Into the Dark

by Peter Abrahams

  Carlos made them both, of course. His team ended up drubbing all the others. That meant each player won a prize; the prizes were always baseball cards from Mr. Porterhouse’s collection. Ingrid got Rich “El Guapo” Garces.

  On the way out of the gym she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned: Joey, face still red. In a low voice, almost a whisper, he said, “Soon I can talk to you again. Like normal.”

  “Why?” said Ingrid.

  “Um,” said Joey. “Uh.” His mouth opened and closed, opened again. But before he could say anything more, Carlos came loping by.

  “Way to go, Ingrid,” he said. “Who’d you get?”

  Ingrid showed him her card. Carlos laughed.

  “What’s funny?” said Ingrid.

  “El Guapo means ‘the handsome one,’” said Carlos.

  Ingrid checked the card again and laughed too. Carlos zoomed away. Ingrid looked around for Joey, but he was gone, so she couldn’t ask him why they could soon be talking normally. Even if Grampy won the trial, it wouldn’t be soon, might be months away. So what was up?

  After school Ingrid had rehearsal. Meredith O’Malley’s mother, a seamstress, handled costumes. The cast tried them on.

  “I’m not wearing these itty-bitty shorts,” Brucie said.

  “They’re genuine lederhosen,” said Mrs. O’Malley. “I copied them from a real German catalogue.”

  “Achtung,” said Brucie.

  “What does that mean?” said Mrs. O’Malley.

  “No way,” said Brucie.

  But Ingrid’s dress was kind of cute.

  Dad drove her home. He gave her a big smile.

  “How was rehearsal?”

  “Good.”

  “Play coming along okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “Can’t wait to see it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Of course,” Dad said. “Not a big fan of theater, I’ll admit, but I’m a big fan of yours.”

  Hey. That was nice. Ingrid gave Dad a smile back. He looked more relaxed than he’d been recently, wore a beautiful light-blue shirt; still the handsomest dad in Echo Falls.

  “Any news, Dad?” she said as they turned in to Maple Lane.

  “News?”

  “About the case.”

  He glanced at her. “Too soon to talk about it.”

  “Too soon to talk about what?” Ingrid said. “Tell me. I can keep a secret.”

  “Can you?”

  “I promise.”

  “Not a word till I give the okay?”

  “Not a word.”

  Dad took a deep breath. Good news was coming; Ingrid could feel it: That was why Dad was so much more like himself. “It looks like Grampy’s going to take the deal,” he said.

  For a moment her brain refused to understand. “He’s going to plead guilty to murder?”

  “To manslaughter, as I told you already.”

  “And go to jail?”

  “Not for too long.”

  “How long?”

  “That’s still being worked out. But it won’t be more than six or seven years, assuming good behavior.”

  Six or seven years? “But that’s a death sentence, Dad.”

  “Control yourself, Ingrid. It’s Grampy’s choice.”

  “But why? He didn’t do it.”

  “For one thing,” Dad said, “Mrs. Thatcher has agreed not to sue if Grampy cops a plea.”

  “Mrs. Thatcher?” Ingrid didn’t get it at all.

  “She’s got health problems,” Dad said. “Doesn’t want to face a trial.”

  “But what if the jury said Grampy was innocent?”

  “She could still sue for wrongful death,” Dad said. “And according to Tulkinghorn, there’s a very good chance she’d win. We—Grampy—would lose the farm.”

  “Oh, God,” Ingrid said. It was so complicated, so hard. And Joey saying soon they could talk normally again? He knew the deal was in the works. Yes, hard and complicated.

  A big black car was parked outside 99 Maple Lane.

  Dad’s headlights shone on the license plate: New York.

  “Wonder who that is,” Dad said, pulling into the driveway. They got out of the TT.

  The big black car looked vaguely familiar. Ingrid saw someone sitting in the front. Hey. Mia. At that moment, on their way to the house, Dad a few steps ahead of Ingrid, the front door opened and a man came out. Ingrid recognized him: Mia’s dad, Mr. McGreevy. He walked quickly by, not looking at them, got into the black car and drove away, tires squealing.

  “Who the hell was that?” Dad said.

  Then Mom appeared in the doorway, face lit by the outside light. She looked awful. “Mark,” she said, in a voice that didn’t sound like her at all, harsh and ragged, “is it true you’re having an affair with Lisa McGreevy?”

  fifteen

  “I JUST HATE HIM,” Ty said.

  Ingrid felt her face twisting up as though she were about to cry, but no tears came. She was all cried out. They were in Ty’s room, maybe less than two hours after Mia’s father’s one and only visit to 99 Maple Lane, a visit that had changed everything. Even Ty’s wall: There was a fist-size hole in the plaster now, and Ty’s knuckles were bloody. Just in case Ingrid tried thinking that this was some nightmare she could awake from, that hole in the wall—so undeniable—was there to stop her.

  Two hours that had begun in raging noise—Mom screaming, Dad screaming back, Mom saying words to Dad that Ingrid had never heard from her mouth, Dad banging out the door, suitcase in hand; and Grampy in the background, his skin colorless, his eyes, normally sky blue, suddenly dark, like the sky at night. Now the house was quiet: Mom in her room, door closed; Dad gone to the farm; Grampy around somewhere.

  Any chance it wasn’t true, that Mr. McGreevy was just making trouble? Oh, he was making trouble, no doubt about that, but it had to be true. Dad hadn’t denied it, for one thing. Mia had probably found out somehow—which was why she’d been acting so strange lately, why she was going to New York. Had Mr. McGreevy learned the secret from her? Or maybe, seeing her mood, wormed it out of her? At that moment Ingrid realized she herself had come close to finding out much earlier, down in that parking lot by the falls. Pretty obvious now who’d been sitting on the bench with Mrs. McGreevy—and now Ingrid also remembered those quick phone calls in the TT, and Dad’s late trips back to the office, late trips that coincided twice with Ingrid’s sightings of Mrs. McGreevy driving down the street in her green hatchback, face intense under the streetlamp. And one more thing: Dad’s guilty face when Chief Strade asked him to account for his whereabouts at the time of the murder. Dad had an alibi, way too embarrassing to use. Had he ended up using it after all? Did the chief know?

  “Mom’s way prettier than that bitch,” Ty said.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Ingrid said.

  “I didn’t even know he knew her.”

  “Me neither.” But at that moment Ingrid remembered that when Mia and her mother were still new to Echo Falls, a tree had fallen on their lawn and Dad had gone over with the chain saw. Could it have started way back then? She got a terrible inkling of the kinds of thoughts that must be whirling around in Mom’s head.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Yeah?” said Ty.

  The door opened. Ingrid had expected Mom, but it was Grampy. His skin was still pale, but his eyes were back to normal.

  “You kids eaten?” he said.

  They shook their heads.

  “Gotta eat,” he said.

  “We’re not hungry,” Ty said.

  “Makes no difference.” Grampy reached into his pocket, handed them each a Slim Jim. They took the Slim Jims, peeled the tops off the wrappers. Grampy glanced at the hole in the wall, sat on the end of Ty’s bed beside Ingrid. Ty was sitting up at the head of the bed, back against the pillows. The room wasn’t big, and they were all close together, but for some reason it didn’t feel crowded.

  “Grampy?” Ingrid said. “What’s go
ing to happen?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Divorce?” Ty said.

  “Maybe,” said Grampy. “Eat.”

  They each took a bite. It wasn’t one of those times you realized you were hungry after all, at least not for Ingrid. She had to chew and chew to get that bite down.

  “Gotta eat,” Grampy said. “I’ve seen men die.”

  “Huh?” said Ty.

  “But never mind that,” Grampy said. “The point I’m making is you’re both good kids. Strong kids. And much closer to being adults than babies, if you see what I mean.”

  Ingrid wasn’t sure. Ty said, “If you’re not gonna eat that…” He’d polished off his Slim Jim already. She handed him hers.

  Grampy gave him a sharp look. “Counting on you, son,” he said.

  “To do what?”

  “Be a man,” Grampy said. After a pause, he added, “Or at least act your age.”

  Another pause, and then a funny thing happened: They all started laughing. Not loud, not long, but real laughing. At a time like this, with the family falling apart and Grampy on the way to pleading guilty to a crime he didn’t commit, how could they be laughing? Ingrid didn’t understand. But they were.

  Grampy rose, his knees creaking, and patted Ingrid on the head.

  “How could this happen, Grampy?”

  Grampy replied, his eyes on Ty. “A man’s got to do his thinking with his brain,” he said.

  Ingrid didn’t get that either. The brain was what did the thinking: basic anatomy, no?

  Next morning was the first school day in a long time that Ingrid got up before Mom had to wake her. She showered—signs in the bathroom that Ty had been there first—dressed, and went downstairs.

  Mom, Ty, and Grampy were in the kitchen. Mom wore her nicest business suit, the gray flannel skirt and jacket. Her face was puffy, and she was wearing more makeup than usual, and where she’d missed with the makeup, her skin was like ashes, but she looked okay.

  “Morning, Ingrid,” she said.

  “Hi, Mom. Hi, everybody.”

  Ty made some noise, his mouth full of French toast. French toast? Wasn’t that a weekend thing? Grampy, drinking coffee beside Ty, said, “Hi, kid.”

  They had a quick breakfast, all of them at the table, also unusual on a weekday. Dad’s chair was empty, of course. And Mom didn’t eat a thing.

  “All set, Ty?” she said, meaning she was planning to drop him off at school and go to work, like normal. He got right up, maple syrup on his chin. Everyone was going to make normal things happen in the normal order. But at that moment the phone rang.

  They all gazed at it. Grampy was the first to make a move, but Mom said, “I’ll get it.”

  She answered the phone, listened for a moment, then covered the receiver with her hand. “Mr. Tulkinghorn,” she said.

  For a second or two Grampy seemed to shrink, actually grow smaller. Then he balled his hands into fists and straightened his spine, a great physical effort Ingrid could see on his face. “I’ll take it in the other room, please, Carol,” he said.

  After he left, Ingrid said, “Is that about the plea deal?”

  “I don’t know,” Mom said. “Here’s some lunch money.” She kissed Ingrid’s forehead—not having to bend down much anymore—very quick, hardly touching. Ingrid caught a glimpse of Mom’s eyes from close up; not good. “See you after school,” Mom said.

  Ingrid walked out of the kitchen but didn’t head upstairs for her backpack. Instead she cut right, into the dining room. Grampy was on the phone, his back to her.

  “Deadline?” he said.

  Ingrid moved around the table, stood in front of him. He was listening so hard, she wasn’t sure he saw her. Ingrid shook her head. Grampy noticed, covered the mouthpiece.

  “What?” he said.

  Ingrid just blurted it out. “Don’t take the plea deal.”

  Grampy gazed down at her. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice soft.

  “Yes, I do,” said Ingrid. “You’re saving the farm, but it’s not worth it.”

  Grampy’s mood changed completely, and in an instant. He gave her that slit-eyed look—the one she’d hoped never to see again—and waved her away with the back of his hand.

  Ingrid went to her room, found she was shaking. She started stuffing things into her backpack, hardly aware of what she was doing. Where was that stupid history packet, all about the War of 1812 or some other long-ago event that seemed meaningless right now? She opened the top desk drawer, rooted around. No sign of the packet, but here was the envelope with Grampy’s parking garage stub. She took it out, gazed at it again. Then, as if to prove that nonbrain parts of the body could indeed sometimes take over the thinking department, her other hand reached in for her passbook from Central State Savings and Loan; reached in and took it out of the drawer. Her hands were telling her, Get busy, Griddie. Fix what can be fixed. At least try.

  Ingrid opened the passbook. She had a balance of $316.72, mostly saved from babysitting and birthday money. The passbook and the parking stub went into the Velcro pocket in her backpack, almost by themselves, Ingrid more or less a spectator.

  She took the bus to school. Getting off, she saw Mr. Samuels coming the other way, camera in hand.

  “Hi, Mr. Samuels.”

  “Oh,” he said, stopping short. “Ingrid.” He looked a little embarrassed. Oh, no. Was it possible he’d heard this latest news already? Did that kind of personal stuff get printed in the paper? “I thought a picture of Mr. Sidney standing in front of the school bus would be nice.”

  “For the series?”

  “That’s right—he’s next.” Mr. Samuels moved toward the bus.

  “What number is my grandfather going to be?”

  Mr. Samuels turned. “Number?”

  “In the series,” Ingrid said. “When are you going to interview him?”

  Again that embarrassed look, this time beyond doubt: so strange on Mr. Samuels’s honest face, changing it from homely to ugly. “That’s on hold now, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Samuels.

  “But he was a war hero. You said so yourself.”

  Mr. Samuels licked his lips; thin, colorless lips and a dry, colorless tongue. “Maybe after things get sorted out,” he said.

  Ingrid’s voice rose, all by itself. “He didn’t do it.”

  Mr. Samuels’s eyes shifted to her, then away. “I’m sorry, Ingrid.” He turned and knocked on the bus door.

  Ingrid joined the line shuffling into Ferrand Middle. For some reason she was shuffling much slower than anyone else and soon found herself at the end of the line, and then even farther back, with space between her and the next kid. She came to a stop. Now her feet were doing the thinking. They turned her around, led her out of the parking lot, down the hill, and onto the street.

  Ferrand Middle School stood on Park Road. Ingrid, who’d been trying to learn Echo Falls the way Holmes knew London, was sure that Park met High Street and that High met Spring and that Central State Savings and Loan was on Spring. She just wasn’t clear on the very next step, right or left. She checked her compass ring.

  Compass ring? So you always know the directions: Dad’s words. Ingrid took off the compass ring and ground it under her heel. Then she turned left for no reason at all and started walking fast. Not long after, she came to Park. Yes. And not long after that—the wind behind her all the way—she was stepping up to the teller’s counter at Central State Savings and Loan, withdrawal slip in hand.

  She laid it on the counter.

  “Why, Ingrid,” said the teller, looking down. Oh, God, of course: Sylvia Breen, witch in Hansel and Gretel but in real life assistant head teller at Central State Savings and Loan. “No school today?”

  “Um, well, the thing is,” Ingrid began. “Research project!” She repeated it at normal volume. “Research project.”

  “That sounds exciting,” said Mrs. Breen. She lowered her voice. “Can I tell you something in confidence?”

  Ingrid
nodded, getting ready for trouble.

  “I’m having problems with my motivation.”

  Was it boring being a teller? Lots of people probably had boring jobs, and school wasn’t so great either, but—

  “I mean, for the life of me,” said Mrs. Breen. “Why is she so set on pushing those two poor kids into the oven? She has plenty to eat—her whole house is made of candy.”

  “She is a witch, after all,” Ingrid said.

  “You think that’s it?”

  Ingrid nodded.

  “Makes sense, I guess,” said Mrs. Breen. “How would you like this?”

  “This what?” said Ingrid.

  Mrs. Breen tapped the withdrawal slip. “Your hundred dollars.”

  A lot of money, but New York was expensive; everyone knew that. “Twenties?” she said. But what if she needed something smaller? “Maybe a ten. And some fives.” Would there be tipping? “And a few ones.”

  Mrs. Breen counted three twenties, a ten, five fives and five ones, snapping out the bills in an expert way. “Good luck on the project,” she said.

  Next: the train station. A potential problem, the train station being in the Flats, a run-down part of town pretty far from Central Savings and Loan. But Ingrid caught a break, the kind of break that said Keep doing what you’re doing. There, parked on the other side of Spring Street, was a taxi. And the driver, chewing on a toothpick and reading a book: Murad, who’d driven her once before, and also ended up being one of the heroes of the Cracked-Up Katie case.

  She crossed the street, tapped on his window. It slid down. “Ingrid, is it not?”

  “Hi,” said Ingrid. “The station, please.”

  “No schooling today?”

  Ingrid tried that project thing again.

  “Ah,” said Murad. “American education—the standard of gold.”

  Ingrid got in the cab and off they went.

  “I myself am experiencing American education at first hand,” Murad said over his shoulder.

  “You are?”

  “Oh my yes. At the University of Hartford Extension.”

  Murad held up his book: Principles of Accounting. “Numbers, numbers, numbers—the fun I am having!”