by Lois Duncan
“All right,” Juan said slowly, “I have kept my part of the bargain. I have brought you here. You see your daughter. She is all right. She has not been hurt. Now, I want the key. You will give it to me.”
“The key?” Rod repeated the word as though uncertain of its meaning.
“The key to the trunk. You say the money is in the trunk of your car.”
Now, Rod thought, now is the time.
As casually as possible, he began to move his hand toward his overcoat pocket. I can reach in, he thought, as though for the key. He would never be able to draw the gun forth in time, but he could fire through the cloth.
This is it, he thought, and then suddenly hesitated. Juan also was moving.
“You girl,” he said, “you come over here.”
“You mean, me?” Jesse asked, but Juan was looking past her. With a sudden motion he reached out and caught hold of Marianne’s wrist. In a second’s time, while Rod stood frozen, he had pulled the girl to him and was pressing her against him. The hand that held the pistol was against her side.
“All right,” he said to Rod, “no funny business now. You get the key. You take it and go out and unlock the car trunk. Then you come back in, carrying the money with you. I am going to watch you from the window. If there is anything wrong, your girl here, she is the one to get it. Not the others, but this one, this blond one.”
Rod choked against the sickness rising within him. His stomach felt suddenly empty.
I can’t fire, he thought. A moment ago, just one moment ago, it might have worked. I waited too long. I am always waiting too long!
Juan stood directly in front of him, in easy firing range, even through the cloth of the overcoat. Now, however, Marianne was between them. Her slender body formed a delicate barrier between the gun and the man for whom the bullet would be intended.
Looking at her, at the small pale face, the soft hair, Rod felt his heart turn over at the resemblance to her mother. There was, however, a difference as well. The blue eyes were not frightened or tearful, as Marian’s would have been. They blazed in anger. The girl’s pretty face was twisted in revulsion.
“Let go of me!” she muttered from between clenched teeth. “Don’t you dare put your hands on me, you horrid little man!”
“Oh, a spitfire we have here, yes?” Juan’s voice held amusement, but he did not move his eyes from Rod. “Do not wiggle, little spitfire, or I will have to hurt you.”
“Let go of me,” Marianne said savagely, twisting suddenly, and then her face went white and she doubled forward with a gasp of pain.
Juan jabbed the barrel of the pistol a second time, hard into the tender area below the ribs, and the girl gasped again.
In a rage of frustration Rod clenched his fist, willing himself not to grab for the pistol. He could not fire, could not possibly pull the trigger without hitting the girl unless while she was doubled forward, he could manage to hit Juan in the head or upper chest. But not being used to a pistol, he could not count upon his aim. Encumbered by the heavy cloth of the overcoat, it would be luck if he hit the man at all. It was a risk that could not be taken.
“Stand up,” Juan commanded, and Marianne did so, dragging herself painfully erect, her face now drained of all color.
“Go out to the car,” Juan ordered Rod, “and get the money. Now.”
“First I have to know about Buck.” Rita spoke suddenly. “You say you have not seen him. Where is he? He left this morning before dawn. He was going down the mountain, looking for these boys.” Her nod took in Glenn and Bruce. “This boy, the little one here, he came back this morning, later. He said the car was wrecked. I did not believe him.”
“I saw no wreck,” Juan said.
“The car went over the cliff,” Bruce said flatly, “down where the road makes a hairpin. Glenn and I both saw it happen. It caught fire at the bottom.” Watching the dawning belief coming into the woman’s face, he felt a strange, inconsistent wave of pity. “I told you before.”
“Is it true?” Rita demanded. Her eyes had a glassy look. She swung about to face Glenn. “Is it?”
“Yes,” Glenn said. “He tried to run down my brother. The car went out of control.” He paused and then added as an afterthought, “We did everything we could. We climbed down to the car to see if we could save him. By the time we got there, it was too late.”
He used the plural “we” with ease. Despite his new knowledge of his brother, Bruce listened to the lie with incredulous amazement.
“Is it true?” Rita demanded again. “Is it?” She swung her gaze frantically from one to another of them, as though begging for reassurance.
“I don’t know,” Juan said. “It does not matter. Right now what matters is the money.”
“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” Rita exclaimed wildly. “How can you say it doesn’t matter? It is the only thing that matters! If it is true, if Buck is dead, the money doesn’t matter. Life doesn’t matter! He wanted the money to buy me nice things! If there is no Buck, it doesn’t matter about the nice things!”
“Be still!” Juan growled angrily. “You idiot woman, be quiet! We all knew the risks when we got into this, Buck as well as me.”
“You and Buck had an agreement! Buck was to do the thinking parts; he was to make the plan, to drive the bus, to take the children! But the rest of it, that was for you to do! We were to have nothing to do with the strong-arm parts! If Buck was killed, it was while he was doing your work.” She was out of control now, her head thrown back, her face contorted. Her voice mounted higher and higher. “If it is true—if Buck is dead—then it is your fault!”
“What do you mean, my fault?” Juan asked. “I did not send him down the mountain. If he had had sense enough to keep the children here, he would not have had to go. This was his job, and he did not do it. Only a stupid man would—”
“Don’t you dare call him stupid! Don’t you dare say anything about him!” With a sudden shriek Rita threw herself across the space between them. Her heavy body struck the man from the side; her hands clawed in fury at his face. “Don’t you dare, don’t you dare!”
At the moment of impact, Marianne twisted away, hurling herself free as Juan’s hands momentarily loosened their grip upon her. At the same instant Rod’s hand leaped for his pocket.
This time he did not hesitate. With a desperation born of his other lost opportunities, he jolted the pistol into position and squeezed the trigger.
The shot was not a good one. It missed Juan completely, but the sound filled the room, freezing the occupants into immobility. Rita caught her breath, shocked back to sanity. Juan froze in an instant of motion, his own weapon raised.
It was then that Bruce moved forward.
What drove him to this action was something of which he would never be completely certain. He would have liked to have thought it was bravery, but his innate honesty would not allow this, for he believed that bravery is something that has to be contemplated. This movement was automatic, triggered by the realization within himself that someone was going to be injured. One gun had been fired, and the other was raised for action, and the stalling and arguing and hoping and plotting were now behind them. Somebody was going to get shot, somebody: Marianne or Jesse or Glenn or Mr. Donavan—and me as well, thought Bruce, me as well as anyone …
He was not a heavy boy, but he was wiry. There was the strength of desperation behind him as he raised his arm and brought the side of his hand down, with a sharp, slicing motion, onto Juan’s wrist.
There was an instant when the pistol seemed to hang there in the air, suspended.
It was with a sense of amazement that they heard the thud as it struck the floor.
It was Glenn, of course, who reached it first and straightened to stand facing them. Tall and handsome, with the pistol held easily in his hand, he looked like the hero of an action movie.
What’s it like, Dexter had asked once, to have Superman for a brother?
He does resemble him,
Bruce thought now, with the inane reaction of restrained hysteria. With his head thrown back like that and his chest thrust out, all he needs is a cape!
“Don’t move, you two!” Glenn said, addressing Juan and Rita, but Rita did not seem to hear him. With a limp, defenseless movement she lifted her hands to cover her face.
For a moment there was no sound in the room except the woman’s sobbing. Then Jesse said, “I’m so sorry.”
It was a peculiar thing to say, but it was Jesse.
She reached a hand out and touched the woman’s shoulder. “I am sorry,” she said again.
She is Jesse, Bruce thought, and Glenn is Glenn. But I—I am myself. I am Bruce Kirtland! I am, and can be, whatever I make of myself!
It was a new thought, a strange one. He clung to it now with a fierceness which was in itself new to him. I am not a shadow, a follower. I am not “Superman’s little brother.” I do not need to walk behind Glenn, to pick up after Glenn, to breathe with Glenn! What I am is within myself; I am Bruce! For what Glenn is, I am sorry, but it has nothing to do with what I am!
He stood quiet, giddy with a sense of release, as though a gigantic load had been lifted from his shoulders, a load that he had not even been aware of carrying.
Glenn said to Juan, “Raise your hands above your head.” His voice was strong, masterful. He glanced sideways to see Marianne’s expression, but her eyes were not upon him.
She had turned, instead, and crossed to Rod.
“Honey, are you all right?” His voice was shaken with emotion. “How badly did he hurt you?”
“I’m okay, Rod.” She looked very small, standing there in front of him. “Rod, my father—why didn’t he come with you? If you could come, why couldn’t he? Why didn’t he come to get me?”
For a long moment Rod stood gazing down at her, struggling with a decision. It was the moment, he knew to tell her, to put into words once and forever the situation which her mother had carefully concealed from her. It was time to say, “Marianne, your father didn’t come because he doesn’t care about you. He has never cared about you, or about your mother or your brothers, or anyone in the world except himself.” It was the time, in this moment of climax—and she would believe him.
But now, standing gazing down into the small, vulnerable face, he could not say it.
Instead, he said, “We couldn’t reach your father.”
“You couldn’t …”
“If he had known about it, your father would have come after you. Nothing would have kept him away if he had known.”
“But he did know.” Marianne spoke the words flatly.
“Honey …” Rod regarded her helplessly.
“He didn’t care enough to come!”
Suddenly, to his astonishment, she threw herself against him, her face pressed against his chest, her shoulders shaking. The fair head, so like her mother’s, was bent, her body racked with shuddering sobs.
“He just didn’t care!”
Clumsily Rod stroked the bright head. “Honey,” he said awkwardly, “everybody isn’t the way we wish they were. Everybody has faults. Your father …”
“I don’t have a father.” Marianne’s voice was muffled against his chest. “I know it now. I have never really had a father.”
Rod stood, holding her, waiting for the storm to subside.
“You have one now,” he said.
Chapter Fifteen
ON THE WAY DOWN the mountain they stopped at the village to phone their parents. Glenn stayed behind at the cabin to stand guard over Juan and Rita. And to be there, Bruce thought wryly, when the police come. Trust Glenn not to miss out on something like that!
Jesse completed her phone call and stepped out of the booth, her eyes still bright with the tears that had sprung to them at the sound of her mother’s voice.
Bruce reached out and touched her arm as she passed him. “Hey, Jesse,” he said softly, “did you see it? It’s silver!”
“Yes, I know.” She smiled at him, a joyful smile that shone through the tears like sunshine.
For a moment they stood there, smiling at each other, bound together by the simple wonder of being alive. Then Bruce stepped into the booth to call his parents, and Jesse went back to the car and to Dexter.
On the rise above them the aluminum church glowed silver in the afternoon light.
A Biography of Lois Duncan
Lois Duncan is the author of more than fifty books for young adults. Her stories of mystery and suspense have won dozens of awards, and many have been named Best Books for Young Adults by the American Library Association. Some of her novels have been adapted for film, including I Know What You Did Last Summer and Hotel for Dogs.
Lois Duncan was born Lois Duncan Steinmetz in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, on April 28, 1934. Her parents, Lois and Joseph Janney Steinmetz, were both professional photographers. Since her parents’ work required travel, Duncan and her brother often tagged along, and these trips supplied Duncan with ample writing material. Duncan began writing poetry and stories as soon as she could spell. By age ten she was submitting her work to magazines, and she had her first story published nationally when she was only thirteen years old.
That same year the family moved to Sarasota, Florida. Duncan spent many hours daydreaming and writing near the family’s house on the beach. Through her teen years her work was frequently published by magazines such as Seventeen and the Saturday Evening Post.
Duncan briefly attended Duke University, but left school after one year to marry and start a family. She didn’t abandon writing, however, and she published her first book, Debutante Hill (1957), after winning a contest conducted by Dodd, Mead & Company, a major publishing house that has since ceased operations. Her work helped support her family while her husband attended law school.
Duncan had three children with her first husband. After they divorced, Duncan moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico. There she taught journalism at the University of New Mexico and finished her own college degree. She met and married Don Arquette, with whom she had two more children. Even while producing hundreds of articles for magazines such as Reader’s Digest and Ladies Home Journal, Duncan penned dozens of books.
Duncan’s novels are often filled with suspense and a sense of the eerie and supernatural, with elements including mystic visions and ghostly presences. In books such as Gallows Hill (1997), her protagonists face unexplainable phenomena while being pressured by classmates or friends to fit in and ignore their instincts. Much of Duncan’s fiction, such as Ransom (1966), They Never Came Home (1968), and The Twisted Window (1987), hinges on missing children, abductions, and the terror of accidental separation.
In 1989, Duncan suffered a great tragedy when her youngest daughter, Kaitlyn, was shot to death at age eighteen. The crime was never solved, and Duncan’s own investigation into the Albuquerque shooting became the basis of her 1992 nonfiction title Who Killed My Daughter? The book digs into the original murder investigation, and describes how Duncan’s daughter and members of the Albuquerque police force seem to have been caught in a complicated web of organized crime.
Lois Duncan now lives with her husband in Florida, where she continues to write.
Duncan was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, on April 28, 1934. Her parents, Joseph Janney and Lois Foley Steinmetz, were professional photographers.
Duncan’s parents enjoyed creating homemade Christmas cards. Because Duncan was named after her mother, her parents called her “Mimi,” and that nickname appears on some of those cards. Duncan insisted on switching to “Lois” when she started school.
Duncan’s brother, Bill, was born in 1937. This was his first appearance in a family Christmas card.
In kindergarten, Duncan composed rhymed verse, which she recited at show-and-tell. Instead of the praise she expected, she was punished and had to give up her snack. Her teacher thought Duncan was lying about writing the poems and had stolen them from a published writer. At age ten, Duncan began submitting stories to magazin
es. Her manuscripts were rejected, but she kept on writing and submitting, until she had accumulated so many rejection slips that her mother asked her if she wanted to paper a wall with them.
In 1946, Duncan’s family moved to Sarasota, Florida, where Duncan and her brother grew up in a rustic, isolated beach house. Today Siesta Key Beach is lined with hotels, but during Duncan’s childhood you could walk for miles and never see a soul. It was a perfect place for Duncan to scribble in notebooks and start pecking out stories on a manual typewriter.
Duncan is pictured here in 1950. She dreamed about becoming a professional writer, and at age thirteen, she made her first sale to a national magazine. Because her name, Lois Steinmetz, was the same as her mother’s, she decided to use her middle name, Duncan, as a pen name. She continued writing for magazines throughout her teens and eventually earned enough money to buy herself a Jeep.
Duncan’s photographer parents often traveled on assignments for magazines. Whenever possible Duncan and her brother went with them, and those expeditions served both as business trips and family vacations.
Everybody in Duncan’s family was expected to act as a photo model. This picture, which Duncan’s father took of her on a Florida beach, ended up as the cover of Collier’s magazine in 1949.
Duncan shown with her two oldest children, Robin and Kerry. A son, Brett, soon followed. Duncan attended Duke University for one year and then dropped out to get married. She wrote her first young adult novel, Debutante Hill, when she was twenty and entered it in a contest. It won the Seventeenth Summer Literary Award and was published as a result. When Duncan’s husband entered law school, she continued to write books, which helped pay for his tuition and support their growing family.
