Small as an Elephant (18 page)

“Holy cow,” Wyatt said.

He must be talking on his phone,
Jack thought. Was he talking to Sylvie? He started toward Wyatt, planning to signal that he needed his attention.

“Search his name. See if his grandmother is offering a reward.”

A
reward
? Dang! Was Wyatt going to turn him in? And if he was, would he wait until after they’d arrived in York?
Will he at least let me see the elephant first?

“Right there,” said a soft-spoken woman from somewhere behind him.

Jack looked up. There were round mirrors in the corners of the store. He moved forward until he could see two women behind the counter — one his mom’s age, one a teenager — both staring at the same mirror. Could they see him? Suddenly, whether Wyatt was going to turn him in or not didn’t matter anymore. He’d probably raised enough suspicion already, just standing frozen in the cereal aisle, to get himself caught. Jack casually backtracked to the entrance and bolted out the door.

Once Wyatt discovered he’d fled from the store, he probably wouldn’t be able to resist telling others that Jack was the missing boy. Maybe he hoped they’d still give him the reward, if there even was one.

So, how far
was
York from Warren? Jack wished he’d heard the answer. He must have run a mile when he looked over his shoulder and spotted headlights. He immediately leaped into the brush on the side of the road. The thorny branches scratched his already battered face, and gravel dug into his knees. His finger throbbed worse than ever.

Crouched in that ditch, bruised and battered, Jack was overcome with despair. He was right back to where he was before Wyatt came along: traveling in the dark, hungry, tired, having to jump every time a car came. And, even though he knew he was closer to York, he didn’t know how far he had yet to go. What if it was days?

Maybe he’d been too hasty in bolting. Maybe there was time to catch Wyatt before he started blabbing to the store clerks. He could eat something, try to persuade Wyatt to help him out — to turn him in
after
he got to York, at the very least.

He turned around and jogged back toward the store, still careful to duck out of sight whenever a car approached.

Finally, the convenience store came into view.

Jack’s heart stopped.

A police car was parked outside.

He crouched in the shadow of a tree. It was too late to catch a ride with Wyatt. And he had no way of knowing how far he was from York. What if he just stopped running, just walked right up to the officer and said, “Hey, looking for me?” It would be so much easier. He’d get a hot meal, a shower, a bed. But then what? Would they arrest him for running away, for stealing the elephant and the bike and making everyone in the state of Maine look for him?

And they would have a lot of questions for him — but they wouldn’t be the kind of questions Wyatt had asked. They’d be more along the lines of “Did your mother tell you she was leaving?” and “Has she ever left you before?” The problem with those questions was that he couldn’t answer them truthfully without getting his mother deeper into trouble. He’d be the one sealing both of their fates. Nope, he still wasn’t ready for that.

Next to the store, along a white fence, was a Dumpster. A place to hide. If the police were looking for him, they’d likely check around the store, in the woods, along the road. But it wasn’t likely they’d check inside a Dumpster, was it?

Jack studied the scene carefully. He could see the police officer inside the store, talking to the two women who’d spotted him. There was no sign of Wyatt, though he could see the van parked where they’d left it. He imagined the police officer would be talking to Wyatt next.

There was no one else around. It was now or never.

Jack held his breath and dashed toward the Dumpster, crouching as low as possible. He quickly lifted the lid, hoping that the trash would be contained in plastic garbage bags and that it wouldn’t smell too bad.

Fortunately, the Dumpster had just been emptied. There were loose paper bags, the kind that might hold a sandwich or a pastry, and paper cups with loose-fitting lids, tossed in by customers, but no large garbage bags — and no smell. Jack hoisted himself up and over, being careful of his broken pinky and trying not to make any noise.

The Dumpster was heavy-duty plastic, so he could move around quietly. He took a moment before settling down to look inside the bags. Most were empty, but one held a cruller with a single bite taken out of it. It was stale — he could tell by how crumbly it was — but who was he to be picky? And another contained a half-eaten bag of potato chips. Score! He sat in one of the back corners of the Dumpster, wolfing down the food, and marveled at his brilliance. He was hidden, had something to eat, and could easily peek out the top of the Dumpster to see if Wyatt or the police had left yet.

Flashing lights alerted Jack to the fact that more police cars had arrived. Jack peeked out and saw Wyatt talking to a police officer, who was writing things down, but Jack was too far away to hear what he was saying. Was he lying, saying he hadn’t seen a kid in the store? Or was he telling the police officer everything, including that he, Jack Martel, was determined to get to York’s Wild Kingdom?

If he did manage to make it to the animal park, would the whole State of Maine police force be waiting for him there?

After what seemed like an eternity, Jack watched Wyatt get in his van and head back the way they’d come. Then, one by one, the police cars began to leave. Two headed down Route 1 in the direction that Jack needed to go.

Two remaining police officers, both with coffee cups in hand, began to approach the Dumpster. Jack backed away into one of the far corners and curled himself into the smallest shape possible.

“So, the kid knew nothing?”

“Nope. Apparently he got it in his head that he’d be the one to find the Martel kid tonight. Said he was searching the roads.”

“Does he have information we don’t?”

“I don’t see how he could. I think he just got lucky — happened to pull into the gas station right at the time the Martel kid needed to use the toilet. . . .”

So Wyatt hadn’t told. Maybe he was still holding out for the reward. If so, Jack wondered if Wyatt would come back looking for him later that night. Another reason to stay off the road tonight.

Or maybe Wyatt was doing him a favor. Maybe he wasn’t so different from Sylvie, after all. . . .

One of the officers lifted the lid of the Dumpster, and two cups of lukewarm coffee came splashing down on Jack.

Jack waited awhile longer; then he slipped out of the Dumpster and jumped over the fence to see what was behind the store. There he found an old, turquoise car, the kind of old car that people love to shine up and drive in parades; only this one was missing its tires and had rust around its doors. The backseat proved the perfect place to spend the night. (Even though Jack knew he was probably sharing the seat with a mouse or two.)

He woke just before the sun rose and figured that only truck drivers would be out this early. And truck drivers were mostly from out of state; they probably wouldn’t have heard of him. If he started walking now, he wouldn’t need to do so much walking and hiding at night.

After walking for about an hour, seeing practically nothing but trees (and he was right — only two trucks and one car had passed him), he came to a fork. He had a choice between Route 1 and Old Route 1. He took Old Route 1, figuring it went in the same direction but might have fewer vehicles as it started to get later.

At first, this road, too, was nothing but trees, but after another hour or so had passed, the road began to be at first spotted and then lined with houses. It was obvious he was approaching a town, and he figured he should start looking for a place to hide during daylight. He passed one house with a sign advertising a room for rent (he wished he could borrow it for a day!) and another advertising violin lessons (something he’d never been tempted to try). He kept his eyes out for garages or sheds.

He passed a few houses without any luck. He was just starting to get anxious, when a thought struck: it was Saturday. That might give him another hour of traveling time, since most people tended to stay at home this early on Saturday mornings. Maybe he’d try just getting through this town and seeing what was on the other side.

The sun was warm on his head and shoulders, but not too hot. And the sky was a clear, bright blue. It reminded Jack of fall days when he used to play elephant in the park near his home. He would be romping around, imagining, and the world around him would come into sharper focus . . . and at the same time almost disappear. There was a feeling of joy in those moments, of peace. He felt that way now and walked a little bit taller. He was going to make it to York. He could feel it.

He had just reached the tiny, run-down, and rather deserted town center, another strip of connected brick storefronts, when a black car with a blue stripe — a police cruiser — suddenly pulled up beside him. He should have ducked into a shed when he’d had the chance!

Jack pushed his hand with the broken finger into his pocket and tried to breathe normally.

“Hey, son,” the officer said as Jack tried to walk on by.

Jack glanced up, just enough to see the blue uniform, the badge.

Fear pulsed through his body. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but he didn’t dare; he’d never outrun the cruiser. But he couldn’t ignore the policeman, either. Not without arousing suspicion.

But how would he explain all the scrapes on his face?

“Hello,” he said, turning to face the officer but keeping his head tipped down.

“Do you live here in town?” the officer asked.

“Yes,” Jack said.
Oh, that was brilliant. Obviously, the next question will be, where?
“I have a violin lesson in a half hour,” said Jack. “Just killing time.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your violin teacher’s name?”

“Um, Mrs. —” He banged his head with his left hand and tried to look scatterbrained. “I can’t believe I’m forgetting it. I only started last week. But her house is right down there,” he said, pointing toward the house he’d passed with the violin-lessons sign.

“So, where’s your violin?”

Jack’s palms started sweating. He could tell the officer didn’t believe him. “I’m borrowing one. My parents want to make sure I stick with it before they buy me one.” Which was exactly what his mom
had
said when he begged to take up the trumpet last year.

“Well, why don’t you get in? I’ll drive you to your lesson.”

“That’s OK. It’s not that far,” he said. “Anyway, I wanted to get some breakfast first.”

“OK,” said the officer. “Just wanted to be of help.”

“Thanks, though,” Jack said, figuring that’s what a normal kid would do in this situation. His heart still hammering away, he turned and started to walk toward the nearest store, which appeared to be a drugstore.

“Hey, Jack!” the officer yelled.

Jack turned around. “Yeah?”

And then he realized what he’d done.

He’d fallen for a trick — answered to his own name!

“Thought so,” said the officer calmly. “Get in the car, son. I’ll take you to Moody’s Diner for breakfast — after we radio news to your grandmother.”

The world was collapsing around Jack. He’d come so far. He’d tried so hard! And he’d been so close! But he’d let everyone down — his mother (who would probably go to jail now), and Sylvie, and even Wyatt, who would likely be in big trouble for lying to the police.

Suddenly, he was running, even though he knew it was pointless. He heard the police officer calling after him but didn’t dare stop. He ducked into the drugstore, which seemed to be empty, and ran toward the back, praying there would be a door. There was. He flew through the door and came to a stairwell. Up or down? Down was darker. He raced down the stairs into a dark, crowded basement. Small windows let in just enough light for him to see a door in the back. He ran to the door and searched frantically for the knob. There wasn’t one. Or even a latch.

The door was nailed shut.

He was trapped.

Jack crouched between a broken wheelchair and cardboard boxes full of cartons of cotton swabs. He could hear feet pounding on the old wooden floors above. Voices called out for him: the booming voice of the police officer, and a softer voice — the voice of the pharmacist, Jack guessed.

At one point, the policeman came into the basement and flicked on a dim light. He also used his flashlight — shining it into all the corners. Jack had never remained so still in his entire life. In fact, if he hadn’t felt his heart madly searching for a way to exit his body, he would have sworn he was dead.

“No kid would stay down here very long,” the cop called up.

“I keep meaning to clean it up.”

“Is this your only exit?” asked the policeman, slowly ascending the steps.

“There’s a fire escape at the other end of the building. I’ve got a floor plan in the office I can show you.”

Jack hadn’t seen an office. Had he missed a door? His only hope now was that it would look like he’d gone down that fire escape. But he doubted it would be that simple.