The Long Way Home

by Andrew Klavan

  But whoever she was, she didn’t come up. Instead I heard the screen door open again and bang shut.

  Quickly, I moved back to the window. I looked out, pressing my face to the glass so I could see as much of the street and the driveway as possible.

  There was a car in the driveway now. A blue hatchback. The back was open. As I watched, a woman came from the house and moved behind the car. She reached in and when she came out, she was holding a shopping bag. She was bringing groceries into the house.

  Sherman’s wife. I don’t know why, but it had never occurred to me he might be married. He’d never mentioned having a family. I guess I just never thought about it. It’s like that with teachers sometimes. You don’t think about their private lives. You figure once they leave school for the day, they just sort of disappear until the next day. I guess I figured if Mr. Sherman was at school, then his house would be empty. It was a stupid mistake.

  I looked out the window, watching as Mrs. Sherman shut the car’s hatchback with her free hand. That must’ve been the last bag of groceries she was carrying. The car was probably empty now.

  She started moving toward the house again.

  I stepped back to the desk, back to the computer. The number on the screen was now 32% . . . 33% . . . 34% . . . The Private Eye program kept loading slowly.

  I tensed as the screen door banged shut downstairs again. I stood listening helplessly as the footsteps traveled down the hall, as Mrs. Sherman carried her last bag of groceries into the kitchen.

  I watched the numbers moving on the computer screen. It was cool in the house, but sweat had begun to gather on my forehead. Now, one drop ran down my temple toward my cheek. I brushed it away quickly.

  The Private Eye program was 40 percent downloaded.

  I could hear Mrs. Sherman in the kitchen now. I could hear the refrigerator door open. Sure, she’d be putting away the stuff that would spoil first. That’s what my mom always did. At least that meant she wouldn’t come upstairs right away.

  44% . . . 45% . . .

  Now I could hear other noises down below in the kitchen. Cabinet doors banging as they opened and closed. Mrs. Sherman was putting the rest of the groceries away, the stuff that wouldn’t spoil. What would she do when she was finished? Would she come upstairs?

  More sweat was gathering on my forehead and my neck. I couldn’t figure out what to do. There was no closet in the room, no place to hide. The only way out was through the window. It wasn’t that high. I could probably lower myself down and drop without breaking my leg. But the window was shut. If I opened it, it was sure to make a noise, a rumble. Then Mrs. Sherman would know I was here. On the other hand, if I waited and she came upstairs, I’d have no time to get away.

  What then?

  I looked at the screen. Fifty percent. Half done. I wiped the beaded sweat off my face and neck with my hand, but I felt more sweat dampening my armpits, streaming down my sides.

  And what if Mrs. Sherman caught me—what about that? I’d just have to get past her somehow and run for it. What else could I do? But then Sherman would know I’d been here, trying to get into his computer. If he suspected I’d downloaded Private Eye, he’d be able to trace me the second I used it, find me at the Ghost Mansion. The program would be useless—and if there was something in Sherman’s computer that would help me find out who killed Alex, it would be lost to me.

  More noises from the kitchen below. I couldn’t figure out what they were at first. Then I could: paper crunching. She was folding up the grocery bags, probably saving them to use for recycling and stuff like my mom did. A few more cabinets opened and closed.

  Then the footsteps started again.

  Mrs. Sherman came back down the hall, back toward the foyer. My stomach twisted. I was sure she was going to come upstairs this time.

  I glanced at the screen: 61% . . . 62% . . . How complicated a program was this? It seemed to be taking forever.

  Mrs. Sherman reached the foyer and—just as I feared—she started up the stairs. I heard her softened footsteps on the carpeted runners as she climbed.

  My heart was beating so fast now, my head felt light. But I had to do something. Where I was, at the desk, at the computer, she’d be able simply to turn her head and see me when she reached the second-floor landing. Even if I hid myself from sight, she’d be able to see that the computer was on.

  I had to close the door—or at least close it a little. She might notice that. She might remember that it had been open. But it was a chance I had to take.

  She was about halfway up the stairs when I started moving. I was at the door in a second. I figured I had to swing the door about two-thirds of the way shut to block her view of the room from the top of the stairs.

  I swung the door in as quickly as I could.

  It creaked.

  The footsteps on the stairs stopped.

  There was a moment of silence. I sensed Mrs. Sherman out there on the stairway, listening.

  I pressed myself close to a bookshelf, out of sight of the hallway. I stood as still as stone. I felt my breath trapped in my throat as if it were a lead ball. I felt my heart hammering as if it wanted to break free.

  “Bill?” Mrs. Sherman called. “Bill, are you home?”

  Another moment of silence went by. Come on, I thought. Houses creak all the time. It was nothing. Just the wood settling. I tried to force the thoughts from my brain into hers.

  Maybe it worked. I don’t know. But the next moment, Mrs. Sherman started coming up the stairs again.

  I heard her footsteps reach the landing. Then they stopped. Was she looking this way? Would she notice that the door had been shut?

  I stood where I was, pressed close to the bookshelf, barely breathing, all heartbeat and sweat and waiting.

  Another footstep—this one coming toward me.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  The next moment, Mrs. Sherman’s footsteps were headed down the stairs again.

  I practically leapt away from the wall, leapt back to the computer.

  Eighty-five percent of the program had loaded.

  Come on! I thought frantically. Come on! I wanted to strangle Josh for giving me such a slow program. It was all my fault for not thinking there might be a Mrs. Sherman, but that didn’t matter. I couldn’t strangle myself, so I wanted to strangle Josh.

  Downstairs, I heard the door open. I heard Mrs. Sherman say, “Oh, hi!” in a friendly voice.

  A man answered her, “How you doing? I just need you to sign for this.”

  It was the mailman. I’d seen him coming toward the house.

  “Nice day to work outdoors,” Mrs. Sherman said. I could tell she was making conversation while she signed whatever he needed her to sign.

  “A lot better than some, that’s for sure,” the mailman answered.

  I watched the numbers on the computer screen climbing: 90% . . . 92% . . . 93% . . .

  “There you go. Thanks,” I heard Mrs. Sherman say.

  “You have a nice day now,” said the mailman.

  Then the numbers on the screen took a sort of leap— right to 100%. The last bit of the Private Eye program had loaded.

  I heard the door shut downstairs. I heard Mrs. Sherman tearing open a package in the foyer.

  Moving as fast as I could, I opened the computer’s disk drive. Recovered my disk. Slipped it into the pocket of my fleece with one hand and turned off the computer with the other.

  I heard Mrs. Sherman’s footsteps moving again—but she wasn’t coming back up the stairs, she was heading back down the hall, carrying her package toward the kitchen.

  I rushed out of the room. Rushed to the top of the stairs. I went down as fast as I could, keeping on the balls of my feet to stay silent, praying the runners wouldn’t creak beneath me.

  I could hear Mrs. Sherman in the kitchen when I reached the bottom of the stairs. I ducked quickly into the living room. Now she was coming back my way again, headed up the stairs again.

  I heard h
er on the upstairs landing. Heard her moving down the hall toward her husband’s office.

  And I was moving too. Moving through the rooms until I reached the back door. Moving out into the yard. Moving around the side of the house to the front.

  Moving across the lawn to my car, just as fast as I could go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Private Eye

  It was dark when the first signal came. I was back in the upstairs parlor of the Ghost Mansion. I was lying in the sleeping bag, my eyes closed, my thoughts drifting in and out of dreams.

  For moments at a time, I would think I was home again, in my own bed, the blankets pulled up around my chin as I waited for my mom to call me and tell me it was time to wake up for school. I had that dream a lot these days. It was always pretty depressing when I woke up and realized it wasn’t true, when the reality came back to me—that I was on the run, alone.

  I was sinking deeper into sleep, deeper into my dream when the laptop made a noise beside me.

  It was a soft two-note musical tone. I knew right away that it was the Private Eye program. It was alerting me that Mr. Sherman had signed on to his home computer.

  I sat up quickly. I pulled the laptop to me. It had come out of sleep mode automatically. The monitor had come on and the Private Eye screen had opened. It was a blank blue screen. A moment later, shimmering white letters began appearing there as if they were being typed by an invisible hand. Everything that Mr. Sherman typed on his computer was appearing here on mine. It was kind of a weird feeling to be spying on someone like that. But it was the only way I’d be able to get the password I needed to break into his machine and find out what he knew about Alex and me.

  Strikeback.

  That was the first word that appeared on the Private Eye screen. It must’ve been Sherman’s password. Strikeback.

  There was a pause after that. Then more words began appearing, rolling out fast, then faster, white against the blue background.

  At first, there was nothing very interesting. Mr. Sherman seemed to sign on to some kind of e-mail or instant-messaging program. Then he wrote a few messages about appointments and homework and conferences.

  Have to re-sked for Monday.

  Papers are now back in the system, with comments.

  Stuff like that. It went on for another ten minutes or so. Ordinary messages a teacher might send to his students or colleagues or friends. The Private Eye program only intercepted Sherman’s keystrokes, so I couldn’t see any answers that came back, but I didn’t figure they were anything more interesting than what I could see.

  Which was pretty much what I was expecting. I didn’t really think I was going to learn anything important just sitting here, watching Mr. Sherman’s keystrokes. I figured if there was any important information on his computer, I would have to break into his house again and get into the computer using his password and find it myself. I didn’t really believe he was going to be sending any e-mails or IMs with any deep, dark secret messages in them.

  As it turned out, I was wrong.

  After about ten minutes, there was a pause. The messages stopped coming. A white cursor blinked on the blue screen. Then . . .

  What are we going to do about West?

  My lips parted. I sat up straighter. I stared. I couldn’t believe it. Was Sherman sending an IM about me?

  I guess there was an answer of some kind, which I couldn’t see. Then, a moment later, Sherman typed a message back:

  If he was ever in Spring Hill, I think he’s gone. It’s too hot here with the police after him.

  I felt the breath go out of me in a long hiss, as if I were a tire losing its air. It was me they were talking about.

  My best guess is he’s heading out to Chicago. He must have figured out about our operations there.

  That was good. They didn’t know I was still in town. But what Chicago operations were they talking about? And why did they think I was onto them?

  A pause. Another answer I couldn’t read, I guess. Then, again from Sherman’s computer:

  Yes. But we have to be careful. The police effort to find him is substantial and the last thing we need now is to tangle with the law. You saw what happened at the library.

  As the words paused again, I stared at the screen eagerly. My mind raced as I tried to comprehend what it all meant.

  It meant Sherman was one of them—that was the first thing. It meant he was one of the Homelanders. Maybe that meant he was the one who killed Alex too. At least he might know who did.

  I took a moment to get hold of this idea: my old history teacher involved with terrorists, with murder. Oddly enough, the idea didn’t shock me. It didn’t even surprise me, to be honest. He never exactly hid the fact that he disliked America or that he thought ordinary moral ideas were all ridiculous. I guess if you followed Mr. Sherman’s thoughts to their logical conclusion, this is where they ended up.

  Absolutely. Absolutely.

  That was the next message on the Private Eye screen. That didn’t tell me much. And the pause that followed was even longer than before.

  I waited. The bright glow of the computer screen was the only light in the dark house, an island of light in all that darkness.

  Finally, more words appeared on the screen:

  A series of explosions this time, right. He can’t prevent them. Even if he gets to Chi on time.

  Another long pause. I stared into the blue light. Without knowing why, I was beginning to feel jumpy, nervous, as if someone were watching me, as if the light of the computer in the dark house had left me exposed.

  I started thinking about the words on the screen. Chicago. A series of explosions. Why did they think I knew about that? In fact, why would they be talking about it so openly on a computer? Weren’t they afraid someone might hack in and get the information? Weren’t they afraid someone might intercept their messages, just as I was doing right . . . ?

  A new thought went through me like a jolt of electricity. I sat straight, tense, hardly breathing. I stopped paying attention to the words on the monitor. Instead, I began to listen to the dark house all around me.

  Because this didn’t make sense, did it? What was happening here—none of it made any sense. If this was Sherman talking to the Homelanders, they wouldn’t expose themselves online like this, would they? They were so secretive, so good at keeping themselves in the shadows. This didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel real. And so maybe . . .

  Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe it was all phony. Maybe it was all just some kind of ploy to fool me, to keep me staring at the screen, to keep my attention diverted while . . .

  My hand shot out quickly to the laptop and snapped it shut, turned it off. The light went out, the little parlor plunged into darkness, became one with the surrounding blackness of the Ghost Mansion.

  They knew!

  Suddenly I was certain of it. They knew about the Private Eye program. Of course. Mrs. Sherman must have told her husband that she thought she’d heard someone in the house. Maybe Sherman himself had seen the marks on the front door and guessed that the house had been broken into. His first thought would have been for the safety of his files, his computer . . .

  I’d been careless. I’d been foolish. And now Sherman knew I had been in his office. He knew I had put the Private Eye program in his computer. He—he or someone—was sending false, nonsensical messages to keep my attention diverted to the screen while he traced my address, while he tracked me here.

  I sat in the darkness, tense, listening. Did they already know where I was? Were they already on their way? Were they already outside, surrounding me? Or inside, already coming up the stairs.

  I listened. For a moment or two, the house seemed silent. But the house was never silent, not really. There were always the creaks and groans of the wood settling. There were always the rapid footsteps of the vermin in the walls. There was always the wind outside in the graveyard, the leaves tumbling, the crickets in the dark.

  Slowly—as slowly as
I could—I unfolded from my sitting position and rose to my feet. I took a deep breath and let it out silently. Crouching slightly, I turned to face the parlor doorway.

  I had to get out of here. I had to get out of here before they came for me. If I was outside, at least I’d be able to see them approach. At least I’d have room to run.

  I started moving. Slowly. Step by step. Trying to keep the floor from creaking. I didn’t pause to take anything with me. All those great supplies my friends had given me—the sleeping bag, the food, the backpack— there was no time to gather them up. I had to leave them all behind. I’d still have my wallet. The money—that would help. Plus the Swiss Army knife that was still in my pocket. But all the rest—I had to leave it. I just had to go.

  I moved on tiptoe, hardly breathing. I moved in the direction of the doorway, which I could just make out—a rectangle of deeper darkness in the darkness of the room. As I moved, I listened with every fiber of myself. Listened for the sound of the door downstairs, or the odd creak of a floorboard. Anything that would let me know the Homelanders were there with me in the dark. There was nothing.

  Now I was at the doorway. Now I was stepping out— slowly, slowly into the hall. I had to get to the stairs. I took another step . . .

  And I felt the icy-cold circle of a gun barrel pressed against the side of my head.

  Mr. Sherman’s voice came out of the darkness.

  “Too late, Charlie,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Homelanders 101

  The bright beam of a flashlight pierced the dark, shot into my eyes, blinding me. I held my hand up, trying to block the light, trying to see him. I could just make out his figure, dimly visible in the outglow of the beam. He’d pulled the gun back from my head and was holding it close to his body so I couldn’t get at it. He waggled the barrel toward the doorway.

  “Get back in the room,” he said. “Move. Now.”

  I moved, turning away from the light, hoping my eyes would adjust. Sherman used the flashlight to show the way back into the parlor.