The Wig in the Window

by Kristen Kittscher

  “I can’t believe it worked!” Grace said, panting and leaning on my shoulder.

  “Well, you are Amazing Grace.” I wheezed, trying to ignore the pain that stabbed across my ribs with each breath. “Speaking of which, how did you know to come?”

  “You radioed me that you set up the Ralston meeting for eleven at school, remember? I put it together.” In between gasps for breath, Grace explained that she’d heard me radio around ten forty-five but couldn’t find her walkie-talkie because her mom had confiscated it. We figured out that I must have been pounding on her glass door while she was off looking for it. By the time she radioed back, I’d been on my bike and hadn’t heard her above the wind. “I ran to your house to check on you, saw the rope, and well . . . here I am.” She grinned. “I never did do well on the sidelines.”

  “That’s for sure.” I glanced worriedly behind us. Still no sign of them. “They must have thought we ran out the front,” I said.

  “Never a good idea to jump to conclusions, is it?”

  “Guess not.” I smiled back. “Now, c’mon.” I grabbed her arm. We ran past the sixth-grade buildings and flung open the chain-link gate to the field.

  “Wait—” Grace looked down at the gun in her hand and back at me, uncertain.

  I shook my head. “We’re safer without it.”

  Grace nodded, then whirled toward a white banner flapping above a series of irrigation ditches, where a new sprinkler system was being installed. PARDON OUR DUST, it read. WE’RE BUILDING FUTURES. She reached her arm back and, with all her force, hurled the gun over the banner and—I hoped—into one of the ditches. But as she turned to run, her boot caught something in the dark. She stifled a cry, but it was too late. A wild clanging rang out as a pyramid of stacked pipes cascaded to the ground.

  We looked at each other in panic.

  “Go ahead!” I cried, waving Grace toward the bluffs. Even in her cowboy boots, with her long legs she stood a much better chance of getting away. “The beach trail!”

  Grace stopped short. Her eyes went wide. “The beach?” she said.

  “It’s our best chance.”

  Grace trembled. She rooted herself in place.

  The pounding surf raged below. The closest I’d ever seen Grace go to the beach was the top of the bluffs. She’d gone once for moral support when I wanted to see Rod surf. She’d gone again to see Agford’s evidence stash. Even then, she’d turned her back to the ocean, and that was a windless day. I grabbed her arm and tugged. It was stiff, like laundry dried on the line.

  My heart leaped as the gate smashed open behind us. A figure spilled out behind Grace’s frozen silhouette.

  Relief replaced my shock as the figure moved into the dull orange glow of the field light. Maybe Louise Ralston wasn’t a real FBI agent. Maybe she had a lot to answer for. But she had stayed for us when she could have easily escaped and saved herself. She stood like a protective seawall, the wind slapping her brown hair against her face. “They’re coming! Go!” she cried. “I’ve got your backs, remember?” Her watery blue eyes shone in the darkness. They pleaded with us—not just to flee, but also to forgive.

  Just then Bain burst onto the field behind her. Louise Ralston reached into her blazer and pulled her gun from its shoulder holster. “It’s over, Debbie,” she said, wheeling around to aim at her chest.

  But it wasn’t over. Danny Slater had been only steps behind Bain. Still half blinded, he charged through the gate and lunged toward Ralston. Ralston turned to shoot but fell to the ground, gun glinting in the air as it spun and then landed in the grass with a thud. The irrigation ditch! She must have lost her footing. All three of them scrambled toward the gun. I turned and grasped Grace’s hand. There was no way we were waiting to find out how this would end.

  “Run, ladies!” The wind carried Ralston’s shout.

  “You can do this,” I coaxed Grace. “You have to do this.”

  Grace lurched forward unsteadily, then broke into a run. I sprinted as far and as fast as my short legs would allow, pumping my arms as I scanned the cliff edges for the scraggly bush that marked the beach trailhead.

  The night air burned my throat. In the moonlight our slender shadows stretched across the field to guide the way. Grace’s footfalls pounded behind me. “These stupid boots!” she cried.

  I looked back. Grace waved me onward. Bain and Slater were several hundred yards across the field, still by the gate, but their shadows bore down on us. Where had Ralston gone?

  A gunshot split the night. I hoped it was Ralston’s, but I wasn’t about to turn around to check. “We’re almost there!” I screamed above the wind and surf. We launched ourselves toward the trailhead, my sleeve ripping as I scraped past a bush to the steep path below.

  Sand flying and lungs bursting, Grace and I barreled down the cliff trail as the roar of the waves deafened us. The wind thrashed our hair against our cheeks as we tripped over stones and scrub brush.

  Another gunshot rang out above us, this time closer. I tripped and landed on damp, tightly packed sand. Pain shot through my shoulder. I didn’t even dare move my arm to wipe the sand from my eyes. Now it was Grace who pulled me up and shoved me forward. “Keep going!”

  I sprinted for cover behind a boulder near the shore, reaching it as my lungs nearly gave out. Grace caught up and crouched with me, flinching as waves crashed at our feet. She carried her cowboy boots in one hand. We huddled together, breathless and near tears, as the waves pounded and pulled away, pounded and pulled away again.

  “If we don’t make it out of here alive . . .” She clapped me on the shoulder.

  I winced.

  “Oh, sorry.” She clapped me on the opposite shoulder and held her hand there. “I just want to say, for the record . . .” She smiled. “From day one I wanted to be your friend.”

  “And still?” I asked.

  “And still. I always will. You never really doubted me, did you?”

  I had. But as we crouched there in the blackness, waves crashing down around us, I finally understood. I guess I’d needed to strip away every last layer of assumptions to see it: I never would have doubted Grace if I had trusted myself. Yang needs yin, and yin needs yang. We were two opposites with just enough of the other to balance everything out. And no matter what, Grace Yang had proved that she would—as Ralston and her daughter would say—always have my back.

  I looked Grace in the eye. Another swell crashed down. “Maybe for just a second,” I confessed. “But never again.”

  We heard a cry behind us. A figure—or two?—emerged from the brush at the base of the trail. No way the rock we were hiding behind was going to provide enough cover.

  “Over there!” I gestured to the jumble of shadowy large boulders that jutted into the surf at the far end of the beach. I ran. Sprinting on sand in wet sweatpants felt like the labored running in dreams. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t go faster.

  “Don’t worry, the water’s not deee-eep!” I yelled back as my voice warbled with each of my footfalls. It wasn’t an outright lie. It wouldn’t help Grace to know that a big breaker could rise up and sweep us into the rip current at any second.

  I dove for cover behind the cluster of craggy rocks. The high tide washed over me as I clung to them. I sputtered and looked around to reassure Grace. The waves tugging at my clothes even frightened me, and I knew how to swim.

  That was when I realized Grace wasn’t there.

  I peeked over the tallest boulder, making sure I could see without being seen. There was Deborah Bain, holding Grace in a headlock. They were knee-deep in the swirling, surging surf.

  “Scared? Serves you right,” Bain hissed before dunking Grace face-first into the avalanche of waves hurtling in to shore. Grace came up for air and screamed, only to have Bain dunk her again.

  I had to think fast. If Bain had a gun, I couldn’t see it. Daniel Slater was out there somewhere. I prayed he was still blind enough from pepper spray that he couldn’t find the beach trail
.

  I pulled off my blue hoodie and wrapped it around a fat piece of driftwood, tying the empty sleeves around it. Maybe it would look like I just had my arms crossed? I raised up the wood, lodging it between the boulders to prop it up. Thank God I was so small. It could actually look like my tiny frame.

  I shouted to Bain from behind the boulders. “You really think you’re going to get away with this?”

  Agford’s head shot up, sending her lopsided wig farther off-kilter. She squinted at the silhouetted driftwood figure atop the rocks.

  “No matter what you do, I’m still here to tell the truth,” I yelled, hoping she couldn’t hear my sharp intake of breath as I pushed forward into the icy waves. If I could just swim until I was across from them, maybe I could angle in and sneak up behind Bain while she screamed at the scarecrow version of me. I dog-paddled far enough out that I could dive underwater—but not so far that I couldn’t stand if I needed to. The rip current was strong. It could pull me out to sea in no time.

  “You know I can never let that happen, Soph,” Bain yelled. I treaded water and glanced back to check my makeshift dummy. In the dark, silhouetted against the moon, it could look like me, I supposed.

  Grace surfaced, sputtering from another dunk into a wave breaking on shore. “Sophie, just run! It’s too late! Save yourself,” she cried.

  I sucked in a breath and slipped under a wave, fighting to swim parallel to the shore as the current dragged against me. How far was far enough?

  I held my breath until I couldn’t hold it any longer. As I gasped to the surface, a heavy object knocked against my forehead, stunning me. A rock? A gun? I looked down. One of Grace’s cowboy boots spun in the surf. She must’ve dropped it when we ran. Its heel had gashed my forehead. The salty water stung.

  I shivered as I treaded the frigid water. I’d paced my swim well. Bain stood not more than fifteen feet in front of me, still turned toward my makeshift figure on the rock. Grace struggled in her grasp as the surf rushed against their feet.

  “Give it up, Sophie,” Bain yelled. “Danny’s going to be here any second. He has the gun. It’s over.”

  I grasped the boot and dove with the next wave. As it launched me toward shore, I didn’t even feel like I was Sophie Young. I was Sun Tzu himself, coming to the rescue. As soon as I could stand, I heaved myself out of the water just behind them, teeth chattering. The tide slurped against my clothes. I cringed, praying Bain hadn’t heard me, then edged closer. I tightened my grip on the end of the boot and—once I was right behind her—raised my arm. She could turn around any second. . . .

  Bam!

  I slammed the heel of Grace’s cowboy boot directly into the back of Deborah Bain’s skull. She let out a bloodcurdling yell and crumpled to the sand in front of me. Her wig tumbled into the surf and swirled away as if disappearing down a drain. Grace cried out as she kicked herself free and shot toward my figure on the rocks. The waves roared.

  “Grace! I’m right here!” I tried to run to her, but my frozen legs wouldn’t cooperate. The wind howled against my soaked clothes. I couldn’t even feel the cold anymore.

  Grace turned back. I stumbled forward. She grasped me in a tight hug and let out a single sob. The sound of our chattering teeth almost drowned out the waves. After a long second, Grace leaned back and gave me a weak smile.

  “N-now that’s what I call Dragon Emerges from Water,” she said.

  I smiled back. “It’s always been my best move,” I said.

  Grace pulled me toward Bain’s unconscious form on the tide line and pointed. “F-f-first Rule of C-conduct.” She gestured for me to help drag Bain higher up on the sand. “The F-F-BI never k-kills a suspect unless necessary.” She checked Agford’s pulse. “She’s alive.”

  We jumped at the screech of a bullhorn. “THIS IS LVPD! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! YOU ARE SURROUNDED! I repeat, YOU ARE SURROUNDED!” it blared.

  We squinted into the glare of bobbing floodlights. A line of black shadows scuttled down the trail and across the beach. Nightsticks swinging in their belts, radios rattling, the officers sprinted toward us with weapons raised.

  We lifted our hands in surrender.

  Officer Grady approached, panting. He looked down at Deborah Bain’s slumped form and back at us. “How on earth . . . ?”

  Grace and I exchanged a look.

  I turned back to Officer Grady. I folded my arms.

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Happy Family

  Back up atop the bluffs, officers wrapped us in blankets and led us across the field to the front parking lot. They ushered us past Daniel Slater, who lay facedown on the ground while an officer perched over him, knee digging into his back. Slater grunted in pain as the cop wrenched his arms back and cuffed them.

  The reds and blues of the police cruisers washed over us as a booming voice rang out.

  “I told you they’d kick butt!” Trista waved at us through the half-open backseat window of a police car as its lights flickered across her face. “Didn’t I?” She turned her head to the officer standing outside the cruiser. “Just like I told you to get down to school.”

  “You told us,” the officer said. “You told us.”

  Trista looked smug. “Now are you going to let me go give them a hug, or do I have to disassemble this door?”

  The officer reluctantly opened up, and Trista spilled forward. “Finally got your voice mail,” she said. “If these jokers had let me, I’d have saved you myself.” She wrapped Grace and me in an awkward bear hug that crushed my already bruised ribs and shoulder. I heard a muffled groan. I thought it was my own until Trista pulled away to reveal its true source.

  Deborah Bain, cuffed and held upright by two burly officers, groaned again. She stared at us, dazed. Something else lingered in her dead eyes now. It took me a moment to realize it was defeat. The waves had washed away her makeup. Her hair—if you could call it that—was plastered to her head in matted brown clumps, and her striped blouse was untucked and soaked. If it hadn’t been for the single sharp crease running down each leg of her high-waisted jeans, I wouldn’t have been able to say for sure it was her.

  “In you go,” one of the officers barked as he shoved her into the waiting car. She didn’t break her gaze; her lips moved soundlessly like a fish caught on a hook. For once, Deborah Bain had nothing to say.

  “What about this one?” a female officer behind me asked. I turned to look.

  Louise Ralston stood flanked on either side by officers.

  “Cuff ’er and book ’er,” Officer Grady snapped.

  “Wait!” I shouted. “Ralston’s FBI!” I added, though I knew it wasn’t exactly true. They couldn’t just take her like that. “If it weren’t for her, you’d have never—”

  “It’s all right, Sophie,” Ralston interrupted. Even in the harsh glare of the floodlights, her blue eyes looked soft. She smiled. “This will all be cleared up.”

  “But—”

  “I promise.” Her slumped shoulders swayed as the officers handcuffed her. She still smiled. “Now I know y’all have no good reason to take my word. But I swear. This time it’s the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

  The police radios blared louder as one of the officers opened his cruiser door and helped Louise Ralston inside.

  At three p.m. the next day, I woke up with a start. Only when the room finally came into focus did I realize the two figures hovering over me were my parents. They gazed at me so intensely, I was pretty sure they were trying to memorize each of my freckles.

  “Sorry, dear. I thought you might want us to wake you,” my mom said. “Grace is on the phone.” She let go of my dad’s hand as she passed the receiver to me.

  My parents had come back from the missile station in the wee hours of the morning. The launch had gone well, despite some minor last-minute glitches. In a way it was lucky the police only reached my parents by phone after the launch. With AmStar’s team running around in a frenzy, t
he last thing they would have needed was my parents freaking out about me.

  When my parents walked in the door, I couldn’t remember ever being quite that happy to see anyone. Or quite that happy to hear an apology, for that matter. It turned out the single known acceptable case of parents repeating themselves ad nauseam was when they were gushing about how wrong they were. It was downright embarrassing. And the hugs! As if my ribs weren’t already sore enough after Slater’s tackle. I had to remind them I didn’t escape with my life only to lose it in the first recorded suffocation by hugging.

  There was decidedly less risk of dying from the awkward hug Jake gave me when he found out I’d almost been killed. Still, it was awfully sweet—especially considering that he’d gotten busted for not being home when the cops had brought me back. When he had finally traipsed back in, he looked like he’d had his own brush with death at his girlfriend’s. However, upon closer inspection, the red welts all over his neck proved to be hickeys.

  When Grandpa found out about Bain, he’d bunched up his mouth and glared across the street. “I knew it!” he’d exclaimed. “Something about that woman never did smell right.”

  With some coaxing my parents finally left, glued at the hip, so I could talk to Grace.

  “You got your cell back!” I greeted her.

  “Nope. Calling from the landline.”

  “No way.”

  “Way. Laptop’s still gone, too. But my dad is loving booking me all these interviews, so I guess I’m not grounded anymore.”

  “Interviews?”

  “Sophie, go turn on the TV.”

  I stayed on the phone as I walked to the family room. Grandpa smiled and saluted as he made room for me on the couch in front of the television. PRETEENS FOIL TILMORE EIGHT FUGITIVE read the scrolling caption. A heavily made-up reporter stood in front of Luna Vista Middle School.

  “In a shocking development late last night, two preteen sleuths helped capture a fugitive posing as a school counselor in the quiet coastal suburb of Luna Vista,” she reported. A mug shot of a wigless Agford flashed on-screen.