And they would have a lot of questions for him — but they wouldn’t be the kind of questions Wyatt had asked. They’d be more along the lines of “Did your mother tell you she was leaving?” and “Has she ever left you before?” The problem with those questions was that he couldn’t answer them truthfully without getting his mother deeper into trouble. He’d be the one sealing both of their fates. Nope, he still wasn’t ready for that.
Next to the store, along a white fence, was a Dumpster. A place to hide. If the police were looking for him, they’d likely check around the store, in the woods, along the road. But it wasn’t likely they’d check inside a Dumpster, was it?
Jack studied the scene carefully. He could see the police officer inside the store, talking to the two women who’d spotted him. There was no sign of Wyatt, though he could see the van parked where they’d left it. He imagined the police officer would be talking to Wyatt next.
There was no one else around. It was now or never.
Jack held his breath and dashed toward the Dumpster, crouching as low as possible. He quickly lifted the lid, hoping that the trash would be contained in plastic garbage bags and that it wouldn’t smell too bad.
Fortunately, the Dumpster had just been emptied. There were loose paper bags, the kind that might hold a sandwich or a pastry, and paper cups with loose-fitting lids, tossed in by customers, but no large garbage bags — and no smell. Jack hoisted himself up and over, being careful of his broken pinky and trying not to make any noise.
The Dumpster was heavy-duty plastic, so he could move around quietly. He took a moment before settling down to look inside the bags. Most were empty, but one held a cruller with a single bite taken out of it. It was stale — he could tell by how crumbly it was — but who was he to be picky? And another contained a half-eaten bag of potato chips. Score! He sat in one of the back corners of the Dumpster, wolfing down the food, and marveled at his brilliance. He was hidden, had something to eat, and could easily peek out the top of the Dumpster to see if Wyatt or the police had left yet.
Flashing lights alerted Jack to the fact that more police cars had arrived. Jack peeked out and saw Wyatt talking to a police officer, who was writing things down, but Jack was too far away to hear what he was saying. Was he lying, saying he hadn’t seen a kid in the store? Or was he telling the police officer everything, including that he, Jack Martel, was determined to get to York’s Wild Kingdom?
If he did manage to make it to the animal park, would the whole State of Maine police force be waiting for him there?
After what seemed like an eternity, Jack watched Wyatt get in his van and head back the way they’d come. Then, one by one, the police cars began to leave. Two headed down Route 1 in the direction that Jack needed to go.
Two remaining police officers, both with coffee cups in hand, began to approach the Dumpster. Jack backed away into one of the far corners and curled himself into the smallest shape possible.
“So, the kid knew nothing?”
“Nope. Apparently he got it in his head that he’d be the one to find the Martel kid tonight. Said he was searching the roads.”
“Does he have information we don’t?”
“I don’t see how he could. I think he just got lucky — happened to pull into the gas station right at the time the Martel kid needed to use the toilet. . . .”
So Wyatt hadn’t told. Maybe he was still holding out for the reward. If so, Jack wondered if Wyatt would come back looking for him later that night. Another reason to stay off the road tonight.
Or maybe Wyatt was doing him a favor. Maybe he wasn’t so different from Sylvie, after all. . . .
One of the officers lifted the lid of the Dumpster, and two cups of lukewarm coffee came splashing down on Jack.
Jack waited awhile longer; then he slipped out of the Dumpster and jumped over the fence to see what was behind the store. There he found an old, turquoise car, the kind of old car that people love to shine up and drive in parades; only this one was missing its tires and had rust around its doors. The backseat proved the perfect place to spend the night. (Even though Jack knew he was probably sharing the seat with a mouse or two.)
He woke just before the sun rose and figured that only truck drivers would be out this early. And truck drivers were mostly from out of state; they probably wouldn’t have heard of him. If he started walking now, he wouldn’t need to do so much walking and hiding at night.
After walking for about an hour, seeing practically nothing but trees (and he was right — only two trucks and one car had passed him), he came to a fork. He had a choice between Route 1 and Old Route 1. He took Old Route 1, figuring it went in the same direction but might have fewer vehicles as it started to get later.
At first, this road, too, was nothing but trees, but after another hour or so had passed, the road began to be at first spotted and then lined with houses. It was obvious he was approaching a town, and he figured he should start looking for a place to hide during daylight. He passed one house with a sign advertising a room for rent (he wished he could borrow it for a day!) and another advertising violin lessons (something he’d never been tempted to try). He kept his eyes out for garages or sheds.
He passed a few houses without any luck. He was just starting to get anxious, when a thought struck: it was Saturday. That might give him another hour of traveling time, since most people tended to stay at home this early on Saturday mornings. Maybe he’d try just getting through this town and seeing what was on the other side.
The sun was warm on his head and shoulders, but not too hot. And the sky was a clear, bright blue. It reminded Jack of fall days when he used to play elephant in the park near his home. He would be romping around, imagining, and the world around him would come into sharper focus . . . and at the same time almost disappear. There was a feeling of joy in those moments, of peace. He felt that way now and walked a little bit taller. He was going to make it to York. He could feel it.
He had just reached the tiny, run-down, and rather deserted town center, another strip of connected brick storefronts, when a black car with a blue stripe — a police cruiser — suddenly pulled up beside him. He should have ducked into a shed when he’d had the chance!
Jack pushed his hand with the broken finger into his pocket and tried to breathe normally.
“Hey, son,” the officer said as Jack tried to walk on by.
Jack glanced up, just enough to see the blue uniform, the badge.
Fear pulsed through his body. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but he didn’t dare; he’d never outrun the cruiser. But he couldn’t ignore the policeman, either. Not without arousing suspicion.
But how would he explain all the scrapes on his face?
“Hello,” he said, turning to face the officer but keeping his head tipped down.
“Do you live here in town?” the officer asked.
“Yes,” Jack said. Oh, that was brilliant. Obviously, the next question will be, where? “I have a violin lesson in a half hour,” said Jack. “Just killing time.”
“Oh yeah? What’s your violin teacher’s name?”
“Um, Mrs. —” He banged his head with his left hand and tried to look scatterbrained. “I can’t believe I’m forgetting it. I only started last week. But her house is right down there,” he said, pointing toward the house he’d passed with the violin-lessons sign.
“So, where’s your violin?”
Jack’s palms started sweating. He could tell the officer didn’t believe him. “I’m borrowing one. My parents want to make sure I stick with it before they buy me one.” Which was exactly what his mom had said when he begged to take up the trumpet last year.
“Well, why don’t you get in? I’ll drive you to your lesson.”
“That’s OK. It’s not that far,” he said. “Anyway, I wanted to get some breakfast first.”
“OK,” said the officer. “Just wanted to be of help.”
“Thanks, though,” Jack said, figuring that’s what a nor
mal kid would do in this situation. His heart still hammering away, he turned and started to walk toward the nearest store, which appeared to be a drugstore.
“Hey, Jack!” the officer yelled.
Jack turned around. “Yeah?”
And then he realized what he’d done.
He’d fallen for a trick — answered to his own name!
“Thought so,” said the officer calmly. “Get in the car, son. I’ll take you to Moody’s Diner for breakfast — after we radio news to your grandmother.”
The world was collapsing around Jack. He’d come so far. He’d tried so hard! And he’d been so close! But he’d let everyone down — his mother (who would probably go to jail now), and Sylvie, and even Wyatt, who would likely be in big trouble for lying to the police.
Suddenly, he was running, even though he knew it was pointless. He heard the police officer calling after him but didn’t dare stop. He ducked into the drugstore, which seemed to be empty, and ran toward the back, praying there would be a door. There was. He flew through the door and came to a stairwell. Up or down? Down was darker. He raced down the stairs into a dark, crowded basement. Small windows let in just enough light for him to see a door in the back. He ran to the door and searched frantically for the knob. There wasn’t one. Or even a latch.
The door was nailed shut.
He was trapped.
Jack crouched between a broken wheelchair and cardboard boxes full of cartons of cotton swabs. He could hear feet pounding on the old wooden floors above. Voices called out for him: the booming voice of the police officer, and a softer voice — the voice of the pharmacist, Jack guessed.
At one point, the policeman came into the basement and flicked on a dim light. He also used his flashlight — shining it into all the corners. Jack had never remained so still in his entire life. In fact, if he hadn’t felt his heart madly searching for a way to exit his body, he would have sworn he was dead.
“No kid would stay down here very long,” the cop called up.
“I keep meaning to clean it up.”
“Is this your only exit?” asked the policeman, slowly ascending the steps.
“There’s a fire escape at the other end of the building. I’ve got a floor plan in the office I can show you.”
Jack hadn’t seen an office. Had he missed a door? His only hope now was that it would look like he’d gone down that fire escape. But he doubted it would be that simple.
Jack shivered uncontrollably, his muscles exhausted from holding still so long.
He could still hear voices above him, but he could no longer hear what was being said. He figured his best bet would be to do exactly what he’d done at L.L. Bean: stay put until the store closed and hope that by that time, the police would have assumed he was long gone.
He straightened his legs, trying not to think of the bazillion spiders that must be all around him.
The basement smelled like a combination of mold and cat litter. He tried to distract himself with his elephant, but it was too dark to see it. He could only hold it, taking comfort from the familiar shape of it.
Jack wondered if this was what it would feel like to live alone in his apartment, waiting for his mother to return — or for someone to catch onto him. First, someone would turn off the electricity, then the phone. Those companies didn’t fool around — Jack knew. Once, during a spinning time, his mom had forgotten to pay the bills, and little by little everything stopped working. She had forgotten to pay the rent, too, but their landlady had given them an extra month before coming to collect. It probably helped that Jack had been the one to speak to her.
Man, he hated thinking about those things! And he hated sitting here, waiting to be caught. Because he knew the likelihood of everyone assuming he’d slipped out of the store unnoticed was slim to none. If he had to be caught, he’d rather be caught running than just sitting here waiting.
From the sounds of the infrequent footsteps above, the drugstore was not very busy. And he could no longer hear the police officer and the pharmacist talking. He hoped that the cop had gone back out to his cruiser and that the pharmacist had gone back to his counter.
He decided he’d try to find the fire escape. It was probably on the second floor. He crept back up the stairs. Each time a stair creaked, he stopped and waited, holding his breath.
But no one came.
When Jack got back to the landing, he took time to check things out. The door straight ahead of him would lead him back into the store. He looked to the right. Ah, there was the office. The door was slightly ajar. Two boots, crossed at the ankles, were resting on the desktop.
The police officer was right there.
The officer’s voice came from the office. “I’ve called for reinforcements. Officers are searching the area, but I think he’s still in the store. I’m going to wait it out, see if he shows himself when he gets hungry enough.”
Dang. That meant there were likely police cars parked outside the front door. He wondered what the odds were of there not being any by the fire escape — if he could even find the fire escape.
To the left of the office was another flight of stairs. What was up there? More offices? Storage? The fire escape? What if the cop heard his footsteps? What if there were no places to hide?
Maybe it would be smarter to go back down into the basement, where at least it was dark. But how long would it be before the officer became frustrated and headed back down to search again?
If he went up, he just might find that fire escape.
But would someone be waiting at the bottom for him?
He wished he had his cell phone, wished he could call Nina and ask her what he should do.
The thought startled him. Why would he want to call the very person who’d exposed him in the first place? But he had to admit: it was her voice he wanted to hear at the end of the telephone line right now.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the little elephant. What should I do? The elephant didn’t say a word, but its mouth seemed to be smiling beneath its raised trunk. He remembered his teacher’s words: “A trunk pointing up means good luck.” Good luck, thought Jack. He’d follow that trunk and go up!
He set one foot on the first stair and gradually rested his weight on it, ready to jump back if there was a squeak. Nothing. He tested the next step. There was a bit of a groan from the wood, but not one loud enough to alert the policeman, who was still talking. Up he went in this way, testing a step, waiting. Testing a step, waiting.
On the second floor was a hallway with only a single door to the left. There was a little whiteboard on the door where someone had written, I came by. Where were you? A pair of flip-flops and an umbrella stand holding a green umbrella were in the corner. He guessed there was an apartment behind that door. He crept past the door and climbed to the third floor.
The third floor was a wide-open space with mirrors on one wall and a line of chairs on the opposite. A dance studio, Jack thought. He tiptoed across the floor to see what was behind an open door. Just then, he saw movement from the corner of his eye — he wasn’t alone!
He spun around, and the figure spun around, too. It was only his reflection in the mirrors. He waited till the panic stopped ringing in his ears and then completed the slow trek across the floor.
A bathroom. There was a small bathroom behind the door. Where was the fire escape? He crept over to the large windows, standing off to the side so that he wouldn’t be seen. There was a police car parked in front of the store, just as he’d suspected. But only one. Maybe that was what counted as backup around here.
Perhaps they hadn’t even bothered guarding the rear exit.
He padded over to the windows on the side of the building. It was hard to see what was below without moving right up to the glass. Yes! There was a wrought-iron fire escape off this window, and no police car below — or any other cars or people, really, except for one red pickup truck, parked on a hill below.
Jack carefully opened the window and
tried to yank off the screen. At first, the springs wouldn’t budge; then one gave loose. The other followed suddenly, causing the screen to fly out of his hands and clatter against the metal fire escape.
Dang it! So much for a quiet getaway!
Jack climbed out the window and scrambled down the metal steps, no longer caring how much noise he made. He was thinking only about going fast enough to escape yet slowly enough to not careen off the side and smash his skull on the street below. Left, right, left, right — by concentrating on the steps this way, he’d reach the bottom safely.
He could see that the stairs didn’t go all the way to the ground and that at some point, he’d have to jump. He reminded himself to keep his injured finger out of the way this time and to roll with the force if he needed to.
He hit the final step and leaped off, hoping that the landing would be soft and that he could keep right on moving, racing far away from here.
Jack’s feet hit the grass and his knees buckled, but he managed to keep himself upright. He had just pushed off again when he was grabbed from behind and jerked back.
He tried to thrash his arms, but two much larger arms had pinned them down. So he kicked, kicked hard. He had to get free, had to keep going . . . !
The arms held tight. And Jack knew it was useless. He’d been caught. It was over.
He couldn’t believe it! After all he’d been through, trying so hard to keep his mother’s disappearance a secret. To keep her from getting in trouble. And he’d been so close to his goal, to doing the one thing that would tell her it was all OK. That he still loved her, no matter what.
With a heartbroken sob, Jack gave up. He stopped kicking. He stopped struggling. He just went limp.
Small as an Elephant Page 13
