The Pike River Phantom (6 page)

The older policeman held up his hand. “You say your name is Charlie Hocking, is that right? You're John's boy, and you're living with your grandpa and grandma now.”

Charlie scowled. “So what?” he muttered. “My dad doesn't have anything to do with this.”

“No need to get sassy,” the policeman said mildly. “You say you came in here because—why?”

“Because I thought maybe that guy had knocked Mrs. Fisher out or tied her up. Or something.” His suspicions sounded silly now. “He was in such a big hurry to get away. And I couldn't see why he'd be in the house if she really was sleeping.”

“You should have called us if you thought something was wrong.”

“I was going to,” Charlie explained. “As soon as I was sure. I even got the truck license number—AYK-175. I thought if she was hurt”—he risked a glance at Mrs. Fisher, whose pink topknot trembled with outrage—“I'd better find her right away.”

The policemen looked at each other. “Is that your nephew's license, ma'am?”

“How would I know?” Mrs. Fisher demanded. “You just quit askin' questions and put this boy in jail. Lou and Will Hocking are good people, but everyone knows that son of theirs went bad. And now here's the new generation headed the same way! If I hadn't locked him up for you, my pearls and silver would be long gone!”

The younger policeman went back to the closet and returned with Charlie's canvas bag.

“Whole bunch of chocolate bars in here,” he reported. “All smashed up. He must have sat on 'em.”

Charlie closed his eyes. Well, if Rachel wanted to make a big scene about the candy, she'd have to visit him in jail to do it.

The older policeman took Charlie's arm and urged him to his feet. “How do you feel now, kid? Still woozy?”

“I'm okay.” He wondered if they were going to make him wear handcuffs.

“Then if you'll check to make sure nothing's missing, ma'am,” the policeman suggested to Mrs. Fisher.

“How could there be anything missin'?” she snapped. “I heard this burglar the minute he came into the house. Called out, he did, just to see if anyone was home. I had him locked in the closet before he could get into mischief. Now you put him in jail—otherwise he'll go right on breakin' into houses and stealin' from defenseless old ladies.”

Charlie thought Mrs. Fisher was about as defenseless as a tiger. A small tiger, maybe, but a fierce one.

The younger policeman made a funny sound in his throat. “Well, as long as no harm was done—” he began.

“No harm!” Mrs. Fisher exclaimed. “What do you mean, no harm? He scared me half to death!”

“Yes, ma'am,” the older policeman said, “and I'm pretty sure he's sorry he did that.” He looked hard at Charlie. “Isn't that right, boy?”

Charlie nodded as vigorously as his sore head would allow. “Yes, sir. Yes, ma'am.”

“Then we'll take you home. You better lie down for a while and put some ice on that bump.”

“Well, I never!” Mrs. Fisher gasped. “You're goin' to take him home! After I went and captured him for you and everything.”

“I know,” the policeman said sympathetically. “But this boy is truly sorry for the trouble he's caused.”

“I am,” Charlie said, “honest.”

For a moment they all just stood there. Then the policemen led the way though the kitchen to the back door, and Charlie followed. He was free!

The canvas bag in the backseat of the squad car reminded him of what he still had to face at home. The family would see the police car. They'd see the bump on his head. They'd smell the lemon oil. Rachel would count up the squashed candy bars. There was no way he could hide what had happened.

I should have gone to California yesterday
, he thought. But it was too late for wishing. Even if he left tomorrow, he had to face his family one more time.

CHAPTER 8

“Marie Fisher did
what
?” Grandma Lou stared at Charlie. The hand that had been beating cake batter stopped in midair, and dollops of yellow batter plopped on the kitchen table.

“Grandma, the cake!” It was Rachel, of course, appearing like magic just when Charlie hoped she would stay away. “You look terrible, Charlie,” she volunteered, “and you smell like lemon furniture polish.”

Grandma pushed the mixing bowl aside and sank into a chair. “Be quiet, Rachel,” she ordered. “Charlie, you tell me again what happened. I don't understand what you're talking about. Marie Fisher is a dear little old thing—wouldn't hurt a fly.”

Charlie sighed. His head still throbbed, one shoulder was getting stiff, and now he had to describe how he'd been taken prisoner by a tiny old lady who wouldn't hurt a fly. There was no way to escape. Grandma stared at him with something close to horror, and Rachel was obviously bursting with curiosity.

“I went into Mrs. Fisher's house to see if she was okay, and she pushed me into a closet and called the police. I landed on the candy bars—they're smashed.” He said it fast, trying to get it over with. “I thought a guy was stealing her TV set, and she thought I was a burglar. The guy turned out to be her nephew.”

Rachel snorted, and Grandma frowned at her. “It's not one bit funny,” she scolded. “How anybody could think our Charlie was a burglar …”

“But Mrs. Fisher didn't know her burglar was our Charlie.” Rachel chuckled. “You have to admit, Grandma, it's pretty funny to think of Charlie flying headfirst into that closet. And getting all doused with furniture polish.”

“I don't have to admit anything of the kind!” Now Grandma sounded furious. “Instead of laughing, miss, you pack some ice in a plastic bag and put it on that poor forehead. Marie should be ashamed of herself, treating Charlie that way when he was trying to help. I'm going to call her this minute and tell her—”

“No!” Charlie exclaimed in alarm. “You'll make it worse, Grandma. She's already mad because the cops didn't arrest me.”

Rachel handed Charlie a plastic bag filled with ice and, in one of her quick changes of mood, set out to calm their grandmother. “Why don't you finish that cake, Grandma? Charlie loves cake. But no lemon frosting, right, Charlie?”

“Right,” Charlie said grumpily. Rachel, teasing, was hard to take, but at least she wasn't making a fuss about the crushed candy bars. That was a surprise.

At first the ice made his head hurt more than ever. Later, though, lying in the den, he had to admit that the numbing cold helped. He'd taken a shower to get rid of the furniture polish, and Grandma had laid out fresh clothes for him to put on, just the way she did for Grandpa every morning. She'd told Rachel to bring extra pillows from the other bedrooms, and then they had both tiptoed away, leaving him to rest. The delicious smell of cake-in-the-oven drifted down the hall to the den.

After a while Charlie heard Grandpa's car turn into the driveway. There was an excited murmur of voices in the kitchen, and almost at once Grandpa peered into the den.

“You okay?” His kindly face was anxious.

“Fine. Honest.”

“I think I'll just give the police station a call,” Grandpa said. “I'd like to make sure they know this whole ridiculous affair was a mistake.”

“You don't have to do that,” Charlie protested. “I told them how it happened. They believed me.”

“Well, they'd better!” Charlie was glad his grandfather hadn't been there to hear Mrs. Fisher.
Lou and Will Hocking are good people, but everyone knows that son of theirs went bad. And now here's the new generation headed the same way!
The words stung more than the bump on his head.

He closed his eyes, and after a moment his grandfather tiptoed away. It was nice, Charlie thought, that his grandparents hadn't doubted his story even for a minute. Unexpected, too. They hadn't believed him when he told about meeting the old woman in the woods, but they were sure he was telling the truth about why he'd gone into Mrs. Fisher's house. Was it because they knew he wasn't a thief—or was it because they couldn't bear to believe anything
that
bad? He'd expected questions, but they had simply taken his word. At this very moment, Mrs. Fisher might be telling all her friends about Charlie Hocking the burglar, but there were at least two people in Pike River who believed she was wrong. Three, counting Rachel.

The only person who remained to be told about the day's adventure was his father. Charlie dreaded it. There would be an explosion, for sure. Charlie had talked Grandma out of calling Mrs. Fisher, and he'd convinced Grandpa there was no need to talk to the police, but he doubted that he'd be able to stop his father from getting involved. He'd probably call Mrs. Fisher, call the police, maybe even call Mrs. Schwanke to tell her she had a lot of nerve sending his son to a crazy woman's house. Charlie pulled a pillow over his sore head and tried not to think.

“What's the matter, kid? You have something against fresh air?”

The pillow slid to the floor and Charlie sat up. His father stood next to the couch, grinning down at him. The grin faded as he saw the bump on Charlie's forehead.

“What happened to you? And what does the other guy look like?”

“It wasn't a fight,” Charlie said. “Didn't Grandpa and Grandma tell you?”

“Tell me what? Everybody's out in the backyard, I guess.” His father sank into an armchair and stretched his legs. “You tell me,” he suggested. “You sure it wasn't a fight?” He sounded sort of disappointed.

Charlie didn't know why, but suddenly he wanted to make his story as bad as possible. He
wanted
to get his father excited. “I went into somebody's house,” he said. “The lady who lives there—her name is Mrs. Fisher—called the police. She thought I was going to rob her. Or maybe kill her.” He waited.
Get it over with. Start yelling
.

“What were you doing in her house?” John asked. “Make sense, Charlie.”

“I thought this man was stealing her TV set,” he explained reluctantly, because he didn't want to sound as if he'd been trying to be a hero. “I thought he might have done something to her—it sounds crazy now, but that's what I thought.”

“And she called the police?”

“After she sneaked up behind me and pushed me into a closet.”

His father sat very still, looking at him. It wasn't the reaction Charlie had expected.

“Did she know who you were?”

“Not at first,” Charlie said. “But when the police came, she found out.” He took a deep breath. “They know about you. Mrs. Fisher said I was another generation going bad.”

They know about you
. Charlie realized it was the first time he'd ever referred directly to his father's past.

As far back as he could remember, Aunt Laura had warned him not to tell people his father was in prison. At first, when his friends asked, Charlie just said his dad was “away.” Later he saw a television documentary about life on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, and after that he'd told them that his father worked on a rig and didn't get back to the mainland for months at a time.

He'd been glad his father didn't want him to come to prison on visiting days. That made it easier to tell the oil-rig story—almost to believe it. He would imagine his father, very tall, tanned, big-muscled, and quiet, stopping work occasionally to stare out over the water and think about his boy up north in Milwaukee. It was a satisfying daydream that had disappeared abruptly the day John Hocking was released. The strong, tender father had vanished forever, and in his place there was a stocky, wisecracking stranger who gave Charlie a hug at the same time he was asking Aunt Laura if she still made the best lasagna in town. He'd filled the apartment with his boisterous laughter, had even made Aunt Laura giggle. Charlie had been miserable. He supposed he was angry with his father, for being gone for five years and for returning in this lighthearted way, as if five years in prison didn't matter. His father seemed to have forgotten the past. He didn't notice Charlie's anger.

Now six—no, seven months later—the truth opened up between them.
They know about you
. It was the same as saying
You're a bad person
.

His father stood up.

“Don't call anybody,” Charlie said. “Please.”

“I wasn't going to,” his father replied. “It burns me though, that woman saying what she did. She had no reason.” He grinned at Charlie, a tired grin. “You know,” he said, “I never thought much about it, but I can see it isn't easy being John Hocking's kid.” He hesitated. The grin vanished, then reappeared briefly. “Well, I'll tell you something else, Charlie. It ain't so easy being John Hocking either.”

At five o'clock Charlie remembered the film that might or might not be waiting at the drugstore. He'd dozed for a while, and when he awoke the headache was almost gone. If he hurried, he could still get to the store before it closed.

He took his allowance—five dollars—from the top dresser drawer and went out to the kitchen.

“You shouldn't be up,” Grandma said as soon as she saw him. But she watched approvingly while he ate a big piece of cake and drank a glass of milk. “I guess you'll do,” she said, then started fretting all over again when he told her he had an errand he must take care of.

“Let Grandpa drive you in the car. He'll be glad to.”

Charlie said he felt like walking.

“Rachel will go with you, then.”

No, Charlie said, he'd rather go by himself. He finished his cake and hurried out of the house before Grandma could come up with more suggestions.

As he neared the drugstore, his excitement grew. For the last few hours he'd almost forgotten the woman in the old house, but now he could hardly wait to have proof that she really existed.

The same clerk was on duty in the front of the store. She was filing her fingernails and seemed annoyed when she had to stop to hunt through the box of completed prints. She examined every folder with deliberate slowness, until at last, when Charlie had given up hope, she took out one and tossed it on the counter.