Shell Shocked (15 page)

“Case taught it to us. He said it was very popular in Norway.”

It was also popular in Germany. That was the card game the German prisoners played at Camp 30. Maybe it was played in Norway, too. Maybe Case
was
Norwegian. Maybe none of this meant anything. Maybe. Maybe not.

THE WIND
practically blew me back into the building. During my time inside, the snowstorm had grown into a full-blown blizzard. Now all the ground was covered, including the strips above the heating pipes. The evidence had disappeared; the pipes were once again invisible to the naked eye. But though it couldn't be seen, the danger still remained.

The storm outside was no more blustery than the storm inside my head. I was struggling to figure out how much of what I was thinking was simply me overreacting. Maybe Skat was a popular card game in lots of countries. What did I know about what they did in Norway? And, of course, Bill must know about the pipes and the service corridors. And if he didn't know, then I was sure Mr. Granger would … that's who I needed to talk to. I changed directions and headed toward his office.

Now I was walking straight into the wind, and I could feel it right through my clothes, biting down to the bone. I turned up the collar of my coat and pulled my hands inside my sleeves. Head down, I trudged forward. Why did the steam plant have to be so far from his office—from everything? By the time I got there my teeth would be chattering so much I wouldn't be able to tell him anything. I passed building after building, some offering a little shelter from the wind, until I saw Mr. Granger's up ahead. There was a truck parked there and his car, the one he'd driven me in after the bus explosion. That was good—he was in. It would have been awful to walk all this way for nothing.

I stepped inside. Instant relief from the cold and snow. I stomped the snow off my shoes. The big toe on one foot—the one that had the shoe with the hole in it—felt prickly and numb. Not a great sign.

I walked up the stairs and then hesitated at the door that led to his office. What exactly was I going to say to him? Was this worth anything, or was this an example of me being shell shocked—seeing a spy behind every bush and card game? Maybe it was nothing more than coincidence … what was it that Bill always said … that he didn't like coincidences? Neither did I.

I opened the door and walked in. I was startled to see Juliette sitting at the reception desk. Somehow it had
slipped my mind that she was there. Not a pleasant surprise.

“So, Georgie, you couldn't keep yourself away and you've come to see me!” She beamed.

“I've come to see somebody but it isn't you.”

“Now you're hurting my feelings.”

“Is Mr. Granger in?”

Before she could answer, the phone rang and she gestured for me to wait.

“Mr. Granger's office,” she sang out.

As she listened I noticed that her usual expression—that sort of smug, silly grin—faded away. She turned in her seat so that she faced away from me, mumbled something in reply and then returned the phone to its cradle.

“You wanted to see Mr. Granger?” she asked, suddenly sounding very serious.

“Yes.”

“He's not in,” she said.

“But his car is outside,” I said.

“I guess he didn't take that car. He only uses it around the facility, and he's left for the day.”

“Already? It's only five-thirty.”

“Sometimes he leaves even earlier,” she said.

“He does?” He'd told me that he was practically sleeping here these days.

“He's the boss. He can leave whenever he wants.”

“But why are you still here?” I asked.

“I'm
not
the boss. I have to finish my work, and I'd better get back to it. Is there anything else?”

“I guess not.”

“The sooner I do my work, the sooner I can leave. So, if you'll excuse me …” She suddenly spun her chair away from me toward a typewriter table and started typing. I stood there, staring at her, feeling as though I'd been dismissed. I
had
been dismissed.

I walked out the door. Something didn't seem right. First, Mr. Granger had told me that he was at the office pretty much around the clock these days, and his car was here, but he was gone? Maybe he'd be coming back later on. I turned around and went back through the door. Juliette was on the phone now, and her eyes widened in surprise. She looked like a little kid who'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

She hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Could I please leave a message for Mr. Granger?”

“Certainly.”

Suddenly I realized that I didn't really know what message I wanted to give—and more important, I didn't want to give any message to her.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Could you tell him that I was here and that I wanted to see him … okay?”

“I'll pass on that message, but remember, he's a very busy man and he might not have time to get back to you for at least a few days.”

“Sure … thanks.”

I left the office again. This was all strange. Who had she been talking to, and why had she hung up when she saw me? Was I now picturing Juliette as an enemy agent? She was probably on the phone with some boy … maybe she had called Daphne … was she a spy, too? I really had to rein in my imagination.

I went down the stairs and back outside. The storm seemed to be stronger now—or maybe it felt that way because I'd been inside. No, it really
was
stronger. I could barely see the buildings on either side of me through the snow.

I plowed forward, head down, trudging toward the gate and toward home. I had to get home. I had to tell my mother and brother what I'd seen. I needed to have their opinion and their help. If I couldn't tell Mr. Granger any of this, I had to tell Bill. Maybe it was a bunch of nothing, but he was the one who could decide.

Suddenly I heard the roar of an engine behind me. I turned around and there was a truck—a gigantic truck—bearing right down on me! I leaped to the side, landing face first in the snow as it raced past me!

It didn't stop or slow down. In all this snow, the driver hadn't seen me. The taillights of the truck disappeared into the blizzard. I picked myself up and brushed off the snow. I had to get home, and I had to be careful. If he hadn't seen me, then nobody else on the road would, either.

Then I had a terrible thought. Maybe he
had
seen me—maybe he was
trying
to hit me. Either way, I had to be careful.

“
I'M NOT GOING
to be surprised if you come down with pneumonia,” my mother said, as she rubbed my head vigorously with a towel. I had the feeling she was rubbing a lot harder than she had to just to get my hair dry because she was so angry with me.

“I feel good,” I said. And I did feel good. I was warm and I'd changed into dry clothes.

“I don't know what you were thinking,” she continued.

“I was thinking that I had to get home, and I wasn't going to wait for spring.”

“Don't give me any backtalk,” she warned.

“Sorry. But I had to do something important.”

“Nothing is as important as the health of my boys. It's bad enough that Jack isn't well.”

“I'm perfectly fine now,” Jack said. “I can probably go back to work tomorrow.”

Jack had already missed three days, but now his hearing was almost good as new.

“
Maybe
you can go back to work,” my mother warned.

“But the doctor said I'd be fine.”

“I don't care about the doctor. It's what your mother thinks that's important. Now, let me put the kettle on and fix you both a cup of tea.”

“Thanks. That would be nice.”

She went to the kitchen, and Jack leaned in close to me.

“So, what's so important?” he asked.

“Wait!” my mother yelled from the kitchen. “I want to hear everything too.”

She returned, and in a burst I told them about the steam plant, the pipes and the service corridors that led to all the buildings, about Case, and I ended by telling them about the Skat game. I was also very deliberate in what I
didn't
mention—almost being hit by the truck. That was important, but not important enough to get my mother worried.

“That's very interesting,” my mother said. “But it might mean nothing.”

“It might … or it might not,” I said. “I think I have to tell Bill.”

“I'm sure he'll be interested. But I'm not sure when we'll see him again—”

“No, we have to tell him now, right away,” I insisted.

“Tonight?”

“Yes, tonight. We have to go to Camp X.”

“Unless you've forgotten, there's a storm outside, and it's gotten worse since you got home. We're not going anywhere.”

“But we
have
to go!”

“George, even if we had a car we couldn't drive in this weather. It will have to wait until tomorrow at the earliest.”

“But what if tomorrow is too late?” I protested. “Remember what Bill said? Reports have been telling him that an attack could happen any time now.”

“And then the bus exploded,” she said.

This wasn't getting me anywhere. I turned to Jack. “What do you think?”

“I think this might mean nothing,” he said. “It might be nothing more than a big, fat coincidence.”

This wasn't the support I was hoping for.

“But,” he continued, “it might mean
everything
. George is right, Mom. We can't keep this to ourselves. We have to tell Bill and let him decide what's important.”

“Yes, but even if George
is
right,” my mother said, “there's no way we can tell Bill right away. The phone is out of the question, for security reasons. We can't drive to the camp. And it's not as though we can walk there.”

She had a point. It looked as though our hands were tied.

“What if you talked to Mr. McGregor?” she suggested.

“Mr. McGregor?”

“He seems to be in communication with Bill, and he does have a car.”

“You're right,” I agreed. “Could Jack and I go over to his house and—?”

I was stopped mid-sentence by a loud knocking on the front door.

“Who could that be?” my mother asked. “It's not fit out there for man nor beast.”

For a split second I had the strangest thought that it was Bill at the door. He had a knack for showing up right when we needed him most.

“Whoever it is, they'll certainly want out of the storm.”

My mother went to the door and opened it. A small figure, hidden beneath a thick coat and a hood, was blown in through the door along with a shower of snow. My mother fought the wind and closed the door again.

For a fleeting second I had a terrible thought—it was Case underneath that coat and he'd followed me home and ... the hood was pulled down and I was even more shocked.

“Daphne!” Jack exclaimed as he jumped to his feet.

“Hello, Jack, George. And you must be Mrs. Brown,” she said as she offered her hand to my mother.

“I'm so pleased to meet you,” my mother replied as they shook hands.

“I've been
dying
to meet you!” Daphne said. “Jack talks about you all the time.”

“Yes, he mentions you, too,” my mother said.

“I have to apologize for coming without an invitation. You must think I'm a terrible person.”

“Not at all. I had extended an invitation … perhaps Jack didn't pass it on?”

Jack looked down at his feet. He didn't look any too comfortable.

“I was just so worried about my Jack.”

“Well, you
must
have been worried to come out on such a terrible night. Please, come in, and take your coat off.” Right then the kettle began whistling loudly from the kitchen. “I was about to make a pot of tea. You must stay and chat. I have so many questions I'd like to ask you.”

Jack went from looking uncomfortable to looking as if he might be sick.

“George,” my mother said, “would you please go in and make the tea?”

“But I have to—”

“George?” She shot me a familiar look that let me know this was more like an order than a request. I knew there was no point in arguing. It would be faster to do it than fight about it.

“And Jack, don't just stand there, take Daphne's coat, dear.”

I hurried into the kitchen. I didn't mind making the tea, but I didn't want to miss any part of the conversation that was about to take place. I wondered if there was any way Jack could dance fast enough to keep those two from asking questions he didn't want answered.

I took the kettle off the burner and the squealing died down and stopped. I put the tea leaves in the strainer and poured the water through and into the teapot. It would have to steep, but I wasn't going to stand in there and wait. I wanted to be either in the living room listening or out the door going to Mr. McGregor's house.

When I got back to the living room, Jack and Daphne were seated on the chesterfield, side by side. There was a bit of space between them, though—they weren't intertwined, the way they usually were. That was smart, with my mother watching. She sat on a chair opposite them.

“Jack never did tell me exactly how the two of you met,” she began.

“It was at the movies,” Daphne said.

“I told you that,” Jack said.

“We started talking, and I was so impressed with how mature he is.”

“He is very mature,” my mother agreed, “for somebody his age.”

“Age is only a number,” Daphne said. “And what's a year?”

A year?
What did she mean by that? As far as she was concerned, Jack was seventeen, so there was no difference in their ages … unless she had just turned eighteen … that must have been what she meant.