CHAPTER 22

I ran back down the Strip in the opposite direction from the RV, then turned onto a side path that crossed an open expanse of lawn. It felt good to run. I’d been feeling cooped up for days: in my room at home, on the bus, and then in the Red Rocket and the RV. My backpack jounced as I sped down the sidewalk, causing the toads it contained to croak wildly in protest. I ignored them and ran on.

I hurdled a hedge and cut across a manicured garden, ran through an archway, and found myself indoors. It was unlike any place I’d ever seen indoors, though. It was more like being outdoors—only a fake outdoors. The large, open plaza was surrounded on all four sides by the high walls of a fake Italian building. Graceful arched windows looked down on the restaurant tables spilling out onto the cobblestones below. All of it was spread under a soaring, painted blue sky.

This is a hotel? I thought. Whoa.

I slowed to a walk. The plaza was thronged with people, and I figured I could blend in with the crowd, then look for a taxi to the airport once I was sure I’d thrown Great-Aunt Aby off my trail. As long as I kept a low profile and didn’t spill any toads, I’d probably be all right.

I felt a flicker of guilt at having ditched Great-Aunt Aby. I knew my mother definitely wouldn’t approve. But I thrust the feeling firmly away. Getting back to Portland and saving Geoffrey was the only thing that mattered now.

I was warm from running, so I peeled back the hood of my sweatshirt. I took the glasses from the pocket of my backpack and put them back on, though, just in case. My picture was still plastered all over the news alongside Olivia’s, after all.

You’d have never known it was the middle of the night by the number of people who were out. There were college students and retirees, businessmen in suits, people in shorts and swimsuits, and a few in glamorous evening wear. There were even people in costumes, including an Elvis impersonator.

I ducked into a doorway for a moment to text A.J., watching as a couple in a wedding dress and a tuxedo posed for pictures on the bridge that arched over a phony canal at the far end of the plaza. Were they for real, or just models? I wondered. It was hard to tell in a city like this, where so many things were fake. They sure seemed like a real couple, though. The groom said something to the bride and she laughed, tossing back her curly blond hair. From a distance she looked like Iz.

All of a sudden I was struck by a pang of homesickness so strong I nearly keeled over. Dad and Iz had been married on a bridge too—the one in Portland’s Japanese Garden. They’d called the wedding their “bridge to a new life.” One that included me and Olivia, and one that would expand to include our little brother a year later.

I would have given anything at that moment to see them again, or at least to be able to call and talk to them. I knew they must be worried sick about us. First Geoffrey, then Olivia and me. All three of us had vanished! My mother, too, must be frantic by now. I hoped that Great-Aunt Aby had somehow been able to get a message through to her.

Great-Aunt Aby.

I snapped Connor’s cell phone shut and returned it to the pocket of my backpack. A.J. would have to wait. I peered out from the doorway, scanning the crowd. There was no sign of my great-aunt yet, but I doubted she was far behind. I stood there for a moment, trying to clear my mind of anything that might tip her off as to where I was—Don’t think about the big bell tower you passed, Cat, and don’t think about the plaza or the canal or the gondolas or the fancy shops or strolling musicians—and tried instead to think of something entirely different.

Something like fast-food restaurants.

I’d been to a zillion in my lifetime, and I quickly flipped through my mental photo album of them, pausing at one in particular. I conjured up as clearly as I could the red booths and jukeboxes, the smell of french fries, the menu board on the wall behind the cash registers. There, I thought. That should throw her off track.

Then I dashed out of hiding and began to zigzag through the crowd.

I paused briefly by a kiosk displaying a map of the hotel and its grounds. After quickly locating the YOU ARE HERE dot (I was someplace called Saint Mark’s Square), I tracked down the valet parking area. There were bound to be taxis there.

Calculating the quickest route, I was surprised to find that it looked to be by gondola. Turning around, I stood on my tippy-toes, craning to see across the crowded plaza to the stairs that led down to the pretend canal. Were there any boats available?

There were. One was pulling alongside just now, in fact.

I made a dash for it and arrived breathless, just behind the bride and groom.

“That’ll be sixteen dollars,” said the gondolier. He was wearing a costume too—black pants, red sash, black and white striped T-shirt, red neck scarf, and a straw boater hat with a matching red ribbon wound around it.

I drooped. All I had was Olivia’s diamond, and I wasn’t about to waste that on a boat ride. It was my ticket home to Portland.

Sometimes it helps to be vertically challenged. The bride and groom turned and saw me, then exchanged a glance.

“Poor little boy,” said the bride. “He just wants to have some fun!”

“That’ll be sixteen dollars,” the gondolier repeated, unmoved.

“Tell you what, kid—I’ll pay your fare if you’ll take some pictures of us,” said the groom, holding out his camera.

I gave him an enthusiastic smile and a thumbs-up in return, and the three of us stepped into the crescent-shaped boat. The bride settled into her seat in a whoosh of white chiffon, like a marshmallow collapsing in a campfire.

“My name is Marco and I’ll be your gondolier tonight,” said the man in the black pants. He sounded bored. As he thrust his oar into the water and started to sing (something in Italian, of course), I tossed my backpack into the bottom of the boat, hoping that any stray croaks would be drowned out by the music. I needed to dump the toads at some point, but this was neither the time nor the place. Then I switched on the camera and began holding up my end of the bargain.

Late-night visitors lined the wrought-iron railings of the shopping promenade, whistling and cheering as we passed, and I snapped a picture of the bride and groom as they waved like visiting royalty.

I got pictures of them pretending to sing along with the gondolier, and smooching under one of the bridges, and holding hands and gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. It was a little embarrassing, and silly, really, in this place that was so obviously fake, and yet there was something romantic about it too, floating under the arched bridges, past the brightly lit shops and the Elvis impersonator and the woman in the bright pink dress with the beehive hairdo—

Wait a minute, I thought, zooming in through the camera viewfinder. That wasn’t a dress, it was a uniform. Pearl Slocum’s uniform!

I slumped down in the boat, hoping she wouldn’t see me.

“Are you okay?” asked the bride, looking concerned.

I shook my head and leaned abruptly over the opposite side, away from where Pearl was standing. The gondolier stopped singing.

“Gimme a break,” he said in disgust. “See if you can hold it in, kid, while I get you to dry land.”

He maneuvered the gondola swiftly to the next landing, where I hopped out and handed the groom his camera back. Giving him and his brand-new wife another thumbs-up, I shouldered my backpack and melted into the crowd, hoping Pearl hadn’t spotted me.

No such luck.

“Catriona!” Great-Aunt Aby’s booming voice echoed across the canal like a megaphone. She and Pearl began to trot toward me. I pulled my hood up and made a run for it, darting down the corridor toward the valet parking and, I hoped, taxis.

“Catriona!” my great-aunt hollered again. She was moving pretty fast for such a big woman.

Ignoring her, I sprinted around a corner and through the first open door I saw.

“Whoa there, little fella,” whinnied a deep male voice as I slammed into a glass wall.

Ding! A bell rang and the door slid closed behind us.

“Dang!” I blurted, bending over and spitting a toad onto the floor.

I was trapped in an elevator with Elvis.