Someone Was Watching

by David Patneaude

  “See it?” Chris whispered.

  Pat nodded.

  Chris glanced around to see if anybody was watching them; they weren’t acting exactly normal. But he didn’t see anyone. Pat crab-crawled around toward the front of the station wagon, while Chris raised up to get a better look at the ice cream truck. Its back doors were open, and from inside came the sounds of hammering. A shadowy figure was moving around in the dim light of the van’s interior.

  Pat scrabbled back, a nervous grin on his shiny face. “Bingo,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Chris said. Now what? he wondered. They’d accomplished a lot in a short time, but what next? He thought for a moment, listening to his heart race and his stomach churn. “I think we need to come back after dark,” he said finally. “We can’t get any closer now.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. This place is giving me the creeps.”

  They hurried back up the street, trying to stay low and out of sight, looking over their shoulders to make sure they hadn’t been spotted, trying not to appear too suspicious in case people were looking out their front windows. But the hammering from the van continued until it faded to a faint tap-tap-tap in the distance. And no curious faces spied out at them from behind closed draperies. They slowed and walked the rest of the way to Palm Avenue.

  “Should we see what’s happening at the Cloverbud?” Pat asked when they got back to the main road.

  “I guess so,” Chris said. “But we need to keep an eye out for Clover. It looks like Bud’s going to be busy for a while, but there’s no telling where she is.”

  “My guess is she’s in their house somewhere, taking care of a little kid.”

  “Or a sick mother.” But it was good to hear Pat say it. Chris was thinking, hoping the same thing, but he was afraid to say it out loud. For some reason, even though they were in Florida and they’d already found the new Cloverbud and Bud and Clover’s house and the ice cream truck, and they’d actually seen Bud, the next step—finding Molly—was still hard to imagine. He had to concentrate on where they were and what they were doing.

  Chris looked at his watch—6:45. By now his mom and maybe his dad and probably Pat’s parents would know. How was it affecting them? “You think they’ve called out the National Guard yet?” he asked. “Our parents, I mean?”

  “Probably just the FBI,” Pat said. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and shrugged, as if trying to shed any thoughts of home. “Let’s go,” he said.

  They started toward town, nervously watching the passing cars and pedestrians, checking behind them every few steps to make sure the ice cream truck wasn’t back on the road. Chris felt as if they were walking down the middle of the street carrying neon signs that said RUNAWAY.

  They passed two drive-in restaurants. The smells of hamburgers and french fries drifted out to the sidewalk, reminding Chris of how hungry he was. He could imagine what Pat was thinking about, but didn’t ask. Not yet. He just had to get to The Cloverbud.

  The T-shirt shop was closed when they walked past it. They crossed the street and continued north past other shops, some of which were still open. At Murdock’s they paused. The aroma of cooking coming out the open door of the little restaurant was overwhelming and stopped them in their tracks. They looked at the menu posted by the door and stared in through the big front window. The place was crowded. People sharing a meal, couples and families, talking and laughing. Suddenly Chris wanted to see his family—all of them.

  “On the way back,” Pat said, pulling him away from the window. “Let’s eat here on the way back.”

  The Cloverbud was on the next block. They approached it cautiously, but it was empty and locked. From the outside it looked much like the original Cloverbud except for the signs of ongoing remodeling. Boards and sawhorses and tools and a ladder were visible through the front window. Debris was scattered around on the wood floor.

  But it looked mostly complete. Cabinets and a big sign listing the varieties of ice cream were hung on the far wall. Everything was freshly painted, and stretching across the back of the room was a large freezer display case and counter.

  They peered into the dim interior of the shop, looking for something, some sign that things weren’t quite right here: a piece of child’s clothing, a toy, a doll. But would they have even brought her down here? Chris didn’t think so.

  “I don’t see anything weird,” Pat said.

  Chris looked up and down the street, checking the cars and pedestrians. “Me, neither,” he said. “I think we need to look around back.”

  A narrow sidewalk between shops led them to an alley that ran behind all the buildings on the west side of Palm. There was nothing but more building scraps and garbage in back of The Cloverbud. The door was locked.

  They got back to the street just as a dark blue police car cruised slowly by. The driver’s head turned mechanically from side to side, as if he were looking for something—or someone. He glanced in their direction, and then—without missing a beat—away, toward the other side of the street. Chris wondered if this was just a routine patrol for this guy. Probably, he decided, but his skin felt crawly under the layer of sweat.

  “Don’t look,” Pat said, heading up the sidewalk with Chris at his side.

  Chris didn’t look. He pretended to be interested in the shops as they walked past, gazing into the windows of The Cloverbud and then of a toy store next to it. Finally, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the cruiser pick up speed. He watched it continue on down the street. “Phew!” he said, breathing again. “I wonder what he was so interested in.”

  “You,” Pat said. “It’s your criminal appearance. It’s bound to make people suspicious.”

  “Ha, ha,” Chris said. “Very funny.”

  17

  A young blond woman met them inside the door of Murdock’s and showed them to a corner table. The smell of food and the sounds of the people around them talking and eating made Chris suddenly feel comfortable. For a moment he stopped thinking about the reason they were sitting there.

  But then just as quickly he remembered. From his seat, he could look through the front window out to the street. Fifty feet past the restaurant, the police car, empty now, was parked at the curb. Where was the policeman?

  Pat, his back to the window, must have seen the change in his expression. “What’s the matter, Chris?” he asked.

  Instead of answering, Chris swivelled his head slowly to the right. Directly across from them, against the opposite wall, the policeman sat at a small table by himself, looking at a menu.

  “The Westview police force is here,” Chris said, his voice low and scratchy. “But don’t gawk at him. Just act natural.” Easy to say, but Chris was having a hard time acting natural himself.

  A waitress brought them menus, and Chris watched Pat’s eyes drift off the page and over toward the other corner. “Real subtle, Rocky,” Chris whispered. “Why don’t you just read the menu so we can eat and get out of here.”

  “He’s looking this way,” Pat said, his voice a hoarse whisper, his lips barely moving.

  Chris stared down at the menu, but the words were a blur. “Just don’t be strange,” he said.

  “Maybe we should take off these glasses,” Pat said.

  Chris looked at Pat and knew he was right. What normal people wore sunglasses inside a restaurant? They wouldn’t have looked much more bizarre if they’d been wearing funny noses and hats with propellers on top. He took his glasses off as casually as he could, and Pat did, too. They both studied their menus furiously, not looking right or left.

  Chris had just begun actually focusing in on the words when a shadow fell over the table. The waitress, he hoped. No, not the waitress—a man. A tall man with a gray uniform and a gun and a badge and a name plate that said “Hudson.” And topping it all was a young face and old hair—nearly white. The man was smiling, but Chris had seen that smile before. His football coach wore that smile whenever he was getting ready to make them do push-ups.


  “You boys on your own tonight?” he asked, his smile fading out and then coming back.

  “Yeah,” Pat said, as if that were the most natural situation in the world.

  Don’t overdo it, Chris thought.

  “On vacation?” Hudson said.

  “Visiting relatives,” Chris said. His heart was trying to crawl into his stomach.

  “In town here?”

  Chris could feel Hudson’s eyes homing in on him, looking for a little crack, a chink in the armor.

  “No. Out in the country. My aunt and uncle. They’re picking us up here.” Go away, Chris thought. Go away and let us alone. Go find some real criminals.

  “Sounds like fun,” Hudson said, but his expression didn’t look like he expected them to have any. “City boys, I take it?”

  City boys. Chris didn’t like the way he said it—down-home soft and friendly, but with a hard, inhospitable edge. He could imagine him saying “drug dealers” the same way. And what city? What story should they tell him? Were they still Rocky and Fred from Green Bay?

  “Yeah, we’re from the city,” Pat said, and Hudson’s stare shifted back across the table.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Chris saw a figure glide up and stop beside the policeman. The waitress—at last. Maybe if she broke the bulldog’s concentration, he’d drop his bone and go back to his corner.

  “You gonna let these boys read their menus this evenin’, Roy?” she said, resting a hand on Hudson’s arm. “They look pretty hungry to me.” Her “pretty” came out “purty”—a sweet, comfortable word.

  Hudson looked at her, a narrow-eyed glare at first, but then his expression softened as she returned his look with a smile—the biggest, prettiest smile Chris had ever seen. “Sure, Katie,” he said. “They can read their menus. We were just having a little visit.”

  “That’s good, big fella,” she said, straightening his badge. “Now why don’t you go over and sit down, put up your feet and pick out some supper, and I’ll be right over to take care of you.”

  “Sounds good,” Hudson said, taking his eyes off Katie long enough to glance back at Chris and Pat. “Nice talking to you, boys,” he said. “Hope you have a good time here.” It sounded more like an order than a hope. “See you in a minute, Katie,” he said with a smile—a real smile, Chris thought, surprised that he had one. Hudson walked back to his table, unhurriedly surveying the restaurant before he sat down.

  “That boy needs to take a break,” Katie said, loud enough for Hudson to hear. “He sees an outlaw behind every bush.” She smiled that big smile again, looking first at Chris and then at Pat. “Sorry he was givin’ you all a hard time in here.”

  “No problem,” Pat said, puffing out his chest, trying to act nonchalant, unconcerned. Chris figured Pat was about one smile away from falling in love.

  “You ready to order?” she asked, turning to Chris. He decided he got preference because Pat was obviously too sophisticated to be hungry.

  But after Chris chose a dinner, so did Pat, and Katie hurried off for Hudson’s table. They both managed to avoid letting their eyes wander in that direction. Instead, they shared a quick look of relief, and pretended to study the tabletop, where a cartoon map of Florida showing all the major tourist attractions was sandwiched between the table and a clear slab of plastic. Westview wasn’t on the map.

  Chris couldn’t believe how fortunate they’d been that Katie had come along when she had. He didn’t know how much longer they would have been able to make their story work; it had a lot of holes in it, if someone decided to look a little closer. And Chris was sure that Hudson was capable of looking more than a little closer. But Katie—she’d done a lot more than just break his concentration. She’d blown it apart and sent him on his way, thinking about something completely different. Chris hoped Hudson would stay distracted the rest of the night; he didn’t want to face that icy smile again.

  Katie brought the policeman’s meal first—on purpose? Chris wondered—and Hudson was nearly finished by the time she carried theirs from the kitchen. They’d just started eating when he got up, said something to Katie that made her laugh, and headed for the door. Chris chanced a look in his direction, forcing a smile, and got a nod in return. Pat was concentrating on his food—or pretending to.

  Chris was full when Katie came back to the table, and Pat was just picking at what was left of his food—a small mound of some kind of vegetable that Chris didn’t recognize. His mound was still sitting intact on his plate.

  “Dessert, fellas?” she said.

  Chris looked out the window. It wasn’t quite dark. They had a little while longer to stall.

  “We’ve got some homemade key lime pie,” she said, smiling, glancing back and forth between Pat and Chris.

  “I’ll have some,” Chris said, although he wasn’t sure what key lime pie was. He liked lemon; maybe this was something similar.

  “Me, too,” Pat said, looking up at her dreamily.

  She brought the pie, and it was good. By the time they finished it, it was dark. They left her a tip on the table—a good one, but not too good; they didn’t want to appear overly grateful for what she’d done, or jump to the front of her mind if somebody should come around asking about them. And they were starting to realize how much things cost—and how quickly their money would dwindle if they had to stay here very long. They paid their bill, thanked her, and walked out the door into the night.

  Chris had expected that with the dark, the weather would cool off, but it hadn’t. The same blast of hot, wet air hit them as they left the air-conditioned restaurant. The only thing missing was the sunshine. He glanced at his watch—almost nine o’clock. “Should we do it?” he said, trying to sound brave, but he’d had to force himself to think of Molly—of what they were trying to accomplish—before the words would even come out.

  “Yeah,” Pat said. “Let’s see what’s going on.” They started walking, heading south, past small, slow-moving knots of people, and cramped, cluttered shops getting ready to close their doors. The little town was pulling in its sidewalks for the night.

  As they got farther away from Murdock’s and closer to Orchard Street, Chris felt a weight descending on him in the darkness. Pat had grown quiet, nearly silent. Chris thought that Pat must be feeling the same burden.

  They crossed Palm and started down Orchard, heading east. The neighborhood had changed in just a few hours. It was dark now, gloomy. The few street lights cast dark shadows near houses. Some houses were lit only by the dim lamps from shaded interiors, and here and there a yellow porch light. It was quiet, the only sounds coming from traffic passing behind them on Palm, and that was infrequent and fading as they got farther away.

  “This place is spooky,” Pat said after they’d walked the first block in silence. A dog barked in a yard across the street. A big, ugly bark. They involuntarily picked up their pace.

  “Just pretend it’s a bad dream,” Chris said. It felt like that to him—somebody else’s nightmare.

  “When do we wake up?” Pat asked.

  Chris didn’t answer. He didn’t know. Soon, he hoped.

  They slowed as they approached Bud and Clover’s house. It was brightly lit inside, but the curtains and drapes were drawn in every window, allowing only soft, narrow rays of light to escape to the front lawn and shrubs. The backyard was surrounded by a six-foot-tall wooden fence that separated it from the front yard and the neighboring lot, where a similar house sat.

  When they reached the edge of the yard, they stopped. The big white van sat in the driveway on the other side of the house, closed up, dark, and quiet. The top of its ice cream cone rose like a chocolate moon above the pickup truck and camper parked next to it. The light from the house’s side windows reflected off the pickup’s shiny green paint and the camper’s white metal. The night was still warm but Chris felt a chill.

  “Looks like they’re both home,” Pat whispered.

  “I think you’re right,” Chris whispered. I hope a
ll three of them are home, he thought.

  “What do you want to do?” Pat asked.

  Chris thought for a moment, his eyes darting around the yard. “Let’s see what the back looks like,” he said.

  They stepped into the neighbor’s yard and crept along the white picket fence marking the property line. They reached the tall wooden fence, followed it to its end, and turned left along the rear boundary of Bud and Clover’s yard. Midway down the back section of fence they stopped. Dim light from the house filtered through a knothole halfway up one of the vertical boards.

  Chris stooped down to look, but his nose brushed the rough, bare wood before his eye got to the hole. He stopped, breathing in. It was moist and smelled freshly cut—new. Why would they put up a new fence, unless they were trying to keep someone out—or in? Or maybe for privacy. He glanced over his shoulder at the land behind him. In the darkness he could see that they were standing on a narrow dirt alleyway. Beyond that there was nothing but a vacant lot. He could make out the shapes of bushes and trees, and the smell of rotting vegetation filled his nose. No need for privacy here, unless Clover and Bud had something to hide.

  Pat crouched down next to him. “What do you see?” he said, his voice barely audible.

  “Nothing yet,” Chris whispered. “But the fence is new, Pat. The fence is new.”

  Pat ran his fingers over the boards and nudged Chris out of the way, sticking his face up to the knothole. “I’ve been eating my carrots,” he said. “Let me take a look.” He knelt there for a moment, motionless. “I wonder what—” he began. Then, in an excited whisper, “Look in here, Chris! Tell me what you see.”

  Chris shifted back over and peered through the hole, his heart racing. But at first he saw nothing out of the ordinary, just the back of the house, and silhouetted against the light from the windows and door, a clothesline. Then he saw another kind of framework, off to the side of the clothesline, resting on the lawn like a dinosaur skeleton. His heart accelerated, fluttering in his chest now, and he took a deep breath of rancid air.