Countdown (10 page)

Atticus tried to take her hand and lead her into a seat. When that failed, Jake took a more direct approach. “Amy, settle down,” he barked. “We've got to concentrate on finding the crystal. The antidote is more important than ever now.” His tone was harsh, as if he were furious with Amy, but whenever Dan caught Jake's eye, he could see a flicker of anguish.

“I need to look at those glyphs.” Atticus's breath shook as he spoke, but he tried to hide his fear, tried to act as tough as Jake. “Where's Olivia's book, Dan?”

The book. Dan opened his backpack and rummaged through it. “I had it in here when we were attacked. . . .” He searched the pack, then emptied it. “Maybe I put it in my back pocket.” He patted his pockets, then pulled them inside out. No book.

“Dan, where is it?” Amy's voice was high and tense.

“I — I don't know.” He was beginning to panic, the terror rising from his gut with a bitter, metallic taste.

“Check the pack again,” Atticus said.

“I am.” Dan double- and triple-checked every corner of his backpack, every pocket. There was no way around it. Olivia's book was gone.

“It must have fallen out of my pocket when I was fighting off Pierce's men,” Dan said.

So it was somewhere out there in the jungle . . . the vast jungle where planes could crash and never be found.

The mood in the room settled into a dark gloom. Dan kicked over a chair in a fury.

Amy was dying. And now the book was gone.

He'd done it again. He'd let Amy down. She'd been right to abandon him. He couldn't be counted on to do anything right.

Without the crystal and a perfect antidote recipe, Amy could not be saved. Dan knew the recipe by heart, though some of the more complicated codes had yet to be deciphered. The book was crammed with information that shed light on the recipe — like where to find the exact ingredients. One small mistake and the antidote wouldn't work.

And he'd lost the book. It was his fault.

His sister, who stood before him now so full of life, would be dead in a week. Only seven more days of eye rolls whenever he made a bad joke. 168 hours of ruffling his hair and calling him a dweeb with a smile that meant she wouldn't have him any other way. 10,080 minutes left with his big sister, the one who'd let him sleep in her bed for a year after their parents died, who skipped the first day of seventh grade to sit on a bench next to Dan's elementary school and wave to him during recess. Amy, the only family he had left, gone forever.

The clock was ticking. They still had to stop Pierce from taking over the world. But first they had to save Amy's life.

Off the coast of Maine

After clobbering Galt in their morning karate bout, Cara showered and changed for Round Table. Round Table was a “quiz game” her father had invented, where she and Galt competed to see which of them had the most knowledge of politics and history. Pierce played “moderator,” asking the questions. He kept a running tally of points won by each child. At the moment, Galt was beating Cara 110 to 100. But Cara had been beating him lately. She was closing the gap. Maybe today would be the day when she'd pull ahead. And if she did, would her father finally take notice and realize that Cara was as worthy of his attention as Galt?

Cara finished dressing and glanced through her history notes. The facts and figures stuck in her mind so easily now. Her memory had improved while she was taking the power shakes her father had given her, but with the extra punch from Galt's shake, her memory had become photographic.

Galt and her father were waiting for her in Pierce's study. She took her place at the round “game table,” which was equipped with little buzzers, just like a real quiz show.
Let the games begin
.

“Are you both ready?” Pierce shuffled through his note cards and trained his icy blue eyes on his children. “All right, Round Table, Round Five. Let's begin. Secret Service Code Names: What is the Secret Service Code Name for Barack Obama?”

Easy one. Cara pressed her buzzer a split second before Galt did. “Renegade.”

“Correct. Give me three more code names for bonus points.”

“Bill Clinton: Eagle. Richard Nixon: Searchlight. John F. Kennedy: Lancer. Senator Ted Kennedy: Sunburn —” Cara could go on forever.

“Enough.” Pierce's voice was stern, but he was smiling. “I only asked for three, Cara.”

“You should penalize her a point,” Galt said.

“I'm not going to penalize her for doing more than I asked,” Pierce said. “You should always strive to do more than is asked of you. That's how you get ahead.”

Galt scowled.

“Next question. Name three cities that have hosted the Republican National Convention. Go.”

Again Cara was quicker to buzz. “Tampa, 2012; St. Paul, 2008; New York, 2004; Philadelphia, 2000 —”

“Showoff,” Galt grumbled.

“Extra credit for knowing the years. Good job, Cara.” Pierce noted Cara's points on a score sheet and shuffled his question cards. “Lightning round. This one's for the losers. I'll name a president, and you tell me the name of the candidate he beat. Ready? Dwight D. Eisenhower.” Cara buzzed. “Cara.”

“Adlai Stevenson.”
Give me something challenging
, Cara thought.
This is too easy.

“George W. Bush in 2000. Cara.”

“Al Gore
and
Ralph Nader,” Cara said.

“Ralph Nader! Green Party!” Galt shouted out.

“Too late, Galt. George H. W. Bush. Cara.”

“Michael Dukakis.”

“Right. Um . . . Rutherford B. Hayes. Galt.”

“Samuel J. Tilden,” Galt said.

“Score one for Galt.” Pierce noted their scores. Of course Galt would get Rutherford B. Hayes — that was his favorite president. Because his name was Galt Rutherford Pierce, after his father.

They played for another half hour. Galt managed to score a few more points, but Cara beat him in the end.

“Cara has pulled ahead,” Pierce announced after adding up their scores. “It's now 157 for Cara, 123 for Galt. Nice job, Cara. And as a reward for your impressive performance, you'll be going to Washington with me tomorrow.”

Galt jumped to his feet. “What!? You said I could go with you!”

“I think the most politically astute child should be the one who accompanies me while I'm meeting with Congress,” Pierce said, nailing Galt with a hard stare. “Don't you agree, Galt? It only makes sense.”

Galt was fuming and frustrated. Cara could practically feel the heat of his rage coming off his skin.

“Thank you, Dad.” She stood up to go. “I'll start packing.”

“Ask your mother to help you,” Pierce called after her. “She knows the right things to wear in Washington.”

Cara fumed as she walked up the plushly carpeted stairs to her room. Her father wouldn't have worried about what Galt was going to wear. Was he taking her to Washington because she was smart, as an aide? Or as an ornament, like her mother?

He still favors Galt
, Cara realized. Her father thought Cara's recent success was a fluke, just a temporary setback for her brother.
Deep down
, Cara thought bitterly,
in spite of everything I've done, my dad thinks I'm a carbon copy of Mom — basically, a ditz.

I'll show him.

Cara's mother knocked on her bedroom door later that day. “Would you like to go shopping with me this afternoon, honey?” Debi Ann asked. “Your father told me that he's taking you to Washington with him! That's exciting. There are going to be more and more of these public appearances, and you'll need some new dresses.”

Cara knew the kind of dresses her mother wanted to buy her. They were expensive, neat, and always had some little-girlish detail — a white Peter Pan collar, maybe, or a bow at the waist. Perfect for a candidate's daughter. But utterly ridiculous.

“Can't you just order a few things in my size?”

“Of course, dear.” Her mother hated conflict, and she must have known from past experience that a shopping trip with Cara would be one long argument. “Your father said you were a whiz at Round Table this morning.” She looked down at her perfect pink manicure, as if she were afraid to meet Cara's eye. As if she were intimidated by her own daughter.

“Thanks, Mom.” She could barely look at her mother these days. Debi Ann got this pained, deer-in-the-headlights expression that drove Cara crazy. If only her mother would stand up for herself. But Cara couldn't really blame her. How could anyone stand up to her father?

Debi Ann Pierce sat at the pristine white desk in her pristine white study. This was where she signed the notes her secretary wrote for her, thank-you notes to the wives of visiting dignitaries, get-well cards to important people who were sick, checks to the many charities she supported. She didn't really need a study all to herself, but they had the space, and so here she spent her days, sitting alone, worrying.

Lately her worries had settled on Cara. Cara had changed recently. It was surprising enough when her slightly awkward daughter began excelling at tennis, waterskiing, judo, karate . . . pretty much any sport she tried. She seemed to become a natural athlete almost overnight. Galt, too, though he'd been more athletic than Cara as a young child.

Lately, the children's talents struck Debi Ann as more than just surprising — they were astonishing. Unbelievable. And they made Debi Ann wonder what exactly was going on right here under her own roof.

If Rutherford caught her snooping . . . Debi Ann shuddered. She didn't know what he'd do. She hated to think about it. Yes, she was his wife. But that wouldn't stop him from hurting her if she got in his way. She might as well be a total stranger as far as he was concerned. Or a mosquito, something small and annoying that he could swat away without a thought — and squash if it tried to sting him.

All he cared about were his ambitions. Power. Debi Ann was sure Pierce hadn't felt anything like “love” for anyone — not even for her or the children — in a long time. Not since the woman no one was allowed to name.

So why should she honor his wishes? If she had to trail along in his wake, she wanted to know where they were going.