Gone Gull

by Donna Andrews

  “One nip and you’re back in there,” I warned him as we crossed the great room toward the front door.

  He trotted briskly at my side out to the caravan and stood at the base of its steps, looking cranky and entitled as he waited for me to lift him up.

  “No nipping,” I reminded him.

  He condescended to let me lift him up into the caravan, and then scampered inside, doubtless planning to lie in wait for me there and get in the forbidden nip by pretending to mistake me for a burglar.

  I went to the tent to get Michael’s and my things. The rest of our things—we were already using the caravan to store a lot of stuff we didn’t want to leave lying around in the tent. I checked to make sure Spike was safely out of the way, and then hoisted our stuff inside. I easily found space to tuck everything away, out of sight and, more important, out from underfoot. That was another thing I liked about the caravan—the storage space.

  Not for the first time I admired the craftsmanship that had gone into making the caravan. And I didn’t mean the painting, gilding, and carving, though they were, of course, fabulous. No, I meant the way the builder had made such efficient use of small bits of space that would otherwise have gone to waste. Caroline’s caravan probably had more storage space than most—she’d had it made with much smaller windows, both to leave room for more cabinets and drawers, and also for privacy and security. And then, to ensure ample daylight and ventilation, she’d had the builder install a skylight in the ceiling. Or maybe I should call it a sunroof, since it was in a vehicle and opened up far enough to catch stray breezes.

  I’d slept in the caravan a few times on other trips, and had always enjoyed lying in the enormous bed that filled the back third of it, looking up through the skylight at the stars. But I was feeling a little anxious tonight. I wanted to make sure no one could peek in or, worse, get in. Okay, given the small size of the windows and how far they were off the ground, only a reasonably agile and very skinny person could get in, but still. I made sure all the windows were locked and the shades tightly closed; I even pulled the carved wooden cover over the skylight and latched it securely.

  “Snug as a bug in a rug,” I said to Spike, who had jumped up onto the bed and curled up in the absolute center. He ignored me, as he tended to ignore everyone who wasn’t either Josh or Jamie.

  I pulled on my night clothes—actually, a t-shirt and some yoga pants, much more presentable than pajamas or a nightgown if I had to make a midnight run to the bathroom. Then I started working on getting Spike to make room for me. Any other dog I would have simply picked up and moved away from the center of the bed, but such a policy was unwise with Spike, unless you liked getting out the first aid kit in the middle of the night. So I used what I thought of as the passive/aggressive approach. I lifted the coverlet ever so slightly, until he was lying on a slope, and held it taut until either gravity slid him toward the side of the bed or he got mildly annoyed and moved to a flatter area. I had to repeat the process five or six times, but eventually I had relocated him far enough away that I had room to get in bed. I curled up in the other side of the bed, being careful not to jostle Spike, who had learned the wisdom of not biting me but sometimes forgot when startled out of sleep. I plugged my phone into the built-in charger, which ran on battery when the caravan wasn’t connected to the grid. I turned it on and sent a quick text to Michael, as we usually did when we were separated at bedtime.

  “How’s the campout going?”

  I waited for a few moments, fighting to keep my eyes open. I wasn’t expecting an answer, since he was out in the mountains where cell phone service was next to nonexistent. But there was always the possibility that they’d camped in some spot that got a bar or two occasionally. Especially if they were camping near the top of some mountain—that helped, didn’t it?

  But no reply came, and eventually my phone dimmed, to suggest that if I had no further business with it, maybe I could let it go to sleep. I made sure the sound was on, so I’d hear it if it rang or if Michael replied to my text, and shut it off.

  I reminded myself that one of the reasons for installing myself in the caravan was to keep an eye on whatever was happening outside the center. To remain alert and vigilant, ready to spot any threat to the center.

  Somehow it had all seemed so much easier earlier in the day. Before I was so tired.

  I closed my eyes, ready to drift into sleep.

  “Grrr.” Spike stood up and walked stiffly over to the narrow little window that ran along the back of the caravan, just above the level of the bed. It was only a foot high and designed to let the bed’s occupant keep watch on what was happening outside without sitting up. Unfortunately, this meant it was seriously inconvenient to look out of if you weren’t already lying down right next to it. Though it was perfectly positioned to let Spike to see out. He growled softly for a few moments. Then he erupted in furious barking.

  I scooted over and bent down to peer out the window. Vern Shiffley, making his rounds.

  “Shut up, Spike,” I said.

  Reluctantly, Spike subsided into silence. But he remained curled up by the window. That didn’t bode well.

  Sure enough, a few minutes later he began barking again. By the time I’d scooted over to the window so I could see outside, the person he was barking at was disappearing into the distance. Possibly Vern, circling around. Or one of the other visiting officers.

  By around 2:00 A.M. I had definitely come to regret the notion of having Spike as a bodyguard. He was taking his job a little too seriously. He barked when campers came and went from the bathrooms, even if they came nowhere near the caravan. He barked whenever one of the borrowed officers passed by on his or her rounds. He barked when a trio of deer strolled by on their way to munch on Cordelia’s roses—though at least that bit of barking was slightly useful. He barked at the first few distant rumbles of thunder that signaled the arrival of the promised thunderstorm. And when the heavens finally opened, accompanied by an almost deafening crack of thunder, he nearly went berserk. At least as the thunderstorm ran its course he calmed down—or perhaps he’d exhausted himself.

  He was barking again, I realized, as I struggled up from sleep. At the thunder, perhaps. No, the storm was trailing off. I was too tired to peer out and see what had set him off.

  “Shut up, Spike,” I muttered for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  He subsided into growls.

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you the story of the boy who cried wolf?” I muttered. We had discussed this before—often.

  He growled again.

  “I give up.” I stuck a particularly fat pillow over my head.

  The pillow actually did a fairly decent job of muffling Spike’s growls.

  “And we’re not going through this again tomorrow night,” I muttered into the pillow. “I’m going to send you camping with the boys, no matter how much Grandfather protests.”

  I fell asleep smiling at the thought.

  But Spike followed me into my dreams. I knew I was dreaming, because suddenly Spike had grown to the size of a small horse. He was growling incessantly. I was just opening my mouth to say, “Shut up, Spike,” when he barked right into my ear with such force that it knocked me off the bed.

  I woke up to find that I was still in bed.

  But the bed was moving.

  In fact, the whole caravan was moving.

  Chapter 30

  Spike had jumped off the bed and was running back and forth across the floor of the caravan, still growling—but it wasn’t his usual confidant, forceful growling. It was a higher-pitched, anxious growl, more bravado than confidence. Not a sort of growling I’d often heard from the Small Evil One. I’d heard him growl like that once when by some oversight he’d managed to slip past us into the bear’s den at Grandfather’s zoo. And once again when he’d taunted a cousin’s Rottweiler mercilessly until the larger dog, ordinarily quite calm and placid, became annoyed and responded with a growl so deep you felt more than heard
it. Not happy memories.

  “Shut up, Spike,” I said, almost automatically.

  For once he obeyed. Then he gave one soft bark, sat down in the middle of the floor, and looked up at me with a more familiar expression. The expression that said, “I am displeased with my present circumstances, and I expect you, lowly human, to do your job and fix things.”

  “Working on it,” I muttered.

  I crawled to the far side of the enormous bed and peered through the curtains that covered the narrow little window there. The caravan was hitched behind a large pickup truck, and was now moving rather rapidly. Rapidly backward, I thought, irrationally—the detachable shafts that you could use if you wanted a horse to draw the caravan were on the front end, the end with the door, while the permanently installed (though discreetly camouflaged) trailer hitch was on the back, or bed end of the caravan. From what I could see, we were rattling downhill on the gravel lane that led from Biscuit Mountain to the main road. Going a bit faster than I’d have wanted to go on this road, which made the caravan lurch and pitch. But still not going all that fast, probably because the road just wouldn’t allow it. Though no doubt the fact that the truck didn’t have its headlights or taillights on also discouraged the driver from speeding.

  “Sorry, Spike,” I said. “You were trying to warn me and I was telling you to shut up.”

  His look suggested that he’d consider accepting my apology when I’d gotten us out of this mess.

  And it was definitely a mess. I couldn’t think of a plausible reason for anyone to be hauling the caravan off in the middle of the night unless they were trying to kidnap my boys.

  A surge of anger swept through me at that thought. The would-be kidnapper was in for a nasty surprise if I had anything to do with it.

  But first I needed to escape.

  No, first I needed to figure out who was doing this so I could report them. Then escape. And then sic law enforcement on my kidnapper.

  Speaking of law enforcement, how had the officers patrolling the ground missed seeing someone hitching up the caravan to his truck and then hauling it off?

  Probably during the thunderstorm. I wouldn’t have blamed them at all for taking shelter for a few minutes during the height of the downpour. And even without the thunder, the noise of the heavy rain would have disguised whatever sounds the kidnapper made while hitching up the caravan.

  Still—surely sooner or later someone would notice the caravan’s absence and come looking for it, wouldn’t they?

  Well, unless whoever was currently patrolling that part of the grounds was one of the newcomers who didn’t know the lay of the land that well.

  I’d worry about that later.

  I peered out the window again, trying to see if I could read the truck’s license plate. Unfortunately, while my perspective through the window was inconveniently low, it was still above the raised bed, which meant from the outside it was too high for me to see down as far as the truck’s license plate. And the lack of any illumination meant I couldn’t see even the silhouette of the driver.

  I glanced at my watch. Four thirty. Later than I expected. So late it was almost early. But not late enough that even the earliest risers would be out.

  I took a couple of pictures of the truck anyway. They just looked like dark blurs to me, but maybe Horace or one of Rob’s techs would have a way of lightening them to make out any useful details. Though what those details might be I had no idea. It was an ordinary truck, dark blue or black. Nothing in the truck bed. No distinctive marks that I could see. No visible dents or damage. No stickers on the back window of the cab. Nothing memorable about the truck at all.

  Well, except for the fact that it was driving too fast down a narrow mountain road with its headlights off, towing a gaudily painted Gypsy caravan.

  So, call 911 first or escape from the caravan? I peered out one of the side windows. All I could see was trees, scrolling past the window and sometimes brushing it. Which meant we were still on the lane leading up to Biscuit Mountain. Probably a good idea to escape before the truck hit the main road, where it could pick up speed. And luckily, since the door was on the opposite end from the truck, I could probably do so without the kidnapper seeing me.

  I slid off the bed and crawled to the door end of the caravan—given how badly it was lurching, crawling seemed a lot safer than walking. My plan was to open the door, wait until the truck slowed down a bit—going around a curve, perhaps—then throw Spike out and jump after him.

  I made sure my phone was in my pocket.

  “Here, Spike,” I called softly.

  He stared at me and continued sitting on the floor.

  I crawled back to him, picked him up, and tucked him under my arm. He only made a token attempt to bite me, which meant that he understood the gravity of the situation.

  I unlocked the door, turned the handle, and pushed.

  Nothing happened.

  I shoved harder. Something was holding the door closed. I put Spike down, took a few steps back, and hit the door with my shoulder. Nothing.

  Well, not exactly nothing—I bounced back, stumbled, and fell, almost landing on Spike. My bottom hurt almost as much as my shoulder.

  “Okay, that won’t work,” I said aloud. Spike growled softly in agreement.

  The caravan lurched suddenly. I thought for a moment it was going to turn over, but it only tipped back and forth several times, slamming me and Spike violently against the cabinets on either side.

  I felt a sudden surge of panic. This was getting scary. My initial assumption that I could easily escape from the caravan had given way to a claustrophobic sense of being trapped and helpless. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths.

  “Grrrrrr.”

  I opened my eyes and saw Spike staring at me in disapproval.

  This was no time to panic. Spike was depending on me. And for that matter, Josh and Jamie were depending on me to get myself out of this jam and return to them.

  Josh and Jamie, who could so easily have been in the caravan. I let anger wash away the fear, and then I tamped down the anger and focused back on making our escape.

  I eyed the door. It was a modified Dutch door. The bottom portion was solid wood, elaborately carved and painted inside and out. The top foot or so consisted of two little frosted glass windows with carved and painted frames. I unlatched one of the windows from the bottom part of the door and tried to push it open.

  That didn’t work, either.

  I did manage to push the window open a crack, just enough to peer down and figure out what was wrong with the door. Damn. The caravan’s door was flanked by two wooden handholds. When the removable wooden steps weren’t in place, you could use the handholds to pull yourself up to the doorstep. And when the steps were in place, the handholds probably comforted anyone who was unsteady on his feet.

  Unfortunately, they were also perfect for slipping a two-by-four through if you wanted to trap the caravan’s occupants inside. And the ends of the two-by-four were out of reach, even if I got the windows open.

  Whatever was holding the windows closed had a little give to it—probably a rope or more likely an elastic bungee cord, tied on either side to the decorative woodwork and pressed tight against the windows.

  “Maybe it’s time to call the cavalry,” I said to Spike. I pulled out my phone and tapped 911.

  No service.

  “Of course,” I muttered. Cordelia’s cell signal booster barely reached to the far edge of the campgrounds. As soon as we’d begun rattling down the gravel road we’d entered the vast surrounding dead zone.

  Texts sometimes went through with less signal than needed for a phone call. I tried sending a text to Michael. No luck.

  E-mail. Sooner or later we’d pass close enough to a cell tower for my phone to get a signal. If I noticed when that happened, I could call or text. But if an e-mail was waiting in my out folder, my phone would send it as soon as it got enough signal.

  So I composed an e-mail.
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  “Help!” the subject line read, and the body continued with “Someone is kidnapping me. They have barricaded me inside Caroline Willner’s caravan and are towing it away from Biscuit Mountain with a large, dark pickup truck. No cell phone signal. If you get this, please notify the police.”

  Then I started filling in the addresses of family and friends. Michael. Cordelia. Caroline. Dad. Mother. Grandfather. Rob. Horace. I didn’t have Chief Heedles’s e-mail address, but I included Caerphilly’s Chief Burke. Kevin. Eric. And then I added my own e-mail address—if the phone found enough signal to send it, I’d probably get the little ding that alerted me to an arriving e-mail—I figured that might also alert me that we were passing through an area with cell phone service.

  “Here’s hoping.” I pressed the SEND button.

  Spike growled slightly, as if to remind me that he was still unhappy and I had some work to do to resolve his problems. Yes, even if the e-mail went through right now, it would still take time for help to arrive. I’d better be prepared to help myself.

  So—first order of business: find a way to defend myself if my kidnapper stopped the truck and tried to enter the caravan. Second: find a way to get Spike and myself out of the caravan—preferably without alerting my kidnapper that his victims had flown the coop. And third, if possible: either get the truck’s license number, or find some way to identify it later.

  First, I threw on my clothes. Whether I ended up doing battle with my kidnapper or fleeing through the woods, I’d feel a lot more comfortable doing it with shoes on. And underwear.

  Then I began rummaging through the caravan’s extensive drawers and cabinets. No luck with the kitchen drawers—we’d removed all the sharp knives when Eric and the boys had replaced Caroline as the caravan’s occupants. Then again, did I really want to be waving a knife at my kidnapper?