Steve used a small flashlight to check them. Neither dog opened its eyes at the light.
I wanted to give them five more minutes to be sure, but Steve wanted to grab the note and get going. He pointed out that I had my jacket and gloves to protect myself.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Here are the jacket and gloves. You do it.”
“Your idea,” he said. “And you’re the one who thinks it’s a note from Caleb. I’d hate to do all the work and discover you were wrong.”
“Fine,” I said, using the one word that means just the opposite.
I took a half step onto the driveway, ready to jump back if the dogs moved.
Nothing but snores.
I moved closer. Very scared. Even with the heavy jacket and gloves, I knew the dogs were big enough to shred me if they woke.
Nothing but snores.
Steve beamed the flashlight on the dog’s collar. I saw a little sensor box attached and finally understood why the animals never left the property: invisible fencing. The sensors on the dogs’ collars gave them little shocks if they moved past an electric “fence” that circled the yard. That meant Mr. Riggins could let them roam free to guard the property.
But Mr. Riggins hadn’t planned on the special hamburgers.
I leaned down, close enough to smell the dog’s hamburger-and-onions breath. I gave a slight tug and pulled the paper free. The dog snorted and flinched but remained asleep.
I backed away, my eyes glued to the dogs.
Two steps later, I stood on the sidewalk beside Steve.
“Open it up,” he said. “What’s it say?”
“Let’s get out of here first,” I said, tucking my gloves in my back pocket.
We walked as fast as we could back to where we’d parked the minivan.
I waited until we were driving away to turn on the interior light and unfold the paper. I’d been right. It was a note from Caleb.
I don’t know how long we’ll be gone. I don’t even know if we’ll be coming back. I pray that someone finds this note. Please look for me.
And whatever my father says, don’t believe him.
I have to go now. He’s outside my bedroom door waiting for me. If I don’t do what he says, he hits me.
Caleb Riggins
I read the note out loud to Steve.
He whistled a long low note. “Doesn’t sound good, does it?” he said.
“No,” I answered. “It doesn’t sound good at all.”
chapter twelve
Monday morning turned out to be one of those rare days in Lake Havasu City when it rained. Or at least, by our standards, it rained. To people from anywhere else, the light misting of water would have counted not as a rainstorm but as a slight bother.
It didn’t stop our scheduled soccer match at nine that morning. There was a stiff wind, and gray patches of clouds scudded across the sky. I shivered and stamped my feet as I waited for the coin toss that would decide who kicked off to start the game.
Steve stood beside me. The wind pulled at his long hair.
“No sign of Caleb,” he said.
“Are you surprised?” I asked.
“No.”
“Me neither,” I said. “My mom has the note. She’s taking it to work this morning to ask her police friends what to do.”
“We need him pretty bad, Steve said.”
“Yeah,” I said. I hadn’t slept much during the night, worrying about all the things that the note could mean. “I just hope he doesn’t need us more.”
Because we were hometown favorites, most of the couple hundred people in the stands were cheering for us, including my dad, with a bright blue and green parrot on his shoulder. Even though the school was closed for spring break, Dad had stopped by this morning early enough to do some work and pick up from the classroom zoo his favorite animal, Petey the Parrot.
Most of the people around Dad probably didn’t think seeing a forty-year-old man with a shaved head, an earring and a parrot was too strange—but only because they had known our family long enough to expect crazy things.
When the Camille High Cougars in their orange jerseys scored their first goal against us five minutes into the game, all the home-town fans started yelling at the referee for missing the offside call that led to the goal.
To me, there was no doubt the referee should have called their striker offside. As sweeper, I had been easily three steps behind him. A tall guy with short blond hair, he had been waiting between me and the goalie before the pass reached him. Offside. But the ref had not blown his whistle, and the striker had dribbled twice and kicked the ball into the high corner of the net.
Our goalie, Stew Schmid, had begun to run toward the referee to complain. I stepped in front of Stew to stop him. He was about my height and he wore glasses, now covered with small drops of rain.
“Bad break,” I told Stew. “Goal shouldn’t count.”
“Goal shouldn’t count? Of course the goal shouldn’t count!” Stew tried to push me out of the way. “Let me at that ref. He’s going to hear it from me. Then I’m going to flatten his nose. And after the game, I’m going to flatten his tires. If we don’t score, that call might cost us the tournament and a shot at the televised nationals.”
I knew Stew was right. When soccer games are decided by only one or two points, every goal is crucial. Without Caleb to pour them in for us, this goal against us might be even more crucial. And from here on in, we had to win every game. Even a tie might take us out of the final two spots.
But I also knew a couple of other things. If Stew stayed worked up and angry, he was going to have a hard time concentrating for the rest of the game. If I let him past me to argue with the ref, Stew could blow the anger out of his system. If not, we might be down another couple of goals before the end of the half.
On the other hand, the ref wasn’t going to change his mind no matter how much anyone argued with him. It would only make the situation worse to have him mad at us. And if Stew really let loose, he might get kicked out of the game.
“Stew,” I said. He was staring over my shoulder, watching the referee take the ball to the center for another kickoff. “If you had five shutouts in a row and not one person said you were doing great, what would you think?”
“Be a little mad,” he said. “Like I am now.”
“And what if, after all those perfect games, everyone jumped on you for your first mistake?”
“Be even madder,” he said.
“That’s what it’s like for refs,” I said. “Nobody notices their good work. I hate the call as much as you do. Later, he might even tell us he made a mistake. But he’s refereed other games for us, and he’s usually good. Only thing is, people don’t tell him. All they do is notice his mistakes. If we give him a break now, he might give us a break later.”
Stew was starting to calm down.
“Besides,” I said, grinning. “See the guy’s legs? They’re so pasty and skinny, it looks like he’s riding a chicken. You’ve got to feel sorry for someone who goes public with legs like that.”
Stew finally laughed.
“All right, all right,” he said. “I’ll give him a break. But next time...”
“Won’t be no next time,” I promised. “And we’re going to win. Just wait and see.”
Five minutes later, Stew scooped up a ball that was rolling across his crease. He threw it ahead to me. I found Johnnie open at midfield and lofted him a pass.
He made a move to get past two defenders, found some room and sprinted. Two of our strikers stayed with him, and just like that, we had three attackers against two defenders.
With the crowd cheering and screaming for us, our three guys advanced the ball to pull a gap between the defenders. One pass. Two. Three. When the ball came back to Johnnie, he faked the fourth pass and laced the ball with a perfect kick that hit the inside of the right post and crossed the goal line.
Tie game!
Five minutes after that, with our guys swarming thei
r zone, Johnnie broke past their sweeper on a play that was so close to offside the ref could have called it either way.
The ref let it go, and Johnnie flicked his foot to direct the ball into the upper left corner. The net bulged.
Two to one, Mavericks!
I thought back. If Stew had yelled at the ref earlier, the ref might have been mad enough to call the offside against us. Maybe because we kept our cool, the referee decided to give us a break and let the close call go our way.
At that moment—even though he was sitting in the stands with a parrot on his shoulder—I was glad for Dad’s advice over the years. He’d been the one to show me the game from the ref’s point of view. He’d also often reminded me that in the history of soccer, while time and again people blamed the ref for losses, no one had ever won a game and given the referee credit.
The score stayed 2–1 for us.
At the end of the game, when we walked off the field, we still had a chance at making the finals. And at the televised nationals beyond that. But we had to keep winning. And our chances would get slimmer and slimmer without Caleb to help us in the next few games.
chapter thirteen
In the kitchen at lunchtime, Dad hung up the phone.
“Your mother sounded frustrated,” he said. “And if she is frustrated...”
At the counter, knife dripping with mustard in one hand, I knew what he meant. Mom sees the bright side of everything.
I smeared the mustard on the bread. It was my turn to make the meal. A person could never go wrong with sandwiches.
“What did she say about the note?” Leontine asked from the dining room. She was at the table playing a computer game on her laptop. “Are the police going to do anything about it?”
“That’s why she’s frustrated,” Dad answered. “There’s nothing they can do.”
Irritated, I slapped the last of the sandwiches together and put them on a tray. “Didn’t they read what Caleb wrote? Anybody can tell he’s in trouble. And he didn’t show up this morning for the game. Doesn’t that mean anything?” I carried the tray to the dining room. “If you can’t go to the police for help, where do you go?”
Dad joined Leontine and me at the table.
“What a surprise,” he said. “Sandwiches.”
“Sarcasm is not a pretty thing, Dad,” I said.
“Let me guess,” Leontine said, joining the attack from the other side. “Ham and cheese with mustard and lettuce.”
“At least you can guess what it is,” I answered.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” she asked. “If you didn’t like my casserole, just say so.”
“Oh,” I said, grinning. “Casserole. Thanks for the hint.”
“Guys, guys,” Dad said. “I’d rather hear someone say grace than start World War Three.”
Leontine said grace, and we began to eat.
“About the note, Dad...,” I prompted him.
“A couple of things,” he said. “The police can’t act on the note because they can’t be sure it was Caleb who wrote it.”
“He signed his name!” I said.
Dad shrugged. “The police say it could have been written by anyone. Second, even if it was Caleb, they say he might be making things up to get attention. And third, Caleb is still a minor. No one can stop his parents from taking him wherever they choose.
If Caleb is not back by the time school resumes next week, there might be some legal action the police can take.”
“That’s dumb,” Leontine said, looking up from her computer. She had a sandwich in one hand and was typing with the other. Mom would never let her get away with it, but she knew Dad and I liked to read during meals. Whenever Mom had to work, our lunches were pretty quiet. Except, of course, for this one.
“I agree,” I said. “The police have those reports Mom told us about. About how Mr. Riggins hit his wife. They should at least look into it.”
“What I just gave you were the official answers Mom got,” Dad said. Mustard was streaked across his cheek. “Unless the Rigginses put Caleb in physical danger, the police have their hands tied in terms of any legal action they can take. But unofficially, they have promised to look for them. It’s the best they can do.”
“I see why Mom is frustrated,” I said.
“Maybe there’s something Leontine can do,” Dad told us. He dug into his back pocket and pulled out some papers. “I picked this up at school this morning.”
Dad handed the papers to me. The first page was a photocopy of school registration information when the Rigginses had first brought Caleb to school way back in first grade. There was also a photocopy of Caleb’s birth certificate.
“It’s not much to go on,” Dad said. “It just confirms what your mother said earlier. That they moved here when Caleb was three. The only new thing is that it looks like they came from a town called Roaring River in North Carolina.”
“Long ways away,” I said. “And a long time ago. What can Leontine do with that?”
“Something on the Internet,” Dad said. He looked at Leontine, who was nodding. “Maybe there’s a way to get to local newspapers. Or maybe you can hook up with a local chat group. I looked up Roaring River on a map. It’s a very small town. Surely someone there would remember the Riggins family. It will simply be a matter of finding someone on the Internet who lives there.”
Dad shrugged again. “For now, it’s the best that we can do.”
The mustard on Dad’s face was driving me nuts. I went to the kitchen, found a cloth, rinsed it with warm water, brought it back to Dad and pointed at his face.
“Hate to have you looking strange,” I said. I wondered if he would catch my sarcasm. I was always bugging Dad about his earring and the way he dressed.
“Thanks,” he said, ignoring my remark as he wiped away the mustard.
He washed down the last of his sandwich with milk. “One other thing,” Dad said. “Something the school librarian told me when I went back after the game to return Petey to his cage.”
“Mrs. Kappa?” I asked.
“Yup. She taught first grade before taking over the library. She had Caleb in one of her classes. I saw her in the hallway and asked if she remembered anything about him. She did. But it may not mean anything.”
“Fire when ready,” I said.
“She said he wrote a story about having a twin brother on a golden bridge. The story itself didn’t get her attention. She says lots of kids that age have imaginary friends in fairy-tale places. What struck her, though, was the way his father reacted when she showed him the story during a parent-teacher conference. She said Mr. Riggins got really angry at Caleb for making up lies. She said that Caleb missed the next two days of school, and when he did come back, he was quiet and withdrawn.”
Dad looked out the window, talking more to himself than to us. “Back then, a teacher never suspected that a parent would hurt a child—physically or emotionally. It’s sad to say, but now we have to be more concerned with such things.”
He sighed. “The world seems a lot less innocent now. I wonder if poor Caleb got hit for making up his story.”
“I can’t believe that a grown-up would hit a little kid,” I said. “Especially over something like a make-believe story.”
“It happens,” Dad said. “Worst thing is, the kid falsely believes it’s his fault. But usually the parent is just angry about something else and takes it out on a child.”
“But what kind of problem could Mr. Riggins be facing?” I asked. “He’s one of the most respected businessmen in the city.”
“I imagine,” Dad answered, “when we learn the answer to that, we’ll learn why Caleb wrote that note.”
chapter fourteen
Because so few points are scored in soccer, just one goal can make a tremendous difference in the game’s outcome.
That afternoon, we needed just one goal against the Sylvan High Eagles. The score was 1–1, and only ten minutes remained in the game. The Eagles’ defense was a
s tight as ours. Whoever scored next would probably win.
Trouble was, they played zone defense so well that one of their yellow jerseys always seemed to move into place to block our passes.
This late in the game—and knowing we had to win this game to keep our tournament chances alive—it seemed smart to take a few risks.
If I could somehow beat one or two of their guys, the field would open up and crack their zone defense.
I waited for the ball to come back to me. The morning’s light showers had passed over the valley, and now sunshine in a clear sky dried the sweat on my face. Although I was concentrating on the game, I was aware of the crowd’s cheering. Sometimes it goes like that. When you concentrate hard on one thing, all your other senses become more keen too.
I watched my teammates upfield, trying to store their positions in my memory. When Johnnie ran into a defensive wall and had to pass back to me, I was ready.
I hung on to the ball instead of passing it off quickly as I had done all game. I moved up the field and a yellow jersey cut into my line of vision.
I had to decide quickly: Was this real pressure or panic pressure?
Sometimes players see attackers and panic makes them react too soon. It’s only real pressure when the attacker is close enough to contact the ball; he can only do that by standing on one leg and swinging with the other. In other words, it’s only real pressure when the player is a step away. Not three steps, like you might think under panic.
The yellow jersey moved in closer. I took my eyes off the field ahead and looked at him. A tall guy, with a dark crew cut. Three steps away.
Not real pressure. Not yet.
I moved diagonally up the field. A diagonal cut gives you much better vision than running straight ahead.
The yellow jersey moved to within two steps.
Almost real pressure. But I didn’t panic. Instead, I slowed a fraction.
I took a last-minute look to see if passing was a better option. It wasn’t. Their zone defense was still in place.
As the tall crew cut closed in, I did a half dribble as if getting ready to pass long with the instep of my foot. I had already made a couple of bomb passes earlier in the game. It would look like I was about to try another.
Maverick Mania Page 4
