Dangerous Deception (11 page)

“You broke into my house!” I said.

“Quiet! Get in the truck.” He opened the passenger side door and shoved me toward the interior.

As soon as I was in the truck, he slammed the door and ran around the front of the truck to the driver's door. With his attention momentarily off me, I pulled out my phone and selected “create message.” I chose Mom's number, and typed “White truck.” I started to add “help” but I had only typed the “h” and the “e” when the driver's door jerked open and No Help got in.

I thrust my phone in my pocket so he didn't see it. I knew if he caught me texting he would take the phone away, and it might be my only means of getting help. I kept my hand in my pocket. My finger felt along the phone for the Send button and pushed it, hoping Mom would see the text right away and would figure out what I was trying to tell her.

I thought about Waggy, scratching at the glass, trying to come to my aid. How had No Help kept Waggy from biting him when he was robbing our house? Probably he had bribed Waggy with meat or a dog biscuit. Or maybe he simply said, “Good dog,” and friendly old Waggy had licked his hand.

I wondered if No Help had seen Midnight inside my house. If he had, did he recognize Midnight as the cat he had put in the Dumpster? Maybe Waggy's frantic barking and scratching was because he was trying to tell me that someone had hurt Midnight or put him outside.

As we left my neighborhood, No Help kept glancing at the speedometer, and I realized he was staying exactly at the speed limit so he would not get pulled over. His shoulders hunched forward, his face looked tense, and he drummed his fingers nervously on the steering wheel.

I wanted to ask No Help if he had seen my cat but I knew he didn't like cats and I feared it would only make him angry.

I knew Waggy was okay. With any luck, Midnight had recognized the bad person who had thrown him in the Dumpster and had hidden under the bed or in a closet.

Whatever had happened to my pets while No Help robbed us, I knew Mom would soon be home and would take care of them.

But who would take care of me?

A
s Emmy's mother rang up a sale on the cash register in Dunbar's children's department, one of the secretaries from the office approached.

“There's a phone call for you,” Mrs. Lopez said. “The woman says it's urgent.”

Mrs. Rushford waited while her customer signed the charge slip. She put the receipt in the package and handed it over, saying, “Thank you for shopping at Dunbar's.” Then she thanked Mrs. Lopez and hurried toward the phone in the office.

Employees were not supposed to make or receive calls on Dunbar's line, so Mrs. Rushford could not imagine who her caller was. Her friends and family all knew to use her cell phone number, or to leave a message on her home phone.

“Line three,” the office manager said, when Mrs. Rushford arrived.

“Hello?” she said. “This is Mrs. Rushford.”

“It's Mrs. Braider, from next door.”

“Yes?” Mrs. Braider was a busybody who often gossiped to Mrs. Rushford about what went on in the neighborhood, but she had never bothered Mrs. Rushford at work before.

“I'm wondering if you have company,” Mrs. Braider said. “Is there supposed to be a man at your house?”

“No. What's going on?”

“When Emmy got off the school bus, a seedy-looking man was waiting for her. He had been standing on the sidewalk by my house for ten minutes. I didn't like the looks of him, so I watched out my front window. The same man was with her one afternoon several days ago.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. The first time he came he only walked behind her until she went inside, as if he was seeing her safely home. Then he left. This time she talked to him for a while out in front. I couldn't hear what they said, but they appeared to be arguing.”

Mrs. Rushford tried to think who the man might be.

Mrs. Braider continued. “He grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her and marched her around the side of your house into the backyard. I don't know what happened after that. You know I don't usually pry into my neighbors' business, but the situation seemed suspicious to me and I thought I should call you.”

“You did the right thing. Thank you.”

“If you would prune those bushes in your backyard, I would be able to see better and could tell you what happened after they went around the side of your house.”

“Thank you for calling,” Mrs. Rushford said. “I'll call Emmy right now to be sure she's okay.”

She hung up, took her cell phone out of her pocket, and called Emmy. After ringing four times, the call went to voice mail. “This is Mom,” Mrs. Rushford said. “Call me right away.”

Who would Emmy have argued with? Why didn't she answer her phone?

She looked at her watch. Not quite four o'clock. She had another hour to go before her shift ended. She was tempted to take an hour of vacation time and leave early, but by the time she got permission to do that and filled out the necessary paperwork, the hour would be nearly up.

She also hesitated because she knew that Mrs. Braider always imagined the worst in every situation and often exaggerated what she saw. She had called the Rushfords' home many times over the years to warn Mr. and Mrs. Rushford of so-called problems. Once she reported that Emmy had been seen buying a ticket for an R-rated movie when Emmy was merely using the Multiplex Theater's common ticket window to buy a ticket for a new Disney film.

Then there was the time Mrs. Braider called at midnight to warn them that Emmy was sneaking out in her pajamas and going who-knows-where with an older man. That night, Emmy had been on her way to a surprise pajama party where the girls who had been selected for the school's drill team were picked up at their homes and taken to the team captain's house. The “older man” had been Lauren's dad, and the Rushfords had known about the plans ahead of time.

In all the years of Mrs. Braider's calls, there had never been a single time when Emmy was actually doing anything wrong.

Still, Mrs. Rushford could hardly believe all the things her daughter had done recently without her knowledge in an attempt to provide food for a needy family and rescue that family's cat. She hoped Emmy was not involved in some other secret scheme to save the world.

She wondered what Mrs. Braider's definition of a “seedy-looking man” might be. Jim Grayson, from the Garden Club, usually wore jeans with holes in the knees and had his shoulder-length hair pulled back in a ponytail. He had stopped by the house last Saturday to return a book he'd borrowed.

For that matter, Mrs. Rushford's younger brother, Josh, who played guitar in a rock band, favored the punk look and had been known to dye his spiked hair purple. He frequently showed up around dinnertime. No doubt Mrs. Braider would consider both Jim Grayson and Josh seedy-looking. However, neither Josh nor Jim Grayson would ever twist Emmy's arm.

Colleen, the part-time clerk, stuck her head in the office door. “Mrs. Murphy wants to know what's keeping you,” she said. “She's covering your station but she needs to leave for a meeting.”

“Coming,” said Mrs. Rushford. Putting her phone in her pocket, she hurried back to the children's department. Once there, though, she kept worrying about Emmy. It was odd that Emmy had not returned her call immediately. Their agreement was that Emmy could have a cell phone if she always had it turned on so that her parents could reach her any time they tried. Until now, Emmy had kept that bargain.

When there was a lull between customers, Mrs. Rushford decided to call again. That's when she saw that a text from Emmy had just arrived. She opened it, and stared at the screen: White truck he

He?

A feeling of dread crept up the back of Mrs. Rushford's neck. She dialed Emmy's number again. It rang and went to voice mail.

“I have to leave,” she told Colleen. “Something is wrong at home. I'm afraid Emmy might be in trouble.”

She didn't wait for permission from Mrs. Murphy. She didn't bother to punch out on the employee time clock. She didn't even go back to the employee room for her coat. She just grabbed her purse, ran across the parking lot to her car, and headed home.

He. He what? Had Emmy started to identify whoever “he” was? Why had she not finished the text?

Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Rushford drove down the alley and pulled into her garage. She ran to the back door. Although dark clouds hung low overhead, no lights glowed in the house. Waggy barked when she opened the door.

“Emmy?” she called as she turned on the kitchen lights.

Instead of acting all silly as he usually did when someone came home, Waggy whined and panted. He pawed at Mrs. Rushford's pant leg.

“Emmy? Are you here?” Her gaze swept the kitchen. Something seemed different. Something was wrong. She realized that the microwave was gone.

She ran into the family room. The desk top where the computer usually sat was empty. The TV was missing, too.

Trying not to panic, Mrs. Rushford called 911.

“My daughter is missing!” she said. “Someone broke into my house, and Emmy isn't here.”

She gave her name and address, as well as Emmy's name and description.

She answered several questions. “The TV is gone, and our computer and our microwave. My neighbor saw Emmy talking to a man who was waiting when she got off the school bus. They argued and the man grabbed her arm and took her into the backyard.” Mrs. Rushford started to cry, struggled for control, and continued. “My dog is acting spooked.” She stretched one hand down to pat Waggy.

She was told not to touch anything until the police arrived. “Please hurry,” she pleaded. “I think Emmy has been abducted.”

When she finished the call to the police, she called her husband.

“I'll be on the first flight home,” he said.

Mrs. Rushford fervently wished he had been working in his home office this week, rather than in Colorado. It would be hours before he could get home. He might not arrive until the next morning.

She called Mrs. Braider and asked her to come over. When she explained the situation, Mrs. Braider said, “I knew it! I knew that man was no good the minute I laid eyes on him. I said to myself, I said, Emmy is asking for trouble keeping company with him.”

Mrs. Rushford wanted to deny that Emmy was “keeping company” with whoever had been there, but she didn't want to argue with Mrs. Braider. “I'm sure the police will want to question you,” she said.

Next she called Lauren and asked if she knew where Emmy was. “She isn't here,” Lauren said. “She took the school bus home, like she always does.”

By then Mrs. Rushford's hands were shaking so much she could barely hold the phone. She hung up, dropped to her knees, and buried her face in Waggy's fur.

“What happened, Waggy?” she whispered. “Who was in our house?”

A
s I rode through Cedar Hill with No Help, worries bounced around my mind like Ping-Pong balls while I tried to figure out how to save myself.

“White truck” was not a good enough description. I needed to get the license plate number, and text it to Mom. As soon as I got out of the truck, I would look at the license plate and memorize the number.

My phone rang again as No Help drove across town. Although I knew from the news broadcast that his real name was Donald Zummer, I still thought of him as No Help.

I hoped the caller was Mom. If she used her phone, she would see the text I had sent. Of course, the person calling might also be Lauren or Uncle Josh or any one of a dozen other people who often called me.

“Ignore it,” he said.

About fifteen minutes later, it rang again.

“Turn the phone off,” he said, “and give it to me.”

“It'll be my mom. If I don't answer, she'll know something is wrong, and she'll call the police.”

“No, she won't. Not yet.”

I should have set the phone on vibrate so he didn't hear it ringing. Too late now. Reluctantly, I punched End and handed him my phone, knowing he was right. Mom would worry if I didn't answer or return her call, but she would assume I'd forgotten to turn my phone on when school got out, or had let the battery run down. She wouldn't call the police until she got home and discovered that our house had been burglarized.

I wondered if he really had a gun or if he had been bluffing. I had not seen a gun. If he wasn't armed, I might be able to get away. I could run for it as soon as he stopped the truck. But how did I know for sure? If I took a chance that he had been lying and he actually had a gun, I felt sure he would use it.

Soon I recognized the street we were on. He was taking me to his apartment. If I could get away from him long enough to pound on Mrs. Spangler's door, Mrs. Spangler would let me in. I thought about Mrs. Spangler, moving slowly with her walker. What if she didn't get to the door in time? I didn't know who lived in the other first-floor apartment, but maybe I should go there instead.

The truck passed a young couple pushing a baby stroller. I longed to roll down my window and scream, “Help!” but I feared his reaction. I wished I knew whether he really had a gun.

When we got to Sophie's apartment building, he drove the truck up across the curb, over the grass, and stopped beside the front door.

“You are going to sit right where you are while I unload this stuff,” he said. “Don't bother yelling because nobody will hear you. The apartment next to me is empty and the old woman who lives downstairs is deaf as a fence post.”

I didn't say anything. I planned to wait until he was partway up the stairs with the TV or the computer console in his arms. Then I would jump out of the truck and run. With him inside the building, I wouldn't be able to go to Mrs. Spangler's apartment or to the other one on the first floor, but I could run between Sophie's building and the next one. I could hide behind the Dumpster, or I could keep running until I flagged down a passing car on the next street over, and got help.

He opened the front door, and propped it open with a rock that was in the back of the truck. Obviously, he had done this before.

He stepped inside and briefly stood by the door to apartment 2, across from Mrs. Spangler. What was he doing? Maybe he was listening to make sure no one was at home who might hear him carrying the goods up the stairs.

He hurried back to the truck, watching me the whole time, and put the tailgate down. When he picked up the microwave, I positioned my hand on the door handle, ready to open it as soon as he got to the top of the stairs.

He carried the microwave inside, glancing back over his shoulder at me every few feet. To my surprise, he did not go up the stairs. Instead, he turned left and went into apartment 2! I realized he had not been listening to see if anyone was home in apartment 2. He had been unlocking the door.

No Help must rent two apartments in this building. I wondered if the police knew that. Had they searched the second apartment or was it still full of stolen goods?

He quickly set the microwave inside and returned to the truck, then carried in the TV and the other items, looking back at me every few seconds. He was never more than a few feet from the truck, and he was aware of me the whole time. If I jumped out of the truck and ran, he would be after me immediately.

When he finished unloading the truck, he closed the tailgate and opened the door next to me. “You're next,” he said.

As I slid slowly out of the truck, I stared at his pockets, trying to tell if one of them looked lumpy enough to contain a handgun. I couldn't be sure. I could tell his pockets weren't empty, but people carry many items in their pockets: keys, candy bars, gloves, money. I knew for sure my cell phone was in one pocket. I wanted to scream for help, but I didn't dare. What if one of the bulges in his pocket was a gun?

He reached behind the seat of the truck, removed a coil of white rope, and looped it over his arm. I did not want to think about how he intended to use it.

As we passed the front of the truck, I read the license plate number. The number would be important information to give to the police if I got away. No, I thought. Not if I got away; when I get away.

A43883J

I repeated it to myself, and made up tricks to help remember it. A is the first letter of the alphabet. Dad is forty-three years old. There are eighty-eight notes on a piano. Three. I couldn't think of anything special for three but J could be for the blue jays that my grandma sees at her bird feeder. I visualized three blue jays.

Mentally I went through the list: A to start the alphabet, Dad's age is forty-three, eighty-eight piano keys, and three blue jays. A-43-88-3J.

We went into the building, and he pointed for me to go up the stairs. In my head I screamed, Mrs. Spangler! Help! Open your door and see what's happening! Call the police!

Mrs. Spangler couldn't hear my thoughts.

He followed me upstairs to the apartment I'd photographed. We went inside. The room contained only a card table and two folding chairs, an air mattress and sleeping bag on the floor, and a couple of empty pizza boxes. A laptop computer sat on the card table.

“Sit here,” he said.

I sat on a folding chair.

“Put your hands behind you.”

I obeyed.

He wrapped the rope around my wrists, binding them together and then tying them to the chair. Next he tied each of my feet to a chair leg.

“You're going to sit here while I move my truck,” he said.

I heard him run down the stairs, heard the truck door close, heard the engine start. I wiggled my hands, trying to loosen the rope, but I only chafed my wrists.

“Help!” I screamed. “Mrs. Spangler! Help!”

I heard nothing from the apartment below me.

I tried to make the chair slide forward toward the door, thinking if I yelled out the open door Mrs. Spangler might be able to hear me, but the chair didn't move. However, I discovered that I could push with my feet and make the chair slide backward, toward the window. I tried to make the chair slide sideways and turn gradually, so that when I pushed, it would go toward the door. I had turned only a couple of feet when I saw an open pizza box on the floor. There were still two pieces of pizza in it. A small green jackknife lay beside them.

The knife was open. Pizza sauce covered the two-inch long blade, but it looked sharp enough to cut through the rope.

I backed the chair until my hands were above the box. Then I leaned sideways until the chair toppled over. A sharp pain jolted my shoulder when I hit the floor. I waited until it subsided before I moved my hands.

My fingers felt frantically across the box. I touched cardboard. Tomato sauce stuck to my fingertips, but I didn't feel the knife. I tried to make the chair move again by shifting my shoulders, but without having my feet on the floor, I couldn't get any traction.

I heard a faint sound from outside. The truck door slamming shut? The front door closing?

The side of one leg touched the floor. When I pressed that leg down as hard as I could, the chair slid far enough that my fingertips hit metal.

I strained to pull the knife toward the palm of my hand, but just as I grasped it, I heard his footsteps running back up the stairs, and I knew it was too late. Even if I could somehow pull the blade across the rope without also cutting myself, I didn't have enough time to cut through the rope.

I closed my fingers around the knife's handle, hoping he wouldn't notice that I had it.

He came into the room, stopped, and stared at me. He closed the door behind him, and then walked over to where I lay helplessly on my side, still tied to the chair. He put both hands on my shoulders and lifted my chair until it was upright again. I gritted my teeth from pain when his hand gripped the shoulder that had landed on the floor, but I managed not to cry out. I didn't want him to know I'd been injured.

He frowned at the empty box. Then he looked behind me at my hands, and his expression changed as he saw the knife and realized what I had done. He slowly shook his head.

“That was a bad idea,” he said as he pried open my fingers and took the knife away from me. He wiped the blade on his pant leg to remove any traces of pizza, folded up the knife, and put it in his pants pocket.

He sat backward on the other chair with his hands crossed on the chair back, leaning toward me. “Okay,” he said. “Tell me about your deal with Max.”

“I told you, I don't know anyone named Max,” I said. “There is no deal.”

“Then why did the cops come poking around here with a search warrant?”

“How would I know? The only times I came here were to bring food to Sophie and to look for her cat. After she moved, I had no reason to return.”

He appeared to be thinking about what I'd said.

“Maybe you should be asking Max your questions, instead of asking me,” I said. “It sounds to me as if you've been double-crossed.”

“I think you're lying. It's too much of a coincidence that I catch you looking in my apartment and then the cops show up, asking questions.”

“When did the cops come?” I asked.

“Wednesday.”

“I haven't been here since last week. If I had seen something suspicious and gone to the police, don't you think they would have investigated sooner?”

He did not reply.

“So is Max the only other person who's seen your apartment?” I asked. “No other visitors?”

He slapped his hand on the card table, making me jump. “Gunther!” he exclaimed. “The last time Max was here, his kid brother, Gunther, was with him. He asked a bunch of questions about how much things were worth, and I got mad and told him to wait for his brother outside.”

No Help stood and began pacing around the room. “Gunther turned me in,” he said. “That little toad! He probably thinks he'll become Max's new partner. Oh, he is going to be sorry he did that. He is going to be very, very sorry!”

For a second I thought, Poor Gunther. I've sicced No Help on him and he won't know why. Then I remembered that Gunther knew about Max and No Help's burglaries and had apparently done nothing to stop them.

“Now that you know it wasn't me,” I said, “can you please untie me and let me leave? My mother will be home from work by now and she'll be worried.”

He stopped pacing and looked at me as if he had never seen me before. “You,” he said. “What am I going to do about you?”

“You don't have to do anything about me. You don't even need to drive me home; I know where to catch the bus.”

“I can't let you go home. You'll call the cops the second you're out of here.”

“No, I won't. You have my phone.”

“There are people with cell phones everywhere.” He began pacing again. “I might get off with community service and a fine on the burglary charge but not for this. Not for taking a kid.”

“I won't tell anyone about you.”

“And I'm the next president of the United States.”

“The longer you keep me, the worse it will be when they catch you,” I said.

“They aren't going to catch me. It's time for me to get out of this dump.”

He looked out the window and spoke as if he were talking to himself. “I'll pawn everything, keep all the money, and hit the road. By the time Max realizes I'm gone, I'll be in another state.”

He unplugged the laptop and closed it. He glanced around the room and then started for the door.

“What about me?” I asked.

“You're staying here.”

“You can't leave me here,” I said.

“Max will find you when he comes looking for me.”

I wondered how long that would be. Days? Weeks?

“I could starve to death before I'm found. Then you'd be wanted for murder.”

“It doesn't matter what I'm wanted for because they won't find me.”