Into the Dark

by Peter Abrahams

  Grampy rose, a sudden movement that startled her. Tea slopped out of his mug and onto his hand, hot tea but he didn’t seem to notice. “Because it’s nobody’s business,” he said. “Period.”

  A fresh thought came to her, maybe one she should have had already, and she pressed on, defying that scary look in his eyes. “Are you protecting somebody, Grampy?”

  “Don’t give up, do you?” he said. “Get this straight—there’s nobody I’d do that for.” He paused, and when he continued, his voice was gentler. “Well, maybe one.”

  “Who?” said Ingrid, right away remembering Dad’s guilty face when the chief asked where he was at the time of the murder.

  “Irrelevant,” said Grampy. “She didn’t do it.”

  twelve

  WERE PEOPLE AT school looking at her funny?

  Ingrid couldn’t tell. Ms. Groome was looking at her funny for sure, but nothing new there.

  “And now, class,” said Ms. Groome, “we’ve got just enough time for a quick pop quiz. Pass these around.”

  Ms. Groome had a thing for pop quizzes. This one—with the heading Algebra Two Pop Quiz #46—had seven questions, which should have been a good omen, but Ingrid knew better. She scanned the first one: Two rafts are floating down the Mississippi River. The first raft travels at a speed of…

  Floating down the Mississippi River. That sounded pretty good right now. Ingrid had never seen the Mississippi River. Never even seen it, and yet she’d spent whole years of her life inside this school building, Ferrand Middle, where the air got so stuffy and overheated on winter afternoons like this. Nothing to be done about it—that was the way things were. But why? Did it have anything to do with those huge economic forces Dad sometimes talked about? Like surfers on a wave—we can change our own direction a little bit but we can’t change the wave.

  In the margin of Pop Quiz #46 Ingrid started sketching a surfer on a wave. Where to begin? How about the surfer’s legs? Surfing must be all about balance, so maybe an angling calf line like so, and then another one, narrowing down to—

  “Class. Pencils down. Pass your papers forward.”

  Yikes. Ingrid whipped through the answer boxes, filling in numbers willy-nilly.

  “I see that ‘pencils down’ doesn’t apply to you, Bruce. Mind telling the class what makes you so special?”

  Everyone waited in anticipation. This was going to be good. Thank God for Brucie. Ingrid erased the beginnings of the surfer on her wave and passed in her quiz.

  After school Ingrid handed in her bus permission slip, signed by Mom, allowing her to take bus 5, which went right past Moo Cow, instead of Mr. Sidney’s, bus 2.

  “No problem,” Mom had said. “Who’s going?”

  “Just me,” Ingrid said.

  Mom gave her a long look. “Feel like a little treat?”

  “Yeah.” When wasn’t that true?

  “Okay,” Mom said. “I’ll pick you up.”

  When Ingrid got on the bus, she found herself sitting across from the Dratch twins. Their big heads turned to her as one.

  “Hey,” said Dwayne.

  “You’re on the wrong bus,” said Dustin.

  “Yeah,” said Dwayne. “The wrong bus.”

  Ingrid held up the bus pass, gave them her best expressionless look. The Dratch twins squinted at the bus pass as though trying to crack some code. Then they went back to doing what they’d been doing, which meant sitting slack faced in their usual catatonic way. The bus was on Main Street, only a couple blocks before Moo Cow, when Dwayne suddenly came to life.

  “Hey,” he said, turning to Ingrid again. “Hill.”

  “Hill?” said Dustin.

  “Yeah,” said Dwayne. “It’s her grandpop.”

  “The—” Dustin said.

  Dwayne made his hand into a gun and fired at Ingrid. “Grandpop,” he said. “Get it? Pop pop pop.”

  Dwayne Dratch was huge, like a full-grown man. Ingrid had weighed ninety-seven pounds at her annual checkup last month. She didn’t think about any of that, didn’t think at all, just smacked Dwayne’s hand away.

  Dwayne gazed at his hand in disbelief. Dustin gazed at Dwayne’s hand in disbelief. Dwayne and Dustin gazed at each other. Their faces got bright red. Both red faces started turning toward Ingrid, again as one.

  “Moo Cow,” said the driver, stopping the bus. Ingrid made her way to the front, trying not to hurry. She felt eyes on her, looking at her funny, no question about it. “Pop pop,” said someone, not a Dratch, as Ingrid got off the bus.

  Moo Cow, a restored old country store, had a bell that went tinkle-tinkle when you opened the door. Then came the smell of chocolate rising from the cauldron behind the deeply polished wooden counter on the candy side of the store, heavenly. No customers, no one around but the skinny guy with the long gray ponytail, the only worker Ingrid had ever seen in Moo Cow. He was over on the ice cream side, weighing a mound of jujubes—they looked like jewels—on a brass scale.

  “Hi,” he said. “Peanut almond mocha swirl?”

  “Thanks,” Ingrid said. The ponytail guy was great at remembering what the kids liked.

  “Small, medium, or large?”

  Ingrid shrugged off her backpack, opened the Velcro pocket: two ones, three quarters, six nickels, and a penny.

  “Small.”

  “Cup or cone?”

  “Cup.”

  “Toppings?”

  “Jimmies.”

  “Two ninety-five.”

  Leaving her with eleven cents: She knew Moo Cow.

  But for some reason, she’d never paid much attention to the ponytail guy. The ponytail guy got busy with his scoop. He was skinny, but his hands were thick and strong, with big green veins—kind of like Grampy’s: the hands of a man who’d done a lot of hard work. He sprinkled on the jimmies and slid the cup of peanut almond mocha swirl across the counter.

  “Thanks,” said Ingrid, and after a pause took a chance and added, “Mr. Borum.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You have the advantage of me,” he said. Ingrid had no clue what that meant. Maybe he read that on her face. “Meaning,” he said, “I don’t believe I know your name.”

  “Ingrid,” said Ingrid. “We talked on the phone once.”

  “We did?”

  “When I answered at my grandfather’s place last fall.”

  “And your grandfather would be…?”

  “Aylmer Hill.”

  “Ah.” He opened the cash register, put the $2.95 inside. “And…and how is he?”

  “Okay,” Ingrid said. “He’s with us right now.”

  “Out on…?”

  “Yes,” said Ingrid. “He says you had the second-last farm in Echo Falls.”

  “True,” said Mr. Borum. He gazed at Ingrid for a moment. “I’d like your opinion on something.”

  “What’s that?”

  Mr. Borum opened a freezer door behind him, took out a plastic mixing bowl. “I’ve been fooling around with a new flavor,” he said, dipping a spoon into the bowl and handing it to her. “What do you think?”

  A strange-looking ice cream: red, orange, and yellow, like lava from a volcano. Ingrid lowered the spoon without tasting. “You called about hearing a boom,” she said.

  “And you told me there was no boom.”

  Ingrid nodded.

  “But that must have been dynamite I heard,” Mr. Borum said.

  “Yes.”

  “Mind telling me what was going on?”

  “You first,” Ingrid said. Had she really said that? It shocked her—so rude, and Mr. Borum seemed so nice. But Grampy was in big trouble, accused of a murder he hadn’t done; that meant getting behind how things seemed to how they actually were.

  Mr. Borum looked taken aback. “Me first what?”

  Too late to stop now. “Someone made an anonymous call to Mr. Thatcher,” Ingrid said.

  “So I read in The Echo,” said Mr. Borum. “For what that’s worth.” He blinked. “Oh my God—Aylmer thinks it was me?”<
br />
  Ingrid didn’t actually know what Grampy thought about that, or if he’d even thought about it at all, so she didn’t answer.

  “I’ve always liked Aylmer,” said Mr. Borum. “We both did.” He paused for a moment, tilted his head slightly, as though trying to see Ingrid from a different angle, and said, “My partner and I. When he died, I sold off the herd and most of the land—too much work for one man. You know what your grandfather did before that happened?”

  “No.”

  “Offered to take over the morning milking, no charge.”

  “He did?”

  “Aylmer didn’t want me to lose”—Mr. Borum’s eyes got a little liquid—“everything. So I would never—ever—do anything to harm him. Please make sure he knows that.”

  “Okay,” Ingrid said. She took a breath and plunged on. “Who bought your land?”

  Something about the question made Mr. Borum smile. He had nice teeth, white and even. “You even look a little like him,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Aylmer.”

  “My grandfather bought your land?”

  “No, no,” said Mr. Borum. “Some company, can’t even remember the name. But it was controlled by the Ferrands.”

  Suspicion confirmed. “What are they going to do with it?” Ingrid said.

  “Whatever they can get away with,” said Mr. Borum. “But that sample’s getting soft, and I’m still waiting for your expert opinion.”

  Ingrid tasted the new flavor. “Wow,” she said.

  “Yeah?” said Mr. Borum, looking pleased. “Think it’ll sell?”

  “Lots,” said Ingrid. She licked the spoon.

  “Needs a name,” Mr. Borum said.

  “How about Lava?” Ingrid said.

  Mr. Borum shook his head. “Not enough pizzazz.” He thought for a moment and said, “I’ve got it—Ingrid’s Special!”

  “Really?”

  He turned and wrote at the bottom of the chalkboard: !!NEW!! INGRID’S SPECIAL!!!

  Mr. Borum went over to the candy side, stirred the chocolate. Ingrid ate her peanut almond mocha swirl, no longer her favorite; it didn’t compare to Ingrid’s Special.

  “So,” said Mr. Borum, dipping his finger into the cauldron for a little taste—was this a dream job or what?—“tell me about the dynamiting.”

  Ingrid told the story: sinkhole, four sticks, endangered toad eggs. Mr. Borum was silent for a moment, then laughed and laughed.

  “That Aylmer,” he said. “He’s got a genius for making trouble.”

  Ingrid stopped eating her ice cream. “But he’s in trouble now,” she said.

  Mr. Borum nodded.

  “Grampy could never do what they’re saying,” Ingrid said.

  Mr. Borum spoke gently. “He does have a temper, Ingrid. And he’s not fond of government interference. Or any interference at all, for that matter.”

  “Mr. Thatcher was shot from behind,” Ingrid said. “And from a long distance.”

  “I see what you’re saying,” said Mr. Borum. “But if he didn’t do it, why isn’t he talking?”

  “I don’t know.” That was the most important question, of course, although she’d forgotten to put it on her list. There was so much she didn’t know, and every passing day brought Grampy’s trial closer. She thought of something Holmes had said impatiently to Dr. Watson in “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches,” one of her favorites: “Data! data! data! I can’t make bricks without clay.” She needed data. Data were facts, such as the identity of the anonymous tipster who’d ratted out Grampy about the dynamiting episode. Why not start there? “Someone made that anonymous call,” she said.

  “True,” said Mr. Borum.

  “But you can’t even see the road from that sinkhole,” Ingrid said. “Or any buildings, not even Grampy’s.” Except for that little shed.

  “So you’re saying…?”

  “Someone must have been watching.” But from where? “Maybe from the orchard. Or even behind the shed.”

  “Behind the shed?” said Mr. Borum.

  “Yes, there’s this shed at the top of—” Ingrid began, but she stopped herself. There was something on Mr. Borum’s mind.

  “I know that shed,” he said. “I’ve got one—I had one—very like it. Odd.”

  “What’s odd?”

  “Doubt it means anything at all,” said Mr. Borum, “but one night—not too long before I made up my mind to sell out—I caught a prowler snooping around down there, around my shed.”

  “What kind of prowler?” Ingrid said.

  “Hard to say. I only got a glimpse of him in my flashlight beam before he ran away. Looked like a hobo, maybe searching for a dry place to bed down for the night.”

  “Looked like a hobo?” Ingrid said.

  “With long greasy hair. Blond.”

  “Blond?”

  Mr. Borum nodded. “Kind of creepy too. In retrospect, maybe a little too well fed for an actual hobo, kind of fat faced. But why all these questions, Ingrid? Are you on to something?”

  Before Ingrid could reply, the bell went tinkle-tinkle. The door opened and a tall man wearing an eye patch entered: Major Ferrand. A woman—Ingrid saw that she’d been holding the door for him—followed Major Ferrand inside. She had a hawk nose and wild white hair, streaked with black.

  “Welcome,” said Mr. Borum, wiping his hands on his apron. “The usual?”

  Major Ferrand ignored him; the woman gave a curt nod. Neither took the slightest notice of Ingrid. They sat at a table facing each other, not speaking. Mr. Borum made two espressos, carried them over, also bringing a cup of Ingrid’s Special and two spoons.

  “We didn’t order ice cream,” said Major Ferrand.

  “Free sample of our latest concoction,” said Mr. Borum. “Ingrid’s Special.”

  Major Ferrand frowned. “Ingrid?” he said.

  Mr. Borum turned toward Ingrid and smiled. Major Ferrand and the woman followed his gaze. Did Major Ferrand recognize her? Ingrid wasn’t sure. His frown deepened, and he said, “No ice cream,” pushing the cup away with the back of his hand.

  Mr. Borum’s smile faded a little. He backed away. The hawk-nosed woman took up a spoon and dipped it in the cup. Just as she was putting the ice cream in her mouth, Major Ferrand leaned forward and whispered to her. The woman made a horrible face, as though she’d tasted rotten fish, and spat the sample of Ingrid’s Special into her napkin.

  Mr. Borum looked alarmed. He hurried to their table.

  “It does not agree with me,” said the woman.

  “I’m sorry,” said Mr. Borum.

  “Check,” said Major Ferrand.

  thirteen

  DATA! DATA! DATA!

  Ingrid awoke in the night, sat up with a jerk. She switched on the reading light. The Complete Sherlock Holmes lay in its usual place on the bedside table. She opened it to “A Case of Identity,” leafed through to a passage she’d highlighted: You did not know where to look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realize the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace.

  Yes, that was her, missing everything that was important. She went over her list: Who was the anonymous tipster? Where was Grampy? Where was the murder weapon? Add to that Bob Borum’s question: Why wouldn’t Grampy say where he was at the time of the murder? Those four questions buzzed around in her brain, bouncing off one another, refusing to add up to anything, just zooming faster and faster.

  Ingrid turned the pages to “The Five Orange Pips,” a strange story that ended up being about the Ku Klux Klan, and stopped at another highlighted passage: The ideal reasoner would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which would follow from it.

  She read it over three times, began to suspect she was a bad deducer. For example, she’d already deduced that the anonymous tipster was the murderer. Bu
t what sense did that make? Wasn’t the tipster trying to make trouble for Grampy? Then why kill off Mr. Thatcher, the guy who was going to make the actual trouble? What was the expression? Cat’s-paw? Yeah. Why kill off the cat’s-paw? Made no sense. So maybe she should erase the tipster question—one of those red herrings—from the list. Cat’s-paw and red herring, coming so close together, somehow made her feel a little nauseated, one of those weird things that could happen when anybody with any brains was fast asleep.

  Ingrid closed the book, switched off the light, shut her eyes. But they popped right back open. Why? Because Mr. Borum’s creepy prowler sounded a lot like the guy who’d snapped her picture from that car with the mudded-out license plate. And therefore? She had no clue.

  From down the hall, in the direction of the office, came the sound of coughing. Not loud, maybe muffled by a hand, but it went on for a pretty long time. After that, silence. Seas rose in Ingrid’s mind, and her sturdy little boat took shape. She was almost asleep when the coughing started up again.

  “Imagine,” said Jill Monteiro, “that you’re walking through a dark, dark forest. We’ve got a lot of good stuff left over from Macbeth”—a disastrous production from the year before Ingrid joined the Prescott Players, Meredith O’Malley’s out-damned-spot speech ending in a fit of giggles that people still talked about—“and I know Mr. Rubino will come up with scary lighting effects.”

  Ingrid and Brucie walked across the stage.

  “Brucie?” said Jill. “Is that you whistling?”

  He nodded vigorously, kept whistling.

  “And your thinking?”

  “Whistling in the dark,” said Brucie. “Ever heard that expression?”

  “I have,” said Jill. “But wasn’t that ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’?”

  “So?”

  “I’m not sure ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ fits the mood,” said Jill. “Silence, building tension—that’s what we’re about in this scene.”

  “But—”

  In a very low voice, Ingrid, stealing a line from Mr. Sidney, said, “Zip it.”