Behind the Curtain (12 page)

“S
PYING ON YOU, GRAMPY
?” Ingrid said. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s one thing I won’t tolerate,” Grampy said. “Spying.”

“I would never do that,” Ingrid said. “I didn’t even know you were here.”

“You didn’t?” Grampy said.

“No,” Ingrid said. “But what
are
you doing here, Grampy?”

“Nothing,” Grampy said. He clamped his mouth shut, almost like a little kid. A nurse came by, pushing one of those rolling beds. The man on it, hooked up to an IV, wore one of those horrible
johnny outfits, bony white legs sticking out. His eyes were closed.

“Let’s get out of here,” Grampy said.

Ingrid followed Grampy down the hall, left turn, right turn, another left. He seemed to know his way around. They came to the main door. As it slid open, Grampy paused.

“Is this a school day?” he said.

“Kind of.”

“Then I can ask you that same question,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

Ingrid paused.

“You’re not sick or anything?” He peered at her. “Don’t look sick.”

“I’m fine,” Ingrid said.

“Well, then,” said Grampy. “Spit it out.”

“It’s complicated, Grampy.”

“Do I look dumb?”

“Of course not.”

“Then try me.”

Ingrid lowered her voice. “It’s about steroids,” she said.

“What the hell’s that?” said Grampy.

“Steroids?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Them, Grampy.” Ingrid started to explain, soon got the feeling she wasn’t being even as clear as Mr. Porterhouse.

Grampy looked confused and said, “You take some medicine to get pimples on your back?”

“That’s more of a side effect,” said Ingrid. “Getting strong is the main thing, and calling it medicine is maybe—”

Grampy held up his hand like a traffic cop. “You get strong from an honest day’s work,” Grampy said. “Everybody knows that.”

They did? What about all those millions of workers tapping away like crazy on their keyboards? Were they bulking up? “This is more the kind of—”

“I’m hungry,” Grampy said. “You hungry?”

“Not re—”

“We’ll talk about this stereo thing over lunch,” he said. “Up at the farm.” He got a funny look in his eye. “Bacon sound all right? How about ham or pork chops or pork ribs?”

“Grampy!” Ingrid said. “You didn’t hurt that little pig?”

Grampy lifted Ingrid’s bike into the back of the pickup—tossed it in, really, with an easy motion
like a young man. They crossed the bridge, the river flowing fast beneath, black and ripply.

“Anyone ever warn you about falling in a pigpen?” Grampy said.

“No.”

“And you’re how old again?”

“Thirteen.”

Grampy shook his head. “Stereo medicine to give you pimples and not knowing about falling in a pigpen. This country’s in big trouble.”

“What happens if you fall in a pigpen?” Ingrid said.

Grampy turned onto 392, followed the river north. “Pigs are smart and always hungry, just like us. Only difference is they’re short.”

“You’re just trying to scare me,” Ingrid said.

“Wouldn’t do that, kid,” said Grampy. “Run that stereo thing by me one more time.”

Ingrid tried to think of the right place to begin. The answer came all by itself. “I got kidnapped, Grampy. But no one believes me.” The next moment she was crying, really sobbing like a little kid, out of control. Grampy looked over in total alarm.

Ingrid got it together.

“Uh,” said Grampy, “might find a rag in back you could wipe your face with.”

“I’m fine,” Ingrid said, and she wiped her face on her sleeve. Then, in a voice that sounded lower than her real voice, she told Grampy the whole story, leaving out nothing except the Ty part. Of course, the story didn’t really make sense without the Ty part, but maybe it wasn’t making sense to Grampy anyway. His face didn’t change from beginning to end, except for darkening when the name Kraken came up. Was he keeping up with the story? Did he believe her?

“That’s it?” he said, turning up the long drive to the farm.

Ingrid nodded.

“One thing I don’t get,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“How come you didn’t tell the cops about this motive?”

“The steroids?”

“Yeah.”

She glanced at him. Face still expressionless, but he’d followed the whole story. And his not getting just that one thing had to mean he believed her. She loved Grampy.

But what could she say? Ingrid made a tough decision, a decision that meant breaking her code, the code of kids in Echo Falls and maybe everywhere. “Promise not to tell?” she said.

Grampy shook his head. “That’s not a real question,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Because you’ll never get a real answer,” he said.

That rang like a bell in Ingrid’s head, completely true. “It’s about Ty,” she said, and gave up the rest of it. “So that’s why I can’t tell Chief Strade. Ty’d have to go to court. He’d be kicked off the team and maybe worse than that.”

“The law of the land comes first,” Grampy said. He drove past the barn. The little pig was in its pen, head poking out one of those round windows Grampy had cut, looking cute and harmless. “Except for stupid laws, of course,” Grampy added. “Goes without saying that family comes before stupid laws, and Ty getting in law trouble for these pimple pills would be stupid.”

“He just wants to be stronger for football,” Ingrid said.

“Football’s not his game,” said Grampy.

That pissed Ingrid off. “You’ve never seen him
play,” she said. “He’s the only freshman on the varsity.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Grampy. “If football’s going to be your game, you got to love to hit. Really love it, like the rest of the game is just an excuse. And that’s not your brother.”

Ingrid thought back to Ty’s games. Grampy was right. Ty was very brave about the hitting, but he didn’t love it.

“Wasn’t your father, either,” said Grampy, parking by the house.

“Huh?” said Ingrid. “Dad was the star of the team.”

“Because he was a real good athlete,” Grampy said. “Lots of athlete genes in this family, kid. But he wasn’t a hitter.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Course not,” said Grampy. “What good would that do? Can’t make someone a hitter.”

“Did you play football, Grampy?”

Grampy, reaching for the door handle, got a faraway look in his eye. He nodded slightly.

“For Echo Falls High?”

“And after,” Grampy said.

“After?”

“In college.”

“But you didn’t go to college, Grampy.”

“Hmmm,” said Grampy.

“What do you mean, hmmm?”

Long pause. “This is one of those things not too many people know about,” Grampy said. “Most likely none.”

“So I have to promise not to tell?” said Ingrid.

Grampy gave her a long look. “Too bad there’s not football for girls,” he said.

“Are you saying…?”

“You’re a hitter, sure as shootin’,” said Grampy. “Takes one to know one. Come on in the house. I’ll show you something.”

They walked up to the house. Grampy always used the back door, a barn-red door with white trim and windowpanes in the upper half. Now he’d left it open for some reason. And…what was this? One of those windowpanes had a big jagged hole in it, fist size.

Grampy stood before his back door, a puzzled look on his face. “I don’t…” His voice trailed away.

“I think someone broke in, Grampy,” Ingrid said.

Pink patches appeared on Grampy’s cheeks. A
growl came from deep in his throat and then he strode inside. “Say your prayers, you son of a bitch,” Grampy called out in a voice so scary, it would have given Ingrid the chills if she hadn’t had them already.

The back door opened right into the kitchen. It was a mess. The piles and piles of mail that usually lay on the table were now scattered all over the place. Every cupboard door stood open, and some of the drawers had been yanked right out and dumped on the floor. The broom closet was open too. That was where Grampy kept his guns—the .22 rifle that Ingrid had learned on, the .357 handgun she was too young to use, and the twelve-gauge shotgun, a beautiful old Purdy side-by-side with a wooden stock that glowed like it was alive.

Grampy grabbed the shotgun. He fumbled around on a shelf at the back for a box of shells, broke the gun open, loaded both barrels.

“Right behind me, now,” Grampy said.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“Can’t trust a cop,” Grampy said. “How many times I have to say it?”

Shotgun half raised, index finger resting on the trigger guard, Grampy went through every room in
the house, Ingrid right behind him.

“Goddamn it,” Grampy said.

Every room in the house was turned upside down. The front door, like the back, hung open, but none of its panes were broken. Meaning—someone had opened it from the inside, probably on the way out.

“Maybe whoever it was heard us coming,” Ingrid said. “Or saw the pickup on three ninety-two.”

Grampy nodded. He gazed through the doorway, past the barn, the brown fields, the highway and the tree line on the far side, smoke rising from one of those distant cottages on the old Prescott farm. And no one in sight. He lowered the shotgun.

“Is anything missing, Grampy?” Ingrid said.

“Better check,” said Grampy, his voice quiet and dull, like there wasn’t enough air in his lungs all of a sudden for making lots of sound. Ingrid stepped in front of him and closed the door, locking every lock.

They went back through all the rooms, reshelving things, putting them back in drawers, righting a tipped-over lamp or two.

“Nothing missing,” Grampy said, his voice still not normal.

The kitchen, messiest room by far, they tackled last. Grampy took care of the cupboards and drawers;

Ingrid handled the mail.

“Nothing missing,” Grampy said again.

“So what was the point of the break-in?” said Ingrid.

No answer from Grampy.

So much mail, almost all unopened, some of it going back months, as Ingrid could see from the postmarks.

“Don’t you ever open your mail, Grampy?” she said.

“All junk,” said Grampy, putting the shotgun back in the broom closet.

Some of it didn’t look like junk to Ingrid. She sorted it into three huge mounds—definite junk, possible junk, other. Sorting away at the table, she felt a draft on her ankles, glanced down and saw one of those heat-duct grates in the floor. No heat on yet, of course, not Grampy’s style, meaning cold air was snaking around down there. And what was that? A little white glimmer in the darkness under the grate. One more letter.

Ingrid knelt, stuck her hand through the bars of the grate, couldn’t quite reach.

“Looks a little better,” Grampy said, his voice not quite so weak. “How about something to drink?”

Ingrid rose, leaving the letter down there. “I’ll make tea.”

Their eyes met. “You’re a good girl,” Grampy said.

That was nice.

“Someone tried to kidnap you?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Their life is over,” said Grampy, his voice back at full strength.

Grampy built a roaring fire. Ingrid made tea. They drank it from big mugs at the kitchen table. Grampy poured some VO into his.

“Is that a kind of whiskey?” Ingrid said.

“Canadian,” said Grampy. “Had a Canadian buddy.”

“Was that during the war?” Grampy never talked about the war.

He nodded.

“On Corregidor?” Ingrid said. Corregidor was some horrible thing. Mr. Sidney had been there with Grampy, although Ingrid had never heard any of the details.

“No point discussing that,” Grampy said. “Tell me again why the kidnapping’s connected to these pills.”

“What else could it be?” Ingrid said.

They went over the whole story a few more times. They drank more tea, Ingrid’s with milk and sugar, Grampy’s with VO. Grampy started repeating some of the same questions. Smudges darkened the hollows under his eyes, turned a little purple. He was getting tired.

“So you think this orderly’s involved with one of the Krakens?” he said for the third time.

“The youngest one.”

“Krakens are scum of the earth.”

They’d gotten to that point already. The sky darkened outside and the wind came up. Ingrid rose and taped cardboard in the broken windowpane.

“What should I do, Grampy?” she asked.

“No I,” said Grampy. “We.”

That felt nice too, especially if it had practical results. They sat in silence for a while. Then Grampy startled her by smacking his hand on the table.

“Got an idea,” he said. “I’ll lend you the three fifty-seven.”

“I don’t—”

“You could carry it around in that backpack of yours.”

“—think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh, right,” said Grampy. “I haven’t taken you out with the three fifty-seven yet.” He glanced outside. “Maybe a little too dark now. How about tomorrow? There’s an old scarecrow in the barn. We could pin a heart on his chest and—”

“The gun won’t help us solve anything,” Ingrid said.

“Studied any history yet?” said Grampy.

He thought some more. No other suggestions followed. Maybe Grampy just couldn’t get his head around the whole steroid thing, the way the clock on his VCR was always flashing twelve. He drove her home, mostly in silence, except for a bit of coughing on Grampy’s part. Ingrid could feel his mind drifting somewhere else.

“What was it you were going to show me in the house, Grampy?” she said.

“Nothing important,” said Grampy.

N
O ONE HOME: TY
still at practice, Mom and Dad at work. No one home and very quiet, the sound of Grampy’s pickup driving away still audible. The house was full of shadows, the edges of everything all fuzzy, but Ingrid didn’t turn on any lights. She went upstairs and lay on her bed, not like her at all on a late afternoon.

She spoke out loud. “What the hell am I going to do?”

Ingrid had read somewhere that sleep was a time when the brain got busy on its own, knitting together this and that, making sense of things. Right now would be good for a sleep like that. But just as
Ingrid was about to close her eyes, her gaze fell on the statue of St. Joseph, standing on the shelf over her computer.

A plastic man, bearded and long-haired, not much taller than the soccer trophy beside him. Ingrid didn’t know exactly who St. Joseph was. Somebody’s father, maybe? All she knew was that Mom’s clients liked to bury him upside down in their yards to make their houses sell quickly.

What if you buried him right side up?

I guess your house would never sell.

Ingrid got up. She felt funny, not quite herself, more of a virtual self, a figure in a dream. Maybe her brain was doing some knitting after all. She took St. Joseph off the shelf, carried him downstairs, entered the garage.

Gardening tools hung on wall hooks. Ingrid selected a little hand spade, six or seven inches long. She went out to the front yard.

Where was the best spot for this? Maybe by the dogwood bush, her favorite landscape feature at 99 Maple Lane. Ingrid knelt, cut out a circle of grass, careful not to damage it—Dad was fussy about the lawn, sprinkled all kinds of stuff around every spring. Then she dug a hole, narrow and a little
more than a foot deep. No frost yet, the earth still pretty soft—digging was fast and easy.

Ingrid buried St. Joseph right side up in her front yard.

Her mood lifted before she even got back inside, no longer tired or fuzzy. She switched on lights, sat at the kitchen table with a cold Fresca and a minibag of Fritos, a great combo. Yes, her mood was lifting, like something good was on the way. She thought of Grampy’s .357. Sherlock Holmes didn’t go in for a lot of gunplay—his favorite weapon was a hunting crop. Watson had a pistol. It appeared in “The Adventure of the Speckled Band,” for example, one of the scariest of the Holmes stories because of that swamp adder,
deadliest snake in India.
But in the climactic scene, the pistol plays no role; in fact, the snake doesn’t even get killed.

For some reason, Ingrid’s mind wanted to stay with that last scene. By then, Holmes had figured out how Dr. Roylott killed Miss Stoner’s sister, but he had no proof. For proof, he had to be inside the mansion when Dr. Roylott went after Miss Stoner herself. Holmes kept Miss Stoner safe from the
swamp adder, of course, secretly moving her to another room and hiding out with Watson in her bedroom while Dr. Roylott got that whole diabolical snake plan going. It was really a kind of…

Sting.

Bzzz.

Ingrid felt an idea, a huge one, struggling to be born. The sting was one of the strongest weapons of law enforcement. How did it work, exactly? You set up the bad guy, made sure you were there when he committed the crime, caught him red-handed. For example, say you knew a guy was selling stolen cars. What do you do? Buy one from him, maybe saying at the same time, “This sure is a great price, buddy.”

And he’d snicker, guilty as sin. Tucking the cash into his greasy pocket.

“What’s that little laugh all about?” you’d say.

And he’d say, “You don’t wanna know.”

“Oh, but I do,” you’d say, as you snapped on the cuffs.

The door opened and Mom came in from the garage. Ingrid looked up, startled. She hadn’t heard a thing.

“Hi, Ingrid,” Mom said, giving her a close look. “How was school?”

“School?” said Ingrid. “Oh, fine. You know.”

“Much homework?” said Mom, kicking off her shoes and sliding on her sheepskin slippers.

“Um,” said Ingrid.

“What does that mean?” said Mom. “I know things may be…difficult now, but it won’t help to let your schoolwork slip.”

“No chance of that,” Ingrid said.

Mom did a quick double take. “You’re in a good mood today,” she said.

“Pretty good.” True, and kind of amazing, what with everything she’d been going through. But Ingrid knew why: Now she had a plan. She was going to sting them like they’d never been stung.

“I’m glad,” said Mom.

All very well, Ingrid thought while Dad drove her to the high school for the
Wizard of Oz
rehearsal, to talk tough about stinging, but exactly how was a sting organized, anyway? It had to start with putting out the word that you were in the market for something—in this case, steroids. Putting the word out meant she’d have to have a target, someone on the receiving end of the word. Who was that going to—

Dad’s cell phone rang. He answered it. “Hi, Tim.”

Ingrid couldn’t hear what Mr. Ferrand was saying, but she caught the tone, not nice.

“But that wasn’t what she—”

Mr. Ferrand’s voice rose.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Dad said, and clicked off.

Dad sped up, shifted gears, grinding them slightly, which never happened. He was a great driver and loved the TT, treating it like a baby.

“Going back in to work, Dad?”

He nodded. A passing streetlight turned his face into all bones and shadows. Had he lost some weight?

“It’s kind of busy these days, huh?” Ingrid said.

“Can’t be afraid of hard work, Ingrid. Haven’t we been through this?”

“You mean all that globalization stuff?”

Dad’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Try to express yourself a little more maturely,” he said.

That hurt. Ingrid sat back in the seat. Had she been grating on him, grating on her own father? She folded her arms across her chest and didn’t utter another word.

“It might help,” said Jill Monteiro, sitting on the auditorium stage at Echo Falls High, feet dangling
over the edge, “if we shared an understanding of what this scene’s all about.”

Silence from the cast—Stacy, Mia, Brucie, Joey, Ingrid—all of them sitting with their feet dangling too. Somehow Brucie’s sneaker fell off, landing with a loud smack. Brucie had big feet for his size.

“Brucie?” said Ms. Monteiro.

“Yeah?”

“Any ideas?”

“Sure,” said Brucie. “How about a car that washes itself?”

Stacy jabbed him in the arm, hard.

“Ow,” said Brucie.

“Retard,” said Stacy.

He batted his eyes at her, like he was in love.

“Joey?” Jill said.

Joey, sitting next to Ingrid, gazed down at his script. “Scene?” he said, like it was a foreign word or something.

“This little episode,” said Jill. “When the four travelers finally meet the wizard they’ve been seeking. What ends up happening?”

Joey’s eyes stayed on the script, but he couldn’t have been getting any help from that, because it was turned to the title page and just said
Wizard.
“Ends
up happening,” he mumbled to himself.

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, dudes,” said Brucie.

“Joey?” Jill said.

Joey took a deep breath. “They find out he’s a con man.”

Jill clapped her hands together. “Exactly.”

Joey looked up, a surprised and slightly pleased expression on his face. A great expression, in Ingrid’s view.

“The wizard is a con man, as Joey says,” said Jill. “This is where we get to see what’s behind the curtain, the way things really are. And when we do, there’s another surprise.”

“What was the first one again?” said Brucie.

They all ignored him, including Jill, a fast learner. “Anyone?” she said.

Blank looks, except for Mia. “Even though the wizard’s a fake,” she said, “he ends up giving them what they want anyway.”

Wow. Mia was so smart.

Then Ingrid got a little idea of her own. “Except for Dorothy,” she said.

Jill smiled. “Now we’re ready,” she said. “Let’s put on a play.”

Was there anything like the theater? Not even close.

“Can we pause right there for a sec?” said Jill, not long after. “In my script, Brucie, that line doesn’t read, ‘I am Oz, the great and terrible and oh so cool.’ It just says ‘the great and terrible.’”

“That’s called ad-libbing,” said Brucie.

“Let’s stick to the script for now,” said Jill.

“Jawohl,”
said Brucie.

Stacy whacked him again, actually hard enough to hurt. Brucie didn’t bat his eyes this time. Things went smoothly after that.

Just before the end of the rehearsal, Ingrid saw a little old man coming down one of the side aisles. Hey, Mr. Samuels.

“Ms. Monteiro?” he said.

“Hi, Mr. Samuels,” said Jill.

“I’m going to be doing a piece on The Xmas Revue this year,” he said. “Any chance I could snap a few rehearsal photos?”

“Free ink?” said Jill. “Fire away.”

“You showbiz types,” said Mr. Samuels, taking a camera from his coat pocket.

He came close to the stage, took pictures as they
rehearsed. Ingrid made sure to block out his presence completely, although she did allow a dazzling yet somehow mysterious smile to play across her face from time to time. Yes, she was a showbiz type.

Only when Jill said, “That’s all for today,” did Ingrid remember the braces and clamp her mouth shut. Too late.

They filed out to the lobby. Parents were parked outside, all except Ingrid’s. Jill and the kids drove off, leaving Ingrid plus Mr. Samuels, squinting into the viewer of his camera, checking his photos.

“Got some good ones here, Ingrid,” he said. “Who’s the wizard?”

“Brucie Berman.”

“Is his father the rabbi?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, boy,” said Mr. Samuels, putting the camera away. “How’s that grandfather of yours these days?”

“Good.”

“I ran into a few snags trying to nail down the owners of those cottages where the complaint got filed,” Mr. Samuels said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ingrid said. “The pig thing worked.”

“Happy to hear it,” said Mr. Samuels. “But I’m
going to keep digging anyway. This one’s got my curiosity up.”

“How come?” said Ingrid.

“Turns out that Delaware outfit, DRF Development, is just a shell.”

“A shell?”

“Like one of those Russian dolls,” said Mr. Samuels. “Eggs within eggs. The innermost one I can find so far is Black Coral Investments, based on one of those Caribbean islands. Which of course is why I got curious.”

Ingrid wasn’t following this too closely. What did it matter, now that the pig thing had worked?

“Those Caribbean islands,” Mr. Samuels went on, “where anonymous companies hide out when they don’t want scrutiny from Uncle Sam. This particular island’s one I hadn’t heard of. Anguilla, I think is how you say it.”

Ong Willa. Hey. That rang a bell, but before Ingrid could figure out why, Mr. Samuels changed the subject.

“Not particularly interesting to a civilian, I guess,” he said. He came a little closer. “And how are you yourself doing these days, Ingrid?”

“Fine,” said Ingrid.

He gazed down at her; not too far down, because Mr. Samuels was just a little guy. A curious little guy, with still and watchful eyes that didn’t miss much. He knew something. Oh my God. Could all this get in the paper?
SCHOOLGIRL CAUGHT IN ELABORATE RUSE
. Unbearable.

“Sure about that?” said Mr. Samuels.

“Yeah,” said Ingrid. “Very.”

He backed off a step or two. “The press can be your friend,” he said. “I hope you know that.”

He waited for her to say something. “Give us a good review,” she said.

Mr. Samuels was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I call ’em like I see ’em. No integrity, otherwise.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No problem,” he said. He glanced outside. “Someone coming to get you?”

“They’re just a little late.”

“I could drop you off.”

“Thanks, Mr. Samuels,” Ingrid said. “But I’ll be okay.”

The door had barely closed behind him before Ingrid realized something very important: Time was
a factor. There were going to be headlines, and soon, all about her. A permanent record and completely false. She couldn’t afford a lot of musing about the fine points of organizing a sting. That kind of dithering was what had got Hamlet in trouble. Ingrid had never actually read or seen
Hamlet
, but Jill had told everyone the whole story during a rehearsal break two or three productions ago. And, hey! What was that whole play-within-a-play scene if not a sting?

She had to hurry.

And…and here she was, alone in the deserted high school. The high school where Ty and Sean and God knew how many other steroid customers spent their day. Also the high school where Carl Kraken the third’s father, Carl Junior, worked out of that basement office. The observer who truly understands one link understands the whole chain.

Ingrid looked outside. No headlights approaching, no Mom or Dad about to pull up to the front door. Ingrid headed back into the school, passed a big pep rally poster—Red Raiders Rule—and took the stairs leading down.