"Cabot, Meg - 1-800-Where-R-You 04 - Sanctuary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cabot Meg)

"Was it from those marks?" I had seen that there'd been some kind of symbol
carved into Nate's naked chest.
"Jess." Now Rob had hold of my hand. "Come on. Let's go. These guys have work to
do."
"What were those marks, anyway?" I asked Marty. "I couldn't tell."
Marty looked uncomfortable. "Really, miss," he said. "You'd better go."
But I didn't go. I couldn't go. I just stood there, wondering what Dr. Thompkins
and his wife were going to do, when they found out what had happened to their
son. Would they decide to move back to Chicago?
And what about Tasha? She seemed to really like Ernest Pyle High School, if her
enthusiasm about the yearbook committee was any indication. But would she want
to stay in a town in which her only brother had been brutally murdered?
And what was Coach Albright going to say when he learned he'd lost yet another
quarterback?
"Mastriani." Rob was starting to sound desperate. "Let's go."
I didn't realize precisely why Rob was sounding so desperate until I turned
around. That was when I very nearly walked into a tall, thin man wearing a long
black coat and a badge that indicated that he was a member of the Federal Bureau
of Investigation.
"Hello, Jessica," Cyrus Krantz said to me, with a smile that I'm sure he meant
to be reassuring, but which was actually merely sickening. "Remember me?"
C H A P T E R
5
It would be hard to forget Cyrus Krantz. Believe me, I've tried. He's the new
agent assigned to my case. You know, on account of me being Lightning Girl and
all.
Only Cyrus Krantz isn't exactly a special agent. He's apparently some kind of
FBI director. Of special operations, or something. He explained the whole
thing—or at least he tried to—to my parents and me. He came over to our house
not long after Mastriani's burned down. He didn't bring a pie or anything with
him, which I thought was kind of tacky, but whatever. At least he called first,
and made an appointment.
Then he sat in our living room and explained to my parents over coffee and
biscotti about this new program he's developed. It is a division of the FBI,
only instead of special agents, it is manned by psychics. Seriously. Only Dr.
Krantz—yeah, he's a doctor—doesn't call them psychics. He calls them "specially
abled" individuals.
Which if you ask me makes it sound like they must all take the little bus to
school, but whatever. Dr. Krantz was very eager for me to join his new team of
"specially abled" secret agents.
Except of course I couldn't. Because I am not specially abled anymore. At least,
that's what I told Dr. Krantz.
My parents backed me up, even when Dr. Krantz took out what he called "the
evidence" that I was lying. He had all these records of phone calls to
1-800-WHERE-R-YOU, the missing children's organization with which I have worked
in the past, that supposedly came from me. Only of course all the calls, though
they were from my town, were placed through pay phones, so there was no real way
to trace who'd made them. Dr. Krantz wanted to know who else in town would know
the exact location of so many missing kids—a couple hundred, actually, since
that day I'd been hit by lightning.