“I don’t know,” Chris said. He wanted to, he wanted to badly, but was this the time? They still hadn’t seen her. He pushed Pat aside again and peered through the hole: nothing yet. And where was Bud? How long until he got back? Chris decided it was time to do it.
But then Clover’s voice carried back to them, getting louder as she moved from the house to the yard. “You can just bring your little chair and your dolly out here, honey, and watch me hang the clothes,” she said. Her feet appeared below the bottom of the sheets. Next to her, the legs of a little wooden chair hung above the ground before settling into the grass. Then the lower halves of two little bare legs materialized. And feet, in red tennis shoes—shoes Chris didn’t recognize. But so what? They could have gotten new shoes for her.
A baby doll with tousled blond hair dropped to the ground next to the chair. Chris caught a glimpse of a tiny hand as it reached down to retrieve the doll and lift it out of his sight. He held his breath, his heart hammering in his throat.
“What’s going on?” Pat whispered.
Chris wasn’t sure he could talk without shouting, but he managed a raspy whisper. “She’s in the yard. Molly’s in the yard, but I can’t see her face—she’s behind the sheets.”
Pat moved him gently out of the way and pressed his face to the fence. “Just her legs,” he said after a moment. “But I think that’s enough. Let’s get her.”
Chris didn’t answer. He was trying to decide if they could get over the fence and across the yard before Clover could grab Molly and get into the house. He moved Pat out of the way again. He wanted another look. “Let me see something first,” he said, ignoring Pat’s impatient glance.
He stared through the hole, calculating the distance to the clothesline, and between Clover and the back door. Could they do it?
A strong breeze suddenly swept across the backyard, pushing the sheet bottoms up to the level of Clover’s knees. And Molly’s stomach. Chris’s heart skipped. A little higher. Just a little higher, he thought. But the breeze died and he was back to looking at ankles and feet. Then another sudden gust. The sheets flapped up for a split second. High. High enough.
And he couldn’t believe what he’d seen. Just a glimpse, but it was enough.
He pushed himself away from the fence and sat down with his head in his hands, staring at the ground. After all this! He’d just lost Molly, again.
“What’s the matter?” Pat said.
“It’s not her, Pat,” Chris said, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. “It’s not her.”
“What?” Pat said, pressing his eye to the hole. “How do you know?”
“I saw her, I saw her hair—short. No, not just short—dark, real dark.”
Pat turned and sat next to him, letting out a long breath. For a minute he said nothing. Then: “I was sure she was here! Who is that little girl, anyway?”
19
Chris thought. He thought hard. Something was still letting a little beam of light in. Where was it coming from? Then he heard a sound.
“Shhh!” Chris said, his finger to his lips, his heart back in his throat. Together he and Pat listened to the little girl recite a poem to her doll.
My little girl with golden hair,
Awakes to find me standing there,
A bit of sleep still in her eyes,
My little girl, my sweet surprise.
Pat smiled over at him. A big smile—a huge smile. And Chris returned it, tears pooling up in the corners of his eyes.
“Can you handle Clover?” Chris said. “Long enough for me to get Molly over to the gate, anyway?”
Pat gave Chris his “No problem” look, though it wasn’t quite convincing. “A fat, fifty-year-old woman?” he said. “I think so. For a while, anyway. And then what?”
“Head for town,” Chris said. “If Hudson or somebody else isn’t at the police station, we’ll go to Murdock’s, or someplace else where there’s people. Someone will help us.”
“Okay,” Pat said. They stood and faced the fence.
“Now!” Chris said.
In an instant they’d scrambled up the side of the rough wooden fence and leaped over, landing on the soft ground at the same time. Clover had moved from behind the sheets and was bending over the basket, reaching for another piece of laundry. She didn’t hear them, didn’t see them at first. They were halfway across the yard, running, when she sensed something and looked up. She stood, the expression on her round face changing quickly from confusion to recognition to shock to horror.
“What?” she said. The word was a squeak. “How?” Her mouth formed the word and stayed open in a dark oval of fear. She turned toward the house just as they reached the clothesline. Pat grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides.
“No-oh-oh-oh!” The word came out in a long, throbbing sob, filling the air, and she struggled to get free.
Chris cut left through the hanging clothes, and suddenly she was there, staring at Pat and Clover’s awkward dance, watching them tumble to the ground in a squirming heap. She looked up at Chris from her little chair and he knew it was her. He knew it was Molly.
A big smile suddenly pushed away the confusion on her face. “Kis!” she squealed, and he swept her up in his arms, pivoting toward the gate, sprinting past Pat and Clover silently wrestling on the ground. “Patty!” she called down to him, squeezing Chris’s neck.
“I’ll…be…right…there…Molly,” Pat said to her. The words popped out in short grunts.
They reached the gate. Padlocked! A big, heavy padlock hung through the latch. Without hesitating, Chris boosted Molly over the top of the fence, prying her little fingers from his neck and squeezing them onto the fencetop, hanging her over the other side.
“Hang on for a second, Molly,” he said, and pulled himself to the top and over, landing on the packed gravel of the driveway in front of the green pickup. He lowered her to the ground, holding her close to his leg. “Pat!” he yelled. “Let’s go!”
In a twinkling, Pat was on top of the fence. He looked back once and dropped to the ground next to Chris, breathing hard. “She’s heading for the house—the phone—let’s get out of here!” Molly looked up at him, her eyes wide. “I’ll carry Molly for a while,” he said. “We can go faster.”
Chris didn’t argue; Pat was right.
Pat scooped her up and she held on, her arms and legs wrapped around him. He sprinted down the driveway and turned left, pressing Molly to his chest with his right arm. Chris kept pace next to him.
Side by side they raced down the sidewalks of Orchard Street, heading for Palm. They covered the first block. And the second. And the third. Then Chris looked up. A block away, a big white van was turning left from Palm to Orchard, its tires squealing, its body leaning as it careened toward them.
“Bud!” Chris gasped. “C’mon!” They veered right, cutting across Orchard at the intersection, heading north on First. Pat was slowing down. Chris could hear him straining for air.
“Let me take her now,” Chris said, and they slowed to a jog, exchanging Molly like a bundle of fragile cargo. Pat was having trouble catching his breath.
When they raced off again, Chris glanced over his shoulder. Less than a half block away, Bud was plowing through a left turn from Orchard onto First. He’d seen them. Chris could hear the scream of the tires and brakes.
“He’s coming!” he yelled. Molly tightened her grip around the back of his neck. He felt her heart beating against his chest. Her breath was coming in little sobs. And his lungs were burning, aching. What could they do now?
“We need to get off the street!” Pat gasped. “The next house! Cut through the yard!”
Chris could hear the roar of the truck behind them now, louder and louder. They reached a hedge and veered left from the sidewalk onto the grass, sprinting for the backyard, and another house beyond that, and Palm somewhere in the distance. His legs were cement, but Molly was a feather in his arms, as if she were part of him.
The
sound of skidding tires filled the air. Close, too close, but Chris didn’t look back. Pat’s hand was on his elbow, urging him ahead. And they were flying now, racing down a narrow corridor between houses, looking for the best—the fastest—escape route. They had to get back to the business area, where there were people—where somebody would help them.
They pushed through a low gate into a fenced backyard, and Pat steered Chris toward the far corner, where the fence had rotted and sagged over. From far behind them, Chris heard a voice carrying through the hot, sticky air—air that was clogging his lungs, making him gasp for breath. It was Bud’s voice, but different than Chris remembered it. Chris heard anger in it now, and urgency and hurt.
“Molly!” he shouted. “Don’t let them take you, Molly! We love you! Aunt Clover loves you!”
Molly held on tighter, pressing her face against Chris’s collarbone, and he accelerated, tapping an extra reserve of energy he didn’t know was there.
“Chris!” the voice called, growing fainter. “Don’t run! Come back!” Then an instant later: “We can talk!”
But Chris didn’t want to talk. He wanted to run; he wanted to fly. They reached the broken-down fence, and Pat leaped up on it, his weight flattening it down, closer to the ground—close enough that Chris could run up and over it without breaking stride, without slowing down. He was in another yard now, still heading west, and he glanced back to make sure Pat was coming.
He saw Pat, a few strides back and gaining, and beyond Pat, through the gap between two houses, he saw something else: a flash of white on the street, heading north. “The truck’s going up First,” he wheezed, as Pat drew even with him. “Bud’s trying to cut us off.”
“We’ll have to get around him,” Pat said, grabbing Chris’s arm, urging him ahead.
Chris’s legs felt numb now, as if their blood supply had been cut off, and he couldn’t catch his breath, but he kept going, putting one foot in front of the other, concentrating on what he was holding in his arms. “We’re doing okay, Molly,” he said to her. He could feel her ribs through her shirt as she breathed in and out in quick puffs.
“Want me to take her?” Pat said.
“Not yet,” Chris said. “In a minute, maybe.” He’d give Pat a chance to conserve some of his strength. He might need it.
They were across the yard now, cutting between houses again, and Chris could see the street—the big, wide street. Palm was just in front of them. A few feet to Chris’s left, an old lady pressed her face against the screen of her front porch as they raced by. For an instant, Chris wondered what she thought, but then they were at the sidewalk, at the street, and he had other things to think about.
Without hesitating, Pat veered right, heading north, and Chris followed him. Sweat was in his eyes, blurring his vision, and he blinked to see—to find what was waiting for them, but he didn’t notice anything. Only one car was on the street, and it was moving away from them, toward downtown. “Where is he?” Chris said between breaths. “Where could he be?”
Pat put a hand on Chris’s elbow, guiding him off the sidewalk and into the street. “Get a better look at the cross streets out here,” Pat said.
“If we don’t get run over,” Chris said.
“No traffic,” Pat said.
Pat was right. The street was definitely empty. Chris wished there were some cars. Maybe somebody would get curious and stop. But the town wasn’t awake yet. They’d already run past a drive-in restaurant and a souvenir shop, and both of them were closed tight.
The first intersection was deserted—no cars and no ice cream trucks—and for a moment Chris dared to think that maybe Bud had taken off for home. They were halfway to the next one when Pat suddenly slowed to a jog. “Give her to me,” he said, holding out his arms.
Chris glanced at Pat’s face, and then ahead. At the next cross street, a white truck was inching out onto Palm from the right side of the intersection. Bud hadn’t gone home. “Patty’s gonna carry you for a minute, Molly,” Chris said, handing her over. He hated to let her go, but he was out of gas, and his arms felt like rubber—it was time for Pat to have her. She went to him without complaining, clinging to his chest and neck like a baby monkey, while he supported her weight with one arm.
“I don’t know what Bud’s gonna do,” Pat said, “but we need to get around him. You might have to distract him or something, Chris.” Pat took off again, accelerating up the middle of the street.
Chris caught up to him, and they were running side by side, watching the truck creep farther and farther into the intersection. Distract him or something, Chris thought, staring right at the big ice cream cone. They were less than a hundred yards away now. Suddenly the van stopped; the door opened. Bud got out and walked slowly, deliberately, toward them, leaving his truck in the middle of the street. Chris could see a smile now—a forced, counterfeit smile.
“Chris! Pat!” Bud shouted. “Let’s talk!” He stopped, ducking down in a half-crouch, his arms at his sides.
“Keep going,” Pat said.
Chris didn’t have to be told. He was just waiting for Pat to choose a direction. Instead, Pat kept running straight, right at Bud. “What are you doing?” Chris gasped. They were only fifty feet from Bud now.
“Left!” Pat grunted, suddenly veering toward the space between the front of the truck and the curb. Chris planted his right foot to follow him, but his ankle turned and his tired legs couldn’t compensate. He went down in a heap, skidding along the pavement. Stunned, his knees and elbows skinned, he lay there for an instant before looking up. When he did, he saw Bud running, trying to cut Pat off before he and Molly could get around the truck. Pat had Molly cradled on his arm like a football, and somehow he had enough stamina to put on a burst of speed, sprinting for the opening. But Bud didn’t have as far to go, and he had the angle; he got there first.
Chris watched, getting to his feet as Pat slowed. Chris had to get to them; he had to help. But Pat didn’t wait. Three strides away from Bud, he faked right—smooth and quick—and Bud went for it, lunging to his left, grabbing at air, and stumbling to the ground. Pat shifted back, high-stepping it through the gap where Bud had stood an instant before. Chris watched him sprint down the street, and then followed him as fast as he could, skirting around Bud, who was still on the ground, barely moving.
“Molly,” he groaned as Chris lurched by.
Pat slowed down, and Chris caught up with him a block from the police station. Chris had checked over his shoulder three times, and Bud hadn’t moved. The last time Chris looked, a police car had stopped in front of the truck, its lights flashing.
“Where were you, Kis?” Molly said. She looked worried, but with the pain in his ankle and knees and arms, and the sweat in his eyes, Chris had a hard time focusing on her—especially since her head was bobbing up and down against Pat’s shoulder.
He reached over and touched her hair and face, giving her cheek a gentle pinch. He had to make sure she was real—that they really had her.
“Yeah, where were you, Chris?” Pat said. He sounded tired, hoarse, but excited at the same time. His feet half-shuffled, half-plodded along the street, and then the sidewalk.
“I was distracting him,” Chris said. He could breathe a little better now. The air was still hot—still sticky—but so what?
“Good job,” Pat said.
“He’s still back there,” Chris said. “There’s a police car there now.”
“I saw it,” Pat said. “Do you think we should go back? He could get away.”
“Let’s get Molly somewhere safe first. Then we’ll worry about him.”
An older couple out for a morning walk stopped in their tracks, wide-eyed, as Chris and Pat staggered up to the town hall. The boys were both dirty and sweaty and out of breath, and Chris’s elbows and knees were scraped and bleeding. But he didn’t even notice. He took Molly from Pat, who opened the door marked POLICE. Chris let out a long breath—more breath than he thought he had—and holding Molly tig
ht to his chest, followed Pat inside.
20
A young woman in a gray uniform looked up from behind her desk as Chris and Pat stumbled in. She rose quickly and moved toward them. “Is she all right?” she asked. Molly turned and gave her a shy smile. The woman smiled back at her. “Can I help you kids?” she said.
“This is my sister, Molly,” said Chris. “She was kidnapped—by Bud and Clover Butler. We just got her back.” He waited.
The woman stared at Chris and gave him a half smile, as if expecting the punch line of a joke. But there was no punch line, and when she looked from Chris to Pat to Molly, her expression changed. “Really?” she said, but she was already moving toward the phone on her desk.
“Bud’s just up the street—up Palm—with his ice cream truck,” Pat said. “There’s a police car there now.”
“Blocking the road?” she asked. “The white truck that’s blocking the road? The officer just called that one in.” She got on the radio, drumming her fingers on the desk while she waited for a response.
“What’s goin’ on, Lucy?” a voice finally said.
“The ice cream man still there, Sandy?”
“Still here,” Sandy said. “Why?”
“Bring him in. He’s a kidnap suspect.”
The radio buzzed for a moment, then Sandy’s voice came on again. “You’re talkin’ about Bud Butler, Lucy? A kidnap suspect?”
“Affirmative. Treat him as such.”
“Will do,” Sandy said. “See you in a bit.”
“Sit down, you guys,” Lucy told them, motioning to a wooden bench across from her desk. They sat, and Chris watched her get on the phone; she grabbed paper and started taking notes. Chris held Molly tightly, not wanting to let go. He was afraid it was all a dream, that he would wake up and find himself in bed, holding his pillow, and she’d be gone. But he could feel her, smell her, see her, and when she looked up at him and smiled, he knew it was real.
“You’re squeezin’ me, Kis,” she said.
Someone Was Watching Page 13
