Also by David Patneaude
Colder Than Ice
Dark Starry Morning
Framed in Fire
Haunting at Home Plate
Last Man’s Reward
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Patneaude, David
Someone was watching / David Patneaude.
p. cm
Summary: When his baby sister disappears from the river near their summer home, eighth grader Chris fights the assumption that she has drowned and sets off on a journey to discover the truth.
[1. Missing persons—Fiction. 2. Kidnapping—Fiction.
3. Mystery and detective stories.]
1. Title.
PZ7.P2734So 1993
[Fic]—dc20
92-39130
CIP
AC
Text copyright © 1993 by David Patneaude Cover illustration copyright © 1993 by Paul Micich Published in 1993 by Albert Whitman & Company ISBN 978-0-8075-7532-1
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Printed in China
20 19 18 17 16 NP 20 19 18 17 16
The text of this book is set in Bookman Light.
Design by Susan B. Cohn
For more information about Albert Whitman & Company, visit our web site at www.albertwhitman.com.
To Judy, Matt, Jaime, Jeff, for your love, support, and inspiration, and to Adam, a real-life hero.
1
The trip started off better than Chris had expected. The day was bright and warm, with just a hint of the long shadows that would soon signal fall’s arrival. And his parents actually spoke to each other at first, although the talk was forced and without laughter, the smiles rare and wistful.
But an hour into the drive, silence had taken over the conversation. His mother stared out the window at the fields and trees. His father kept his eyes on the road while he put a tape in the stereo. The soft sound of a saxophone floated back to Chris in the rear seat, reminding him of something that he couldn’t identify, maybe just a feeling. A moment later his dad ejected the tape with a jab of his finger, as if turning off a memory. The only sound then was road noise: the murmur of the engine, the hiss of the tires, the wind whistling through half-closed windows. The occasional hum of a car passing in the opposite direction on the two-lane highway.
“What time do you think we’ll get to the river, Dad?” His voice sounded louder than he’d intended, yet he still wasn’t sure he’d been heard. He knew the answer, but he wanted a response, any kind of response. He waited, decided to forget it, then tried again anyway. “Dad?” he said, anxiously brushing back a stray wisp of his sand-colored hair.
His father glanced over his shoulder. “What time did we leave home, Chris?” he asked, the annoyance obvious in his voice.
“Eleven-thirty, about.”
“It’s always been a two-hour drive from Milwaukee. You figure it out.”
Chris had gotten his response. He watched his mom turn and give his dad a look that said “Don’t take it out on him,” and his dad return it with a “Don’t start on me.” Then they went back to their private pain, ignoring each other, ignoring the purpose of the trip, ignoring the kid in the back seat. Chris slumped down in the corner, his head against the window, and closed his eyes.
The purpose of the trip was to return to the site of the Incident, as everyone called it now. To face up to the reality of it. To acknowledge that it had really happened. To exorcise the devils of grief that had haunted their souls for the past three months. But Chris figured the real reason was to humor Dr. Wilde, who had come up with the idea. After all, if you’re going to pay someone for counseling, you should probably do what she suggests, even if it seems like a waste of time. Chris and his mom and dad were plenty aware of the reality of the situation. It had seeped into their lives like foul swamp water, filling the empty spaces and contaminating everything else. What they needed wasn’t more reality; what they needed was a way to deal with it.
He tried to fall asleep but couldn’t. He’d spent a lot of time sleeping lately. And when he wasn’t sleeping, he tried to stay active. But these were the hardest times: when he was wide awake with nothing to do. And his thoughts were so loud.
He decided to think about something pleasant. Football. Football season was about to start, and this year he wanted to turn out for tight end. He knew there was some competition for that position, but he was bigger and faster than the other two guys were. And he was tired of being a regular lineman. He thought he had a chance. He just wanted to go out there and catch the ball and run over somebody—show the coaches what he could do.
And there was school. Not usually his favorite thing, but this year was different. This year he was going into eighth grade, and eighth-graders were the top class—the leaders—of middle school. He was anxious to try out that spot, to see what it felt like. And there was another—a bigger—reason: this year he needed to be there. He needed to be busy and to study and think and come up with answers to questions that could be answered. Not like the ones he’d had to face lately.
And there was always Pat. Good old dependable Pat: his best friend for as long as he could remember. The guy who always phoned him no matter what. When Chris didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything, Pat would talk him into it, anyway. He’d have two tickets to a Brewers game, or an inside tip on what store had the best buys on baseball cards, or a rumor of a spot at the golf course where they could find lost balls by the bucketful. When he couldn’t talk him into doing something, he’d wait a day and try again. When Chris didn’t feel like talking, Pat would just come over and sit with him or throw the football around or go for a walk with him. Sometimes Chris didn’t know why Pat had stuck with him through the long summer, but he had. And Chris was grateful. He wasn’t sure how he would have handled the Incident otherwise.
The Incident. It seemed as if every train of thought huffed and puffed its way back to the Incident. He remembered it as if it were yesterday, or an hour ago. But it was three months now.
He thought back to the day it happened: the Saturday before Memorial Day weekend—a happy time. The first trip of the year to the river. Opening up the cabin for the summer, trips into town for a movie and ice cream, and exploring the shops. Boating and fishing and swimming and picnics at the park. And walks on the beach with Molly, her miniature hand in his, tugging him along, trying to make him go faster, to hurry to the water to feed the ducks or throw rocks or search for little turtles and fish and frogs in the shallows.
But that day, she had seemed content to stay on the grassy area that bordered the sandy beach. The holiday was a week away, and there weren’t very many people in the park. No one was in the water. The day had grown warm by early afternoon when they finished their picnic lunch, but the water was still too cold for swimming or even comfortable wading.
Chris’s mom and dad were sitting on the big plaid blanket, reading and watching Molly color in her coloring book. Chris felt himself getting sleepy and made up his mind to take the video camera and go for a walk. He thought he could get some shots of boats out on the river or maybe some snapping turtles poking their beaked heads out of the water. He decided to sneak off without letting Molly see him, so he made hand signals to his dad, who looked up from his book and nodded at him. Molly would have wanted to go. Why hadn’t he taken her?
He got away unnoticed and wandered down to the beach. He videotaped a lone duck landing in the water, a boat pulling a hardy water skier, and a bullfrog diving from a log. Fresh out of
live subjects, he slowly raised the lens toward the horizon, leisurely moving it from left to right, panning across the river’s surface, the beach, the grass and trees. A cooperative squirrel ran out and got its picture taken stuffing food in its mouth.
Then the afternoon sun got to him. He lay down on the warm sand and dozed off for a few minutes. When he awoke he noticed some interesting clouds making their way across the sky. He decided to take some more shots, imagining the tape set to music. But he tired of that in a hurry, got up, and started back to the picnic area.
At first he noticed nothing, except that both of his parents had fallen asleep reading. His mom was flat on her back. His dad had his head propped up on his hand, but his eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply. Then it hit him like a low blow, driving his breath out of him and triggering instant nausea.
“Dad! Mom!” he shouted, staggering toward them. They were awake, sitting up, looking at him with bewildered eyes. “Where’s Molly?” he yelled at them.
“Molly?” his dad said, the color draining from his face. “She was just here. Just a minute ago.”
“How would you know, Mike? You were asleep,” his mom said, spitting the words out as if they were sour pills. They were both on their feet.
“So were you, Lynn,” his dad shot back. His eyes, wild-animal eyes now, widened as he scanned the shoreline.
“But you said you’d keep an eye on her.” Her voice was more a plea, a prayer, than a complaint.
His dad gave her a look instead of an answer. “You check the picnic area and parking lot,” he said to her. “We’ll check the beach.”
“Hurry,” his mom said.
Chris and his dad headed for the water, shouting Molly’s name, asking the few people they passed if they had seen her. No one had. Chris heard his mom calling for Molly from the other side of the park. Panic had crept into her voice, pushing it to a higher, wavering pitch.
His dad started jogging along the shoreline to the north, peering into the dark water. Chris followed him for a moment, but then turned around. “I’m going to look in the other direction!” he shouted at his dad’s back, and headed south. The dock, he thought. She loves going out on the dock.
The dock was a long, floating wood structure anchored to the beach on one end. The park workers took it out of the water every fall before the river iced over and put it back in place in the spring. It was located at the far south end of the beach, around the bend and out of sight. Chris lengthened his stride, kicking up puffs of sand as he accelerated toward it.
He rounded the curve and glanced at the dock. Nothing—not even a sun bather or fisherman. But he continued. Maybe she was playing in the sand on the other side, crouched down too low to see.
In a moment he was there. But he was alone. Lots of footprints, big and little, dotted the sand on the far side, but none he could recognize, none that looked small and fresh and playful. He stared into the shallow water where the dock met the beach, slowly lifting his gaze until he was looking along the length of the dock at the slow-moving, dark water beyond its other end. The river, nearly a mile wide here, was undisturbed by anything floating on its surface—except for two dark heads bobbing slowly up and down twenty feet from the end of the dock. Snapping turtles. His mom and dad would never let him swim when the big, beak-jawed turtles were visible in the river. There were tales of them pulling kids under, tales he’d never quite believed but was unwilling to challenge. He shuddered and stepped up on the dock, shouting Molly’s name. From far away he could hear his dad’s voice yelling for her. She hadn’t been found.
Something moved on the end of the dock. Chris walked quickly toward it, scanning the water on both sides of him. It moved again, slow and colorful, pushed by the gentle breeze. The pages of a book, turning themselves over. He got closer, and his heart climbed into his throat. Tears blurred his vision but he’d already seen what it was. Molly’s coloring book. He turned and ran toward the beach.
If the first part of that day seemed like a pleasant dream now, the rest of it was a nightmare, a dark merry-go-round on fast forward. The feelings had stuck with him; they wouldn’t go away. And the events were intermingled; it was hard to remember one without the others.
He’d found his dad and then his mom. She called the police, and by the time she and Chris returned to the dock, his dad was frantically flailing through the icy water, diving and surfacing, diving and surfacing. His mom plunged in on the other side. Chris was about to follow her, but his dad told him to wade in the shallow water closer to shore.
Then the police came. And divers. And paramedics. And regular people who just wanted to help. And people who were curious. And newspaper and radio and television reporters. Big news in a little town.
But they didn’t find her. The police searched and questioned, the divers rowed and dove. The paramedics walked the dock and beach, hanging close, waiting, hoping for a chance to work a miracle. His mom and dad tried to help but mostly wandered around, at first calling for Molly and talking to the search party, but then growing silent. And Chris prayed harder than he ever had before. He’d heard of a kid who had been under cold water for a long time and been revived. But the day wore on, and toward evening he quit praying. He could tell by looking at the faces of his mom and dad and the search party that they didn’t expect to find her alive.
He sat on the dock and watched the divers continue to work back and forth between the end of the dock and the shore, slowly making their way downriver. He waited for them to bring her up, hoping now that they wouldn’t. When it got too dark to see, they came ashore. They left, along with everyone else, promising to return the next day. Chris and his parents went back to the summer house for the night. No one slept.
Fewer people showed up the next day. A lot of folks were in church, someone said—praying. But they didn’t find Molly. Not the divers, not the search party, not the dogs that they’d brought in to help. By evening the police said they were calling off the search. Chris heard them say that the river was still powerful with run-off this time of year and she could be miles downstream. His mom and dad didn’t argue with the decision.
That night they returned to the summer house, packed, shut everything off, locked everything up, and drove to the city. They hadn’t been back since.
Now they were going back, but not because anyone really wanted to. Dr. Wilde thought they should, so they were. But it wasn’t going to be fun.
The car took a curve fast, shifting Chris’s weight away from the window. He put his hand on the seat to balance himself, touching the indentation in the fabric where Molly’s car seat had once been. He let his hand rest there for a moment. The dent was getting smaller. In a few months it would be gone.
2
They turned off the main highway onto the road to Greenwater. There was a more direct route to the summer house, but this detour had always been part of the ritual of coming to the beach. Chris was surprised that his dad had chosen to take it today. He figured that everyone would be anxious to get this trip over with.
“Need gas,” his dad grunted, as if reading his mind.
In less than a minute they entered the little town. His dad drove into its only gas station.
“Can I get an ice cream?” Chris asked. He needed to take a walk.
“Sure, Chris,” his mom said. “We’ll pick you up on the way out.”
“You guys want anything?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” his mom said, turning toward him, but eyeing Chris’s dad. “Mike?” she said after a moment. Her voice was soft but clear in the quiet of the car. At last his dad shook his head no. He was still shaking his head when Chris got out of the car, as if he were saying no to something else.
Chris crossed the street and walked back in the direction they’d come into town. He hadn’t been to The Cloverbud since the accident. An ice cream cone would taste good. But when he reached the little shop, he saw that it was closed up and dark inside. A CLOSED sign hung in the window, almost on end,
with the C pointing skyward. Bud and Clover must have taken the afternoon off. He walked next door to Village Books, and that was closed, too. He peered through the window, scratching his head. It must have been a real slow morning in Greenwater.
The next store down was Cowbutter Cookies. Chris breathed a sigh of relief. It was open. “I thank you, my stomach thanks you,” he said to no one in particular as he walked in the door. Helen, the short, square-bodied woman behind the counter, looked up and smiled.
“Chris, how you doin’?” she asked. “How’s the family? I haven’t seen you guys in months.” Her face went blank for a moment and then reddened. She pressed her lips together. Too late—the words had already popped out. They were hanging in the air, casting shadows on the conversation.
“We haven’t been down since, uh, May,” Chris replied.
“We were so sorry about Molly,” she said. “She was a little doll. Frank was in the search party that day, you know.”
Chris remembered Helen’s husband being there. Combing the park, searching the beach, exploring the cold water, and emerging in long, dripping-wet pants to trudge along the shoreline again. He’d been one of the last ones to leave, and when he did there were tears in his eyes.
“I saw Frank there,” Chris said. “He was a big help.”
“I guess everybody did what they could. But that’s a nasty piece of water for little kids. She’s not the first one that’s not been found, you know.”
Chris knew. He’d heard the stories of other drownings. They’d just never meant much before.
“I’d like a couple of cookies,” he said, steering the topic away from one that was getting old in a hurry. “A peanut butter for me and a chocolate chip for my friend.”
“Your friend? Why didn’t you bring him in with you?”
Chris stuck out his flat stomach, patting it fondly. “I did. He was too hungry to wait outside.”
Helen smiled. “Still the comedian, huh, Chris?” She reached under the counter, grabbed a bag, and carefully stacked four big cookies in it. “These are on me today, but you’ve got to promise to come back sooner next time. And bring your folks in, too.”
Someone Was Watching Page 1
