Down the Rabbit Hole

by Peter Abrahams

  Dad laughed. He had a great laugh, rich and musical, and his eyes really did twinkle. “’Bye, cutie.”

  “’Bye, Dad.”

  He reached for the phone.

  The bus stop was a block away, in front of Mia McGreevy’s house. Mia: another cool name. Mia and her mother had come from New York the year before, after the divorce. The bus and Ingrid arrived at the same time, which was almost always the case.

  “Hey, Mia.”

  “Hey,” said Mia. She was tiny, with big pale eyes that always looked a little surprised. “Gum?”

  “Yeah,” said Ingrid, taking a lime-green piece of Bubblicious. She noticed Mia’s mom watching from a window to make sure Mia got on the bus safely, maybe not yet realizing that Echo Falls wasn’t the big bad city.

  “You get that last algebra problem?” Mia said.

  “Don’t go there.”

  Mr. Sidney opened the doors. He had on his cap that said BATTLE OF THE CORAL SEA.

  “Mornin’, petunias,” he said.

  “Hi, Mr. Sidney.”

  Girls were always petunia to Mr. Sidney. Guys were guy, as in “Take a seat, guy, and zip it.” Ingrid and Mia filed past him and sat down at the back, as far from Brucie Berman as they could. Brucie sang “Am-er-i-can wo-ma-aa-aa-aan” as they walked by, ignoring him completely. They opened up their algebra notebooks and Ingrid started copying, fast as her pen would move.

  Did it do her any good? No, all because of Ms. Groome, her Algebra Two teacher. There were four eighth-grade math sections at Ferrand Middle School—Algebra One for the geniuses, Algebra Two for good math students who didn’t rise to the genius level, Pre-Algebra, which is where Ingrid would have been happily, if Mom hadn’t called the school to complain, and Math One, formerly remedial math, for the criminal element. And what did Ms. Groome do to screw her up? Ms. Groome, who was making it her mission to single-handedly raise the SAT math scores of girls across the nation, whether they liked it or not, picked today to ignore the homework and spring a pop quiz instead.

  Would she ever have a use for algebra in her life? Get real. Or any other form of math? Who are you kidding? Ingrid was going into the theater, as an actress or director, and what possible use would math be in the theater? Take this question right here, number one on the pop quiz: Factor the following quadratic polynomial: 4x2 + 8x–5. Could Angelina Jolie do it? Or Elijah Wood? How about Shakespeare, for God’s sake, if it came to that? Did they even have algebra when Shakespeare was around? She took another look at the stupid thing.

  X. All these math people had a big—what was the word? Mom used it all the time—fetish. That was it. Fetish. Ingrid put her hand on her chin and started daydreaming about schoolboy Shakespeare forced to factor quadratic polynomials. Her gaze met Ms. Groome’s.

  Ingrid bowed her head over the test paper. 4x2 + 8x–5. A fetish. They made a fetish about x, couldn’t keep their hands off it. What was wrong with x just the way it was, kind of mysterious and interesting? X was way better than 39, say, or 1032, or even 999,999; way better than any so-called solutions. So-called solutions to nonproblems. How was 4x2 + 8x–5 a problem? Like who did it bother? The whole thing pissed her off, big-time. She scrawled (2x + 5)(2x–1) in the answer column for no reason apparent to her, and went on to the next one.

  Really annoyed now, Ingrid mowed through the numbers, squaring this, factoring that, equaling and not equaling, greatering and lessering, slicing and dicing, firing every math gun in her arsenal all the way down the page to the very last problem, the extra-credit one, which she knew was always a word problem, although she’d never before actually reached the end of a math quiz in order to try her luck. A little surprised, Ingrid glanced around to see if the test was still on, or whether Ms. Groome had called time and she just hadn’t heard. Still on: Three rows over, Mia was scratching out some calculation, the tip of her tongue showing between her lips, gloss a nice soft shade of pink—Mia had great taste—and Brucie Berman was picking his nose.

  “Time,” said Ms. Groome. “Pens down.”

  Ingrid downed her pen, leaving the extra-credit problem, some nonsense about trucks traveling in opposite directions, untouched.

  Ingrid sat next to Stacy Rubino, her oldest friend, on the bus ride home. Mr. Rubino was an electrician who did the lighting for the Prescott Players, and Stacy always had the inside dope.

  “Going to audition for the next play?” Stacy said.

  “They haven’t announced what it is yet,” said Ingrid.

  “Alice in Wonderland,” said Stacy.

  Alice: a plum role, plum of plums. “She’s kind of an innocent,” Ingrid said.

  “A sap,” said Stacy. “In the cartoon, anyway.”

  “I could play an innocent.”

  “Weren’t you a pig in that musical last year?” Stacy said. “You can play anything.”

  “A pig?” said Brucie Berman, somewhere behind them.

  The girls turned slowly to face him. Stacy was big and sturdy, could break Brucie in half no problem. Ingrid saw that Brucie had some joke all ready to go, something about pigs, but he swallowed it, his Adam’s apple actually bobbing. The girls turned away. Brucie kept quiet the rest of ride, except for a little barnyard snort he made as he got off the bus.

  No one was home at 99 Maple Lane: Mom and Dad still at work, Ty with the football team going through their pregame rituals. Ingrid picked up the Friday edition of The Echo from the driveway and went inside. Week over. Ah. She took a deep breath, felt a lovely relaxation spread through her. How did hot chocolate sound? Perfect. She dropped The Echo on the kitchen table, made herself hot chocolate with milk, not water, nice and creamy. How about a little treat to go with it? Ingrid stood on a chair so she could reach the cupboard and found a bag of oatmeal cookies. Oats were good for you. She took two.

  Ingrid sat at the table, dipped one of the cookies in her mug of hot chocolate, glanced at The Echo. Boring things appeared on the front page, like coverage of the garden club and Senior Center bingo, and it got more boring inside, except for the sports, where Ty was mentioned almost every week during football and baseball seasons, and even Ingrid had gotten in once or twice.

  But not today. Today the front page had a big photograph of a woman. Ingrid almost didn’t recognize her at first, probably because her hair was cut short and neat and her skin seemed smooth and young. It was Cracked-Up Katie. The headline read: LOCAL RESIDENT FOUND MURDERED. The subhead: ASSAILANT UNKNOWN.

  four

  Longtime Echo Falls resident Katherine Eve Kovac was murdered Thursday, according to Echo Falls police chief Gilbert L. Strade. The body of Ms. Kovac was found by a neighbor shortly after 8 P.M. The neighbor, whose name had not been released by the police at press time, went to Ms. Kovac’s house at 341 Packer Street to complain about the activities of Ms. Kovac’s cat. Allegedly finding the front door open, the neighbor went inside and found the body. The neighbor immediately called 911. Sergeant Ronald Pina arrived shortly thereafter and found signs of a struggle and evidence of strangulation. According to Chief Strade…

  The kitchen door opened, and Ingrid looked up in alarm, as though she’d been caught at something. It was Mom.

  “Hi, Ingrid,” she said. “That sure looks good.”

  Ingrid slid her hand over the paper. Her heart was beating fast and light, like a tom-tom. “What does?”

  “Your snack.”

  “Oh,” Ingrid said. “Want some?”

  “Just a bite,” said Mom. She broke off a tiny bit of oatmeal cookie—Mom watched her weight constantly, gave up something like bread or pasta almost every month—dipped it in the hot chocolate, and popped it in her mouth.

  “Mmmm.” She kicked off her heels and slipped into her sheepskin slippers, always her first move coming home from work. “How was your day?”

  “Okay.”

  “Anything interesting happen?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not even in English or history?”

  “We didn’t have
English today,” Ingrid said.

  “What about history?”

  Ingrid couldn’t remember anything specific, but she knew history was on the schedule Fridays. “We had history.”

  “What are you taking right now?”

  “Shays’ Rebellion.”

  “God,” said Mom. “I’ve completely forgotten what that was about.”

  Ingrid, unable to enlighten her, said nothing. Mom was opening her mouth to say something else—probably some follow-up question—when the phone rang.

  “Carol Levin,” Mom said. She listened for a moment and said, “That’s under agreement, but I’ve got something very similar on Overland Drive. In fact, there’s an open house scheduled this—”

  Ingrid stopped listening. Her gaze was pulled right back to the paper, as though The Echo had developed some powerful force field. A suffocating feeling tightened in her chest. She read the whole article, way too fast to absorb much but powerless to slow herself down. Two sentences popped out at her, one in the middle: “Ms. Kovac had lived alone in the house at 341 Packer Street for many years.” And the very last one: “Anyone who saw or spoke to the victim within the last few days or anyone with other helpful information is asked to call the Echo Falls police.”

  Ingrid felt strange, cold all over her body but light-headed, as though she were burning up with fever. She glanced at her mother. Mom was talking about the new septic regulations, a spiel Ingrid had heard so often by now, she practically knew it by heart. She turned back to the picture of Cracked-Up Katie. It was a good-quality photograph, especially for The Echo. The eyes seemed to be looking right at you, like they were sizing you up.

  Ingrid read that last sentence again. Call the Echo Falls police? And say what? Please don’t tell my parents, but I was hanging out with Cracked-Up Katie after school. And how would that even help? What possible useful information could she have? Absolutely none, zip, zero, nada.

  Except.

  Except for that footstep overhead in a house where Cracked-Up Katie had lived alone for many years. Meaning: Who was up there?

  “Ingrid? Did you not hear me?”

  Ingrid looked up. Mom was off the phone.

  “What?” Ingrid said.

  “Are you all right?” Mom said, those vertical lines on her forehead deepening. “You look pale.”

  Mom had feelers for how she was feeling. “I’m fine,” Ingrid said.

  “Then better bundle up.”

  “Bundle up?”

  “Friday night,” Mom said. “Football. Sure you’re all right?”

  The Red Raiders Boosters Club, of which Mom was secretary and Dad, who’d played for the Red Raiders—star quarterback and team captain—was past president, threw a tailgate party, nonalcoholic of course, at every home game. Ingrid’s job was grilling burgers, which meant making sure they didn’t burn and saying things like: “yes,” when asked by high school kids if she was Ty’s sister, and “did they have football back then?” when told by old people that Dad had been a big football star in his day. Old people didn’t seem to laugh often, but when they did, they loved it, kind of surprising themselves by how much, Ingrid thought. That didn’t include Grampy, who didn’t really fit the category and never came to football games. “Had it up to here,” he said. He said that about a lot of things.

  The parking lot filled up and Ingrid got busy, burgers arranged in a careful system on the grill at first, and soon not. Beyond the near goalpost, she could see the teams stretching, the Red Raiders in red, the visitors in white with green trim. She spotted Ty, number 19, the only freshman on the varsity, off by himself, bouncing up and down. Ty could run. Running ran in the family. Ingrid was starting to think about that when smoke rose up from the grill, reminding her at once of Cracked-Up Katie lighting up. Was everything going to remind her of Cracked-Up Katie from now on?

  Stacy came over. “What’s a flea-flicker?”

  “No idea,” Ingrid said. “Why?”

  “The other team’s going to try a flea-flicker on the very first play,” Stacy said. “I heard their coaches talking about it.”

  “Want a burger?” Ingrid said.

  “No money on me.”

  “Here,” said Ingrid, forking a slightly too-blackened patty into a bun and handing it to her. “Compliments of the Boosters.”

  “Boosters rule,” said Stacy, squirting on some ketchup and taking a big bite. “Think we should tell anybody? Ty maybe?”

  “About what?”

  “The flea-flicker.”

  Flea-flicker. What could it be? “Watch the burgers,” Ingrid said.

  She hurried across the parking lot, around the end zone, and up the sideline. The Red Raiders were in their formations now, the offense practicing plays against the defense, like they always did at the end of warm-up. Ty, a defensive back, was only a few yards from her. He looked huge in his pads and uniform, almost like another person; except for his face, small behind the bars of the mask.

  “Ty,” she called, in kind of a stage whisper.

  No reaction.

  “Ty.” A little louder.

  But nothing.

  Then came some shouted gibberish, “Thirty-six, red left, hut, hut,” and everybody crashed together, grunting and bellowing. Number 43 knocked Ty to the ground. Ty sprang back up with a sort of roar, like he was all charged up from getting pummeled. Ingrid had seen a show on the Discovery Channel about territorial skirmishes between troops of chimpanzees. This was just like that.

  “Ty,” she called, full volume now.

  Ty and number 43 were face-to-face, banging their heads together, completely oblivious to her. Ingrid stepped across the sideline. Both players whirled around immediately.

  “What the hell?” said Ty.

  “It’s important,” Ingrid said.

  “Get off the field,” Ty said. His eyes were maniacal.

  “But—”

  He yelled something obscene at her.

  “You’re a stupid jerk,” Ingrid said.

  “Power goat left, on two, hut, hut, HUT.”

  Crash. Ty got knocked down again. Ingrid left him there, went back to the grill, took over from Stacy.

  “How did that go?” Stacy said.

  “Hard to say,” Ingrid said. “They seem to be under a spell right now.”

  Stacy laughed. “Wanna come over for the night?” she said.

  That sounded good. Stacy’s father was a genius when it came to electricity, and the Rubinos had a kick-ass entertainment center in their basement—forty-two-inch plasma screen, booming surround sound, two big corduroy couches with fleece blankets, popcorn machine, tons of videos including Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, all of the Fawlty Towers series, Rushmore, and Billy Madison. Ingrid had spent many weekend nights at Stacy’s. The two of them went all the way back to before preschool, had started playing together when they could barely walk. Ingrid could tell Stacy anything; and tonight she had something to tell. She was about to say yes when Stacy’s thick eyebrows shot straight up, the way they did when she had an idea or got excited by something.

  “Hey,” Stacy said. “Did you hear about Cracked-Up Katie?”

  Ingrid came very close to saying, “Oh my God, wait till you hear this.” It was the perfect moment to tell Stacy her secret. But for some reason, Ingrid did not. Instead she looked away and said, “Somebody said something about it.” Kind of mumbled it, actually, and felt her face turning red.

  “Get this,” said Stacy. “Her name wasn’t really Cracked-Up Katie.”

  “Of course not,” said Ingrid, hearing her tone sharpen suddenly, as though she had some reason to be mad at Stacy.

  “What’s with you?” said Stacy.

  “Nothing.” Ingrid remembered: You can call me Kate. At that moment, she realized she’d liked Cracked-Up Katie.

  “I meant she had a last name,” Stacy was saying. “I know Cracked-Up’s not a real name.”

  “Sorry,” Ingrid said.

  “It was Katherine something,” said S
tacy. She saw Joey Strade going by. “Hey, Joey.”

  Joey stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

  “C’mere,” said Stacy.

  Joey came over. “What was Cracked-Up Katie’s real name?” Stacy said.

  Joey was in their grade, a big pudgy kid with a cowlick that stood up at the back of his head like a blunt Indian feather. He was also—key fact popping up suddenly in Ingrid’s mind—the son of Gilbert L. Strade, chief of police.

  “Katherine Kovac,” Joey said.

  “So what’s the Cracked-Up thing all about?” Stacy said.

  “She was weird,” Joey said. His gaze met Ingrid’s. “She had mental problems.” Ingrid felt a little stab of guilt, as though she were hurting Kate in some way. But how could you hurt a dead person?

  “Why would anyone want to kill her?” said Stacy.

  He shrugged. Ingrid noticed that Joey, whom she’d never paid much attention to, seemed to have this new direct way of looking at you. And maybe he wasn’t as pudgy as he used to be.

  “Any suspects?” Stacy said.

  Joey shrugged again.

  “Did she have any relatives?” Stacy said.

  “I don’t know,” said Joey. “Why are you asking me?”

  “Duh,” said Stacy.

  A flea-flicker turned out to be a play where the quarterback hands off to the running back and just when everybody on the defense thinks it’s going to be a running play and comes hurrying up, the running back flips the ball back to the quarterback, who throws it to a wide-open receiver way downfield. Ingrid watched it unfold like a dream on the white-and-green team’s very first play, eighty yards for a touchdown.

  “Was that a flea-flicker, Dad?”

  Dad’s eyes shifted toward her in surprise, then returned to the field. He was leaning forward on their bench halfway up the stands, totally tense. “The silver lining with flea-flickers is they can only work it once a game.”

  But on the very next series the white-and-greens did it again. Sixty-three-yard touchdown.

  “At least Ty was the closest one,” Ingrid said.