by April Henry
Cheyenne thought she knew where this was going. “And you don’t buy that other car, do you?”
“No. We steal it. Then we put the VINs from the junker on the stolen car, and we end up with a car with a clear title and a perfectly legal VIN. We register it with a phony name and address and then resell it to someone who isn’t going to ask too many questions about why they’re getting a nice car a couple of thousand under Kelley Blue Book.”
“But it’s stolen!”
“You really think the person who buys it doesn’t have any idea?” Griffin snorted. “They know. They just don’t want to know. If you know what I mean.”
“So is that why you stole the Escalade – you have a trashed one sitting around someplace that you can use the VINs from?”
Cheyenne could hear the reluctance in his reply. “Uh, that was more like an accident. Normally, we get the junker first and then steal the better car. And I don’t usually take cars. J—” He stopped himself from saying someone’s name, but she filed away the initial. “The other guys do that. I just saw the keys in the ignition and I acted on impulse. Obviously. Or I would have noticed that you were in the back. My dad’s not real happy with me right now.”
“So what are you going to do with Danielle’s car? Buy a damaged one and switch out the VINs?” But it would always be her family’s car, Cheyenne thought. The one with the inch-long scratch on the passenger’s side where Phantom’s rigid steel harness had caught the first week she had him.
“It’s a sweet ride, but right now it’s a little too hot, even if we put on new VINs and new plates. They’ll be stopping every car like it from Seattle to San Francisco. The radio said they’ve got an AMBER Alert out for you. We might just have to part it out, you know, and sell a piece here and a piece there, but not the whole car. A bumper from a car like that might cost four thousand new from the dealer. We could cut a car repair place a deal for half the price and still come out ahead, since we got the car for free.”
For free. Cheyenne guessed that was one way to describe stealing. “But what about the VIN? Won’t they know the bumper came from our car?”
“They don’t put the VIN on every part, so once you take a part away from the car, the cops can’t trace it. There’s a lot of body shops that will look the other way and buy stuff from us. They save money, and we make money. So everybody’s happy.”
“Except the guy who just paid a lot for a stolen bumper. Or the person whose whole car has been turned into a pile of parts.”
She could hear his shrug. “My dad says that’s what insurance is for.”
“But what about—” Cheyenne started to argue, only the words caught in her throat. Then she was doubled over coughing, trying to catch her breath.
Griffin brought her some more water, but she waved it away, still coughing. Finally it was done.
“Are you okay?”
Maybe she was imagining it, but she thought there was real concern in Griffin’s voice.
“Not really. Could you maybe just let me sleep?” It was all she could do to hold her head up and have this conversation.
“Sure.”
She had one last waking thought. “Just keep those guys away from me.”
HUNG FOR A SHEEP
Figuring he had better do it before his dad got back, Griffin tied Cheyenne’s ankle more tightly to the bed. She barely stirred, her head pillowed on her forearm. She looked exhausted. Except for her flushed cheeks, her face was as white as paper. Griffin got a blue-and-pink quilt (his grandma had made it when his mother was pregnant with him but didn’t know if he was a boy or a girl) from the hall closet and gently draped it over Cheyenne. It smelled kind of musty, but he wanted her to be warm.
In a way, it had been a relief to talk to Cheyenne about Roy’s business. At first Griffin had considered not answering her question about what his dad did, or lying. But what was it his grandma used to say before she stopped making sense? Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, that was it. Meaning, if you were already screwed, then what the hell. Cheyenne already knew too much, so what was a little bit more?
Besides, he had never talked about it to anyone. Griffin had felt a strange sense of pride as he had described the various tricks they used to turn something illegal into something legal or something that nobody wanted into something that somebody did. He had kept on talking, even when it was clear she was barely staying awake. It had been like trying to stop the air from leaking out of a punctured balloon. He wished he had thought to tell Cheyenne about the “strip and run,” his favorite trick. TJ or Jimbo would steal a car, strip its parts, and then abandon what was left. Eventually, the police would recover the vehicle and cancel the theft record. Then Roy would purchase the frame at an insurance auction and tow it home. In the barn, the stolen parts would be reattached to the very same car they had come from. The end result was a whole, valuable, and perfectly legal car that Roy could sell for many times more than he had paid for the stripped frame.
Thinking about stolen stuff reminded Griffin that there was still a trunk load of loot from the shopping center in the Honda. But there was no way he was going to leave Cheyenne here alone to go sell it on Eighty-second in Portland, even if she hadn’t begged him to watch over her. Griffin didn’t think TJ was anything more than talk, but there were times when Jimbo found a way of goading TJ into action. If it worked out, Jimbo would join in. If it didn’t, Jimbo stepped back and let TJ take the blame.
As he gently closed the door to his bedroom, Griffin wondered when his dad would come back and what he would say when he did. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes as he walked into the kitchen. Ever since he had brought Cheyenne inside, he had seen the house with new eyes. And what he saw was depressing, shabby, and dirty. It didn’t matter that Cheyenne would never actually see it. He slid the cigarette pack back into his shirt pocket, then emptied the sink, filled it with hot, soapy water, and went to work.
Two hours later, the dishes were drying in the rack and the kitchen floor had been mopped until it shone. Griffin had a sudden appreciation for what it must have been like for his mom. No wonder she had left. Two hours of work, and he knew it could all be undone in a few minutes. Still, he had a feeling of satisfaction. The mail, old newspapers, and random auto parts that had covered the dining room table had been either sorted into neat piles on the sideboard, taken out to the burn barrel, or put away in the barn. Whenever Griffin went outside, TJ and Jimbo didn’t seem to be working much, just leaning on half-dismantled cars, their breath clouding the air, talking and gesturing toward the house. They shut up whenever he got near enough to hear what they were saying.
Before he turned his attention to the living room, he softly opened the door to check on Cheyenne, as he already had a half-dozen times. This time she was awake and sitting up.
“It’s ten to five,” she said. He wondered how she knew that, then saw her click the face of her watch closed. “Please – can we watch the local news? I want to see if it says anything about me.” She looked better, but her voice was still hoarse.
“See?” he echoed. “Is it okay to say that around you?”
Something like a smile twisted her mouth. “People get too hung up on that. It’s not like if they don’t use it I’m going to forget that I’m blind. My dad even tries not to say he’s going to see me later. I keep telling him that see is just a word. Everyone uses it. I use it all the time.” She paused, and then said in a rush, “I remember what it was like to see. Sometimes I still think I can. When I first wake up in the morning, part of me thinks that when I open my eyes I’ll see my room, you know, or what’s outside my window. And I still imagine what everything looks like.”
Cheyenne’s face, although still pale, was animated. Griffin kind of liked that he could watch her for as long as he wanted and that she wouldn’t mind. But whenever her gaze – or what seemed to be her gaze – touched his, he noticed that he still looked away, just as if she could see.
Suddenly bold, he as
ked, “What do I look like, then?”
“You?”
He flushed and was glad she couldn’t see him. “Never mind.”
She continued as if he hadn’t said anything. “Let’s see. You’re about five foot eleven, one hundred seventy pounds. Strong. I think your hair must be dark. You just sound like you have dark hair. And for some reason I think you must have a big nose. I mean, it’s not a little nubbin, it’s not a girly nose.”
He stared in surprise. She was right – right about everything she had said, anyway. The height and weight shouldn’t have been too hard to get, not after he had wrestled with her twice today. Maybe she had even bumped into his nose. He remembered her scratching his face. It was weird, but as she described him, Griffin had expected her to mention the ugly red ribbon of scar that wrapped around his neck.
“What about me?” Cheyenne asked. “What do I look like?”
He was taken aback. “Um, don’t you know?”
She shrugged. “I haven’t seen myself in a mirror for three years. I don’t have any idea what I look like anymore. The last time I saw myself I was thirteen.”
Was she flirting with him? Cheyenne’s face was open and innocent. Of course, she had worn the same expression when she claimed she had to go to the bathroom. He looked at her dark curls, her olive skin, her heart-shaped face.
“You’re pretty,” he said in a voice that didn’t invite any questions. “You’re pretty, okay?” He realized he was clenching his fists.
For a second, Cheyenne looked surprised, and then she wiped all expression from her face. “The news should be starting on TV now,” she said. “Please, can we watch it?”
Griffin wondered if this was a trick on her part. Maybe she just wanted to be in another part of the house so that she could find a phone. He let the silence stretch out long enough that she would appreciate how much she was asking of him. “Okay,” he finally said, “but I’m going to have to tie you to the couch. And if my dad comes in and starts yelling, you have to promise to be quiet and follow my lead, okay?”
“Promise,” she said, and made a gesture like she was crossing her heart.
He untied her ankle and then held on to the cord as he took her elbow and walked her into the living room. Once Cheyenne stumbled when she tried to take a step longer than the cord would allow. “Sorry,” he said, grabbing her elbow just in time to prevent her from falling over the coffee table. It was actually a giant wooden spool that had once held wire cable. He maneuvered her so that the couch was just behind her knees. “You can sit down.”
Griffin tied her ankle to one of the clawed feet of the old couch, glad she couldn’t see the stains on the cushions. As a safety measure, he reached over and unplugged the phone from the wall. Then he sat on the couch, picked up the clicker, and punched in the number for one of the local stations.
After a commercial for some kind of incontinence pad – Griffin most definitely didn’t want to get old – the female announcer appeared on the screen, looking somber. Above her left shoulder a little box showed a photograph of yellow crime-scene tape. “In tonight’s top story, the parents of a girl taken today from the Woodlands Experience shopping center have made a heartrending appeal for her safe return. Channel Eight’s Tami Engel spoke late this afternoon with Nick and Danielle Wilder, the parents of sixteen-year-old Cheyenne Wilder.”
The TV cut away to a man with a tan face and dark hair that was silver at the temples. Beside him was a blond woman with what Griffin thought of as an expensive haircut, spiky at the edges, with lighter and darker streaks mixed in. They were seated on a dark brown leather couch. Behind them was a rustic stone fireplace, and next to the fireplace towered a huge Christmas tree, decorated all in silver. Griffin figured it was the Wilders’ house, but he wondered if it was such a good idea for them to be filmed there. The whole place screamed “money.” And if Roy saw this – when Roy saw this – he would probably double Cheyenne’s asking price.
When Mr. Wilder started speaking, Griffin felt Cheyenne jump.
“I will do anything that’s necessary to get my precious daughter back,” Mr. Wilder said. “People can call me twenty-four hours a day if they know something.” The camera zoomed in on his face, wet with tears. The tears and the tan didn’t go together. “We need to bring my little girl back home right away. Just imagine how terrifying it is for her. My daughter is blind!”
The blond woman laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Cheyenne is a strong person. I’m sure she’ll get through this.” Then she sighed heavily. “I feel so guilty. I insisted she not take her guide dog with her. I just thought it would be easier. Now I keep thinking, ‘If only she had had Phantom with her, this would never have happened.’” She covered her face. From behind her hands came a strangled noise.
“Is she crying?” Cheyenne asked.
“Yeah. So’s your dad.”
For the second time in a single day, Griffin thought of his own mom, something he seldom allowed himself to do. How would she have reacted? Would she have cried? Or would she have looked out for herself, the way she had seven years earlier?
Cheyenne said in a voice that seemed more for her own ears, “I’ve never seen Danielle cry before.”
The camera switched back to Mr. Wilder. “Cheyenne is very sick,” he said to the reporter, who nodded sympathetically. “She was diagnosed with pneumonia right before she was kidnapped, and she needs to be on antibiotics. I’m begging these people to let her go immediately. How can they take a girl like that, a helpless child? She must be so frightened.” He turned and spoke directly to the camera. “As a father, I beg you, I beg you, look at Cheyenne’s face. Please, please don’t hurt her, let her go.” His voice turned hard. “And know this – if you harm one hair on my daughter’s head, I’ll come after you myself.”
The reporter, Tami, leaned forward. “Do you think this is related to your being president of Nike?”
Cheyenne’s father nodded. The tears were gone from his face now. “It’s likely. It’s no secret that my daughter means everything to me. They could have been watching, waiting for a time when she was vulnerable. As my wife said, she didn’t have her guide dog with her this morning.”
Then he addressed Cheyenne directly. “Cheyenne, I know we are physically separated, but my heart” – his words stumbled and broke – “my heart has never separated from you, not for a moment, not for a second. Please be strong. We will get you home soon.”
Griffin looked at Cheyenne. She was trembling so hard it was as if she were about to fly apart. Tears were now running down her cheeks, but when she spoke, her tone was angry and agitated. “I thought your dad was going to ask for a ransom. How come they’re not saying that they’ve heard from the kidnappers and are considering their demands? They’re talking like they don’t know anything!”
“I don’t know.” Griffin raised his voice to match hers. “I have no idea. I’ve been with you, remember? Maybe my dad wasn’t able to get through to them.”
The announcer was saying, “Police have released few details about the case, but have suggested Cheyenne Wilder may have been kidnapped for ransom. There is no evidence this was the random act of a sexual predator. Right before we went on air, officials told us they have received over a hundred tips so far, and each one is being pursued. The Wilders’ phone is constantly ringing, and they are receiving hundreds of e-mails. The police are concentrating on leads from the public. So if you were at Woodlands today around ten A.M. and may have seen a green Escalade, license plate 396 CVS, please call a special hotline that has been set up, 1-888-555-1212. Here’s a picture of Cheyenne with her dog, Phantom.” The TV cut away to a photo of Cheyenne, grinning. Even the dog, a golden lab, seemed to be grinning. Before he had dropped out of school, Griffin had learned there was a word for that, a word for thinking that animals had the same emotions as humans.
Griffin couldn’t remember the word anymore.
And Griffin knew that he would never see Cheyenne grin like she was in the
photo. As he stared at her wide smile, the announcer concluded with, “The race is on to find Cheyenne Wilder and to rescue her alive.”
MIGHT AS WELL BE DEAD
Cheyenne snapped her head around to face the front door.
“What’s the matter?” Griffin asked.
“Someone’s here.” The car she had begun hearing a few seconds earlier pulled up outside the house, fast enough that gravel scattered in its wake. Maybe it was someone coming to rescue her. She remembered the gun that Griffin had. Would he take her hostage? Cheyenne scooted to the far end of the couch, trying to get out of reach.
“Crap – is it my dad?” He clicked off the TV.
She heard a car door open and close. Then people talking. Just as quickly as they had bubbled up, her hopes burst. Although she couldn’t make out the words, Cheyenne recognized the voices – it was Griffin’s dad and the two men who worked for him. Quickly, she rubbed her scarf over her face. She didn’t want anyone to see her tears. But it was a minute before they came in. She thought she heard another car door close. Finally, steps on the wooden porch. The door crashed open, and a cold wind blew over them.
“Fraternizing with the enemy?” Roy said. He sounded, Cheyenne thought, drunk. The other two men laughed.
Cheyenne was as tight as a guitar string.
“Hey.” Griffin was trying too hard to sound casual. “Um, how’d it go?”
Instead of answering Griffin, Roy said, “This is your cane, right?” She heard him give it a shake. He must have retrieved it from the Escalade.
There was the sound of metal grating on metal, a groan as some kind of door opened. Heat washed through the room. Cheyenne heard fluttering flames, smelled wood smoke.
Roy said, “We don’t need to leave anything around that might come in handy for you.” And then she heard him throw the cane inside the stove. The door clanged closed.
For so long, Cheyenne had hated her cane. Canes were for old people. Disabled people. Not teenagers. Not for people like her. But now as the smell of the smoke changed, she felt lost. Her cane was made of fiberglass, so it might not burn, but the elastic cord that held the sections together certainly would, turning it into a useless bundle of rods.
