Behind the Curtain (14 page)

A
REAL BIG STORM, BUT
Ingrid’s snug little boat was riding it out beautifully. Ingrid sat in the cabin, warm and dry in front of a roaring fire, the kind Grampy made, reading a book and sipping hot chocolate. Her little boat steered itself no problem, never needed any—

“Ingrid! Wake up!”

Ingrid opened her eyes, peered out through a gummy veil. Mom stood over her, toothbrush in hand and mouth a bit foamy.

“It’s five after seven, Ingrid. Don’t make me come in again.”

“Sure thing.”

“Ingrid! Your eyes are closing!”

Because they were so heavy—wasn’t that obvious?

“I’m not leaving till you sit up.”

Whatever makes you happy. Just keep the noise level down.

“Do I have to pull the covers off?”

Was there anything worse than having the covers pulled off, especially on a cold late-fall morning in a house with a dad who kept the heat down? Close to child abuse. Ingrid sat up.

And once up realized she felt pretty good, had had her best night’s sleep since all this started. Why? Must have been because now she had a plan. Foolproof, the very best kind.

“You up for good?” Mom said.

“Yeah.”

Mom took a quick look around the room. She was always doing things like that. “Where’s St. Joseph?” she said. “Wasn’t he on your shelf?”

“Um,” said Ingrid. “Must have fallen down behind.” The fact that he was out in the front yard, right side up and one foot under, ensuring that the house would never sell: Weren’t people entitled to the odd little secret about themselves?

Mom had a thought of some kind. “Everything all
right at school?” she said.

“Never better,” said Ingrid; pathetically, that was almost true.

“Good,” said Mom, a little surprised. “See you tonight.”

She left the room, then poked her head back in. “Maybe you can do me a favor when you get home—I need a sign stuck in.”

“Where?”

“One thirteen.”

“One thirteen Maple Lane?”

Mom nodded. “I got the listing.”

One thirteen Maple Lane, four houses down, was a shabby house unlived in since Mrs. Flenser—a terrifying old woman, like out of the brothers Grimm—had finally been dragged off to a nursing home a year or so before; but being the listing broker was never bad.

“Nice job,” said Ingrid.

“I hate estate sales,” Mom said.

“Does that mean Mrs. Flenser’s a goner?” Ingrid said.

“I wouldn’t put it that way, but yes,” said Mom. “And the inspection’s going to be a disaster.” Mom was starting to fret.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” said Ingrid. “All it takes is one stupid buyer.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” said Mom.

“Morning, petunia.”

“Hi, Mr. Sidney.”

“Planning to see that grandfather of yours sometime soon?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“You could tell him about the reunion. I’m on the committee. We sent letters, but he don’t answer.”

No surprise. Ingrid pictured those piles of mail all over Grampy’s kitchen. “What reunion?” she said.

“Corregidor vets,” said Mr. Sidney.

“Oh.” Ingrid knew Grampy and Mr. Sidney had fought on Corregidor together, but whatever happened there wasn’t something Grampy talked about. This reunion thing wasn’t going to fly with Grampy. “How about calling him?” she said.

“He never answers,” said Mr. Sidney. He glanced up at her from under the bill of his
BATTLE OF THE CORAL SEA
cap. “Any chance he’s got hold of that caller ID?”

Grampy? What a thought. “No way,” said Ingrid. “He must’ve been out in the barn or something.”

She moved toward the back of the bus. Maybe a few kids looked at her funny, maybe not. She didn’t care. This was all going to be over real soon.

Ingrid sat next to Stacy. “Yo,” said Ingrid.

“Hi.”

Just a soft little
hi
from Stacy, not her at all.

Ingrid lowered her voice. “What’s up?”

“Yeah,” said Brucie, leaning forward from the seat behind. “I’m all ears.”

Stacy turned quickly. Brucie shrank back, did a Dracula-in-sudden-daylight thing with his arms.

Stacy pulled her history notebook out of her backpack and wrote:
Sean and my dad had a fight.

Ingrid took the pencil.
physical?

Stacy took it back.
last nite.

“Ai haf cahm,” said Brucie, “to sock your blahd.”

The bus pulled up to the door at Ferrand Middle.

“Got a note?” said Mr. Porterhouse in homeroom.

“Note?” said Ingrid.

He checked his sheet. “You’re down as missing
in action yesterday.”

“I forgot it,” Ingrid said, coming very close to patting her pockets, a pantomime that would only make her less believable.

“But you’ll remember tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

“Or else it’s level two.”

Level two already? That was where detentions started, and it was only November. At this rate, she’d hit level five—death row—by April.

“He’d been drinking, no question,” said Stacy, on the bench by the swings at lunchtime. “Slurring and everything. Then my dad was, like, give me the keys to the Firebird, and Sean said no.”

“So your dad tried to get them off him?” said Ingrid.

“Yeah.”

“And that’s when the fight started?”

“My mom had to break it up.”

“God.”

“My dad was crying.”

“’Cause he got hurt?”

“I don’t think so.” Stacy looked like she might start crying too, and Stacy was not a crier. “Just that
it was all so…gross.”

Ingrid handed Stacy half her peanut butter sandwich.

“Marshmallow Fluff in it?” Stacy said.

“Yeah.”

Stacy ate in silence for a while. Then she said, “You ever think about having kids?”

“Nope,” said Ingrid. “I plan to be a kid all my life.”

“Makes sense.”

“Total.”

The bell rang. They got up, walked back toward the school.

“After it was over,” Stacy said, “Sean took off.”

“In the Firebird?”

Stacy shook her head. “On foot. My dad ended up getting the keys.”

“Did he come back?”

“Sometime in the night. Mom found him zonked out in the truck. Kind of funny—he was the only one who got any sleep.” Stacy’s face, always glowing with health, looked patchy and washed-out.

“Everything’s going to turn out all right,” Ingrid said.

“What makes you so sure?”

“A feeling,” said Ingrid.

“Great,” said Stacy, brushing the corner of her eye. A sharp wind was rising.

After school, Ingrid carried Mom’s for-sale sign—
RIVERBEND PROPERTIES, CALL CAROL LEVIN-HILL
—down the block to 113 Maple Lane. It was really blowing now, twigs getting ripped off the trees, dead leaves making tornadoes in the air, low dark clouds speeding across the sky. Nigel whimpered the whole way.

“Suck it up,” Ingrid said.

One thirteen was set back deeper than the other houses on Maple Lane, its shingles aged almost black, the whole front overgrown with bushes and vines. Ingrid found a good spot near the road and stuck the sign in the ground. The metal pole had a sharp end and a little footpad for pressing down on. It went in real easy.

She stepped back to check it was straight for traffic coming either way. Nigel picked that moment to cross the lawn and lift his leg in front of the garage door, making a puddle that spread and spread.

“Nigel. Get over here.”

Instead he found a dry place and curled up like a sled dog trying to survive a blizzard.

“It’s just a little wind.”

But he didn’t budge. And then came a particularly strong gust. Nigel closed his eyes as though getting ready to die, like with Scott at the South Pole. Ingrid went after him.

She’d never actually been on this lawn before—Mrs. Flenser had spent a lot of time on the front porch, always with knitting needles in hand. The grass was long, brown, and stringy, clumps of weeds everywhere, the driveway pavement cracked in three or four places. An odd kind of driveway—it seemed to continue around the side of the garage.

Ingrid went around the corner for a look. The pavement soon petered out, but a pair of ruts extended all the way to the woods, twenty or thirty yards away. And what was this? Tire tracks in the ruts? Ingrid knelt and examined them. Not fresh tracks; kind of eroded, maybe by rain. When had it last rained? Ingrid didn’t know for sure. The last rain she remembered was on the day she and Chief Strade failed to find any duct tape evidence in the gully off Benedict Drive.

She followed the ruts to the beginning of the woods, the tire tracks sometimes very faint but visible till the end. She looked to the right, toward her own house. Surprise. Ninety-nine Maple Lane couldn’t be seen from here, the woods jutting in so sharply that they even blocked most of the house next door. You could park a car here and no one would know. And a car had been here, beyond doubt. Plus: If she was right about the last rain, then the car had parked here before she was kidnapped, maybe just before.
Like maybe around the time Mrs. Grunello was seeing no cars at 99 Maple Lane, one of the biggest holes in Ingrid’s story.

She stepped into the woods. Was there a path that led from the back of one thirteen to the back of ninety-nine? No. But if you could squeeze past this tangle of brambles, the horrible purple kind, so spiky and—

Whoa. What was this? Caught up high in a twist of thorns: a baseball cap. Ingrid reached up, pulled it free. A Yankees cap, not unusual in Echo Falls, right on the border between Red Sox and Yankee territory. Ingrid turned it over, spotted four dark-brown hairs inside, about five inches long. Carl Kraken Junior had hair that color, not a lot, but
enough for a comb-over. Wouldn’t comb-over hair be pretty long?

Ingrid folded the cap with care and stuck it in her jacket pocket. Hair equaled DNA. Now she had two samples. And that quiet excitement that always overcame Holmes when he was building a case? She felt it in real life.

Something nudged the back of her leg. Ingrid glanced down and there was Nigel, tail wagging, suddenly energized.

“Good boy.” He’d overcome his fear, or maybe it had just slipped his mind.

Nigel wagged his tail harder, to the point of ridiculousness, then nimbly made his way around the brambles. Ingrid followed. The going grew easier—no path, but plenty of space between the trees. A minute or two later, she stepped out of the woods and into her own backyard.

She walked up to the garage. There was a little door at the back, never locked, too crooked to even close properly. Ingrid opened it: all shadowy inside, feeble light barely penetrating the dusty windows. For a moment she saw her garage through a predator’s eyes. It would do nicely.

What was the expression? Knowledge is power?
Ingrid felt herself getting stronger.

The wind was dying down. Nigel was perking up. He chased a squirrel up a tree and thought he almost caught it. Dogs fooled themselves all the time.

M
OM AND DAD BOTH
came home before five, very unusual. Ingrid was at the table, rearranging her homework in different piles. Ty was standing in front of the open fridge drinking OJ from the carton—a no-no. His back stiffened, taken by surprise.

But they didn’t call him on it. Instead Dad said, “Mom and I have been talking.”

Uh-oh.

“And we’ve decided we could all use a quick getaway,” Mom said.

“To Jamaica?” said Ingrid. That Christmas at the Sands of Negril two years ago: the best week of her life—splitting coconuts with a machete, the reggae
band around the pool, snorkeling at the reef, all those little fishes like jewels that had learned to swim.

“No,” said Dad.

“But we can discuss it over dinner,” said Mom. “The dinner we’re all going to make right now, together.” She laid some grocery bags on the counter.

“Ingrid,” said Mom, “you can set the dining-room table.”

“We’re eating in the dining room?”

“Ty,” said Dad, “clean the grill.”

“The barbecue grill?” said Ty. “Outside?”

“Hasn’t been used since Labor Day,” said Dad. “Needs cleaning.”

“Now we’re barbecuing in the winter all of a sudden?” said Ty.

“I got swordfish,” Mom said. “I’m making that wonderful barbecue sauce, the one with the balsamic vinegar.”

“And by the way, Ty,” said Dad, “it’s not winter yet. Try to be more optimistic.”

Eating in the dining room on a weekday, on any day for that matter, except Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthdays? Swordfish? That wretched balsamic gunk? What the hell was going on?

They sat around the dining-room table, Mom and Dad digging into swordfish steaks smothered in balsamic sauce, plus wild rice and mesclun salad, Ingrid and Ty eyeing the food warily.

Dad poured wine for himself and Mom.

“How about a little sip for the kids?” he said.

“I’m not sure that’s the direction we want to go,” said Mom.

“Oh, right,” said Dad.

Mom gave him a quick look. “How was everyone’s day?”

“Fine,” said Ingrid.

“Yeah,” said Ty.

“How’s Shakespeare coming along?” Mom said. First semester, ninth grade at Echo Falls High meant
Romeo and Juliet
, no exceptions.

“No complaints,” said Ty.

“Good,” said Mom. “Where are you in the play?”

“You know, um,” said Ty.

Ingrid swirled the Fresca in her glass. Entertainment was on the way.

Ty cut off a big hunk of swordfish, stuffed it in his mouth. “Hey, real tasty,” he said, or something like that—hard to tell with his mouth so full.

“Your mom asked where you are in the play,” Dad said.

Ty made a big show of chewing, held up his index finger for more time.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Mom said, “as long as he’s enjoying it.” She got a faraway look in her eye. Ingrid knew what was coming: poetry. Mom had tons of it in her head. “‘What’s in a name?’” she said. “‘That which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet.’”

“That’s from
Romeo and Juliet
?” Dad said.

“Act two,” said Mom.

Ty’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he got the swordfish down. “We’re still on act one,” he said.

“I’m not sure about that,” said Ingrid.

“What the hell?” said Ty.

“Not where you are in the play,” Ingrid said, just stopping herself from adding
bozo
, what with this formal dining-room atmosphere and all. “I mean about the rose.”

“Huh?” said Ty.

“Smelling as sweet by any other name?” Mom said.

“Yeah,” said Ingrid. “Like what if it was called a skunk instead of a rose?”

“Are you making fun of your mother?” said Dad.

“Mark,” said Mom, “of course she isn’t. She’s raising an interesting point.”

“What’s interesting about it?” said Ty.

“This whole question of names,” said Mom. “Would you be any different if we’d called you something else?”

“Brucie, for example,” said Ingrid.

“Like that dork on your bus?” said Ty. “You’re saying I’d be a dork?”

Ingrid tried the wild rice. Not bad at all.

“’Cause you’re the dork,” Ty said.

“Kids,” said Mom. “This is a nice family dinner.”

“So knock it off right now,” said Dad, with a quick glare for each of them.

Ty rose. “I’m done anyway.”

“But we haven’t discussed the weekend yet,” said Mom.

“What about it?” said Ty.

“Please sit down,” said Mom.

“I’ve got homework,” said Ty. Ingrid almost laughed out loud. Then she remembered the note she needed for Mr. Porterhouse. She could a) make up some lie to tell Mom, b) forge a note, c) accept getting bumped up to level two. C was actually the
easiest. At that moment she knew for sure she wasn’t cut out to be a criminal.

“I said sit,” said Dad.

Ty sat—on the edge of his chair, feet gathered beneath him for a quick escape, but sitting.

“Tell them, Mark.”

“About the getaway plan?” Dad sat back, dabbed his lips with a napkin. Still the handsomest dad in Echo Falls, although he was so dark around the eyes lately. Now Ingrid was glad to see them light up a little. “Everyone needs a break from time to time,” he said, “and this deal happened to fall into my hands.”

“What deal?” said Ingrid.

Mom slid a brochure across the table. Elbow Beach Club, Bermuda.

“We’re going to Bermuda?” Ty said.

“Saturday afternoon, right after Ingrid’s soccer game,” Dad said.

“The flight only takes a couple hours,” said Mom. “We’ll be there in time for a swim.”

“And coming back when?” said Ingrid.

“Sunday night,” said Mom. “Monday’s a school day.”

“A weekend getaway,” said Dad. “Well, let’s have some reaction.”

“What about Nigel?” Ingrid said.

They all glanced at Nigel, dozing by his water bowl as he so often did, like a drought might happen at any moment.

“We’ve already booked the kennel,” said Mom.

Nigel stretched his front legs, got a little more comfortable.

“We can swim?” said Ty.

“Pool and ocean,” said Dad, “plus golf and tennis and maybe we can check out parasailing too.”

“Parasailing,” said Ty. “Wow.”

Ingrid said nothing. Monster trucks and now Bermuda: why, of all Sundays, this one?

Saturday, eleven sharp, field one: Mid-State League U13 semifinals, Echo Falls versus Glastonbury. Glastonbury, first-place finishers in the regular schedule, had some dynamite players, especially that big red-haired fullback, already being scouted by a few colleges, according to Coach Ringer.

Coach Ringer, out of the hospital but not allowed to come to any games because of the excitement, doctor’s orders, had faxed a message to Julia. She read it just before game time, as the team gathered around.

“‘Four dimensions. Tell the kids to use ’em all.’”

“That’s it?” said Stacy. “The whole message?”

The girls muttered to themselves. “Four dimensions? Like width and stuff?”

“He’s back to his normal self,” Ingrid said.

The referee blew his whistle. A few of Ingrid’s teammates were still laughing as they ran onto the field.

Biggest game of the year, and Ingrid started well, zipping up and down her wing, taking a long looping pass from Stacy and driving one wide by only inches in the very first minute. But not long after that, she caught sight of Mom, Dad, and Ty in the stands. Ty never came to her games, was there only because they were driving to the airport right after. But how could she go? The sting was all set up for Sunday at noon.

Ingrid lost her focus after that. The red-haired sweeper dribbled past her three times, and Ingrid muffed a point-blank scoring chance. Then, just before the half, her corner kick landed on the back of the net, never even reaching the field of play.

Score at the half: 0–0. The girls sat on the bench and sucked on orange slices supplied by Mr. Rubino. Julia stood before them in her fur jacket and cool shades.

“Everybody understands the importance of the first goal in a game like this?” she said.

The girls nodded.

“We’ve had more chances,” she said, as the referee got out of his car where he’d been sitting with the heat on and headed for midfield. “Now we’ve got to close the deal.” Julia licked her lips. “So close the deal. Whatever it takes. On three.”

“One two three—Echo Falls!”

The girls ran out. Julia put her hand, a surprisingly strong hand, on Ingrid’s shoulder, holding her back.

“Something on your mind today, Ingrid?”

Ingrid saw her face reflected in Julia’s sunglasses, a pinched, worried-looking face. “Nope.”

“No new developments in what we were talking about at Moo Cow?”

“Everything’s fine.”

Julia peered down at her for a moment or two longer. “Their goalie jammed her right thumb just before the whistle,” she said.

“She did?” said Ingrid.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Not exactly.” The face in the sunglasses got a little more worried.

“I’m giving you a tip, Ingrid. Shoot high and to the left.”

“Oh,” said Ingrid. “Thanks.”

High left. Sounded good, but first you had to control the ball, and all of a sudden Ingrid couldn’t. It kept taking funny bounces, squibbing off the side of her foot, developing a mind of its own. Down at the Echo Falls end, Glastonbury had two good scoring chances—a penalty shot by the red-haired girl that grazed the crossbar, and a dangerous curving corner kick that Stacy headed away at the last instant. The ball went out of bounds off Glastonbury.

“Ref,” said Stacy, taking the throw in, “how much time?”

The ref glanced at his watch, held up one finger.

“We have to play overtime if it’s tied?”

He nodded.

“Overtime sucks,” said Stacy.

“Language,” said the ref.

Stacy shot Ingrid a quick glance, then threw the ball in to her. Ingrid kicked it right back to Stacy, then took off down the sideline with all the speed she had left, maybe not much. She didn’t even glance back. This was a play she and Stacy had
practiced for years, until Coach Ringer broke them up. Stacy’s job was to boom one down into the corner. Ingrid’s was to catch up before it crossed the end line, then send a pass in front of the net or take it in herself.

The ball came curving down into Ingrid’s line of vision, landed ten or fifteen yards away, bounced a few times, then rolled. From the corner of her eye she saw the red-haired sweeper angling across the field, real fast for a girl her size. Ingrid chased the ball down in the corner, looked toward the net. No one to pass to. And then the red-haired girl was on her. Ingrid tried that little left-footed fake Dad had taught her and that had worked so well against this girl earlier in the season. But this time she was ready, went right to the ball and stole it away. She cocked her leg for one of those tremendous kicks upfield. Just in time, Ingrid stuck her toe in, stole the ball back, took off for the net.

The goalie inched out to meet her, cutting off the angle, already sharp. The red-haired girl came up from the side, gave Ingrid an elbow. The stupid ball got away, rolled toward the goalie. The goalie came running to snatch it up. But Ingrid was running too, and so was the red-haired girl. Three girls and
the ball all came smacking together and Ingrid, the smallest, went flying.

The ground rose up fast and hit her hard—
boom
—knocking the wind right out of her. But Ingrid’s eyes were open, and she saw the red-haired girl and the goalie going down too. And the ball, all by itself now, was still rolling, slower and slower, but rolling. Rolling, rolling toward the far post. Too wide? Not quite. It bumped off the post and wobbled into the net.

The ref blew his whistle. Game over. The Echo Falls girls came racing over. Ingrid got her breath back and was about to jump up when—

Bzzz.
She had an idea.

Ingrid stayed where she was.

Everyone was standing over her—ref, players, and soon Mom and Dad.

“Ingrid? Are you all right?”

She groaned, then tried a little fluttering thing with her eyelids.

Mom knelt beside her.

“Hey,” said the ref. “Everybody back off.”

Everyone but Mom and Dad withdrew a step or two. Ingrid caught a glimpse of Julia, her head cocked at a slight angle, the sun glaring off her sunglasses.

“Ingrid?” Mom said. “Say something.”

She made her voice small and weak. “I don’t feel so good,” she said.

“Where?” said Mom. “Where don’t you feel good?”

“All over,” said Ingrid. “Not too good.” Then came a guilt pang, worrying Mom like this. “Not too bad, but not too good either,” she added.

“Huh?” said Dad.

“Anything broken?” said the ref.

Ingrid moved her limbs around experimentally.

“Can you get up?”

Ingrid made a heroic effort to rise, adding a subtle little stagger at the end. Dad reached out to catch her.

She walked slowly off the field, Dad on one side, Mom on the other.

“Should we take her to the hospital?” Mom said.

“Oh, no,” said Ingrid. “I’m fine.”

“Attaway,” said Dad.

“Not too fine, Dad,” Ingrid said.

They got to the parking lot. Ty had the side door of the MPV open, suitcases inside. “In fact,” Ingrid said, “I just want to lie down.”

“You can lie down all the way to the airport,” Dad said.

Ingrid tried a light-headed weavy precollapse type of move.

“Oh my God, Ingrid,” said Mom, grabbing her shoulder.

“Clock’s ticking,” said Ty.

Ingrid faced her parents. “I don’t think I can go,” she said. The watering up of her eyes just then? Somehow that happened for real. “I’m just too…shaken up.”

“What’s her problem?” said Ty.

Mom gazed down at Ingrid; not really down anymore—they were almost the same height. “I guess we’ll have to cancel,” she said.

“Cancel the trip?” said Dad. His golf clubs lay on the backseat.

“No, no,” said Ingrid. “You guys go. I’ll stay home.”

“By yourself?” Mom said. “What are you talking about?”

“Ingrid can stay with us,” said Stacy, standing by the Rubino Electric truck.