Behind the Curtain (13 page)

I
NGRID WALKED ALONG
the basement corridor in Echo Falls High. This was the oldest part of the school, the walls stone, the brick floor worn smooth. Grampy had gone here long ago, maybe strolled right down this corridor when these bricks were new. She’d known about Grampy going to the high school but never really thought about it. Now it turned out that Grampy had played for the Red Raiders too, a ferocious hitter on the football field, probably a big star like Dad. She tried to picture a teenage Grampy and couldn’t. Hard enough to picture a teenage Dad.

Those rows of unused rusted-out lockers went by. Somewhere nearby a furnace rumbled. The floor
vibrated under Ingrid’s feet. She came to the door marked
CUSTODIAN
:
MR
.
KRAKEN
. Closed. Ingrid put her ear to it, heard nothing.

No sound at all, except for the furnace. Getting late now, the school emptied out, Carl Junior probably long gone. Long gone, so he’d have locked the door behind him. Ingrid tried it. Unlocked. Were things starting to go her way? She opened the door—it squeaked on its hinges, the custodian’s own door, which had to say something about him—and stepped inside.

No one there. The office was dark except for the desk lamp, spreading a narrow cone of light. Ingrid went over to the desk.

A messy desk, all kinds of bills and memos scattered on it, a few glass jars filled with nuts and bolts, an ashtray overflowing with butts. But what caught Ingrid’s attention the most were some little waxy crescents: fingernail cuttings. Really gross. Of course, if you snuck into someone’s personal space, you were bound to—

Whoa. Fingernail cuttings. Something Holmes had said was coming back to her, something about—yes, that was it:
the suggestiveness of thumbnails.
From “A Case of Identity,” right? One of her favorites, but she’d never really understood what the
suggestiveness of thumbnails meant, beyond Holmes’s usual thing about observing closely. Now she wondered whether Holmes was somehow ahead of his time. When was DNA discovered, anyway? Ingrid didn’t know, but she was pretty sure it was after Holmes.

She tore off the top page of Carl Junior’s desk calendar—the day was practically over anyway—and blew two fingernail cuttings onto it. No way was she going to actually touch them. Holmes wouldn’t have either. She folded the page into a square and pocketed it. Kraken DNA: might come in handy.

On a roll now? Ingrid got the feeling she was. She pawed through all the papers on the desk, found a pen, kind of greasy. Now to compose a note. Why was putting something in writing, even a sentence or two, always so hard?

Ingrid pulled the desk calendar closer and wrote on the new top page.

Ingrid paused. Where would be good? Maybe after you’d set up three or four stings you’d know the perfect location right off the top of your head, but
this was her first one. She mulled over a few possibilities—the swings at Ferrand Middle, the parking lot at Blockbuster, the Punch Bowl pond in the town woods—saw pros and cons for each. She was still mulling, pen poised over Carl Kraken Junior’s desk calendar, when she heard hard footsteps coming down the corridor.

Her heart pounded in her chest, going into a panic that spread instantly to the rest of her. What was her story going to be?
Quick, quick, like now.
But no story came. Ingrid whirled around, noticed a closet at the back of the room. The hard footsteps got louder. She ran to the closet door, threw it open.

A big closet, dark and shadowy. A glimpse of file cabinets, cardboard boxes, clothes hanging from a rail, junk all over the floor, and then she ducked inside, closing the door softly behind her. At the same moment, the office door opened with its little squeak.

Almost total blackness inside the closet, just a band of dull yellow light, almost brown, leaking in at the bottom. Ingrid scrambled back into the closet till she could go no farther, wedging herself between two filing cabinets. Her heart—she could actually hear it.

Footsteps sounded on the office floor. Ingrid heard a little
hmmm
, quiet and thoughtful. Made by
a man, no doubt about it. Then came shuffling sounds—he was going through the papers on the desk. Too late, Ingrid remembered her
Wizard
script. She’d had it in her hand when she’d entered the office, and didn’t have it now. Could she have laid it on the desk, say when she was writing her sting note? Very possible. And had she written her name on the title page the day Jill had handed them out? Sure, that was one of Jill’s rules, and Ingrid, maybe not a great follower of rules in general, always followed Jill’s.
Ingrid L-H
—she could picture it, just below
Wizard
.

A drawer opened and closed. Then another. Ingrid heard a clink of glass, remembered Carl Junior boozing at his desk. She didn’t hear any unscrewing or pouring sounds, though, just another clink, maybe a bottle going back in the drawer. She also remembered that Carl Junior had been counting money at his desk. Money: a link in the chain? Ingrid thought of the $1,649 in Sean’s baseball glove, $1,649 not there the second time she looked. Where had it gone? What was that expression? Follow the money. Good idea, if she ever got out of here.

Silence. What was going on? Could he—

Suddenly Ingrid heard voices. Faint voices, not in the office but from the corridor outside. The man in the office must have heard them too. The next moment, he was on the move, his footsteps almost silent now, very quick. And headed her way. Was he going to—

The closet door opened. Light rushed in. Crouched between the file cabinets at the back, Ingrid looked up. Her view was mostly blocked by clothes hanging on the rail—overalls, flannel shirt, yellow slicker. A man came in, but all Ingrid caught were a few slices of him: thick upper arm clad in a dark shirt, dark pant leg, big black shoes. Not his face. Did that mean he couldn’t have seen her? The door closed and the closet went black again, except for the ribbon of light under the door.

Ingrid heard the man brush against the hanging clothes. Then came tiny little pats, like he was feeling around.

The outer door opened, making that squeak again. The man in the closet went still. So close, but he wasn’t aware of her at all—those little pats had proved it. Ingrid was aware of almost nothing else but him. She could hear him breathing, slow, even breaths, perfectly calm.

Ingrid tried to make herself small, to breathe like
some tiny little creature no one would ever notice. She recalled a scene like this in a movie. They’d played it for laughs.

More footsteps, moving in the office. A voice spoke, low and quiet.

“Coast is clear.”

Only three words, but enough. Ingrid knew that voice: Sean Rubino.

Someone else spoke, farther away, in the doorway or still out in the corridor.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

Ingrid knew that voice too. There wasn’t a voice she knew better.

Ty.

Sean made a clucking noise, like a chicken.

“I mean it,” Ty said. But he sounded closer, now in the room. And Ingrid knew him: He only half meant it.

“Wimpin’ out on me?” said Sean.

“Yeah, right,” said Ty. “It’s just like, you know.”

“I don’t know,” Sean said. He sounded like a man when he said that, a full-grown man, and not a nice one.

“Well,” said Ty, “what makes you think he keeps any around?”

“’Cause he’s a dumbass Kraken,” said Sean.
“Retards, all of them. Everyone knows that.”

“Yeah?” said Ty. “I thought they were kind of…”

“Kind of what?”

“Dangerous.”

“Ooooh, dangerous,” said Sean in a gay voice.

“Go to hell,” said Ty, lowering his voice, making it sound tougher.

“Hey, just jerkin’ your chain,” Sean said. “I know Carl the third personally. Take it from me—he’s harmless.”

A drawer opened.

“Get a load of this,” Sean said.

“What is it?”

“Duh, bourbon,” said Sean. “Want a hit?”

“Now?” Ty said. “We should probably…”

Gurgle of liquid, followed by lip smack. “Piss,” said Sean. “Jim Beam’s way better. You tasted JB?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” said Ty, from which Ingrid knew he’d never even heard of it.

“When?” said Sean.

“Lots of times,” said Ty. “In the woods.”

“You talking about the tree house?” said Sean.

“Yeah.”

“Cool spot,” said Sean. A pause. And then: “That sister of yours.”

“What about her?”

“I don’t trust her.”

“My sister?”

“Caught her snooping in my room.”

“I don’t—”

“Think she knows anything?” Sean said.

A split-second pause. “How could she?” Ty said. “Anyway, she’d never rat anyone out.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“She’s my little sister, for God’s sake.”

“I don’t like the way she looks at me. If she wasn’t a girl, I’d—”

“Sisters are a pain. You know that.”

“I’m not talking about that normal stuff—I’m talking about this look she has,” said Sean.

Ty’s voice rose a little. “Leave my sister out of this,” he said. “You don’t know her.”

Silence. Then Sean said, “You still owe me.”

“Where’d that come from?” Ty said.

“Just in case you think I forgot,” said Sean. “DVD player or cash equivalent.”

“Don’t have to remind me,” Ty said. “I’m gonna—”

The desk phone rang. Seven rings—Ingrid counted them—before the caller gave up.

Silence.

“Maybe he’s coming back,” Ty said.

“Who?” said Sean.

“Mr. Kraken,” said Ty. “That’s his phone, right? Someone expects him to be here.”

“Um,” said Sean. More silence. “You could be right.”

“Better split,” said Ty.

“Yeah,” said Sean.

Squeak of their sneakers on the floor, squeak of the office door opening and closing. They were gone.

A few seconds passed. Ingrid grew aware of the smell the man in the closet had. She’d been smelling it the whole time: a piney kind of aftershave. He blew a quick burst of air through his lips, making a contemptuous sound.

The man opened the closet door and went out. Ingrid saw nothing but his broad back before the door closed. Then came the sound of retreating footsteps, squeak of the outer door, and he was gone too.

Ingrid stayed where she was, scrunched between the filing cabinets, her legs aching. Was Carl Junior on his way back, as Ty had said? Or—an even scarier thought—had he been the guy with her in the
closet? Why would he do that? Ingrid didn’t know.

She got to her feet, went to the closet door, heard no sound from the other side. She pushed the door open. The office looked exactly the same as before.

Ingrid went to the desk. There, on top: her copy of the script, just as she’d thought. She grabbed it and turned to go. Her gaze fell on the desk calendar, tomorrow’s page, where she’d started to set up her sting:

That was where she’d paused to think of a good place, just before things in the office got so busy. But that second sentence no longer ended with
at.
Someone had added three more words:
the tree house.

Ingrid got an icy feeling.
Be calm.
She forced herself to leave slowly, closing the door quietly behind her, walking down the corridor like an everyday school kid doing everyday things. But that didn’t last. Ingrid’s feet took over. They wanted out of the building.

Down the corridor, up the stairs, into the lobby, racing speed now.

Deserted, thank—

Except for Carl Junior, who stepped out of a classroom, mop in hand. His eyes narrowed. His mouth opened. But before he could speak, Dad came through the front door, his long leather coat flapping behind him.

“Where have you been?” he said. “Didn’t you hear me honking?”

“Sorry,” Ingrid said. “Bathroom.”

“School’s officially closed,” said Carl Junior.

Dad ignored him completely, was already on his way back out. Ingrid crossed the lobby, taking a route that passed fairly close to Carl Junior.

He looked at her in surprise. Too close maybe, but Ingrid had to know. She took two quick sniffs and hurried out the door.

Carl Junior had a smell, a strong one, but it was all stale sweat and cigarettes. Nothing piney about him. One hundred percent pineless.

So who was the man in the closet? Who had written the end of the sting note on tomorrow’s calendar page? A note that Carl Junior would be laying his eyes on pretty soon.

Uh-oh. Should she go back inside, try to get it?

The window of the TT slid down. “Would you stop dawdling?” Dad said, really irritated. “Hustle for once.”

“H
OW WAS REHEARSAL
?” Mom said, looking up from a set of house plans.

“Good,” said Ingrid. “Where’s Ty?”

“Not home yet,” said Mom. “He went right from practice to Greg’s, some project for science they’re doing together.”

Ingrid knew the part about going to Greg’s right from practice had to be a lie. She stood there for a moment, across the kitchen table from Mom.

“Ingrid?” Mom said. “Something on your mind?”

Telling Mom: impossible, of course. But the funny thing was that if the phone hadn’t rung at that moment, Ingrid might have blurted out the
whole story. Mom had the kind of love for her that you could feel, like it was part of the atmosphere, meaning that blurting was always an option.

“Hello?” Mom said, picking up. “Push back the closing?” She reached for a notepad. “What about the rate lock?” Her pen started moving. Ingrid heard Dad opening the liquor cabinet. She went upstairs.

“Nigel!”

Nigel turned. He tried to look innocent, but that was hard to do with Mister Happy in his mouth.

“PUT HIM DOWN!”

Nigel wagged his tail, kind of like everything was normal and Mister Happy was invisible. Or maybe Nigel had somehow forgotten all about him.

“I’m not going to say it again.”

Nigel’s ears and tail drooped at once. Mister Happy fell to the floor. Ingrid was taking him, all tattered and drooly, to her bedroom, when she heard Dad on his way up. He came to the top, drink in one hand, briefcase in the other, dark shadows around his eyes.

“Homework all done?” he said.

“Just taking care of it,” Ingrid said, remembering
that she didn’t even know what the homework was.

“Don’t fall behind,” Dad said. He went into the office.

Ingrid followed him. He was already at the computer, staring at a screen full of numbers.

“Dad?”

“What is it?”

“Can I borrow the digital recorder?”

“Huh?” said Dad, tapping at the keys. “Borrow what?”

“The digital recorder.”

Dad took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes. “In the briefcase,” he said.

“Thanks,” Ingrid said. She rummaged through the briefcase, found the digital recorder in a side compartment. At the same time she couldn’t help noticing a bunch of files with a Post-it stuck on top, a Post-it with a note Dad had written to himself.

1. Think
   
2. Anticipate
   
3. Work harder
   

She glanced at him. His finger came down hard on the delete key. “Maybe this globalization stuff
isn’t such a good idea,” she said.

He turned to her. “That’s like saying the tide’s not a good idea,” he said.

“Oh.” Right. Ingrid had forgotten the forces, those forces out there making the future grim.

She started from the room, paused at the door. “Love you, Dad.”

Silence, except for tapping at the keys. He hadn’t heard. Ingrid went to her room.

She practiced with the recorder. It was pretty simple. You pressed the green button and spoke. “Ms. Groome? I’m afraid it’s bad news.” Then you pressed the red button and listened. The only problem was hearing your own voice. She sounded about six years old and immature for her age. Ingrid tried out some changes—making it older, deeper, huskier, and was working on adding a menacing undertone, when Mom called up.

“Ingrid? You’ve got a visitor.”

“Who?”

“Let’s not shout from room to room,” Mom shouted. “Just come down.”

Ingrid went downstairs. Joey stood in the front hall. Mom lingered in the kitchen doorway, trying
to look like she was in the middle of doing something.

“Hi,” Ingrid said.

“Hey,” said Joey.

Silence. Ingrid paused, two steps from the bottom. Joey shuffled his feet, took an envelope from his pocket, put it back.

“Maybe Joey would like something to drink,” Mom said.

“I’m good,” said Joey.

“Or something to eat,” Mom said.

“He just ate,” Ingrid said.

Mom backed into the kitchen.

Ingrid stepped down into the hall.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hey,” said Joey. “You sick?”

“Huh?”

“’Cause you weren’t in school today.”

Ingrid put a finger to her lips, maybe shooting him an angry glare at the same time.

“Oops,” Joey said, glancing toward the kitchen. No sign of Mom. Joey started inching the other way, in the direction of the living room.

“Come on in the living room,” Ingrid said.

“Thanks,” said Joey.

They went into the living room. Joey looked out the big south windows. “Hey,” he said. “The woods.”

“Correct,” said Ingrid.

“Like, the view,” Joey said. “Nice.”

“Uh-huh,” Ingrid said. “What’s in the envelope?”

Joey put a hand to his pocket. “If you weren’t sick…” he said.

Ingrid tilted up her chin. “Continue,” she said.

“If you weren’t”—lowering his voice—“sick, then is it because you’re scared—not scared, I mean like, um, you know…about not wanting to be around people who don’t believe you. And stuff.”

“No,” Ingrid said.

“No, that’s not it?” said Joey.

“What I said,” said Ingrid.

“Okay,” said Joey. “Cool.”

“I was kidnapped,” Ingrid said. “It doesn’t matter who believes me.” She felt tears coming, strange, hot ones, even powerful, if that made any sense.

Joey looked alarmed. “I believe you,” he said.

“You said that before.”

“’Cause, like, I meant it,” Joey said. “Mean it.”

The tears didn’t come, although the hot, powerful
feeling didn’t quite go away. “I’m going to prove it,” Ingrid said.

“How?” said Joey. “Maybe I can help.”

She gazed at Joey. Was there any harm in telling him? Maybe. Ty getting pulled in, for example. Chief Strade was smart. If there was something he wanted out of Joey, Ingrid was pretty sure he could get it. Plus she remembered Grampy, when he told her the story of Carl Kraken Senior and the noose:
No one can protect you. Got to protect yourself.
That was kind of scary, maybe even flat wrong. But it felt right to Ingrid, like she and Grampy shared some gene, a prickly, independent one.

“What’s in the envelope?” Ingrid said.

“Oh, yeah,” said Joey, taking it out. “Why I came over.” He opened up the envelope, took out two tickets. “Monster trucks at the Hartford Civic Center,” he said. “Some guy gave them to my dad.”

“Wow,” said Ingrid.

“You wanna go? There’s a bus from the Rec Center.”

Ingrid had only a vague idea of what monster trucks were all about, but just the name sounded great. “When is it?”

“Sunday at noon,” said Joey.

“This Sunday?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” said Ingrid.

“Oh what?” said Joey.

“Sunday’s no good.”

“How come?”

“I’m busy on Sunday.”

“Soccer?” said Joey. “I thought that was Saturday.”

“Not soccer,” Ingrid said. “It’s more like…this family thing.” She couldn’t look him in the eye when she said that.

Joey went a little pink. He put the tickets back in his pocket.

“Some other time?” Ingrid said.

“Sure,” said Joey, already moving toward the door.

He didn’t believe her, knew she’d invented an excuse. So was he taking the next obvious step, thinking she didn’t want to go with him? How could she let that happen?

“Joey? I—”

Mom came into the room, phone in hand, puzzlement on her face. “Has Sean been around?” she said.

“Sean Rubino?” said Ingrid.

“His mom called. He’s late getting home.”

“Why’s she calling here?” Ingrid said.

“She said he’s out with Ty. They were going to the mall.”

“With Greg?”

“I called Greg’s. Ty never went there. Greg had to do the whole project on his own.”

Uh-oh.

The front door closed. Through the window, Ingrid saw Joey hopping on his bike. The spokes of his wheels flashed under the driveway lamp. Then he was gone.

Ty came home an hour later, walking in through the garage door, backpack over his shoulder, pencil tucked behind his ear. A great touch, that pencil, Ingrid thought. The return of the hard-working schoolboy. She put away her English packet, e-mailed over by Mia—only two more weeks of adverbs to go!—and waited for the ambush to begin.

“Hey,” he said. “How’s it goin’?”

“Not bad,” said Ingrid, downing the last of her Fresca. “So far.”

“Cool,” said Ty.

Mom and Dad came in from the dining room.

“Hi, everybody,” Ty said. “The whole fam, to quote Bill Murray.”

Ingrid laughed. Ty wasn’t usually this funny. Then she caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath. Yikes.

“Ingrid,” said Mom, “would you give us a few moments, please?”

“Sure,” said Ingrid. “Take as long as you like.”

“Meaning go to your room,” said Dad.

“Huh?”

“Now,” said Dad.

“Do I have to?”

“You heard me.”

“What did she do?” said Ty.

Ingrid went upstairs, lay on her bed. Voices rose from the kitchen. She couldn’t make out the words. That made it more like music, a strange and noisy trio playing three different tunes—Mom’s part high and anxious, Dad’s low and grinding, Ty’s all over the place. Not the kind of music you’d want to listen to.

Everything was so screwed up, just a big mess with tentacles everywhere, wriggling out all over the town, into the high school, the hospital, her friends’ families, her own family. What was that
knot story from mythology? Some knot so complicated—the Gordian knot?—that no one could untie it. Then along comes this guy, name escaping her at the moment, and he slices through it with one stroke of his sword. That was what her sting operation would do, slice right through the mess, restoring order.

How bad was it that someone else—most likely the stranger in the closet—had picked the tree house? Maybe not bad at all: the tree house was home territory, Mom and Dad practically right there.

Ingrid put in some more practice on the voice recorder, working it from her pocket by touch alone.

“You’re all under arrest. Hands where I can see them.”

She still sounded so young.

“And don’t try any tricks. I can shoot a Coke bottle off a fence from a hundred yards.”

That sounded a little better.

Downstairs the angry trio came to a ragged conclusion. Ty stomped up, went into his room, slammed the door hard enough to shake Ingrid’s walls. Ingrid waited a few minutes, then crossed the hall.

“Knock knock,” she said.

“What the hell do you want?”

She opened the door.

Ty sat at his desk, playing a video game. He was just as good at video games as he was at football and baseball, blowing three hideous creatures to smithereens in a flash.

“So,” she said, “what was that all about?”

“They’re such jerks,” Ty said, eyes on the screen.
Blam. Kapow.

“Who?”

“Dad and Mom, who do you think?”

“Because they caught you in a lie?” Ingrid said.

Ty turned to her. A muscle twitched in his shoulder. On the screen, monsters multiplied quickly, devouring all the soft and fuzzy beings in sight.

“Caught in a lie?” Ty said. “Look who’s talking.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Kidnapped,” said Ty. “What a crock. Mom and Dad’s little pet, and they don’t even believe you.”

Ingrid was so angry, she didn’t know where to start. “I’m nobody’s goddamn pet.”

“Whatever.”

“And you’re the jerk,” Ingrid said. “You don’t even know how big.”

He threw something at her, the nearest thing at hand, an eraser. It bounced off the wall above her head and rebounded across the room, landing softly at his feet. Ingrid laughed, a taunting kind of laugh she hadn’t known herself capable of.

“Ever stop to think what that temper’s all about?” she asked.

Ty’s face started getting all bloated and purple. At that moment, Dad yelled up the stairs. “What’s going on up there?”

Ty lowered his voice, low but still plenty mean. “You better get out of here.”

Ingrid’s voice stayed nice and loud. “And you better watch who you’re hanging out with.”

“You threatening me?” Ty said.

Dad again: “Don’t make me come up there.”

“It’s a warning, bro,” Ingrid said. “You don’t want to get swept up in this.”

“Swept up?” said Ty. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Dad: “Damn you kids.”

“Think about it,” Ingrid said.

She was back in her room before Dad reached the top of the stairs. Silence while he paused there, and then heavy treads back down. Outside Ingrid’s
window, the moon shone on the town woods, silvering the treetops and leaving dark shadows below. No wind at all; everything very still except for Ingrid, shaking a little.