Missing

by R. L. Stine

  Mark drove with one hand. He stared straight ahead, driving like a robot or something.

  Finally I couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “What’s the worst thing they could tell us?” I asked.

  He didn’t react. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking about his answer or if he hadn’t heard me.

  “The worst thing?” he repeated finally, turning onto Division Street. “I guess the worst thing would be if they said, ‘Your parents left work at the normal time last Tuesday. We’ve been wondering where they are, too. Why didn’t they come in to work yesterday morning?’ ”

  I didn’t have to think about it. Mark was right. That was the worst thing they could say. “And what’s the best thing they could say?” I asked, just making stupid conversation.

  “That’s easy,” Mark said. “The best thing they could say is, ‘Here come your parents now. Guess they’ve been really tied up here.’ ”

  “Well… I suppose that’s still a possibility,” I said. But I didn’t really believe it.

  I knew our parents weren’t just going to pop up at the office and apologize for not calling. But I hoped that maybe someone there would have some kind of logical explanation for us.

  But what would be a logical explanation?

  I tried not to think. I tried not to think of all the horrible things that could have happened to them. But of course there was no way to shut those thoughts out. The worst thoughts, the ugliest, most terrifying thoughts always find you, always work their way into your brain.

  We found the entrance to the industrial park and followed the sign to Cranford Industries. It was an enormous three-story white building, not as modern as I’d imagined, surrounded by a beautifully manicured lawn dotted with evergreen trees. We weren’t sure where to park, and there wasn’t anyone around to help us. Finally, we found a large lot in the back of the building. As we pulled up to it, an armed guard stepped out from a small booth beside the drive and motioned for us to stop.

  “Pass,” he said, reaching out his hand to Mark.

  “Huh? You’re letting us pass?”

  “Pass,” the guard repeated, a little more insistent.

  “Oh! Uh… we don’t have a pass. We’re visitors.”

  The guard held up a long pad and glanced down a list. “Names?”

  “We’re not on your list,” I said. “We don’t have an appointment. We came to see our parents.”

  “Their names?” He flicked through the pad until he came to another, longer list.

  “Burroughs. Lucy and Greg Burroughs,” Mark said.

  “Not on my list,” the guard said, eyeing us suspiciously.

  “They’re pretty new,” I said weakly.

  He leaned down and peered into the car, looking Mark and me up and down. Then he looked into the backseat. “Well… park in Twenty-three-B over there. Then go around to the front. They’ll check you out inside.”

  “Thank you,” Mark and I both said gratefully. I felt as if I’d passed some important test. But why should it be such a big deal to let two teenagers park so they can see their parents?

  Anyway, we parked in 23-B and walked around to the front entrance, just as the guard had ordered. “Hey, wait up!” I yelled. Mark was practically running.

  “Sorry.” He stopped and waited for me to catch up. “This place is pretty impressive,” he said.

  “It’s so big,” I said, pushing open one of the glass doors of the front entrance. “How does anyone find anyone here?”

  Another guard, this one very young, with cold blue eyes and a blond stubble under his nose that was trying to become a mustache, came up to meet us the instant we entered.

  “You’re the visitors?” he asked, looking us up and down the way the parking-lot guard had.

  “Yes,” we both managed to say.

  “Burroughs,” he said. The other guard had talked to him by phone or radio already. “Hold still. This won’t hurt a bit.”

  He had a metal detector in his hand, the kind they have at airports, and he moved it over Mark and then me, checking us out from head to foot.

  Mark and I looked at each other. I think we were both thinking, What kind of crazy place to work at was this!

  “Okay,” the guard said. “Follow me.”

  He led us through the large, open lobby. It appeared to go the entire length of the building. It looked very plush. There were leather couches and chairs in small clusters all around. There were large oil paintings on all the walls. A polished brass staircase wound up to the top floors from the center of the enormous lobby. Our sneakers squeaked over the marble floor as we tried to keep up with the guard, who was walking really fast.

  I glanced at Mark. He looked as nervous as I felt.

  Finally, after walking for what seemed like miles, we came to a young woman seated behind a long, wooden desk set diagonally near the foot of the staircase. The guard left us there without a word and returned to his post by the door. We waited for her to look up from her notebook, a logbook of some kind which she was staring into. She was very pretty, I noticed. She had her straw-blond hair pulled back tight, and she was wearing a great-looking plum-colored suit with matching tie.

  Finally, she put down her notebook and flashed us an automatic smile. “Can I help you?”

  “Uh… we came to see our parents,” Mark blurted out.

  “Do they work here?”

  Before we could answer, the desk phone buzzed and she picked it up. She talked for three or four minutes, looking up at us from time to time. The longer we waited, the more nervous I felt. I had pains in my stomach and I was starting to feel a little light-headed.

  Finally, she put down the phone. But it rang again, and again she had a three- or four-minute conversation while Mark and I stood there, trying to keep it together.

  I stared at everyone who passed by. They were mostly people in business suits, heading for the staircase, their well-polished shoes clicking loudly over the marble floor. I kept thinking maybe Mom and Dad would just show up.

  And then I saw them.

  They were walking quickly toward us from the far end of the lobby, walking arm in arm.

  “Mom! Dad!” I cried. “Hi!”

  Mark and I started running toward them. They didn’t seem to see us.

  “Hey! Hi, you two!” I cried happily.

  But as we got closer, I realized it wasn’t them.

  Mark and I stopped running. The man and woman looked a little like Mom and Dad, but not that much, really. I think my imagination was working overtime.

  They walked right past us and headed up the stairway.

  Mark and I avoided looking at each other. I guess he felt as foolish as I did. “Sorry,” I said.

  He didn’t say anything. We walked back to the receptionist and waited for her to get off the phone.

  “Now, who did you wish to see?” she asked after a few more endless minutes had passed.

  “Our parents,” I said. “The name is Burroughs. Lucy and Greg Burroughs.”

  She pushed a few keys on her desk computer and then stared at the screen. “Hmmm… How do you spell Burroughs?”

  I spelled it for her and she typed a few words on the keyboard. A list of names appeared on the green monitor screen, and she slowly ran her finger down them. After a few seconds she looked up, her finger still on the screen. “Sorry. No Burroughs listed here.”

  “But that’s impossible,” Mark said. He suddenly looked angry.

  “Know what? I’ll bet you’re in the wrong building,” the receptionist said.

  “Wrong building?” Marked turned and looked back toward the entrance at the end of the lobby.

  “This is Cranford Industries,” the receptionist said. “There are a lot of buildings in this industrial park. You probably want—”

  “Cranford Industries,” Mark insisted. “That’s right. This is where our parents work.”

  “They just started in September,” I told her. “Maybe they aren’t in the computer yet.”


  “Well…” She thought about it for a while. “The computer listing is updated every week. Tell me, do you know what division they work in?”

  “Computers,” I said. “They install mainframe computers.”

  “Computers?” She frowned. “Tell you what. Let me talk to Mr. Blumenthal. He’s the personnel director.”

  “Thank you,” Mark and I said at the same time.

  I felt very confused. Why weren’t Mom and Dad in the directory?

  As I watched the receptionist phone Mr. Blumenthal, I answered my own question. It was quite simple. Mom and Dad weren’t regular employees of Cranford Industries. They were special project workers. They were here to install mainframe computers. They weren’t really part of any division. So of course they weren’t listed in the company directory.

  These thoughts made me feel a little better. But I was still terribly nervous, and the endless shuffle of people across the large lobby, the clicking shoes on the marble, the bright lights were all making me feel very uncomfortable.

  She turned away as she talked to Mr. Blumenthal, and I couldn’t hear what she was saying. A few seconds later, she hung up and, looking very concerned, punched another phone number. “Mr. Blumenthal told me to call. Is Mr. Marcus available?” I heard her say.

  Who was Mr. Marcus?

  She turned away again and I couldn’t hear the rest of her conversation. Finally she put down the phone and turned back to us. “Mr. Marcus will see you in a few minutes.”

  “Is he in personnel?” I asked.

  “He’s our CEO,” she said, looking at me as if I’d just barfed all over her desk. I guess I was supposed to know who Mr. Marcus was.

  “CEO?” Mark asked.

  “Chief executive officer,” the receptionist said, frowning at Mark’s ignorance. “Why don’t you have a seat?” She pointed to two enormous leather chairs across from her desk. Then she took another call.

  Mark and I walked over to the chairs, but we didn’t sit down. We were too nervous, too eager to get this over with.

  “Why is the big boss going to see us?” Mark whispered.

  I shrugged. His guess was as good as mine.

  A few minutes later, a young woman came down the staircase. She was carrying a stack of files. She told us she was Mr. Marcus’s secretary and led us up the stairs, down several long hallways of offices and cubicles, and finally into Mr. Marcus’s gigantic corner office.

  Mr. Marcus smiled at us and put down the phone. He was a young man with short brown hair slicked straight back. He wore heavy black-framed glasses. “Hi. Nice to meet you. No school today?” he said, speaking quickly. He motioned for us to sit down in the two chairs in front of his desk.

  “We skipped school,” Mark said abruptly, looking very uncomfortable.

  Mr. Marcus laughed. But he stopped when he saw the serious looks on our faces.

  “We want to see our parents. We have a problem,” I added.

  “Well, I’ll get them for you right away,” he said. “I can see you kids are upset. Emergency at home?”

  “No. Not really,” I said. “We just need to see them.”

  “I’ll get them for you right away. Even sooner,” he said, giving us a warm smile. I liked him immediately. I could see how he got to be the big cheese at such a young age. He seemed so… trustworthy, so dependable. He seemed like a real person.

  “Who are your parents?” he asked.

  “Burroughs. Lucy and Greg Burroughs,” I told him.

  He took off his heavy eyeglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Quickly replacing them, he punched some keys on the computer next to his desk. “Burroughs… Burroughs…”

  “They just started in September,” I said, my voice shaking. “They came here to install mainframe computers.”

  He looked away from the computer screen. “Computers?”

  “Yes. They install computers. They—”

  “We’re not having any computers installed,” he said, suddenly looking very confused. He stared first at Mark, then at me.

  “You’re not?”

  “No. I don’t have anyone here installing new computers.”

  “But our parents—”

  He stood up. He was much taller than I’d thought. “Are you sure you kids have the right company?”

  “Yes,” I said. I was getting tired of that question.

  “Well, I’m really sorry,” Mr. Marcus said. “But I don’t see how I can help you.” He studied the computer screen for a moment. He pushed a few more keys and studied it some more.

  “Nope,” he said finally. “There’s no one named Burroughs working here. There never has been.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “I felt like I was in a dream or something,” I said. “Like nothing was real. Everything was all topsy-turvy.”

  Cara nodded. “I know. I felt the same way. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on Marcus’s face. He felt so bad for us.”

  “Yeah. I know. And what he said just keeps repeating in my mind. ‘There’s no one named Burroughs working here. There never has been.’ ”

  Cara and I were sitting in Shadyside Park, the large park that stretches behind the high school and ends at the Conononka River on the edge of town. The park was bleak and empty. The trees were bare. Everything was gray.

  I was sitting on a low tree stump. Cara was sitting with her legs crossed on the hard ground, her down jacket zipped up to her chin, her blond hair fluttering in the gusting wind.

  We hadn’t said anything to each other all the way back from Cranford Industries. I think we were both in total shock.

  It was just a little hard to accept the fact that our parents had lied to us, that they didn’t work where they said they worked. And that now we had no way to get in touch with them at all.

  At first we hadn’t believed Mr. Marcus. We were sure he had to be mistaken. But he checked the computer three times. And he called the personnel department to make sure there hadn’t been a computer error.

  But no. What he had told us was correct. There’s no one named Burroughs working here. There never has been.

  Marcus had offered to help us. He really was very sympathetic. He saw how destroyed Cara and I were. But what could he do?

  We practically ran out of the building. We just wanted to get away from there. The parking-lot guard tried to stop us at the exit, but I just bombed right past him and drove away.

  And now we sat in the cold park, looking up at the back of the high school, trying to figure out what to do next. Across the grass, two robins pecked at the cold, hard ground. They didn’t seem to be having much luck finding lunch. Things were tough all over.

  “So what are we going to do?” I asked.

  Cara shook her head. “Call the police, I guess.”

  “I guess.”

  “Why did they lie to us?” Cara cried, suddenly sounding very emotional.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t a clue. I just don’t get it, Cara.” I stared at the robins. I didn’t want to look at her. I didn’t want to get too emotional. I wanted to stay as calm as possible, but I could feel myself starting to lose it.

  “Let’s think,” she said, uncrossing her legs. “Let’s try to put together everything we know.”

  “What for?” I asked gloomily.

  “Because maybe we’ll think of something. Maybe we can figure it all out.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” What was there to figure out? Our parents lied to us and then they left.

  No. That was impossible. I told myself to stop thinking like that. “Okay. Let’s put together the pieces,” I said.

  “What day is it?” Cara asked.

  “Oh. You’re in great shape,” I muttered sarcastically. “It’s Wednesday.”

  “Okay. So yesterday was Tuesday. Mom and Dad left for work in the morning.”

  “Only we don’t know if they left for work because the car was still in the garage,” I reminded her. “And we don’t know where they work—or even if they do work!”
I cried, jumping up and walking around in a circle.

  “Okay, okay. Try to stay calm.” She motioned for me to sit back down, but I didn’t feel like it.

  “Let’s concentrate on what we know,” Cara said, leaning back, supporting herself with her hands on the ground. “We know they didn’t come home last night.”

  “Duh.”

  “Stop being so sarcastic. You always think getting angry and moody is going to solve things. But it never does.”

  She was right. I apologized.

  “Then we found that white monkey head in their bed,” she continued. “That’s some kind of clue, don’t you think?”

  “I guess. And don’t forget we caught Roger snooping around in Mom and Dad’s room.”

  “He was at the window. What could he have been doing at the window?” she asked.

  We both thought hard.

  “I know. He could have been signaling to the guy in the van,” I said.

  Cara nodded. “Maybe. You could be right. And what do we know about the van?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Just that it was parked across from our house most of the night. And you saw Roger sneak out and get into the van.”

  “That guy in the van with the platinum hair said he didn’t know Roger,” I said.

  “He had to be lying,” Cara said. “And don’t forget we found a gun hidden in Roger’s room. That’s a clue, too.”

  “So we have some clues. But what help are they?” I asked impatiently.

  “Will you stop whining?”

  “I’m not whining. Get off my case.”

  “We have to talk to Roger,” Cara said, “before we call the police. He is our cousin, after all. Maybe he’s in some kind of trouble.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “We’ll talk to Roger. Then we’ll call the police.”

  We turned toward the school and saw kids hurrying out of the building. “It must be lunchtime,” I said.

  “We can go in now and try to call Roger on the pay phone.”

  We got to the door to the school just as Cory Brooks and his pal David Metcalf were coming out.

  “Hey—you guys sleep in today?” Cory asked, grinning.

  “Great party last night,” Metcalf said. “We gonna do it again tonight?”