Where was she? Ingrid had no idea. How long had she been in the car? She had no idea of that either. What time was it? She didn’t know, had forgotten her watch in the mad dash to get to MathFest. She checked the sky: low and gray, could be any time of day at all. These woods could be anywhere. Ingrid had read that moss grew on the north side of trees, but she didn’t see any moss, and what good would knowing north do? She kept going.
Lots of kids—Ty, to take one obvious example—had their own cell phones. Not Ingrid, due to this weird family rule forbidding personal cell phones till ninth grade. Like a lot of family rules, it turned out to be pretty damn—
Ingrid stopped. There, just ahead at the base of a tree, lay a pile of empty beer cans. And on the trunk of the tree, in red spray paint: RED RAIDERS RULE!
She was in Echo Falls, had to be. Ingrid started running, first up a slope, then across a long flat stretch, and suddenly she burst out of the woods and—could it be? Yes! She was in the end zone, the end zone with the scoreboard, at Echo Falls High.
Ingrid ran across the field, through the parking lot, around to the main door. The main door to Echo Falls High stood at the top of ten or twelve stone steps, framed by two columns. As Ingrid flew up the steps, the door opened and a person came out, the first human being Ingrid had laid eyes on since she’d been kidnapped.
Ms. Groome.
Even though this first human being turned out to be Ms. Groome, Ingrid wanted to embrace her, was raising her arms to do it.
“Oh, Ms. Groome,” she began, and started to cry.
“Save your breath,” said Ms. Groome, gazing at Ingrid with distaste. “MathFest finished ten minutes ago. This is going to cost you.”
thirteen
“THIS CHILD,” SAID MS. Groome, “has a rather wild story I suppose you should hear.”
“Hello, Ingrid,” said Chief Strade.
“You know her?” said Ms. Groome. They stood by the chief’s patrol car at the bottom of the high school steps.
“From way back,” said Chief Strade. He was a big man with a big rough face and watchful eyes.
“Has she been in trouble before?” said Ms. Groome.
Chief Strade ignored her. “What happened, Ingrid?” he said.
“I got kidnapped, Mr. Strade,” Ingrid said. Her voice wobbled a little; she fought to keep it steady. “I jumped out of a car.”
“On the morning of MathFest, by happy coincidence,” said Ms. Groome. “I’ve heard a lot of excuses in my time, but this one really takes the cake. You would not believe the lengths some kids will go to these days to get out of—”
Chief Strade held up his hand, a powerful hand with fingers like sausages. Ms. Groome fell silent.
“First of all,” said Chief Strade, “are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Nowhere at all?”
“No.”
He gazed down at her. “Tell me the whole story.”
“It…it was horrible,” Ingrid said. And then the tears came—she couldn’t help it. “I thought I was going to die.”
“You may not know,” said Ms. Groome, “but Ingrid has a lot of acting ability. A leading light of the Prescott Players, I’m told.”
Chief Strade turned to her. “Ms. Groome, is it?”
“Correct.”
“Thanks for your input, Ms. Groome. If I need more, I’ll be in touch.”
Ms. Groome’s head snapped back. “I’m sure you know your business,” she said, “but it’s just common sense that jumping out of cars leaves a mark, and there’s not one on her.” She walked back up the stairs and disappeared inside the school.
Ingrid wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve. “That’s because I rolled down the hill,” she said.
“What hill?” said the chief.
“I don’t know, exactly,” said Ingrid. “Where I jumped out.”
“Why don’t we start at the beginning?” said Chief Strade.
Ingrid started at the beginning, tried to tell a sensible story: garage, bike, shimmering spiderweb, swimming pool smell, duct tape, lock mechanism. It all got totally messed up. She could see that in Chief Strade’s eyes. And when she got to the part about jumping from the car—
“A moving car, Ingrid?”
“Yes.”
“About how fast?”
“I don’t know.”
—his eyes went quickly to her face and hands. She checked her hands too: not a mark, as Ms. Groome had pointed out.
“You rolled down a hill?” Chief Strade said.
“Yes.”
“Then walked through some woods?”
“Yes.”
“And came out at the football field?”
“Yes.”
“Scoreboard end?”
“Yes.”
The chief nodded, as though something added up. “You went into the garage at eight thirteen.”
“Or maybe a minute later.”
“And got to the high school ten minutes after this math thing, which ended at nine thirty.”
“Yes. Now I want to go home.”
“All right,” he said, just for a moment laying his hand on her shoulder.
They got into the cruiser, Ingrid sitting up front with Chief Strade. “Seat belt, please,” he said.
Ingrid buckled her seat belt. They sat there for a moment. The chief’s car smelled of coffee and pine trees. She took a long, slow breath.
“Handle a quick detour first?” the chief said. “See if we can’t find this hill of yours?”
“Okay.”
A light rain began to fall as he pulled away from the high school. Ingrid shivered.
“Heat?” said the chief.
“Thanks.”
He turned on the blower, drove a few blocks. “Didn’t know you were a math whiz,” he said.
“I’m not,” Ingrid said.
“No?”
“I hate math.”
“Then how come you’re in this MathFest competition?”
Was it a competition? A math competition with a fun name: of course. So slow sometimes to clue in. “It was a punishment,” Ingrid said.
The chief’s eyes shifted toward her, real quick. “For what?”
“Fooling around in class.”
“What kind of fooling around?”
“Passing a note.”
“What was in the note?”
“I was just asking the word for something.”
“What?”
“For contradictions in terms—like giant midget.”
“They’ve got a word for that?”
“Oxymoron,” Ingrid said.
He glanced at her again. “Teachers must see worse notes than that,” he said.
Ingrid shrugged. He turned onto Benedict Drive, a road she didn’t know. A curvy road with not many houses, and a sign saying TOWN DUMP, pointing straight ahead.
“How do you and Ms. Groome get along?” the chief said.
“All right.”
“Who’s Joe got for math again?” the chief said. “I forgot.”
“Mr. Proctor.” Joey was in Pre-Algebra. That was where Ingrid belonged too. Then none of this would have happened.
“One thing’s for sure,” Chief Strade said. “Joe’s no math whiz.”
Up ahead, Benedict Drive curved sharply to the left. Chief Strade pulled over. They got out of the car, walked to the side of the road. A thin strip of dirt bordered the pavement. Beyond that, the ground sloped steeply away to a gully below. Beyond the gully lay the woods.
“This it?” said the chief.
“I think so.”
“Pretty sure?”
“I think so.”
The chief peered down the slope. Rain fell steadily. A drop trickled off the brim of his hat.
“Help me out on a few things,” he said. “You were still taped up when you popped the trunk?”
“Yes.”
“And jumped.”
“Yes.”
“Duct tape, the silver stuff?”
“Y
es.”
“But you ended up getting it off somewhere.”
Ingrid pointed down the slope.
“So you didn’t see a thing—not the car, not the driver, nothing.”
“Nothing,” said Ingrid.
The chief put on a pair of white plastic gloves, like investigators on TV. “How about we go after those pieces of duct tape?”
“Okay.”
“Only if you’re up to it,” the chief said. “I could drop you off, come back.”
“I’m up to it,” Ingrid said.
They started down the hill, the scrubby grass matted and slick now with rain. There wasn’t much grass in the gully at the bottom, mostly stones, stunted brown weeds, patches of dirt. Not much cover at all: It only took a minute or two to establish that the duct tape pieces weren’t there.
“Sure this is the spot?” the chief said.
Ingrid gazed into the woods. Trees like any others, a thick carpet of damp leaves on the ground, no landmark. And it had all happened so fast.
“I think so,” Ingrid said.
The chief walked to the edge of the woods, lifted some leaves with the toe of his big black shoe. No duct tape.
“Thing with these woods,” he said, “is they’re the only ones that back onto the high school.” He faced the hill, peered up at the crest. “And this is the only slope into them off Benedict Drive.”
“So the duct tape has to be here,” Ingrid said.
“Got to be,” said the chief.
Ingrid wandered around in the gully, the rain falling harder now, flattening her hair. No duct tape. Was it possible an animal had dragged off the pieces or a bird had flown away with them?
“Something on your mind?” said the chief, behind her, his voice quiet.
She turned to him. “Don’t you see?” she said.
“See what?”
“Whoever did this must have come back and picked up all the duct tape. There’s no other explanation.”
“For what reason, Ingrid?”
“To get rid of the evidence,” she said. “Maybe his fingerprints were on the tape.”
“Why do you say his?” said the chief.
“It just came out.”
“Did you hear any voices?”
“Just on the radio.”
“The radio?”
“Or CD player. I heard that song ‘I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues.’”
The chief nodded. “Elton John. I’ve got all his stuff.”
“You do?”
“Big fan,” said the chief. He lifted up a fallen branch Ingrid had seen him lift already, tossed it aside. No duct tape.
“Maybe whoever it was left footprints,” Ingrid said.
Down in the gully, water was collecting in puddles. Little rivulets trickled down the slope.
“Not a good day for footprints,” the chief said. “Let’s get you home.”
But he stopped at the hospital on the way.
“I don’t want to go to the hospital.”
“Got to,” said the chief.
A quick checkup: not a mark on her. Totally unharmed.
“Oh, sweetheart!” Mom said, her eyes filling with tears. She held on to Ingrid.
They were in the kitchen at 99 Maple Lane—Chief Strade, Mom, Ingrid; Dad still out with the Sandblasters, Ty still at Greg’s. The chief told Mom the whole story. Mom squeezed Ingrid tighter and tighter until it got to be too much and Ingrid backed away.
“But who would do something like this?” Mom said.
“Can’t know for sure because Ingrid ruined the plan so fast,” said the chief. “But it usually comes down to two types—someone after ransom money or a sicko.”
“But we’re not rich,” Mom said. “And we don’t know any sickos.”
That last remark was pure Mom. Ingrid had never loved her more than she did at that moment.
“Can I check the garage?” the chief said.
“Of course,” said Mom.
The chief went into the garage.
Mom turned to Ingrid, her eyes wetting up again.
“I’m all right, Mom.”
“You’re sure you’re not hurt?”
“Sure.”
“Not…hurt in any way?”
“Don’t worry, Mom. It’s over.”
The chief came back in the kitchen.
“Anything?” Mom said.
He shook his head. “There’s only one other possibility I can think of,” he said.
“What’s that?” said Mom.
Chief Strade turned to Ingrid. “Do you have any enemies?” he said.
“Enemies?” said Mom. “She’s thirteen years old.”
“Other than Ms. Groome,” said the chief.
“The math teacher?” Mom said. “You think she had something to do with this?”
“It’s a joke, Mom,” said Ingrid.
“Sorry,” said the chief. He actually blushed a little. It looked very weird on that craggy face.
“But I don’t understand,” Mom said.
“Mom, forget it,” said Ingrid. “No enemies,” she told Chief Strade.
“See?” said Mom. “No enemies. So where are we?”
“I don’t know,” said the chief. He turned to Ingrid. “Remember The Sign of Four?”
“What’s that?” said Mom.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Ingrid said; the chief was a Holmes reader too.
“One of my favorites,” the chief said. “That’s where Holmes says, ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”
“And therefore?” said Mom.
The chief unfolded three fingers, one at a time. “Ransom—no note, no call. Sicko—no evidence. Enemies—don’t exist.” He unfolded a fourth, his ring finger, although the chief, divorced, wore no ring. He gazed at that finger, glanced at Ingrid, lowered it without saying anything.
“What does that mean,” said Mom, “if it’s none of them?”
“Not necessarily anything,” said the chief. “We’ll just have to forget motive for now, get busy with some old-fashioned grunt work.”
“Like what?” said Mom.
“Fingerprints first,” said the chief. “State crime lab’ll be here Monday. Meantime, don’t touch anything in the garage. And for now, Ingrid better not go anywhere alone.”
“Oh, God,” said Mom. “Is she still in danger?”
“My gut says no,” said the chief. “But we can’t rule it out.” He moved toward the door, stopped. “Anything you’ve left out, Ingrid? Anything else you want to say?”
“No.”
He gave her a long look, then nodded. “That was an incredible thing you did.”
“Thanks.”
It was only after Chief Strade had gone that Ingrid thought about the word incredible, a word that no one took literally but in fact did have a literal meaning. The literal meaning was not believable.
fourteen
“SHE WANTS TO GO to soccer,” Mom said.
“She does?” said Dad.
They sat around the kitchen table—Mom, Dad, Ty, Ingrid. Ty’s eyes were open wide.
“It’s the playoffs,” Ingrid said.
Ty nodded. That made sense to him.
“Playoffs?” said Mom. “What difference does—”
“If she feels up to it, she should go,” Dad said.
“I feel up to it,” Ingrid said. In fact, she really wanted to get out there, to run around, to play.
“How does she know what she feels?” Mom said. “This all just happened. She could be in shock.”
“She looks kind of the same as always,” Ty said, peering at her from across the table.
“Hey,” said Ingrid. “I’m right here. Stop talking about me in the third person.”
“She’s right,” said Dad.
The whole family went to the soccer game, excluding Nigel. Dogs had to be leashed at the soccer fields, and Nigel didn’t do well on a leash. Mom, Dad, and Ty crossed the
field to the aluminum stands on the far side. Ingrid walked toward the bench, where the girls were huddling around Julia LeCaine, a few of them bouncing up and down with pregame jitters. Ingrid usually had pregame jitters too, but not today. Kind of a strange interval, no one else knowing yet what had happened that morning. Correction: She had jitters, all right, just nothing to do with soccer.
Stacy—yes, Stacy, now back on the As where she belonged—saw Ingrid and said, “Hey, Ingrid—got any gum?”
Julia LeCaine spun around. She saw Ingrid too, at the same time possibly stepping in a hole, because she staggered a little. “Ingrid?” she said.
“Hi,” said Ingrid. “Sorry I’m late.”
Julia looked at her watch, stared at it in a funny way, like maybe it wasn’t working.
The ref blew his whistle.
“This is when Coach Ringer gives the pep talk,” said one of the girls.
They all looked at Julia, standing motionless, mouth slightly open but not saying anything. Did she have pregame jitters too? The whistle sounded again. Coach Ringer’s pep talks were usually pretty confusing, but Ingrid didn’t like the idea of going out on the field without a pep talk, and she could see on the faces of her teammates that none of them did either.
“What was that thing you said the last time?” asked another girl.
“Last time?” said Julia, licking her lips. She looked a little pale, pregame jitters or maybe coming down with something.
“‘Whatever it takes,’” said Ingrid. “Wasn’t that it?”
The girls nodded, but not enthusiastically. Ingrid thought she knew why: It was a game, right? That made “whatever it takes” a little over the top.
“How about—let’s win it for Coach Ringer?” said Stacy, which was pretty cool considering her history with him.
“Yeah!”
They clustered tight together, raised their hands high, making a kind of cone in the sky.
“Coach Ringer!”
“That’s as loud as you can do?” said Stacy. “Come on now, so he can hear it down at the hospital.”
“COACH RINGER!”
Then they went out on a cold, rainy afternoon and beat up on Torrington, four to one. Glad to win, glad that Stacy was back on the team, glad to be muddy, they went through the handshake line—“good game, good game, good game,” no spitting on their palms first, or any of that other boy stuff—and returned to the bench for the coach’s postmortem. Julia was already gone.
Behind the Curtain Page 10
