They drove us in separate cars to the station. I wasn’t put in a cell but wound up in a room with a desk and chair, both bolted to the floor.
There was a clock on the wall, probably bolted, too. I had no intention of getting out of my chair to find out, but I didn’t take my eyes off it. I was there forty-five minutes. It seemed like forever.
“You’re free to go,” Officer Brown said, as the policeman releasing me opened the door.
He was not smiling but his eyes told me he was relieved that I was getting out. That was not all I saw. There was grimness, a distance that had not been there before. He was trying not to show his disappointment that the daughter of one of his kids had nearly been busted. I say “nearly” because I had not been booked but was held in protective custody until my parents picked me up.
That was the next gauntlet I had to pass: the look in my parents’ eyes. The concern, disappointment, anger, fear, all mixed together, and giving way to relief at the sight of me coming through the door was worst of all.
It was not a cold night, but they insisted on bundling me. Mom draped a sweater over my shoulders. Dad shoved one hand in his pocket and ran his other hand over his hair. Then he put his hand on top of my head and rumpled my hair. I wanted to cry but I didn’t. He hadn’t done that since I was a little kid. But first they gave me the biggest, longest, most crushing hugs. I didn’t resist or try to brush them off.
Secretly, I thanked Jade more than once. We could have been accused of all sorts of crimes, but instead we were now the victims.
“Let’s get you home and in bed,” my mom said.
It was easier to nod and not say a word than it was to try and explain—and safer too. I might have blurted out something that later would not be consistent with our story of being kidnapped. Jade had said it was our only way out and she was right. How did she know? I wondered if she had been in jail. But most of all I wondered what would happen next.
It was not long before I found out Pamela was reported as missing. No one asked about James and Jade, but from everything I heard, no one knew they were there.
I was haunted by the thought that one of us—Mindy, Abigail, or me—would break the unspoken oath made when we exchanged glances at the mansion before the police took us away. Would it be an unintentional slip, or an offhand remark that did not quite fit?
The strangest part is that it was the truth, but it didn’t feel like it. We went to Finder’s Hill voluntarily for a purpose no one would ever believe, and we were forcefully taken away. But trying to explain what we were doing there would make no sense to anyone. That was why lying seemed the only way.
Since there is lots of discussion in our home about law, I’ve heard bits and pieces my whole life about crime and its legal definition. If someone is forcefully moved from one place to another—even if it’s to another room in the same house—the person doing the forcing can be charged with kidnapping. It is one of the most serious felonies and that was the frightening part. It meant the police and detectives would not treat it like a misdemeanor, or even felony grand theft. They would search for whoever did it, and if a victim were injured, it might be a capital crime.
What made it even worse was after several days passed, they still had not found Pamela.
It was now Friday. Another weekend had arrived.
The bus stop was a quarter mile from my last class. I half ran, half walked, hoping to get there before the bus arrived. It drove to the curb, stopped, and the door opened. If there had been half a dozen people waiting, I would have had time to reach the back of the line, but there was only one woman. She stepped quickly onto the bus, the door shut, and it drove off.
There was too much traffic for the driver to hear me call out and even if he heard me, there was no way he could stop without blocking traffic.
I breathed a curse, set my backpack on the bench, checked my watch, and sat down to wait thirty minutes for the next bus.
A Jeep Wrangler pulled up next to the curb. I had been gawked at a lot lately—as had Mindy and Abigail—and wanted to avoid more of the same, so I did not turn and look at the driver.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the reflection of a window being slowly lowered.
“Hey, stranger, need a ride?”
It was Parker.
He was as bright-eyed as ever—and it was a total relief to see him. After the incident at the mansion, and everything that had followed, Mindy, me, and Abigail were not allowed to associate with each other. I had no intention of seeing or speaking to Abigail so that was not a problem, but it was tough not being able to hang out with Mindy. With all the rumors, stares, and whispers every time I passed a group of kids, I felt like I was quarantined. Parker’s expression showed none of that.
“Sure,” I said. I stood up and slung my backpack over my shoulder. As I did, my self-doubt got the better of me. I thought he would say just joking and drive off, which shows how paranoid I had gotten lately.
“Stay there.” Parker waved me back.
Before I reached the door, he jumped out, ran around to the passenger side, and opened it.
A horn blared. A driver drove by yelling “Get out of the street!”—and calling Parker or both of us— “effing teenagers.”
I gave him the finger.
Parker waved, called out “Sorry!” and ran back around to the driver’s side.
Again, I had second thoughts. Would Parker ask questions about what had happened? That was usually what people did if they stopped and spoke to me at all.
“I’m really happy to see you,” he said. “I was going to take the other exit, but I thought I might as well drive down Artesia and go to the beach, check out the surf.”
“Me too,” I said.
“You too what? Check out the surf?”
“No. I’m happy to see you.”
“You are?” Parker beamed at me.
“Yes, for sure.”
“That’s great! I mean I’ve been hoping to run into you.”
“What’s new?” I said, thinking I’d rather he asked prying questions sooner than later so I could say “I really don’t know” or “I can’t talk about it because the police said not to” or make up some other excuse. I was wrong again.
“I just wanted to thank you,” he said.
“For what?” I asked, completely surprised.
“For the neat gift you sent?”
Not knowing how to answer I decided to just let him talk, but he didn’t follow it up. I guess he was waiting for me to make the proper reply.
“You like it?” I said. “I was hoping you would.”
“I do! Very much. It’s a good thing you sent it, too, almost like you were clairvoyant.” He chuckled and spared a quick glance at me, waiting for me to scoff at the idea.
“I just had a hunch,” I said.
“It was a good one,” he nodded. “I don’t know if anyone told you but I’m thinking of studying police science sometime in the future. I want to go on a ride-a-long. Officer Brown, is—you know, he sort of reminds me of my grandfather. I think it’s something I’d like to do, maybe forensics or pathology. That’s not very specific, I know, but I like the field.”
Oh, now I understood. Seeing your high school friends in trouble with the law would be like firsthand experience.
“That’s great,” I said, without enthusiasm.
“It came at the right time, too,” he went on. “I signed up for the Nixle reports, the ones the police send out. So, I get reports before it’s online or the news or anyplace.”
I remembered an email asking if I wanted to sign up for Nixle. I think my mom forwarded it. The police and sheriff’s departments send out email updates about investigations. Everything from traffic accidents and blocked intersections to DUI checkpoints they will be setting up on holidays like Fourth of July and New Year’s Eve. They also include homicides, missing persons, and police chases. The reports are sent almost real time to anyone on the mailing list. If we hear helicopters circling
overhead at night, by the next day or even the same night, we know what they were looking for, usually burglary suspects. However, it had never occurred to me that we had ended up on a Nixle report.
Wonderful. The crazy girls’ adventures had been reported almost real time to the neighbors.
“So, the police sent an update about it?” I still didn’t understand what he meant about a gift.
“Sure did. They said there was suspicious activity in an abandoned junkyard: a VW bus with a license plate registered to someone in Manhattan Beach crashed through a fence. They said shots were fired—or what sounded like shots or explosives—and the suspects were armed and dangerous.”
Oh god.
“What else did they say?” I said weakly, dreading the answer. No shots had been fired, but there was a deafening noise like the world had exploded, before we all ended up at the mansion.
“That’s the weird part,” he said. “The police went to the junkyard and they didn’t find anyone. But the bus was there, and they had the license number on the report. It was easy enough to check the number. I was already worried—I haven’t seen many old VW buses around here—so I looked up the license online—or I sort of hacked DMV—and it was registered to someone with Mindy’s last name. That was enough for me.”
“You mean it was enough to know that we had been out there—I mean—kidnapped or something like that?” I had almost slipped. I did not want to be the one who said the wrong thing and got us in trouble.
“Sort of,” he said, leaving me to guess what he meant.
As we waited for the light to change, I tried to go over the events since I had been released from custody. The conflict of trying not to think about what had happened—yet having to remember but at the same time not being able to say what I knew—had been enough to make me set the whole thing aside and not talk about it unless I had no choice.
In the late afternoon, the setting sun, the deep blue of the ocean, and the water ruffled by end-of-day onshore breeze had a calming effect. I breathed easier as we drove toward the ocean.
“With the police already there,” said Parker, who had apparently been carefully considering his next words, “and me being so far away—well, I wouldn’t go there anyway; the police don’t like gawkers hanging around when they’re investigating a crime—I was going to call 911 but I got a text. I didn’t know who it was from, but the icon was a pink ribbon. I thought it was a girl”—
I turned and noticed a flush spreading from his neck to his ears. Whenever Parker blushes, he turns red like a bad sunburn. I didn’t smile though. I didn’t want to embarrass him.
— “so, I looked at the message,” he said. He stopped and glanced at me, and I nodded to keep going.
“It was kind of cryptic,” he said, “but I thought I understood it. It said, ‘shades of yoga under the stars, while it lasts, surf at Glasspool.’ ” He smiled at me and said, “Pretty clever, eh?”
“I’ll say!”
“It really wasn’t much.” He lowered his head and quickly looked back at the road.
He made a complete stop at the four-way boulevard sign—not a rolling stop—looked both ways, and then drove across the intersection.
The road we were on crosses the Parkway. Out of habit, I looked in both directions to see if anyone I knew was running or walking a dog. Strangely, there was no one in sight.
As we drove farther, the last rays of sun reflected off tile rooftops.
“Don’t be modest,” I said, encouraging him to continue. “There’s nothing wrong with giving yourself some praise.”
“Aw, you’re right. I put two and two together. It had to be you—I mean the part about yoga and all—and the bus was Mindy’s.”
I hadn’t given him an idle compliment. I meant it. Not many people would have put it together that way, even if they knew all of us, but Parker did.
“What happened next?” I asked.
“I drove to Glasspool mansion and parked on the hill above Palos Verdes Cove. It was dark and I didn’t think anyone would notice. You know, couples sometimes park up there and—er—one more car wouldn’t be a big deal. I didn’t take the path to Glasspool: if someone had seen me they would have thought I was snooping around. There’re lots of trees and bushes the way I went—it’s pretty hard to get through—but I didn’t make any noise.”
To anyone who only knew Parker from football, the thought of a linebacker making his way quietly through dense foliage, would be hard to believe. But while Parker is big, he’s also agile—except when he dances. I’ve seen him swerve through a pack of opposing players almost as big as he is and take each one down without losing any speed.
“Could you see anything?” I asked. My throat tightened as I tried to swallow. Here it comes, I thought, he’s going to ask what the heck I was doing there; why my story—our story—did not match what he’d seen. I would have.
“It was a good thing I had your present with me,” he said. “It doesn’t weigh much and since it came the same day it had to be more than a coincidence. I figured you might have had a premonition.” He turned to me, his eyes wide, and again looked quickly back at the road. “Anyway, they worked great.”
I was about to give up and ask what he was talking about. My grandfather’s advice that you learn more by listening than talking wasn’t getting me anywhere.
Parker reached into a side pocket on the door and pulled out a headset.
“I had to assemble it,” he said. “It didn’t come with any tools, but the instructions were pretty clear. It’s got a—I can’t show you now.”
He flipped the turn indicator. With cars parked on both sides of the narrow street, it was basically one-way. A pedestrian stepped off the curb without looking. Fortunately, we were only going about fifteen miles an hour. Parker slowed and stopped.
“Can I see those?” I asked, as he waited for the person to cross.
“Sure.” He handed them to me. “It was really nice of you to add the note saying they weren’t expensive, you found them on eBay for a good price.”
“What are they?” I said, turning them this way and that.
“Ghost Hunter Night Vision binoculars,” he said, with a chuckle, thinking I must be pretending to see them for the first time.
Ghost hunter? My skin prickled. What kind of joke was this, and who was playing it?
“They cost about five hundred new,” he said, “so I would’ve paid you back anyway. They work great. You can wear them with a headset or just hold them.”
“Do they show everything? I mean in the dark, like infrared?”
“Oh, yeah, they’re real clear. That’s how I saw you and Mindy, and Abigail, too.”
“I guess I’ll have to give up the ghost. No pun intended.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” I better stop using my grandmother’s old sayings before they really messed me up. No one else but me—and of course my grandmother—knows what they mean.
“Who else did you see?” I asked, thinking this must be it. He’s going to ask what my game is, what I’m hiding.
“I didn’t see anyone else,” he said, frowning, “just the three of you, but you looked scared and you were all running back and forth like you were trapped. There was red light on the walls and glass.”
“That’s all you saw? You didn’t see anyone—I mean anything—hanging from the ceiling?”
“The ceiling? No . . . just a rope dangling but nothing hanging from it. Was something there?”
“No. I was just . . . curious about what you saw, a chandelier, a light—if there was one.”
“I didn’t see anything else. But that was enough. I thought there was a fire somewhere in the building—the first floor probably—and you were trapped, so I called 911. I was scared. Fires can spread pretty fast, and if the flames don’t get you, the smoke will.
“Anyway, I ran to the door and tried to force it. I heard a crash, like someone had broken a window. The door was locked and without a
crowbar or axe there was no way I could break it down. I went around the side to see if there was a faster way to get in, but nothing was there. Then I heard the police shouting.”
“And you left after that?” I could hardly believe what he was saying. I hadn’t seen anyone except the police, but then again, I was not in the best shape to notice.
“Yeah,” he said, looking down. “I’m sorry, I should have stayed.”
“No, not at all.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. “It’s better you didn’t get involved.”
He nodded thoughtfully and went on. “There was a lot of confusion outside.” He stopped again. “By then, neighbors were coming to see what was going on. The police told everyone to stay inside their houses and lock the doors, so everyone moved back. I did, too.”
“Thanks for calling the police,” I said.
“Oh, no problem.”
He must have wanted to ask more questions but knowing Parker—who I was beginning to think I didn’t know at all—he decided it would be too personal.
“What were you doing up there, Olivia? I mean, well, you know . . ..”
So much for too personal. His curiosity had gotten the better of him. I know how it is.
“Umm,” I began, looking down and seeing the night vision goggles. “Ghost hunting! Yeah, that’s right. I was ghost hunting. Isn’t that silly?”
“No. It makes sense. You were in the right place for it, what with Glasspool and all. I’ve been up there myself.”
“You have?”
“Sure. Me and some friends went up there one night. There’s a legend, maybe you’ve heard it, about a Lady in Red.”
“I have but I never thought it was real before—just—well, a legend or something.”
“It was me, Willy, and . . . Justin.”
I raised my eyebrows. Justin had never told me.
“We got through the gate,” Parker said. “Strange, too, because it wasn’t locked. We went up to the front door and Willy knocked.”
“Why did he do that? If you’re trying to sneak in, you don’t knock.”
“To see if anyone is there before you check around for an open window.” He seemed as surprised at my question as I was at them knocking.
One of Us: The City of Secrets Page 20