Don't Scream (9780307823526)

by Nixon, Joan Lowery

  I knocked, but no one answered. The drapes were drawn across the double window, except for a foot near the bottom where they hung crookedly apart. I was too curious to ignore the crack. I crouched down, cupped my hands around my face to peek inside, then nearly fell back in shock.

  The room was bare, except for one old beanbag chair and a small portable television set. A phone lay on the floor next to some dirty plates and a mug. That was it. No other furniture. This was where Scott and his aunt lived?

  The door of the apartment next door opened, and an elderly man stepped into the doorway. He tugged at the threadbare sleeves of his faded plaid shirt as he asked, “Are you looking for someone, young lady?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. I got to my feet, embarrassed. “I’m a friend of Scott Alexander. I knocked, but no one answered, so I was checking to see if Scott or his aunt was home.”

  “If they don’t answer, it means they’re not home. I don’t hold with peeking through people’s windows.”

  My face grew warm. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

  He began to close the door, but I couldn’t let him. He was next on Mr. Clark’s list: Ask a neighbor. I said, “Please don’t leave. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you some questions about Scott and Mrs. Turner.”

  “Who?”

  “The people who live in this apartment. Can you tell me about them?”

  “You don’t look like a bill collector. What’s your reason for wanting to know?”

  I smiled. “I’m not a bill collector. I’m in high school, and I’m taking a journalism class. Scott is a friend of mine, so I’m using him as a subject for a homework assignment.”

  “Homework, huh?” he said, and chuckled. “Okay, what’s your question?”

  “Has Scott or Mrs. Turner ever told you where they came from? Have they talked at all about why they moved to Oakberry?”

  “Who’s this Mrs. Turner you keep talking about?”

  “Scott’s aunt. She lives here with him.”

  The man pursed his lips as he thought and shook his head. “Never seen her.”

  “But you must have heard her—maybe the sound of her voice in the next apartment, talking to Scott?”

  “Nope.”

  “But she rented the apartment,” I said.

  “Makes no difference. I still haven’t met the lady.”

  And neither has the office manager. I was getting more and more puzzled.

  “Have you talked to Scott?”

  “Oh, sure. Nice boy. We say an occasional howdy to each other as he’s coming and going from school. Once he came by to use my phone before the phone company got around to hookin’ his up.”

  “Do you know who he called?”

  He raised one eyebrow. “You’re a mighty nosy young lady.”

  “Journalism assignment.” I smiled, but he didn’t smile back.

  “Whyn’t you ask Scott your questions?” he said. “Far as I can see, reporters go right to the source.”

  “He’s pretty modest about himself, so I hoped you could tell me something about him,” I said. “Thanks for talking to me.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  The suspicion that had narrowed his eyes hadn’t left. He stood in his doorway and waited to make sure I was really leaving, so I didn’t attempt to talk to other neighbors. I had a better idea anyway. I walked straight to Spradler’s Drugstore and up to the nearest clerk.

  “Could you tell me, please, which one of the employees is Edna Turner?” I asked.

  The woman looked blank. “There’s no Edna Turner working here.”

  “Did she used to work here? Like last week or before that? Even for just a few days.”

  “No, she didn’t,” the woman insisted, “and I’d certainly know if we’d hired anyone new—even if it was only for a few hours.”

  I wasn’t surprised. In a way, I’d been expecting her answer. Scott might live with a beanbag chair, a television set, and probably a bed in the back room, but I couldn’t imagine a grown woman willing to live in an apartment like that. Who was Edna Turner? And where was she?

  I thought about Lori, who was so hooked on Scott, and about how much time they were spending together. I grew frightened. I needed to get more information fast.

  “Thank you,” I said. I looked around the store and walked to the back where two public telephones hung on the wall. Although Mr. Clark’s system of finding out about a person was useful, I needed more information and had no time to go from source to source. I thought of one person who could help me in a hurry. I punched in his telephone number.

  “Eric, it’s me—Jess Donnally,” I said. “I heard what you said in journalism class about how helpful and speedy a computer can be.”

  “So,” Eric said. “What do you want exactly?”

  “Eric,” I said, “I need you to use a computer to check where someone said he lived, to see if he was telling the truth.”

  “That’s pretty easy,” Eric said. “You could begin with the Bureau of Vital Statistics in that particular town or city, and also give his date of birth.”

  “I don’t know where he was born. And I don’t know his date of birth.”

  “Wouldn’t it be simple just to ask him?”

  “I can’t, but I really need to know.”

  “Jess, would you like me to get this information for you through the Internet?”

  “Can you do that? I’d really be grateful.”

  “I can do almost anything through the Internet. Just tell me the name of the person and the city or town he lived in.”

  There was no reason to hesitate. Eric wouldn’t know Scott or even remember his name if he happened to be in one of his classes. “Scott Alexander,” I said. “Galesburg, New Jersey. And he’s supposed to have an aunt named Edna Turner.”

  “Okay,” Eric said. “Give me your e-mail address.”

  “I don’t have an e-mail address.”

  After a shocked silence Eric asked, “You’re not online?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m calling you from a pay phone,” I told him.

  “Look, if you’re having trouble accessing the Internet, it’s a lot easier now going through World Wide Web. I can help you get the software to hook up with America Online or Prodigy or CompuServe.”

  “Eric,” I said, “I don’t have a computer.”

  I waited patiently until he pulled himself together and said, “Well, then, give me your phone number. I’ll call you when I find out about Scott Alexander. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “I’ll be home in twenty minutes. Call me there, and thanks,” I said. Eric had already hung up.

  I took time to make one more call. I telephoned the bank.

  When a woman answered, I tried to make my voice sound deeper and older and said, “I’d like to verify information given us by an Edna Turner. Does she have an account—either checking or savings—in your bank?”

  “One minute, please,” the woman said, but it took her less than a minute to come back and tell me that no one named Edna Turner had an account in their bank.

  I made it home double-time and dashed through the kitchen door. As I opened the refrigerator to reach for a soft drink, I saw the package of tortillas front and center. Enchiladas! I suddenly thought. I had forgotten it was my night to cook dinner.

  The phone rang as I was washing my hands. Drying them quickly on a towel, I grabbed for the receiver.

  “This Scott Alexander isn’t a real person,” Eric said without any preliminaries. “You should have told me.”

  “He is real,” I insisted.

  “Then he’s using somebody else’s name,” Eric said, “because the only Scott Alexander listed in the Galesburg, New Jersey, records, was born on March 31, 1979, and died on May 20, 1979.”

  I gasped. “A baby!”

  Then I had another thought. “Are you sure you spelled Scott’s name right?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” Eric said.

  “Then, could
your computer have gotten the wrong person?”

  “Computers talk to computers, and computers don’t make mistakes. People make mistakes,” Eric said hostilely.

  “I’m sorry, Eric,” I said. “What you told me came as a surprise.”

  “If I find out anything else, I’ll let you know,” Eric said. “It may take a while, because I’m running out of online time for tonight.” He grunted. “Parents grew up in the Dark Ages, and they can’t understand what life today is all about!”

  “Thanks for helping me,” I told him.

  Eric said, “No problem,” and hung up. He was probably sprinting back to his computer.

  I sat down at the table to think. Who was Scott Alexander? And why was he pretending to be someone he wasn’t? I shivered, suddenly frightened of this person who had stolen the name of a baby who had been born and had died probably in the same year “Scott” had been born.

  CHAPTER

  twelve

  Dad called to say he’d be an hour late for dinner.

  “That’s okay,” I told him. “I’m running late in making the enchiladas. We’ll come out even.”

  When Mom arrived a few minutes later, I was busy grating cheese. “Dad’s going to be an hour late, so I’m planning everything to be ready then,” I said.

  “Fine with me,” Mom said.

  She glanced around the room and asked softly, “Pepper didn’t come back?”

  “No,” I answered.

  “I telephoned the animal shelter. They didn’t pick him up.”

  “Thanks for calling, Mom,” I said, and tears came to my eyes.

  “It’s all right, Jessie,” she said, and hugged my shoulders. “I know you feel bad, but if Pepper doesn’t come back, we’ll get you another cat. Lesley, down at the bank, told me her cat just had kittens … cute little black-and-white ones.”

  I could only shake my head. I didn’t want another cat. I wanted Pepper. “Let’s talk about something else,” I said.

  Mom sat down, kicked off her shoes, and rubbed her feet. “How’s the studying coming?” she asked.

  I stiffened. Much as I love Mom, I hate it when she bugs me. “It’s coming, Mom. You don’t need to keep bringing it up,” I told her.

  “I’m only showing an interest,” she said. “Your father and I are very proud of you and want you to do your best. Did you accomplish a lot this afternoon?”

  “I was working on a journalism project,” I told her. “I—I—interviewed some people.”

  “About what?”

  “We’re learning about sources of information,” I said. “Did you know that just about anybody in the world can find out nearly anything they want about you and Dad?”

  Mom nodded wearily, as though it was the last thing in the world she planned to worry about. “I saw a TV show called ‘No Secrets in Your Life’ last fall.” She pushed back her chair, picked up her shoes, and got to her feet. “Where’s your backpack?” she asked.

  I froze. My backpack! “In my locker at school,” I admitted.

  “With your books in it? Don’t you have homework to do?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but I had that information search to do. I was thinking so hard about that I forgot my backpack.”

  “Oh, Jessie,” Mom said.

  “I can make up the work,” I insisted.

  “Tomorrow,” she said.

  “Right. Tomorrow.”

  “That means you come straight home from school and hit the books.”

  “Sure. I will.”

  “That also means that you won’t be going to the children’s ward.”

  “Mom!” I cried. “Tomorrow’s Thursday!”

  “I know,” she said, “but tomorrow means extra study time.” Her voice grew soft as she added, “It’s your own fault, Jessie.”

  There wasn’t anything I could say to that, since I didn’t want Mom to know about any of my suspicions.

  MY ENCHILADA CASSEROLE was in the oven, and I’d just put a mixed green salad into the refrigerator when Lori called.

  “Oops!” she said. “I forgot you aren’t supposed to talk on the phone. I just want to talk for a second, anyway. I’m not feeling too great—I think I’m coming down with something.”

  “Oh, no. I hope not,” I said. “Listen, there’s something I want to ask you. How much do you know about Scott?”

  “As much as you do,” she said. “He doesn’t like to talk about himself. On the way home from school I asked him if he’d like to bring his aunt over for dinner on Sunday. It was really Mom’s idea. Scott’s been over here a few times and she knows I really like him. I know a lot of girls at school who’d love to go out with him. He hasn’t looked at anyone—”

  “Lori,” I interrupted, “have you ever met his aunt?”

  “No,” she said, “but I’ll tell you all about her when I meet her on Sunday. If I’m not sick, that is.”

  Hiding my shock, I asked, “You mean Scott said he’d bring her?”

  “Not exactly. He said he’d ask her if she’d like to come and let me know.”

  “Lori,” I began, wondering how I could say what I wanted to without its coming out all wrong, “when Scott’s with you … I mean, like when he was at your house this afternoon …”

  “Oh, he wasn’t at my house,” Lori told me. “He just walked with me partway. He wanted to explore the woods.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what I asked him. He’s still thinking about that hidden cemetery. He told me it would make a good feature story.”

  “Feature story? Scott’s not taking journalism.”

  “No, but he said something about some historical magazine.”

  “Oh, for history class.” I thought a moment. “Why didn’t he ask you to explore the woods with him?”

  “I couldn’t, because I had a piano lesson.”

  I hesitated. “Lori, I’ve been wondering about Scott and where he—”

  Mom came into the kitchen and said, “Dad just drove up, Jessie. Can you cut your call short?”

  “I’ll call you back, Lori,” I told her, and hurried to put dinner on the table.

  The phone rang again, and this time Mom answered. Because she’s a stickler for all of us eating dinner together in peace and quiet, she said, “Jessie can’t come to the phone right now, but I’ll tell her to call you back after dinner. What’s your number?”

  She waited until we were seated, then said, “That was Eric Dodson, Jessie. He said to call him back as soon as you can because he has something important to tell you.” She rolled her eyes. “Why is it that every little thing with teenagers is vitally important?”

  Dad winked. “School dance coming up, Jess?”

  “Nothing like that,” I mumbled.

  “Eric is Earl Dodson’s boy,” Dad said. “A real brain. Right?”

  Mom took a sip of iced tea. “I remember a few years ago when you had a crush on him, Jessie.”

  “Look, Eric said he’d call me if … It’s all part of that journalism investigation stuff,” I said. “Could I please be excused to call him back now?”

  “After dinner,” Mom said. “Whatever he wants to tell you can wait that long. By the way, your enchiladas are delicious. Nobody makes them better than you do.”

  By the time we finished dinner, Dad polishing off the last helping, I was practically squirming off my chair, I was so eager to call Eric and find out what new information he had. But the doorbell rang.

  Mom sighed and said, “Jess, could you get it?”

  One more delay. I grumbled to myself all the way to the front door, but when I opened it, I jumped. Standing in front of me was Scott Alexander.

  “Hi, Jess,” he said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. Could I talk to you?”

  “Well, okay.” I gulped. “Want to come in?”

  “No,” he said, and glanced toward the kitchen, where we could hear Mom and Dad talking. “I’d rather talk to you on the porch steps. Okay?”

  I called to my parents
, “I’ll be on the steps a few minutes.” I shut the door and followed him into one of those late-September afterglows.

  Stiffly I sat on the top step next to him. “If it’s about the children’s ward …”

  “I want to apologize. I realized I upset you yesterday. When I said I was following you, I didn’t really mean it the way it sounded. I was about two long blocks behind you and didn’t want to yell at you to wait. You were going in the direction of the hospital, and I hadn’t been there, so it just made sense for me to take the same route. That’s all there was to it.”

  “I did get a different picture. Being followed made me feel creepy,” I said.

  “I didn’t explain myself very well,” Scott replied.

  I drew on my courage and said, “Scott, I don’t think you’ve been really honest with us.”

  He sat up with a start and stared into my eyes. “What makes you think that?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know if I want to tell you,” I answered.

  “You admitted you’re curious. Did anyone ever tell you that sometimes you can get into trouble by being too curious?” he asked.

  I stammered, “A-Are you threatening me?”

  I began to get up, but Scott took my hand and pulled me back down beside him. “Wait, Jess. That wasn’t a threat. I come out with everything all wrong, don’t I?” He sighed and said, “There are things I haven’t told anyone here for a good reason. All I can do is ask you to trust me.”

  “How can I trust you when I know you’ve lied to me?”

  Scott leaned forward, rested his forehead in his hands, and groaned. Then he stood and slowly walked down the porch steps. He turned and said, “So long, Jess. I can’t say any more. See you tomorrow.”

  I returned to the house and called Eric’s phone number. He answered on the first ring.

  “It’s me, Jess,” I said.

  Eric got right to the point. “This Scott Alexander you asked about—he applied last month for a driver’s license and got it.”