Wanted! (11 page)

Get breakfast, she told herself. You have three dollars; get some orange juice, get a bagel. You need calories.

She slung the backpack over both shoulders, tried to pretend she didn’t look like the girl described on the radio and shown on television, and left the ladies’ room. She would have a raisin cinnamon bagel with cream cheese and then she would feel better.

There was quite a line, but it moved very fast; people knew exactly what they wanted. Alice yearned for food so badly she was embarrassed for herself. She was next. One bagel would not do. She needed two of them, or eight.

The woman two ahead of Alice was juggling a coffee, an orange juice, and a bagel, along with her purse and briefcase and laptop. In spite of this, the woman looked Alice straight in the eye and caught her breath. “Hey—” she said.

“Hi,” said Alice, smiling. “I think I recognize you, too. Aren’t you Julie’s mom? Can I help you carry something?”

It worked. The woman got busy explaining that no, she was Matthew’s mom, and Matthew was only six, and probably…

“Well, you have a nice day,” said Alice, still smiling, and she stepped casually out of line. She walked back out the rear door. She did not have the composure to prevent tears. Tears came in spasms, like a garden hose with a kink. She took paper napkins out of a metal table container to mop her eyes.

Beyond the parked cars was a long, raised, planting area with city-type trees as neat as crayon drawings. Past that was more shopping, with traffic entrances and exits for the next set of stores. It was much too early for any of the stores to be open. In the distance, Alice could see a church spire and the towers of office buildings, glinting like sunglasses. Alice always wondered what held up a building that seemed to be one-hundred percent glass.

Dad worked in a one-hundred percent glass building.

In fact, he worked in one of those.

How far was she from actual downtown? One mile? Two?

The still-rising sun was behind Alice and did not shine in her eyes, but cars turning into the parking lots moved slowly, and Alice thought they could probably not see very well.

And there, most visible, was the car belonging to Paul Chem. As a reward for his brilliance, his grandparents had gotten him a Jeep Wrangler: the real kind, squared off and open, for moving soldiers.

The Jeep was full of guys—three or four of them standing up, hanging onto the frame, looking around and having a wonderful time.

There was no reason for Paul Chem and his friends to be around here; there was nothing here for them; at this hour there was nothing here for anybody; certainly not for high school students who belonged in class.

Only the possibility of finding Alice.

Being hunted by the police was scary, and yet police did that: They hunted the bad guys. But being hunted by her friends! And these did not qualify as friends—they were just people she would recognize in the hall. Why were they doing it? What sick thrill could they be getting?

Maybe she should not believe her own eyes. She had had several shocks, and not enough sleep or food. Perhaps she was hallucinating. It was an evil mirage: a dancing chorus line of classmates that she was constructing from her imagination.

She found her fingers splayed against her cheeks. She was holding her head up with her hands. Her spine had weakened. Without assistance, she would droop and puddle in the road.

Like Rick Rellen, Paul Chem held a phone in his hand as he drove.

They’re calling in to each other, she thought. He’s saying, “I checked the K Mart lot and the Twenty Outlets Under One Roof lot. What’s my next assignment?”

Was the whole city literally looking for her? Was this an actual team? A squad? People with training? Had somebody said, “Everybody who wants to hunt Alice meet before school, and we’ll divide up the city and suburbs and have a hotline so we can update each other.”

If this were true, then Alice had become entertainment.

Girl murders father; high school turns out; better than a car wash! Better than a football game!

After all, they’re tired of tag sales and bargain hunting. Why not hunt a person? A cheap safari, so to speak. And you get on television if you pull it off.

How dare they!

How dare her classmates turn against her! Hunt her down, eyes scanning crowds, phones ready, gas tanks full!

Alice wanted her mother so badly. Who else could stop this invasion? Who else would know how awful it was, and hug her, and keep her safe?

But to reach her mother…

No. There was too much in between.

She could not bear to be caught by these boys. Caught like an animal—a bad dog that had gotten off its leash and had had to be brought home and tied up.

No. They would not catch her.

Alice ducked down behind parked cars and watched Paul Chem circle. There was no question about his intent. He was searching for something, and it could only be her. Finally the Jeep headed for a distant exit that had its own traffic lights and would leave Paul heading in the wrong direction to locate her.

She stood up, feeling protected by the cars parked behind Bagel Deluxe, but she was wrong.

Paul Chem leaned out of his Jeep, skidded on a turn, and shouted, “Alice!”

A
LICE FLUNG HERSELF AROUND
Bagel Deluxe and across the six lanes of traffic. Cars would brake in time, or they wouldn’t.

Paul Chem would be blocked by the concrete curbs, the raised gardens, parked cars, and a complex series of traffic lights. Would he abandon his precious Jeep and come after her on foot? Alice bet that he would not.

Cars honked as if they were in a marching band. Alice made it across and darted down a side street.

She was on the edge of the city. Low buildings were like foothills before the mountains of downtown. The side streets were all one-way. Alice doubled over a block until she was running the wrong way on a one-way street; the Jeep could not follow her here.

In the distance, a city bus belched smoke as it slowed for a stop. Alice had never been on a bus. Her neighborhood had no public transportation. Was that bus her answer, or was it a fifty-seat trap, and if she got on, strange faces would glint with the thrill of capture, shouting, “You! You’re the one!”

She was shocked to hear an engine behind her. This was a one-way street! Cars could only come toward her! She flung a look over her shoulder.

Paul Chem was so eager to capture her that he had taken his precious Jeep and was actually driving against traffic to pursue Alice.

Alice was furious. She fled down an alley. Would this be like television? Trapped at a dead end by ten-foot-high chain link and topped with rolls of slicing wire?

A garbage truck was backing up as it picked up trash, its automatic horn beeping steadily. Alice squeezed by. The Jeep could not follow. Alice burst out of the alley.

Like pus from a blister, she thought. There was something putrid and stinking about being chased.

Paul’s friends would have vaulted out of the Jeep so they could run wherever she ran. Their legs were longer, stronger, and not yet tired. She had no hope.

How would they stop her? A flying tackle? Shove her up against a wall? Grab her wrists and pinion them behind her back?

She raced across another main thoroughfare, fled the wrong way up another street, and through another service alley.

It seemed to her that every face she saw was familiar. She tried to stay sane; she knew she was making this up; these dozens of cars, these hundred faces—they were strangers to her, and she to them.

But one glimpse of a blonde ponytail, and she thought it must be Kelsey.

One glimpse of a crewcut and she thought it must be Michael, who sat next to her in homeroom.

Alice’s legs were trembling. She wanted to stop and lean over, brace herself against her own knees. She had fire in her muscles, cramps in her lungs.

What I need, Alice thought, is a car.

She was afraid to look at cars and afraid not to look at them. What if she saw Kelsey? She wanted to believe that Kelsey had said: Oh no, not me, I’m not going to hunt Alice. I’m going to wait by the phone in case Alice calls and needs me.

I need you
,
Kelsey
, Alice thought.

She had run all the way downtown: towering buildings, international hotels, taxi stands. She walked now and, walking, became invisible; just somebody else headed for work. It was actually still early on Thursday morning. People were still stopping for a cup of coffee, buying a newspaper, getting gas.

The real enemy, Alice said to herself, is not the kids from school. The real enemy is whoever killed Dad. I have to find out who that is. I have to have a plan.

But Alice did not have the faintest idea of what to do next.

She could hardly show up at Austin & Scote asking them to help identify all Lumina owners who had ever known Dad. And if she were to appear at Dad’s office, it would be Mr. Austin and Mr. Scote who would pin her to the wall and call the police, instead of Paul Chem.

If she continued through the downtown area, she’d be blocked by the Interstate, which was not the kind of road pedestrians crossed, and by bridges over the river, none of which had walking access.

Alice switched directions. She covered block after block, long blocks one direction, short blocks the other. She was completely without destination. She had only speed.

She felt damaged, as if Paul Chem had run over her. As if she had tire tracks on her heart. She had no friends. Only people who knew her and wanted to bring her down and bring her in.

The fact that this was
her
—plain old nice Alice—got harder to believe, instead of easier. The inside of her mind swayed, like a swing in the wind—nobody sitting there.

To her astonishment, the university appeared again. She kept forgetting how big it was, how much space a place that educates forty thousand people takes up.

On this rim of the campus was a one-story building painted a friendly yellow, with an immense balloon bouquet sign that reminded her of the wooden ice cream cone at Salmon River. A driveway curled up to the front door, and a wide canopy shaded idling cars.

It was a day-care center.

Each parent left the car running while they went in with a child.

Cars facing out of the city.

Cars full of gas.

Cars ready to go.

Alice could have her pick.

There was an old Dodge sedan, a Voyager with
three
car seats, a cute little sky blue Toyota pickup, an old fake-wood-sided station wagon, and a beautiful black Mazda RX7.

Alice was giddy with choice.

Everybody expected her to be on foot. Nobody would be looking for her in a car. In fact, everybody would have an exact description from Paul Chem: baseball cap, glasses, jeans, and T-shirt, and most of all, the alley where he’d lost her.

But in a car, without cap, without glasses…

The mother getting out of the blue Toyota truck unloaded a huge tray which had been resting on the front seat bench. Alice was close enough to see cupcakes, iced in pink with tiny white candles, and the little girl whose birthday it was looked about three. The girl was wildly excited and the mother said, “Don’t make me spill,” and the little girl held the door for her mother.

It would take time to deliver those cupcakes, discuss the birthday with the teacher, kiss the birthday girl good-bye on such a precious day.

This was the car. A blender if there ever was one. Nothing slid into traffic more easily than toy trucks. In that Toyota, Alice could be miles away before the police got here. Then she could abandon the truck and take another one, before anybody guessed it was Alice who had it.

The mother and the three-year-old disappeared inside the day-care center. Big yellow doors shut behind them. The engine of the little truck burbled in a friendly, picture-book kind of way. Other fathers and mothers drove up, hopped out, and carried, pleaded, argued, scolded, kissed, hugged, and waved.

Not one parent paid any attention to any other parent.

Absolutely nobody was going to notice a thing. This was the moment.

Alice didn’t pause for a second.

She walked away.

She had not committed murder, and she could say so, and it would be the truth, whether they believed her or not. But if she took that truck…if she really and truly drove away in another person’s car…

She could never have faced her parents.

Parents, thought Alice. I have only one parent now.

What must her mother be going through? Surrounded by police and neighbors and acquaintances and business colleagues? All of whom believed that Christina Robie was the mother of a girl who would bludgeon her own father?

I have to let her know I’m all right, thought Alice. Except, I’m not all right.

She wondered if the E-mail message had been displayed or read aloud, on television. What if all Mom’s friends, and all Alice’s friends, had read and believed?

Alice felt computerized. She had functions and, until her plug was pulled, would go on calculating. But she could not actually think.

Alice dragged herself onto the campus. It was crawling with police cars. They’re not looking for me, she said to herself. There’s probably a big game; they’re here to manage traffic at the stadium.

Right. On a Thursday morning.

Big game, she thought. I guess a girl who killed her father counts as big game. I guess this is now a hunting preserve.

Why must the campus be so barren? Why were there no little copses of trees, little gatherings of flowers, little quadrangles of benches and sculpture?

When she saw a sign for Flemming she knew she was going there. It was familiar, and she was desperate for a safety zone.

“Alice,” said a voice right next to her.

This is it, she thought wearily. It’s over.

She turned slowly, to see which pursuer had pulled it off.

It was Rick Rellen. He had pulled the Volvo over when he spotted her, not bothering to park, and the bulky square car was angled awkwardly. His graying beard partially hid a smile. He stretched out his arms to hug her. They had never hugged. They had hardly ever even spoken. “Alice, honey, your mother and I are so worried about you! I am so glad I found you!”