Roland West, Loner

by Theresa Linden

  Roland gazed in the direction of the window over the couch.

  Peter whispered into the phone, “You’re kidding me. You’re sharing his secrets?”

  “Yes. No. I didn’t mean to. I only wanted them to stop saying stupid things.”

  “Well, what’d you say about him?” Peter said it louder than he had meant to.

  Roland turned his head. Had he heard him?

  Caitlyn groaned in a most pathetic way. “I said, I said . . . Maybe I shouldn’t say.”

  “Look, I gotta go.” Peter got up from the chair. “I’ve got company. I’ll call you later.”

  She gasped. “Is it him? Is Roland over?”

  “I don’t know. I gotta go.” He headed for the kitchen, watching Mr. Reinhard chuckle with Aunt Lotti in the booth.

  “Oh, tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I was only trying to defend him.”

  “Yeah, okay.” He fixed his eyes on the phone cradle.

  “Pleeease.”

  “I said I would. See ya.” He hung up the phone.

  Roland got up. “So, uh . . .”

  Peter decided upon complete honesty. “Yeah, that was Caitlyn, and yeah, we were talking about you.”

  “That wasn’t my question.” His face twitched as if he had to fight back a sneer, but then he threw a glance in the direction of the dining room and whispered, “You got the key?”

  “Yes and no. Maybe you can get it back.” Peter stomped down the hallway, and Roland followed. He stopped at Toby’s door and knocked. “Hey, Toby, Roland’s here.”

  The door cracked open. Toby stuck his head out and smiled, staring at Roland’s feet. “Hi, some-un.”

  “It’s Roland.”

  “It’s Roland,” Toby said, imitating Roland’s tone.

  Roland leaned on the doorframe, his head close to Toby’s. “I hear you have a key.”

  Toby stuck his bottom lip out, still gazing downward. “Toby’s key.”

  “Think I can see it?”

  Toby shook his head. “Toby’s key.”

  Peter exhaled loudly. He’d have to use Plan B. “Listen, Toby, you want me to play trains with you tonight?”

  “Train?” He turned his big brown eyes on Peter. “Peter play train?”

  “I’ll play trains. We’ll play trains all night after dinner. You just gotta give me that key.” He stuck out his hand. “I need it.”

  Toby darted into his room and came back with the key. He held it out, but Peter still had to pry it from his hand.

  “Thanks, bud. You’re the best.”

  “Peter play train.”

  “That’s right. After dinner.” He shut Toby’s door.

  “Let’s do it.” Roland started down the hall, toward the living room.

  Peter grabbed his arm. “Wait. We’re not gonna use the front door. We’ll have to sneak. I don’t want Mr. Reinhard knowing.” Then he shouted, “Hey, Aunt Lotti, we’re going upstairs to do homework. Let Mom know, will ya?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll call you when it’s dinner time.”

  “Good.” He bolted up the stairs.

  Chapter 32

  A cool breeze blew through the trees, rattling the leaves and carrying the scent of burning wood. Roland inhaled, enjoying the smell. A squirrel bounced ahead of them on the rocky path then scampered up a tree.

  Peter led the way, jogging and puffing, seeming a bit out of shape. He glanced over his shoulder. “If Mr. Reinhard, or anyone else, is trying to follow us, he’d have to be in pretty good shape to keep up.” His hand shot to his side. He slowed to an easier pace, tugging on the straps of his backpack, as if he needed to adjust them.

  “Do you think Foster picks locks?” Roland said, barely winded, having no problem keeping up with Peter. He spent a lot of time wandering the trails on his family’s property. And while he couldn’t beat his brothers at their family sports of fencing, archery, or marksmanship, he could walk or jog forever.

  Peter laughed. “Foster? Probably. I’d bet he’s got a resume of shady skills. But I don’t think he’s the one who opened my locker. I think he found it that way. I think someone else got into it and left it open.”

  “Oh yeah? Got any suspects?”

  Peter glanced over his shoulder, raising a brow.

  “Me?” Offended, Roland stopped walking. “What would I want from your locker?” He put a hand on his hip.

  Peter chuckled. “I don’t mean you.” He came up to Roland, amusement showing in his eyes. “But now that you mention it . . .”

  Roland sneered, not sure if he was serious.

  Peter shoved his shoulder. “I’m just messing with you. I don’t suspect you. We’re friends, right?”

  Roland’s jaw twitched. He shrugged. Were they?

  “Come on. Let’s get moving.” Peter led the way again. “I’ll tell you who I suspect. Mr. Reinhard.” His voice bounced as he jogged. “I don’t trust him.”

  “Is that why you taped your bedroom door before we climbed out the window?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly why,” Peter said. “For some reason, I think Mr. Reinhard wants whatever’s in that old box. There’s something suspicious about him. He shows up just after I get the box. He’s snooping around the house, maybe even in my room. And he’s hitting on Aunt Lotti.”

  Roland laughed. “She’s not bad looking for her age. She’s single, right? Why is that so strange?”

  “I don’t know. It’s the timing. I’m beginning to think he knew my grandpa, or he knows my Uncle Harold. Maybe he knows what’s in the box . . . and it’s something he’s got to have.”

  “Or maybe he’s not after the box at all. Maybe no one is.”

  Peter glared. “I didn’t tell you, but the envelope the key came in, it was open. He could’ve opened it.”

  “Well, the key was still there, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but maybe he made a copy. No, that would take too long. Unless he made a print in clay or something.”

  “I don’t know, Peter. You think I’m paranoid . . .” The thought of being followed made Roland glance over his shoulder and peer into the woods around them. Peter wasn’t taking the same trails he had taken last time.

  “Do you hear something?”

  Roland shook his head. “I hope you know these woods as well as you say you do. We didn’t go this way last time.”

  “Relax.”

  “Relax? I don’t want to relax. Are we almost there?”

  Peter left the trail. They weaved through a group of spruce trees and rocky clusters, aspen trees and bushes. A minute later, he pushed through a scraggily bush and out into a sunny spot.

  Roland followed, but a root caught his foot and he stumbled out of the woods, coming within an inch of bumping Peter. Peter didn’t appear to notice.

  They stood side by side on a trail that overlooked the stream. Trees blocked the view of the waterfall, but judging by the faint rumbling sound, they hadn’t far to go.

  Peter hooked his thumbs in the straps of his backpack and gave Roland a cocky grin. “Don’t worry. See? I know my way around the woods.”

  When the waterfall came into view, Peter climbed down the slope. He waited at the river’s edge, near the crossing stones that led to the waterfall.

  Lagging behind, Roland made a less-than-smooth descent down the slope, kicking up dirt and rocks. He couldn’t take his eyes off the waterfall as he neared Peter.

  “Why don’t you get the box?” The falls had Roland mesmerized. “Bring it out here, and we’ll take it back to your house.”

  “What?” Peter raised his brows and jerked back as if he thought the suggestion ridiculous. “I’m not taking it home. Not yet. Let’s just see what’s in it.”

  Roland stepped back, shaking his head. It took all his mental strength last time to force himself through the icy water. Even the memory made him queasy. He couldn’t do it again.

  Peter glanced over his shoulder, at the waterfall. Then he squinted at Roland and grinned. “Don’t tell me, you’re afraid of
water. Is that why it took you so long to come through the falls last time? Ha. I got it now. Roland West is afraid of water. Is it just waterfalls or all water? Can’t be all water.” He looked Roland up and down. “You always look cleaner than a cat. Is it just cold water?”

  Roland glared. Peter would tell Dominic. He could imagine what kids at school would say.

  “So, it’s not true?” Peter stared, smirking.

  With no intention of answering, Roland set his jaw and stomped to the river’s edge. Steeling his mind, he skipped from stone to stone until he stood face to face with white, rushing water. A brief pause. Unable to breathe. He forced himself through.

  Water pounded his head, sprayed into his eyes, sneaked up his nose . . . He couldn’t see. Still couldn’t breathe. Then he passed through it.

  A chill coursed through him, leaving him trembling. He groped the cold, cave wall and staggered along the ledge, inching to the very back.

  A beam of light from an overhead crack fell on the duffle bag that held the towels. Still shivering, he fell to his knees by the bag and wrestled a towel free. Not wanting to appear weak when Peter joined him, he forced himself up. He couldn’t shake the miserable feeling, even as he dried his hair.

  Peter popped through the falls with a hoot. He shook his hair out on his way over to the tree stumps by the transformer.

  Roland grabbed another towel from the duffle bag. “Here,” he said, ready to toss it.

  “I won’t be needing that yet.” He kicked off his shoes and stripped off his shirt. “One of us has to get the box.” He glanced at the pool. “I’m guessing it’s not gonna be you.” He grinned. “So, you can hold onto the key.” He reached into his pocket and tossed Roland the key.

  The key landed in Roland’s palm and an odd tingle ran through him. After one brief moment, the box would be opened and its story told . . . maybe. He didn’t know why, but he had great hope attached to the box now. It belonged to Peter. But the message, the story belonged to Roland.

  Roland snatched the lighter that lay on the rock shelf, beside the transmitter, and lit all the candles in the cave walls. Then he stood in the flickering light while a feeling of expectation grew within him.

  A moment later, Peter’s head popped out of the pool. He flung water from his face with a jerk of his head and climbed out, box in hand.

  Roland jutted his chin in the direction of the transmitter. “Shouldn’t you get this back home? Don’t you think the spray from the waterfall will—?”

  “Man, you sound like my mom.” He grabbed a towel, dried off the bag that held the box and then his hair. “The transformer’s perfectly dry where it is. Let’s have that key.”

  Roland slapped it into his palm. They each sat on one of the tree stumps and huddled over the box.

  Peter slipped the box from the bag. “What if the key doesn’t work?” he said as he stuck the key in and turned. It did work. Smiling, he lifted the lid.

  The cave walls, the rushing water and flickering candles in Roland’s peripheral vision . . . everything seemed to fade from view as he peered into the box.

  It held several things.

  Peter wiped the rock table with his towel, pushed the transmitter back, and laid the contents of the box out for investigation: a black wooden rosary, an old holy card, a folded piece of rough brown cloth, and a small, leather-bound notebook.

  “So, what’s it about?” Peter sounded like he expected Roland to have the answer.

  Fingers tingling, Roland picked up the notebook and turned a few pages. Small, black writing filled the pages. The handwriting resembled ordinary cursive, with the exception of the big swirling capital letters and the long tails at the ends of the sentences. Numbers, probably dates, were in the left margins. Though most of the letters looked familiar, the words made absolutely no sense. “I wonder what language this is.” Roland held the book so Peter could see.

  Peter handed the holy card to Roland. “I guess it’s the same language as this. What’s it all about? Doesn’t look like much, but I get the impression it’s important. It was important to Grandpa anyway.”

  “And maybe to Mr. Reinhard.” Roland smirked.

  Peter picked up the coarse brown cloth. “I wonder what this—”

  “Let me take the book.”

  “What?”

  Roland stuffed the book in his front jacket pocket.

  “Hey.” Peter snatched it back. “You’re gonna get it wet. What do you want it for?” He turned the book over and ran his hand down both sides.

  “My father could tell us what language this is. We could start there. If we could read this notebook, then maybe we would understand. Don’t you think?”

  Mouth hanging open, Peter narrowed his eyes.

  Roland, sensing the lack of trust, glared right back.

  Peter licked his lips and pressed them together. “All right. Here.” He started to hand it over but jerked it back. “Wait. Let me wrap it up. Don’t want it getting wet.” He went to his backpack and pulled out a plastic bag. “Until we know what it’s about, I’ll put the rest back in the hiding place.”

  So Peter returned the other items to the old box, sealed the box in a dry bag, and dove back into the pool. When he returned, he stuffed the key into the front pocket of his wet jeans, and they headed for home.

  The return trip seemed to take half the time. Stepping out of the woods, Peter’s tan house came into view. The rope ladder hanging down the side of the house didn’t look too obvious at a distance. Maybe no one had noticed. Roland hadn’t noticed signs of anyone following them.

  “Come on.” Peter started jogging. “Stay behind the bushes in case anyone’s in the backyard. We need to sneak back up to my room and act like we did homework the whole time.”

  As they neared the garage, Toby, from somewhere on the other side of the bushes, shrieked, “Fall down, go boom.” He laughed a deep, guttural laugh.

  “What’s that about?” Roland said.

  Peter shrugged. “I don’t know, but don’t let him see us. Toby draws attention.”

  They had nearly reached the house when Toby shouted again, his voice sounding nearer. “Whooaa . . .”

  “Look out!” Peter ducked.

  A big, pink water balloon came at Roland from above, blocking out the sky. He saw it too late. It made contact with his head, breaking open, icy water rushing down his face, renewing all the horror of pushing through the waterfall. He heard himself groan. His arms shot up, covering his head. Cold shuddered through him. His mind went blank.

  Dancing to get away.

  Wiping his hair furiously.

  Cussing.

  Trembling . . .

  When the feeling passed, he froze and stared at the bushes.

  “Fall down, go boom.” Toby crept out from behind a bush.

  Fire flashed behind Roland’s eyes. His face muscles tightened. The burst of cold water and being taken by surprise made him think of Jarret, though he didn’t know why. He only knew that he felt alienated, powerless, and manipulated. Fists clenched, he stomped toward Toby.

  Peter lunged into his path, hands up, palms out. “Hey, wait a minute, Toby didn’t mean—”

  Roland snapped out of it. He threw Peter a wicked glare then turned and jogged away, across the front lawn, across the street, and into the woods.

  Peter’s angry voice traveled some distance. “Toby! I can’t believe you did that!”

  “Do it again,” Toby said, playfully.

  “You’re ruining my life.”

  Before Roland got too far, he heard another water balloon splash down and Peter shout, “I’m not playing trains with you.”

  Chapter 33

  The next morning, Peter leaned against the window frame of a long window by the front doors of the school, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, backpack at his feet. He inhaled a deep breath of diesel-scented air and blew out a little white cloud from his mouth. The mornings had grown chilly. The incessant chatter of the kids milling around him had
numbed his mind. He fixed his gaze on the cars that pulled up behind the buses. What kind of car did the West family drive? It had to be something expensive and—if Roland had any say in it—black.

  Dominic rolled his wheelchair back and forth a few inches. “Who are you looking for, anyway? Why don’t we just wait inside?”

  “Who said I was waiting for anyone?”

  “Ningun duh. I can see you are waiting for someone.”

  “Okay, fine. I’m waiting for Roland West. What’s ningun duh mean?”

  “No duh. That West kid? You are waiting for him? What for?” He tugged on the hair that hung in front of his eyes.

  “Well, you know that old box I told you about? I got the key, finally, and we opened it yesterday.”

  “We? You mean you and your girlfriend or you and that West kid?”

  Peter exhaled a cloud and shoved Dominic’s wheelchair. “I don’t have a girlfriend. Caitlyn’s just a friend. But she wasn’t there. It was just Roland and me. And Roland’s got something that was in the box. So, you know, I’m kind of anxious to see what he found out about it.”

  “I hope you didn’t make a mistake.” He rolled up a sleeve of his sweatshirt.

  “A mistake?”

  “Yeah, trusting him. You told me the box was old, like an antique. Isn’t that what his family does, buys and sells antiques?”

  “I don’t know. I guess. It’s not like I gave him the box, just something from the box.”

  “Well, does it have any value? Is it old? Antique?”

  “Uh, yeah, it’s old. It’s a book.”

  “Uh-huh.” His tone showed disapproval. “Well, I’m going in now.” He tossed his black fringe from his eyes with a jerk of his head and cranked his wheelchair around to face the doors. “All the buses are leaving. The bell will be ringing soon. You should come in, too. Catch Roland later, if he even came today. If he’s not busy hocking your book.”

  “I’ll be in, in a minute.” Peter swiped his backpack from the ground and strolled down the sidewalk to get a closer look at the last few cars pulling up.

  A red Honda, a rusted—never see those anymore—Pacer, a black truck, a minivan . . . Then, through the front window of a four-door, silver Lexus, he saw one of the West twins.