Roland West, Loner

by Theresa Linden

  Toby pushed buttons.

  Peter shifted, getting a better view of the writing under the crest. It read West, of course.

  Toby pushed more buttons.

  A tingling sensation spread over Peter. “Hey, maybe you’d better not do that.” He touched Toby’s hand, but Toby didn’t quit.

  “I got a bad feeling about this,” Peter said. He peeked over his shoulder. “We need to go.”

  Something clicked. The stone door moved.

  Chapter 8

  Roland lay on his side and gazed at the flames leaping and twisting in the fireplace. Branches shifted and crackled. The wooden bench dug into his hip. He wanted to change his position, but the headache had gone, and he wouldn’t risk moving and having it return.

  Lying there, thinking, he concluded that he ought to give in to Jarret. Jarret could forget about his evil plan because Roland would willingly let him go in his place. He’d tell Papa he was sick or something. He was sick. It made him sick to give in, especially on this. But what else could he do? With Papa away and no one on his side, Jarret would destroy him.

  As his agitation rose, Roland became aware of the pounding of his heart.

  A branch cracked, broke in two, and slid off the others. The pounding sound, which he had thought was his heartbeat, grew louder. It wasn’t his heartbeat. It didn’t come from upstairs either. It seemed to come from the passageway at the back of the basement. Had Keefe snuck in through the secret entrance to rescue him?

  “Double u, double u, double u,” came a high and unfamiliar voice.

  “Shh!” someone whispered.

  Maybe this was part of Jarret’s plan. No. Jarret never wanted anyone to know about the passageway.

  “Hello, some-un,” said the kid with the high voice. “Are you sweeping?”

  “Shh! We’re, like, in somebody’s house,” someone whispered, though quite audibly due to the acoustics of the stone passageway. “We need to go. Now!”

  How many kids were there? Who knew about their secret entrance? How would anyone have found it? It was on their property. Whoever they were, they needed to go.

  Agitation forced Roland to sit up. Pain rushed into his head, the fireplace tilted, and his blanket slid to the floor. He waited a moment for the world to settle.

  “Look! Some-un wake up.” The boy with the high voice giggled like a toddler.

  “Let’s go,” whispered the other, sounding both panicked and annoyed.

  Not wanting to stir up the vertigo, Roland simply peered over his shoulder.

  Two boys, one about his age and the other ten or younger, stood on the other side of the black gate. The older boy, stocky and blond, wearing a denim jacket, looked familiar. As he scanned their basement, he didn’t seem to notice Roland’s seething glare.

  The basement was large with steep steps. Jarret’s extensive weight bench took up one side, shelves of wine bottles and Nanny’s canning jars the other. And a few crates of Papa’s less important antiques, tools, and gear sat in a corner.

  The younger boy clung to the bars and gave Roland a blank stare. No, he was looking at the fireplace. He brought his hand level with his face and said, “Double u, double u, double u,” while peering through his fingers. There was something not quite normal about him.

  The older kid’s gaze snapped to Roland. “Oh, hey. I mean, look, I’m sorry.” He grabbed the younger boy’s arm and tugged. The younger boy whined, wriggled free, and returned to the gate.

  With a hand to the table for balance, Roland stood and shot the older boy an icy glare. He strode toward them, wanting to appear tough and edgy, like someone not to be messed with. But the blood rushed to his head, making him sway.

  He flung his arms out to steady himself.

  And, oh yeah, he was shirtless. He had not inherited his mother’s olive skin. His bone-pale skin would have them looking him over with morbid curiosity.

  “Toby, come on.” The older boy spoke with his mouth to the younger boy’s ear. Then he looked at Roland and backed up. “Uh, hey, we’re sorry. I guess we don’t belong down here, so we’re going.” He snatched Toby’s hand. “Right, Toby?” he said through clenched teeth.

  Reaching the gate, Roland grabbed its bars for support. “What’re you doing here?” He used a cold tone. “How’d you get in?”

  “We uh . . . I’m Peter, Peter Brandt.” Peter stuck a hand through the gate.

  Roland didn’t acknowledge it, so Peter withdrew it and grabbed Toby’s shirt. “This is my little brother Toby. He’s uh . . . Do you know what autism is?”

  Roland huffed and rolled his eyes. Did Peter think he was stupid?

  Toby appeared younger up close. Gazing at the fire through round, unblinking eyes, he stood trance-like with his mouth hanging open. Autistic, huh?

  “You go to River Run High, don’t you?” Peter said. “You’re in my grade.”

  A cool sweat broke out on Roland’s face and chest. The kid knew him? “What’re you doing here? You’re on private property. And how’d you get in?”

  “Oh. Well, we were fishing in the stream. Not on your side. Other side. We live across Forest Road.” Peter pointed. “You know the Forest Gateway, the B&B? That’s us.” He smiled then frowned. “Look, I know we’re on private property. I told Toby when he took off.” He nudged Toby. “Told you we were trespassing.”

  “Open gate,” Toby said. “Toby see fire.”

  Peter gave Roland the onceover. “So, you’re one of the West boys, huh?”

  Roland narrowed his eyes. “You need to go.”

  Peter was gawking at Roland’s hair now. “Hey, are you, like, all right? Cuz . . .” He tapped his forehead. “I think you’re bleeding.”

  “Bleeling?” Toby’s big eyes searched Roland’s face.

  Forehead throbbing and face flushing, Roland turned away. What would Peter say about this at school? He’d start a new rumor. Jarret would hear it. Jarret would blame Roland. Heck, he’d kill him. Everyone would know about the secret entrance to their house. Papa would have to get a better security system. How did they get in?

  Roland shot another death glare. “Why don’t you guys get out of here?”

  “Yeah, okay.” Peter grabbed Toby’s arm. “Come on, Toby, you heard him.”

  Toby let out a blood-curdling shriek and rattled the bars.

  Convinced they’d leave, Roland staggered back to the table. Keefe had brought a bottle of water, and his ruined shirt would make a nice washcloth for the cut on his forehead.

  “Some-un come back,” Toby whined. “Toby see fire.”

  Peter muttered harshly to his brother. Thrashing, shrieking, grunting. Toby obviously did not want to leave.

  With his back to the Brandts, Roland poured water onto the shirt and pressed it to the cut. The cut stung, making him wince.

  “Freaking moron!” Roland spat, throwing the shirt into the fireplace. Why was Jarret such a jerk?

  The shirt caught fire, the flames greedily eating it up, turning it to ash.

  Toby shrieked.

  Roland bristled, hoping Jarret hadn’t heard it. Jarret would probably think he had told the Brandts how to get in and—

  An idea occurred to him. He jerked around to face them. “Wait!”

  “Huh?” Peter had managed to drag Toby back a few feet but lessened his grip when Roland called. Toby broke free and bolted to the gate.

  “There’s a key.” Roland bounded to the gate, coming to stand face to face with Toby.

  “Key?” Toby’s face lit up. His gaze connected with Roland’s.

  Pointing, Roland indicated where the key hung, high on the wall.

  Toby turned, his attention snapping to it. Standing on tiptoes, arms straight overhead, he reached. If he had a few more inches on him . . .

  Peter grabbed the key and turned toward Roland. “Hey!”

  Toby had gotten the key from him and now stood studying it.

  Roland had always liked the look of the key, too. Old-fashioned and long, it had a few notc
hed tabs at one end and a loop on the other. It hung on a three-inch metal ring that clanked when it moved. Toby swung it round and around, until Roland reached through the bars and snatched it from him.

  Toby whined, “Key, key . . .” until Roland unlocked the gate and gave the key back.

  Roland threw Keefe’s blanket over his shoulders, put a hand to the wall, and strode down the dark tunnel.

  Peter and Toby followed.

  Light from the fireplace flickered on the jagged stone wall nearest the gate, but the trio soon turned a corner and walked in darkness. The gradually ascending passage connected the basement to a secret entrance in a rock formation about a quarter-mile from the house. Their house had been modeled after a medieval castle, complete with turrets, battlements, and an escape tunnel. Roland never imagined he would use it one day to escape.

  “So, I’m really sorry about all this.” Peter came up beside Roland. “Trespassing and, I mean, we found your secret door, or whatever. Not a secret anymore, huh? But I won’t tell. Really, I’m sorry.”

  Roland shrugged. “Don’t be. You guys rescued me.”

  “Rescued you? What do you mean? Were you stuck down there? Is that, like, a dungeon? Hey, you know, I don’t even know your name. Well, I know you’re a West but I—”

  “You don’t know my name?” Could there really be a ninth-grader at River Run High who didn’t know his name? Maybe Peter hadn’t been paying attention that first day of school. Maybe he hadn’t heard any of the rumors since. No. He was friends with the wheelchair kid, so he had to have heard them. Peter was lying. Peter was—

  Roland sucked in a breath to stop himself from tearing the kid up in his mind. “I’m Roland. And I was, uh, trapped in the basement.”

  Peter grinned and nodded.

  Toby clanked the key. He leaned his face close to the wall and darted past them.

  Before long, light from the open doorway at the end of the passage shone on walls and floor. It took some convincing, but Roland managed to get the key from Toby and hang it on a hook in the darkness above the door. Shielding their eyes, they stepped into sunlight. Roland reached into the open panel by the door, reset the alarm, and slid the stone back in place. The door to the passageway swung shut, coming to resemble an ordinary stone again.

  “That is so cool,” Peter said, grinning. “I’ve got my secrets, but they’re nothing compared to this.”

  Roland cringed. It wouldn’t be a secret for long. Come Monday morning, thanks to Peter and the wheelchair kid, half the kids at River Run High would know.

  Peter walked on Roland’s heels as they left the rock formation. “I can’t believe you live in an actual castle.”

  “It’s not an actual castle. It’s a replica.” A replica of which castle, he had no clue.

  Papa received the deed from a millionaire in California, an unexpected payment for an assignment. The originally-agreed-upon payment was a sum of cash, but when Papa ended up saving the millionaire’s wife—that’s another story—the man couldn’t thank him enough. Mama had fallen in love with the castle, so the millionaire gave it to them in lieu of the money. Then Papa, who had loved living in Arizona more than he loved anything except for Mama, settled here in South Dakota, in a castle that would set their family apart from everyone else in town.

  Roland cut a glance into the woods on either side, hoping he wouldn’t see his brothers. Then he trudged down the horse trail, heading away from home. The dizziness had subsided enough that he could walk steadily and at a good pace.

  Peter came up beside him, smirking. “Okay, so it’s not an actual castle. Whatever. I’d still trade you places.”

  Now it was Roland’s turn to grin. “You wouldn’t. Not with my brothers.”

  “Shoot. Where’s Toby?” Peter shielded his eyes and spun in a circle. Toby, half jogging and half skipping, had gotten ten yards ahead of them. Once Peter caught sight of him, he exhaled and returned to Roland’s side. “I’ve seen your brothers. They’re twins, right?”

  Roland nodded.

  Before long, the stream showed through the trees. Toby would reach it in a few steps.

  A sound traveled to Roland’s ears, heightening his senses. The clomping of hoofs. Horses trotting down the trail. Drawing near.

  Roland’s heart skipped a beat. He smacked Peter’s arm.

  Peter’s round eyes showed he heard it, too. They dashed into the woods, to the cover of a waist-high boulder. Toby still ambled toward the river.

  “Get your brother,” Roland said, sounding as bossy as Jarret.

  “Oh, yeah.” Peter jumped up. “Hey, Toby, come quick.”

  Toby stood at the river’s bank, scanning the ground as if he hadn’t heard Peter.

  Roland gripped the boulder, peering over the top, wishing they would hurry.

  The horses clomped nearer.

  “Toby, hey, Toby, I want to show you something.” Peter sprinted for Toby. Toby stood and turned. Peter grabbed him around the waist and yanked him off the path. The two of them thrashed through brush until they came up beside Roland and the cover of the boulder. Peter nodded at Roland, looking pleased with his accomplishment.

  “Ow.” Flushed and pouting, Toby rubbed his side. “Toby go home.”

  A horse whinnied. Forms showed between leaves, moving up the path.

  “Shh,” Peter said.

  Roland peeked through the leaves of a bush.

  As the horses drew near, voices carried. “. . . don’t see why we can’t let him out?” Keefe said. “His forehead looks bad. We should—”

  “Not. Yet.” Jarret sounded controlling. “He’s fine down there. You worry like a mother hen.”

  “So, what’s the rest of your plan?” Keefe said. “When do we let him out?”

  Their voices came from the other side of the boulder.

  A chill shuddered through Roland. He shrunk down and wrapped the blanket tighter.

  Toby craned his neck. “Toby see the—”

  Peter clamped a hand over Toby’s mouth and silently shushed him.

  “We’ll let him up an hour before Nanny gets back,” Jarret said. “Then Nanny will see a new side of him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Roland’s not the goody-goody she thinks he is. She won’t believe it at first. It’ll take some time, but I know what we need to do.”

  Roland’s stomach churned. What did they need to do?

  “Papa will be back in a few days,” Keefe said. “Before you decide to . . .” The voices trailed off and the horses’ clomping faded.

  Palms to the cold boulder, Roland pulled himself up and peered into the woods. Seeing no sign of them, he relaxed.

  Toby popped up beside him. “Toby see horses.”

  “The horses are gone,” Roland said, “thank God.”

  “What was that about?” Peter said. “They actually locked you down there?”

  Roland couldn’t interpret the look in Peter’s eyes. Amusement? Sympathy? He gritted his teeth. “None of your business.”

  “Okay.” Peter raised his hands. “So, where’re we going anyway?”

  Roland shrugged. He had no plan. He was just happy to be out of the basement. Maybe he could avoid Jarret until Papa returned. That might keep Jarret from accomplishing his plan, and Roland could still go to Italy.

  “Toby hungry. Go home.” Toby stomped toward the trail.

  “Yeah, it’s probably close to dinner time,” Peter said. “Hey, you want to come over for dinner?”

  “Uh . . .” Roland stared, thinking it over. He didn’t really know Peter, but where else could he go? “Sure.”

  Peter’s gaze traveled up and down Roland, from forehead to chest. “Um, the blanket’s not gonna work.” He unbuttoned his denim jacket. “Ditch the blanket. Wear this.” He thrust the jacket at Roland’s chest. “And maybe you can wash your face in the stream.”

  Roland abandoned the blanket, stuffed an arm into the jacket, and headed for the stream.

  “Do you gu
ys, like, have guns?” Peter strolled alongside him, carrying Roland’s blanket.

  “What?” Roland glanced up from buttoning the jacket. They did, but what kind of question was that?

  “Do you guys, y’know, guard your land and hunt your own food?”

  “Do we what?”

  “You know, patrol and scare up dinner?” Peter brought his hands up, pretending to shoot something with a rifle.

  Roland sighed. He’d heard the rumor, too. The West boys lived like savages, apart from the world, hunting whatever roamed their acres of land, socializing with people only when absolutely necessary. Of course, if he could avoid socializing with people, at least people his own age, he would.

  Yeah, he did consider himself something of a loner.

  Chapter 9

  Roland glimpsed the pale, bloody deadpan in the mirror and shivered. The overhead fluorescent lighting gave him a purplish mouth and lifeless gray skin. His black hair stood up on one side in dirty spikes. Blood streaked his forehead, even though he had washed up in the stream. It trailed around his eyebrow and down the side of his face.

  Blasting the cold water, he tossed a washcloth into the sink. His shiny black fingernails reflected the light and made his chest tighten.

  Peter peeked around the half-open bathroom door. “Hey, you look sort of Goth. Want something black to wear?”

  He shot a glare. Goth?

  Peter should talk. With messy, dirty-blond hair and, apparently, a wardrobe of denim and flannel, he could pass for a backwoodsman. He was stocky enough to play football, too short for basketball, but Roland could picture him peering through the scope of a rifle. Maybe he patrolled his yard and scared up his dinner.

  “I don’t care,” Roland said. “I’ll wear any old shirt.”

  “Okay.” Peter disappeared but kept talking, saying something about clothes and boxes and a mess in his room. His mother’s voice traveled up the stairs. She mentioned a package. Peter jogged down the stairs and back up.

  Roland washed his face and ran wet fingers through his hair. Then he flung the washcloth into the tub, onto a pile of soaking wet towels, and glanced in the mirror. The cut still bled. He yanked open vanity drawers in search of a Band-Aid, finding nothing but junk.