking to the tree line as much as I can, and toward the Loathsome Toad office.

The door of the office is open, but the room is empty.

“Vaughan!” I whisper, looking around outside, gripping my knife. “Are you here?”

No one answers.

“Hey!” a voice shouts, and I jump out of my skin. “Cate?”

Back up the path toward the studios, Alex, Carl, and Cynthia are walking toward me. I meet them halfway.

“Are you OK, Cate?” Alex looks down at my knife. “Aren't you supposed to be in sick bay?”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Did you see anyone pass you up there?”

Carl shakes his head. “No. Why?”

I look at Alex. “What are you doing down here?”

He frowns at me. “Collecting some of Marcia's stuff from the office. What, you haven't been in touch with her? She says she's not coming back to school.”

That hurts—the fact that she's gone for good, and the fact that she didn't tell me.

“Hey, were those policemen looking for you?” Cynthia says. “Up by Main House?”

“Yeah,” I answer. “Probably. Do me a favor. If they ask, tell them you saw me running north, OK?”

The boys nod. Cynthia looks at me. “Where are you going?”

I start off up the path, past them. “To Mr. Flynn's cottage. To get his help. Before someone else gets hurt.”

I don't bother looking back, and when I pass the studios, I disappear again into the woods and retrace my steps back toward the sick bay, only this time I keep on running past it, heading to Mr. Flynn's quarters, one of a cluster of staff cottages at the southeast tip of Skola. It's a trek on foot. The last few minutes I have to run across a field, out in the open, but I don't see anyone apart from a few sheep and the ever-present seabirds. When I reach Mr. Flynn's door, I bash on it with my fist.

No one comes. Oh, please be here! Please! I shove my modeling knife in my parka pocket hurriedly. Don't want him to think I've come to attack him.

I think I hear a thump from within, and so I bash the door again. “Mr. Flynn!”

The door opens a crack, and a disheveled head appears. The face frowns at me.

“Cate?” Mr. Flynn says. “What on earth—?”

“Let me in!” I push the door, and it swings open, and I hurry inside, making my way into the small sitting room on the left.

Ms. Lasillo is standing there. In an oversized, stripy dressing gown. A dressing gown presumably belonging to Mr. Flynn.

“Oh!” I gasp. “Oh!” I have literally never felt so embarrassed in all my life. My arms go sort of limp, my tablet falls, and the modeling knife tumbles its way out of my pocket and onto the floor in front of Ms. Lasillo, who makes a strangled yelp and jumps backward. “Oh God, oh God!” I say uselessly.

“Cate, now let's just be calm here.” Mr. Flynn is coming toward me, hand outstretched. At least he's fully dressed. No socks, and he's sporting the messiest of bed heads, but at least he has on jeans and a T-shirt. “I'm sorry you walked in on this. It's really, very unfortunate.” He's struggling for words, and at first I think it's just because he's embarrassed, but then I realize…he's scared. Of me.

“Call the police, James,” Ms. Lasillo says quietly.

“What? No!” I shake my head. “I'm not here to do anything bad. I'm here for help!”

“And we'll help you,” Mr. Flynn says, nodding slowly. “But I'm sure everyone is looking for you, and we should tell them where you are.”

“No! Please. Just hear me out…” I think for a couple seconds, then roll my eyes. “OK, so I'm guessing that they're looking for me because I said I had some information about the killer.” I grimace. “In retrospect, it might have sounded a little like I was going to make some major confession, but I didn't mean it that way. I just had to get rid of the stupid policeman who was watching me in the sick bay.”