Peter’s face warmed. He nodded back then stared at his fork.
“Do you know what happened to his head?” Caitlyn said.
“His head?”
“The big cut under the little Band-Aid.”
“I don’t know, Caitlyn. He’s kind of private. Why don’t you ask him?”
“Maybe I will.”
“Good. Then you can fill me in.”
“Are you Peter?” The voice was as low as a foghorn.
Peter’s gaze snapped to the penguin’s beady eyes. “Yeah.”
“I’m Edward Reinhard. I’ll be staying with you for a while.”
“Oh.” Peter gulped. “That’s nice.” He scraped up the last of his potatoes. What did a while mean? Most guests stayed for the weekend, a week at most.
“So, how was your summer, Peter?” Mr. Reinhard said.
Peter stopped chewing and looked up. “Fine.”
“Anything special happen this summer?”
Peter chewed. “No.” He glanced to his left, at Mom who was talking with Dad. Then he glanced at the sliding glass door. It led to the guest rooms, but it also led to the backyard. Caitlyn had finished eating. They could go out back.
Mr. Reinhard wiped his mouth, his gaze darting around the table. “I lost a good friend of mine over the summer.” He cleared his throat and hung his head.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mom said, turning from Dad to Mr. Reinhard. “It’s always hard to lose a friend.”
Peter sighed and shoved the rest of his squash into his mouth. Mom hadn’t seemed to be listening to Mr. Reinhard, but since she was . . . the adults could talk and leave him out of it. Don’t look up. Just eat. Finish. Go outside.
“Have you ever lost anyone close to you?” Mr. Reinhard said.
Peter took his fork and stabbed the last piece of chicken on his plate. He brought the fork to his mouth. Why was everyone looking at him?
Mr. Reinhard’s eyes, dark as the night sky, were fixed on Peter.
Peter swallowed his food with a hard gulp. “Me?”
Mr. Reinhard grinned. “Yes, Peter. Have you ever lost a friend or close relative?”
Peter looked at Mom.
Mom swiveled to Peter, a blank look on her face, then back to Mr. Reinhard, the question apparently throwing her off-guard. “He lost his grandfather recently.”
“Were you close?” Mr. Reinhard said.
“Sort of.” Peter glanced at Mom again, then Aunt Lotti, hoping for a conversation take-over. No luck. “We used to write back and forth. He visited a couple times a year. But he didn’t live around here.” He dropped his fork to the plate and scooted his chair back.
“Did he leave you anything?” Mr. Reinhard’s question hung in the air like smoke in a closed room.
“Leave me anything?” Peter’s legs got that need-to-run bounce. He glanced at the sliding glass door and tugged at the collar of his t-shirt. He needed some air.
“Well, actually, he did,” Mom said, as if it were any of his business.
Peter bumped her foot and gave her a wide-eyed stare.
“Do you plan to attend the festival next weekend?” she said to Mr. Reinhard.
Good work, Mom.
Mr. Reinhard stared at Peter for a long moment before answering. “I may.”
Then Dad said something about the festival, Aunt Lotti asked Mr. Reinhard another question, and a full-blown conversation ensued.
“What’s the matter with you?” Caitlyn made an obvious glance at his bouncing legs.
“Let’s go out back.” He jumped up from the table and tapped Mom’s shoulder as he passed her. “I’m going out back.”
“Take Toby with you.”
He groaned. Then he slid his empty plate onto the counter and snagged a cupcake. “Come o-o-on Toby,” he shouted, motioning for him to come.
Toby jumped up, carrots falling to the table.
“Hey, Peter, I meant to ask,” Dad said, leaning back in his chair at the head of the table. As his attention went to Peter, Toby snuck a sip of his pop. “How’s your transmitter and receiver coming along? You’re going to need me to help test them, aren’t you?”
“Oh yeah, I’m almost done. I need to get some distance between them and try ‘em out.”
“When do you want to do that?”
“Tomorrow. Can you help tomorrow? Only . . .” He gave Toby a glare just before Toby scooted outside. “I’m supposed to be watching him. Mom has something—”
“Toby can be with me. He can help me with the receiver.”
“Great. Double great.” Peter smiled and dashed for the glass door. No Toby tomorrow.
As he reached for the door handle, the door slid open and Toby peeked his head back inside. “Some-uns here.”
Chapter 19
Roland stood in the shadow of a thick-trunked oak tree at the edge of the woods. He thought he was hidden. Then Toby charged outside and peered across the Brandts’ deep back yard, his gaze clicking to Roland.
Toby ran back inside and returned with Caitlyn. Then the two of them stared, squinting against the evening sun and looking with uncertainty at Roland.
Leaving his lame hiding place, Roland strolled toward them.
Peter soon joined them, but he didn’t just stare. He set out to meet Roland in the middle of the yard. “Hey.” As he neared, he looked Roland over, and his typical wily grin stretched across his face. “It’s the man in black.”
Roland should’ve expected a comment. He wore black from his boots and jeans to his jacket and button-front shirt.
Peter slapped Roland’s arm. “Didn’t think you were gonna come over.”
Toby galloped to them. “Here he comes some-un,” he squealed.
Caitlyn followed at a slower pace. She wore a different dress than the one she had worn to church, a turquoise blue that complemented her mahogany hair and clung to her legs as she walked.
Roland ran a hand through his wind-blown hair and pulled a few strands over the scab on his forehead.
“Hi, some-un,” Toby said, his attention fixed on the backpack slung over Roland’s shoulder. “Key in there?” He touched the backpack.
Roland pulled away. “No. No key. Forget about the key.” He looked at Caitlyn, who was now near enough to hear. Why didn’t he wear a sign on his back, telling everyone about the secret entrance to his house?
Toby whined, frowning. “Some-un no key?”
“My name’s Roland. Call me Roland.”
“Roland key in there?”
Roland exhaled and shook his head.
“Drop it already.” Peter tugged Toby away from Roland. “Why don’t you go play with the others? See?” He turned Toby to face the house as a few little kids shot out the back door. “I think Mr. Summer’s gonna get a game of tug-of-war going. Your favorite, huh?”
Toby took the bait and galloped away, repeating, “Toby tug-of-war.”
“Man, I had to get out of there,” Peter said to Caitlyn as she came up beside him. “That big guy at the table gives me the creeps.”
Caitlyn unglued her eyes from Roland and looked at Peter. “What?”
Peter laughed, shaking his head. “Never mind.”
“Hi,” Caitlyn said to Roland, with a shy tilt of her head.
“Hi.” As Roland smiled, it occurred to him that she might be Peter’s girlfriend. Why else would she be over his house and he over hers?
“What’cha got in the backpack?” Peter leaned to say. “You gonna stay the night?”
Roland nodded. Nanny had the note. He could stay with a clear conscience.
“What were you doing in the woods?” Caitlyn said.
Roland glanced over his shoulder, at the woods. “I uh . . . waiting. Waiting for Peter to come out.”
“Oh, do you live nearby?”
“Nearby?” Roland’s eyebrows twitched. He glanced at Peter. “Yeah, not too far.”
“Oh! He lives across the river.” Eyes wide, she spun to face Peter. “Isn’t that what you said?”
<
br /> “No.” Peter’s gaze snapped to Roland, as if he wanted to gauge his response.
Roland glowered at Peter to let him know he expected as much. Of course, Peter told her about yesterday. He probably told Dominic, too. Roland had no delusion that Peter was really his friend.
“Is that when you met him?” Caitlyn said. “When you and Toby—”
“Hey, I bet Roland’s hungry.” Peter grabbed her arms and gave her a desperate look. “He probably hasn’t eaten yet. Why don’t you—”
“Are you hungry?” she asked Roland, raising her brows, her face all sweetness and sincerity.
Something inside Roland stirred. He realized that, while he didn’t like being talked about, he didn’t mind sharing things with her. Although he would’ve rather told her himself.
“I’m not hungry,” he said, but his body betrayed him, his stomach letting out an awful growl and his hand shooting up to it. He pretended he wanted to button his jacket even though he was sweaty from walking all day.
“I’ll get you something.” She smiled and bounced off.
He watched her go.
“I hate to interrupt your staring.” Peter grinned. “But do you wanna do something? Do you know how to shoot?”
“Shoot? Shoot what?” Roland couldn’t decide if he wanted to act cold or not. Peter had obviously talked about him behind his back. But he was doing Roland a favor, letting him stay the night. And by the time Papa returned home, it wouldn’t matter what anybody said about him. He’d be in Italy and wouldn’t have to hear it.
“I’ve got a BB gun and some old cans. I set ‘em up over there.” He pointed to a tree stump near the back of the yard.
“It’ll be dark soon.” Roland glanced at the setting sun. Surrounded by glowing tangerine clouds, it hung over a line of trees.
“We’ve got plenty of time.” Peter stuck a hand out for Roland’s backpack.
A few minutes later, Peter had the backpack inside and the cans set up in a pyramid on the stump. They counted off steps, marching in the direction of the house.
“Doesn’t it bother you having strangers in your house?” Roland gazed at the deck off the back of the L-shaped house. A couple sat there in patio chairs, watching the kids play of tug-of-war. A tall man stood in the shadow of the doorway that everyone had come out. His arms hung at his sides, and he frowned at the backyard. At them, it seemed.
“Nah. They’re not really in our house. The guests’ side is separated by a breezeway.” He handed the gun to Roland. “People only come over to our side for breakfast and dinner. Are you thinking of Mrs. Bjorn and how nosey she was yesterday? Most people aren’t like—”
“No, I was thinking of him.” Roland tilted his chin to indicate the strange, staring man.
“Oh, that guy. Yeah. That’s Mr. Reinhard. He’s pretty creepy, all right. All through dinner he kept staring and asking me questions.”
Roland pumped the gun, leveled it, and shot. The top can flew off.
“Wow, good aim.” Looking impressed, Peter nodded. “I thought we were back far enough to make it a little challenging.”
Roland pumped, aimed, and shot again. Another can flew off.
“So, how’d you learn to shoot?”
“Papa . . .” He shook his head, wishing he wouldn’t keep calling him that in front of other people. It sounded childish. Everyone else called their father Dad. “I mean my father—”
They both turned at the sound of someone shuffling through the grass. Caitlyn carried a plate in one hand and a pop can in the other. “I made a chicken sandwich before Mrs. Brandt put the food away. Do you like chicken?”
“Sure. Thanks.” Roland passed the gun to Peter and took the plate from Caitlyn. “My father taught me when I was little.”
“What’d you say your dad did again?” Peter said.
“Uh, he’s an archaeologist. He takes odd assignments.”
“Odd assignments? What does that . . .” Peter shut his mouth. “So, do your brothers shoot?” He aimed the BB gun.
“We all shoot.”
“Even your mother?” Caitlyn said.
Peter lowered the gun and spun to face Roland, probably remembering how Roland snapped at the mention of his mother yesterday.
“She used to.” Roland bit into the sandwich and gazed at the sunset, a melancholy feeling taking over.
Peter aimed the gun again.
“Used to?” Caitlyn said. “Why doesn’t she—”
“Caitlyn,” Peter shouted. “Why don’t you get Roland some chips to eat with that sandwich?”
Caitlyn bit her lower lip and nodded, compassion—or was it pity?—in her eyes. “Sure, chips. Be right back.” She turned and headed for the house, her hair swinging wide then falling into place.
Roland’s shoulders sagged. He didn’t want to get into his mom’s death. At least not with Peter. But with Caitlyn . . .
Peter’s shot finally grazed a can. It clattered to the ground, drawing Roland’s attention.
No, he shouldn’t mention anything to anyone. Better if he kept it to himself. Besides, in a few weeks, he’d be gone.
THE TAILLIGHTS OF THE Summers’ van disappeared around a bend in Forest Road. Roland lifted his gaze to the orange streaks in the darkening sky and glimpsed the sun as it slid behind the trees. Then he strolled across the Brandts’ front yard, having decided to start down the path toward home in case anyone watched him. He’d cut down and cross back over Forest Road where no one would see him. Then he could wait in the woods behind the Brandts’ house until Peter gave the signal.
Could he really do this every night until Papa came home? He’d have to talk with Nanny. The note was good, but she’d probably rather talk to him. Maybe he could make up a friend so Jarret wouldn’t discover his true location. No. He didn’t want to lie. He could always tell Nanny he didn’t want Jarret to know. But then she’d wonder why.
As Roland stepped into the street, a man called his name. He stopped and turned.
Mr. Brandt jogged across the yard. “Come on, son, I’ll give you a ride home.”
While wanting to appear relaxed, Roland’s face twitched in three different places. “Oh, no thanks. I’m not that far. It’s just a short walk home.”
“Well, Roland, it gets dark quick, and there are wild animals out here, you know.” His keys jingled in his hand. “We’ll go in my truck.”
“Yeah, but I—”
Mr. Brandt pointed to the truck and gave an authoritative nod.
With a sigh, Roland headed for the truck.
Mr. Brandt drove a full-sized, dark-green Dodge with a vinyl interior and a rumbling engine. Mud streaked the driver’s side door, floor, and even the steering wheel. Papa’s truck got just as dirty when he was on an assignment. Considering that they both worked outdoors, had no fear of dirt, and were roughly the same age, Papa and Mr. Brandt might’ve had a lot in common.
As the truck rolled onto Forest Road, Roland gazed out the open passenger-side window. A pine-scented breeze blew through his hair. The gravel driveway to their house came off Forest Road, about a mile up, but the way trees grew around it made it easy to miss. The driveway was long, winding around several acres of their property. Walking would’ve been more direct . . . if he’d wanted to go home.
Nearing the driveway, he straightened and got ready to point. “Hey, our driveway is—”
Mr. Brandt had already slowed down. He flipped the turn signal, stepped on the brakes, and cranked the wheel. As if he knew where they lived. Peter must have told him. What else had Peter told him?
Darkness deepened in the woods.
“A pack of coyotes was spotted out our way, couple days ago.” Mr. Brandt took his eyes off the gravel road and glanced at Roland.
Roland nodded.
“A pack is much more dangerous than a single coyote . . .” Mr. Brandt went on about coyotes, about how many had been spotted last year, the year before that, about where they usually headed, what they ate . . .
Bugs f
litted over the gravelly road, in the headlight beams. Nearing the house, it seemed like bugs zipped around inside Roland, in his guts. Would Jarret be outside or watching from a window? The longer he stayed away, the angrier Jarret would get. Roland wouldn’t be able to avoid him at school, but at least they wouldn’t be alone together.
Mr. Brandt had stopped talking but kept glancing at Roland, as if he had something serious to say. Did he know about last night? That Roland had snuck into Peter’s room and stayed the night?
The house came into view, a cold medieval silhouette looming against the royal blue sky. The truck stopped. Roland fumbled with the door handle and accidentally flung the door open. He slid off the seat and jumped out. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Brandt.”
Mr. Brandt nodded. “You’re welcome, Roland. Have a good night.” Then he cast a long glance at the house, but it wasn’t the look that most people gave it—awestruck stares, gaping mouths, wide eyes. Mr. Brandt blinked a few times, and his jaw twitched. He gave Roland another nod.
Roland slammed the truck door and cringed at the loud sound, hoping no one inside the house heard it. After watching the truck drive away, he faced the house. The porch light had a welcoming glow. Dim yellow lights showed in the kitchen window and in the bedroom windows upstairs. Even Roland’s bedroom? Who was in his room?
Irritation sparked inside him. He considered going inside to find out, but that would bring him face to face with Jarret. He wasn’t about to fall in step with Jarret’s plan. He had to avoid him as long as possible. So he turned away and began his trek through the woods, back to Peter’s house.
Chapter 20
Crouched like a tiger surveying his prey, Peter foraged through the refrigerator. He shoved the leftover spaghetti aside and snagged two orange sodas. After sacking the leftover ham, a hunk of Colby cheese, two apples, and the last piece of pie, he straightened and made a quick scan of his plunder.
The refrigerator door closed behind him, cutting off his main source of light, but pale gray moonlight shone in through the window over the sink, and the clock on the microwave cast a bluish glow. It was all the light he needed.
Roland West, Loner Page 10