Down the Rabbit Hole

by Peter Abrahams

  Vincent started working even faster, flinging the dirt up out of the hole, panting with effort. The blade struck something else down in there, not with a clang this time, more of a crack. Vincent laid the spade aside, bent down again. This time when he rose, he had a human skull in his hands.

  He climbed up out of the hole. Wearing sneakers, yes, Adidas sneakers, with green paint spatters. He held up the skull, gazed at it. Philip Prescott hadn’t made it to Alaska or anywhere else. He’d never even left home.

  It was all clear to Ingrid, pretty much explained by the farewell note, if you just changed things around a little, like who killed who. Then, thirty years later, up in Whitehorse, Vincent Dunn, formerly David Vardack, surfing the net—or maybe checking up on things back in Echo Falls, maybe he’d been worried the whole time—discovers the renovation plans, realizes that big changes are coming to Prescott Hall. Changes like walls coming down and floors getting dug up. Ingrid remembered now that a whole new heating system was going in—furnace, boiler, all that, way down here someplace. So he had to come back, had to get inside Prescott Hall and remove the evidence when no one was around. And Katie? Ingrid was starting to get an idea about what had happened with her, but there’d be plenty of time to piece that together. She had all she needed. Now was the moment to run silently back up, get out of Prescott Hall, and tell Chief Strade everything. Ingrid turned to go, and as she did, she felt the soft, strong, intelligent brush of cat tail against her leg. Then came a meow, maybe not very loud, but it sounded like a scream down there under Prescott Hall.

  Vincent’s head snapped around. He saw her, looked stunned. Then his face changed, came close not only to looking normal but to making the whole scene somehow look normal. He was a great actor.

  “What brings you here?” he said; that soft voice not quite at its softest; there was something like barbed wire underneath.

  “You didn’t have to kill Katie,” Ingrid said. She couldn’t help herself.

  There was a long pause. Vincent’s eyes, dark, liquid, picked up the yellow light from the caged bulb, reflected it at her. He took a deep, regretful breath. “So I thought,” he said. “She didn’t even recognize me. And the irony is she’d completely lost her appeal, the way she turned out. You wouldn’t know about irony, too young.” His lips quivered up in a fleeting little smile. “And now you’ll never know.”

  Ingrid backed up one step. “But Katie finally figured out who you were,” she said. Ingrid had seen it happen, had even been the cause of it, bringing up the Prescott Players; she just hadn’t understood.

  “Unfortunate for her,” said Vincent. “But a just ending, when you consider.”

  “Consider what?” Ingrid said.

  The soft surface of his voice cracked completely, like an eggshell when some baby reptile breaks through. “Don’t you realize what I could have been? Brando, Olivier, even better. A towering figure. A paragon. A legend.” Philip Prescott’s skull trembled in his hands.

  But he couldn’t be in the movies as long as Katie thought he was dead. How many thousands of times had he watched that well scene? “You kind of trapped yourself with that good-bye letter,” Ingrid said.

  He didn’t like that at all. His face got savage. A vein throbbed in his neck, green and twisted. And then he was after her, springing across the pit, the skull hanging in midair for an instant before falling back down with a thud.

  Ingrid turned up the stairs and ran. She could run, had always been able to run, but never like this, flying. To the landing, up to the next flight, and the next, banging through the half-closed door that led up to the fancy staircase and the library. But had there been windows in the library? No. She needed windows, a door, a way out, something. At the base of the fancy stairs she saw another door and tried that.

  It led to another corridor, this one almost completely dark, but what was that? A moonbeam glow at the end. She raced down the corridor, burst into a big room, walls and ceiling all glass. What was this? The greenhouse, conservatory, whatever they called it, lit up by the moon. She’d seen it from the outside, knew its placement—ground level at the back of Prescott Hall. The door. She ran to it, her footsteps echoing on the flagstone floor.

  Locked. Locked, but made of glass. She kicked at it, kicked at it again. Glass shattered all over the place. She kicked once more, bending back the metal framework, then leaped through.

  Ingrid ran along the back of Prescott Hall. She had to round the corner of the building, not far, ten or fifteen yards more, and then get herself down the long slope to Upper Falls Road. There were houses on Upper Falls Road. She’d be safe.

  Faster, Griddie. To her right the falls were going shhhh. Up ahead lay one of those bulkhead door things built against the side of the Hall, and right after that came the corner. Ingrid dodged around the bulkhead doors, and as she did, they burst open and Vincent came hurtling out with a wild cry that almost killed her all by itself.

  He crashed into her, knocked her down, grabbed her. They rolled across the frost-coated grass. Ingrid squirmed out of his hands, sprang up, ran from him, toward the river, trying to make a wide turn, but she slipped on all that frost and went sprawling. And he was on her again, with one of those grunts of his. They rolled and rolled and then, with a sudden lurch, went hurtling down the steep drop-off, down, down, and splash. Into the river.

  The cold made her gasp. She heard Vincent gasp too. Then the river swept her away, so strong, so fast. She tried to kick, to swim, could do nothing, her whole body freezing up. The water soaked her clothes, weighing her down, but the current was so swift, she stayed on the surface. The shhhh of the falls grew into a roar, two echoing roars, crazier and crazier. Then crack. Her head struck something hard and she came to a halt.

  The boom—that line of buoys strung across the river just above the falls. She grabbed hold of a buoy, clung to it. The river tore past her, trying to rip her free. Ingrid held on with all her might, the roar of the falls so close.

  And there, just a few feet away, also hanging on to the boom, was Vincent Dunn. He was shivering. So was she. Moonlight sparkled in his eyes, on his forehead and cheekbones; the rest of his face was shadow. Those flashing eyes. She’d seen them before. What had happened to Jill was no accident. Beware! Beware! He was a great improviser.

  That vein throbbed again in Vincent’s neck, black now in the moonlight. “This can still work,” he said.

  Then he came toward her, hand over hand along the buoys. Ingrid tried to back away, tried to move toward shore, but her hands seemed to be stuck to the boom. He raised himself up, got one hand on top of her head, forcing her underwater, down under the buoy line. The river ripped at her. She was going to die. She started going out of her mind with fear. Then she remembered Grampy. This was way past the point of fear. This was him or you.

  Vincent pushed and pushed. Ingrid’s job was to hold on. Hold on no matter what. Hold on to the boom and hold on to her breath. Him or you. She held on. She kicked. She wriggled. She kicked again and suddenly Vincent lost his grip on the buoy, and then he was underwater with her, both those long thin hands slipping down her body, then clamping tight around her legs. She kicked at him, kicked and kicked with all her strength. Him or you. He slid down farther, now had her just around the ankles. The force of the river tugged her body way out under the boom, toward the falls, and his even more. She held on to the buoy—death grip, yes—and did a writhing thing, trying to snap her legs. Her shoes came off in his hands. The river tore him loose at once.

  Ingrid pulled herself up, gasped in a huge lungful of air. She hung on. Vincent bobbed up to the surface. He tried to swim, got nowhere, helpless in the torrent. The river rushed him along, closer and closer to the edge. His head turned toward her, the color of bone in the moonlight, mouth opening in a round black zero. And then he was gone, as though jerked from sight by a chain.

  The falls grew quieter, closer to their normal shhhh. Ingrid hung on to the boom, or maybe she was simply frozen to it. She shivered unco
ntrollably. She tried to say, “It’s all about shoes,” but couldn’t make the muscles of her mouth do a thing.

  Then the moon got very weird, kind of doubling up. Moon one kept shining down in the usual way, cold, distant, incurious. But moon two was different, poking around here and there in the river, a narrow, probing kind of moonbeam. It shone on her for a second, went away, came back.

  Another noise started up, not a shhhh but a motor. It grew louder. Then came voices. A wave splashed over her. Just great. Now waves. She turned to see what could possibly be making waves and saw a boat standing alongside her, the word POLICE on the hull.

  Then strong arms were around her, lifting her out of the river. She looked up, saw Chief Strade. He wrapped her in a blanket. She felt a little guilty. He deserved an explanation,

  “It’s all about shoes,” she said. But total garble, teeth chattering, face numb. She saw he didn’t understand and tried again. Uh-uh.

  “You can explain later,” said Chief Strade.

  “Now you’re talking my language,” Ingrid said.

  He didn’t get that either.

  thirty

  NIGEL ENDED UP being the hero. He’d woken up during the night—hungry? thirsty? sufficiently rested?—and noticed that Ingrid wasn’t there. That had led to a lot of whining, barking, and clawing at closed bedroom doors until the whole house was up. They’d phoned the police. Not too long before that, the police had taken a call from Murad the taxi driver, best hero in a supporting role. Murad had noticed a kid biking across the bridge in the middle of the night, a kid way too young to be out at a time like that. Only two dots to connect. The dispatcher had done it herself, although she let Chief Strade think it was all him.

  Ingrid stayed in the hospital overnight for observation but didn’t observe anything, just slept a deep sleep, Mom sitting in a chair beside her, Dad out in the hall with Chief Strade. In the morning she went home. Dad carried her upstairs, entirely unnecessary. “What did the duck say to the horse?” he asked, and answered it. “Why the long face?”

  “Please,” said Ingrid.

  She slept some more. Nigel kept licking her face and had to be sent from the room. Ingrid hardly noticed. She didn’t wake up until late afternoon, when Mr. Sidney tooted the school bus horn on the way by.

  Albert Morales and Lon Stingley were released from jail. They hired a lawyer to sue the town. Mr. Santos stepped into the role of the Mad Hatter as well as directing the play. He began preparing yet another script, this one more of a Goodfellas meets Alice kind of thing, but Jill Monteiro made a sudden rapid turn for the better, checked herself out of the hospital, and took over, putting Ingrid back in the Alice role. The Ferrands flew off on an impromptu breather to St. Barts, and Chloe resigned from the production.

  On Friday, Ingrid’s first day back, Ms. Groome sprang a pop quiz and she got 47 percent, her all-time lowest. She remembered the different branches of arithmetic, as defined by the Mock Turtle—ambition, distraction, uglification, and derision. The Mock Turtle had gotten it right.

  After school, Chief Strade came over to the house for a long talk, off the record. They sat in the dining room. He was very gentle, promised that nothing she said would leave the room. She knew she owed him. On the other hand, he was going to be disappointed. She was still going back and forth when Ty poked his head into the room and said, “What were these doing in my closet?” He held up her red Pumas, the ones with the ID disks from soccer camp. Ingrid made a full confession. The chief was silent for a minute or so afterward. Then he rose, shook her hand, and left.

  Saturday morning Vincent Dunn’s body was found snagged on a public pier way downstream, twenty miles or so.

  Saturday night Ingrid went to the Rec Center dance with Joey. He turned out not to be much of a dancer. Also, the DJ played a lot of classic rock, which Ingrid despised. After a while they went to the side table for some punch and pizza. Joey’s face was very red.

  “I’m building a telescope,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Not grinding my own lenses or anything like that,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong.”

  Ingrid sipped her punch—delicious.

  “I’ll be able to see the moons of Jupiter,” Joey said.

  “Jupiter has moons?”

  “A ton,” said Joey. Long silence. “Jupiter’s in the sky right now,” he said. “If you want to take a look.”

  “Okay.”

  They went out the back of the Rec Center, across the tennis courts. The sky was cloudy, completely covered over, which was just fine with Ingrid—she wasn’t in the mood for moonglow.

  Joey looked up in chagrin. “How did that happen?” he said.

  Ingrid laughed. Joey could be pretty funny.

  He reached for her hand, a sudden movement that went awry, ended up as a kind of karate chop to her elbow. Then he tried again and got it right. They went for a walk.

  From the Arts, Entertainment, and Things to Do page of The Echo:

  Run, do not walk, to catch the Prescott Players’ energetic new production of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, directed by Echo Falls’ very own Broadway star, Ms. Jill Monteiro. Old Prescott Hall rocks with laughter and merriment as the Lewis Carroll classic is brought noisily to life. Kudos to the whole wonderful cast, but special mention must be made of Sylvia Breen, for her surprising performance as a teary-eyed duchess; Harvey Santos as the most menacing caterpillar this reporter has ever encountered; and finally young Ingrid Levin-Hill in the title role, for her witty portrayal of a girl struggling to inject some sanity into a world gone mad.

  About the Author

  PETER ABRAHAMS is the author of OBLIVION, THE TUTOR, and LIGHTS OUT, for which he received an Edgar Award nomination. Mr. Abrahams makes his home in Falmouth, Massachusetts, with his wife and four children. This is his first novel for young readers. You can visit him online at www.peterabrahams.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Praise for DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

  “I’ve read all of Peter Abrahams’s novels and think that Down the Rabbit Hole is my all-time favorite. Peter has the perfect knack of always keeping the reader one jump ahead of Ingrid, so you’re always afraid for her.

  What’s astonishing—and what I think kids are going to love—is how much more there is to this book than just suspense. There’s Ingrid’s complicated relationship with her brother, her growing understanding of her parents as real people, her terrific grandfather…and her dog. What a great dog, and what a great town. Echo Falls itself emerges as the book’s costar.

  “As with the Harry Potter books, when stories are this good, terms such as ‘juvenile’ or ‘adult’ really cease to have meaning; this is just one walloping good suspense yarn, and I couldn’t put it down and go to bed until I’d finished.”

  —Stephen King

  “A satisfying fast-paced novel with an enjoyably pervasive sense of danger, and several exhilaratingly close brushes with death for the protagonist. A standout novel.”

  —BCCB (starred review)

  “A book that will appeal to all ages. The setting seems completely real and the hero acts in ways most of us readers wouldn’t dare to attempt. Good, smart entertainment.”

  —KLIATT (starred review)

  “Rich, smoothly written mystery. Great start for the Echo Falls series.”

  —ALA Booklist (starred review)

  “Abrahams has crafted a suspenseful page-turning drama complete with misleading clues and gutsy midnight escapades that make for thrilling intrigue right up to the culminating drowning-in-the-river scene. Harrowingly absorbing.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Deliciously suspenseful.”

  —VOYA

  “Readers…will be clamoring for answers—and more of Ingrid.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Deft use of literary allusions and ironic humor add further touches of class to a topnotch mystery.”
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br />   —School Library Journal

  “Peter Abrahams scores big with the first novel in his new Echo Falls Mystery series. Readers will impatiently await the next.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  Credits

  Cover art © 2006 by Paul Robinson

  Cover design by Hilary Zarycky

  Copyright

  DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE: An Echo Falls Mystery. Copyright © 2005 by Pas de Deux. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Mobipocket Reader February 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-189133-5

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