Weekend - By Christopher Pike Page 0,36

He was torturing her. "And?" she asked.

"And I was wondering if we could start talking on the phone again?"

"Are you going to call collect?"

"Of course."

"What will we talk about?"

He leaned over, kissing her lips lightly. "Right now, everything isn't clear to me. But if we talk, maybe things will get clearer. Is that enough, for now?"

She smiled, clasping his neck with her free right arm, pulling him within inches. "We can plot a way to kill Angie."

"Should it be slow and painful?"

Robin nodded. "In payment for her sins."

Park chuckled, yet such talk made him uneasy. Robin was only joking, but shehad suffered grievously.

He stood and walked to the south window. A flock of blackbirds was circling the house. He pinpointed the source of his disquiet. "What were you talking to that bird about?"

"I didn't know you were listening."

"Only for a moment. He seemed to like you."

"She. Her name is Rita."

"Lovely Rita."

"I was telling her about my mother." She saw his confusion. "Myreal mother. I think about her a lot, nowadays. Must be the little girl in me. I'm sick and I want my mommy." She took a deep breath and scratched her short hair, her melancholy returning. "I wish I could find her. She gave me my body to begin with, I guess I feel she could somehow help me with getting a part fixed." She wiped at her eyes.

"What am I saying? For all I know, she's dead."

An idea, bright with unlooked-for hope, blazed in his mind. "Robin, is it possible that... ?"

He didn't finish. An explosion, powerful enough to shatter every window in the room, drowned out his voice.

Shani picked up the phone. There was no dial tone. This was the third phone she had tried, all dead. She would have to tell Lena, or Robin.

But restarting her search for the dialysis room, she was troubled. They were isolated in a foreign country.

No one else from their class, not one single one of them, had arrived. And now the phones were out.

Was she being paranoid, or was there a pattern to all this?

The way Robin had caught Lena's eye last night suggested there was more to the shaman's story. Shani did not feel her paranoia would be soothed by knowing the parable's ending, but she was curious as to why Robin felt secrecy necessary. Suffering only minor conscience qualms, she headed for Robin's bedroom.

The door was closed, but unlocked. She pushed it open gently. Flynn was inside, up to no good. Using a wire and metal pin, he was working on the lock of a green filing cabinet tucked in the corner beside Robin's desk. Atop the desk was the manila envelope that held the story. Robin had closed it before retiring last night. Now the envelope was open. The cabinet lock snapped. Flynn pulled out a drawer.

Quickly, methodically, he began to scan the files.

Shani closed the door carefully, backed down the hall slowly, then turned and ran. She would tell Park and Sol. They would know what to do.

A second later, she changed her mind. She rationalized that his crime was insignificant; she needed more facts. But the truth was apparent to her from the start. She didn't want to get him in trouble because she liked him. His picking locks actually made him more interesting.

But she was no lovesick fool. She would continue to probe his past, starting with seeing if he was really Flynn Powers. If he could search Robin's room, she could search his.

She had been with Lena when rooms had been assigned, so she knew where his things were stowed.

However, her hurried beeline was interrupted by a necessary stop at the bathroom. Ordinarily she had a nervous stomach, but this was ridiculous. She sat grimacing on the toilet, worried that she would vomit on top of her diarrhea. Fortunately, the spasm was brief. With cold water splashed in her face, she felt fine, only a bit drained. She ran for Flynn's room.

He had brought only a flight bag. However it was packed tight and she couldn't get by jammed shirts and jeans using a careful approach. Frustrated, she inverted the bag and smacked the bottom, dumping the entire contents on the bed. Sitting atop the pile was a British passport.

MICHAEL RYAN RICHARDSON. BORN: 1968. HEIGHT: 5' 11",

WEIGHT: 155. ADDRESS: 16 Clarence Drive, Plymouth, England.

Shani liked the picture, but that was all. She memorized the information and repacked the bag as best she could. On the way out, she decided she could risk a