Chapter 1

"Where are we going?" Rebecca half croaked, half squeaked. 'This isn't the way to the library. She wished her voice was strong and in control, like one of those recording stars. But since this was her first date with Ryan and since her stomach still did little flip-flops every time he smiled at her ... well, that meant major dry-mouth ... which meant major no-voice ... which meant sounding more like Miss Piggy than Whitney Houston.

Ryan broke into another one of his easy grins-the type Becka had fallen for the first day they met. "I have a little friend that wants to meet you," he said. "It'll only take a minute.'

Becka tried to swallow, but of course, there was nothing left in her mouth to swallow. She looked out the window of the white Mustang and gave a tug at her tweed skirt. It was shorter than she felt comfortable with-actually any skirt would have been shorter than she felt comfortable with-but Mom thought it looked "adorable." And since wearing sweats probably wasn't the best choice for a first date, there she was, stuck in a skirt, having to do her best imitation of being a lady.

Ryan glanced at the clock on the dash-board. "The guy doesn't start speaking till seven. We've got plenty of time." He turned left off the main road and bounced onto a bumpy side street full of potholes.

Becka wasn't crazy about going to the library to hear the guest speaker. He was one of those New Age fruitcakes who claimed to have been Napoleon or some-body in a past life. The fact that his talk was sponsored by the Ascension Bookshop didn't add to her enthusiasm-not since her little brother's run-in with the Bookshop's "Society" last week. But that was old news. Ancient history.

At least she hoped it was.

Unfortunately, Ryan was interested in the guy, Ryan already had tickets, and, most important, Ryan had asked her to go with him. So ... here she was.

She still couldn't figure out why he had asked her. It certainly wasn't her sparkling personality. As far as she could tell, anytime he was around she had none. And it certainly wasn't her looks. Let's face it, being a five-foot-six bean pole with thin, mousy-brown hair wouldn't exactly get you in the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated. So what was someone as gorgeous as Ryan doing with someone as un-gorgeous as her?

She continued pondering the question as she stared out the car window. Outside, the houses were becoming more and more run-down. Ryan made another turn and then another. They followed the street as it dipped under a low, rusty train trestle and then rose back up. He slowed the car and pulled it over to a stop.

The houses were the worst here. They either needed big-time repairs or a bulldozer; Becka wasn't sure which. One thing was certain-they hadn't seen a coat of paint in years. Most of the yards were nothing but dirt with a few clumps of grass here and there that posed as lawns. Half a dozen junk cars were parked in the driveways, in the yards, or beside the curbs-all in various degrees of renovation or dilapidation.

Becka grew uneasy. Poverty was nothing new to her. Growing up in the jungles of Brazil, she'd seen it most of her life. But why had Ryan brought her to this place? What was he up to?

He turned off the car's ignition. "Here we are," he said. Without another word he opened his door and crossed around to her side.

Becka's mind raced. Is this how it happens? Is this how nice girls end up on those missing persons posters? To travel to places like this with people they think they can trust, and then ... She panicked. What should I do!? She glanced to the door locks. I could lock them. I could lock them, hop behind the wheel, take off, and leave Ryan in the dust to walk home. Yes!

Her hand started toward the lock, then paused. What if I'm wrong? I’ll be the laughing stock of the school ... But which is worse? Being the laughingstock of school or guest staring on the side of some milk carton?

She watched as Ryan approached, brushing the jet-black hair out of his eyes and breaking into another grin. Becka's stomach flipped again and she shook her head. She could trust Ryan McPherson. She knew it.

"Where are we?" she asked as he opened her door.

"Definitely on the wrong side of the tracks." His deep blue eyes sparkled as he held out his hand to help her from the car-Becka could easily get out on her own, but the guy was sweet to offer, so she took his hand and let him help.

The sun had already set , leaving just a few bands of red and violet across the horizon. As usual for this time of year, the fog was billowing in from the beach. Becka pulled her jacket closer and folded her arms to holdback the chill.

"Hey, McPherson! You're late!"

They turned to see a skinny kid, nine or ten years old, scamper down the grade of the train tracks behind them.

"Pepe," Ryan called, "what's up?"

The kid wore a dirty T-shirt, torn pants, and no socks.

Immediately Becka's heart went out to him. How could she have been so stupid? Poverty didn't mean people were bad. It meant they were struggling to keep up, struggling against hunger, ignorance, disease-the very things her folks had fought against in South America ... before her dad died.

Once again she looked over the neighbor-hood-at the sagging houses, the ragged kids playing in a vacant lot-and this time she saw them for what they were: people. Like herself. But in need.

As Pepe arrived and high-fived Ryan, he gave Becka the once-over. "Qué bien!" he said with a mischievous grin, winking at Ryan.

Ryan laughed. "English, my man. Talk English."

Pepe turned to Becka. "I said the pretty lady is almost as beautiful as what he's been bragging about."

Rebecca felt her ears grow hot from the compliment. She threw a glance to Ryan. He seemed as calm and unflustered as ever.

"How's your mom?" Ryan asked.

Pepe shrugged.

"No change?"

Another shrug. "The doctors, they say if she doesn't keep taking her medicine, she'll get a sickness they can't cure."

Ryan frowned. "You tell your mom the doctor's right. TB's a tricky thing. Even if she thinks she's getting better, she still has to keep taking the medicine."

Pepe shrugged again. Then, turning to Becka, he grinned. "So, the pretty lady's come to see the Death Bridge?" he asked, motioning to the train trestle behind them.

"Death Bridge?" Becka asked.

Pepe turned to Ryan. "You didn't tell her about our Death Bridge? Doesn't she want to see it?"

"Next time," Ryan said. "We need to get going."

Pepe gave another mischievous grin. "Got other plans, huh?"

Ryan tousled the boy's hair. "Not what you're thinking, amigo."

Becka looked to the ground as her ears grew hotter.

"Listen," Ryan continued, "you'd better be heading home. Your momma's probably worried." He turned back to the car to open the door for Becka, but Pepe quickly stepped in and beat him to it.

"It was a pleasure finally meeting you," he said as he held open the door.

"Thanks," Rebecca said, smiling. She stepped inside, but Pepe did not shut the door. Instead, he hung on it and continued talking. "I've heard sooooo much about you." He flashed another smile.

The heat from Becka's ears spread to her face.

"Pepe," Ryan scolded as he crossed to his own side of the car.

Pepe shrugged and pushed her door shut, but he kept right on smiling.

Ryan climbed in and fired up the car. Becka reached for the seat belt. Fastening it would give her something to do to cover her embarrassment. "Cute kid," she heard herself say. "How'd you two meet?"

"I'm in the Big Brother program," Ryan answered as he pulled the car onto the road and made a U-turn. "He doesn't have a dad, so I come down a couple of times a week, you know, just to hang out."

Becka's heart swelled. Imagine a high school guy taking time from his busy schedule to help someone like Pepe. She stole another look in Ryan's direction. What other secrets lay behind that heartbreaker grin of his?

They passed Pepe and gave a final wave. The boy returned it and shouted, "¡ Salud, amor, y mucha familia!"

"What'd he say?" Becka asked.

Ryan gave a self-conscious smile. "Nothing."

"No," Becka insisted. She was pleased to see that Ryan could also be embarrassed. "What did he say?"

Ryan pushed the hair out of his eyes.

"Tell me," she prodded.

"He wished us health, love . . . and many children."

Rebecca giggled. It was either that or die of embarrassment. Ryan laughed, too, and she liked that. In fact, she was liking everything about this guy.

As they approached the train trestle, she looked up at the brown, rusting girders. The tracks were about twenty feet above. "Why do they call this the Death Bridge?" she asked.

Ryan gave no answer.

Still smiling, she turned to him, but his grin was already gone. "Ryan?" she repeated. "Why do they call this the Death Bridge?"

They were directly under the trestle when Ryan finally answered. There was no humor in his voice. Not even a trace of a smile. "Every year ... one or two kids ... they die up there."

* * * * *

"BEAM ME UP, SCOTTY, BEAM ME UP!"

"Not now,' Scott muttered as he remained hunched over the open encyclopedia. He had the same brown hair and thin frame as his "big" sister, Rebecca. Fortunately his arms were starting to thicken and his shoulders were starting to widen. That, along with his cracking voice, were sure signs of manhood sneaking up just around the corner. But as far as Scott was concerned, it was sneaking way too slowly.

At the moment he was reading a section on rain forest butterflies-but for all he knew it could have been on Barney the Dinosaur. His eyes had quit focusing quite a while back. Now he just hoped that by staring at the words, the information would somehow sink in.

"BEAM ME UP, BEAM ME UP! SQUAWK, BEAM ME UP!"

"Cornelius, I said not-"

Suddenly his face was full of green and red feathers. One thing you could say about the family parrot, he never took no for an answer. Another thing you could say is that he hated being ignored. The bird began prancing back and forth across the pages of the book, bobbing his head up and down, making it impossible for Scott to read.

Scott let out a heavy sigh, reached for his pencil, and began scratching under Cornelius's chin with the eraser. The bird scrunched and craned his neck until the pencil hit the perfect spot.

It was quarter to eight. Darryl would be there any minute to help work on their rain forest report. And since Scott still had nothing prepared, and since he was still clueless about their topic, he did the only thing he could do ... he closed the book, snapped on his computer, and dialed up the local bulletin board. it was time for another break.

He typed in his password. A moment later the words appeared on his screen:

"New Kid" was his handle, the name he used on the bulletin board. He rolled his mouse over to Y and clicked it. More words appeared.

Scott's interest stirred. Of all the people on the bulletin board, Z was the greatest mystery. He never revealed information about himself, but he always seemed to know what was going on-especially when it came to stuff about the occult and the supernatural. In fact, if it hadn't been for Z's help last week, Scott could have been seriously hurt by his "little encounter" with the Society.

He paged down the screen and read the message:

A chill swept across Scott's shoulders. He had never told Z he had a sister. And he had never mentioned her name.

* * * * * *

Becka and Ryan were a few minutes late when they entered the auditorium and took their seats toward the back. The lecture had already started, but Becka barely noticed. Her mind was still on the conversation she and Ryan had had back at the train trestle.

"You mean they just stand up on that bridge and wait for the train to come?' she had asked.

"It's a courage thing," Ryan had explained. "A power trip. They wait in the middle till the train comes, then they race it back to the end of the bridge and jump out of the way."

"And the last one to jump ... ?"

"Wins," Ryan had answered. "Unless he doesn't jump fast enough. Then he loses. Big time."

Rebecca shuddered. Even here, in the warmth of the auditorium, the thought gave her the creeps. She wanted to ask more, but she knew she'd have to wait until after the lecture.

She turned her attention to the speaker. Maxwell Hunter was good-looking with a tan face, a distinguished beard, thick silver hair, and an expensive suit. But what really caught Becka's attention were his eyes. They didn't just scan back and forth across the be people, lock-audience; they seemed to probe people locking onto them, connecting with each of them as if they really mattered.

"You see," he was saying, "reincarnation is the perfect answer to the age old question, If there's a loving God, why is there suffering?" He paused to take a drink of water, then continued. Once again his eyes swept the room, looking at members of the audience. "Stop and think about it. Is it fair that some people are mentally retarded and others are geniuses? Is it fair that some are physically handicapped and others are Olympic athletes? Is it fair that some starve to death in garbage dumps and others live in palaces? Of course not."

At last Maxwell's eyes connected with Becka's. The effect was startling-as though he had peered into her soul. It only lasted a second, but she was certain he had learned something about her. And then he was gone, peering into someone else.

"Life is completely unfair, unless-" he lowered his voice and continued with quiet intensity- "unless people are suffering now for the evil they have performed in the past...unless people are rewarded in this life for the good they've performed in past lives. You see, if we truly believe in a loving God, a compassionate 'Force,' then reincarnation is certainly a viable possibility."

Becka had never given much thought to reincarnation. As far as she figured, it was just another one of those weird Eastern religions where people were afraid to kill a cow because it might wind up being their great-grandmother or something. But Maxwell's idea was intriguing. Reincarnation, the way he described it, would explain why some people suffer and others have it so good. Becka frowned and bit her lip. That idea sure beat the thought that God was up there playing games with people's lives and destinies.

"But don't just take my word for it," he continued. "Reincarnation can be proven. That's right It can be proven absolutely and scientifically."

Becka leaned forward. The man definitely had her attention.

Maxwell stepped down from the stage and walked into the audience as he went on. "Every day thousands of people are remembering their past lives either on their own or through hypnotic regression." He looked at the audience. "People like you and me. People who recall historical times, dates, facts ... down to the tiniest detail. Not because they read about them, but because they lived them. Some people can even speak in foreign languages- Not because they've learned them in the here and now, but because they spoke them in the past."

He paused to let his words sink in. There was a shuffling of feet and some quiet murmurings. After a moment, he resumed. "These just aren't folks with overactive imaginations. These are people who seem to have firsthand experience with things they have never seen, who know things they have never learned-impressions, events, foreign languages-all verified by historians as 100 percent accurate!"

The murmuring increased.

Maxwell smiled. "But, as I said, don't take my word for it. Let's find out for ourselves." He stopped and carefully looked over the audience. "May I have some volunteers? Are there a dozen or so people courageous enough to go up on that stage and let me prove my point?"

A few hands shot up immediately. Becka glanced around and wondered how many of the willing volunteers belonged to the Society. Other hands rose a little more tentatively.

Maxwell started to move through the room, nodding and pointing. "You sir, yes you ... and you ma'am. Just go up on the stage and have a seal I'll be there in a minute." He continued through the crowd. "And you ... and you . . ."

Others started to rise and move toward the stage.

"And you..."He drifted in Becka's and Ryan's direction. "And you ma'am ... yes, and you." He paused to scan the room. "I still need half a dozen more."

A few other hands slowly rose. He continued moving toward the back of the room. "And you sir ... and you..."

Now he was less than ten feet away from Becka. "And you, yes..." His eyes scanned across Becka, then he nodded to Ryan. "And you son."

Becka looked to Ryan with a start, surprised to see his hand raised.

"And your friend, too."

Becka spun back to the man. "Me?" But he'd already moved past them and across the aisle. Ryan rose to his feet, taking Becka's hand. She held back.

Ryan smiled down at her and gave a little tug. "Come on," he whispered. "It should be fun."

Rebecca shook her head. Being on stage in front of everyone was not her idea of fun. But Ryan kept insisting.

"Come on," he coaxed.

A few looked in their direction, and Becka could feel her ears start to burn. Ryan flashed her another one of his smiles. She felt herself weakening. Other people turned in their direction to check out the commotion. By the look in Ryan's eyes, Becka could tell he wasn't going to take no for an answer. She realized she'd be making more of a scene by staying than by following.

Ryan gave another tug on her hand, his smile breaking into a grin.

Reluctantly, Becka allowed herself to be pulled from the seat. They headed down to the platform, hand in hand.

"Don't worry," Ryan whispered as they stepped up onto the platform. "I won't let anything happen to you."

Becka wished he was right. Unfortunately, wishes don't always come true....