Missing

by R. L. Stine

  “What are you doing, Mark?” Cara had followed me into the living room.

  I motioned for her to sit down on the couch. Then I told her everything that had happened last night.

  “And you definitely saw Roger run into this gray van?” she asked. “You’re sure you weren’t asleep?”

  That’s just like Cara. Always doubting everything.

  “No, I wasn’t asleep.”

  “And you’re sure he didn’t run past the van and it only looked like the van opened up because of shadows from trees or something?”

  Now she was beginning to make me doubt what I’d seen with my own eyes. “No. I saw just what I said. Roger climbed into the van and the door closed.”

  “He definitely lied to you about taking a walk?”

  “Cara, you’re really starting to steam me!” I said, trying to control my temper.

  “Okay, okay.” She threw up her hands. “I’m sorry. It’s just that if we’re going upstairs to accuse Roger, we should be sure of what we’re accusing him of.”

  “Well… it was dark on the street, and very foggy. But I’m sure I saw him climb in.”

  “Then let’s go,” Cara said, jumping off the couch and pulling me up. “We’ll just put it to him—Roger, what were you doing in that gray van last night?”

  “I guess.” Cara had asked so many questions, I was beginning to think I’d dreamed the whole thing. Or maybe I was just reluctant to get into a big thing with Roger.

  “Uh… Cara…” I said as we started up the stairs. “Maybe what Roger did last night isn’t any of our business. He is entitled to a private life, after all.”

  Cara sighed and rolled her eyes. “Mark, our parents are missing, right?”

  “Well… they didn’t come home last night.”

  “And ever since they’ve been missing, Roger has been acting extremely weird. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “So we have every right to ask him why he’s been acting so weird. Agreed?”

  I thought about it for a short while. “Agreed.” I had to give in. I never win any arguments with Cara unless I start shouting a lot. And this morning I just didn’t have the strength to shout.

  Besides, she was right—for once.

  We climbed the narrow stairs to the attic. It was about ten degrees warmer up here. Roger’s door was closed.

  “Should we wake him?” I whispered. “Or should we wait?”

  Cara gave me a dirty look. “Of course we’ll wake him. You do plan to go to school this morning, don’t you?”

  I knocked on the door softly, then harder.

  No reply.

  I had a sudden chill, a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. Something horrible has happened in there, I thought. I shook my head as if shaking away the thought. I knew I was just being stupid.

  I knocked again. Still no reply.

  So I pushed open the door and took a step inside.

  Gray light filtered in through a small, dirt-smeared skylight. Roger’s small cot was made, the thin green blanket tucked in tightly at all four corners. The room was empty. He had left already.

  “I don’t believe it,” Cara said, disappointed that we wouldn’t have our confrontation.

  “He has morning classes,” I said, moving toward the wall to make room for her.

  “Not this early,” Cara said, biting her lower tip. “Well… while we’re here, let’s take a look around.”

  “That won’t take long,” I said. I had to keep my head bent down so it wouldn’t bump the ceiling.

  I looked through a pile of stuff on Roger’s desk, just a bunch of notebooks and texts. Cara got down on her hands and knees and looked under Roger’s bed. “See anything?” I asked, whispering for some reason.

  “Dust balls,” she said, getting up quickly.

  The bookshelf next to the desk was mostly empty, a few books and magazines tossed on the middle shelf. A cardboard cup containing marking pens and pencils was on the shelf below it.

  “What a grim place,” I said.

  “Yeah. You’d think he’d put up some posters or something.”

  I looked at the bare gray walls. This was more like a prison cell than a college guy’s room.

  Cara started looking through the things on the top of the desk. “I already looked there,” I said impatiently. I started to feel really nervous. I wanted to get out of there. What if Roger came back and found us snooping around in all his stuff?

  “Hey! Look at this.” Cara was holding up an empty notebook.

  “A notebook. Big deal,” I said.

  “Right. An empty notebook.” She picked up another one. “Look, Mark. This one is empty, too.” I picked up the remaining notebook from the desk. Empty. Not a word written in it.

  “So? What does that mean?” I asked. “He hasn’t used these yet.”

  Cara was flipping through Roger’s textbooks now. “Look. No underlining. Not a mark.”

  “So he doesn’t like to mark up his books,” I said, sighing. “I don’t, either. I really don’t think this is very interesting, Cara.”

  “But he hasn’t taken a single note! None of this stuff looks like it’s ever been opened!”

  Suddenly I heard a creaking sound down in the hall. I glanced at Cara. She heard it, too.

  We both froze. And listened.

  Silence.

  I peeked out the door. There was no one there. I tiptoed to the steps and looked down. No one. It was just the old house creaking.

  When I got back to Roger’s room, Cara was pulling out desk drawers and riffling through them. Since there was no dresser, Roger kept his clothes in the desk drawers. One entire drawer was filled with pairs of navy blue socks all neatly rolled into balls!

  “Come on, Cara. Let’s get out of here,” I pleaded. “We’re not going to find anything interesting. There’s nothing here at all. It’s as if Roger doesn’t have a life.”

  She looked at me. “That’s right. That’s what’s so weird. Don’t you think that’s interesting?”

  “No,” I said.

  She pulled out the bottom desk drawer. It was filled nearly to the top with underwear. “Let’s go,” I said.

  “We’ve found zip. Nada. Nothing.” I started out the door.

  “Wait, Mark! Oh, good Lord!”

  I hurried back in. “Cara—what?”

  She had pulled the underwear out of the drawer. Underneath it lay a shiny black snub-nosed pistol.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mark, what are you doing? Put that down!” I shouted. He had pulled the gun out of the drawer and was examining it.

  “It’s loaded,” he said softly.

  “Well, don’t point it at me!”

  “I’m not pointing it. I’m putting it back, okay?” he snapped.

  “Just be careful.”

  He replaced the gun, handling it very gently. Then I shoved Roger’s underwear back in on top of it and closed the desk drawer.

  “Why do you think Roger keeps a loaded pistol in his room?” Mark asked, squinting his green eyes, thinking hard.

  “Maybe he likes to shoot at cockroaches,” I cracked.

  He looked at me. He didn’t seem to understand that I was joking. “Come on. Let’s get out of here,” I said, shoving him out the door.

  Back in the kitchen, Mark started to pace. I sat down at the Formica counter. “Now what?” he asked.

  I glanced up at the clock over the sink. It was seven forty. If we didn’t leave soon, we’d be late for school. “The phone,” I said. “Maybe it’s fixed.”

  We both raced to the wall phone. I got there first and grabbed the receiver. Silence. “Still dead,” I sighed.

  “We have to call the phone company,” Mark said. “Mom and Dad have probably been trying to call all night.”

  “I know. I’ll go down the block to Mrs. Fisher’s house,” I told him. I picked up my parents’ little phone book. “Maybe her phone is working. I’ll call Mom and Dad and then I’ll call t
he phone company.”

  “I’d go with you, but Mrs. Fisher doesn’t like me,” Mark said. “She came over once when I was practicing my archery in the backyard, and ever since she’s always giving me funny looks. She thinks I’m weird or something.”

  “She’s right,” I said, and quickly headed out the backdoor. I love getting the last word.

  It was still chilly out. The sun hadn’t managed to burn through the low, overhanging clouds. I should’ve put on a sweater or something, but Mrs. Fisher’s house was just halfway down the block.

  I walked quickly along the side of the street, past the nearly bare maple and sycamore trees. It was beginning to look like winter even though it didn’t really feel that cold yet. When Mrs. Fisher’s rambling old shingled house came into view, I picked up speed and jogged the rest of the way.

  The front doorbell didn’t seem to be working, so I used the brass knocker in the center of the door. She came to the door after my second knock. A fairly attractive woman in her late forties or early fifties, she was wearing tan corduroy slacks and a plaid man’s shirt. Her jet-black hair was tied behind her head with a blue rubber band.

  At first she stared at me. She looked very surprised to see me. “Cara?”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fisher. I’m sorry to bother you so early.”

  She held open the door so I could come in. “It’s not early for me. I’m up at six every morning.” The house smelled of coffee and stale cigarettes. “Is everything okay?”

  She looked away when she asked that. Something about the way she asked it, with so much concern in her voice, made me suspicious. But of course I was being ridiculous. I think I’d suspect anyone this morning!

  “Is your phone working? Ours is dead.”

  “Why, yes. It’s working fine. I just spoke to my sister a few minutes ago. That’s strange that yours is out.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Can I use your phone?”

  “Of course.” I followed her through the living room, which was filled with heavy, dark antique furniture, into the kitchen, which wasn’t much brighter.

  “First I’m going to phone my parents,” I said, searching the little directory for their direct number.

  “Your parents?”

  I looked up to see an odd expression on her face. It was more than surprise. It was shock. She saw me looking at her, and the expression quickly disappeared. She picked up a pack of cigarettes and forced one out of the pack. When she lit it, her hand was shaking.

  “Yeah. They probably worked all night,” I told her. Was I imagining that weird, shocked expression? I must have been. “They’re not home.”

  With the cigarette dangling from her lips, Mrs. Fisher turned and walked over to the sink and started to rinse off some plates. “They didn’t call you?”

  “They couldn’t. The phone’s broken.”

  “Oh. Of course. Where do your parents work?” She didn’t turn around. The dishes she was rinsing looked perfectly clean to me.

  “At a place called Cranford Industries.”

  “Oh, yes. Cranford. They make airplane parts or something. I read about Cranford. They do a lot of work for the federal government, don’t they?”

  “I don’t really know,” I told her, picking up the phone receiver. “My parents install computer systems.”

  “Oh. That’s interesting.” She dried her hands and turned around. She put the cigarette down, then nervously picked it up again. “Cranford is pretty far away. At least two towns from here. Why did your parents buy a house here in Shadyside instead of nearer their work?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Fisher. I never really thought about it. I guess maybe they thought the high school was better here. You know. For Mark and me.”

  “Cara—” she started, but then she suddenly stopped.

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” she said quickly. “I forgot what I was going to say.” She tossed the dish towel down on the counter. “I’d better hush up and let you make your calls.” Looking nervous, she hurried out of the room, leaving the burning cigarette on an ashtray by the sink.

  What’s her problem? I asked myself. She’d always seemed so calm and normal whenever she came over to visit my parents. She was the only neighbor who was the least bit friendly. All of our other neighbors on Fear Street kept to themselves and never even waved or looked up when we went past.

  I pushed my parents’ direct line at Cranford Industries and then listened to the low ring. I let it ring six times, seven, eight.… No answer. The switchboard message center didn’t pick up, either. It was too early, I guess. No one there yet.

  I slumped against the counter, suddenly feeling sick. I was so disappointed. I really thought they’d be there.

  Now what?

  What could I do? Who could I call?

  We had no relatives in Shadyside. We’d only been here since September. We hardly knew anyone!

  What should I do? I couldn’t go to school without knowing where Mom and Dad were, without knowing that they were okay. I couldn’t sit there, class after class, wondering, just wondering what was going on.

  I felt panicky and sick to my stomach. Maybe the cornflakes in Coca-Cola was a bad idea. My heart was pounding. I stared at the phone.

  And suddenly I knew what Mark and I had to do. We had to go to Cranford Industries. We had to track my parents down.

  But how? We could borrow a car. Or maybe there was a bus that went somewhere near there.

  Yes. That’s what we had to do. We had to cut school and go there. If Mom and Dad were there, we’d find out why we hadn’t heard from them. And if they weren’t there… well… They had to be there!

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fisher!” I called.

  There was no reply, so I ran out the door. I was halfway down the walk when I realized I’d forgotten to call the phone company about fixing our phone. So I hurried back into the house and called.

  “No service at all?” a friendly woman on the other end asked, sounding truly concerned.

  “No. It’s totally silent,” I told her.

  “Strange. We haven’t had any other complaints from your neighborhood,” she said. “I’ll notify the service guys right away.”

  “Thank you,” I said and hung up, feeling a little better. I called my thanks up to Mrs. Fisher, who still hadn’t reappeared, and hurried home, eager to tell Mark my idea about cutting school and going to Mom and Dad’s office.

  I ran up the drive and headed toward the backyard. But something caught my eye as I was about to pass the garage. Our garage doors have long, rectangular windows in them. And through the windows, I thought I saw something strange.

  I stopped and walked up to the front door of the garage and peered in. Yes. I was right.

  My parents’ car—the blue Toyota they drove to work every day—it was there in the garage.

  CHAPTER 9

  Mark opened the garage door and we stood in the drive gaping at the car as if we’d never seen one before. “How did Mom and Dad get to work?” Mark asked, stepping into the garage and looking into the car windows.

  Of course there was another question that both of us were thinking but didn’t dare say aloud: Did they get to work?

  There was only one way to find out.

  “We’ve got to go to Cranford—right now,” I said.

  Mark kicked a rear tire. “I can’t, Cara. I’ve got a math test this morning. And I wanted to see Gena and—”

  He stopped and made a face. He knew those things weren’t as important as finding Mom and Dad.

  “Oh, I don’t know what to do!” he cried angrily and slammed his hand against the trunk. He looked just like a little boy having a tantrum. “Ow!” He’d hurt his hand.

  “Stop kicking and slamming things,” I said. “You’re upset. I’m upset. The only way we’re going to be less upset is to take some action.”

  “Okay, okay,” he grumbled. “Lay off the lectures, okay? Let’s get the car keys and our coats and get going. At least we have a
car to drive.”

  We both looked at the car again. I felt weak. I turned away. That car shouldn’t have been there. Something was wrong. Something was seriously wrong.

  “Maybe they got a lift to work,” Mark said as we hurried into the house to get our coats. “Maybe there was an emergency at Cranford, and someone came to pick them up.”

  “Maybe,” I said. Neither of us believed it, though.

  But what could we believe?

  I grabbed my down coat, the extra set of car keys, and a road map from the desk in the den, and a few seconds later, Mark backed down the drive. The sun had given up its attempts to break through the clouds. It was gray and very windy. November was starting to look like November.

  At the end of the block, Mark slammed on the brakes. “The van!” he cried.

  The unmarked gray van he had told me about was parked in front of us. A man with very short, white-blond hair sat in the driver’s seat.

  Mark pulled the Toyota right up to the van. The blond man stared straight ahead, pretending not to notice us.

  Mark unrolled his window and stuck his head out. “Hey! You waiting for Roger?” he yelled to the guy.

  The guy in the van rolled down his window. “Sorry. I had the radio cranked up. What did you want?” He flashed us a wide smile. He had rows and rows of perfect white teeth. I guess he was handsome with his white-blond hair, pale skin, and sparkling white teeth.

  “You waiting for Roger?” Mark repeated.

  “Who?”

  “Roger.”

  The guy in the van shook his head. His smile hadn’t faded an inch. “Sorry. You’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t know any Roger.”

  Mark stared back at him, disappointed. “Oh. Sorry.”

  “No problem,” the guy said, and rolled up his window.

  Mark floored the gas pedal and we took off with a roar. “He’s lying,” Mark said.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “From his smile.”

  We both laughed. It wasn’t really funny. We just needed to laugh. Then we both got very silent.

  We had the car heater turned way up, but I felt really cold. I guess it was partly because I was so nervous, so worried about what they might tell us at Cranford Industries about our parents.