Someone Was Watching

by David Patneaude

  10

  Chris sat in the family room on the edge of a chair, listening to the murmur of his parents’ voices floating in from the kitchen. The television was on, but he wasn’t watching it. He alternated between looking at the wall clock and through the window at the front yard, where tree shadows were stretching in the setting sun. It was 7:45; Pat was due at 8:00.

  He and Pat had agreed on the bus ride home that—on paper, at least—their evidence wasn’t exactly overwhelming. But now that they knew where Bud and Clover were, they didn’t have a choice; they needed to get some help. The next step had to be to get Chris’s parents involved. Chris and Pat figured that together they’d be able to convince Chris’s folks that Molly had been kidnapped, or at least that there was a chance she had.

  Chris had the videotape loaded and forwarded to the scene at The Cloverbud. All he needed to do was hit the “play” button, point out what had got him started, and tell them the rest of the story. The envelope sat next to him on the end table. He glanced over at it. Along with the tape, it was the only piece of evidence he had to support his story.

  His dad appeared in the doorway connecting the family room and kitchen. “Can you come in here with us for a few minutes, Chris?” he said. “We want to talk to you about something.”

  Right away he knew what it must be. They’d found out that he and Pat hadn’t gone to the mall today. Light-headed and tight-throated, he got up from the chair and started for the kitchen. “Sure,” he said, in what he hoped was an innocent voice. Curiously, his dad smiled as Chris walked past him and sat down at the table across from his mom. His dad joined them.

  “Did you find any school clothes at the mall today, Chris?” his mom asked.

  The question didn’t sound sarcastic. Should he tell her the truth? Now? “No. Nothing I really liked,” he said.

  “Well, we can go again. Maybe to some other stores,” she said.

  “Okay,” he said. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad.

  “Chris,” his dad said, glancing at Chris’s mom and back at Chris. He paused, as if trying to put some words together.

  Here it comes, thought Chris.

  “Do you remember what Dr. Wilde told us when we were first going in to see her?” he continued.

  Chris thought for a moment. Nothing really stuck out. “Lots of things,” he said. “She told us lots of things. I don’t remember most of ‘em.”

  “She did tell us lots of things, Chris,” his mom said. “And we were having a hard time listening to her back then. Most of what she was telling us we didn’t really comprehend or accept. But in the past two days, your dad and I have been talking and thinking about one thing she mentioned that didn’t seem like a good idea at the time.”

  His mom looked embarrassed, hesitant to go on. “What was that?” Chris asked. She smiled but didn’t answer, instead glancing at Chris’s dad.

  “What Dr. Wilde said,” his dad began, “was that it might be a good idea for us to consider having another baby soon.”

  Chris just stared at his dad, trying to comprehend the words, to remember when Dr. Wilde had given that outlandish advice. She couldn’t have. But then it came back to him like a bad dream.

  “So you’re just going to give up on Molly?” he said without thinking.

  “Give up on her?” his mom said. “Of course not, Chris. She’ll always be with us. We could never forget her, or replace her. We wouldn’t try to do that.”

  “It would be a new life, Chris,” his dad said. “Someone for us to care for—to care about. To love.” His voice was breaking. “Like we love Molly, but different.”

  “And we haven’t decided anything, Chris,” his mom said. Her eyes were shiny, wet. “It’s just something we’re thinking about. We wanted to know what you think.”

  Chris’s head was spinning. He’d already gone through too much today to deal with anything new. He pushed his chair back from the table, ready to run, but he had to stay. “You really want to know what I think?” He had their attention now. “I think Molly’s still alive.” He looked from his mom to his dad. They both stared at him. Crazy. They think I’m crazy, he thought.

  “Why would you say something like that?” his dad asked. He was leaning forward, looking in Chris’s eyes, as if trying to get a glimpse of the defective brain cells.

  “It’s true. I can show you if you’ll come into the family room with me.”

  “Show us what, Chris?” his mom asked.

  “The tape. The tape from the day we lost Molly.”

  “We’ve seen it,” his dad said, sitting back in his chair, no longer interested. His reaction was short—the final word.

  “But it shows Clover telling Molly a secret and Bud and Clover’s truck at the park. And the music wasn’t even on for most of the time the truck was there, like they suddenly didn’t want anybody to know they were around.” He took a deep breath, certain that his parents weren’t hearing a word he was saying. “They always play the music when the truck’s at the park,” he added. He felt as if he’d just started firing his shots, but he was already out of ammunition. And he hadn’t even gotten their attention.

  They both stared at him, blank expressions on their faces. His mom tried to smile, but it turned into something else—more of a grimace.

  “Bud and Clover?” his dad said, leaning forward again. “What do they have to do with this?”

  “They did it, Dad. They took her.” He raced into the family room and back, the envelope in his hand, holding it out to his dad, who didn’t even look at it. This wasn’t the way Chris had planned to do this, but he had to go through with it now. “They left Greenwater and moved to a new place,” he said, throwing the envelope on the table. “Three weeks after Molly disappeared, right at the start of the busiest time of the year, they left town. Clover was gone in a few days. And nobody knew where they were going.”

  “They always leave Greenwater for half the year,” his dad said. Without really looking at the envelope, he picked it up and held it for a moment, absent-mindedly rubbing his fingers across its surface, before dropping it back on the table address-side down.

  Chris couldn’t tell if his dad was exasperated or just annoyed, but he decided to go on. “In June, Dad?” he said. “Try October.”

  “I’m sure they had a good reason,” his mom said. She looked concerned, as if she were getting ready to get up and give him a hug.

  “They said Clover’s mom was sick,” Chris said.

  “Then she probably was,” his dad said. He was staring at Chris, as if he didn’t quite recognize him.

  “They haven’t renewed their lease on The Cloverbud,” Chris said. “I know they’re not coming back to Greenwater. Why would they do that without telling anybody?”

  “I don’t know, Chris. Why do you think they did?” his dad said. “Obviously, Clover’s mother couldn’t really be sick. After all, she’d probably only be in her seventies or eighties.”

  Chris could tell by his dad’s tone of voice that Chris wasn’t even close to convincing him of anything. Exasperated. Definitely exasperated.

  But there was no reason to turn back now. “I think they did it because they took Molly, and they wanted to get out of town before anybody knew they were going or where they were going.” He took a deep breath and sat back down.

  His dad glanced at his mom, who had her head down. She was wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “And what do you have to base that on, Chris?” his dad said. “A secret Clover told Molly? Their truck being at the park? Their early departure from Greenwater?” He shook his head. “That’s nothing, Chris. Do you have any proof?”

  “Nothing else,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Just what I’ve told you.” Where was Pat, now that he really needed him?

  “What about the coloring book?” his dad said. “Do you think it walked out on the dock by itself?”

  The coloring book. Chris hadn’t thought about Molly’s coloring book. How would
it have gotten on the dock, unless Molly took it there? He sat looking at his dad and his mom and back at his dad again, but he didn’t see their faces—he saw all his hopes fading away to dim, flimsy shadows. Then suddenly he knew—he knew how it got there—and it made him believe more than ever. “Bud took it out on the dock,” he said. “He got Molly, and then he took the book out on the dock. He wanted everyone to think she’d fallen in.”

  “You watch too much television,” his dad said.

  “We know you miss her, Chris,” his mom said. “But we’ve got to face the fact that Molly died. We all had a good talk about it on Saturday. Let’s not go backward now.” Her voice was shaky, pleading.

  She put her hand over his. He wanted to get up from his chair and drag them in to look at the videotape, but he was suddenly tired. He couldn’t move.

  “I have a question for you,” his dad said. “How did you get the envelope?”

  Chris stared at the wall. “Bud and Clover’s mailbox.”

  “When?”

  “Today.”

  “You were in Greenwater today, Chris?” his mom said. She tightened her grip on his hand. “How did you get there?”

  “Bus. Pat and I caught the bus.” Why did he feel like a major crime suspect?

  “You were supposed to be at the mall, weren’t you?” his dad said.

  “I knew you wouldn’t let me go to the river.”

  “You’re right,” his dad said. “It’s a long trip by yourself. And there was no reason for you to go.”

  “I thought there was. Now I know there was.”

  “There wasn’t,” his dad said. His face had gotten flushed. “And I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

  “Why?” Chris said. He could feel his opportunity slipping away. “What if she’s alive? Don’t you think there’s a chance at least?”

  “No,” his dad said. His mom was shaking her head.

  The doorbell rang. “And I think we need to schedule some more sessions with Dr. Wilde,” his dad said.

  “I don’t want more sessions with Dr. Wilde. I want my sister back.”

  “We all do, Chris,” his mom said.

  The doorbell rang again. Chris started to get up, but his legs felt like rubber bands. He sat back down. “Come in, Pat!” he yelled.

  The front door opened and closed, and Pat appeared in the kitchen doorway. He looked at the faces at the table and his smile faded. “Did I pick a bad time to come?” he asked. “It looks like Chris just told one of his jokes.”

  “A bad joke,” Chris’s dad said.

  “Perfect timing,” Chris said.

  “You told them already?” Pat asked.

  “It just came out,” Chris said.

  “And?”

  “They don’t believe me.”

  “But Mr. and Mrs. Barton—” Pat began. His voice trailed off when he looked at their faces. “You should have been there,” he continued. “It was strange. Something weird happened. We’re sure of it.”

  “Pat, the only weird thing that happened was that I couldn’t keep my eyes open long enough to keep Molly out of the river,” Chris’s dad said. He looked at Chris’s mom and back at Pat. “We told Chris that we didn’t want to hear any more about it. We’d appreciate not hearing any more from you, either.” His mouth closed, and his lips formed a thin, grim line on his face.

  Chris watched Pat’s face redden and his eyes turn liquid. Chris slid his hand out of his mom’s grasp, got up, and walked over to him. “Don’t worry about it,” he said softly. “It’s my fault. I got you into this.”

  “What if something had happened to you guys today?” his mom said. “You were a hundred miles away from home, and we had no idea where you were.”

  “We couldn’t tell you,” Chris said. “Dad already said you wouldn’t have let us go.”

  “And I don’t want you pulling anything like that again,” his dad said. “We’ve always trusted you and treated you as a responsible person. You’ve earned our trust. I don’t want that to change.”

  Chris wanted to say something, to tell them they were wrong. But were they? He wasn’t as sure now. And his dad’s face said that the conversation was over.

  “Understood?” his dad said.

  Chris looked at him and then at his mom. Her expression was begging him to say yes. “Okay,” he said. Pat nodded in agreement. They glanced at each other and back at Chris’s parents. Chris wasn’t sure what they were supposed to do next.

  “Do you want some dessert, Pat?” Chris’s mom asked, as if the discussion had never occurred. Her voice was near normal now, but forced, hollow.

  “No thanks, Mrs. B.,” Pat said. “I’ve got to get going.”

  “Another time, then,” Chris’s mom said.

  “Sure.”

  Chris walked him to the door and returned to the kitchen. His parents looked up at him in surprise, their quiet discussion interrupted. Probably talking about me, Chris thought. Probably thought I’d go to my room like a spanked puppy.

  “You guys can have another baby if you want to,” he said, “but don’t plan on moving it into Molly’s room. She’s going to need it when she comes home.”

  “Chris—” his dad began. But Chris turned and hurried away, running from the hurt in their eyes, taking the stairs three at a time, closing his door behind him.

  An hour later he lay in the dark. He felt drained, tired to the bone, but not sleepy. The day had seemed a week long, and everything that had happened was rerunning itself through his mind.

  It had all been going in the right direction until the discussion in the kitchen. Then disaster—and doubt. He’d had doubts all along, but his mom and dad not believing him, not even giving him a chance to explain, had made those doubts bigger. Even Pat hadn’t had the heart to stand up to Chris’s parents. Had Pat really believed at all? Or was he just going along with it to humor his friend?

  Chris wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Maybe he’d been kidding himself the whole time. If he had, he should just give up on this crazy idea and get on with his life. But if he hadn’t, how was he going to see to it that Molly got on with her life? Who would help—the police? If his own parents didn’t believe him? He didn’t think so.

  Who, then? Where were all the heroes? Batman would have believed a kid’s story. Sherlock Holmes would have come all the way from London to help out. But where were the real heroes?

  Chris couldn’t think of any—none that he could talk to, anyway. He rolled and crept across his bed, sweating in the warm night air. When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of Molly. She stood in front of him on the beach, toeing the hot sand and laughing up at him. Then she turned and took off toward the dock, running like a tiny race horse, her feet kicking up little golden-brown roostertails. He sprinted after her, but she was too fast for him. A hundred yards away, she stopped at the foot of the dock and waved. Then she ran for the woods.

  11

  Chris woke up feeling heroic. He didn’t know why. Maybe it helped that it was dark. He couldn’t see that he still had the same kid-sized body, that he was still only thirteen years old. But he knew that if a hero was needed, he was going to have to be that hero. There was a need; Molly was alive and alone in a faraway town. And there was only one person who believed it, who knew where she was and was willing to go after her: him. And maybe Pat. He had to talk to Pat.

  He looked at his clock—4:23. Too early to call anyone. But he was wide awake now, his mind racing down dark paths.

  He switched on his lamp, walked to the desk, and pulled a volume of the encyclopedia set from the shelf. He opened it to “Florida.” A map showed cities and counties, lakes and rivers, highways and roads. It took him a while, but he finally spotted New Moon Bay. Westview was just north of it. Using the scale on the map and a ruler, he figured the distance at about thirty miles. Thirty miles of western Florida coastline. The nearest big city was probably Tampa, a hundred miles or so to the south of Westview.

  He pulled another book f
rom the shelf and opened it to “United States.” The U.S. map was familiar, but he’d never really figured distances between states before. As he picked up his ruler something clicked against his window. He half-turned in the chair and looked, but his shade was pulled down. Nothing there. An early morning breeze through the partially open window nudged the shade into the frame. A quiet click. He turned back to the desk.

  Another click, louder, not the wind. He walked to the window, pushed the shade a crack open, and looked outside. Down on the front lawn, ready to throw a small twig, was Pat. Chris raised the shade and stuck his head out the window.

  “Pat! What are you doing?” he whispered loudly.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I saw your light come on. Let me in the back door—I’ve gotta talk to you.”

  Chris slipped quietly downstairs and then tiptoed back up with Pat on his heels. The house was dark and still and cool. Chris closed his door quietly behind them and sat down in his desk chair. Pat leaned against the desk and pulled a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket.

  “I did some calling after I got home last night,” Pat said.

  “Did you find a shrink for me?”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy, Chris. I was calling the airlines.”

  “Going somewhere?”

  “Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t more help last night, but it was pretty much all over by the time I got there. Your parents weren’t about to listen to me.”

  “I know—I’m sorry. I’m just upset that they didn’t believe us, not even a little.”

  “Maybe they’re afraid,” Pat said. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anyway, after I left last night I figured that we’re the only ones Molly has left to help her. So we need to do something.”

  Chris had to smile. He could see Pat getting wound up. He’d started pacing around the room. “So you called the airlines?”

  “Yeah, about ten of ‘em. I didn’t know which ones went where. But I finally got the information we need.” He handed Chris the paper.

  “You mean you want to go with me to Florida? You really do believe she’s alive?”