Toby stood motionless. Fishing pole in hand, he gazed at the woods across the stream, the border of the West family’s property. He brought his hand up to his face and peered through his fingers.
Peter cast again, set the rod down, and lay back in a sunspot. A bird sang nearby. Crickets hummed. Something scampered in the leaves overhead . . . probably a squirrel. There couldn’t be a more relaxing activity than fishing in the woods. He inhaled deeply . . . exhaled. Something splashed in the stream . . . maybe a branch from a tree, or maybe—
Maybe someone else was in the woods!
He bolted upright and found himself alone on the rock, Toby’s fishing pole next to his.
“Toby?”
Peter jumped to his feet and scanned the woods behind and on either side. Then he forced himself to look where he hoped Toby would never venture to go: the West property across the stream.
Toby’s blond hair flashed in the sunlight then disappeared behind a cluster of trees.
Peter’s heart grew heavy, filling with fear of impending doom. Toby might run into one of the West boys. And what if the rumors were true? The Wests could very well be nuts.
Then his face burned. Couldn’t they even enjoy something as simple as fishing? Did Toby have to ruin everything?
He cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted, “Toby, hey, come back here!”
Toby did not reappear. No movement showed in the West’s woods.
Peter sighed in disgust and jumped off the rock. “Oh, brother,” he moaned. “What are you doing to me?”
Chapter 6
Pain rushed to Roland’s head, dragging him back to consciousness.
“Roland. Roland.” The voice sounded faint, dream-like. Then it grew louder, and someone grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Roland.”
Roland forced his eyes open. His hands flew on impulse to his sore gut.
Someone hovered over him. A dim light behind the figure showed dark curls framing a shadowy face. The figure reached for Roland’s head.
Unsure if it was Jarret or Keefe, he flinched and turned away. “Where am I?” The memory flooded back the moment he asked the question: his brothers had forced him into the basement, and he had lain down on the wooden bench across from the fireplace.
“Sit up.”
Relief filled Roland at the sound of the gentler twin’s voice. Keefe tugged his arm, helping him sit.
The dizziness returned. When vertigo hit him this hard, it took hours to pass. Once it lasted a whole day and Papa made him see a doctor. The doctor had said not to worry then gave Roland a technical name for the condition. It had something to do with crystals in the inner ear. Roland only knew it made him feel stupid and weak.
“I brought you some stuff. How do you feel?”
Roland wanted to answer fine, but a groan escaped him. Besides the dizziness, he was cold, his head pounded like metal under a relentless blacksmith’s anvil, and his gut ached from Jarret’s punch.
“Here.” Keefe put something on the bench. “I brought you a blanket.” His gaze dropped to Roland’s chest. “Guess I should’ve brought a shirt, too.”
Roland’s hand shot up to his chest. He touched the silky, ripped fabric but didn’t want to look. Jarret had destroyed his favorite shirt. Why couldn’t it have been a dream? He’d had dreams like it before.
He stripped the shirt off and tossed it. A chill shuddered through him, making him grab the blanket.
“I tried to come down sooner, but I . . .” Keefe shut his mouth and gulped. Then he crouched by the fireplace and opened the damper. “I brought you something to eat and some water.” He nodded toward a brown paper bag on the table.
“How long do I have to stay down here?” Roland made a sideways glance at the only light that came into the dark basement, the light from the open doorway at the top of the steps.
“Uh, I don’t know.” Keefe arranged a few logs on the fireplace grate. “He’s working on a plan.”
Roland clenched his jaw. “A plan? Why can’t he just let things be? Why does everything have to be his way?” He sucked in a breath to control his temper. He needed to remain calm and to think. Maybe he could bolt for the basement door while Keefe worked on making a fire.
The thought made Roland feel like a traitor. Keefe had obviously snuck down without Jarret’s knowledge, to care for him. He couldn’t repay him like that. Besides, he probably wouldn’t make it, not with the vertigo. He pictured himself shuffling like a zombie and tripping up steps.
“I don’t know.” Keefe crumpled sheets of newspaper and stuffed them between logs. “You know how he is.”
“He’ll have to let me out before Nanny gets home.” Of course, she did say she’d be late. Jarret could hold him hostage for hours. And then . . . the next step of his plan, whatever it was, would no doubt unfold.
Keefe busied himself, grabbing branches and arranging them, setting another log on top . . .
Once papers and twigs crackled in a fire, Keefe straightened up and brushed his hands together. Flames flickered and stretched among logs and branches. “That oughta keep you warm, give you a little light.”
Keefe’s gaze traveled to Roland’s hairline. He sat beside him and pushed his hair off his forehead. “I should’ve brought something for that cut. Does it hurt?”
“What cut?” Roland brought a hand up and found a sticky spot, sore to the touch. He looked at his fingers. Blood. He could still hear the glass shattering from Papa’s picture of Pompeii.
“Probably looks worse than it is. Maybe once it’s cleaned up—” Keefe jumped up. “I’ll get something for that. And a shirt. I’ll grab a shirt.” He walked backwards, toward the staircase. “Anything else you want?” Shadows flickered on Keefe’s face, emphasizing his long nose and frowning mouth, making him look like Jarret.
“Get me out of here.”
Keefe turned away. “I’d like to. I wish Jarret didn’t . . . I’ll work on him.” He glanced over his shoulder. “We’re taking the horses out in a little bit. Riding helps him think. I’ll talk to him then. But I’ll try to come down here before we go.” He nodded then bounded up the stairs. The basement door closed, and the latch locked with an echoing thud.
Roland pulled the blanket tight around his chest and sighed. Keefe shouldn’t go along with everything Jarret did. He should stand up to his twin.
Flames leaped and cast a yellowish light on the white rag of a shirt crumpled up on the floor.
Roland’s jaw tensed. Jarret was going to mess things up for him, mess up his Italy trip, his escape, his salvation. Jarret didn’t need this trip the way Roland did. He had no problem adjusting to public high school. For Roland, it was a daily nightmare—the rumors, the whispers behind his back. This trip could save him.
If he proved himself, Papa might take him on more assignments and maybe give him another tutor. Roland could avoid the whole public school scene. Get his GED. Go right to work as Papa’s assistant.
Roland shook his head to rid himself of the useless thoughts. He needed to find a way out of the basement then avoid Jarret until Papa returned.
He stood. His head spun and the room tipped, so he gripped the table until things leveled out. Then he staggered for the passage at the back of the basement.
An iron gate blocked the dark opening, and cool, earthy air flowed through the thick bars. A key usually hung from a high post on each side of the gate, but the post on the basement side was bare. Jarret probably grabbed the key.
Gripping the cold iron crossbar, Roland reached through the top of the gate into darkness. The key post on the other side was high, but maybe if he stretched . . . He groped along the rough, stone slab wall. Pressing his body and cheek against the icy bars, he reached farther. His fingertip brushed something, making his heart skip a beat. Straining, he swiped at it again. He tapped it so lightly that it didn’t even budge. Maybe if he had a stick or something . . .
When he backed away from the gate, his shadow moved, and light from the fire fell o
n the wall of the tunnel. He caught sight of the post. And the key.
His hope withered. He had only brushed a sliver of rock that protruded from the wall. The key hung higher up and about three feet beyond his reach.
He gazed at the key until the gate tilted and his eyes grew heavy. Then he staggered back to the bench and lay down. After a rest, he’d try something else.
Maybe he should bang on the door and beg to get out. Jarret might take pity on him or be willing to bargain. No. Jarret never bargained. Jarret always won. Fighting him was pointless. That’s why Keefe never stood up to him, why Roland never stood up to him. Jarret’s selfishness knew no bounds, and he never took no for an answer. Somehow, Jarret would be the one to go to Italy and not Roland.
Roland wrapped the blanket tighter around his shivering chest. The throbbing in his head intensified. He would find something to help him reach the key. Later. After a nap.
Roland closed his eyes.
Chapter 7
Peter peered into the woods across the stream but caught no movement, shiny blond hair, or any other sign of Toby.
Shoot. He’d have to go after him.
The stream flowed at a gentle pace, glistening in the sunlight and gurgling over rocks. Low branches hung over the water, blocking the view to his right. Rocks stuck out of the water in several places but none close enough to hop across to the other side. The water looked about knee-deep in most places.
Peter shook his head. He had no intention of getting his jeans wet . . . or his new white Reeboks. Of course, the stream didn’t look more than fifteen feet across, and he had marked about sixteen feet in last year’s long jump.
He cast a glance over his shoulder. With all the scattered trees and boulders, he wouldn’t have room for the approach. Bad idea.
He continued down the bank, in the direction he assumed Toby had gone, to where the trees hung over the water. Ducking, he cleared the low branches. Then he found it.
Good-sized dry rocks extended across the stream, forming a natural bridge. Toby would’ve crossed there.
He stepped onto the first rock and stopped, balancing. Did he really want to go onto private property? Onto West property? Was there another way?
Nothing came to mind, so he jumped to the next rock. The rock tilted. He raised his arms to steady himself and leapt for the next one. This one felt solid, but most wiggled under his feet.
Peter leapt for the last rock, its surface green and slimy. It dipped way down. His foot slipped and water splashed his Reeboks. He threw his arms out and flapped like a riled-up chicken until he reached the safety of dry land. His heart raced. Blood rushed to his face. “To-o-o-by!”
As soon as he caught up to the kid, he’d . . . he’d . . . What would he do? Toby was autistic. It wasn’t his fault, Peter whined in his mind. So whose fault was it? It was his own fault for thinking fishing with Toby was a good idea.
Forget trying to be buddies. He’d get a lock for his bedroom door, and that would be that.
He jogged down the bank to the point opposite the rock where they had been fishing. Maybe Toby saw something and felt compelled to check it out.
“Toby! Where are you? Don’t you want to fish?” Peter peered between tree trunks.
Dense bushes filled the gaps between thick trunked trees, allowing no entry. Then the trees thinned and revealed a wide trail a few yards back.
“Toby!” Peter darted, crunching through dead leaves and twigs until he reached the trail.
The trail followed the stream for some distance to his left. To his right, it turned, only a hint of it showing between tree trunks and bushes. It headed deep into the heart of West land.
With a sigh and the growing feeling that he would soon regret trespassing, he took off to the right.
The muddy parts of the trail had horseshoe prints . . . many horseshoe prints. He remembered something about the West family owning horses, and how the boys had their own guns and bows and arrows, and how they hunted animals for the family to eat. Until there was some kind of an accident.
Peter shuddered. One rumor had it they hunted anything they found on their property. Would that include trespassers?
Since he lived so near the West family, maybe he should’ve paid more attention to the rumors.
Peter jogged on, peering through trees on either side, searching for signs of Toby or things Toby might find interesting. It would help if he could remember what color clothes the boy wore.
The image of Toby in his dark green jacket and tan shorts flashed in his mind.
Peter groaned. Of course, Toby wore dark green. As much as he wandered off, he should only be allowed to wear safety yellow or fluorescent orange.
“Toby! Where are you?” He shouted so loudly it hurt his throat. He brought his hand up to shout again but stopped.
A hundred yards down the trail, something flashed.
Toby. His shaggy, blond hair blazed like a torch as he walked into a patch of sunlight.
“Hey, Toby.” Peter jogged.
Toby kept walking. Then he stepped off the path and disappeared in some brush.
“Let’s go home.” Heart racing, Peter slowed to catch his breath. “You know, we’re not allowed over here. This is private property. If you want to explore, we can go behind our house, okay? Cuz right now we’re—” His jaw dropped at the sight.
To the right of the trail, a large outcropping of rocks protruded from the ground, stretching out as tall and wide as a small cabin. The arrangement looked crude but intentional, as if a giant had stacked up stone blocks in an attempt to build a toy house. Moss, plants and tree saplings grew on the shady parts, but sunlight lit up the top of the structure. Dark cracks and crevices ran between rocks, making good hiding places.
Peter scanned for Toby but didn’t see him. “This what you saw? You saw light shining on the big rocks?” Toby was obsessed with light, so it sort of made sense. “Toby?”
Toby peeked out from a crack in the rocks. “Look. Come see.”
Peter exhaled, relieved to see his brother. “Nah, come on. We shouldn’t be here.”
Toby cocked his head, stared through round eyes, then slipped into the cluster of rocks again.
“Aw, come on. I’m going home.” Peter took a few steps backward. “Good by-y-ye.” He waited. It always worked for Mom. Maybe he could get away with just leaving Toby there. If Toby followed, good. If not, Mom could get him.
He exhaled in disgust. Bad idea.
Why couldn’t Toby follow a few simple rules like any other kid? What if one of the West boys came by? With a gun or whatever? Of course, the thing about the guns was probably a rumor. They probably didn’t really run around with guns, scaring up dinner. They were probably as boring as any other family in town, right?
Peter glanced up and down the trail then walked past the rock formation and peered into the woods. How far back was the West house?
He went a little farther.
Patches of green lawn and a gray building showed through the trees. A few steps later, the entire house became visible.
Peter stood motionless, gawking, aware that his mouth had dropped open and that his eyes bulged but unable to do anything about it.
No, the Wests were not like every other family in town. They didn’t live in a house. They lived in a castle, complete with notched battlements along the top, two pointy towers, windows with iron bars, and a big, arched wooden door. Was that really their home?
Something moved along the farthest side of the house, by an outbuilding. A horse with a rider trotted into view.
Peter turned and bolted. “Toby! Come on. We have to go!” He dashed for the rock formation, trying to guess which crack Toby had squeezed through.
“Look. Come see.” Toby’s voice came from somewhere inside the rocks.
“No, Toby, we have to go NOW.” He lunged at a tall and narrow crack, but it ended a few feet in. He darted to the next crack. As he searched, he pictured himself dragging a kicking, screaming Toby all the w
ay home. Then he pictured Toby bawling his eyes out over it. Peter would feel bad. He’d stop and try to make everything all better. The rider would catch them for sure.
“Where are you?” Peter said. Maybe he could come up with a lie, something that would be more exciting to Toby than the rocks. Hmm. His mind drew a blank. Other options . . .
A horse whinnied.
It didn’t sound near, but it set Peter’s heart to thumping anyway. He almost walked right by the next opening. The first few cracks had been dark and narrow, but this one was wide and sunny. He stepped into it, pressed his back against the cool rock, and listened.
Something in the distance made a clomping sound.
Peter’s hair bristled. It could’ve been anything. It might not have been a horse and a gun-toting West boy.
Maybe he’d save time if he found out what Toby wanted to show him. Besides, if they hid in the rocks, the rider wouldn’t see them. He crept farther into the crevice.
The crack widened and turned a sharp corner. It resembled a hallway. At the end of it, facing a flat rock wall, stood Toby.
“Okay, you’ve pushed me to my limit. Let’s go.” Peter stomped to him while taking in the details of the rock formation. “Wow. I have to admit, this is cool.”
Toby stooped, still staring at the rock wall.
“What do you see?” Peter peered over Toby’s shoulder.
Upon closer inspection, the flat wall resembled a stone door, something hand carved, maybe part of an ancient ruin. But smaller stones framed the door in such an uneven pattern that it hardly seemed intentional.
Toby pried at one of the stones along the side.
“Hey,” Peter said, “what are you—”
The stone came loose and fell to the ground, leaving a six-inch deep, smooth-sided cavity.
“What in the world?” Peter leaned in for a better look.
The cavity housed a panel with a number keypad. A crest symbol—a knight’s helmet over three tiger heads—decorated the top of the panel. The crest, all in gold etching, had writing underneath but shadows made it hard to read.
Roland West, Loner Page 4