Caroline was playing Minesweeper again when Jacob came in, looking a little troubled. "Caroline?"
Caroline turned around to look at her brother. "Hmm?"
"Dad found out where Illusion and The Dash are. He told me that I wasn't really his son--I acted shocked and surprised, of course--then said he was going to lay a trap for them. He'll spring it tomorrow." Jacob looked pale and frightened. "Can't we warn them? Tell them--"
"Tell them what? That Dad's alive, he's the one who kidnapped you, I'm his daughter, and he's plotting to kill them yet again?" Caroline shook her head. "Remember, they don't know Dad's alive. As far as they know, he was sucked into a jet engine and died over ten years ago. And how are we going to explain where I come into the mix?"
Jacob looked like he wanted to cry. "Caro, we can't let Dad kill them."
"I don't think he will right away," Caroline mused, trying to help her brother. "He'll want to spin it out, make it last. So...so if they get captured, we can just wait until Dad gets out of the way and then free them. You can go home, and I--"
"--can come with us, of course," Jacob interrupted. "I know they'll let you."
"Not when they find out who my dad is," Caroline said darkly. "No matter how nice or good they are, Jacob, the fact remains that I am Syndrome's daughter, and I won't be wanted. No, you'll go home with your family...and I'll stay here and face the music with mine. I've got no choice."
"Sure you do," protested Jacob. "Please, Caroline?"
Caroline hesitated. She didn't like lying to Jacob, but she didn't like hurting him either. "We'll see," she said finally. "Okay?"
"Okay." Jacob looked kind of downcast. "Caroline, what do you think he's going to do to them?"
Caroline opened her arms, and he ran forward to let her envelope him in a hug. "I don't know, baby. I just don't know."
Bob frowned at the package he'd found in the mailbox. No return address, which wasn't really a good thing. Cautiously, carefully, he slit it open. A black package dropped out. After a sensor popped out and scanned the room, a small hatch popped open and a voice emitted from the machine--a high, sweet, young, distinctly feminine voice.
"You don't know me, but I know who you are. I know that you've lost something very precious to you. If you look carefully, you can see a picture, which ought to ve--veri--ve-ri-fy that this does belong to you and is safe." There was a pause. Bob peered into the compartment. A photograph slid out...one of a handsome lad, perhaps ten, with reddish-brown hair and tawny eyes. He was smiling and laughing.
Bob felt all the color drain out of his face. Jack-Jack.
The little voice came on again. "Okay. If you'd like it back, please come to 327 Seashore Street at noon today. If it's after noon when you're listening to this, then come at seven o'clock." The voice dropped to a sort of whisper. "That's dinnertime. I bet you get to come for dinner...huh? Oh, right, sorry. Please don't forget to come. No need to RSVP--I know you really want it back, so we look forward to your arrival. Did I do it okay?" the voice added.
Click.
Bob sat at the kitchen table for a few minutes, just staring at the photograph of his little boy. Then he glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to seven. Well, I'd promised to have dinner with Helen and the kids tonight, but this is more important. He stood up and headed for his room.
Twenty minutes later, when Helen came home to start dinner, she found three things on the kitchen table: an oblong black device, a small photograph of a cheerful young boy with hair like hers, and a brief and hastily penned note from Bob: He's okay!