No one was outside. The backyard was empty. No red-headed Babe Ruths or Hank Aarons in the making. Not even the Rodowskys’ dog, Bo.
We turned like a precision marching team and sure enough, one of the side windows in the Rodowskys’ neighbors’ house was blasted to bits. But no baseball had done that damage. It had been something large. Person-sized, even.
Kristy and I exchanged a look and started walking back around the house without a word. No alarm was going off, but if someone had launched themselves (or anything large) through that window, we both knew without discussion that it would be better to call the cops and let them handle it.
We’d just reached the front of the house when I noticed an ancient, battered Ford Escort, that might once have been white, chugging up the street.
“Hey,” I began, but before I could finish the thought several things happened very quickly — so quickly we didn’t have time to freak out. (We had to save that for later.)
The front door of the house behind us banged open.
We both jumped about fifty feet into the air, although to our credit neither of us shrieked or screamed.
Then a man came barreling out of the door. I yanked Kristy out of the way (okay, so maybe we both yanked each other out of the way) and he hurtled past us across the grass, toward the car. He was a little shrimp of a guy, wearing a ski mask and gray sweats bunched at the ankles above scuffed jogging shoes. A gym bag was tucked under one arm like a football. And he was moving like a quarterback for the end zone.
But as fast as he was moving, his eyes seemed to take us both in, head to toe. They moved back and forth in the little circles cut in the ski mask, and it gave me the creeps. I felt as if I’d been photographed. Then he blinked and was gone, diving into the car. I heard him say something to whomever was driving. The car gave a lurch and the tires squealed.
“The license plate,” exclaimed Kristy.
We reached the curb in time to see the license as the car sped out of sight, but it was covered with mud. Either those guys had been parking in a mondo mud puddle, or they fixed it that way.
Personally, I think they fixed it that way.
We turned again and raced to the Rodowskys’ house. Kristy hammered on the front door while I rang the bell.
Mrs. Rodowsky opened the door. She looked very surprised. “Kristy! And … Abby, isn’t it? You aren’t baby-sitting today, are you? Because none of the boys are here —”
“No!” Quickly, breathlessly, Kristy told Mrs. Rodowsky what we had seen. Mrs. Rodowsky called the police, and they said they’d be there right away.
Then Kristy asked, “May I use your phone now, Mrs. Rodowsky?”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Rodowsky. She excused herself to watch for the police. Meanwhile, Kristy dialed and said, “Hello, Claud? Kristy. Abby and I are going to be a little late for the meeting today. Start without us.”
Trust Kristy to remember every detail.
The police were as good as their word. They showed up about three minutes later.
Why did it not surprise me that Kristy even knew one of the officers, Sergeant Johnson? She’d met him when Claudia had helped to solve a bank robbery, working from a clue she found in a photograph she’d taken.
Funny, but Sergeant Johnson didn’t look all that surprised to see Kristy, either. He said hello as if Kristy were someone he talked to every day, then introduced his partner, Sergeant Tang. While she checked out the scene of the crime, he listened, his eyes intent, as we described what had happened.
When we’d finished talking, Mrs. Rodowsky confirmed that she hadn’t heard anything until we’d showed up, acting like maniacs, on her doorstep. “Mr. Seger,” she told Sergeant Johnson. “That’s our neighbor’s name. I barely know him, though. I don’t even know his first name. He’s not there that much and he’s not very, well, outgoing.”
“Have you noticed anyone around here lately who isn’t one of your neighbors? Anyone who loitered in a suspicious manner? Has anyone come to your door and said they were selling something, or taking a survey, then asked you questions about your neighbors and their habits?”
“N-no,” said Mrs. Rodowsky, frowning as she thought it over.
“Why?” I asked.
“Could be someone checking things out — casing the neighborhood — in order to plan a burglary,” explained Sergeant Johnson.
“Wow,” I breathed. “Excellent.”
Kristy drove her elbow into my arm and said, “Have there been any other burglaries in the neighborhood?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said Sergeant Johnson. (I guess it’s a rule that police officers have to talk that way, as if they can’t just say yes or no.)
At last the officers finished checking things out. Sergeant Johnson gave us his phone number so we could call him if we remembered anything we might have forgotten to tell him.
“Can we call you and find out what’s happening?” asked Kristy.
“Sure,” Sergeant Johnson replied.
“Are we going to see a lineup?” I asked. “Identify the burglar?”
“Maybe it won’t come to that,” said the sergeant. He nodded at Mrs. Rodowsky, and said good-bye. He and his partner got into their patrol car and drove away.
Mrs. Rodowsky looked at her watch. “Oops,” she said. “I have to go pick up Shea and Jackie at the community center.”
Kristy looked at her watch and exclaimed, “Are we late, or what! ’Bye, Mrs. Rodowsky!”
“Good-bye, girls,” Mrs. Rodowsky called after us. “Be careful!”
“We will,” I called back. To Kristy I said, “But I don’t think we’re going to witness two burglaries in one day, do you?”
Kristy said, “One is enough for me, thank you. Did you see how that guy looked at us as he ran by? It gave me the creeps.”
“Definitely evil,” I said.
Looking at her watch again, Kristy began to jog. I fell into step.
“Listen, we have a great excuse for being late,” I said. “If you want, I’ll write you a note. Or maybe we should’ve asked the sergeant for one.”
Kristy didn’t laugh at that. I should have known better than to make jokes about being late to a BSC meeting.
We jogged in silence the rest of the way. Kristy reached Claudia’s front door ahead of me.
But I let her win. I figured it would make her feel better.
Kristy and Abby weren’t all that late to the meeting. In fact, Kristy caught me goofing off, sitting in Claud’s director’s chair, tilting it back, pretending to give orders.
I thumped the front legs of the chair down so hard that they almost gave way beneath me. I jumped up guiltily. Amazingly, Kristy didn’t even seem to notice. She only said, “Thanks, Stace,” and dropped into the chair as if she’d just finished running a marathon.
“Well? What’s the story?” Claudia demanded.
Kristy said, “We’ve been talking to an old acquaintance — Sergeant Johnson.”
“Charlie got a ticket?” Mary Anne asked, wrinkling her forehead.
“No!” said Kristy. “Charlie’s a good driver.”
Abby burst out laughing. “I’ll give you a clue — it would be a crime not to tell you what happened.”
Claudia caught on first. “Crime! You’re involved in a crime!”
“No way!” shrieked Mal. “That’s great!”
Abby looked surprised and I almost started to laugh. Fortunately, Jessi demanded, “What happened?” That was all the encouragement Kristy and Abby needed to launch into their tale of terror. Well, maybe not terror, but it was pretty exciting and a little scary, especially the part about how the guy running out of the house had fixed them with his evil, ski-mask-framed eyes as he ran by.
In between phone calls, we talked the burglary over from every angle. But we couldn’t come up with any clues. And both Kristy and Abby finally had to concede that they couldn’t even be sure that they’d recognize the burglar without his mask.
“So what now?” asked
Mal.
“Nothing,” said Kristy. She suddenly looked serious and worried. Then she added slowly, “In fact, I don’t think I’m going to tell anyone at home about this. I mean, I don’t want to worry Watson or anything. I want him to take it easy and not overdo things, so he can enjoy the trip to Shadow Lake.”
Mal suddenly looked glum. “I’m glad somebody’s going to be having a good time that weekend,” she said.
“I just hope it snows,” said Abby. “I love to ski.”
“Are you good?” asked Claudia.
“The best,” said Abby. “We used to go up to Lake Placid every winter and ski our brains out. It’s an Olympic ski center, you know.”
“I know,” said Claudia, looking a little put out. “I’ve been there.” She added, “On the intermediate trails.”
“Really? Not bad. I actually think that the trails there are a little tougher than anywhere else in this part of the country.” Abby grinned. “I always try to do a couple of intermediates to warm up, before I head for the high country.”
“How nice,” said Claudia.
I stared at her in surprise. She sounded annoyed. Claudia has always been the primo skier in the BSC. Was it possible that she was jealous of Abby? Or did she think Abby was bragging? (I had to admit, it sounded as if she was, but then Abby is so incredibly self-confident that maybe she wasn’t bragging.)
Mary Anne gave Claud a puzzled glance, too, but no one else seemed to notice.
I forgot about it the next moment, though, because Kristy said casually (very, very casually), “By the way, Stacey, I almost forgot. Sam said to tell you hello.”
“Hello back to Sam,” I said automatically.
The phone rang, and Kristy picked it up. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club,” she said.
I was grateful for the interruption. While everyone else sorted out the details of the job, I let my thoughts wander back to a certain summer vacation at Shadow Lake.
Sam, Kristy’s brother, who is two years older than I am, had been acting as if he were about six during the whole trip. He’d been teasing me, following me around, and calling me “dahling” in this stupid, exaggerated way. He was driving me crazy, but unlike a six-year-old baby-sitting charge, he couldn’t be distracted with games, or sent off to take a nap.
I put up with it for a long time. Then Charlie had a little talk with his younger brother, and Sam worked up the nerve to have a little talk with me. We ended up dancing together at a dance at the Shadow Lake Lodge. And that led to dating, for a while.
But it hadn’t worked out. Not in any bad way or anything; it had just faded.
I was going out with Robert now. I liked — really, really liked — Robert. But for a minute, I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen at Shadow Lake with Sam, wonder how he would feel and how I would feel. After all, that’s where our romance had begun. And Kristy had mentioned that Sam had just broken up with his girlfriend….
Abby began to make kissing sounds, and I jumped guiltily and felt myself blushing.
Fortunately, I blushed only a little before I realized that everyone else was grinning at Mary Anne.
Mary Anne was a brilliant, beet red. “Stop that!” she said to Abby.
Abby wrapped her arms around herself. “Oooh,” she said.
Jessi said, “Homework, huh? Study at the library, huh? I guess Logan’s end-of-season football banquet just slipped your mind?”
“Okay, okay,” said Mary Anne. “It’s true. I want to go to Shadow Lake, but Logan and I also have a special date planned for Sunday night, to celebrate the end of football season.”
“Gee, I’m shocked,” said Kristy.
“I can tell,” said Mary Anne, giving Kristy a wide-eyed, innocent look. Then she pointed at the clock.
We all looked at the clock. Then we looked at Kristy.
“Omigosh!” Kristy jumped up out of her director’s chair. “This meeting of the BSC is adjourned!” she said.
She hurtled out of the room.
“Wait for me!” said Abby. “You’re supposed to give me a ri —”
The door closed behind her.
It was 6:10.
Kristy had not only arrived at the meeting late, but she’d forgotten to end it on time.
Maybe that should have been a clue, of sorts, that the days ahead were going to be out of the ordinary, to put it mildly.
“Love letters?” asked Kristy in her best I’m-not-really-being-nosy voice.
I looked down at the folded white square of paper I’d found tucked in my locker. We were between classes at SMS and I hadn’t seen Logan all day.
So while I didn’t think it was really a love letter from Logan, I hoped it was a note from him, just to say hello. He does things like that sometimes. His thoughtfulness is one of the (many) reasons I like him so much.
I recognized Logan’s handwriting the moment I unfolded the note. But the note itself didn’t make sense.
“Mary Anne? Everything okay?”
Silently, I handed the note to Kristy. She read it, frowned and handed it back. “What does it mean?”
I looked down at the two words neatly written in the middle of the piece of white notebook paper, in what looked like Logan’s handwriting: STOP CRYING.
“Stop crying about what?” asked Kristy. “Logan’s not calling you a crybaby, is he?”
“No! Besides, I don’t know what he’s talking about. I mean, I don’t remember crying about anything lately.” (I didn’t mention the old movie on television that weekend. I’d wept buckets over the sad ending, but then, nobody had been around, so it didn’t count.)
“Are you sure it’s from Logan?” asked Kristy.
I studied the note. It looked like Logan’s handwriting, but it didn’t sound like Logan at all.
“N-no. No, I don’t think it could be from Logan … could it?”
Kristy shrugged. “Maybe someone is trying to pull a psych.”
The warning bell rang, and I hastily tucked the note into my backpack. Kristy said, “See ya,” and disappeared down the hall. I slammed my locker shut and headed in the opposite direction, puzzled and a little disturbed by the weird note.
* * *
“Mary Anne?”
“Kristy? Is that you?” It was almost 9:00 at night. I was halfway through my homework. I pressed the phone more tightly to my ear. Kristy’s voice was practically a whisper. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“There’s someone outside our house,” said Kristy.
“Call the police! Call Watson!”
“I have. I mean, I called the police,” said Kristy and I realized that although she was whispering, she was very, very calm. The Universal Baby-sitter Emergency Response had taken over. “I’m whispering because I don’t want whoever it is to hear me. I’m in the den. In the dark.”
“Kristy!”
“Listen, I just want to talk to you until the police show up …” She paused. Then she whispered, “I heard someone around the side of the house.”
In the background, I could hear a noise. I recognized it as the sound of a dog barking.
“Oh, no,” said Kristy. “It’s Shannon barking. She’s just a puppy! What if she —”
Then her voice rose. “Oh, no! Someone just broke the front window and Shannon’s going in there. I have to go get her!”
“Kristy, wait!” I screamed. “Kristy! Kristy!”
But the line went dead.
I hung up and dialed 911 with shaking fingers. “Quick!” I screamed. “Someone is breaking in!”
“Where are you?” the voice on the other end asked urgently.
“Not at my house. At my friend Kristy Thomas’s. I was talking on the phone to her. She lives at twelve-ten McLelland Road!”
There was a pause, then some static and voices talking in the background, and then the first voice said, “We just took a call for that address. Officers are on the scene now.”
“Is she all right? Is she …”
Is she what? I thought. Dea
d?
I swallowed hard. “Thank you,” I said.
I hung up. Then I dialed Kristy’s number again. My palms were wet with sweat as the phone rang and rang. I was about to slam it down, run to Sharon, who was downstairs, and demand that she drive me to Kristy’s right away, when suddenly someone picked up.
“Hello! Hello, Kristy?”
“Mary Anne?” Kristy sounded stunned.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
I heard Kristy take a deep, shuddering breath. “The police just arrived. Shannon’s okay. I’m okay.” She paused, then went on. “Someone threw a rock through our living room window.”
“Oh, no!” I gasped.
“That’s not all,” said Kristy. “They spray-painted the front door. It says, ‘YOU’RE NEXT.’ ”
“Oh, my lord.” I didn’t know what to say.
Still sounding stunned and oddly detached, Kristy said, “I have to go now. If I don’t call you back tonight, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. But don’t worry. Everything is fine.”
She didn’t convince me. She didn’t sound convinced herself.
I hung up the phone slowly, and realized that my hands were cold and shaky.
Needless to say, I didn’t get much more homework done that night. I kept imagining Kristy, crouched in the dark in her den, whispering on the telephone while some lunatic lurked outside.
It was too awful to think about. But I couldn’t put the picture out of my mind. I wanted to call Dawn, but I remembered that she was going out to dinner with her dad and stepmother and Jeff that night. They’d probably already left.
Logan? The words of the note crept into my mind: STOP CRYING. Logan hadn’t sent the note. I was sure he hadn’t.
But if he had, and if I called him, would he think I was a crybaby to get so upset over what had happened to Kristy?
Of course not, I scolded myself. Anybody would be upset.
But I didn’t call Logan, either.
At last I gave up and decided to go to bed. I shoved my books to one side, wandered to the window, and looked out.
I peered at the sky, wondering if it was ever going to snow. But the sky was clear, and I even saw a bit of the moon. We live in an old farmhouse on the edge of town. Our road doesn’t have streetlights, so the moon seems to shine more brightly out here, without all the competition.
Baby-Sitters Beware Page 3