She Page 10

  Brandon had looked confused, and began scratching at the short stubble on his head. “What do you mean? I thought we were gonna go shop-”

  “I thought so too,” Michael had cut him off. “But I just thought a minute ago that we should ask the police some things.”

  “What sort?”

  “Well, your stories-”

  “They weren’t stories,” Brandon had interrupted. He had not looked angry, just determined. At their age, the word stories meant false and pretend. They had not been either.

  “Sorry, sorry. Your memories got me thinking about that lady, and especially the diary you found.”

  Brandon had corrected him again. “Notebook. I wish it woulda been a diary instead, not a bunch of words and sentences and that picture.”

  “Okay, notebook. Anyways, I was wondering if maybe she’d tried to do it before to somebody else. It just seems too... Well, she seems too good.”

  “Good? You wanna call her good?”

  Michael had thrown his hands up and tried to calm Brandon, who had a flash of anger electrocute his face. “No, no; I’m sorry. Not like that. But you have to admit, it seems…”

  “Professional?”

  “Yeah, professional. If this was the first time for her, don’t you think it’d be sloppy? I’m guessing you think the last page of the notebook was written by her?”

  Brandon had nodded. “Maybe the whole thing.”

  Michael had seriously doubted that she had written everything, but did not dare tell his friend. Something sinister and abnormal had been going on with Grace, but it was no surprise Brandon refused to accept that. It would mean he had failed to notice a change -or changes- in his sister. Everything would be his fault somewhat because of it. Michael could never blame him for that. He would have been at fault himself.

  “If she did write any of the notebook, and stalked your house for some time, and then eventually got the girls to somehow follow her,” -it hurt to admit it, but there was no other alternative- “she has to have some experience.”

  “She took others? How would we find out?”

  “The police station. They keep records on everything; I’ve seen it on television and in stories. Maybe someone will help us if we say who we are.”

  “And who are we exactly?”

  Michael had looked at him for a moment, before deciding what to answer. “We’re brothers. And we’re going to get the sisters back.”

  With that, they had begun walking down the street and towards the police station. Everyone knew where it was, even people from Hardy, so in about fifteen minutes they had arrived at the parking lot, which formed a rough square around the low building with high importance. What Michael had not told him was that he remembered somebody telling him to come here, he could not remember who, though. It was on that night, that dreadful night.

  Now here they were, on the brink of possible revelations and certainly help towards their cause. Michael pushed open one of the glass doors, and they walked inside, met by the thunderous chaos of a police department overloaded with cases of miniscule importance, problems that seemed like chores and hundred-word sidenotes on the edge of a newspaper’s back page.

  No, even the back page was too good; if you dropped the collection of folded sheets and the wind caught it, the story would then appear to the sky, with the front page collecting gutter-spit that had fallen on the ground. These stories ended up either unheard of, unspoken of, or perhaps just tucked inside the last page, where nobody ever turned except to read a daily horoscope or the “Ask Jenna” section where people wrote about their problems and expected a life-shattering, mind-blowing answer.

  Bustling around, with loads of papers, folders, and cuts from both, the “cabinet conquistadors” ran to and fro with arms tired and hands aching. Some of the higher-up detectives had named them the “cabinet conquistadors” as a derogatory joke, and although nobody knew why, the victims had taken it as a sign of honor, even making professional badges with CC’s on them to wear as partners to their police badges. Although they were proud to be called things like “paperboys” and “feces filers,” nobody remembered the actual title of their lowly, painstaking job, and the handful who had rose to become detectives, without quitting first, still mocked and joked alongside the others. It was a strange relationship, like a mix between free enterprise and the feudal system, but all involved saw no harm in it.

  At the desks, detectives either worked extremely hard or sat reclining, chitchatting about the latest sports’ news or political issues. Only a few women worked at the department, although it seemed they were the hardest working, except for the paperboys. While folders did not surround them, and fewer cases were given to them, those that were ended up handled the best, and were always finished with a nice ribbon, wrapped up tidily like a gift on Christmas. Any smart chief of police would notice this and give more cases to the women detectives, but he was a bit prejudice against them. His ex-wife had tarnished his view of women, and that mistaken perspective remained to this day. The mayor only kept him in that office because they were old pals from college and it boosted both of their reputations.

  “Sir?” Michael asked, walking up to the front desk. This man looked official, if a bit young, and hopefully would ask a detective to come speak with them. If only he could get the man’s attention; he seemed to be preoccupied with something. “Sir?”

  “What, kid?” the young man asked gruffly. A goatee was fully formed on his chin, although he seemed to be thickening it more. He had no apparent desire to tame what looked like a large rodent wrapped around his lower face, fuzzy hairs strewn all around.

  “We wanted to talk with a detective,” Michael answered confidently, although Brandon looked unsure of himself. What he wanted most was to run away through the glass doors.

  “What makes you think you can do that?”

  “This is a police station, right? I wanna see a policeman.” Michael peered around in confusion. This was not how he imagined his visit starting.

  “Why?”

  “None of your business.” Michael felt surprisingly irritated. He just wanted to talk to a detective and find his sister. This jerk was getting in the way.

  “Let us through, dude,” Brandon said, stepping up with that familiar anger so obvious on his face. “We need help.”

  The man smirked and answered, “Yeah, I’ve heard puberty’s bad for you geeks.”

  “Not that kind of help, you-”

  Michael glared at Brandon, silencing him. A simple argument was one thing, but when Brandon got mad things could turn ugly in a hurry. This police station was not the place to fight.

  Turning back to the arrogant smile behind a desk, Michael said, “Come on, man. Just let us through. Or get somebody to help us.”

  “What you need,” he said, “is a doctor.” He smirked, looking down at his desk. “I’ve heard there’s a good one down the street.” Brandon opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. The man glanced up and smiled wider. “You’ve got the pasties or something, kid? I’m sure the doctor’s office got some water. Or do you need your mommy to help you cross the street and walk there?”

  “You think you’re all that and a bag of chips, don’t you?” Brandon was taking over Michael’s conversation, despite his attempts to calm the raging teenager. Some inexplicable fury illuminated his eyes like a fire spreading and streaming out of his mouth.

  “Listen, kid, you really wanna talk to someone? I guess I can go get one of ‘em.” Michael smiled to himself and nudged Brandon in the side. Somehow, the argument just ended abruptly and now they were going to get answers. This was one step in the right direction. “Psyche!”

  The man sprawled back in his chair, laughing at the comical wittiness he had displayed. Pointing a finger at the two furious teenagers, he cracked up so hard that no words were able to escape from his rotting mouth-full of teeth and spittle.

  “I’m not joking. Let us through, dude!” snarled Brandon.

  The man
’s laughter interrupted again, and he managed to choke out two words. “As if!”

  Brandon stepped forward, one fist clenched by his side, ready to swing. Even if it was a police station and he would get in trouble, or possibly arrested, that did not matter. This dumb-headed fart-knocker thought he had some actual authority in this place. Well, Brandon decided it was high time to rearrange his teeth, maybe pop a few out.

  “Let’s go, man,” Michael pleaded, reaching for Brandon’s slowly rising arm. Although disappointed as well, ending up in jail would do them no good. Lilly and Grace could not be rescued from behind bars.

  “Yeah, listen to your boyfriend. Step off.”

  Brandon turned hurriedly away from the desk, fists still clenched together in the shape of wrecking balls. A burst of anger was beginning to well up inside of Michael also, but he contained it and just wanted to leave. A milkshake or something similar would do Brandon good, at least to stop him from fighting the first jock they saw.

  Walking so fast and entwined in thoughts, Michael slipped on a puddle someone had left behind. His feet slid out from under him, and his body went crashing to the ground. A sharp pain surged through his left hip, and he knew it would be bruised in a day or two.

  “Have a nice trip,” the man cackled. “See you next fall!” Brandon glared, wanting with every fiber to punch that no-good in the jaw. “Oh boy, oh boy am I rollin’ today!”

  Michael looked up and reached for a hand that was floating just in front of his forehead. When he stood straight once again, he found himself staring at a policeman.

  This man, however, was decked out in a tidy, blue uniform with a badge protruding from his well-built chest. In one hand he held a half-eaten burger, while the other pointed towards the front desk where Brandon was still boring holes with his eyes like a drill.

  “He messing with you?”

  Michael stood shocked, unsure of what to say. This could be the break he was waiting for, although this man seemed too official and busy to take time out and talk to him. Sure, the case was important, but did he know that? Chances are not.

  “It’s fine. He’s just-”

  “-making me wanna kill him,” Brandon finished. Michael cringed, but looked up and saw the man smiling.

  “Killing’s a crime, sorry to say. Otherwise I just might let you.” Walking over to the desk, he gazed directly into the man’s eyes. Beneath his unwavering stare, the goatee-wearing, trembling man faltered and choked out meaningless sounds. “You messing with them? Pulling some of your funny business?”

  “No, sir; you’ve got it wrong. I was just-”

  “Don’t you lie to me,” the policeman snapped. “I’m tired of all the stuff you try to pull on kids coming in here. This is not the day to mess with me, Phil. Get your crap together or I’ll make sure you don’t work here anymore.”

  Shaking his head vigorously and sinking in the chair, he said, “My bad; my bad, sir. I was just murking around, sir.”

  Turning in the direction of the boys, he called back, “Two things, Phil. Stop with the catchphrases; you’re not in high school. And stop calling me sir.”

  With that, he turned and motioned to the teenagers. Michael and Brandon stood dumbfounded before quickly awakening as if from a trance and scurrying along behind him. They were headed towards the doors, apparently out of the building. Both wondered where they were going, but neither had any idea.

  “The name’s Detective Daniel Smith. Call me Detective or Smith.”

  “Why not Daniel?” Brandon asked while he led them to a bench not far from the station.

  Ignoring him, Michael stood while the other two sat and said, “I recognize you. You were there when-”

  “When your sister was taken, yes. I was there, and I believe the same thing you do: that the two are connected, and someone is behind it.”

  “How do you know we think that?” Michael asked. Even though he wanted to talk to a policeman, this detective made him nervous and anxious. He knew more than he should, and commanded some kind of mysterious authority, which was apparent back at the station. Was every policeman like that?

  “I’m a detective, kid. I can figure things out. Like why else would you two come down here? You don’t go to the police without parents unless you wanna talk to someone. And you don’t talk to someone and hide it from your parents for just any missing person’s case, so you think they’re kidnapped.”

  Both boys looked anxious and wary, but felt impressed. This Detective Smith character looked too young for being so intelligent, which gave them both chills. The serious look on his face, coupled with a grizzled jaw where he fought against dark stubbles, made him appear menacing and dangerous. There was no doubt in the teenager’s minds that this detective could do much more than investigate.

  “Fair enough,” Michael finally said, breaking the silence. “But what do you want?”

  “No; what do you want? You two are the ones that came down here.”

  They looked at each other briefly, wondering who would speak up. There was no question about it, though. Only Michael knew why they had come, and only he had the words to say.

  “Brandon -that’s my friend here- found some things that make him think the lady, or the kidnapper to you, has done it before. There was a diary with her writing and she had been watching the house for a week or two before everything happened. I wanted to ask around and see if anything like this had happened before. I saw on a program that you all keep papers with all the notes and facts and stuff.”

  “You mean the case files? Well, yeah, we got ‘em, but some teenage boy can’t see ‘em, right? You’ve been watching too much of that program.” Detective Smith chuckled to himself and looked at the cars trucking by, people strolling down the sidewalk, some with bags of goodies, and all the boring, typical buildings. Not too long earlier that day, he had seen a lady on that sidewalk. Was it just his imagination, or could this “kidnapper” be a stalker as well? He did not know, but was determined to find out. It could mean the difference between life and death.

  “Is there anything you can do to help us, though?” Brandon asked. Michael’s features appeared downcast and once again disappointed in the situation. Maybe all policemen were unwilling to help if you are just a teenager.

  “Hold on,” Detective Smith said. “I was getting there. Just because you two can’t look in the files, doesn’t mean I can’t.”

  “Why would you do that for us?” Brandon blinked at the sudden change of tone.

  “I want to help you two. I know how you feel.” Before they could comment, Detective Smith continued, “If I look at the files, can I meet one of you and explain what I found?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Brandon answered.

  “What about the diary? It’d help if I can get a look at it. For clues, and such.”

  Brandon looked thoughtful. “Yeah, I suppose. I’ll give it to you as soon as I can.”

  “How could you know how I feel?” Michael asked, ignoring the answer. “You’re not me.”

  “I had a little sister. Something happ- ... Never mind. What’s your phone number?”

  Michael stared at him distrustfully, but wrote his home phone number on a small slip of paper Brandon handed to him. Only his mom would ever let him receive calls without knowing who the caller was; Brandon’s parents were much more strict about it.

  “What happened to your sister?” Michael asked, handing the digits to Detective Smith.

  At that moment, Mrs. Gray pulled up in her car, motioning to the two boys, slightly furrowing her brows in worry. Who is that policeman?

  As the vehicle drove away about five minutes later, Detective Smith thought, What a strange case this is turning out to be. Someday, this will be quite a story... quite a story indeed...

  15. Alarms

  Everything was dark in the house. Silence rose as the gigantic sphere of sunlight began to sink, hiding below the rows of corn. The tips of it were just visible, but sinking lower every moment. Michael’s mom was asl
eep in her room, as she normally was, and he sat with Gameboy in hand, having trouble concentrating enough to get past Donkey Kong. More dangerous problems were creeping nearer, though, in the darkness behind him as he sat unaware in the kitchen.

  Like icy knives, they grew closer every moment, preparing to launch an assault and change his life forever. They lurked around the corner, waited just underneath the rug, burrowed its way through the pillow under his head; so many ways they could get to him. Every second could be the last one, and although his mind had trouble nailing the cause, his heart knew exactly what created the uneasiness. Only a few more moments now…

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  Michael jumped in his chair, standing up and facing around before realizing it was only the phone. With a sigh, he shoved the console into his pocket and trudged over towards the blasting, annoying noise.

  “Will you get that freaking-”

  “Got it, Mom,” Michael called out. She was in a terrible mood today, but that was becoming more common every time she woke up.

  Finally ending the noise, he took it off the receiver and stated, “Walker family. Who is this?”

  A familiar voice answered, “Michael. I was hoping you’d pick up.”

  “Detective Daniel? I didn’t realize you’d call so soon.”

  “It’s either Detective or Smith, or a combination of the two; I don’t go by Daniel. And yesterday I told you I’d look into the files; I was up all night with them, and I’ve got something.”

  “Well, spill it.”

  After a pause, Detective Smith said, “No, not now. When can you meet me?”

  “Um, I don’t know. I live in Hardy, which is like-”

  “I mean in Marcy; when can you meet me here?”

  “Well, my mom is going shopping tomorrow,” Michael answered. “She doesn’t want to, but I’ll starve if she doesn’t; I’m the only thing she worries about now. Not herself, not-”

  “Okay, okay. Sorry to cut you off, but I got to go now.” Detective Smith sounded hurried, and not at all sorry. He coughed for a few seconds, sounding awfully sick, before finishing, “Tomorrow, meet me at the diner near the creek. I’m sure you know where it is. I’ll be there.”