Into the Dark Page 5

  Mr. Samuels crouched in front of them, snapped a picture. “Very nice,” he said. Then Nigel, circling back from the base of the monument, looped the leash around Major Ferrand’s legs. Major Ferrand kicked free, gave Nigel a one-eyed glare, a glare that turned to something else, inquisitive and probing.

  “The point is, Ingrid,” said Mr. Samuels, “Major Ferrand is one of the Echo Falls Five.”

  “The Echo Falls Five?” said Ingrid.

  “The surviving World War Two vets,” said Mr. Samuels. “Major Ferrand spends most of his time on Anguilla now, in the Caribbean, but he’s Echo Falls born and bred, still has a cottage on the Ferrand estate. What makes Ingrid’s appearance here so serendipitous, Cyrus, is the fact that she’s the—”

  Major Ferrand interrupted. “This dog has no tag,” he said.

  “It’s on his other collar,” Ingrid said. The one with the broken clasp, no good with the leash; but how was it his business?

  Nigel gazed up at Major Ferrand. Suddenly he cringed—Ingrid had never seen him cringe before—then made a little whiny noise and sidled over behind Ingrid.

  Major Ferrand licked his lips; his tongue was pointy, the color of chalk. “My housekeeper’s dog—” he began.

  “Enough dog talk, if you don’t mind,” said Mr. Samuels. “What I’m trying to tell you, Cyrus, is that Ingrid is Aylmer Hill’s granddaughter.”

  Major Ferrand’s one eye closed, and stayed closed for a long moment. Then it opened and gave her a careful look. “What a small town,” he said.

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Samuels. “That’s the meaning of the whole piece, the strength of old bonds. A piece for which I’m very much in Ingrid’s debt, I might add.”

  “How is that?” said Major Ferrand.

  “Because Aylmer has agreed to be interviewed on his wartime exploits.”

  “He has?” said Ingrid.

  Mr. Samuels nodded happily. “Wouldn’t have happened without your help.”

  Major Ferrand looked a little pale. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. “His wartime exploits?” he said.

  “Practically a scoop,” said Mr. Samuels. “In all these years he’s never given a single interview—there’s just no information at all. And he promised a bombshell—his very word. Now how about you two move the ittiest bit closer together and I’ll shoot a couple quickies? Page-one smiles, now—top of the fold.”

  Ingrid posed with Major Ferrand, their arms touching. His trembled: She could feel it through her jacket. Living most of the time in the Caribbean now, he’d probably forgotten what winter was like.

  seven

  “IT’S SO DARK,” Ingrid said. “How will we ever get out of these woods?” Maybe too whiny and helpless? No one liked a wuss, and Gretel wasn’t necessarily a wuss, just a little kid. Sitting at the kitchen table, alone after school on Thursday, Ingrid popped the top on a Fresca and tried again, making herself sound more composed. “It’s so dark. How will we ever get out of these woods?”

  The door to the garage opened and Mom came in, a bag with Ta Tung on the side, written to look like Chinese letters. “What was that, Ingrid?”

  “It’s so dark. How will we ever get out of these woods? Or: It’s so dark. How will we ever get out of these woods?”

  Mom put the Chinese food on the table, kicked off her shoes, slipped into her sheepskin slippers, as she always did the moment she got in the door. Her eyes grew big and dark: Ingrid could tell she was replaying the Hansel and Gretel dialogue in her mind.

  “The second one’s supposed to be more composed,” Ingrid said.

  Mom nodded. “But it sounds like you’re asking directions.”

  Ingrid laughed. “So something in between?”

  “Try that.”

  Ingrid tried something between helpless fear and asking for directions. Maybe it worked. There was just the slightest tremble in her voice; she sounded scared but brave at the same time, or at least trying to control her fear. Did real bravery start like that, just making a bit of an effort to control fear?

  “Much better,” Mom said.

  “Is that working inside out or outside in?” Ingrid said.

  Mom didn’t answer. She just smiled, came closer, and kissed Ingrid on the forehead.

  “What?” said Ingrid. Even Mom, of all people, was sometimes hard to understand.

  “Where’s the Mongolian ribs?” Ty said, peering into the cardboard containers.

  “They didn’t have them tonight,” Mom said. “I got the crispy duck instead.”

  “What do you mean, they didn’t have them?” Or something like that—hard to tell with Ty’s mouth stuffed full of egg roll, those delicious Ta Tung egg rolls, blackened at the ends.

  “Eat what you’re given,” said Dad.

  After that there were just chewing sounds, Ty’s dominating. Was he having another growth spurt? He seemed bigger than he was just last week, or even yesterday.

  “Try the crispy duck,” Mom said, passing it around the table. “It’s really good.”

  Dad helped himself and said, “Any results, kids?”

  Results meant grades on quizzes, tests, exams, or papers.

  “Nope,” said Ty.

  “Nope,” said Ingrid. Not strictly true, if you were counting today’s seventy-one on Ms. Groome’s math test, but a test wasn’t really a result, not if result meant “final result,” and weren’t final results what counted? Bottom line, walk the walk, just win, baby—wasn’t that the American way? Therefore bringing up this little matter of the seventy-one, one of those neither-here-nor-there grades that could only lead to lots of bothersome speculation, was almost un-American. Algebra, week after week, month after month, this dogged quest for X, bound to be fruitless, like all those other quests: Loch Ness monster, Holy Grail, origin of the—Whoa. Dad was eyeing her in a way that suggested some follow-up question might be next. Ingrid blurted the first thing that came to mind: “Who’s Major Ferrand?”

  “Tim’s great-uncle,” Dad said; Tim was Dad’s boss at the Ferrand Group. “Where’d you hear about him?”

  “I met him.” Ingrid explained about walking Nigel, the Civil War monument, Mr. Samuels.

  “Funny,” Dad said. “I don’t think he’s been here in years.”

  “Maybe it’s because of the series,” Ingrid said.

  “What series?” Dad said.

  “On World War Two vets, in The Echo. Mr. Samuels is interviewing him. And Grampy.”

  “Grampy agreed to an interview?” Dad said.

  “That’s exciting,” Mom said. “I can’t wait to read it.”

  “Did he kill anybody?” Ty said.

  “What kind of a question is that?” Dad said.

  Ty shrugged. “A war question.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass,” said Dad. He checked his watch, took a deep breath. “Have to go in to the office for a while.”

  “Now?” said Mom.

  “Won’t be long,” Dad said. He put on his jacket, went into the garage. “Echo’s still in the driveway,” he called. “One of you come get it.” Then came the throaty rumble of the TT’s engine; it faded away. Mom had her head cocked to one side, as though listening.

  “Rock, paper, scissors,” said Ty.

  He’d won the past three—paper every time, which was so unlike him, Ty being a rock or scissors type.

  “On three,” said Ingrid.

  “One, two—”

  Ingrid: scissors. Ty: rock. Rock? Now he went back to rock? How did he know to do that? She walked outside to get The Echo. Hey! Maybe she was in it—that picture of her with Major Ferrand. Or was it too soon? She was bending down for the paper, wrapped in orange plastic, when a car went by, going pretty fast. Ingrid glanced up. A green hatchback: the streetlight shone for a moment on the face of the driver, Mrs. McGreevy. She was hunched forward, holding the wheel tight in both hands.

  Ingrid took The Echo inside, slipped off the wrapper. She wasn’t above or below the fold, at least not on the front page. Instead there
was a picture of a prematurely gray man. Ingrid recognized him. The headline—a big one for The Echo—read: CONSERVATION AGENT MISSING. Underneath it:

  Harris H. Thatcher, assistant agent for the Department of Conservation in Echo Falls, has been missing for two days. According to his wife, Marleen Thatcher, Mr. Thatcher was last seen leaving for work on his bicycle on Tuesday morning. Mr. Thatcher, an energetic proponent of alternative transportation, is a common sight for Echo Falls residents, riding his bike in all weather.

  “This just isn’t like Harry,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “I’m worried sick.” Gilbert L. Strade, chief of the Echo Falls police, said that a missing persons report has been filed and an active investigation is under way. He urged anyone with information to call the station. When asked if the police were currently pursuing any leads, the chief had no comment.

  “Hey, Mom, did you see this?”

  But Mom was on the phone. “I’m afraid that’s under agreement,” she was saying, “but we have another nice listing in that area.” She made an impatient not-now gesture to Ingrid. With surprising quickness Nigel snatched the last egg roll off the table and ran from the room.

  “Gum?” said Joey.

  “Thanks,” said Ingrid, taking a stick. Lunch line, cafeteria, Ferrand Middle: The special of the day was labeled TUNA CASSEROLE. Ingrid and Joey were near the back of the line, but no one had ordered it yet.

  “Guess what,” Joey said.

  “What?”

  “There’s an old Indian trail.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s on this old map.”

  “What old map?”

  “On the Internet. There’s this old map of Echo Falls on the Internet. See what I’m saying?”

  “No.”

  “My dad showed me. He—”

  “Wait a minute—is the farm on it?”

  “Farm?”

  “My grandfather’s.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. The Indian trail cuts right across his fields.”

  “It does?”

  “We could try it out,” Joey said.

  “Next,” said the lunch lady.

  Joey pointed to the tuna casserole.

  “You’re having that?” Ingrid said.

  Even the lunch lady looked surprised. Joey didn’t seem to notice. “Tomorrow, maybe,” he said. “Like, on our snowshoes.”

  “Goes without saying,” said Ingrid.

  “How about I drop you right here?” said Chief Gilbert L. Strade, slowing down and pulling over. He was a big man with a big jaw, strong nose, and prominent brow ridge, but his voice was soft, at least in Ingrid’s experience. They were on 392, not far from Uncle Lou’s Hot Dog Emporium at the town line, now boarded up for the winter.

  Ingrid, following Chief Strade’s direction, sat up front. Joey, sitting in back, hunched over his map printout, said, “Are we near Old Post Road?”

  The chief tapped the windshield. Joey looked up. A road sign a few yards ahead read OLD POST RD. “Oh,” he said.

  A crackle came from the cruiser’s radio, and a voice said, “Bike path check complete, Chief. Negative.”

  The chief spoke into his transmitter. “Okay, Sarge,” he said. “See you at the station.” He clicked off, turned to Ingrid. “Missing persons case.”

  “Harris H. Thatcher?” said Ingrid. “I saw it in The Echo.”

  “Left home on his bike,” said the chief. “Had special tires for snow—packed snow, at least—rode in all weather.”

  “So you think he had an accident?” Ingrid said.

  “Nothing else to go on,” said the chief. “Sometimes middle-aged guys just disappear, start a new life somewhere, but Thatcher doesn’t seem like the type.”

  “What’s the type?” Ingrid said.

  A little smile crossed the chief’s rough face, very brief. “Disappointed guys,” he said. “Guys in a jam. Guys tired of responsibility. No sign Harry Thatcher fits any of that, plus he was all wrapped up in community issues.”

  “Can we get going?” Joey said.

  The chief glanced at Joey in the rearview mirror, looked like he was about to say something, did not. Ingrid and Joey climbed out of the cruiser, strapped on their snowshoes. The chief’s window slid down.

  “See you back here in two hours,” he said.

  “Okay,” said Joey.

  “Wearing your watch?” the chief said.

  “Course.”

  “Let’s see.”

  Joey pulled up the sleeve of his jacket. His wrist was bare; he looked surprised. But Ingrid was wearing hers—a red watch with the word Rollexx on the face, Christmas present from Stacy and one of her favorite possessions, especially since Stacy had forgotten to remove the $9.95 price sticker from the back. She wore it every day; Sherlock Holmes, who had a pocket watch, always said he needed data, and if time wasn’t data, what was?

  The chief wheeled around and drove back toward town. Joey stuffed the map in his pocket and climbed up onto the snowbank that ran beside Old Post Road, gazed across a snowy field. “We should see a—There it is.”

  “What?”

  “That old gate.”

  A falling-down wooden gate stood in the middle of the field, looking kind of strange all by itself, unattached to a fence or anything. They walked through it, found the path well packed by skiers and snowmobilers, easy going.

  “How do we know this is an Indian trail?” Ingrid said, taking off her mitten to check the compass ring.

  “Says on the map,” said Joey. That expression she heard from time to time, begging the question? Ingrid understood it at last.

  They went up a long slope, not steep, then back down, across a wide valley and up a round hill. At the top Ingrid looked down and saw a fence, then another rise, and in the distance a crooked storage shed, an orchard, a rusty-red barn, an old farmhouse. A view she’d never seen from this angle; it took her mind a few moments to spin it around. “Grampy’s farm.”

  “Yup,” said Joey, like he was Kit Carson or some other famous guide. Ingrid punched him on the arm, an affectionate sort of punch. “Ow,” said Joey. Their breath clouds rose and came together in the air.

  They went down to the fence, saw that the trail swerved and ran parallel to it, avoiding Grampy’s land. Joey took out his map. “The real trail cuts right through to the river,” he said.

  “Let’s take it,” said Ingrid. “Grampy won’t mind.”

  Joey raised one of the strands of wire. They climbed through, started up the rise, now in unpacked snow, not easy. Joey pulled ahead, reached the storage shed ahead of her.

  “Hey,” he called.

  “What?”

  “Your grandfather left his bike out.”

  “He doesn’t have a bike.”

  But when Ingrid got to the shed, she saw a green bike leaning against the side, its big fat tires sunk an inch or so into the snow.

  “Maybe we should put it inside,” Joey said.

  But the door was padlocked shut.

  “I wonder—” Ingrid began.

  Joey, looking past her, interrupted. “What’s that?”

  Ingrid turned. Not far away lay a round depression, the size of a small pond. All covered with snow now, but Ingrid realized this must be the sinkhole where last fall she’d helped Grampy rearrange the surface level a little bit, as he’d put it—a rearrangement that had involved four sticks of dynamite. At the near edge of the depression she could make out something red and black. A long twisted form, actually, that made her think, Scarecrow, knocked down by the wind.

  But she’d never seen a scarecrow on the farm. That was thought two. And then came a third. Red and black: Grampy often wore that red-and-black-checked lumber jacket. The next thing Ingrid knew she was running, running in her snowshoes, which should have been awkward and clumsy, but she didn’t even seem to be touching the ground. And almost every step brought a new horrible detail: a man; white hair; blue skin; very still.

  “Grampy! Grampy!”

  Dead, yes. A man, yes. A
white-haired man, yes. But not Grampy. And also not a stranger: Ingrid had seen this man before, once in person and once on the front page of The Echo. It was Harris H. Thatcher, missing conservation agent.

  She felt Joey’s hand on her shoulder. Her first dead body, but Ingrid knew Harry Thatcher was dead, beyond a doubt. It wasn’t just the blueness of his frozen skin, or the emptiness in his staring eyes. Something else—some huge thing she couldn’t name—was gone. For a moment there wasn’t a sound. It was then that Ingrid noticed red drops in the snow, three of them, the size of quarters.

  “Oh my God,” said Joey.

  “Don’t go any closer,” Ingrid said. She checked the time on her red Rollexx.

  eight

  INGRID KNOCKED ON Grampy’s door.

  “Grampy? Grampy?”

  No answer. The house was silent.

  “Maybe he’s asleep,” said Joey.

  “He doesn’t sleep in the day,” Ingrid said. But then she remembered how she’d gone upstairs and found him sleeping in his plain little bedroom. She knocked harder. “Grampy! Grampy!”

  No answer.

  “Maybe he’s not home,” Joey said.

  Of course. She hurried over to the barn, Joey following. They looked through a window. The tractor and the old Caddy stood in their usual spots, but the pickup wasn’t there. The piglet saw them and came to the front of his pen.

  “Have you got a key to the house?” Joey said.

  “No.”

  “So, um, what do we…” His voice wasn’t quite steady, but that might have been from the cold.

  Ingrid looked at her watch. “We go back to Old Post Road,” she said, “and wait for your dad.” Her voice wasn’t quite steady either. The thermometer on the side of the barn read nineteen degrees. Yes, the cold; that was it.

  Chief Strade knelt beside the body of Harris Thatcher, Ingrid and Joey behind him.

  “Touch anything?” he said.

  “No,” said Joey.

  “When did you find him?”

  Ingrid told him, to the minute.

  The chief took off his glove and touched Harris Thatcher’s neck. His finger looked so red and alive next to Harris Thatcher’s blue skin.