Hallie scooped out some grain and dumped it into the feed rack, then picked up a brush and began grooming the mare while she ate. Hallie stood on tiptoes to run the brush along Poky's back. "A little pig?" she asked.
Kyle didn't answer. Hallie peeked under the mare's neck, and saw that he was reading through the paper once again.
He caught her looking at him. "It seems too much to believe. Tom's an alcoholic, he's neglected the business, and I keep kicking myself for not keeping a closer eye on him and on the place—and the kids have been bugging me about that since they started working there this summer. They're convinced the place is a gold mine and we've let it fall apart. I can't argue with any of that, and I can't say that Tom's not partly responsible for that. But we're talking about something else here. It's one thing to say Tom's irresponsible, that he's let the place fall apart while he nurses his daily hangovers. Even to suggest he'd embezzle money isn't out of the question—he's sure been acting guilty about something.
"But hurting Windy and Zac goes way beyond laziness or greed. And killing my parents? I just can't accept that Tom could be involved in anything like that."
He looked at her. "Okay, maybe I'm being dumb. I tend to think people are good. It's hard for me to accept the idea of deliberate cruelty."
"It happens," she said.
He sat up. "I know, Hallie. I really do. But this"—he waved the paper in the air—"could all be coincidence, you know," he said. "I need some proof. Maybe I'll go back to the park later tonight and keep an eye on Tom." He smiled wanly. "I've seen the Maltese Falcon—how hard can it be to tail somebody?"
"We could be wrong," she said, but she didn't believe it.
"We're talking cold-blooded murder here," Kyle said quietly. "I've always believed my parents died for nothing—that stupid park. But to think it could be murder.... I can't think about it anymore." He put his head in his hands and sat there.
Poky munched obliviously on the grain. Hallie ran her hand over the mare's flank.
"Easy there, girl." The mare sidled over to let her past.
Hallie began to groom her again. She worked her way down the mare's left side from nose to tail. Her hands ached, but it was a good ache. It felt good to use her hands for something useful, to feel the fur of the animal beneath the brush, to hear the snuffling as the mare ate, the soft, warm breath as she ducked under her neck and went to the other side.
She glanced over at Kyle. He hadn't moved. "I used to love the barn at the Carlysle ranch," she said. "It was as big as this one, and I'd go out every afternoon after school and help Pops groom the horses."
"Pops?" he asked.
"Yeah. The Carlysle ranch was the foster home I told you about." He looked away again, but she kept talking. "Pops was Mr. Carlysle—the one who taught me to carve toys. See, I used to stop at the toy store every time we were in town just to look at the toy horses. I wanted one of those little horses, and I couldn't have it, of course. So he told me one day he'd teach me how to make my own. He made a game out of it."
She patted the mare's neck. "I missed that place when I left. I felt connected to it, part of something for the only time in my life."
"Like the Madrigals have always been here," Kyle mumbled. "I just don't get it."
"Kyle—"
"Go on," he said. "Tell me more. It's working, really."
"Working?" She peeked under Poky's neck to see him.
"Getting my mind off things." He smiled faintly at her.
"I didn't realize I was that transparent," she muttered.
"As glass," he said. "Go on. So you learned to carve at the ranch."
She blushed, then started grooming again. "Let's see, my first carving was a fat little shetland pony that lived at the ranch. I made a lot more over the years. I used to go to the racetrack while Dave was at work. It was my little secret—you know how some people sneak out to the track to gamble, and don't want anybody to know? Well, I'd sneak out to watch the horses. I'd make sketches of them—Dave had told me to give up my drawing, but I figured what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. I guess when he accused me of sneaking around I kind of figured he was right. I was sneaking around, but not with another man. Just doing what I wanted to do when his back was turned."
Kyle watched her work on the mare. Her hands were stiff, but she seemed to have forgotten that as she groomed and petted Poky. The old mare ate up the attention, nuzzling her and leaning toward the brush. Hallie seemed totally absorbed by what she was doing, as if for once she wasn't self-conscious about her hands.
"I loved all animals," she continued, seeming to be half talking to him, and half to herself. "I'd go to the animal shelter just to pet the stray cats and dogs. I'd draw them and cry because I couldn't take any of them home. Dave said I had him, I didn't need a pet to fuss over that would take attention away from him. But my favorite place was the racetrack. I'd watch the thoroughbreds and sketch them, and then at home I'd carve them out. The carvings are all gone now, all except the gray mare you've seen—Dave overlooked that one somehow."
"Overlooked it?" Kyle asked.
She jumped, then stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. What was she hiding? "You were telling me about the racetrack," he prompted.
She went back to currying the mare, though he could see her attention obviously wasn't on her work. The mare stomped her foot impatiently when Hallie absentmindedly ran the comb the wrong way. "Sorry, girl," she mumbled.
"There's something about the young thoroughbreds, so full of energy and life," she continued. "I never got tired of watching them."
"Of course you didn't," Kyle said.
She came around from Poky's far side to see him. "What?"
"If you don't get tired of doing something, it's probably important to you."
"Don't tell me, my mission in life."
He smiled. "You don't have to sound so sarcastic."
"Sorry. That's all right for you, but not me."
"Why not?"
She turned away, but this time he went after her and turned her to face him, her back against the mare, her hands pressed against his chest in a vain attempt to push him away. "Why not?" he repeated. "Why do you deny what you know is true?"
"Let me go!" all of a sudden she was shouting, and he could see the tears in her eyes. She pounded his chest with her fists.
He stifled a grunt. "Well, one thing's certain. You can use your hands when you want to."
She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled into his shoulder.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to tease you." He stroked her hair.
"Life's not fair." When she spoke, her breath felt warm against his shirt.
"That's right."
She pulled away just far enough to look up into his eyes. "How can you keep believing in dreams after everything that's happened?" He brushed away a tear on her cheek.
"How can you not believe?" he asked.
She pulled away from him and picked up the brush again, dipping under the mare's neck and disappearing behind Poky's shoulder. He heard brushing sounds, and the mare munching, and a rustling from the bats upstairs.
He went back to the bale of straw and sat down. An unloved girl, shuttled from one foster home to another, easy prey for a smooth-talking man who promised to take care of her. Her dreams had become a trap. No wonder she couldn't believe.
"He said I didn't need my own life. He'd give me everything I needed." Her voice was soft, barely audible over the mare's chewing.
He sat silently, and waited for the end of story that he knew would come.
"There was a craft shop in town that took work on consignment," she whispered. "Handmade quilts, pottery, stuff like that. They liked my little carvings, so I made some for them while he was at work." She sighed. "I thought he'd be proud."
The puzzle pieces fit into place: a jealous, self-absorbed husband who wouldn't share his pretty young wife with anyone, or anything else, even if h
e had to destroy her in the process.
"Dreams are all right for you," she said firmly. "But not for me."
"I don't know," he said. There was so much sadness in the world; maybe he was a fool. He looked down at the newspaper clipping. If it was true...? How could he believe in anything anymore if his whole life had been built on a lie? "Maybe it's not all right for me anymore, either." He cradled his head in his hands.
Hallie set the brush down. She ducked past the mare and came closer to him, till she stood in front of where he sat on the hay bale. He didn't look up. She wrapped her arms around him, and he leaned his head against her stomach. She stroked his hair, as he had comforted her before.
"I don't know what to do," he mumbled. "I can't take this to the police yet. But I've got to find the answers."
"We'll find them together," Hallie said.
~*~
CHAPTER EIGHT
He left for the park when it got dark. Hallie stood with the house phone in her hand and watched the pickup truck head down the driveaway until it was out of sight. Then she went inside the rancho.
She hated this feeling of helplessness, of emptiness. She knew Kyle was facing something awful—the realization that the danger to his family might be closer than he ever could have imagined. But even if they were right in who was behind it, they were still no closer to finding Windy and Zac. And they had to find them.
She had to do something, not just sit here waiting.
She went upstairs to Windy's room. It felt odd to see so many things from the dorm room they'd shared transplanted here. It made Windy feel more out of reach than ever.
She set the phone down on the dresser, then started going through all of the stuff in the room. First she went through all the clothes, feeling in the pockets for papers—or really anything that might be a clue. Nothing.
Then she started on the papers on Windy's desk. Unlike Zac's, she found no newspaper clippings, no notes.
There was a stack of books on the nightstand next to Windy's bed. Hallie sat on the bed and went through the books. No surprises there: three on local history, one intro to biology book identical to the one Hallie had used last semester, and the latest volume in the vampire romance series Windy loved.
The local history books looked fragile. Hallie went through the first two, gently turning the pages so she wouldn't damage them.
Then she got to the last one. This wasn't actually a book, it turned out. It was a diary. Hand-written, in a crabbed, faded script. She turned to the first page, and saw the name: Miss Rose Aiden. How sweet. The Irish lightkeeper's daughter who handed down the cherry trees and her green eyes to the present generation. Hallie paged carefully through the yellowed pages. The text was hard to read. There were slips of papers between some of the pages. At first she thought the slips of paper were clues, but quickly realized they were torn up notes from Windy's biology class. She must have just used the recycled paper to mark the diary pages.
Okay. Hallie went through the diary systematically, looking at each marked page and working to make out what the faded writing on that page said. First page was about Rose gathering up her satchel with all her meager possessions and stealing into the night to meet AM, though Mama and Pa would never forgive her. AM must be Arturo Madrigal, of course. Then were pages marking other events in her long life, from Alas, our first son had taken nary a breath before the Lord called him home in November of 1927 to the new flying saucer is a big hit with the grandchildren in 1952. That was one of the last entries. The diary ended in 1953, presumably when its owner was no longer around to write in it.
None of this was a bit of help. She read through it again, refusing to accept that this was yet another dead end in the search for Windy and Zac.
The second time through she saw the connection. 1927, the amusement park opened. 1933, 1942, 1947, 1951, 1952. Each page referred to some update in the amusement park. 1933, the earthquake damaged some items, and a band organ, carousel horse, and three game booths were put into storage after they were broken. 1942, the King Kong was replaced with one with moving parts. 1947, the bumper cars were all replaced with new ones. 1951, several rides were replaced, and the old one were put in storage in the big box under the roller coaster, and the attic and cellar of the haunted house.
The cellar of the haunted house.
"The cellar of the haunted house!" She picked up the phone to call Kyle. She dialed his iPhone, but it just rang and then went to voicemail. Oh no. If he was missing, too, that was just too much.
She heard a door open and close downstairs. She flew down the stairs. "Kyle!"
At the bottom of the stairs she almost ran smack into Chris coming up. "It's just me, Hallie."
"How'd you get here?"
"The park's closed. I got a ride back with Steve—he works at the carousel."
Hallie's shoulders slumped. "Then Kyle isn't with you?"
"No. He said he wanted to stay a bit later to do some more looking around."
"You mean you talked to him?"
"Of course. He was checking up on me every ten minutes—you know how he is." Chris went past her and up the stairs. "I'm getting out of these clothes."
"Wait, Chris."
He stopped, and looked down at her from a spot directly under the Arturo Madrigal painting. "Yeah?"
What could she say? If she told him about their suspicions about Tom, Kyle would never forgive her for turning him against his uncle. And about the cellar under the haunted house?
He was still looking at her, waiting.
"Um," she said. "Never mind."
He went on up the stairs with a shrug, and she stood in the living room, thinking hard. Okay, she couldn't tell Chris what she knew. She couldn't call the police until Kyle got back. And Kyle wouldn't be back until he'd confronted Tom.
There was just one thing to do.
"Chris!"
He came pounding down the stairs no louder than a herd of elephants. "Yeah?"
"I've got to meet Kyle at the park. Take the phone." She handed the house phone to him.
The keys to the Little Guy were hanging on their pink keychain by the front door. She grabbed them, then turned back to Chris, who stood there in the middle of the living room holding the phone.
"If I'm not back in an hour, call Joe Serrano."
He started to ask something, but she stopped him. "Tell him Kyle and I are at the amusement park, and to send someone out there. One hour, Chris."
The Bug started on the first try, which was more than it used to do on cold winter mornings in Davis, and Hallie patted it appreciatively on the dashboard. She headed down the mountain toward town, and Kyle.
When she arrived at the park she ran into a problem. A gate had been pulled across the road leading to the employee parking lot. Hallie turned on the interior lights in the car to see the time on the little stick-on clock Windy had attached to the dashboard. Midnight. She got out and peered through the bars of the gate. The fog was thick, and she couldn't see much, but the parking lot seemed to be just about empty. She didn't see Kyle's truck.
Well, there wasn't anything she could do. She got back in the car, backed up and turned around in the road, then drove back the way she'd come and found a place to park down on Main Street, just a few blocks away. The street was empty, except for a couple standing in front of a house down the block. They kissed, then went into the house. She walked back to the employee gate along the empty street.
When she got within sight of the employee entrance she saw a delivery van stopped in front of the gate. Mama Thu's 100% Organic Vegetarian Hot Dogs was painted on the side of the van. The driver got out, went up to the gate and pulled it open, then got back in and drove through. She started to run, waving her arm to try to get the driver's attention. Once he'd passed the gate, he got back out of his van and closed the gate behind him, then drove off along the service road.
She stopped in front of the gate, out of breath, and watched the red tail lights of the van fade into the mi
st. She put her hands up on the bars of the gate.
The gate rattled. She pulled on it again, and it moved easily under her hands, sliding open a couple of feet. Luck was on her side. The driver must have just pulled it shut without locking it, figuring he was coming back this way once he'd finished making his delivery.
Hallie pulled the gate open enough to slip through, then shut it again.
"Okay, Einstein, now that you're inside, where are you going to start?" she whispered. She saw a few dark shapes of cars in the foggy parking lot ahead, and went to investigate. Sure enough, one of the few was Kyle's red pickup truck. She put a hand on the hood, and left a palm print in the wet drops covering the glossy red paint. Kyle had been parked here long enough for the truck to become covered in a layer of mist. So where was he?
She looked around at the colorful buildings all shrouded by fog. How was she going to find him? She headed toward the blue-and-white striped carousel building that held Tom's office.
There were outside lights all along the row of buildings next to the parking lot, but they didn't pierce through to the ground below. Instead the light was reflected by the fog itself, turning it into a swirling silvery mist. Hallie shivered as she walked through it.
She reached the door of the building. The door was propped open, and the lights were on inside. Okay. What could she say to Tom? Hi, Tom. Have you seen Kyle? He's going to have you arrested because he thinks you murdered his parents. She shook her head. "Now what?" she said aloud.
"Shhh!" a voice hissed behind her.
Hallie jumped, then turned around, fists up, ready to fight.
"It's just me," Kyle whispered. He pulled her close and kissed her.
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back. His body felt like a warm haven from the fog. She burrowed her face into the fold of his jacket and heard him sigh contentedly.
Then she pulled away. They didn't have time for this.
"Kyle! I have to tell you something!"
Kyle put a finger to his lips. "Shhh!" He took a step out from the building and looked up at the second floor window. Hallie could see a yellow glow through the window, and a dark shadow moved across the light. Kyle turned back to Hallie. "Why are you here anyway?—not that I mind, but I didn't expect anybody to be tailing me while I'm tailing Tom."
Under the Boardwalk Page 14
