Lock and Key: The Gadwall Incident

by Ridley Pearson

  I caught up to James. “You see that?”

  “He isn’t going to the beach, Mo. You don’t dress up like that to go take it all off and lie in the sun.”

  “Maybe Father does.”

  “I know it’s hard to believe,” he said. “I don’t like it either, FYI, but the dude in the clothes up there, the one in the green bow tie, is our father. The good news is the beach isn’t far, so he’s going someplace close by. Whatever’s going down is going down soon.”

  “Nothing’s going down,” I said.

  “Right. Father always takes the train in disguise to walk the beach in a tourist town.”

  “He’s going to see us,” I said.

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “I got it the first time.”

  “So?”

  James stopped so suddenly that I bumped into him. He pushed me away, averse to any physical contact with a girl, especially his younger sister. “Afternoon matinee,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Check it out.”

  The word Palace rose overhead on a sign stretching fifteen feet high. But it wasn’t the theater he wanted me to notice. We had walked past a bike stand holding five bikes. I saw locks on some but not all.

  “James, we can’t. That’s stealing.”

  “It’s borrowing. We’ll have them back before the movie’s over.”

  “You don’t know that.” But he was already yanking one from the stand. The only remaining bike without a lock was a pink thing, several sizes too small for me, with a few remaining streamers hanging from the handlebar grips, looking like dead grasses.

  “There is no way—”

  “Hurry up!” he said. “Point one: Father will pay no attention, none, to two kids on bikes. We could ride past him a dozen times and he’d never notice. We could probably wave at him. Point two: Kids ride bikes to the beach, so there’s nothing out of the ordinary about us riding that direction. Point three: To catch him now we’d have to run and if we’re going to do that we might as well scream his name at the same time.”

  I extricated the pink atrocity from the rack. “This feels wrong.”

  “It is wrong.”

  “We don’t have helmets.”

  “We’re not running for political office,” James said. “Get on the bike.” He had already mounted his. “Try not to fall off!”

  “Very funny.” But, in fact, he knew me too well, as is often the case with your only brother. I wasn’t exactly an Olympian cyclist. I was more of a disaster, horrible with the brakes, somewhat lacking in the balance department. But I was thrilled by the idea of being independent, and was determined more than ever to overcome my fears. James went zooming off. I lumbered side to side, front wheel in limbo, feeling like a giant on my pink kiddie ride.

  As I rounded the corner, two things struck me. James had slowed, apparently keeping an eye out for me; the Stranger was walking on the sidewalk, not ten feet in front of the backpedaling James.

  I spent too long absorbed in this development. A driver’s door popped open. I nearly crashed into it, swerving at the last moment, a car horn crooning behind me. I managed to regain a modicum of control and right myself, though I’m pretty sure anyone within several miles had noticed the clumsy girl on the baby bike.

  James and I pedaled slowly side by side. We fell back farther from the Stranger. “Way to keep a low profile,” he said quietly.

  “Yeah, I’m good at that. What’s he doing here?”

  “Confirming everything I suspected, I expect. He obviously took the cab about one block and then started following Father again. So we can consider this hostile action.”

  “You are so strange.”

  “He’s following him and going to great lengths to make Father think otherwise. That’s interesting no matter what you think of me.”

  “And us? What’s our plan?”

  “We’re going to ride past both of them. We can’t just backpedal the whole time. We’ll get down to the beach and hide or something, keep an eye on Father. Unless he’s come all this way to get Tarot cards read or have his teeth cleaned,” he said, listing the only two visible store signs between us and the beach, “then I have no idea what he’s doing here other than meeting someone, so we’re back to our original theory.”

  “And the Stranger wants to know who it is,” I stated emphatically.

  “Or catch him in the act,” he added, turning my stomach. “In which case we rescue Father and sort it all out later.”

  “Both those options are bad. For us. For Father. For all of us. Bad.”

  CHAPTER 7

  TURNS OUT BRAKING A BIKE ON SANDY PAVEMENT is considerably different than braking on clean asphalt. Who knew? As my brother committed a flawless dismount while his bike was in motion, looking like a gymnast or a rodeo cowboy, I managed to skid my back tire, pass through two boulders, drop over the asphalt lip, and crash. Thrown off the bike like a rag doll, I landed in the sand headfirst. The bike was fine, of course, whereas I felt like I’d been folded into a box far too small for me, dropped from a three-story balcony, and then turned upside down and dumped out. James retrieved my bike, shaking his head at me paternally. He didn’t bother to ask me how I was, nor did he come over to inspect for any damage I might have suffered. Instead, he quickly hauled my bike back up to the parking lot, and returned to my side as, standing, I brushed myself off.

  “That was interesting,” I said.

  “Quick! He’s coming.” James sounded terrified.

  “Here? The beach?” Father was not the beach type. Sailboats, yes. We owned three sailboats, all kept at our Cape Cod family compound, from the sporting day-sailer to an ostentatious, forty-eight-foot two-masted schooner, commonly referred to around the kitchen table as “the yacht.” He liked saltwater fishing. The occasional duck or goose hunting. Lying in the sun? No.

  “Those rocks over there. Hurry!” James pointed and took off running. So much for our partnership. I was left struggling to keep up with him, given the deep sand, my leather sandals, and a slight kink in my left leg that must have been from my crash. I slipped between two rocks and he pulled down so hard it hurt my arm. I was about to complain when he slapped a hand over my mouth, turning my head forcibly.

  Father came down a path from the parking lot. He looked at the sand, his five-hundred-dollar shoes, the sand again. He found a nearby boulder cordoning off the parking lot and sat down. He removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants, and stood facing south. He set off among the hundred or so sun worshipers on Singing Beach, walking amid the bikinis, the Bluetooth speakers, the coolers and beach blankets. Our father in disguise, wearing business clothes, looking uncomfortable with the sensation of having his feet buried in the sand of a hot afternoon.

  “Where’s he going?” I asked James.

  “No clue. And what happened to the Stranger?”

  I’d been so obsessed with Father that I’d failed to notice the Stranger’s absence. “Sheesh,” I said.

  “This gets tricky now,” James said.

  “Now? The whole day has been tricky!”

  James, practiced in ignoring me, demonstrated his ability as he thought aloud. “We can’t exactly follow him across the beach.” He was right—of course! The swimsuit set was spread out across the lovely curving sand. Singing Beach was part of a small cove defined by a prominent high point of land to the north and a hook of curling rocky coast to the south. The beach ended quickly to the north, but ran a half mile or more in the direction Father was walking. Trying to follow him without being seen would be a challenge, which, it occurred to me, was probably the point.

  “You think he’s using the beach to make sure no one is following?” I asked.

  “Well, if he is, the Stranger just outsmarted him, which leaves me worried. Despite what he’ll do to us”—James groaned—“it may be time to warn Father he’s being tailed.”

  “That is the worst idea I’
ve ever heard.”

  “You have a better one?”

  I thrive when put on the spot. Some people crumble, others sulk or go zombie, but I found my heart pulsing, my brain stimulated, and my intelligence challenged. “You’re the faster of the two of us.”

  “Without question.”

  “So you’ll head back and find the Stranger, careful to not let him see you. Either he has given up, which I doubt very much, or, far more likely, he knows where Father is headed.” James gasped and I knew I’d scored. “He’s headed there now. It’ll be more telling if he is not headed there, in fact, because if he’s retreating then he not only knows Father’s destination, but also his purpose, which is a little freaky.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’ll use the dunes,” I said, pointing to a sand berm covered in wild grasses that separated the million-dollar homes from Singing Beach. It stretched the full distance, higher in some places than others. “I can keep low, stay focused, and I’m pretty sure I can keep out of sight.” James studied the hilly sand piles and nodded. “With any luck you and I end up in the same place, you led by that man, me by Father. What time is it?” James always wore a watch. He reported the time to me. “If we fail to connect, we meet back at the train station in one . . . no, better make it two hours.”

  “And if one of us doesn’t show up, or at least text, in two hours?”

  “Whoever’s at the station calls the local police and reports everything. They’ll issue an amber alert, or whatever. Deal?”

  James didn’t answer. He stared down the beach. “What do you think’s going on? What’s he up to?”

  “I think we can rule out that he’s going on a date,” I said, utterly disappointed.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE BEACH GRASSES SCRATCHED AND TICKLED my legs. Note to self: do not try to be a spy when wearing a dress. But I managed to stay above the beach with a decent view of Father, though I ducked out of sight the two times I saw his shoulders begin to spin. His looking back told me he was being cautious, which again raised my heart rate. My sweaty feet were stuck with sand, grinding in my sandals, the rough ground cover preventing me from going barefoot. I moved hunched over, straining my back and tiring my legs. Being a spy was hard work.

  As Father arrived to the extreme tip of the curved beach I lay flat, peering through a tuft of saw grass. What now? I wondered. He couldn’t possibly be out for a casual stroll. He hadn’t traveled to Manchester-by-the-Sea dressed as a door-to-door salesman to get exercise! What happened next astonished me.

  James jogged nearly effortlessly up Beach Street, the Stranger nowhere in sight. Reaching the first cross street, he turned south, paralleling Father’s course on Singing Beach. He noticed something peculiar and unexpected: he had no anxiety over his following a complete stranger, a man much taller and likely stronger than he was. He did not process it exactly, more observed himself performing in a manner incompatible with that of a fourteen-year-old. How could he possess such calm in the face of such potential danger? Why did he feel thrilled but not afraid, calm instead of rattled? Did he dare admit to himself that he felt comfortable, almost meant for such work?

  How, for instance, once he saw the man thirty yards ahead, did he understand to instinctively react to the first subtle rotation of the man’s head by dropping to his knees and picking weeds at the base of a mailbox—a lawn boy at work? How did he know not to look, but to keep his face aimed away so the stranger could not easily remember him?

  He cut behind a hedge, dodged behind an RV, moved along the wind screen of a tennis court, all without thought. He simply knew this stuff. Without any formal training, without any coaching. Following a lazy curve in the street that curved away from the beach, the Stranger turned down a road that turned out to be a driveway. A long driveway. A Private Drive according to the sign. A dead end.

  A risky move, James thought, feeling very much in his element.

  Father adjusted his Ferragamos and left the beach, climbing a steep grassy hillside that rose to a promontory hill capping and defining the south end of the public beach. He looked so completely out of place, off-trail, struggling with the steep angle of the climb.

  The higher he climbed, the more chance he might see me. I felt utterly exposed. If/when he looked back he would see a girl in a dress lying prone among the weeds and wild grasses and probably take me for dead.

  I had little choice but to break from my hiding place and make a beeline for a low stone wall that declared the seaside edge of someone’s backyard. I never took my eyes off Father, my legs paying a price, and, as Father paused in his climb, I dove over the wall. Landing on manicured lawn, I rolled up against the wall to hide behind it. My dress rode well above my knees. If I’d gone much farther I’d have been flashing my underwear!

  “Hello?” A dirt-encrusted boy right around my own age held a garden trowel over a hole. It looked as if he might be repairing a lawn sprinkler. I had to think fast.

  “Capture the flag,” I said, holding my finger to my lips as, with the other hand, I tugged down my hem.

  “Love that game. I’m Ben.”

  “Moria.”

  “I’m guessing Boston.”

  “Does it show that badly?”

  “Not a lot of dresses, and girls here are a lot more tan by August.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Who’s he?” he asked, pointing, I imagined, toward Father’s ascent of Mount Singing Beach.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t point, please.”

  “Doesn’t exactly look like capture the flag.”

  “My father,” I said, believing honesty the best policy. “It’s complicated.”

  “Tell me about it. Parents? Are you kidding me? Mine are divorced. My mother’s miserable. My father’s golfing and taking ski trips to Peru. I think he’s got a girlfriend.”

  I’d been lying in this boy’s backyard for less than a minute and I knew his family history. “That’s no fun.”

  “Your dad is cheating on your mother?” Ben asked, nodding toward the promontory.

  “My mother ditched us.”

  “Us?”

  “My brother and me.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Why the backdoor way up to Gadwall?”

  “What’s Gadwall?”

  He drew a circle by his ear indicating crazy. “Private place. Small. Expensive. A nuthouse, I think.”

  Father was visiting a private hospital for the mentally ill? What was that about? “Seriously?”

  “The neighborhood wants it gone, not that it’s ever any trouble, but it’s part of the Gadwall Estate. The Gadwalls used to own all of this land”—his trowel made a sweeping gesture—“like during the Revolutionary War. Those Gadwalls. New England royalty. They’re not going anywhere.”

  “Is he out of sight?”

  “Just to the top, yes. Ben. You’ll remember that, right?”

  I felt myself blush. “How could I forget?” Getting over a stone wall in any kind of non-embarrassing way proved beyond my capabilities. I sat, twisted, scooted in order to retain my modesty. I looked back and waved, loving that Ben was watching me.

  James got off the driveway as quickly as possible. He stayed to the left of the asphalt, darting between copses of trees and shrinking down behind mature bushes and flowering shrubs. The left was the boundary closest to the beach. The closest to where I might appear. James had chosen without thinking. But when he did think about it, he delighted in the choice as well as his selection coming involuntarily. The entrance road proved itself too long to call a driveway. It reminded him of the roads leading into Irish castles and the trip he and I made with Father the summer after Mother left us. Eventually, the stone mansion revealed itself as a three-story, rock-and-mortar structure the size of half a New York City block. It was absolutely massive, flags protruding and fluttering languidly from either side of a wooden front door large enough to fit a fire truck through.

  “What the
—” James spoke a word for which Father would have washed his mouth out with soap. The mansion did not belong in New England, but in Italy or France or Scotland or someplace with footmen and servants. It belonged in a boring movie where the girl loves the guy she shouldn’t love. It looked like where the X-Men lived as students.

  So impressed with the double-cut lawns, the precisely clipped shrubs, and the Italian fountain out front, James had forgotten all about the Stranger.

  Until he spotted Father coming from the side of the mansion toward the front door.

  Winded, I hadn’t realized how out of shape I was until I arrived at the top of the hill. I stayed low in the overgrown weeds, only feet from where an expanse of lawn grass grew soft as velvet. The structure before me spoke of princesses and kings and horseback riding, lavish formal balls with ladies in flowing gowns and men in military uniform. I saw it for the private home it had once been, not the hospital it had become. I saw it as a splendid, magnificent place where fairy-tale dreams came true and wedding parties gathered on June weekends.

  I saw James cowering behind a thicket of rhododendron. I saw the Stranger in the shade of a towering evergreen across the road from James and closer to the manor home by twenty yards. I saw no sign of Father.