Down the Rabbit Hole

by Peter Abrahams

  Gridster22: howja know he called?

  Powerup77: secrets safe w/me.

  NYgrrrl979: hey—you guys hear bout cracked-up k?

  Gridster22: brb

  But Ingrid didn’t come right back. She put up her away message and lay down on her bed. Her head hurt, but that was nothing compared to the thought of those red Pumas left behind at Cracked-Up Katie’s house. Ingrid had gone to a soccer camp at Loomis in August, taking the cleats with her, of course. A fun camp—she’d roomed with Stacy and they’d met girls from all over the Northeast, some of them awesome players. A fun camp, but with strict rules about name tags; name tags on every piece of clothing and even on the shoes, the camp issuing little metal disks with holes in them, for slipping right on the laces. INGRID LEVIN-HILL, 99 MAPLE LANE, ECHO FALLS, CT. After camp Ingrid had kept the tags on—a cool souvenir. She might as well have spray-painted on Cracked-Up Katie’s front door: FOR MORE INFO CONTACT GRIDSTER22@AOL.COM.

  She had to think. Who was the best thinker she’d ever come across? Sherlock Holmes, by far, the only drawback being he wasn’t real. Ingrid took The Complete Sherlock Holmes off her bedside table and leafed through. When Holmes was doing his deepest thinking, he fell into a sort of trance, played the violin, or snorted cocaine. The violin route was out: Ingrid was hopeless at music, couldn’t carry the simplest tune. As for cocaine, Holmes hadn’t had the benefit of the DARE program to set him straight.

  Ingrid closed her eyes, slowed down her breathing, tried to fall into a trance. After more than enough of that, she got up and started pacing around, more her style anyway. In “A Scandal in Bohemia,” Holmes says, “It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data.” What data did she have? Start with Murad the taxi driver, leading a police cruiser up to the soccer fields. That had to mean the police now knew that on the day of the murder, a girl had gone by taxi to the fields from outside Cracked-Up Katie’s. Did they also know that Kate had called the driver? Possible, but not a fact, not real data. But it was a fact that the police didn’t know the identity of the girl, because if they did they’d have scooped her up already. Therefore they either hadn’t found the red Pumas or had found them but not examined them carefully, hadn’t checked those identity disks from camp. That left two possibilities. One: The cleats were at the police station, sitting in a drawer until someone—like Joey’s dad—put two and two together. Two: They were still inside Kate’s house, waiting to be discovered.

  Ingrid stopped pacing. The problem with deep thinking was it could lead to unpleasant conclusions. Like this one, for example. If the shoes were still at Kate’s house, Ingrid had to get them back, and soon. How soon? Don’t put off until tomorrow what can be done today. Who said that? Benjamin Franklin? A Founding Father. Benjamin Franklin would probably be jimmying open a window at this very moment—or would have done it already and been soundly asleep, healthy, wealthy, and wise.

  It wasn’t going to be easy. Could she even find Kate’s house? Down in the Flats, but where? Ingrid hadn’t even had time to start her project of learning the whole layout of Echo Falls. This was all happening very fast.

  Ingrid started pacing again, faster now. Outside, beyond the backyard, a huge bird, maybe a hawk, rose over the town woods and spiraled up, shrinking and shrinking in the blue sky. Boom. It hit her: The Echo had printed Cracked-Up Katie’s address.

  Ingrid sat at her computer and went to The Echo’s site, a homey little site featuring a photo of the falls in winter, a big clump of ice about to shoot off the edge. LOCAL RESIDENT FOUND MURDERED. Ingrid scrolled through the article, found the address: 341 Packer Street. She went to MapQuest.com, clicked on Directions, typed 99 Maple Lane and the rest of her address in the From box and 341 Packer Street in the To box. The directions popped up: Start out going north on Maple Lane. Distance 0.1 miles. Turn left onto Avondale Rd. Follow…

  “Ingrid.”

  Mom, right outside the door. Ingrid clicked on the Close button and MapQuest vanished.

  “Yeah?” she said.

  The door opened. Mom was dressed in weekend clothes—jeans, corduroy barn jacket, Burberry scarf. “All set?” she asked.

  “For what?”

  “Grampy’s.”

  “Grampy’s?”

  “Don’t tell me you forgot. What’s getting into you these days, Ingrid? We’re supposed to be there at five and it’s already twenty of.”

  Grampy’s. Something about bringing him an old photo of the farmhouse that Mom had had framed. “Do I have to?” Ingrid said.

  “Don’t start. Grampy likes seeing you.”

  Any—Ingrid didn’t want to use the word break-in—any visit to 341 Packer Street would have to happen at night, and night was still hours away. She might as well go to Grampy’s. Ingrid went down to the mudroom, put on her red North Face jacket. The door to the basement was open and she heard Ty grunting down there, and Dad saying—almost shouting, really—“One more, come on, one more, push, push, push, that’s it.” She found herself remembering a scene in some movie about the Romans with the galley slaves rowing into battle, chained to their benches.

  Ingrid had two grandfathers: Mom’s dad, a retired accountant who lived in Florida with his girlfriend, and Grampy, who lived alone on the old family farm where Dad had grown up, the last farm left inside the town limits of Echo Falls. No actual farming went on there anymore, because Grampy had had it up to here with the cows, horses, chickens, and harvesting the corn, and how he supported himself wasn’t exactly clear, since he’d refused all offers to sell off any of the land.

  Mom handed Ingrid the photo as they got in the car. “What do you think?”

  Ingrid examined the photo, a black-and-white that showed the farmhouse on a spring day—she could tell from the blossoms on the apple tree—and a spring day long past, on account of the old gangster-movie-type car parked in front. “The house was smaller back then,” Ingrid said.

  “I meant the frame,” said Mom.

  “Nice,” Ingrid said, although she didn’t like it.

  “You don’t like it.”

  “I do.”

  They drove in silence for a while. Ingrid paid attention to the route, trying to form a mental map. Mom drove up Maple Lane, past Avondale, turned right on Spring, which—hey—changed its name to River. She knew River, one of the main streets in Echo Falls. It cut around the town woods and then ran beside the bike path by the riverbank. There were Rollerbladers on the bike path today. One was a boy in a T-shirt, no jacket, even though it was pretty cold, a boy who looked like Joey Strade. Ingrid gave him a quick sidelong glance as they went by. Joey, for sure.

  Mom crossed the river, turned onto Route 392. It grew hilly, the houses farther apart and run-down. A beer can rolled across the road and got squashed with a little thmmp sound.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do we have a lawyer?”

  Mom’s eyes shifted. “That’s a funny question. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” But Ingrid was starting to wonder if breaking into Cracked-Up Katie’s house was really something she could do. The dread feeling came back, stronger than ever. Maybe a lawyer could somehow fix things behind the scenes and no one would ever have to know anything.

  “Is something wrong?” Mom’s voice rose, real anxious, just like that. She got so jumpy sometimes.

  “No,” Ingrid said. Maybe if Mom’s tone had been different, she might have said something else.

  “Is one of your friends in trouble?”

  “No.”

  The first of Grampy’s fence posts appeared on the right, the fields all brown and bare.

  “You can always tell me anything, Ingrid,” said Mom, trying to be calm but sounding even more worried. “I hope you know that.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Ingrid said. “I was just curious.” If only Mom weren’t so tense.

  After a little pause, Mom nodded. “Whatever legal work we have, wills and such, we give to Mrs. Dirksen.”

&
nbsp; “You and Dad have wills?”

  “Of course.”

  “But you’re young,” Ingrid said. “Comparatively.”

  Mom laughed. “It’s irresponsible not to.”

  Ingrid gazed at Mom’s profile, tensing back up after the laugh. It was a bright day, and Mom’s crow’s feet showed clearly, plus a new little crescent line in her cheek. Mom was responsible, no doubt about that. They turned into Grampy’s long, rutted driveway.

  “What’s Mrs. Dirksen like?” Ingrid said.

  “Very nice.”

  Very nice and a woman, maybe the warm and nurturing type. Why not? Like any moviegoer, Ingrid knew the Miranda warning by heart. She had the right to a lawyer.

  Grampy was out back, chopping wood, wearing a T-shirt and dirty canvas pants. He wasn’t tall but had broad shoulders and cords of muscle that still stood out on his arms even though he was seventy-eight. Split logs were flying everywhere.

  “Hi,” said Mom. “Aren’t you cold like that?”

  Grampy looked up in midswing. “Nope,” he said, and brought the ax down hard, splitting a log neatly in two and burying the blade in the chopping block. He left it there, the ax handle quivering.

  “I’ve brought that picture,” Mom said.

  Grampy wiped his nose on the back of his forearm. “Hey, kid,” he said to Ingrid.

  “Hi, Grampy.”

  “Let’s get some of this wood inside,” he said. “Then we can palaver.”

  They each carried an armful through the back door and into the kitchen. Grampy had a great kitchen, with wide-plank pine floors full of knots and a huge fireplace where whole pigs had been roasted at Christmastime long ago. Grampy arranged some of the logs in a pyramid on the grate, tossed in a match, and poof—fire. Just like that, no paper, no kindling. Dad always used an artificial log to get the fire started.

  Mom showed Grampy the picture. Grampy put on his glasses, gave it a quick look. “Nineteen thirty-seven Buick,” he said. “Absolute piece of crap.” He went to the sink, turned on the tap, drank from it.

  “Would you like some tea?” Mom asked. “We can talk about where to hang it.”

  “Hang it wherever you want,” Grampy said.

  Mom put the kettle on. “How about beside the armoire in the living room?” she said.

  “Living room, dining room, bathroom, wherever,” said Grampy.

  Mom picked up the picture and took it to the living room. Grampy turned to Ingrid.

  “Want to roast up some marshmallows?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “In the cupboard,” Grampy said, pointing at it with his chin.

  Ingrid opened the cupboard, found a jumbo bag of peanuts in the shell, a can of Planters salted peanuts, a jar of peanut butter, and peanut brittle, but nothing else.

  “Goddamn,” said Grampy.

  “Want to come see?” Mom called from the living room.

  “It’s not goin’ anywhere,” Grampy said.

  Mom returned, poured the tea.

  “We’re out of marshmallows,” Grampy said.

  “Seven-eleven should have them,” Mom said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ingrid said.

  “I have a hankering for roasted marshmallows,” Grampy said.

  Mom put on her jacket. “I’ll be right back.”

  Mom left. Grampy opened another cupboard, the one under sink, and took out a bottle of VO. He sat at the table, poured some in his tea. Steam rose from the mugs, and logs crackled in the fireplace.

  “What do you think of the police in Echo Falls?” Ingrid said.

  “Can’t trust a cop,” said Grampy. “That’s a given.”

  He poured in a little more VO.

  “Do you know Mrs. Dirksen, the lawyer?”

  “Or a lawyer,” said Grampy. “Lawyers’ll screw you six ways from Sunday. Had it up to here with lawyers. Cops and lawyers both—trouble, pure and simple. What else do you want to know?”

  Tell Grampy everything? Seemed like a crazy idea, but maybe not. Their eyes met. Ingrid was searching for where to begin when Grampy’s eyes darkened, like he was suddenly angry.

  “And throw in doctors while you’re at it,” he said. “Plus accountants. Never got good advice from an accountant, not once. Know what happens when you rely on some bozo?”

  “What, Grampy?”

  “Whatever’s good for them,” said Grampy. “Know who to rely on?”

  “Who?”

  “Yourself. No one’s gonna look out for you like you. Stands to reason.” He gulped back the rest of the tea, rose. “Speaking of which,” he said.

  “There’s no time,” said Ingrid.

  “Got to be quick, that’s all,” said Grampy. He took a box of ammo from a drawer, opened the broom closet, and pulled out the .22 rifle and the .357 automatic. They went outside, hurried past the woodpile and around the barn. For one brief moment Ingrid wondered whether he’d cooked up the whole marshmallow scheme just to get rid of Mom. Could she tell from the expression on his face? No. It was businesslike, but not quite—what was that little upturn at the corners of his lips?

  On the other side of the barn stood the corral from when Grampy had kept horses. The sun, low and red, gleamed on a row of Coke bottles lining the top of the far rail, maybe a hundred yards away.

  “Here you go,” said Grampy, handing Ingrid the .22.

  Ingrid took her stance the way he’d taught her, feet apart, nicely balanced. She laid the butt against her shoulder, released the safety, got the farthest Coke bottle to the left in the middle of the sight. Then she took a breath and let it out slowly, relaxing inside until she saw nothing but the very center of that Coke bottle and squeezed the trigger the way Grampy said to, like she wanted just a little bit of toothpaste but all at once. Then came the bang and kick. The Coke bottles stood undamaged.

  Grampy looked surprised. “Must not be focusing,” he said. “Pretend it’s the enemy.”

  “I don’t have enemies,” Ingrid said. “And even if I did, I couldn’t shoot them.”

  “A deadly enemy,” Grampy said, perhaps not hearing her. “When there’s no choice, him or you.” He got a faraway look in his eyes. “Past the point of fear.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Grampy blinked. His eyes returned to normal. “Sometimes fear helps,” he said. “Like fear of flunking a test, so you study. But when bad’s going to happen for sure, fear only hurts.”

  Ingrid raised the .22, again got the farthest Coke bottle to the left in the sight. She tried to pretend the Coke bottle was a deadly enemy but failed because she couldn’t picture a face. Then it hit her that Cracked-Up Katie had had a deadly enemy with a face, no question. She breathed in and out slowly, went still. The Coke bottle seemed to grow in the sight, bigger and rounder. Him or you. She gave the trigger that toothpaste squeeze.

  Blam. The Coke bottle shattered in a million pieces. The sun caught them in midair and made a rainbow.

  “R-I-P,” said Grampy.

  Ingrid took aim at the next bottle. Squeeze. Shatter. Another little rainbow bloomed over the end of the corral. Was anything more fun than this? She was getting the third bottle in the sight when Grampy said, “Damn.”

  Ingrid looked up, followed his gaze. Out on Route 392, the green MPV was already coming back. Mom was so quick about everything, quick and efficient. She was also antigun, to the max, would go into orbit if she ever found out about their little hobby.

  “Your turn, Grampy,” Ingrid said.

  He raised the handgun. Blam blam blam: All the Coke bottles exploded off the rail, making a whole series of rainbows that shimmered for a moment and fell apart. Grampy was a great shot. He’d fought on some island in the Pacific and refused to ride in the Mazda or any other Japanese car.

  They were having a second mug of tea—Grampy’s heavily laced with VO—when Mom came in with the marshmallows.

  “What a peaceful scene,” Mom said. “Like from a Norman Rockwell painting.”

  Grampy took
another sip.

  “Thanks for the marshmallows,” Ingrid said. “Who wants some?” No takers. Not surprising on Mom’s part, the way she watched her weight, but hadn’t Grampy said something about a hankering for marshmallows? Ingrid stuck one on a fork and went to the fire. Flames licked around the marshmallow, slowly browning it. Ingrid got a little mesmerized; fires did that to her.

  Over at the table, Mom had sat down opposite Grampy.

  “I hope you like the picture. Mark found it at the library fund-raiser.”

  Ingrid, gazing into the fire, heard the slurp of Grampy taking another drink.

  “He’s on the board now,” Mom said.

  Slurp.

  Mom lowered her voice. “Mark and I have an idea we’d like you to think about.”

  A long pause. The skin of the marshmallow caught fire, blackening just the way Ingrid liked it.

  “It involve selling off my land?” said Grampy.

  “Only a very small section,” Mom said. “From the old tractor shed down to the back road. The Ferrand Group—”

  “Where is he?” Grampy said.

  “Tim Ferrand?”

  Something crashed. Ingrid turned to look. Grampy’s mug lay in pieces on the floor. “I’m not talking about any damn Ferrand vultures,” Grampy said. “I’m talking about Mark.” Grampy started shaking; he didn’t look so strong all of a sudden. Ingrid’s marshmallow slipped off the fork and fell into the fire. “Why’d he send you out to do the dirty work? What kind of man does that?”

  “It’s not dirty work,” Mom said. “And besides, I’m the one in real estate. If you’ll just listen, Pop”—she called him Pop?—“I’m sure you’ll see how different this is from any other—”

  “It’s not for sale,” Grampy said. “Not from the shed to the back road, not an acre, not one square inch.” He got up, found another mug. “You go on back and tell him.”

  Mom and Ingrid got into the car.

  “What was that all about?” Ingrid asked.

  “Nothing,” Mom said. She turned too fast out of Grampy’s driveway and the tires squealed. That wasn’t like Mom at all. They rode the rest of the way without a word.