Down the Rabbit Hole

by Peter Abrahams

  “Reason I bring it up,” said the chief, “is the red shoes I was mentioning before.”

  “The bowling shoes?” Ingrid said.

  “Slipped up on that one,” said the chief. “The tech people, meaning Ron Pina, did some high-resolution digital stuff. Turns out most likely they’re soccer cleats.”

  “Oh.”

  “Pumas, it looks like.”

  Meaning the resolution was high enough to show that leaping Puma logo at the top of the heel. Therefore—what about those soccer camp ID disks strung on the laces? Ingrid glanced at Chief Strade. He was looking straight ahead, his massive face blank. The writing on those ID disks was tiny, much smaller than the leaping Puma. On the basis of that, plus the fact that the chief hadn’t said “Pumas,” plain and simple, but “Pumas, it looks like,” Ingrid decided that they couldn’t read the disks.

  “What kind do you wear?” the chief said, face still blank. A face like that—maybe it made some people think that the man behind it wasn’t very bright. Ingrid was learning the truth, and fast.

  “Oh, Nike, New Balance, Puma—they’re all good,” she said.

  “I bet yours are red,” said the chief.

  Ingrid’s heart almost stopped. “Why do you say that?”

  “Your bike, your jacket,” said the chief. “And weren’t you wearing a red sweater when you came over to the house? No need for Holmes on this one.”

  “They’re black,” Ingrid said, although she hardly had the breath to do it. He was an observer of small things, like her. But better.

  “Black it is,” he said. “But if you hear anything about a connection between Kate Kovac and soccer, let me know. It’s the best lead we’ve got.”

  “Lead on what?” said Ingrid.

  “The third suspect,” said Chief Strade.

  He let them out at Ferrand Middle School; Nigel needed some urging. The chief opened the trunk, took out her bike. “That some of the litter?” he said, peering in the plastic bag.

  “Yes,” said Ingrid.

  “Good luck with the project,” he said, getting back in the car. Ingrid waved good-bye. His window slid open. “I don’t want you riding that home, now,” he said. “Take it on the bus.”

  “You can’t take bikes on the bus.”

  “Who’s your driver?”

  “Mr. Sidney.”

  “From the battle of the Coral Sea?”

  Ingrid nodded.

  “Tell him I said it was okay.”

  “That won’t work with Mr. Sidney.”

  The chief laughed. “Maybe not,” he said. “Does he know who you are?”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean does he know you’re Aylmer Hill’s granddaughter?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then just tell him.”

  “Why?”

  “They were at Corregidor together.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ask your granddad,” said the chief. The window slid up. He drove off. Ingrid watched till he was out of sight. She realized he knew Echo Falls and the people in it backward and forward. It was scary.

  She got on her bike and pedaled home, Nigel following. First thing, she had to get rid of those shoes. But where? Throwing them in the trash wasn’t foolproof—she’d just learned that. Bzzz. It came to her, the best place on earth for losing things, guaranteed: the awesome pile on Ty’s closet floor.

  nineteen

  NINETY-NINE MAPLE LANE had an attic, used only for storage. To get to it, you went into Mom and Dad’s office, the way Ingrid was doing now, and stood on Dad’s desk. From there, a tall person like Dad could reach up to the ceiling and pull on the trapdoor handle. Then the trapdoor would open and a small wooden ladder would extend itself automatically. Ingrid, not so tall, used a combination of an overturned wastebasket to raise herself up a little higher and Dad’s pitching wedge for getting a grip on the actual handle.

  The ladder came down. Ingrid climbed up, taking her copies of the clippings Mr. Samuels had given her and the plastic bag of audiotape.

  The light in the attic had a golden cast, maybe because of all the unfinished wood up there—beams, joists, studs, none of which she could identify precisely, although she knew the names. It also had a musty smell, not unpleasant, and an air of peace and stillness. Plus tons of stuff. Ingrid hadn’t been up here in years, could have easily spent an hour or two examining it all—old toys, boxes of books from Mom’s and Dad’s college days, a steamer trunk full of God-knows-what, antiquated sports gear like wooden tennis racquets and long unshaped downhill skis, Mom’s doll collection from when she’d been a kid. But only one object interested Ingrid now—a reel-to-reel tape machine, the kind they cut to in conspiracy movies when someone is being secretly recorded.

  Ingrid found an outlet, lugged the machine over, and plugged it in. There was a tape already on the reels. She hit the switch and a folk song started up, all about clouds. Folk music was not Ingrid’s thing. She rewound it onto one reel, which she replaced with an empty one. Then she dumped out the bag of audiotape.

  She gazed down at the whole big jumbled mass. What was this? An attached Christmas sticker: TO ALBERT AND LON, MERRY XMAS, KATIE. How much more innocent could they get?

  Ingrid examined the tape, all crinkly and twisted, especially, she thought, where the head of the hanged man had been. Inch-long strips of white tape appeared here and there. What was the name? Splices. The tape had lots of splices, meaning edits, different sections joined together, like scenes in a movie. Ingrid didn’t know where to begin. How many ends were there? It took her a while to find just one.

  She threaded it into the slot at the center of the right-hand reel, pressed fast forward. The machine whirred and started spooling up the tape. Ingrid let it slip through her fingers, hoping to smooth out the kinks. Tape wound onto the reel to a depth of about two inches. Then it snapped. Ingrid threaded the new end into the slot of the other empty reel, rewound, then hit play.

  A voice spoke, deep and smoky. Ingrid recognized it right away. Cracked-Up Katie, like she was alive. The sound made her shiver.

  “…quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath.” What was this? Poetry, the kind Mom liked? And also about mercy? Kate said, “Oh, sure. Sure sure sure and sure.” Ingrid shivered again: it was almost like Kate, from beyond the grave, was telling her to go it alone.

  There was a metallic click. Ingrid had heard that sound before: cigarette lighter. Kate inhaled deeply, let out a long sigh. Ingrid could almost smell the smoke. Kate repeated those words about mercy, this time in a sarcastic voice, like an actor trying different readings. The effect was nasty and for some reason made Ingrid look around to make sure no one else was in the room. She was alone, the attic still but no longer peaceful.

  A white edit zipped by with a snick sound. Kate said, “Sixty-three cans times five cents makes…empty, emptier, emptiest.” Snick. Now she was singing, harsh and raspy, “The townsfolk are renovating Prescott Hall, tra-la, tra-la.” Snick. Her voice changed, sounded younger. “Information for Fairbanks? Philip Prescott. No address, sorry…nothing?” Snick. “Information for Anchorage? Philip Prescott. No address, sorry…nothing?” Snick. “Information for Juneau? Philip Prescott, no damn address…nothing, huh? Ever think of trying a little harder?” Snick. Her old worn-out voice returned, now drunk as well. “Information for Planet Earth? Philip Prescott. Do you want me to spell that? K-a-t-i-e. K-o-v-a-c. Little Katie Kovac, the cutest thing you ever did see, actress extraordinaire, stardom bound, tra-la, tra-la.”

  Snick.

  Then Kate spoke again, but sober and much younger-sounding, almost girlish. A nice voice, with lots of range and feeling. “He’s very talented.”

  A man said: “I think you like him.”

  Kate said: “Don’t be silly, Philip.”

  Philip? Had she just heard the voice of Philip Prescott? It gave Ingrid a chill.

  “He sure likes you,” Philip said.


  “We work well together,” Kate said, “that’s all.”

  “But you’re also attracted to him,” said Philip.

  “I admire his talent,” Kate said. “That’s different.”

  “What makes you think he’s so good?” said Philip.

  “Just watch him,” said Kate. “Did he tell you about the movie?”

  “What movie?”

  “The Accused Will Rise.”

  “The Accused Will Rise?” said Philip. “What a ridiculous title.”

  “It’s a major studio production.”

  “I’m surprised you can be fooled so easily,” Philip said.

  Snick of an edit.

  “Are you jealous?” Kate said.

  Philip laughed. “Jealous of him? That’s an insult.” But he was: Ingrid could hear it clearly.

  “Don’t be jealous, Philip,” Kate said. “You know I love you.”

  Then came a kissing sound.

  “Is that thing on?” Philip said.

  “For my performance piece,” said Kate. “About the whole Dial M for Murder production. I record over it so—”

  “I hate the play,” said Philip. “And how many times have I told you I can’t stand that machine going all the time?”

  “Sorry, Philip.”

  “Why can’t anyone ever just simply do as I ask?” he said.

  Snick.

  “Say you love me,” said Kate.

  “I love you,” Philip said.

  Kissing sound, followed by the click of the recorder getting switched off. What was that all about? Ingrid had no idea. Philip Prescott sounded like a combination of snob and spoiled brat. But who was this other guy, the one they—

  “Ingrid? Ingrid? Are you up there?”

  Oh my God. Mom.

  Ingrid snapped off the machine.

  “Ingrid?”

  Ingrid went over to the trapdoor, looked down. Mom, craning her neck over Dad’s desk, was looking up.

  “Hi, Mom,” Ingrid said.

  “What’s going on?” Mom said. “I thought you were sick.”

  “I was,” Ingrid said. “Then all of a sudden it went away. Like one of those twenty-four-hour flus, Mom, only shorter. And I started getting bored.”

  “So you went into the attic?”

  “To explore around.”

  “What were those voices?”

  Mom climbed onto the desk with surprising ease. Maybe there were athletic genes on both sides of the family. She went up two or three steps on the ladder, poked her head into the attic, glanced around.

  “I was just playing with the tape recorder,” Ingrid said.

  Mom turned to her, feelers in action. Ingrid arranged her face in an expression of pure innocence. “Come down,” Mom said. “I’ve brought you some soup.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Mom climbed down, Ingrid behind her. Ingrid shoved the ladder back up, pushed the trapdoor closed with the pitching wedge.

  Mom was watching her closely.

  “Is there anything going on?” she said.

  “Going on?” said Ingrid.

  “Anything you want to tell me.”

  “Just thanks for bringing the soup, Mom. That was really nice.”

  Mom gave her a hug. “Miso,” she said.

  “From Nippon Garden?”

  Mom nodded.

  Nippon Garden was Ingrid’s favorite restaurant. She realized she was starving, could have eaten Nippon Garden’s entire family-size sushi sampler all by herself. They went down to the kitchen. No sushi. Nothing on the table but a steaming bowl of miso soup, perfect for a sick kid at home.

  Mom pulled on her leather gloves, slung her bag over her shoulder. “Client waiting in the car,” she said. “See you tonight.”

  Even with all the business of work, Mom had taken the time for her. Ingrid felt guilty. All these—what would you call them? mental states?—seemed to have a physical feeling that went along for the ride. Guilt was dread without the tightness in the chest part, just the weight in the gut.

  Ingrid walked Mom to the door. “Anything you want me to do around the house?” she said.

  “Now I know you’re feverish,” said Mom.

  Ingrid laughed. Mom opened the door, went out. The MPV was parked on the street, a client sitting in the passenger seat, gazing straight ahead. A man with a fine profile and close-cropped steel-colored hair. Ingrid recognized him right away: Vincent Dunn.

  Oh my God. Vincent Dunn, out hunting for bed-and-breakfasts with Mom, despite all her efforts to stop him, to keep them apart. What had Mom told him? They would have already established that Ingrid was her daughter, of course; he’d probably mentioned that when he called the agency. So, out in the car, Mom had probably said something like “Mind a quick stop? Ingrid’s home sick.” And then, to his surprise, she’d parked outside 99 Maple Lane in Riverbend instead of 337 Packer Street in the Flats. And after that? Had he said, “This is where you live?” To which Mom would have said, “Yes.”

  But then what? If Vincent had followed that up with some remark about driving Ingrid to 337 Packer Street, then wouldn’t Mom have jumped on her about that right away? But not one mention, not a hint, no signs of worry or anger dug into her forehead, just surprise to find Ingrid in the attic. And therefore? Vincent hadn’t said anything about it. And therefore?

  Ingrid had no idea. But it didn’t mean he wouldn’t rat her out later. Ingrid was nervous the whole afternoon.

  That didn’t stop her from climbing back up to the attic. The first thing she did was read those clippings from The Echo.

  Clipping one was all about how Katherine Kovac, a recent graduate of the Yale School of Drama, was now living in Echo Falls and would be giving acting lessons for all ages and abilities at the Rec Center.

  Clipping two was an announcement of the engagement of Katherine Kovac to Philip Prescott. Hey! She had parents, at least had had them then, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kovac of East Harrow, not far away. There was also a photograph of the couple. They stood on a bluff, Prescott Hall in the background. Philip Prescott turned out to be a moonfaced, chubby guy with an aggressive sort of grin that reminded her of Chris Farley. And Kate Kovac was beautiful, young, and happy. Ingrid, looking closely, couldn’t see a sign of the future Cracked-Up Katie.

  Clipping three was a review of Dial M for Murder. A rave review with praise for everyone, including Philip Prescott, producer and director, actors and actresses named R. William Grant, Bev Rooney, David Vardack, and Marvin Sadinsky, but especially for “the radiant Katherine Kovac” whose “slowly dawning understanding of her husband’s treachery” was “wonderfully evoked.”

  Sitting cross-legged up in the attic, the light starting to fade, Ingrid went over the clippings. In “The Five Orange Pips,” a strange story that turns out to be about the Ku Klux Klan, Holmes tells Watson that if you really understand one link in a series of incidents, you will know them all, both before and after. Ingrid had the feeling she was at one of those points of understanding right now, but just wasn’t smart enough to figure it out. Maybe she was a Watson, not a Holmes. She was moping around like that when she was struck—finally, you dope—by the importance of that playbill. The Dial M for Murder playbill that she’d seen on Kate’s bedside table, had been dropped by the man in the paint-spattered Adidas, and was missing after he left.

  She needed to see that playbill.

  Joey called after school. Ingrid, starving, was in the kitchen, wolfing down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, plus Marshmallow Fluff. Plus hot chocolate for washing it all down.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  “What’re you eating?”

  “Sandwich,” Ingrid said, her tongue practically stuck to the roof of her mouth.

  “You weren’t in school today.”

  “Sick.”

  “Don’t sound sick.”

  “I got better fast.”

  Joey laughed. “I used to try that, but there’s no fooling my dad.” />
  Oops. Joey’s dad, who thought she was working on a project and had dropped her off at school. What if Joey’s dad came home and said, “Saw Ingrid out on her bike today, working on her project.” Or even: “What’s your project, Joe?” And all kinds of things would come tumbling down, like her life, for starters. She was standing on top of a tall, rickety structure, very tall, very rickety, all her own doing. There had to be something brilliant she could say right now to keep at least this one mess-up from happening.

  “Joey?”

  “Yeah?” said Joey and then: “Hey. My dad’s on the other line. Call you back.”

  But he didn’t.

  Mom and Ty came home not long after, Ty limping slightly, one forearm skinned from practice. He opened the fridge, guzzled orange juice right out of the carton.

  “Ty!” Mom said.

  He guzzled some more, put the carton back, went downstairs. The weights started clanking around.

  Mom sighed, turned to Ingrid. “All better?”

  “Yeah,” Ingrid said. Mom was about to say something else. Ingrid got ready for Vincent Dunn and how he’d dropped her off at 337 Packer Street, another time bomb all set to blow her tall rickety thing to bits.

  But all Mom said was, “How’s spaghetti?”

  Never a bad choice. Mom boiled the water and heated the sauce. Ingrid chopped an onion to add to it. Worry built and built inside her. She had to be sure.

  “How was the showing?” she said, trying to sound casual, not easy when your face was streaming with tears, even if they were only from onions.

  “I meant to tell you,” Mom said.

  “What?”

  “He knows you from the players,” Mom said. “The client, I’m talking about. Vincent Dunn.”

  “Oh,” said Ingrid. “Him.”

  “A nice man,” Mom said. “He thinks you’re talented.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Very. He’s really looking forward to rehearsals.”

  Any more to come? Didn’t appear to be. “What else did he say?” Ingrid asked, dumping the chopped onions into the sauce.

  “Just that he hopes you get well soon,” said Mom. “I told him there was nothing to worry about on that score—up in the attic like a monkey.” Mom stirred in the onions, delicious smells rising up, mixing together. “That’s about it. We weren’t out very long. There was nothing in his price range.”