Wanted!

by Caroline B. Cooney

  She was shocked to hear an engine behind her. This was a one-way street! Cars could only come toward her! She flung a look over her shoulder.

  Paul Chem was so eager to capture her that he had taken his precious Jeep and was actually driving against traffic to pursue Alice.

  Alice was furious. She fled down an alley. Would this be like television? Trapped at a dead end by ten-foot-high chain link and topped with rolls of slicing wire?

  A garbage truck was backing up as it picked up trash, its automatic horn beeping steadily. Alice squeezed by. The Jeep could not follow. Alice burst out of the alley.

  Like pus from a blister, she thought. There was something putrid and stinking about being chased.

  Paul’s friends would have vaulted out of the Jeep so they could run wherever she ran. Their legs were longer, stronger, and not yet tired. She had no hope.

  How would they stop her? A flying tackle? Shove her up against a wall? Grab her wrists and pinion them behind her back?

  She raced across another main thoroughfare, fled the wrong way up another street, and through another service alley.

  It seemed to her that every face she saw was familiar. She tried to stay sane; she knew she was making this up; these dozens of cars, these hundred faces—they were strangers to her, and she to them.

  But one glimpse of a blonde ponytail, and she thought it must be Kelsey.

  One glimpse of a crewcut and she thought it must be Michael, who sat next to her in homeroom.

  Alice’s legs were trembling. She wanted to stop and lean over, brace herself against her own knees. She had fire in her muscles, cramps in her lungs.

  What I need, Alice thought, is a car.

  She was afraid to look at cars and afraid not to look at them. What if she saw Kelsey? She wanted to believe that Kelsey had said: Oh no, not me, I’m not going to hunt Alice. I’m going to wait by the phone in case Alice calls and needs me.

  I need you, Kelsey, Alice thought.

  She had run all the way downtown: towering buildings, international hotels, taxi stands. She walked now and, walking, became invisible; just somebody else headed for work. It was actually still early on Thursday morning. People were still stopping for a cup of coffee, buying a newspaper, getting gas.

  The real enemy, Alice said to herself, is not the kids from school. The real enemy is whoever killed Dad. I have to find out who that is. I have to have a plan.

  But Alice did not have the faintest idea of what to do next.

  She could hardly show up at Austin & Scote asking them to help identify all Lumina owners who had ever known Dad. And if she were to appear at Dad’s office, it would be Mr. Austin and Mr. Scote who would pin her to the wall and call the police, instead of Paul Chem.

  If she continued through the downtown area, she’d be blocked by the Interstate, which was not the kind of road pedestrians crossed, and by bridges over the river, none of which had walking access.

  Alice switched directions. She covered block after block, long blocks one direction, short blocks the other. She was completely without destination. She had only speed.

  She felt damaged, as if Paul Chem had run over her. As if she had tire tracks on her heart. She had no friends. Only people who knew her and wanted to bring her down and bring her in.

  The fact that this was her—plain old nice Alice—got harder to believe, instead of easier. The inside of her mind swayed, like a swing in the wind—nobody sitting there.

  To her astonishment, the university appeared again. She kept forgetting how big it was, how much space a place that educates forty thousand people takes up.

  On this rim of the campus was a one-story building painted a friendly yellow, with an immense balloon bouquet sign that reminded her of the wooden ice cream cone at Salmon River. A driveway curled up to the front door, and a wide canopy shaded idling cars.

  It was a day-care center.

  Each parent left the car running while they went in with a child.

  Cars facing out of the city.

  Cars full of gas.

  Cars ready to go.

  Alice could have her pick.

  There was an old Dodge sedan, a Voyager with three car seats, a cute little sky blue Toyota pickup, an old fake-wood-sided station wagon, and a beautiful black Mazda RX7.

  Alice was giddy with choice.

  Everybody expected her to be on foot. Nobody would be looking for her in a car. In fact, everybody would have an exact description from Paul Chem: baseball cap, glasses, jeans, and T-shirt, and most of all, the alley where he’d lost her.

  But in a car, without cap, without glasses…

  The mother getting out of the blue Toyota truck unloaded a huge tray which had been resting on the front seat bench. Alice was close enough to see cupcakes, iced in pink with tiny white candles, and the little girl whose birthday it was looked about three. The girl was wildly excited and the mother said, “Don’t make me spill,” and the little girl held the door for her mother.

  It would take time to deliver those cupcakes, discuss the birthday with the teacher, kiss the birthday girl good-bye on such a precious day.

  This was the car. A blender if there ever was one. Nothing slid into traffic more easily than toy trucks. In that Toyota, Alice could be miles away before the police got here. Then she could abandon the truck and take another one, before anybody guessed it was Alice who had it.

  The mother and the three-year-old disappeared inside the day-care center. Big yellow doors shut behind them. The engine of the little truck burbled in a friendly, picture-book kind of way. Other fathers and mothers drove up, hopped out, and carried, pleaded, argued, scolded, kissed, hugged, and waved.

  Not one parent paid any attention to any other parent.

  Absolutely nobody was going to notice a thing. This was the moment.

  Alice didn’t pause for a second.

  She walked away.

  She had not committed murder, and she could say so, and it would be the truth, whether they believed her or not. But if she took that truck…if she really and truly drove away in another person’s car…

  She could never have faced her parents.

  Parents, thought Alice. I have only one parent now.

  What must her mother be going through? Surrounded by police and neighbors and acquaintances and business colleagues? All of whom believed that Christina Robie was the mother of a girl who would bludgeon her own father?

  I have to let her know I’m all right, thought Alice. Except, I’m not all right.

  She wondered if the E-mail message had been displayed or read aloud, on television. What if all Mom’s friends, and all Alice’s friends, had read and believed?

  Alice felt computerized. She had functions and, until her plug was pulled, would go on calculating. But she could not actually think.

  Alice dragged herself onto the campus. It was crawling with police cars. They’re not looking for me, she said to herself. There’s probably a big game; they’re here to manage traffic at the stadium.

  Right. On a Thursday morning.

  Big game, she thought. I guess a girl who killed her father counts as big game. I guess this is now a hunting preserve.

  Why must the campus be so barren? Why were there no little copses of trees, little gatherings of flowers, little quadrangles of benches and sculpture?

  When she saw a sign for Flemming she knew she was going there. It was familiar, and she was desperate for a safety zone.

  “Alice,” said a voice right next to her.

  This is it, she thought wearily. It’s over.

  She turned slowly, to see which pursuer had pulled it off.

  It was Rick Rellen. He had pulled the Volvo over when he spotted her, not bothering to park, and the bulky square car was angled awkwardly. His graying beard partially hid a smile. He stretched out his arms to hug her. They had never hugged. They had hardly ever even spoken. “Alice, honey, your mother and I are so worried about you! I am so glad I found you!”

 
Mr. Rellen was a leisurely, hefty sort of man, the type who liked a soft recliner in front of a large TV. Alice’s father was tall and thin and never had time for TV. He had too many projects (done with such neatness and care that outsiders thought he had no life).

  How reassuring Mr. Rellen’s arms looked. How badly Alice wanted to be held and reassured by a parent. Once, Mom had told Alice, Rick darling had gathered her in his arms and carried her over his threshold. Alice had found this more nauseating than romantic, but right now she wouldn’t mind being scooped up and carried away from her troubles.

  This is the man who is going to marry my mother, Alice told herself. She tried to be as glad to see Mr. Rellen as he was to see her. She tried to tell herself that the two best people to sort this out were her mother and her future stepfather.

  Richard Rellen’s hand, big and thick, stretched toward her. “Alice, come on home with me.” His stout belly was draped with a fine thin sweater, camel colored. The white and gray and black hairs of his mustache and beard gave him a porcupine look. The smile continued. There was so completely nothing to smile about.

  “Come on, Ally, let’s head on home,” he said, getting closer to her.

  As if it were his home. As if he could invite her there, like a guest, to her very own house. Even calling her Ally, as if when she was not looking, he had become part of the family. As if Mom and he were married already, and she, Alice, was the outsider.

  “It’s all a misunderstanding, Ally,” he said.

  Alice felt as if a painter had put several coats of polyurethane over her thinking. Thinking was down there, beneath the slick layers of shiny stuff, but she couldn’t get to it.

  “We need to get home,” said Mr. Rellen, his smile growing wider. “Talk to your mother, sort it out.”

  Maybe the Hunter always smiled when he closed in on the Victim.

  I’m not a victim, thought Alice.

  She leaped away and he leaped toward her, the awful, thick, hairy arm like an anaconda wrapping around her, and in spite of his weight, he was quick.

  Alice was quicker.

  He didn’t get Alice, he got the backpack. He yanked, trying to lasso her with it, but she shrugged it off and raced away. Her flimsy sneakers actually came apart, and just as in nightmares, she knew she was not running fast enough. She circled a huge brick building, half-circled another, left the path, raced across a parking lot filled with hundreds of student commuter cars, and cut between cars parked too close together for Richard Rellen to fit. She sat on the chilly pavement between two cars, invisible to the world.

  He had not yelled for help in capturing her. He had not shouted to the students brushing through and around them—This is the girl, don’t let her get away! He had allowed her to get away.

  Mom must have given him instructions when she sent him out to search for Alice. What could those orders have been? Don’t upset her, keep smiling, pretend it’s just a misunderstanding, don’t use force.

  Alice got up, dusting grit from her clothes, and walked along the edges of the commuter parking, mentally noting the cars whose drivers had not bothered to lock. If she got really desperate for shelter, she could slip into a backseat and huddle down.

  There was Flemming.

  A police car idled by the front door, its radio spitting unintelligible information.

  The police would be checking the girls leaving Flemming, not the girls entering. Dripping with sweat, hair hanging in her face, T-shirt wet and jeans clinging, Alice jogged into the dorm.

  Indeed, a young officer in a fine blue uniform was asking three college women for their IDs. They were half flirting, and had him completely surrounded, and he did not look up to see who was coming in.

  She went to the stairs, not the elevators. She went to Three, for no reason except her legs could climb no higher.

  There was little action on the third floor. The few girls who had no morning classes were slopping bleary-eyed between rooms, old saggy bathrobes hanging open, or wearing nothing at all. Flemming Third seemed to be very comfortable with nakedness.

  “Oh, like wow!” said a nude girl, laughing at Alice. “You are in desperate need of a shower.”

  Alice nodded. This had never been more true.

  “I’ve got to take up running,” said another girl, coming out of Three Twelve. She was beautifully groomed and had ironed her khaki trousers. Her shirt was crisp, with a pleated front, and a heavy necklace of brown and black beads hung like a scarf. “I haven’t done anything since September except lie around.” She examined Alice closely. “Do you run every morning?” she asked. “I might join you.”

  The naked girl giggled. “Please, Amanda, you’re never going to take up exercise. You are morally opposed to sweat.”

  “I would certainly not run fast enough to sweat,” agreed Amanda.

  Everybody laughed. The naked girl disappeared into Three Fourteen and Amanda followed her. “You owe me a bottle of shampoo, Kerry. I need it.”

  The hall was now empty. Every door, however, had been left open so that conversations could continue.

  “Amanda, you don’t need it. You’re clean and perfect. Tomorrow you might need it, but not today.”

  Alice shivered badly and walked into Amanda’s room. Empty. Amanda’s roommate must have left already. The bathroom door was open a few inches. Alice slid in. There was no tub and the shower had a glass door. It, like Amanda, was scrubbed and polished. No soap scum here.

  Alice got in the shower and closed the glass door, and bit her lips against hysteria. Alice, the girl who hides behind clear glass.

  Surely Amanda did not need to come into the bathroom again. Amanda looked like a woman prepared for a sophisticated and successful day, not a woman who still needed to brush her teeth.

  Amanda came back into her room. There were straightening sounds, drawer-closing sounds, hanging-it-back-up sounds. Alice tried not to think or breathe. Amanda opened the bathroom door.

  Alice pressed her spine against the cold bathroom tiles.

  She needed air desperately. Fear used up so much oxygen. Alice needed a bucket of air, a whole room full of air—

  Amanda plucked a gold lipstick tube off the counter and left.

  Alice’s breath came sucking in like the drain in a whirlpool, noisy and unmistakable. But Amanda was already out the door, pulling it shut behind her, and testing to be sure it had locked.

  Alice stayed in the shower stall for a long time before she could emerge into the light. Then she searched Amanda’s room.

  Amanda lived the way she looked. Socks were neatly folded at one side of the top drawer, and the ironing board tucked carefully in the back of the wardrobe. The edges of books had been straightened and a stack of CDs was perfectly aligned. Alice had lived with a person like this.

  It hit her once more. Alice had lived with a person like this.

  Oh, Daddy!

  Scissors lay neatly in the top shallow drawer of Amanda’s desk. When she was six years old and got tired of cutting Barbie’s hair, Alice had given herself a ragged hideous haircut. Should she do it again?

  Vanity stopped her. She was going to get caught, or would turn herself in, or solve this, or get killed trying, and she didn’t want a disgusting stupid haircut when she had to face the world.

  On top of her chest of drawers, Amanda’s barrettes and scrunchies were neatly arranged on a silk scarf. Alice took a clip from which tiny shiny ribbons and beads hung, gave herself a spiky topknot, and fastened it with the clip. Never, not once, had she appeared in public with her hair sprouting from the top center of her head.

  Then she raided Amanda’s wardrobe. “I promise to wash them and starch them and send them back in plastic bags in perfect condition, Amanda,” she said to the neatness of the room.

  Alice yanked a heavy sweatshirt over her sweaty T-shirt, and on top of that, buttoned up a poufy-sleeved white granny blouse. Then she added a final layer: a long baggy brown and gray dress with ruffles. Alice was always surprised that this s
tyle had taken off: ugly white shirts under limp country dresses in which no girl ever looks pretty and she was now fat besides. She hoped Dad was right—weight gain was the best disguise.

  She rolled up the legs of the jeans, so they didn’t show below the hem of the long saggy dress. She patted the jeans pocket, which now contained her only remaining possession: the backup disk.

  Hoisting some of Amanda’s books, Alice held them in her arms in front of her. In the hall, nobody was around. She went back down to the lobby.

  Now there were two police officers, a man and a woman, and they were being assaulted by several young women shrieking that cops had no right to invade their privacy! No right to demand IDs! No right to be here at all! Did they want a lawsuit brought against them? Did they understand what worthless revolting excuses for people they were?

  Alice joined this promising group, and they all shoved through with much yelling and calling of names and even turned back to glare and shake fists. The police let them go.

  Alice was pretty good on essay tests, where the whole key was bluffing. Some teachers never seemed to mind if you didn’t include a single fact. They gave you points for length and process. But Alice had not expected life to be like that. Whoever pretends the best wins, she thought.

  The book edges dug into Alice’s stomach in a familiar, school-type way. She felt sure of herself holding these books, as if the only tests ahead were academic.

  She also felt fat. It was most peculiar to have thick arms and such a substantial waist.

  Okay, she thought again, there is no point in running unless you have a place to run to. So. Who is at work? Whose house can I hide in?

  She really knew that hiding was not going to accomplish a thing. She knew nothing she was doing was sensible. She knew that the only hope of ending this was to end it.

  But she kept those thoughts as distant as possible, because she was not ready. She could not deal with her father’s death at the same time as answer the questions of authorities. She could not weep for Dad in the presence of a mother who had ceased to love him. And along with all that—perhaps before all that—she could not admit defeat.