Behind the Curtain (17 page)

A
ND THEN JULIA’S
face was gone.

A jolt went through Ingrid. She bolted away without a thought, like one of those prey-type animals that survive by speed. And maybe like them too, she headed first in the wrong direction, toward those distant woods. It was only after ten or fifteen yards that her brain checked in and she realized where she had to go. Ingrid wheeled around, her cleats digging through the snow, and took off on a long diagonal past the farthest cottage, through the fringe of evergreens, across 392—not a car in sight—and into Grampy’s fields. One thing about Ingrid: She could run, and now she ran her all-time
fastest, everything flying by in a blur. She looked back only once, as she reached the far side of 392, and through a gap in the evergreens saw the cottage—door hanging wide open, no one in sight.

Ingrid crossed Grampy’s fields to the long driveway, sprinted past the shed and the barn, around the house to the back door. Locked? Not Grampy. He came from another time. Ingrid threw open the door.

“Grampy! Grampy!”

No answer, house quiet, a low fire burning in the kitchen grate.

“Grampy! Where are you?”

She ran through the house—living room, dining room, all neat and tidy, never used by Grampy, then up to his bedroom, kind of messy.

“Grampy!”

No Grampy. She ran back downstairs, into the kitchen. Where could he be? She spun around. That fire had to mean—

And then Ingrid was airborne, slipping on a pile of unopened mail. She landed hard, face-first on that grate in the floor. Under the grate lay the envelope that had been out of reach the time she tried to straighten up Grampy’s mail. Now so close she could read the front:
Urgent, Personal and Confidential.
And there was no stamp. Deep inside, Ingrid felt something shifting, like those plates way down under the earth’s crust. Her mind tossed up a memory fragment: that glass of milk slipping from Julia’s hand at Moo Cow.

She reached through the grate. The letter was still two or three inches out of reach. Ingrid rose to her knees, pulled at the grate. It didn’t budge. She got a better grip, yanked with all her strength. The grate came ripping out of the floor, screws and all.

Ingrid grabbed the envelope—no stamp? what was that all about?—and tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper. She unfolded it.

What she saw made her feel faint, actually dizzy for a moment or two. At the top was written:

Below that was a digital photograph. It showed a kid lying in the trunk of a car, arms bound with duct tape. The eyes and mouth were taped too, but anyone who knew Ingrid would know the kid was her.

Whatever it takes.

Those deep-down plates stopped shifting and locked into place. Two puzzles, as the chief had suggested. Puzzle one, the steroid ring; and in her hand was the final piece of puzzle number two, filling in the biggest hole in her story: motive. It all made sense.
Ransom—no note.
Now she had every—

Ingrid heard a sound, looked up.

Julia stood in the doorway, the pitchfork in her hand.

Ingrid backed up a step. “Grampy?” she said, not screaming the name, which was what she felt like, but calling in a normal voice so Julia would think he was in the next room.

Those green eyes went to the letter in Ingrid’s hand, to the piles of unopened mail, to the torn-up grate, back to the letter. Ingrid could almost feel Julia thinking, like her mind was a powerful high-pressure system pushing into the room.

“Give me that letter,” she said.

“Grampy?” Ingrid said again.

The green eyes shifted, paused, came back to Ingrid. “Nice try,” Julia said. “You’ve taught me something.”

Ingrid didn’t speak.

“The meaning of the saying ‘too smart for your
own good,’” Julia said. “That’s you.”

Ingrid shook her head. “I think it’s you,” she said.

She should have stayed with the nonresponse. Julia’s face, so striking, got all twisted up in a terrifying way. Then she bounded across the room, so fast. Ingrid darted toward the dining room. Julia swung the pitchfork, caught Ingrid on the side of the leg. Ingrid went down, tried to scramble away on her hands and knees. Julia dove on top of her, the pitchfork coming loose, clattering on the bricks in front of the fireplace. They rolled right over it, ended up with Julia on top. She grabbed for the letter, balled up now in Ingrid’s hand. Ingrid wouldn’t let go. Julia gripped Ingrid’s wrist, forced her hand into the fireplace, closer and closer to the flames. Ingrid felt the heat, hotter and hotter, unbearable. She let go of the letter. It fell into the fire, flared up.

“Step one,” said Julia.

She reached for Ingrid’s throat.

And then: “What the hell is going on?”

That voice came from the doorway. Grampy, all covered in snow, a bundle of firewood in his arms.

“Grampy! Help!”

The logs fell to the floor. For a moment Grampy looked a little confused. Then he said, “Hey, good
girl. You caught the thief.” A strange interpretation of what was going on, but that was Grampy. He came forward. “Get off her,” he said, his voice low and growly.

Ingrid, down on the floor, felt Julia’s body tense.

“Careful, Grampy, she’s—”

Too late. Julia rose, grabbed the pitchfork. Grampy kept coming forward. Maybe he believed a woman couldn’t hurt him. Maybe he believed no one could. He reached out to take the pitchfork away from Julia. She drove it at him, almost missed. Only one of those outside tines, a broken-off one, got him. It sank deep into his shoulder.

Everything went still, except for the faces of Grampy and Julia. His got all white. Hers got triumphant, like she’d just proved something. That made Ingrid go a little crazy. She jumped up and charged at Julia, her hands squared into fists. They both fell. Something hit Ingrid in the face. The room got noisy, went black, white, black again. When it settled down, back to normal, Grampy was holding the pitchfork and Julia was running out the door.

“Grampy, your shoulder.” Blood was seeping through his jacket.

“No time for that,” said Grampy. He went to the broom closet, took out the .357.

From outside came the roar of a big engine. Grampy and Ingrid went to the back door in time to see the Boxster speeding down the driveway toward 392, fishtailing all over the place, tires spinning wildly, snow flying.

“Come on,” said Grampy. “You’ll have to drive.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Only got one arm,” said Grampy. “Temporarily. Can’t drive and shoot at the same time.”

“But Grampy. Let’s just call the police.”

“Call the cops?” said Grampy. “Are you nuts?”

“But I can’t drive, Grampy.”

“Sure you can. It’s just like the tractor.”

He’d taught her to drive the tractor. Plus what no one knew was that she’d actually had a little adventure with Grampy’s ancient Caddy during the Cracked-Up Katie episode.

“But what about your shoulder?” Ingrid said.

“Just grazed me,” said Grampy. “And what makes you think we got time for all this jawin’? You gonna trust me or not?”

Ingrid trusted Grampy one hundred percent, which was how she ended up behind the wheel of the
pickup, Grampy beside her with the .357 in his hand.

“Nothing sudden,” said Grampy. “That’s the secret of driving in snow. Slide it into D.”

Ingrid, perched on an old blanket, slid it into D.

“Now go.”

Ingrid went.

They headed up the driveway. Way ahead, Julia was turning onto 392. Maybe she didn’t know the nothing-sudden rule, because the Boxster spun around in a complete three-sixty, banging off a telephone pole. The car sat in the middle of the road, rocking back and forth.

“Step on it a little,” said Grampy.

Ingrid stepped on it. The rear of the pickup drifted out by itself, a very weird feeling.

“Ease off,” said Grampy. “Don’t touch the brake. Steer right into the slide.”

Ingrid eased off, didn’t touch the brake. She steered into the slide, which seemed like a wacky idea. The pickup straightened out, all by itself.

She trusted Grampy.

Up ahead, the Boxster was moving again, slower now.

“Snow,” said Grampy. “One of those equalizers.” He rolled down his window.

“We’re not actually going to shoot the gun, are we, Grampy?” said Ingrid.

“Somebody breaks into your house and you don’t shoot?” said Grampy. “What am I missing?”

“There’s other—”

“Step on it.”

Ingrid stepped on it. The distance between the Boxster and Grampy’s pickup began to shrink. No other cars on the road, snow flying all around, up, down, sideways, the sky growing dark.

“Where’s the headlight thing, Grampy?”

“Don’t need ’em,” said Grampy. “Lived here all my life.”

The bridge appeared on the left, white and filigreed like a ghost shape. Grampy leaned out the window and fired a shot, an orange blaze in all that white.

“Don’t, Grampy,” Ingrid said. “How are you going to hit anything in this?”

“Maybe you got a point,” said Grampy, lowering the gun. “But step on it.”

Ingrid put a little more pressure on the gas. Was Julia watching in her rearview mirror? The silhouette of her head seemed to shift, and the Boxster speeded up.

“She’s going to take the bridge,” Grampy said, “head for the interstate.”

It didn’t look like that to Ingrid. Julia was going way too fast for any kind of a turn, not in this. But at the last second, the Boxster swung to the left, just making the turn onto the bridge. Way too fast: the rear of the car slid far far out, and then the Boxster swung, round and round. It smashed into the rails on one side with a horrible crack, shot back across to the other, then flipped over and took flight, high into the air, tumbling and tumbling, first up in a long arc that was kind of mesmerizing and then down and down, starting to vanish in all that streaking snow and vanishing for real into the river.

“Oh my God.”

Ingrid turned onto the bridge, stopped the pickup, jumped out. She ran to the side, looked over the rail. No Boxster. No Julia. Nothing bobbing to the surface, nothing to see except the river, black and roiling like it was in some huge temper, whirlpools getting born like funnels down to nowhere. Ingrid got the feeling the river was telling her something—something Oz-like about witches and melting away.

Grampy walked up and put his hand on her
shoulder. She felt a little dampness on her neck. Grampy’s blood?

“We’ve got to get you to the hospital,” Ingrid said.

“I’ll drive,” said Grampy, “now that the shooting part’s over.”

C
HIEF STRADE TOOK JOEY
and Ingrid to Benito’s, best pizza in town. They ordered the Vesuvius, a large thin-crust with everything.

“On the house,” said Benito, but the chief paid anyway.

“We could get practically anything free if we wanted,” Joey told Ingrid.

The chief turned to Joey. “But?” he said.

“But?” said Joey.

Ingrid gave him a little kick under the table.

“Oh yeah,” said Joey. “Not a good idea.”

The chief nodded. He handed Joey a five-dollar bill. “Go play video games,” he said. Benito’s had a video game room at the back.

“None of them are any good here,” said Joey.

“Maybe they got some new ones in,” the chief said.

“They never—”

“Do me a favor,” said the chief. “Go check.”

“Check on the video games?”

“Something wrong with your hearing, son?” said the chief.

“Huh?” said Joey. “What—”

Another kick under the table, harder this time. Joey went to check out the video games.

The chief laid some papers on the table, turned them so Ingrid could see.

Ingrid looked up. Chief Strade was watching her.

“Well?” he said.

Ingrid had a feeling she’d just caught a naked glimpse of how the world worked, a quick peek behind the curtain. No funny little man playing wizard—it was a lot more complicated than that.

“You tell me,” she said.

“I believe it all happened just like you said,” the chief told her. “But even if we had that note, nothing suggests that there was more than the single perp, now deceased.”

Joey came back holding a small pink stuffed monkey with hostile little eyes.

“What the hell’s that?” said the chief.

“The prize for getting to level ten,” said Joey. He handed the thing to Ingrid.

The Gobbler Bowl game started at ten. Echo Falls versus South Harrow, a rivalry that went back to 1899. Ingrid got up at seven—had to be at the field early to grill burgers for the Boosters—and went downstairs. No one in the kitchen, but Mom already had the turkey in the oven—the smell filled the house. Grampy, shoulder all sewn up, wouldn’t be at the field—he’d had it up to here with football, even the Gobbler Bowl game—but would stop by the house later. He’d promised to bring deep-fried yams he made himself, some recipe from way back, inedible.

Ingrid went over to the table. What was this? A Boxster brochure, with a dealer’s card attached. The dealer’s name was Buddy. Buddy had written a little note.
Hey! Mark! Check out Chapter 1!!
Ingrid flipped to page eight: gleaming Boxster on a mountain road, handsome young dude at the wheel, hair flying free. Dad had been pretty cheerful the last few days. He’d gotten a big raise from Mr. Ferrand. Ingrid tossed the brochure in the trash.

She heard that familiar clang from the basement, went down to see. Ty lay on the bench press, stripped to the waist, pumping iron. Four twenty-
fives. With the bar, that made one forty-five: a little less iron, but still plenty, in Ingrid’s opinion.

“Is that a good idea before the game?” she said. Ty was starting for the Red Raiders on Gobbler Bowl Day, amazing for a freshman. Everyone said the boys who played in the Gobbler Bowl remembered for the rest of their lives.

Ty raised the bar into the cradle, sat up. His muscles didn’t look quite as big as the last time she’d seen them, not quite as defined.

“Why not?” he said.

“Maybe you should be saving your strength.”

Their eyes met. His were distant. He reached for his
BIGGER, FASTER, STRONGER
T-shirt and put it on, but not before Ingrid saw that his back was less pimply. “Pretty funny coming from you,” he said.

Ingrid ignored that. It was a special day, after all, and maybe he was right. “You nervous?” she said.

“No way.”

“I play better when I’m nervous,” Ingrid said.

“That’s soccer,” said Ty. “This is football.” But his hands were trembling; she could actually see it.

“I read this survey,” Ingrid said. “Ninety-nine point nine percent of NFL players say they play better when they’re nervous.” Complete fabrication.

“Yeah?” said Ty. “Where?”

“Where what?”

“Where was this survey?”

“You know. One of those sports magazines at Dr. Binkerman’s.”

“Like
ESPN the Magazine
?”

“Yeah,” said Ingrid. “Like that.”

“Sure it said the NFL?”

Ingrid nodded. “The big boys,” she said. “The big boys of autumn.” Maybe she had a future in sports broadcasting.

Ty looked thoughtful. “What time is it?” he said.

“Around seven thirty.”

“I better start getting nervous,” Ty said.

“In a hurry,” said Ingrid.

Their eyes met again, and all of a sudden they were laughing, just laughing and laughing like crazy little kids, tears on their faces. Somewhere in the house Nigel started barking maniacally.

“Hey,” Mom called down. “What’s going on?”