“And then what?” said Ty.
“Then?” said Mr. Sidney. “Then Aylmer Hill picked me up and carried me on his back for three days.” Ingrid felt Ty’s hand on her knee, just for a moment. “Which is why,” said Mr. Sidney, “if your grandfather’s got a pig that needs looking after, then I’ll be doing the looking after.”
It went silent in the barn. Even the pig was still, watching. Mr. Sidney took a big puff from his cigar.
“Any questions?” he said.
“Where does the Coral Sea part come in?” Ty said.
Mr. Sidney took off his Battle of the Coral Sea cap, gazed at the writing. “No connection,” he said.
“But you always wear it,” said Ingrid.
Mr. Sidney nodded. “My brother Cedric fought in that,” he said. “Petty officer second class on the Sims. Went to the bottom, May seventh, nineteen forty-two. Not that I knew at the time, me being in the camp and still plenty delirious.”
“How long were you prisoners?” said Ingrid.
“Two and a half years.”
“Two and a half years!” said Ty.
“Lucky to make it,” said Mr. Sidney. “Lots didn’t.”
“But the three of you did,” Ingrid said.
“What three?” said Mr. Sidney.
“You, Grampy, and Mr. Ferrand.”
“Ferrand? When did I say anything about Ferrand?”
“That he was the commander,” said Ingrid. “Up on the ridge.”
“And then you all surrendered,” said Ty.
“We were ord—” Mr. Sidney began.
“Ordered to surrender,” Ty added quickly. “And after that came the Death March.”
“Did I ever say Ferrand was on the Death March?”
“He wasn’t?” Ingrid said.
“Nope. All the survivors from his company—fifty-nine men—but not him.”
“How come?” Ingrid said.
“Don’t know,” said Mr. Sidney. “All I remember from the Death March is Aylmer’s bloody footprints in the dust. Delirium—lasted for months.”
“But didn’t you and Grampy talk about it?” Ingrid said.
“Maybe, but nothing stuck. Word is Ferrand spent the rest of the war in London.”
“London?” said Ingrid. “But you were all trapped in Bataan.”
“Attached to staff headquarters or some such.” Mr. Sidney rose. “Anyways, it’s ancient history.”
“Wow,” said Ingrid, back home, Ty’s room: Ty playing Madden, Ingrid sort of watching.
“Wow what? That double reverse?”
“No,” said Ingrid. “Grampy. Think Mom and Dad know all that?”
“Mom and Dad—who cares?” said Ty, eyes on the screen. From that angle he looked a lot older. At that moment the secret of Grampy’s illness was suddenly too much to bear. Ingrid opened her mouth, about to let it out, but before she could, Ty turned to her and said, “Know what I wish?” He’d never asked her a question like that before. “I wish I was older, old enough to go away to college.”
“Don’t say that,” Ingrid said.
Ty didn’t say anything. He ran another one of those double reverses. Grampy’s secret stayed with Ingrid.
Later, Ingrid went looking for past editions of The Echo. She found the one she wanted in the blue recycling basket.
Even so long after the event, the Death March is not a subject Major Ferrand will talk about.
“Time is a great healer,” he says.
How did the war change him? “We all grew up pretty fast,” he says. He adds that lifelong friendships were formed, although he has not kept up with Mr. Sidney or Mr. Hill. Major Ferrand, a one-time racer on the ocean yacht circuit, describes himself as a “retired investor,” and says he lives “very quietly now. It was all long ago.”
Ingrid remembered watching Grampy read that article, and how his eyes had turned so hard. She could see it clearly. Funnily enough, she could see him just as clearly—lit by a flare that had gone off half a century before her birth, about to hurl that grenade.
twenty-one
SNOW DAY, CONTINUED.
Mom was on a listing call—very important, as Ingrid, who’d heard a lot of real estate talk by now, knew well. It was all about getting listings: no listings, no power, inside the agency or out.
Ty was in his room, still playing video games; every once in a while Ingrid heard the crash of a helmet-to-helmet hit. She lay on her bed, turning pages in The Complete Sherlock Holmes, reading bits here and there.
Like “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle,” for example, where the carbuncle—which turns out to be a diamond, although the definition Ingrid found in an online dictionary was “a boil full of pus”—is hidden in a goose. But what interested her now came before that, where Holmes and Watson are examining a black hat with a red silk lining for clues, and Watson says he can’t see anything.
“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences.”
Inferences? What were they, again? Ingrid looked the word up for the zillionth time. Okay. An inference came when you were on the receiving end of an implication, a word she now had a good grip on, thanks to Mr. Tulkinghorn. Point being, as Mr. Sidney would say, that red and black hat implied things to Holmes that Watson remained completely obliv—
Red and black. The combination sidetracked Ingrid, her mind shifting to the memory of Mr. Thatcher lying dead in his red-and-black-checked jacket. Someone killed him, not Grampy; but the murder weapon was a World War II–era Springfield sniper rifle and Grampy had been issued one, a rifle that was never returned. How old was Mr. Thatcher? Despite a superficial resemblance to Grampy—same size, same white hair—Mr. Thatcher had been a lot younger, maybe in his fifties, way too young for World War II. How could his death have anything to do with the war? Way off track. Mr. Thatcher was the conservation agent, maybe not that popular a job, so wouldn’t the motive more likely be—
Ingrid heard a noise out back. The snowblower? Only Dad used the snowblower—strict rules about that. Was he here? She rose, went to the window. Not Dad but Grampy: Grampy in his red-and-black-checked jacket. He was clearing a path from the house to the path in the woods. How quickly he worked, just as fast as Dad, but why was he doing it in the first place?
In three or four minutes he’d reached the first trees. Then for some reason he kept going—Grampy, snowblower, and white curling plume all disappearing in the woods. The sound grew fainter and fainter, died away completely. Not long after that, Grampy returned, the snowblower now turned off. He pushed it into the garage, then reappeared with a wheelbarrow loaded with lumber and tools. Grampy followed the path, now clear, back into the woods. Ingrid went downstairs, put on her boots, hat, jacket, and mittens, and started up the path. She was barely in the woods before she heard hammering sounds.
Ingrid followed them to the tree house. Dad had built it when she and Ty were little; now it was pretty much wrecked. Until that steroid-ring business last fall, she hadn’t been up there in years.
“Grampy?”
The hammering stopped. Grampy poked his head out the window, a pencil clamped between his teeth.
“What are you doing?” Ingrid said.
“Shoring up,” said Grampy. “It’s a disgrace.”
“But we don’t play here anymore.”
“Who said anything about play?” He ducked back inside, and the hammering started up again.
Ingrid climbed the footholds Dad had nailed into the tree. The entrance was a round hole in the floor, twenty feet up. Ingrid pulled herself through. Inside was a small square room with a sign on one of the rotting boards: THE TREEHOUS. OWNR TY. ASISTENT INGRID. Grampy had already ripped out half a dozen of the old boards, was hammering new ones into place. He looked very energetic, not sick at all.
“Surprised you kids can’t spell any better than that,” he said.
“But that was years ago, Grampy.”
&nbs
p; He grunted, reached into his chest pocket for a nail.
“Grampy?”
“That’s me.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Needs doing.”
Ingrid took a chance. “Is it because of Dad?”
“What’s he got to do with anything?” Grampy hammered furiously for a minute or two. “By the time he comes to his senses, the train’ll be long gone.”
“What train?” Ingrid said.
He didn’t answer, maybe hadn’t heard her over the hammering. After a while he stood back. “How’s that look?”
“Much better.”
“A fort’s got to be defendable,” Grampy said, “or else what’s the point?”
“Defendable against what?” said Ingrid.
Grampy gazed out through the round window, a cold look in his eyes. Ingrid got a bad feeling. Taking the plea deal didn’t mean he would let them put him in jail.
“Grampy,” she said, “do you…”
He turned to her. “Spit it out.”
“Do you have any ideas about who killed Mr. Thatcher?”
“Sure,” said Grampy.
“Who?”
“Someone fed up with all his meddling. Isn’t that obvious?”
“Who, for example?”
“Guy like that makes a lot of enemies. Could be most anybody.”
She took another chance. “The thing is, Grampy, that’s not true.”
The expression in his eyes changed, but not toward annoyance or anger; more like puzzlement or confusion. She didn’t like seeing him that way. “Oh?” he said.
“Because of the murder weapon,” Ingrid said. “That’s not the kind of rifle most anybody would have lying around.”
“Suppose not.”
“The World War Two Springfield with the sniper scope,” Ingrid said.
“Yup,” said Grampy.
“Can’t be too many of them around.”
“Nope.”
“So I was wondering what happened to yours.”
“Couldn’t tell you,” he said.
“Because you…?”
Now he did look annoyed. “What I said—couldn’t tell you.”
“Did you leave it behind?” Ingrid said.
“Leave it behind?”
“Up on that ridge.” Grampy had charged the machine-gun nest with the grenade; had he been able to carry his rifle at the same time?
“Ridge?” he said. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Ingrid backed up a half step. “The ridge on Bataan, Grampy. Where you won the medal.”
For a moment, Grampy went still. “How d’you know about that?” he said, his voice much quieter.
“Mr. Sidney.”
“Hole in his head,” said Grampy.
“Meaning it’s not true?”
Then something happened that surprised her—shocked her, really—and made her feel bad: Grampy’s eyes filled with tears. Not just moistened or dampened, but filled with tears. He turned his back, faced the window.
Ingrid thought of putting her hand on his shoulder or something, decided not. Instead she said, “Ty and I would like to see the medal, Grampy.”
Grampy turned back to her, eyes dry now, but he didn’t look energetic anymore. “Wrong person got it,” he said.
Right away Ingrid thought of Mr. Porterhouse’s dad, the one who’d warned Major Ferrand—Captain Ferrand then—that they couldn’t defend the ridge, and had ended up dying on it. “Who?” she said.
Grampy gazed at her as though making up his mind. He said, “My wife.” For a moment Ingrid didn’t understand; then she did. “Got into her bones,” Grampy went on, “and back then they weren’t so good at controlling pain, like now. She never complained, not a single time. Set an example.”
Ingrid stepped forward, put her arms around Grampy. He patted her back. “Nothing to be upset about,” he said, letting her go. “As for the rifle, it just disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” she said.
“Night of the surrender,” Grampy said. “Disappeared right out of my tent. Had other things to think about at the time, of course, but what difference did it make? We had to give up our weapons anyway.”
“Mr. Sidney says you didn’t surrender—you were ordered to surrender.”
“One thing he got right.”
Ingrid still wasn’t clear about the distinction, but something in Grampy’s tone warned her off. “He also says Major Ferrand wasn’t on the Death March.”
That hard look that had appeared in Grampy’s eyes when he read the Echo article on Major Ferrand? It was back. “Second thing he got right.”
“Did Major Ferrand manage to get back to Corregidor before the surrender?” Ingrid said.
“Why d’you ask that?”
“Because the guys from Corregidor weren’t on the Death March, so I thought that maybe…”
Grampy’s head tilted, as though he wanted to see her from another angle. “You’re a smart young woman,” he said.
Woman? There was a first.
“But answer me this,” Grampy said. “How can the commanding officer go one way while the rest of the company goes another?”
Ingrid didn’t know.
“Maybe he lit out for Corregidor,” Grampy said. “Maybe not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Quite the sailor boy, Cyrus Ferrand,” said Grampy.
“He was in the Navy?”
Grampy laughed. “You’re a funny kid,” he said. “I’m going to mi—” He cut himself off, cleared his throat. “No, he was in the Army, but before the war he kept a yacht in Newport, did a lot of ocean racing.”
“He had his yacht in Bataan?”
Grampy laughed again. “Don’t know exactly what happened and how,” he said, “but the intent—that I’m sure of.”
Ingrid was lost. Maybe he saw that on her face.
“He disappeared that last night—missing in action, happened all the time. Later—this was in the camp—I ran into another POW who’d seen him casting off in a fishing boat just before dawn. Commandeered it, evidently.”
“What does that mean?”
“Took it,” said Grampy. “This POW saw some muzzle flashes.”
“You mean he shot the fishermen?”
“No idea,” said Grampy. “I assumed he’d been sunk by the enemy or lost at sea, but after the war, I found out he got picked up by a neutral freighter—Swedish maybe—in a matter of hours.”
“So he deserted, Grampy?”
“Couldn’t call it that,” Grampy said. “A POW has a duty to try to escape.”
“But you weren’t POWs yet.”
“That didn’t bother me—got to be sensible,” Grampy said. “He was the commanding officer—that’s what bothered me.”
“Did he take any of the men with him?” Ingrid said.
“Sixty-four-dollar question,” said Grampy. “Nope.”
“And he spent the rest of the war in London?”
“Staff job,” said Grampy.
“Did you ever tell anybody?”
Grampy shook his head. “Long time ago.”
“That’s what everybody keeps saying—Mr. Sidney, Major Ferrand, and now you.”
“Done some thinking on that, matter of fact,” said Grampy. “Occurred to me maybe it wasn’t a good idea to let Cyrus Ferrand just swan off to eternity.”
“You’re going to do something about it?”
“What I was going to do,” said Grampy, “before all this…this other—” He cut himself off, said, “Sh. Someone’s coming.”
They peered down from the tree house, the hammer not quite still in Grampy’s hand. Ingrid heard soft thudding, faint and rhythmic. She saw a lone figure on the path—a snowshoeing figure, moving in the direction of her house.
“Joey?”
He stopped, looked up, approached the tree house. “Hi,” he said. “Snow day.”
“Joey, this is my grandfather.”
“Um,” said J
oey. “Sir.”
Grampy made a little gesture with the hammer.
“Ingrid?” Joey said.
“Yeah?”
“Snow day.”
“I know.”
“So I was thinking—maybe she wants to go snowshoeing again.”
“Who are we talking about?” Ingrid said.
Joey looked surprised. “You. Ingrid.”
Ingrid thought she heard Grampy chuckle, very softly. At that moment, she got an idea, maybe a pretty good one. “Okay,” she said.
They snowshoed through the woods. Joey wasn’t going fast this time, in fact seemed to be making an effort to stay beside her.
“You’re allowed to talk to me now?” Ingrid said.
“Not, um,” said Joey.
She took that for a no; meaning the plea deal hadn’t happened yet. “Your dad know you’re here?”
“We’re not going to talk about the case.”
“But does he?”
“He went to work early.”
“So he doesn’t?”
Joey stopped, faced her. “We’re not going to talk about the case.”
“Fine,” said Ingrid. “But there’s something I want you to do.”
Joey looked wary. “About the case?”
“No,” Ingrid said. “This is about Nigel.” She told him the whole story.
“You think this private eye from Bridgeport stole Nigel?”
“But not for himself,” Ingrid said. “For a client.”
“Who?” said Joey.
“That’s what I want you to find out.”
“Me?” said Joey.
“Your dad knows Dieter Meinhof,” Ingrid said. “He recognized his car.”
“So?”
“So Dieter Meinhof’s been in Echo Falls before. That means he had some client here in the past. I want to know who.”
“But why would it be the same one as now?” said Joey.
“Might not be,” Ingrid said. “Got a better idea?”
They walked in silence for a while. It was a three-colored world—white snow, brown trees, gray sky—a bleak world, but they had it to themselves. Kids on their own.
“Okay,” said Joey. “I’ll do it.”
Into the Dark Page 15
