The Kidnappers (3 page)

What was I thinking? Willie was
already
in worse trouble than losing a few books and papers. He'd been kidnapped! I should have left Ernie sitting in the car and run back into the school to report it.

And then I remembered Mr. Sciotti's reaction to my hoax about the rat in the bathroom the day school started, and decided maybe it would be safer to leave the school out of it.

As soon as we pulled up in front of the Upton Towers, I bolted out of the car, but Ernie caught me by the back of the neck before I got very far.

“Slow down, cowboy. You're helping me with this stuff, remember? You take the two little boxes, and I'll get the rest of it.”

“Ernie, please, this isn't one of my tall stories, I promise! I really do have to call the cops!”

“Well, it's your hide, not mine. You can call them as soon as we get this stuff upstairs. Thank you, Sherman. Nice day, isn't it?”

“Indeed. Beautiful October.” Sherman was smiling, but I couldn't smile back. I didn't think it was worth telling him my story, but Ernie had paused when Sherman held the door open.

“Joey's in fine form today. Witnessed a kidnapping of the kid who was going to kill him this afternoon.”

“Well, well.” Sherman was beaming. “That's a good solution, isn't it? Mrs. Bishop just called down to see if you had arrived yet, said you were running late.”

“Had a fender bender. Some cretin scratched my right front. Mr. Bishop's not going to be very happy with me, but the guy who caused it had more damage than I did. Don't know why I want to make a living driving in this town.”

I wanted to smash them both. Why couldn't they see that this time I wasn't playing jokes? I stormed on past Sherman, stepped into the waiting elevator, and punched the button. I didn't care if Ernie made it on this trip or not.

He got a foot into the opening before the doors closed. “You mad at me, Joey?” he asked, getting a better grip on the boxes he carried.

“You won't listen to me,” I said. “It's real. It's serious.”

This time he didn't crack a grin. “Okay. I'll listen on the way up. Somebody snatched this little punk . . . where? Right in front of the school with everybody watching? And nobody else noticed?”

“Everybody else was already gone.” I still didn't think he was giving me the benefit of the doubt, but I felt compelled to tell him anyway. “I had ducked into the foyer of that apartment house right next to the school, and I could see out the window. Willie was looking around to see where I'd gone, and this car drove up real slow—a black Chrysler with a fancy emblem on the door, like royalty—and a guy jumped out and dragged Willie into the backseat.”

“You see the driver? What did he look like?” Ernie sounded half convinced.

“The windows were black glass. I couldn't see through them. But,” I added in a spurt of words I hadn't known I was going to say until they came out, “I
did
get a look at the guy who grabbed him.”

“Yeah?” We stopped at the sixth floor, and a woman carrying a briefcase got on. “We're going up, ma'am.”

“So am I. Eighth floor,” she said pleasantly, and we didn't say any more until she got off a few moments later. Then Ernie asked, “What did he look like?”

It was funny. I could see the face really plain, but there wasn't anything particularly distinctive about it. “I don't know. Youngish. Older than Mark, but younger than you. Twenty-four, twenty-five, maybe?”

“Dark? Blond? Identifying tattoos?”

I screwed up my face, trying to remember. “Dark. Yeah, dark hair, like mine and yours. Just an ordinary face. No scars or tattoos.”

“Makes a better story if he had a unique tattoo. Like, a serpent running up his arm, or a shapely lady on his biceps.”

He didn't believe me after all, I thought angrily. He was starting to smile again.

“Build? The cops always want to know the perp's build. Big? Little? Fat? Skinny?”

I had to think again. “He moved fast, and I never saw him standing up straight. Average height, I guess. Not big, but he had muscles. He was wearing a white T-shirt, and he had strong arms.”

“Well, they ought to be able to narrow it down from that description,” Ernie said, stepping forward as the elevator doors slid open. “Can't apply to more than half the men in the city. Get that door, will you?”

Anxious and frustrated, I followed him into our apartment, wondering if I'd have any better luck with the police than I was having with Ernie.

A part of me was sort of glad Willie was getting what he deserved instead of pounding on me. But I was uneasy, speculating on what was going to happen to Willie if I didn't report the kidnapping to the cops right away. I didn't think I hated him enough to want to see on the six o'clock news that somebody'd found his body in an alley.

The sooner I reported this the better.

Usually our apartment is like a tomb except for the music. If Mom or Sophie is home, there is classical music, either on the piano or on CDs. If Mark is home by himself, there is rock or jazz or rap. If there is only me, I prefer books and silence. Father objects to Mark's music if it penetrates as far as the room where he's working or reading. He never comments on anything else.

That day we were assaulted by noise the minute we walked in.

It was Junie's day to clean, and she was running the vacuum cleaner. Sophie was practicing, something loud and fast that I'd never heard before. Ernie came as far in as the dining room, where he unloaded his packages alongside the ones that were already there.

He gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Keep up the good work, Joey. You'll banish all the demons and dragons yet.”

I didn't answer him. The heck with him. He'd be talking out the other side of his mouth when he read in the paper that Willie had been rescued from the foulest of kidnappers because of evidence provided by Joel Bishop, age eleven.

It was impossible to talk on the living room phone because of Junie's vacuum cleaner. I dumped my own load of packages and headed for the kitchen.

The dishwasher was running, and my mother was standing at the phone, covering one ear with a hand to screen out the worst of the racket.

“But Mr. DeForest promised them to me by tomorrow morning!” she exclaimed as I walked in. “The party is tomorrow evening at eight, and it will take at least an hour to arrange them all. I can't be doing flowers at the last split second. There are too many other last-minute things to do.”

She glanced around, acknowledging me with a nod.

Silently, I mouthed the words,
I need to use the phone.

She shook her head and mouthed back,
Not now.

Mark had his own phone. I headed for his bedroom.

Unfortunately, he was there. Sprawled on the bed with the phone screwed into his ear.

He stared at me with annoyance.

“Can I use your phone?” I asked. “I need to call the police.”

His eyebrows went up. “I'll call you back, Tracy,” he said into the receiver, and then hung up. But he didn't hand the phone to me.

“What in heck for?”

I swallowed and willed him to believe me. “I saw a kidnapping take place. I need to report it.”

My brother groaned. “Not now, Joe. I'm having an important conversation, and I don't have time for this. I thought you were serious.”

“I
am
serious. I saw a kidnapping, Mark.”

“Who got kidnapped?” He didn't bother to conceal his skepticism.

“Willie Groves. This black New Yorker stopped, and a guy got out and grabbed Willie and threw him in the car, and they roared away before I could get the license number, and—”

Mark scowled. “Joey, you're so full of crap I wouldn't believe you if you said the house was on fire and I could smell the smoke. Get out of here.” He started dialing and turned his back on me.

For a few seconds I considered jumping on top of him and wrestling the phone away from him. Better judgment changed my mind. He's even bigger than Willie, and the last time I had wrestled with him he sprained my wrist and we knocked over a lamp and were both grounded for a week.

There was yet a third telephone line in the place, but I'd never used it. It was in Father's study, and nobody was supposed to touch it but him.

There was no reason to think Father would be home for another couple of hours.

This was urgent. The cops were probably going to be mad that it had taken me this long to make a report.

I walked past Mom, still arguing with someone on the kitchen phone. Past Sophie thundering on the piano. Past Junie in her white ankle socks and athletic shoes with her black uniform encasing her like an overstuffed sausage.

She gave me a smile but didn't try to talk over the racket. For once I couldn't smile back.

The minute I walked into the study I felt like a trespasser. Well, I
was.
The only times I'd ever been in it before had been when I was delivering something or getting dressed down for something.

I closed the door behind me and crossed the deep green carpet to the impressive desk. There was nothing on it except the phone, a pen and pencil set, and a notepad with nothing written on it.

Now that I was ready to call, I was almost paralyzed. My fingers were cold as I dialed 9-1-1.

I was so panicky that I didn't even hear the words spoken by the calm voice, but I knew it had to be the emergency operator.

“I . . . I need to talk to someone about a kidnapping,” I said, thankful that I didn't squeak.

“A kidnapping? Your name, please.”

“Uh . . . Joe Bishop,” I said, sounding as if I wasn't sure about it. “There's this kid from my school. I saw a car stop and drag him inside. I didn't get the license number, but it was a black Chrysler New Yorker, this year's model, I'm pretty sure.”

There was a small silence before the man's voice came back on, brisk and cool. “Look, son. This is an emergency line. We have no time for practical jokers. In fact, it's a crime to make false reports. You could wind up before a judge for this kind of thing.”

“No, wait! This isn't a joke, it really happened! You've got to listen to me! The kid's name is Willie Groves, his dad's the head of—”

The man had hung up. I stared in disbelief at the phone. The police were supposed to help you, not write you off as some kind of kook.

The door opened and my mother stood there looking at me. And not as if she were pleased with me. “What are you doing in here, Joel?”

“Using the phone. I was trying to call the police, but the guy wouldn't listen to me—”

“The police? What for?”

“Mom, nobody believes me, but it's true, I swear it! I was sort of hiding from Willie Groves. He was chasing me. There was this car that drove up beside him and a guy pulled Willie into the backseat and they drove away! Willie dropped his books on the sidewalk, and they kidnapped him! Honest!”

She stared at me for another few seconds, then sighed. “Joey, don't get into another one of your dramatic presentations. We have a major event planned for tomorrow evening, and there are still dozens of things to see to. I don't have time for this. And you know you're not supposed to be in your father's study. He hates to have anyone touch his things.”

I got up from Father's chair, feeling like screaming. How could I get someone to listen to me?

“Call Willie's folks, then! They'll tell you he didn't come home from school! They'll tell you he's missing!”

For a few seconds I thought she was halfway convinced that I was on the level. Then she turned away. “Come out of here before anyone else sees you. Your father would be most unhappy if he knew you'd been in here.”

“Please, Mom! It would only take a minute to call and find out for sure!”

She wavered, and I pulled open drawers, looking for the phone book. “I'll find it, the number. Call them!”

So she did. My heart was tearing my chest apart, making a thundering in my ears where the blood was racing out of control.

“Hello, Mrs. Groves? Oh, this is Joel Bishop's mother. Is Mrs. Groves available?”

I held my breath.

“I see. Well, can you tell me if Willie is home from school yet?”

Whoever was on the other end of the line said something, and my mother's expression changed. There was no belief there now as she fixed her gaze on me. “I see. Thank you.” She dropped the phone into its cradle. “Mrs. Groves has gone to Boston for a few days because of her mother's illness. And Willie isn't home because the chauffeur called half an hour ago to say he'd been delayed because of a minor accident. But the maid didn't think there was anything wrong at all.”

“But the chauffeur didn't pick him up! He hadn't come by the time somebody kidnapped Willie.”

She walked across the room, herding me ahead of her into the hallway. “Did you tell this story to anyone at St. Bart's?”

“No. Ernie came, and I told him, but he didn't believe me and wouldn't let me stop to telephone the police—”

“I shouldn't wonder. Joey, an imagination is a wonderful thing, very entertaining, but there are limits. Nothing truly catastrophic has happened because of your tall stories, so far, but this one might result in our having to get a lawyer to keep you out of juvenile hall! Do you realize that? Have you thought what your father's reaction would be if the police actually came here to question you?”

I was thinking of it now. I remember he turned purple the time I set the trap to get even with Mark—after he'd destroyed some of my history papers so I had to redo them—and Father was the one who got drenched with the bucket of water when he went into Mark's room. And
that
had been relatively harmless.

For a moment I wondered wildly if maybe I
had
imagined the whole thing. Had I had so much practice trying to put things over on other people for the fun of it (mine) that I'd finally slipped over the edge and was believing one of my own stories?