Behind the Curtain

by Peter Abrahams

  And why not? Ingrid headed toward those steel drawers at the other end of the storage room. If you wanted to hide a tree, plant it in a forest. Hospitals were full of pills, right? She tugged at one of the drawers. Locked. Little keyholes in the middle of all the drawers: all locked.

  What about the open shelves? Ingrid saw lots of stuff you’d expect: boxes of gauze bandages, stacks of folded sheets and blankets, big brown bottles of disinfectant. No keys, of course; the keys to the drawers would be—

  She heard footsteps outside the door. Oh my God. She tried to make up some cover story, got no further than I, uh. The door started to open. Ingrid scrambled onto the nearest shelf, wriggled behind a row of those brown bottles.

  Big brown bottles with round shoulders. Ingrid peered over one of those shoulders and saw a man in green scrubs come in. He paused for a moment, turned right toward her. She ducked her head, but not before recognizing him: Rey Vasquez, the orderly with the gold tooth.

  He sniffed the air, then continued on to the steel drawers and unlocked one. Ingrid knew all that from the sound. She didn’t dare raise her head.

  More sounds: the drawer sliding open, clinking things being lifted out, drawer closing, keys jingling. Then, through the bottles, brown, distorted, miniature, she saw Rey Vasquez walking back toward the door, shoving something into his pocket. A cell phone rang. He unclipped it from his belt and said, “Yo.”

  Ingrid heard a tinny voice on the other end, tinny and angry. Rey Vasquez answered in Spanish. Ingrid didn’t know any Spanish, except for caramba and cucaracha and a few words like that. The foreign-language option in Echo Falls didn’t kick in until high school.

  The tinny voice on the other end got angrier. Rey Vasquez went quiet. A few seconds later, he said, “Okay, okay, Cesar,” and clicked off. “Gimme a break,” he said to himself, then left the storage room, the door hissing closed.

  Ingrid counted silently to sixty, then shifted the bottles aside and climbed off the shelf. Ear to the door: silence. She opened up and stepped into the corridor.

  Uh-oh. Rey Vasquez was leaning against the door leading to the emergency waiting room, on his cell phone again. The storage room door started into that hissing noise. Rey Vasquez’s head came up, like he was about to look her way. Ingrid turned her back and went down the corridor, walking at what she thought was a businesslike, every-right-to-be-here speed.

  No voice rising behind her, no footsteps. Ingrid came to the end of the corridor. Signs pointed right to ICU, left to Radiology. Ingrid, not clear on the meaning of ICU, chose left.

  She walked down another corridor, which broadened into a sitting area with chairs and little tables with magazines on both sides. Straight ahead stood a door marked MRI. It opened and out walked Grampy, buttoning his shirtsleeve.

  “Grampy?” Ingrid said.

  He stopped, looked at her. His face got real angry. “What the hell are you doing here?” he said. “They sent you to spy on me?”

  nineteen

  “SPYING ON YOU, GRAMPY?” Ingrid said. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s one thing I won’t tolerate,” Grampy said. “Spying.”

  “I would never do that,” Ingrid said. “I didn’t even know you were here.”

  “You didn’t?” Grampy said.

  “No,” Ingrid said. “But what are you doing here, Grampy?”

  “Nothing,” Grampy said. He clamped his mouth shut, almost like a little kid. A nurse came by, pushing one of those rolling beds. The man on it, hooked up to an IV, wore one of those horrible johnny outfits, bony white legs sticking out. His eyes were closed.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Grampy said.

  Ingrid followed Grampy down the hall, left turn, right turn, another left. He seemed to know his way around. They came to the main door. As it slid open, Grampy paused.

  “Is this a school day?” he said.

  “Kind of.”

  “Then I can ask you that same question,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  Ingrid paused.

  “You’re not sick or anything?” He peered at her. “Don’t look sick.”

  “I’m fine,” Ingrid said.

  “Well, then,” said Grampy. “Spit it out.”

  “It’s complicated, Grampy.”

  “Do I look dumb?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then try me.”

  Ingrid lowered her voice. “It’s about steroids,” she said.

  “What the hell’s that?” said Grampy.

  “Steroids?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Them, Grampy.” Ingrid started to explain, soon got the feeling she wasn’t being even as clear as Mr. Porterhouse.

  Grampy looked confused and said, “You take some medicine to get pimples on your back?”

  “That’s more of a side effect,” said Ingrid. “Getting strong is the main thing, and calling it medicine is maybe—”

  Grampy held up his hand like a traffic cop. “You get strong from an honest day’s work,” Grampy said. “Everybody knows that.”

  They did? What about all those millions of workers tapping away like crazy on their keyboards? Were they bulking up? “This is more the kind of—”

  “I’m hungry,” Grampy said. “You hungry?”

  “Not re—”

  “We’ll talk about this stereo thing over lunch,” he said. “Up at the farm.” He got a funny look in his eye. “Bacon sound all right? How about ham or pork chops or pork ribs?”

  “Grampy!” Ingrid said. “You didn’t hurt that little pig?”

  Grampy lifted Ingrid’s bike into the back of the pickup—tossed it in, really, with an easy motion like a young man. They crossed the bridge, the river flowing fast beneath, black and ripply.

  “Anyone ever warn you about falling in a pigpen?” Grampy said.

  “No.”

  “And you’re how old again?”

  “Thirteen.”

  Grampy shook his head. “Stereo medicine to give you pimples and not knowing about falling in a pigpen. This country’s in big trouble.”

  “What happens if you fall in a pigpen?” Ingrid said.

  Grampy turned onto 392, followed the river north. “Pigs are smart and always hungry, just like us. Only difference is they’re short.”

  “You’re just trying to scare me,” Ingrid said.

  “Wouldn’t do that, kid,” said Grampy. “Run that stereo thing by me one more time.”

  Ingrid tried to think of the right place to begin. The answer came all by itself. “I got kidnapped, Grampy. But no one believes me.” The next moment she was crying, really sobbing like a little kid, out of control. Grampy looked over in total alarm.

  Ingrid got it together.

  “Uh,” said Grampy, “might find a rag in back you could wipe your face with.”

  “I’m fine,” Ingrid said, and she wiped her face on her sleeve. Then, in a voice that sounded lower than her real voice, she told Grampy the whole story, leaving out nothing except the Ty part. Of course, the story didn’t really make sense without the Ty part, but maybe it wasn’t making sense to Grampy anyway. His face didn’t change from beginning to end, except for darkening when the name Kraken came up. Was he keeping up with the story? Did he believe her?

  “That’s it?” he said, turning up the long drive to the farm.

  Ingrid nodded.

  “One thing I don’t get,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “How come you didn’t tell the cops about this motive?”

  “The steroids?”

  “Yeah.”

  She glanced at him. Face still expressionless, but he’d followed the whole story. And his not getting just that one thing had to mean he believed her. She loved Grampy.

  But what could she say? Ingrid made a tough decision, a decision that meant breaking her code, the code of kids in Echo Falls and maybe everywhere. “Promise not to tell?” she said.

  Grampy shook his head. “That
’s not a real question,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Because you’ll never get a real answer,” he said.

  That rang like a bell in Ingrid’s head, completely true. “It’s about Ty,” she said, and gave up the rest of it. “So that’s why I can’t tell Chief Strade. Ty’d have to go to court. He’d be kicked off the team and maybe worse than that.”

  “The law of the land comes first,” Grampy said. He drove past the barn. The little pig was in its pen, head poking out one of those round windows Grampy had cut, looking cute and harmless. “Except for stupid laws, of course,” Grampy added. “Goes without saying that family comes before stupid laws, and Ty getting in law trouble for these pimple pills would be stupid.”

  “He just wants to be stronger for football,” Ingrid said.

  “Football’s not his game,” said Grampy.

  That pissed Ingrid off. “You’ve never seen him play,” she said. “He’s the only freshman on the varsity.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Grampy. “If football’s going to be your game, you got to love to hit. Really love it, like the rest of the game is just an excuse. And that’s not your brother.”

  Ingrid thought back to Ty’s games. Grampy was right. Ty was very brave about the hitting, but he didn’t love it.

  “Wasn’t your father, either,” said Grampy, parking by the house.

  “Huh?” said Ingrid. “Dad was the star of the team.”

  “Because he was a real good athlete,” Grampy said. “Lots of athlete genes in this family, kid. But he wasn’t a hitter.”

  “Did you tell him that?”

  “Course not,” said Grampy. “What good would that do? Can’t make someone a hitter.”

  “Did you play football, Grampy?”

  Grampy, reaching for the door handle, got a faraway look in his eye. He nodded slightly.

  “For Echo Falls High?”

  “And after,” Grampy said.

  “After?”

  “In college.”

  “But you didn’t go to college, Grampy.”

  “Hmmm,” said Grampy.

  “What do you mean, hmmm?”

  Long pause. “This is one of those things not too many people know about,” Grampy said. “Most likely none.”

  “So I have to promise not to tell?” said Ingrid.

  Grampy gave her a long look. “Too bad there’s not football for girls,” he said.

  “Are you saying…?”

  “You’re a hitter, sure as shootin’,” said Grampy. “Takes one to know one. Come on in the house. I’ll show you something.”

  They walked up to the house. Grampy always used the back door, a barn-red door with white trim and windowpanes in the upper half. Now he’d left it open for some reason. And…what was this? One of those windowpanes had a big jagged hole in it, fist size.

  Grampy stood before his back door, a puzzled look on his face. “I don’t…” His voice trailed away.

  “I think someone broke in, Grampy,” Ingrid said.

  Pink patches appeared on Grampy’s cheeks. A growl came from deep in his throat and then he strode inside. “Say your prayers, you son of a bitch,” Grampy called out in a voice so scary, it would have given Ingrid the chills if she hadn’t had them already.

  The back door opened right into the kitchen. It was a mess. The piles and piles of mail that usually lay on the table were now scattered all over the place. Every cupboard door stood open, and some of the drawers had been yanked right out and dumped on the floor. The broom closet was open too. That was where Grampy kept his guns—the .22 rifle that Ingrid had learned on, the .357 handgun she was too young to use, and the twelve-gauge shotgun, a beautiful old Purdy side-by-side with a wooden stock that glowed like it was alive.

  Grampy grabbed the shotgun. He fumbled around on a shelf at the back for a box of shells, broke the gun open, loaded both barrels.

  “Right behind me, now,” Grampy said.

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

  “Can’t trust a cop,” Grampy said. “How many times I have to say it?”

  Shotgun half raised, index finger resting on the trigger guard, Grampy went through every room in the house, Ingrid right behind him.

  “Goddamn it,” Grampy said.

  Every room in the house was turned upside down. The front door, like the back, hung open, but none of its panes were broken. Meaning—someone had opened it from the inside, probably on the way out.

  “Maybe whoever it was heard us coming,” Ingrid said. “Or saw the pickup on three ninety-two.”

  Grampy nodded. He gazed through the doorway, past the barn, the brown fields, the highway and the tree line on the far side, smoke rising from one of those distant cottages on the old Prescott farm. And no one in sight. He lowered the shotgun.

  “Is anything missing, Grampy?” Ingrid said.

  “Better check,” said Grampy, his voice quiet and dull, like there wasn’t enough air in his lungs all of a sudden for making lots of sound. Ingrid stepped in front of him and closed the door, locking every lock.

  They went back through all the rooms, reshelving things, putting them back in drawers, righting a tipped-over lamp or two.

  “Nothing missing,” Grampy said, his voice still not normal.

  The kitchen, messiest room by far, they tackled last. Grampy took care of the cupboards and drawers;

  Ingrid handled the mail.

  “Nothing missing,” Grampy said again.

  “So what was the point of the break-in?” said Ingrid.

  No answer from Grampy.

  So much mail, almost all unopened, some of it going back months, as Ingrid could see from the postmarks.

  “Don’t you ever open your mail, Grampy?” she said.

  “All junk,” said Grampy, putting the shotgun back in the broom closet.

  Some of it didn’t look like junk to Ingrid. She sorted it into three huge mounds—definite junk, possible junk, other. Sorting away at the table, she felt a draft on her ankles, glanced down and saw one of those heat-duct grates in the floor. No heat on yet, of course, not Grampy’s style, meaning cold air was snaking around down there. And what was that? A little white glimmer in the darkness under the grate. One more letter.

  Ingrid knelt, stuck her hand through the bars of the grate, couldn’t quite reach.

  “Looks a little better,” Grampy said, his voice not quite so weak. “How about something to drink?”

  Ingrid rose, leaving the letter down there. “I’ll make tea.”

  Their eyes met. “You’re a good girl,” Grampy said.

  That was nice.

  “Someone tried to kidnap you?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Their life is over,” said Grampy, his voice back at full strength.

  Grampy built a roaring fire. Ingrid made tea. They drank it from big mugs at the kitchen table. Grampy poured some VO into his.

  “Is that a kind of whiskey?” Ingrid said.

  “Canadian,” said Grampy. “Had a Canadian buddy.”

  “Was that during the war?” Grampy never talked about the war.

  He nodded.

  “On Corregidor?” Ingrid said. Corregidor was some horrible thing. Mr. Sidney had been there with Grampy, although Ingrid had never heard any of the details.

  “No point discussing that,” Grampy said. “Tell me again why the kidnapping’s connected to these pills.”

  “What else could it be?” Ingrid said.

  They went over the whole story a few more times. They drank more tea, Ingrid’s with milk and sugar, Grampy’s with VO. Grampy started repeating some of the same questions. Smudges darkened the hollows under his eyes, turned a little purple. He was getting tired.

  “So you think this orderly’s involved with one of the Krakens?” he said for the third time.

  “The youngest one.”

  “Krakens are scum of the earth.”

  They’d gotten to that point already. The sky darkene
d outside and the wind came up. Ingrid rose and taped cardboard in the broken windowpane.

  “What should I do, Grampy?” she asked.

  “No I,” said Grampy. “We.”

  That felt nice too, especially if it had practical results. They sat in silence for a while. Then Grampy startled her by smacking his hand on the table.

  “Got an idea,” he said. “I’ll lend you the three fifty-seven.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You could carry it around in that backpack of yours.”

  “—think that’s a good idea.”

  “Oh, right,” said Grampy. “I haven’t taken you out with the three fifty-seven yet.” He glanced outside. “Maybe a little too dark now. How about tomorrow? There’s an old scarecrow in the barn. We could pin a heart on his chest and—”

  “The gun won’t help us solve anything,” Ingrid said.

  “Studied any history yet?” said Grampy.

  He thought some more. No other suggestions followed. Maybe Grampy just couldn’t get his head around the whole steroid thing, the way the clock on his VCR was always flashing twelve. He drove her home, mostly in silence, except for a bit of coughing on Grampy’s part. Ingrid could feel his mind drifting somewhere else.

  “What was it you were going to show me in the house, Grampy?” she said.

  “Nothing important,” said Grampy.

  twenty

  NO ONE HOME: TY still at practice, Mom and Dad at work. No one home and very quiet, the sound of Grampy’s pickup driving away still audible. The house was full of shadows, the edges of everything all fuzzy, but Ingrid didn’t turn on any lights. She went upstairs and lay on her bed, not like her at all on a late afternoon.

  She spoke out loud. “What the hell am I going to do?”

  Ingrid had read somewhere that sleep was a time when the brain got busy on its own, knitting together this and that, making sense of things. Right now would be good for a sleep like that. But just as Ingrid was about to close her eyes, her gaze fell on the statue of St. Joseph, standing on the shelf over her computer.

  A plastic man, bearded and long-haired, not much taller than the soccer trophy beside him. Ingrid didn’t know exactly who St. Joseph was. Somebody’s father, maybe? All she knew was that Mom’s clients liked to bury him upside down in their yards to make their houses sell quickly.