“What about Trisha?” I said.
“I didn’t see her,” Nick said. “I didn’t see anyone. Just the car with the trunk open. Had a suitcase in it, a box of stuff—it looked like books and pictures. Girl stuff. Looks like maybe someone is taking a trip.”
“Trisha’s mother is in the hospital,” I said. “So why would Trisha or Mr. Hanover be going anywhere? Especially when he just brought Trisha home.”
Nick shrugged. “Now what?” he said.
“I’m going to go and see if I can talk to Trisha,” I said.
“Great,” Beej said. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“You can’t come with me,” I told her. “Explain it to her, Nick.”
“I don’t need Nick to explain anything to me,” she said. “It’s not Nick’s camera. It’s mine. And I want it back.”
“Beej,” I said, as patiently as I could manage, “Mr. Hanover knows you helped Trisha. Someone followed you while you were leading Nick to where she was hiding. If Trisha told anyone one of her so-called wild stories, it would have been you. He also saw you slap me, which means he’s not going to think you told me anything. But if you go up to the house with me, he might get suspicious and think you told me whatever Trisha told you. He might think you know something—and that could be dangerous for you.”
“She’s right, Beej,” Nick said.
Beej gave him a look that made it clear that he had lost all credibility with her.
“Can you at least ask her about my video camera?” she said.
“If I see her, I’ll ask. I promise.”
“Maybe we should just call the cops,” Nick said.
“And tell them what?” I said. “That Trisha Carnegie is finally back home?”
“Tell them what we know—she told Beej she was afraid for her life.”
“I don’t know if it’s true, but according to Carl, Trisha has made all kinds of crazy accusations about her parents. The police probably won’t believe us—not unless there’s evidence.”
Nick shook his head. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “We’ll wait for you here.” He had already scouted the area for the old pay phones. “If you’re not back in fifteen minutes, I’m calling your phone. If you don’t answer . . .” He broke off and looked lost for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure what he’d do. I pulled out a pen from my purse and scribbled a phone number on the back of a bus transfer.
“If I don’t come back, call Vern,” I said. “He’s my dad’s business partner. Tell him exactly what’s going on. He’ll know what to do.”
Nick looked relieved to have a backup plan that could actually work.
“It’s going to be okay,” I told him. “All I’m going to do is ask to see Trisha.”
“And find out about my camera,” Beej said. “Don’t forget.”
Carl Hanover opened the door at about the time that I started thinking that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. That Trisha had been afraid for a good reason. That my father’s old friend Carl Hanover wasn’t a nice man. That the dead horses Trisha had mentioned really were the horses that had died at the Doig place. The insurance company Mr. Hanover worked for had paid out a lot of money for those horses.
And then there he was, smiling down at me, looking relaxed and healthy with his nice deep tan.
“Robyn, hello,” he said. “I heard about your father. What happened? How is he?”
“They’re not sure what happened,” I said. “But he’s going to be fine.”
I edged toward the door, the way you do when you’re expecting someone to invite you in. Mr. Hanover shifted a little so that he was blocking the way almost completely. I peeked around him into the house, but all I could see was the spacious foyer. One door off it led to a dining room, another to the living room. A long narrow table stood along one wall. Beside the table was a cardboard box with some clothes in it that could only have been Trisha’s. On the table were a lamp, a flower arrangement, Trisha’s D&G backpack—gaping open so that something square and black was clearly visible inside—and something else. Something that convinced me that Nick had been right.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Mr. Hanover said. “I bet he thought he’d left that sort of thing behind when he left the police force.”
“I guess,” I said. “Mr. Hanover, about Trisha—”
“I’m sorry I had to trick you, Robyn,” he said. “I didn’t know what I’d do if I didn’t get her home. I didn’t know what her mother would do.”
His expression seemed sincere, and he looked sad when he mentioned his wife. But if he cared so much, why hadn’t he let Trisha talk to her when she called home? Why had he told my father that he hadn’t heard from her at all?
“That’s okay,” I said. “I understand. I don’t think those kids who delivered that letter will ever talk to me again. But I’m glad Trisha’s home and everything is okay.”
“It wouldn’t have happened without your help, Robyn,” he said. “Thank you for everything.” He took a step back inside, getting ready to close the door.
“I was wondering if I could see her,” I said.
He looked surprised.
“She’s in one of my classes,” I said. “And—” I looked suitably contrite. “I said something to her the last time I saw her in school. Something I regret. I’d like to apologize.”
“Ah,” he said. “Well, Trisha isn’t here at the moment. Her mother is very ill.” His eyes went to the floor for a moment. When he looked up again, they were filled with tears. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just all the pressure, with Trisha missing and now Denise. . .”
I looked back around him to the table—at Trisha’s bag, and beside it, the chain from which hung her father’s wedding ring and the little pouch that held her meditating crystal. The chain that she supposedly always wore. If the stories I had heard about Trisha were true, then I couldn’t imagine Trisha taking it off, much less leaving it lying around. She had told Kenny Merchant and Beej that she hated Mr. Hanover. Supposedly that was the reason she always wore that ring—to remind him of that.
“Do you know when she’s going to be back?” I said. “Because I’d really like—”
“She went to the hospital to see her mother,” he said. “I was just on the way there myself. But I’ll tell her you were here.”
As I headed back down the walk, I heard dogs barking. Probably the Rottweilers next door that Nick had told me about. Then I heard a thunk that sounded exactly like the trunk of a car being slammed shut. I glanced back at the house and saw Mr. Hanover at a window, watching me. He was not smiling anymore. I waved as I left the property.
“Well?” Nick said.
“He says she’s not there.”
“I knew it,” Beej said. “I knew it. I’ll never get my camera back.”
“I saw it,” I said.
“You did?” If I hadn’t grabbed her by the arm, she would have raced up to the house to reclaim it. She strained against me. I think she might have hit me if Nick hadn’t stepped in.
“You think he’s lying?” he said.
That caught Beej’s attention. She turned back toward me. I nodded.
“Tell me again about the dead horses,” I said to Beej. “What exactly did she say?”
“Just what I told you—that her stepfather is a creep, and she never liked him, but she never realized that he could be so evil. How if her mother could see the truth, she’d be out of there in a flash.”
“Robyn, what’s going on?” Nick said.
“What do you think she was doing with your camera?” I said.
“How do I know?” Beej said.
Nick looked at me. “Do you think Trisha filmed something?”
“The day Trisha ran away, she left school to go home to get something she forgot,” I said. At least, I was pretty sure that’s what she had done. She had looked horrified when she’d discovered that her work wasn’t in her backpack. I would have bet anything she was going home to get it. “The day before that,
Howie Maritz died.” Nick shook his head. He had no idea who I was talking about. “He was a fire investigator,” I said. “He checked out the fire at that stable back in the summer, the one where all those horses died.”
“But what does that have to do with Trisha?” Nick asked.
“Mr. Hanover works for an insurance company—the same insurance company that insured the stable.”
“You think he had something to do with the fire?” Nick said.
“I don’t know. But the dead horses—kind of a big coincidence, don’t you think? The insurance company he works for paid a lot of money after the fire, but only after the fire investigator said the fire was accidental and after someone at Mr. Hanover’s insurance company looked at the claim. The investigator died the day before Trisha ran away. Supposedly it was a suicide.”
“Supposedly?” Beej said.
“The next day, Trisha left school and she never came back. After that she was scared, really scared, to go back home. She told you she was afraid someone was going to kill her. And, Nick, you said yourself that she looked terrified when her stepfather grabbed her. Now Mr. Hanover is saying she isn’t in the house. But her purse is there and so is the ring that she always wears around her neck. I saw her stuff in a box in the hall. Mr. Hanover said she’s at the hospital with her mother, but if the stories I’ve heard about Trisha are true, she wouldn’t go anywhere without her father’s ring. Mr. Hanover said he was just on his way to the hospital, but I saw a suitcase and a bunch of girl stuff in the trunk of the car.”
“What are you saying, Robyn?”
“I’m saying I think maybe Trisha’s going to disappear for good.”
“What?” Nick said.
“I think she knows something about those horses. Maybe when she went home that day, she learned something she shouldn’t have. Maybe she was afraid something might happen to her mom if she went to the police.”
I remembered what Trisha had said when those two men with her stepfather had grabbed her. She had asked him what he had done to her mother. What if Mr. Hanover had been using his wife to threaten Trisha?
“If Trisha’s mother is as sick as Mr. Hanover says she is, he won’t be able to use her to keep Trisha quiet for much longer. That’s why he was so desperate to find her. That’s why he tricked me. If Trisha’s mother died, Trisha wouldn’t be afraid to go to the police anymore.”
“Do you think her stepfather is going to hurt her?” Nick said.
I thought about what had just happened. At the same time that I had heard the sound of the trunk closing around the side of the house, I had seen Mr. Hanover watching me from the window at the front of the house. Someone besides Mr. Hanover had closed that trunk.
“I think that’s exactly what Mr. Hanover and his friends are planning,” I said. “I don’t think he’s alone, Nick. I bet those two guys are with him. And if they leave here with Trisha. . .”
“Maybe now’s a good time to call the cops,” Nick said.
“And tell them what?” Beej said. “Anyway, how fast would they get here, assuming you could even get them to come?”
“I think Nick’s right,” I said. “We should call. And we have to find a way to keep Mr. Hanover here until they arrive.”
“How do you suggest we do that?” Beej said. “Form a human chain in front of the driveway?”
“Trisha borrowed your video camera,” I said.“Maybe she was planning to make a record of what she learned— in case anything happened to her or her mother.”
“But we don’t know for sure that she did even film something. And even if she did, we don’t know where it is,” Nick said.
“Neither does Mr. Hanover,” I said. “But he does know that she had access to a camera. It’s right there in her bag. What would he do if he thought she had made a video? What if he thought that we had the footage?”
“But we don’t.”
Nick eyed me closely. “What are you going to do, Robyn?”
I turned to Beej. “You have that memory card in your bag, right?”
“Yeah,” she said hesitantly.
“Can I see it?”
“My whole project’s—”
“I just want to borrow it.”
“Robyn,” Nick said.
I opened my bag and took out my cell phone. “Call 9-1-1,” I said. “Then call Vern and tell him what’s going on.”
“If you’re right and this guy is dangerous—”
“Tell whoever picks up that you heard screams and a gunshot,” I said. “Just do it, Nick.” I turned to Beej. “You want your camera back?”
“You have to ask?” She slung off her backpack and crouched down to burrow into it. She pulled out an envelope of pictures, then a vintage still camera and then the memory card. “I’ll hang onto it, okay?”
“But if we’re calling 911—” Nick said.
“We have to stop him from leaving with Trisha,” I said. I looked down at Beej’s other camera. “You have film in that?”
Beej rolled her eyes as if to say “Of course.”
“Call them now, Nick,” I said.
Trisha was in Mr. Hanover’s arms. Her eyes were closed. Her head lolled against his chest. Her arms and legs dangled as limply as a rag doll’s. I glanced at Beej, who hung back near the entrance to the driveway. She raised her camera and snapped a picture before Mr. Hanover even noticed.Another man came out of the door behind Mr. Hanover—the guy with the aviator glasses. When he spotted me and Beej, he said, “Hey!” and raised his hand in front of his face. Mr. Hanover turned his head. Unlike the big man in the aviator sunglasses, Mr. Hanover didn’t look angry. He looked stunned.
“Poor Trisha,” he said, nodding at her, still limp in his arms. “She isn’t feeling well.”
With a little help from her friends, I thought. How fast is police response time?
“I’m taking her to the doctor,” Mr. Hanover said. “With her mom so sick, it’s all been too much for her.”
The man in the sunglasses nodded, but there was nothing in the gesture that suggested agreement. Then I saw who he was nodding to.Another man, a big bouncer-sized man whom I had also seen back at the abandoned building. Mr. Hanover saw him too, and looked worried.
“Dan,” he said. It sounded like a warning.
I stood very quietly for a moment, listening for police sirens in the distance and hearing instead the pounding of my heart in my chest. Then, because there didn’t seem to be any alternative, I said, “The thing is, Mr. Hanover, Trisha made a film.”
Mr. Hanover understood immediately, but the man in the aviator sunglasses didn’t. He frowned and looked at Mr. Hanover.
“You saw the camera in her bag,” I said. “I know you did.”
The man in the aviator sunglasses scowled. “What’s she talking about, Carl?”
“We have the footage,” I said. I nodded to Beej. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her waving the memory card back and forth so that Mr. Hanover could see it. “She told the whole story,” I said. “Everything she knows.”
The man in the sunglasses reached inside his jacket. Behind me Beej shouted, “Smile!” She was pointing her digital camera at the man.
“Hey!” the man said again, his hand coming out of his jacket. And then there it was: a gun.
“Say cheese,” Beej said, aiming her camera again.
“Hey!” The man turned his head now.
“Grab her!” he said to his partner, the bouncer.
“You,” the man said, pointing his gun at me.
“Cheese,” Beej said.
The man grew even more flustered now, but not because of Beej and her camera. He heard a sound in the distance. It was pulsing and slowly getting louder.
Sirens.
Then there was a blur of activity. The bouncer thundered past me. I turned and Beej wasn’t there anymore. The guy in the sunglasses swore, over and over, then moved toward the car and jumped into it while Mr. Hanover just stood there like a statue of a man with a rag doll girl in
his arms.
Then there were police officers advancing on the place. Blocking the driveway.
Then there was Nick.
And Beej, talking to a cop a mile a minute.
While Mr. Hanover stood exactly where he was, looking pale under his nice tan.
For a guy with a ruptured spleen, a couple of cracked ribs and a monster headache, my father looked exceptionally happy. Possibly it was because the case he had been working on had reached a conclusion.
People were talking, and it looked as if the horse trainer who had died was a victim of arson. He had died because Carmine Doig had needed fast cash more than he needed well-insured horses. The fire investigator’s suicide was looking like murder—apparently, he’d had second thoughts about ruling the fire accidental. Trevor Bailey, the claims adjuster who had signed the report, talked to the police. He told them that he hadn’t done the actual investigation. Carl Hanover had handled that. Then, using his wife’s illness as an excuse to take a leave from work, he had asked Trevor Bailey to handle the last-minute details and sign the report. That way, his name didn’t appear on the official record. Carl Hanover was arrested on charges of conspiracy to commit fraud. He said he’d gone along with Doig’s plan because he was being blackmailed. My father said if that was true, maybe he could make a deal with the prosecutor. Of course, there was still the matter of what he and his blackmailers had been planning to do to Trisha.
Possibly my father looked happy because, as he had said over and over, he was proud of me. Okay, I shouldn’t have confronted Mr. Hanover the way I had—I think he scolded me about it partly to pacify my mother—but still, “Good thinking, Robbie. Brilliant thinking. You probably saved that girl’s life.”
Mostly, though, I think my dad was so happy because sitting in the hospital with Vern and me was my mother. Nobody had forced her to come. Nor had she come because she was angry—she wasn’t. She had arrived at the police station shortly after the police had taken us all there to make statements. Vern had called her. She had stayed by my side while I told my story (and Beej and Nick, in other rooms, told theirs). Trisha had been taken to the hospital to recover from whatever her stepfather had drugged her with.
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