by Avi
I sobered up. “But there is something else,” I said.
“What?”
“Look, Ann, if he’s my opposite, and if I’m trying to get rid of him . . . well, see, this is one of the big questions: Doesn’t it figure he’s trying to do the same thing to me, you know, get rid of me?”
Her eyes grew wide with alarm. “What do you mean?”
“Ann,” I said, and by that time we were holding each other’s hands tightly, as if afraid to let go, “he wanted me to come here. Right? He got Uncle Dave to bring me. Okay, he’s been doing all these things, this vandalism, thefts, you know . . . showing himself so that people will think it’s me. And then, see, finally, he shows himself to you. That worked. He got me to come, right? Through you.”
She had a look of horror on her face.
“If you look at it that way,” I said, “so far he’s winning. And if he’s winning, then I’m losing, Ann. Losing fast.”
23
We drove in silence toward her house.
“Do you want to tell my parents?” she asked.
“No,” I said softly.
“Why?”
“They won’t believe it.”
“John, they like you. And since what you’re saying is true, they’ll believe you.”
“What if they don’t?”
“They will.”
“Maybe they would tell me to get out, tell you not to have anything to do with me. Even, you know, turn me in.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you forget? The police must be looking for me. That place where you work, you said your boss or somebody discovered John Proud at his safe, right? And he gave a description of him to the police. You said you were there. Who fits that description?”
“But it wasn’t you. . . .”
“And it wasn’t me looking for a ride at night, either, was it?”
She shook her head.
I didn’t say anything else, just looked out the window. We were passing through a succession of small towns surrounded by ripe farmland. It was all soft, easy, peaceful and safe-looking. But up ahead I could see the range of mountains that contained John Proud’s grave. The mountains were dark and heavy, and it was there—I just had this feeling—that I’d meet him again. As we drove, those mountains loomed larger, and darker, all the time.
“I still think we should tell my parents,” said Ann. “But if—” She stopped in mid sentence and sat up a little straighter in her seat. I pulled myself up to look down the road. Ahead was a bunch of red lights. Police cars were off to one side of the road and state troopers were getting cars to stop. A roadblock. I swore. Ann gave me a worried look.
“See what I mean?” I said.
There were about six cars in front of us. A state trooper was working his way down the line. I tried to decide if I should make a run for it. I swore again. “There I am, telling you how tricky this was going to be, and we drive right into a trap.”
“He’s talking to the drivers,” she whispered. “When he comes here, look out the other way.”
It took about fifteen minutes for the trooper to reach us. We could see drivers passing out their papers. Ann told me to get out her insurance card from the glove compartment while she got her own stuff ready. “It’ll make things go faster,” she said.
The cop was crisp, polite, and hard. Not a wrinkle on his steel-gray uniform, and it was July, and though late in the day, still hot.
As he approached, I kept my face averted.
“Sorry to trouble you, miss. We’re doing a check. May I have your license, registration, and insurance card please.”
Ann handed them over. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
The trooper didn’t say. He took the papers, then walked slowly to the back of the car, matching the license plate with the registration card. Then we heard him use his hand radio to call in the information. He kept the box to his ear while they gave him a report.
Ann sat perfectly still, hands clasped in her lap. I kept my eyes everywhere but where the trooper was.
Finally the trooper walked back to her side of the car, bent down, and handed back her stuff.
“These are fine,” he said. Then, answering her question from before, he said, “We’re looking for someone. Had a report he was in the area. Nothing for you to worry about. It’s perfectly safe. Just don’t pick up any hitchhikers.” He tapped the window frame. “Everything’s fine.”
Perhaps it was his reassuring voice. Because despite my intentions, I turned around to look at him. I recognized him right away—the same trooper who had helped when Uncle Dave collapsed.
“Hi!” he said to me. “You’re the one with the sick uncle. How’re you doing?”
“Fine, sir.”
“You promised to call me and tell me what happened.”
“I forgot.”
“I got word he died.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sorry to hear that.” He was staring at me, looking at my face with interest.
“Yeah,” I said softly.
“Can we go?” asked Ann.
The trooper hesitated.
“You from around here?” he asked me.
“Philadelphia.”
“Visiting?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With you?” he said to Ann.
“We’re relatives,” she said.
“Right.” He seemed unable to make up his mind. “Okay. Take it easy now. Drive carefully. Sorry to hold you up.” He backed away from the car.
Ann started the motor and edged the car forward. Afraid to turn about, I looked at the rearview mirror. The trooper was standing behind us, not going on to the next car, but just watching after us. As we picked up speed, I kept my eyes on him. He had turned on his hand radio and was using it.
We passed three police cars. A few of the troopers were standing around talking to one another.
Ann accelerated as much as she dared.
At first we didn’t say anything. My heart was pounding.
“What is it?” Ann said to me.
“He was onto me. I’m sure he was!”
“It was only about Uncle Dave. . . .”
“Maybe. But that’s not what I’m worried about.”
“Then what?”
“Look, I’m sure John Proud wants me up in those mountains. He wants me. Do you think he’ll let anything, or anyone, stop me from getting there?”
She looked at me sharply.
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” I said. “I’m safe. So far. It’s that cop, or anyone, who tries to stop me. What’s going to happen to them?”
Even as I said that, we heard the faint wail of a police siren.
24
I twisted around to look out the back window, but though the wail was growing louder, I couldn’t see anything. Down the road, in front of us, was a crossroads.
“Make a left!” I suddenly cried to Ann.
She applied the brakes, spun the wheel, and made a sharp turn.
“Pull over there!” I said, pointing straight ahead where there appeared to be a dip in the road and tall bushes right by the roadside.
She did what I said.
“Now, just sit.”
She turned the key. The motor died. Then she leaned back in the seat, her head tilted against the headrest, her eyes closed.
Behind us we could hear the siren rising. I clasped my hands, pressing my palms hard together. I bit my lip. The siren’s shriek reached a peak, then began to fade. It was soon gone.
Ann leaned forward and rested her forehead against the steering wheel. She shook her head.
“This is insane,” she whispered.
I said nothing.
“How’d you know this was a good place to hide?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, suddenly realizing what I had done. “I just knew it.”
“The way you knew he was after you?” she said.
He was.
“How did you kn
ow?”
I shook my head. “I just did.”
She watched me intently. “What would have happened if he’d caught you?”
“I told you. He wouldn’t. Something would have happened to him, something to keep him from reaching me.”
“You’re very sure, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Can we go home now?”
“I don’t know. I bet that’s where he’s going. If he is, he’ll be waiting for us. And he’ll be talking to your folks too.” I shook my head. “I don’t want that.”
She sat up and looked at me. “John, I’m not doubting you . . . but . . . we can’t go along with just the way you feel. . . . Things are real, or they aren’t. When we get to the house . . . I want you to promise me we’ll talk to my parents. Please. Tell them what’s happened, what you think. Trust them.”
“Why?”
“Because they can help.”
“If they’re there,” I said, at the same time hoping they wouldn’t be.
“Where else would they be?” she said, and with a weary gesture she started up the car.
We went back to the crossroads, made a left, and headed for her home. “I won’t go the way I normally do,” she announced. “We’ll take some back roads.”
“I thought you didn’t believe me.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.” Settling back into her seat, she stepped up our speed. Putting out a hand to one side, she touched me. “It’s just so hard to think about all this.”
“I know.”
We drove in silence. There were very few cars on the road. The time of day, just before dusk, seemed to give a soft tone to everything. We seemed to be floating between two worlds. Up ahead the road, still radiating the hot day’s sun, made the air tremble.
As we moved along, I began to think more and more about her parents. How would they react when I told them? I didn’t want to. If only, I began to think . . . I froze, panic rising. I tried to concentrate on the road, on the car, on anything. But the thought came anyway. I didn’t want to see her parents, I didn’t want them to be there, only Ann and me there, just Ann and me. . . . I was bathed in sweat. I stole a glance at Ann. She smiled. I reached out and took her hand.
“How much farther?” I asked after a while.
“Twenty minutes.”
Five minutes later we heard another siren. Ann slowed down, trying to decide from which direction the sound was coming.
In moments we rounded a bend in the road. A white-and-gold ambulance rushed into view, its red top light flashing.
Quickly, Ann moved over to one side to give the ambulance room. As it flashed by, we saw that it was being closely followed by a state trooper’s car. We looked at each other.
I felt sick.
25
We drove into Lickdale at low speed. Ann pulled into the driveway. It was empty. No van.
“I thought my folks would be home,” she said.
She parked. I reached for my suitcase and we got out. She opened the house door. It hadn’t been locked. A hall light was on. We stood there, Ann listening intently.
“Anyone home?” she called.
No answer.
“Mom!” she cried. “Dad! Martin!” Her voice rose with increasing urgency.
“I’m here” came a soft voice. Martin came into the hall from the darkened living room, glassy-eyed from watching TV.
“Hi,” he said. He looked puzzled to see us.
“Where is everyone?” Ann asked him.
“I’m here.”
“Mom? Dad?”
“They went to get John.”
“What do you mean?”
“He called and said you weren’t there. Could they come and pick him up.”
“When was that?”
“’Bout half an hour ago.”
“But he’s here with me,” said Ann. “I did pick him up.”
Martin shrugged.
The phone rang, startling us.
“I’ll get it,” said Martin, and made a move toward the kitchen.
“Don’t!” cried Ann.
Martin spun about.
“It’ll be for me,” she said, trying to recover. Her face ashen, she hurried to the kitchen. I followed closely.
Martin, sensing that something bad was happening, came too.
The phone kept ringing.
Ann reached for it, hesitated for a moment, then put the receiver to her ear, listening. Her eyes closed. “This is Ann Fenton,” she said. “Their daughter.”
I turned away. I didn’t want to hear.
“Yes,” said Ann softly. “I understand. Yes, I do. I can drive. No, that’s all right. I understand. I will. Right here. Thank you.” She put the phone on the hook.
“Who was that?” asked Martin, his voice small.
“The police,” said Ann. “There’s been an accident. Mom and Dad. They’ve been hurt.”
26
The details didn’t seem to matter. What it came down to was that Nora and Tom had gone off the road, their van landing in a ditch. Both of them were shook up—Nora with a gash on her forehead, Tom knocked out, a busted arm. It could have been a lot worse. If anything, it was the van that had suffered the most.
How had it happened? They had gotten the call, presumably from me. They set out right away, worried too about Ann’s whereabouts. They were speeding. Suddenly Tom had to swerve to avoid someone who had darted out onto the road. Nora claimed she never did see anyone. Whoever the person was, it wasn’t he who reported the accident. It was the state trooper who found them.
Ann wanted to get into the car fast and get down to the hospital, but she called first. To her great relief she was able to speak to her folks. Her parents decided that the most helpful thing would be for everyone to stay put. Martin, reassured by talking to his parents, agreed to go off to Scout camp the next morning as planned. Ann would drive him to the hospital to say good-by. Then she would take him to the Scoutmaster’s house. Nora and Tom needed to stay in the hospital for at least two days.
By eleven-thirty that night Martin was fast asleep, and Ann and I were sitting in the kitchen feeling exhausted.
“Now what?” she said.
“You know who it was who called them, and who it was who jumped out in front of the van, don’t you?” I said.
“Him,” she said after a moment.
“I’ll bet you anything that that trooper who found them was coming after me.”
“John, did you think it? Did you want something to happen to them? I have to know.”
“No. Not that way. I mean, I didn’t want to talk to them or have them here. But not like that!”
“Did he make you have those thoughts, or was it you?”
“I didn’t want them to get hurt, Ann, I didn’t.”
Her eyes filled with tears. Then she laid her head down on her arms.
“Would you rather I left?” I asked.
“No.”
“It could get worse.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I think anymore.”
She stared at me. “What does he want?”
“Me.”
“What do you want?”
“To get away from him.”
“He doesn’t care what he does to people, does he?”
I shook my head.
“What do you think will happen when you do find him?”
“I don’t know that either.”
She got up out of her chair and leaned over the sink to look out the window into the dark night. “Sometimes,” she said, “I have crazy thoughts. Weird ones. Mean ones. Small and stupid. Things that surprise and embarrass me. Things I would die rather than have people know were in my head. It’s uncomfortable—worse—having them.”
I felt my tension rising.
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Maybe people should have those kinds of crazy thoughts. It’s not that you have to do them. Maybe if you deny them, don’t allow the
m into your head, then they actually happen, happen in the worst way.” For a moment she paused.
“Ann . . .” I felt suffocated.
“You didn’t want my parents around.”
I bowed my head. “It’s him . . .” I insisted.
She said nothing at first. Then, “Do you know how you’re going to find him?”
“I’ll go back up to the cemetery. It seems the logical place to start, anyway.”
“Just go?”
I nodded yes. “You can drop me off at the start of the trail. I can find it myself.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know how long you’ll be there.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does. You said yourself you don’t know what’s going to happen. It might even take a few days.”
“What else am I supposed to do?” I felt near to tears. “I have to go. Do you want him here?”
She thought for a while. “I’ll go with you. I’ve got all the camping gear we need. John, I’ve been out there for as long as a week. I know what to do. I’ll be able to help.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think you should.”
“Why?”
“Look what he’s done already!”
“No,” she said, coming to a decision. “I’m not going to let you go alone.”
“No telling what might happen.”
“I know.”
The house was very still.
She looked at the clock. “I have to get up early. They’ll let us into the hospital at eight. Martin has to be at his Scoutmaster’s at nine-thirty, latest.”
She showed me to the guest room, where I had been the last time I was there. She looked around. “You should have everything you need.” She started to go.
“Ann . . .” I said.
“What?”
“I’m sorry . . . about all this.”
“So am I.”
Then we just reached out and hugged each other. We stayed that way, maybe for a full minute. “Thank you,” I said. She turned her face slightly, gave me a kiss by my ear.
“Get some sleep,” she said, and quickly left.
27
I got undressed slowly, climbed into bed, and turned out the light. But I couldn’t sleep. Once I heard the cannons, a short series, like exclamation points in the dark. I kept tossing, trying to find a comfortable place.