by Peg Kehret
If someone walked past on the sidewalk or drove down the street while No Help loaded his truck, they’d assume he was moving. There would be no reason to call the police.
Outside, daylight gave way to darkness. Inside, the walls seemed to slide closer as it became harder to see, until I could only make out an oblong of gray where the window was. Soon that, too, turned black.
I wished he had turned on the light. Even the bare bulb beside a dangling ceiling chain would be better than waiting in the dark. I took a deep breath, telling myself to stay calm.
I did not feel calm; I felt panicky. I was alone in an empty apartment miles from where I lived. I was tied up and abandoned, and nobody knew where I was.
I wondered how long it would take for the water to overflow the tub and sink, and start under the bathroom door.
A tear rolled down one cheek. I couldn’t brush it away because my hands were tied, so I gritted my teeth and forced myself not to cry. I refused to start bawling and get myself all stuffed up when I couldn’t even blow my nose.
My shoulder throbbed where it had hit the floor when I tipped the chair over. I sat in the darkness, listening. Faint noises from Mrs. Spangler’s TV drifted upward. Twice, headlights briefly illuminated the window as a car drove past.
I shivered. Was there any heat in this apartment? Probably not. I realized my feet were cold because my sneakers were wet. I couldn’t lean over to feel how deep the water was but I could lift my toes a couple of inches. I raised them as far as I could and then stomped down. Splash! Water flew up, splattering both legs of my jeans. There must already be an inch or more on the floor. Soon I felt it seep over the tops of my sneakers.
I had assumed the water would soak through the floor and cause a leak to the room below, or that it would run under the door to the hallway and cascade down the stairs. Either way, the water would alert Mrs. Spangler, or anyone else who saw it, that there was plumbing trouble in No Help’s apartment. I had not expected the water to stay in his apartment, getting deeper and deeper while I sat tied to a chair, unable to get away.
I remembered that the stairway was permanently lit, but when I squinted at the bottom of the door I couldn’t see even a sliver of light. The door fit so tightly that there wasn’t space for the water to escape.
I learned to swim when I was only three, and every summer Lauren and I spend hot afternoons at the public pool. My family enjoys going to the beach, too.
This was different. When I’m in the pool, I can swim to the side and hoist myself up any time I want to, or go to the shallow end and walk up the steps to the pool deck. At the ocean, I always run along the edge, letting the waves lap over my bare feet, squishing the wet sand between my toes.
I had never before been in danger from water. If this water didn’t soak through the floor or flow under the door to the hall, it would keep rising until someone turned off the faucets and pulled the plugs out of the drains. It would come up and up, past my knees, my waist, and my shoulders while I sat helpless, unable to make it stop.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Three police cars stopped in front of the Rushford residence. Mrs. Rushford, who had been watching from the window, flung open the door as the officers hurried toward her. Two officers from one car headed toward the back of the Rushfords’ house, one on each side. Two other officers went to the door.
“I’m Sergeant Whitman,” the tall gray-haired officer said. “This is Lieutenant Benson.”
Mrs. Rushford introduced herself and Mrs. Braider.
“Tell us what happened,” Sergeant Whitman said.
Mrs. Rushford went through the whole story. Mrs. Braider told what she had witnessed. “Emmy is not answering her phone,” Mrs. Rushford said. “She always either answers or calls back within a minute or two. Always! Something is wrong.” Her voice broke. “Something is terribly wrong.”
“I believe we can issue an AMBER Alert,” Sergeant Whitman said. “We’ll need a current picture of Emmy.”
Mrs. Rushford had seen AMBER Alerts in the past, where the description and photo of a missing child were sent to local radio and TV stations who interrupt their programming to broadcast the information. The child’s name and description are also displayed in bright lights over all the major freeways, along with any information about the suspected abductor and his/her vehicle. More than once, a citizen who had seen an AMBER Alert recognized the missing child or a suspect’s vehicle and alerted authorities.
“I carry her most recent school picture in my wallet,” Mrs. Rushford said.
One of the officers who had gone to the backyard now came inside and got permission to search the bedrooms and the rest of the house. Meanwhile, Mrs. Rushford opened her purse, removed the wallet, and found Emmy’s picture. She slipped it out of the protective sleeve and handed it to Sergeant Whitman.
He looked at the photo. “A lovely girl,” he said. “We’ll do our best to find her.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Rushford said, once again choking back tears.
Sergeant Whitman handed the picture to Lieutenant Benson, who looked at it and gasped.
“I met this girl,” she said. “I didn’t recognize the name, but I know the face. She came into the station and turned over photos that she took of an apartment full of stolen goods.”
Mrs. Rushford’s hand flew to her throat. “What?” she said. “When was this?”
“Only a few days ago. Her tip led to the arrest of a man who had burglarized nearly two dozen homes. She showed me the photos and gave me his address.”
“Is that the one who got caught red-handed with his apartment full of stolen computers and TVs?” Sergeant Whitman asked. “I wasn’t involved in the case, but I heard about it.”
“That’s the one. Donald Zummer. He was arraigned yesterday.”
“Are you sure it was Emmy?” Mrs. Rushford asked. She found it hard to believe that only a short time after confessing all of her trips to Sophie’s neighborhood and promising never to do anything like that again, Emmy would not only get involved with a burglary suspect, but also would go to the police with photos and not tell her parents what she had done.
“It was her,” Lieutenant Benson said. “I have the paperwork on file that she filled out when she showed me the pictures. I remember now, she said her name was Louise.”
“That’s her middle name,” Mrs. Rushford said. “She’s named after my mother, Emmy Louise.”
“I recommended that she tell her parents about the photos,” Lieutenant Benson said. “Obviously that didn’t happen.”
“No,” Mrs. Rushford said. “It didn’t.”
“Where’s the burglary suspect now?” Sergeant Whitman asked. “Is Zummer still locked up?”
Lieutenant Benson shook her head. “It was a first offense,” she said. “The judge let him go when his business partner posted twenty-thousand-dollars’ bail.”
The two officers looked at each other. “I don’t like this,” Lieutenant Benson said.
“So if he posted bail, he could leave,” said Mrs. Rushford. “He was free to go. Is that right?”
“Correct,” said Sergeant Whitman.
Mrs. Braider said, “He might have figured out who tipped off the cops and come after her.”
This time, Mrs. Rushford did not even try to hold back her tears.
“Emmy believed that the suspect did not know she had taken the pictures,” Lieutenant Benson said.
Using a handheld computer, Lieutenant Benson found the photo of Mr. Zummer that was taken the day of his arrest. She inserted it in a file of generic mug shots and then said, “Mrs. Braider, I’d like you to look at a few photos, and tell me if you recognize any of them.” She began scrolling through the pictures while Mrs. Braider concentrated on the screen. When Donald Zummer’s picture appeared, Mrs. Braider cried, “That’s him! That’s the man who was with Emmy.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive. He came here once before, and he’s the one who pushed Emmy into the backyard this afternoon.”
As soon as the rest of the house had been checked, all the police officers left.
“We’ll be in touch,” Sergeant Whitman said.
Mrs. Rushford wiped away her tears as she thanked them.
Before driving away, Sergeant Whitman sent in all the information needed for the AMBER Alert, which went into effect immediately. Using a portable scanner, he e-mailed Emmy’s photo. Within minutes, her picture and the police department’s mug shot of the suspect were sent to media contacts, the State Patrol, and the National Crime Information Center. Thousands of cell-phone users who had registered for the Wireless AMBER Alert program were notified.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Benson checked the Department of Motor Vehicles to find out if a vehicle was registered to Donald Zummer. She quickly had her answer. Mr. Zummer owned a 1972 Ford truck. License number A43883J. Color: white.
Lieutenant Benson called the police dispatcher and added a description of the truck to the AMBER Alert. She also asked the dispatcher for the address of Zummer’s apartment. She remembered where it was but needed the exact street number in order to call for backup.
With any luck, he would be there, and Emmy Louise Rushford would be with him. Unharmed.
She called for backup as she drove, explaining the connection between her destination and the child who had triggered the AMBER Alert. As she turned onto East Sycamore, two other squad cars converged. The three officers jumped from their cars and sprinted toward the front of the building.
They were almost to the door when they got an All-Points Bulletin. “A truck matching the one in the AMBER Alert has been spotted going North on Highway 405, just past the Coal Creek exit in Bellevue. All available units respond.”
The three officers ran back to their squad cars and took off in pursuit of the truck.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The water climbed slowly toward my knees. Although I had turned on both the hot and cold faucets, there was no warmth in the dampness that soaked my jeans. All the hot water must have been used up.
I inhaled, trying to settle my nerves, but the air smelled acrid, as if the water was contaminated. I remembered the filthy sink, toilet, and bathtub, and the dust balls, hair, and dirt on the bathroom floor. The apartment had probably not been cleaned since No Help rented it. No wonder the water smelled yucky.
My eyes had adjusted to the dark. I saw a pizza box floating near my chair like a square brown raft.
I shivered. My panic rose as fast as the murky water.
If I get out of this mess, I told myself, I will never, ever do anything remotely dangerous again. I should have shown the photos to Mom and Dad and let them be the ones to contact the police. At the very least, I should have let them know what I had done, even if it meant losing privileges. I would rather be grounded for the rest of the year than drown in No Help’s apartment.
A sudden shriek of sirens in the distance made my heart flutter. My hopes soared as the sounds came closer. The sirens stopped nearby and blue lights arced in circles outside the window, as if the police cars had parked in front of Sophie’s building and left their lights moving.
“Yes!” I shouted. “I’m up here! Hurry!”
I listened for voices. I anticipated someone knocking on the door, but it didn’t happen. Instead, after only a minute or so I saw the blue lights leave. The sirens screamed again but this time they went away from me, fading into the distance until the shrill sounds dimmed and disappeared.
I closed my eyes and let my head droop down as my optimism fled with the police cars.
• • •
Mrs. Spangler also heard the sirens and noticed the blue lights outside. She went to the window and looked out. Three police cars were parked directly in front of her building. She watched as three officers started toward the front door, stopped, then turned and rushed back to their cars and drove off.
Gracious! What was that all about? It was more exciting outside her window than it was on the TV. She turned the program off and slowly made her way to her bedroom where she put on her favorite flannel nightgown, the blue and white one her daughter had sent for her birthday. The next time Marcia called, she would tell her about the police cars. She liked to have something interesting to tell her daughter. Marcia always liked it when Mrs. Spangler had tidbits of news to relate.
Mrs. Spangler brushed her teeth and eased her weary bones into bed. She wished she could still care for a pet. After Richard died, it had been comforting to curl up with Penny, the Pomeranian that she and Richard had rescued from the shelter all those years ago. The warmth of the small dog beside her had made the bed less lonely, and she had liked the soft snuffling noises that Penny used to make in her sleep. When Penny died at the age of nineteen, Mrs. Spangler had thought her heart would break.
Sighing, she closed her eyes. There was no use weeping for times past. I am lucky, she told herself, to have such happy memories. She let her thoughts drift back to when Penny’s predecessor, Muffin, was a young dog and Richard was healthy and Marcia still lived at home. What good times those had been!
She smiled, and snuggled under the quilt.
Plop!
Mrs. Spangler’s eyes flew open. What was that?
Plop! Plop! It sounded like water dripping. She must not have shut the faucet off all the way. She sat up, fumbled for her glasses, and turned on the light. She swung her feet to the floor and reached for her walker.
Plop! There it was again. She pushed her walker into the bathroom, but the faucets were not dripping. Mrs. Spangler frowned. Could it be the kitchen faucet? She stood still, listening.
Plop! Plop! She started down the hall. Plop! What on earth? It seemed to be coming from the living room. It couldn’t be a leaky roof, not when she lived in a first-floor apartment. Besides, it wasn’t raining tonight.
She made her way into the living room, turning on lights as she went. The plopping sounds came faster, and she followed them until she found a large puddle on the floor beside the sofa. Looking up, she saw a dark stain on the ceiling. Water dripped from it to the floor below.
Mrs. Spangler inched her walker to the kitchen, took her largest pan out of the cupboard, and put the pan where it would catch the drips.
That awful man upstairs must have let his bathtub overflow. Or maybe his toilet had stuck and he didn’t know it. Probably he wasn’t at home. He didn’t seem to spend much time here.
She didn’t know his name, so she couldn’t call him. She knew from past experience that there was no use trying to call her landlord except during business hours because all she got was an answering machine. Well, she couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning to notify someone. By then, the whole ceiling might fall in.
Mrs. Spangler called 911. “There’s water coming through my ceiling from the apartment above me,” she said.
“Have you called the person who lives there?”
“I don’t have his number. I don’t even know his name.”
“Can you go upstairs to talk to him?”
“I’m eighty-nine years old and I use a walker. I can’t go up the stairs.”
“Did you call the apartment manager, or the landlord?”
“There is no manager. The landlord only takes calls between eight and five.”
“What’s the address?”
“1135 East Sycamore. Apartment one.”
“I’ll send someone to help you, ma’am.” The 911 operator knew most of the police were attempting to stop the fleeing truck from the AMBER Alert. If no officer was available, he would ask a firefighter to check on Mrs. Spangler.
Mrs. Spangler thanked the operator. She put on her yellow bathrobe and her fuzzy slippers while she waited for help to arrive.
The police dispatcher f
rowned at the address the 911 operator gave him. It seemed familiar. Had something else happened there recently? He scrolled back through the calls he’d taken earlier that evening. When he got to the request for Donald Zummer’s address, he stopped.
How odd. It seemed unlikely that an elderly woman would have a water problem on the same night that someone else in her building was accused of abducting a child. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He had learned long ago to trust his intuition about 911 callers and emergency situations. Instead of asking a firefighter to check out the problem, he called Lieutenant Benson.
“Benson here.”
“Have you been to that apartment on East Sycamore yet?”
“I got there but didn’t go in because I heard the alert that Zummer’s truck had been spotted. I’m on my way to 405.”
The dispatcher told Lieutenant Benson about Mrs. Spangler’s call. “It seemed too much of a coincidence,” he said, “so I thought I’d run it past you before I call the fire station.”
“There are plenty of other units following that truck,” Lieutenant Benson said. “I’ll head back to East Sycamore.”
Mrs. Spangler stood in the open doorway of her apartment, waiting. When Lieutenant Benson opened the front door, Mrs. Spangler said, “Look!”
A thin stream of water now trickled down the stairs.
Lieutenant Benson took the stairs two at a time. When she reached the top, she saw water oozing under the door to apartment 4, the same apartment she had entered with a search warrant when she arrested Donald Zummer.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Iheard the sirens approach again but after what had happened earlier, I didn’t assume that the police cars were coming to rescue me.
Once again they seemed to stop in front of Sophie’s building. When I saw the whirling blue light outside the window, I dared to hope they were headed here.
The water covered my knees and soaked the seat of the chair. I trembled both from the cold and from fear.
