Brett reported with a dark, feigned sincerity, indicating Elijah, "He tried to take over. Didn't like Alex's leadership, so ... he attacked him-when he wasn't looking."

Elijah wilted, so disappointed. "Ah, Brett, come on."

Elisha was by her brother's side. "That's not the way it was! Jerry was protecting me."

Ms. Fitzhugh nodded her head as if she really understood what had happened, eyeing Elijah with disdain. "Oh. So it's all over a girl! Of course. A young stallion kicking another over his mare."

Alex managed to speak. "I was just talking to her. I don't know what he had to get so upset about."

Elijah sighed. "Does anyone want to know the truth?"

Chisholm stepped forward, grabbing Elijah's arm. "We've seen plenty, young man. Come on."

"Hey! "

"No!" Elisha cried. "What are you doing? You've got it all wrong! "

Now Bateman and Johnson moved in, surrounding Elijah, forcing him along. "This campus has had enough trouble. It's time to clean house."

Elijah, still hoping to find an ounce of reason in any of these people, spoke calmly, "You're making a mistake. If you'll just let me explain my side of it ..."

Elisha grabbed Mr. Johnson's arm. "Will you listen to me? He's innocent! He was defending himself! He was defending me!"

Johnson sneered at that. "Right. It looks like it."

Ms. Fitzhugh grabbed Elisha by the arm and held her back. "And you, young lady, are going to your room and staying there."

"What are you doing?" she cried, watching them take Elijah away like a prisoner. "Where are you taking him?"

She heard an ominous clanking of steel, and then, as if by itself, like the jaws of a patient, sinister monster, the big iron gate began to swing open.

A searing pang of fear coursed through Elisha like deadly voltage. She knew, she just knew that something horrible lay beyond that gate. "NOOO!"

She broke free from Ms. Fitzhugh's grasp and ran after her brother. "No, no, don't take him! He didn't do anything!"

Johnson turned back and blocked her path. He grabbed her, held her. She broke his grip, got around him. He grabbed her by her blazer and held on even as she kicked him, slapped at him, tried to get away.

Ms. Fitzhugh caught up and also took hold of her. "That's quite enough, young lady!"

Bateman and Chisholm took Elijah through the gate and the big iron jaw began to swing shut with a low, electric hum.

With one last twist of judo, one final kick to a shin, Elisha broke away from Fitzhugh and Johnson and ran for what opening remained. 'Jerry!"

Through the bars of the swinging gate, Elijah, being hurried along by his two captors, looked over his shoulder and called, "I'll be all right." Then he mouthed the words, "You go! Go!" as he nodded toward the unseen road.

The heavy, electronic latch clanged into place the instant Elisha reached it and she fell against the iron bars, gripping them, wishing, praying she could pa.s.s through. "Take me! Don't take him, take me!" The bars were cold, cruel, immovable. The gate didn't even rattle when she tugged at it.

The two men were hurrying, nearly dragging Elijah up the long walkway. He looked over his shoulder one last time to give her a rea.s.suring look, to let his eyes say, "I'll be okay," and then, like a curtain closing on the final act, the limbs of overhanging trees closed over the sight of him and he was gone.

As Fitzhugh and Johnson hemmed her in against the bars, she reached through as if she could grab her brother and pull him back, any pretending banished by her anguish. "Elijah!"

They grabbed her, tightly. Weakened by despair and sorrow, she let them take her away.

Chapter 11: The Mansion and the Monster.

lijah couldn't help but be Fascinated, looking up at the towering white facade of the mansion as Mr. Bateman and Mr. Chisholm led him down a concrete stairway and through an imposing, oversized bas.e.m.e.nt door. When the metal door clanged shut behind them, a deep rumble rolled up and down the tight, dimly lit hallway like an echo in a mine tunnel. They were deep beneath the mansion now, and Elijah could sense the weight of rock, concrete, and the multistory structure stacked above him.

This was no ordinary hallway. It seemed to Elijah they were in the heart of a huge machine. Thick cl.u.s.ters of electrical wire ran along the ceiling; waterlines, gas lines, air lines, hydraulic lines, and tubing of unknown purpose ran along the base of the walls on both sides. There was a low, electrical hum ringing in the walls. He could hear compressed air moving, water running, fluid surging. "Wow," he said. "What do you guys do down here, anyway?"

They didn't answer, but took him through a doorway into a small bedroom, a slightly nice prison cell. They pushed him down so that he sat on the narrow bed, then let go. "Stay here until we come for you," said Chisholm. He pointed to another doorway at one end of the room. "The bathroom's through there."

"But ... what's supposed to happen?" Elijah asked. "I mean, do I get to talk to someone, or explain things, or what?"

They didn't answer him. They went out the door, locked it, and left him alone.

All around him-in the walls, in the air, in the floor-was a low, steady, rumbling life, much like being aboard a ship or an airliner. This building isn't just sitting, it's running like a big machine. It is alive.

If this mansion's a monster, he thought, then I'm in the stomach.

Nate and Sarah landed in Coeur d'Alene, in the northern panhandle of Idaho, and parked the airplane in front of Resort Aviation, an aviation service center providing fuel, aircraft rental, scenic tours, and generally anything having to do with aviation or traveling aviators. Inside the office, a young gal with curly blond locks was working behind the counter. Rental rates for Cessnas and Pipers were posted on the wall; navigational charts, airport directories, and tourist brochures were on display. Occasionally, the chatter of pilots would squawk from a radio at the far end of the counter, tuned to monitor the airport frequency.

"Hi," said Nate. "We'd like to tie our plane down for a few days."

"Are you the Springfields?" she asked.

That scared them. For secrecy's sake, they hadn't called ahead. How did she know their names?

"Is someone expecting us?" Sarah asked.

"Your ride's here now"

She pointed out the window toward the parking lot. A black car was waiting. The man behind the wheel gave them a subtle wave.

It was Morgan.

They acted pleased to see him to hide the fact that they were alarmed. They hurried out the door and climbed into the car.

"What is it?" Sarah demanded. "What's happened?"

"Easy," said Morgan. "No bad news yet. But it's time for a faceto-face. Go ahead and bring your luggage. I got us some rooms."

The motel was small, one-story, built thirty years ago. The rooms were simple: one bed, two chairs by the window, a small television, a bathroom with a stained sink and a drippy shower.

Sarah took the bed, aching and tired. Nate and Morgan sat by the window after closing the blinds.

"Okay," said Nate, "what've you got?"

"It's a government project," said Morgan. "And then again, it isn't."

Sarah sat up straight. "Morgan! Our children are missing! We've been hopscotching across the country chasing an academy that's never there. We don't need: don't know, might know, can't know! Give us some facts we can work with or let us get some sleep!"

Morgan took her lashing in stride, and pulled out a doc.u.ment. "This might help explain it. It's last year's budget report from the Department of Education."

Nate took a look at it. Sarah flopped back down on the bed and waited to be impressed.

Morgan guided Nate to the third page of columns and figures and pointed to a small, obscure item: Educational Research Grant. "Here's a tidy little expense that's been slipping through unquestioned for the past five years. The president was never told about it, and neither was the current secretary of education."

Nate was impressed, and spoke out loud for Sarah's benefit. "Twenty million dollars."

"Per year."

Sarah raised her head. "That's government money?"

"Our money," said Morgan. "Your taxes, my taxes."

"Wow!" said Nate, actually happy, tapping the paper. "A fact! A real fact!"

Morgan explained, "Five years ago, the previous president-and several of his cronies in Congress-allotted these funds for research in global education, and part of the program was to set up special laboratories to test their theories with volunteer students."

Now Sarah was sitting up, almost impressed. "The campuses that aren't there anymore."

Morgan nodded. "Exactly. It all looked very legitimate."

Nate asked, "So why aren't the campuses there anymore?"

"Why isn't the Light of Day Youth Shelter there anymore?" Morgan asked rhetorically.

"Why was Alvin Rogers murdered?" Sarah asked.

"Why is the mysterious redhead, Margaret Jones, going by so many different names?"

"And why were our kids taken away without warning, without a trace?" Sarah said with an obvious bitterness.

"Somebody's up to no good and hiding it well," said Nate.

"Even from the president," said Morgan. "Whatever this project was supposed to be, it's turning out to be something else. He and the secretary of education had their suspicions, but with no solid facts, he couldn't order an investigation without looking foolish and drawing vicious attacks from his enemies in Congress, not to mention the media."

"And so the facts are all buried," said Sarah. "Cleared and reforested, plowed under a farmer's field ..."

"Imploded."

Nate and Sarah looked at him strangely.

"Haven't you heard? The Dartmoor Hotel was imploded just yesterday. It's gone. Demolished."

By now, Nate and Sarah were getting used to such information-almost. They needed a moment to digest that.

Morgan continued, "But if we can find an actual, operating campus and find out what it's really being used for, then maybe we'll get that investigation authorized and stop this monster in its tracks."

"Hmm," Nate mused. "A monster."

"Excuse me?"

"You'll have to read my daughter's English paper."

"Anyway," Morgan continued, "this whole thing is a government project in that it's receiving government money, but I would say it's not a government project because it's a renegade, carrying out a secret agenda that could be entirely illegal, to put it mildly"

"But we'd have to prove that before anything can be done about it, so we're investigating, but not officially"

"That is where things stand, yes."

"I'm sort of impressed," said Sarah.

"Morgan," said Nate, "we're here, but we don't know where to look. Margaret Jones told the kids the academy's up in the mountains, but there are a lot of mountains around here."

"Oh, yes! About Margaret Jones! Your information was very helpful. I haven't been able to go through official channels, at least officially, but some friends in the right places have filled in some blanks. She might be in this area."

That did impress Sarah. "I want her, Morgan."

Morgan nodded with understanding. "You'll be the first to know."

"In the meantime ..." Nate unfolded a U.S. Forestry map of the Idaho panhandle. "We've got a few zillion acres of national forest to comb through...."

Elisha, confined to her room, prayed for hope, hoped in G.o.d, and did all she could with soap, a washcloth, and a hair dryer to get the gra.s.s stains out of her burgundy blazer. Having a vicious brawl on the lawn wasn't good for the Knight-Moore uniform, and she had to please Booker-or at least not make him madat the three o'clock meeting.

The door opened, and Cher came in, not at all her usual, bubbly self.

"Oh, Sally! I'm so sorry! I heard about Jerry!"

Elisha was trying to hold herself together, carefully brushing the elbow of her blazer. "We just have to pray they'll let Jerry out and not hurt him-" Her voice broke and she stopped, concen trating on the sleeve of her blazer, trying not to remember the images of Alvin Rogers out of his mind.

"Maybe if Mr. Booker wins."

"Wins?"

"You know, gets his way, and everybody does things by the rules. Maybe then things can be the way they were."

"Cher ..."

"Mariah."

"Mariah? Can't you just settle on one name?"