Only when she was on the High Street sidewalk did she stop and look behind her. She saw nothing but the school grounds and the meadow and the monstrous shape of the bulldozer rising from the low-lying fog like a prehistoric creature.
But Allie knew that someone was there, just beyond her vision, hidden by the mist and the trees. Hugging her rain parka tight to her shivering body, she ran home and locked the doors behind her.
Twenty-Two
That night, before going to bed, Allie went from room to room, making sure the windows were closed and latched, and the doors were bolted tight. Her father saw her and asked teasingly, “What’s up, Al? Afraid of the Bogeyman?”
Allie looked into her father’s kind, laughing eyes and hesitated. How could she begin to tell him she was afraid of a man she’d never met, a man who was a murderer, who had figured out that she was the only person who knew he was a murderer, and that she had found out about it because she’d read the diary of a dead girl? “No,” she said finally. Her voice came out funny, high-pitched and quavering. “I was just—checking.”
“I always lock up, sweetie. You run on up to bed. It’s late.”
Allie dreaded going to her room alone. Reluctantly, she turned to climb the stairs.
“Didn’t you forget something?” said her dad. He stood with his arms out, and Allie ran to give him a hug. She clung fiercely for a moment before letting go, and he said softly, “Everything okay, Allie-Cat?”
“Yes,” said Allie. “I just—”
“What?”
“Just make sure everything’s locked, okay?”
“You bet,” said her dad, giving her a kiss. “You can count on it.”
Allie checked her desk to make sure the diary was where she had left it. It was safe in the secret drawer, which Raymond Gagney obviously knew nothing about. Okay, she thought, he can’t get the diary. And Dad locked up the house, so he can’t get me. She repeated it over and over to herself: He can’t get me, he can’t get me, he can’t get me.
But even with the lamp on her bureau burning brightly, Allie spent most of the night staring wide-eyed at the cracks in the ceiling, stiffening at every sound she imagined she heard. She longed for daylight, but found that instead of looking forward to the field trip the next day, she dreaded returning to the glen.
She could pretend she was sick. But that was no good. Her parents would have to go to work, and the idea of staying home alone all day was far worse than going to the glen with her class. She prayed for rain.
She must have slept, because she awakened to bright sunlight streaming through her window. It was a beautiful day. The field trip was on.
Okay, she told herself, she was going back to the glen. What did they say about falling off a horse? You were supposed to get right back on. Besides, she loved the glen. She’d been climbing those cliffs ever since she was a little older than Michael. She wasn’t going to let Gag-Me stop her. She got out of bed and dressed in shorts, a T-shirt, and hiking boots.
“Mom?” she asked at breakfast. “Could you drive me to school today?”
“Sure, I guess so. Why? Do you have a lot to carry?”
“My backpack’s really heavy,” Allie said.
“Okay. Be ready in five minutes,” said her mother.
As they drove toward school, Allie looked nervously for signs of Raymond Gagney. She felt a little silly. What was she looking for, anyway? A mysterious black sedan? A lurking figure wearing a raincoat and sporting a bristly mustache? The image her mind created was a combination of Lucy’s description and every movie villain Allie had ever seen.
To her relief, no one and nothing out of the ordinary appeared on the way to school. Once in the parking lot, she thanked her mother and ran quickly into the building.
When Allie got to her classroom, Hoover was already there. With a red bandanna tied around her neck and her tail wagging madly, she was prancing happily around the room, sniffing and exploring.
“Hey, Hoover,” shouted Joey, “that’s my lunch bag!” He grabbed the brown paper bag from Hoover’s mouth and gave her a playful pat on the back.
As always, Allie was enchanted by Hoover. She would have loved to own a dog but couldn’t because Michael was allergic to pet hair. “Come here, Hoover,” she called. “I brought something for you.” She reached into her backpack, took out a bag of pretzels, and held them up to show Mr. Henry. “Is it okay if I give her one?” she asked.
“One,” said Mr. Henry, “and that’s it. The vet said she’s got to go on a diet.”
“Poor Hoover,” said Allie, feeding the big dog the pretzel. Hoover thumped her tail gratefully. Allie rubbed Hoover’s long, soft ears and whispered, “No more snacks for you, girl. Doctor’s orders.”
Mr. Henry flicked the lights on and off and the class grew quiet. Even Hoover sat looking at him attentively.
“Well,” he said, “you all look ready for our excursion. Don’t forget to bring paper and something to write with and, of course, your lunches. Those of you with field guides, be sure to bring them, too. Do we have one for identifying birds?”
Julie Horwitz held up a book.
“Mammals?”
“Yep.”
“Reptiles and amphibians, plants, fossils, trees, and insects,” said Dub.
“What about fish?” asked Mr. Henry.
“I’ve got it,” answered Allie.
“Okay, that ought to do it. Everybody ready? Let’s go.”
As the class trooped across the meadow to the glen, Allie made sure that she was out of earshot of Karen and Pam while she told Dub what had happened to her at the cliffs the afternoon before.
Dub’s eyes grew wide. “It’s Gag-Me!” he said. “I told you! He’s figured out who you are and now he’s after you!”
“You think so?” said Allie with a shiver. Then she admitted, “So do I. I’ve been really spooked ever since. It was so creepy. I’m sure I heard footsteps, Dub. But, I don’t know…I never actually saw anybody.”
Mr. Henry was leading the way down the path to a place where the slope of the cliff was more gradual and easier to manage. Years before, someone had tied a thick rope from tree to tree to form a handrail along a narrow trail that descended to the bottom of the glen.
“Now, take your time and be careful,” Mr. Henry warned. “These cliffs are slippery. They’re made of what kind of rock?”
“Shale,” the class answered in unison.
“Right. And it’s very crumbly, so watch your feet.”
Allie had to smile at Mr. Henry’s caution. He was right, of course. But compared to the cliff she’d climbed earlier in the week, the path was a piece of cake.
One by one, the kids in the class followed Mr. Henry down the hill. Hoover had already raced to the bottom and was splashing in the creek, sending a mallard drake and a great blue heron squawking into flight.
While Allie and Dub waited their turn to go down, Allie walked a little farther up the path to the place where she figured she’d been standing the day before. Sure enough, there were the imprints of her sneakers, clearly outlined in the mud that was beginning to dry after the rain. There were prints where she had stood still, listening, and deep, smeared prints where she had taken off running.
No more than ten feet from where she had stood were several prints much larger than hers.
“Dub!” she cried. “Look!”
Dub ran over and studied the prints carefully. “Well, that proves it,” he said. “Somebody was on that path with you. And those shoes don’t belong to any kid. Look how big they are.”
They stared wide-eyed at each other, neither one saying what Allie knew was in both their minds.
“Come on, you guys,” called Brad. “We’re leaving you in the dust.”
Quickly, Allie and Dub walked back to join the others, glad that it was broad daylight and they were with Mr. Henry and the group and not alone. Most of the kids were already down by the creek, lifting up rocks and peering into pools. Allie could hear Joey’s
voice booming, “Hey! I found a crayfish!” Julie yelled out that she could see fish near the bottom of the falls.
“I’ve got the fish book,” Allie called back. “I’ll be right there.”
She and Dub joined Julie on the creek bank near the small waterfall. There, in a clear, deep pool, was a group of fish. They were all facing into the rushing water, swimming so close together that they looked like a big dark mass.
“They’re suckers,” said Dub.
“Yeah,” agreed Allie. “But is that their real name? I’ll look them up and find out.” She and Dub and Julie flipped through the pages of the field guide and read about white suckers, which each spring swam from the lake up into the streams to spawn.
“Wait, that one over there is different,” said Allie, pointing to a larger fish, poised by itself in the shadow of a submerged log. They crept closer to get a better look, and the fish darted quickly to the other side of the pool, flashing silvery stripes on its side.
“A rainbow trout!” shouted Dub. “Mr. Henry! A rainbow!”
Mr. Henry, an avid fisherman, came over to look. “It’s a beauty,” he said admiringly. “You know, this is one of the few streams around here that’s clean enough for trout to spawn in.”
“We should put that in our letter to the owner of this place,” said Brad.
“You’re right,” said Mr. Henry. “If they start digging foundations for fifty houses up above, there’ll be a lot of erosion from these cliffs. All that mud will make a mess of the stream.”
“Hey!” a voice hollered excitedly. “Everybody! Come here! Look at this!”
“Cool!”
“What is it?”
“It’s some kind of bird.”
“It’s a duck, you dodo.”
“Oh, yeah? What kind?”
“Where’s the book?”
“It’s just sitting there! Why doesn’t it fly away?”
Mr. Henry, Dub, and Julie headed over to where most of the kids in the class were gathered, looking down at a nest in the crotch of a fallen tree.
Allie continued to stare into the pool at the suckers, distracted by the thought of how awful it would be if the waters of the clear, beautiful pool were muddied and spoiled. Would that mean the fish could no longer spawn? If they couldn’t safely lay their eggs here, where would they go? There would be no little baby suckers, no small trout to return to the lake and grow big.
She heard Joey shout, “It’s a mallard duck, and no wonder she doesn’t want to fly—she’s got babies!”
“Come away from there, everybody,” said Mr. Henry. “We don’t want to bother her.”
Allie was starting over to see the ducklings when she noticed that Hoover had strayed from the group and was heading rapidly upstream.
“Hoover!” she called. “Come back here!”
But Hoover, intent on some canine mission, ignored her.
“Hoover!” Allie called again. Hoover disappeared around the bend. “Uh-oh,” said Allie. Remembering the cow-manure episode and the class’s promise to keep an eye on Hoover if she came along, Allie set off to bring her back.
Twenty-Three
Allie ran after Hoover, hopping from one rock to another, trying to watch her feet and at the same time look ahead for a glimpse of the dog’s golden fur or the red of her bandanna.
“Hoover!” she called. “Come here, girl.” Her hiking boot plopped into the water as Hoover charged ahead, out of sight. Looking down at her sopping foot, Allie muttered, “Mr. Henry should send you to obedience school.”
She rounded the curve of the stream and came to a place where the steep shale cliffs widened and the stream bed spread out into a shallow, lazy flow. Bushes, trees, and cattails grew along the edge of the stream, and the ground was softer and spongier and less rocky than farther downstream.
There was a fresh cut in the bank, where the swollen waters had recently washed out a corner. Beyond that was another place where the dirt of the bank was newly disturbed. And there Allie saw Hoover—the back end of her, at least. Her tail was wagging furiously as she dug at the exposed earth bank. Dirt flew backward through the air.
“Hoover, you crazy girl,” scolded Allie gently. “What are you up to?”
Hoover looked up momentarily and Allie could see that the dog’s face, chest, and front paws were covered with mud. Well, so much for her attempt to keep Hoover clean and out of trouble.
“You’re a mess!” Allie scolded. Hoover blinked, unconcerned, and returned to her digging.
“What are you after, Hoovey?” asked Allie. She walked closer, trying to avoid the shower of flying dirt. “Did you find something good?”
At that moment, Allie was overcome by the chilly, shivery feeling that she had first felt at the mailbox. She stopped, waiting to see what would happen next. And it came, a vision in her mind’s eye. It was the same scene that had come to her so clearly before: the night of Lucy’s murder, the girl’s plunge from the cliff, the shadowy figure of a man struggling in the dark, dragging the body upstream—with something in his hand.
What was that in his hand? In the darkness of the scene in her mind, Allie couldn’t quite see it, couldn’t quite make out what it was. She squinted, concentrating. Then, in his struggle to drag the body, the man dropped the object and Allie saw it: a shovel. The image faded away.
Allie stood quietly, considering the significance of the vision. At that moment, she saw that Hoover had stopped digging and was tugging at something in the creek bank.
“Hoover! Come!” Allie called. To her surprise, Hoover gave one last pull and raced triumphantly toward Allie with something in her mouth, which she dropped at Allie’s feet. She gave two sharp, excited barks and returned to the cliff, where she continued her excavation.
Allie leaned down and picked up Hoover’s offering. It was a ragged piece of cloth, damp and rotten from being in the ground. Gee, thanks, Hoover, she thought. Frowning, Allie examined it and saw what appeared to be a cuff, with the button missing. The sleeve of a shirt, she decided. The cloth was checkered and felt like flannel. The checks were red and black.
With a gasp, Allie dropped the piece of cloth.
The words of the newspaper article about Lucy’s disappearance echoed in her brain: She was last seen wearing jeans, sneakers, and a red-and-black-checkered flannel shirt.
Horrified, Allie looked ahead to where Hoover was digging deeper into the bank.
“Hoover, no!” she screamed.
But Hoover was already running back toward Allie, carrying something long and thin and white, with knobby ends, clutched tightly in her mouth. And although the object was smeared and streaked with mud, Allie knew what it was even before Hoover dropped it proudly at her feet.
Twenty-Four
Allie was standing still, staring with fascinated loathing at the bone, when a man stepped out from behind a scrubby willow bush.
“You’re a meddler, aren’t you?” he said. “Just like her.”
With a startled cry, Allie looked up at the figure which had materialized, it seemed, out of nowhere. Although she’d never seen him before, she knew who he was. The thin, bristly mustache and the stained yellow teeth were just as Lucy had described, though he was bigger than Allie had imagined him to be. His face was flushed and sweaty, and he was breathing heavily, as if from exertion.
He wasn’t the classic movie villain she had pictured that morning. He was quite ordinary-looking.
Except for the shovel in his hand.
“I can’t let you ruin everything now, you realize that, don’t you?” He spoke calmly, as if they were discussing the weather, as if he had said, “You realize it’s raining, don’t you?” He took a step closer, raised the shovel, and held it in both hands like a baseball bat. Mesmerized by his low, reasonable tone and slow, deliberate movements, Allie stood, transfixed. Too late, she realized that he had placed himself downstream of her, blocking any chance of escape toward her classmates.
Vaguely, she was aware of Hoover, runnin
g with carefree abandon back toward safety.
Raymond Gagney came another step closer, and Allie took one step back. Again and again, he moved forward and she moved back in a nightmarish dance. Bringing the shovel over his shoulder, Gag-Me prepared to swing. The placid, almost pleasant look on his face made his actions all the more horrifying. He looked like a man preparing to swing a bat in a friendly back-yard ball game.
Their eyes were locked. Lucy had said that looking into Gag-Me’s eyes was like looking into a deep poisoned well. Allie could feel herself being pulled into his gaze and down that well. She tore her eyes away, turned, and began to run as the scoop of the shovel whooshed past her head. She ran blindly, splashing through the water, slipping on the loose shale, sinking in the soft, boggy places, running, running, running, keeping a few steps ahead of the man and the shovel that came slicing and whistling through the air.
Desperately, Allie tried to think. Ahead, she knew, was an old mill site. There the glen narrowed again, the sides closed in, steep and high, and the stream bed ended at the foot of a magnificent waterfall. It was a beautiful—and deadly—trap.
Behind her she could hear Gag-Me’s labored breathing, punctuated by curses as he struggled to keep up. When they approached the foot of the falls, she heard him chuckle with amusement. “Where are you going to go now?” he asked.
She looked back. Gag-Me had stopped running and was standing, leaning on the shovel, watching her with a curious grin.
There was nowhere to go—nowhere but up. Allie reached for the skinny branch of one of the trees that struggled to grow in the steep, stony cliff side. Digging in with the toe of her hiking boot, she hoisted herself up, planted her other foot, and grabbed for a fingerhold on the root of a hemlock tree. Again, she pulled herself up, and again and again, slowly scaling the face of the cliff. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw with relief that she was out of range of the swinging shovel and that Gag-Me wasn’t even attempting to follow her. He stood below her, relaxed, waiting. Waiting for her to slip and fall, or to give up and come sliding down to land at his feet.
The Ghost of Fossil Glen Page 9