Don't Scream (9780307823526) (11 page)

I couldn't believe it could be Mark or his parents, the new neighbors, and even though Scott hated cats, what reason would he have for hurting the cats? No sane person would do it.

I shuddered, pulling the covers up around my ears. The person who had done this had to be mentally ill.

At the breakfast table I told Mom and Dad that Pepper had disappeared. I could see they were very upset, but they obviously wanted to reassure me.

“Remember the toolshed?” they said almost in unison.

“He's probably trapped somewhere and will show up in a few hours, hungry and complaining,” Dad told me.

Mom gulped down her coffee and said, “We'll hunt for Pepper, Jessie. I'll finish getting dressed, and we'll start right now.” She paused as she pushed back her chair. “It's odd, isn't it, how Peaches vanished one day, then Pepper the next? That seems like too much of a coincidence. I don't understand it.”

Dad frowned and said, “Somewhere I read about stealing animals to sell to laboratories, but surely nothing like that would go on in our community.”

“Don't talk like that, Phil!” Mom said, and threw a glance in my direction.

“It's okay,” I said. “I thought about it, too.”

Mom patted my hand, then squeezed it. “Well, it didn't happen to Pepper. We'll find your cat, Jessie. He's going to be all right.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, because she looked as
miserable as I felt. I couldn't bring myself to tell her about the can of tuna—the clue that Pepper was never coming back.

When Mark came by to walk with me to school, he didn't mention Pepper, and I was glad. I guess we both knew the tears might start again.

But Mark told Lori, who gave me a quick hug. “Remember when Pepper was stuck in somebody's toolshed?” she asked. “I bet he'll come home sometime today.”

“I hope so,” I said. I had to keep the knowledge about the tuna can to myself.

Scott seemed upset by the news. He tried to hide his feelings, but I could see them, and they puzzled me. “I'm sorry, Jess,” he told me, but it wasn't sorrow I saw in his eyes before he looked away. For an instant I thought it was fear.

I managed to get through most of the day by deliberately banishing Pepper from my thoughts and concentrating hard on what was going on in each class. The only bright spot was that when I tacked up my volunteer chart in social problems class, a lot of the kids signed up.

In journalism class Mr. Clark first handed back the papers and then went over the headlines we had written. I'd been given a B plus, and he'd written a note to tell me my third headline was “right on the button.” That should have made me feel great, but my brain felt like a big, blank hole. I couldn't feel a thing.

I automatically took notes as Mr. Clark continued with his list of places where we could find public information about people.

It was boring until Robin asked, “Does anyone
really
use all this stuff to find out about people?”

“They do, or I wouldn't be giving it to you,” Mr. Clark answered.

“Yeah, well, like, I mean not just for a test, but for real?”

Mr. Clark screwed up his forehead and rubbed his nose. I figured he was trying to keep his patience. Finally he said, “Journalists use these sources to gain information, Robin. So do private investigators.”

“Private eyes?” Robin said. “Cool!”

“How about computer checks?” Eric asked. “Isn't it about time to go over all the things we can find out through computers?”

“We'll touch on information we can get through computers,” Mr. Clark said, but then he returned to the point that Robin had asked about. “Do you understand the importance of being able to discover information about anyone in order to write an accurate, factual story?”

Robin nodded.

“I'm going to make this an extra-credit assignment,” he said. “For your own interest, those of you who want to can pick a well-known person and try some of these sources. See what you can come up with.”

Mr. Clark went on—but without me this time, because my mind was shooting off ideas like firecrackers.
Okay, Scott Alexander
, I thought,
I'm going to see exactly how much I can find out about
you
!

* * *

A
FTER
SCHOOL
I hung around, talking to some of the kids, until I saw Lori leave with Scott. They were heading for Lori's house. That gave me the chance to follow Mr. Clark's list from the beginning. First I'd talk to Scott's aunt or to their neighbors. I headed toward the Heritage Place Apartments on Dale Street.

The building was a huge, brick-veneered complex that sprawled over an entire block. I opened one of the double doors that led into a small lobby, which was decorated in a muddy brown and yellow beige, and knocked on the door labeled Manager.

An orange-haired woman opened the door. “Yeah?” she asked, without really looking at me, and took a long swallow from a can of diet soda.

“I came to see a friend of mine, but I don't know the apartment number,” I said.

“What's the name?”

“His name is Scott Alexander.”

She shrugged. “Don't have to look it up. We haven't got any Alexanders registered here.”

As she began to close the door, I called, “Wait! Please! Don't you remember a woman renting an apartment for herself and her nephew? It was probably just a couple of weeks ago. Her name is Edna Turner.”

For the first time she looked at me. “This Scott Alexander. Is he about your age?”

“Yes,” I said. “He's tall and blond. Probably seventeen.”

She nodded. “Sure,” she said. “I remember the kid, but his aunt's a blank. He brought in the
check for the first and last month's payment. He said she was sick or something.”

“Her name would be on the lease, wouldn't it?” I asked.

She yawned and burped at the same time. She rubbed the back of one arm across her mouth and frowned. “I'd have to look it up.”

“Could you? Please? Please?”

“What's the difference what his aunt's name is, if I give you his apartment number?”

I couldn't think of a single good reason. “It's very important to me,” I said, hoping that would be enough.

The woman looked at her watch. “Okay.
Oprah
won't be on for another twenty minutes, and I got nothing much else to do. Come on into the office.”

It took only a minute for her to pull out a large bound record book and look up the lease. “Edna Turner is her name, all right,” she said, “and I was wrong. They didn't pay by check. It was a money order.”

Her lips twisted into a smile. “Kind of like him, do you? Want his phone number? Better look it up under Turner.”

“It's not like that,” I said.

“Oh, sure,” she answered. She drained the last of her soft drink, patted her stomach, and burped. “Sorry,” she said, “but a good belch makes me feel better. There's lots of stress on this job.”

“Does the lease give any other information? Like where Mrs. Turner and Scott came from?” I asked.

“Nope. We don't require references.”

I studied the book, trying to read upside down, and thought about some of the things Mr. Clark had told us. “Don't you ask for the names of your tenants' banks? Or where they work? Or Social Security numbers?”

“Why should I tell you all that? What business is it of yours?”

“None, I guess,” I admitted. “It's just important for me to know.”

“Not in my book,” she said, and tucked the large volume into one of her desk drawers.

“You didn't tell me Scott's apartment number,” I said.

“Two hundred and ninety-six, Building C,” she said. “Go out the glass doors on the far side of the lobby and turn right. Building C is between the swimming pool and the side street. Two ninety-six is on the second floor.”

“Thank you,” I said, and got up to leave. She didn't have to give me the rest of the information I wanted. I'd been able to read it upside down. The bank listed was the one where Mom worked, and Edna Turner's place of employment was Spradler's Drugstore.

Scott had told us his aunt was looking for work, so maybe her job at Spradler's had just been a temporary one.

The apartment manager didn't move, so I let myself out of the office and closed the door behind me. I followed her directions to Building C. I took a look at the carport and saw an old, dark maroon
sedan parked in the space numbered 296. So Scott's aunt was home. Good. I climbed the stairs, walked down the outside, open hallway, and easily found the right apartment.

I knocked, but no one answered. The drapes were drawn across the double window, except for a foot near the bottom where they hung crookedly apart. I was too curious to ignore the crack. I crouched down, cupped my hands around my face to peek inside, then nearly fell back in shock.

The room was bare, except for one old beanbag chair and a small portable television set. A phone lay on the floor next to some dirty plates and a mug. That was it. No other furniture. This was where Scott and his aunt lived?

The door of the apartment next door opened, and an elderly man stepped into the doorway. He tugged at the threadbare sleeves of his faded plaid shirt as he asked, “Are you looking for someone, young lady?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. I got to my feet, embarrassed. “I'm a friend of Scott Alexander. I knocked, but no one answered, so I was checking to see if Scott or his aunt was home.”

“If they don't answer, it means they're not home. I don't hold with peeking through people's windows.”

My face grew warm. “You're right. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry.”

He began to close the door, but I couldn't let him. He was next on Mr. Clark's list: Ask a neighbor.
I said, “Please don't leave. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you some questions about Scott and Mrs. Turner.”

“Who?”

“The people who live in this apartment. Can you tell me about them?”

“You don't look like a bill collector. What's your reason for wanting to know?”

I smiled. “I'm not a bill collector. I'm in high school, and I'm taking a journalism class. Scott is a friend of mine, so I'm using him as a subject for a homework assignment.”

“Homework, huh?” he said, and chuckled. “Okay, what's your question?”

“Has Scott or Mrs. Turner ever told you where they came from? Have they talked at all about why they moved to Oakberry?”

“Who's this Mrs. Turner you keep talking about?”

“Scott's aunt. She lives here with him.”

The man pursed his lips as he thought and shook his head. “Never seen her.”

“But you must have heard her—maybe the sound of her voice in the next apartment, talking to Scott?”

“Nope.”

“But she rented the apartment,” I said.

“Makes no difference. I still haven't met the lady.”

And neither has the office manager.
I was getting more and more puzzled.

“Have you talked to Scott?”

“Oh, sure. Nice boy. We say an occasional
howdy to each other as he's coming and going from school. Once he came by to use my phone before the phone company got around to hookin' his up.”

“Do you know who he called?”

He raised one eyebrow. “You're a mighty nosy young lady.”

“Journalism assignment.” I smiled, but he didn't smile back.

“Whyn't you ask Scott your questions?” he said. “Far as I can see, reporters go right to the source.”

“He's pretty modest about himself, so I hoped you could tell me something about him,” I said. “Thanks for talking to me.”

“Don't mention it.”

The suspicion that had narrowed his eyes hadn't left. He stood in his doorway and waited to make sure I was really leaving, so I didn't attempt to talk to other neighbors. I had a better idea anyway. I walked straight to Spradler's Drugstore and up to the nearest clerk.

“Could you tell me, please, which one of the employees is Edna Turner?” I asked.

The woman looked blank. “There's no Edna Turner working here.”

“Did she used to work here? Like last week or before that? Even for just a few days.”

“No, she didn't,” the woman insisted, “and I'd certainly know if we'd hired anyone new—even if it was only for a few hours.”

I wasn't surprised. In a way, I'd been expecting her answer. Scott might live with a beanbag chair, a television set, and probably a bed in the back
room, but I couldn't imagine a grown woman willing to live in an apartment like that. Who was Edna Turner? And where was she?

I thought about Lori, who was so hooked on Scott, and about how much time they were spending together. I grew frightened. I needed to get more information fast.

“Thank you,” I said. I looked around the store and walked to the back where two public telephones hung on the wall. Although Mr. Clark's system of finding out about a person was useful, I needed more information and had no time to go from source to source. I thought of one person who could help me in a hurry. I punched in his telephone number.

“Eric, it's me—Jess Donnally,” I said. “I heard what you said in journalism class about how helpful and speedy a computer can be.”

“So,” Eric said. “What do you want exactly?”

“Eric,” I said, “I need you to use a computer to check where someone said he lived, to see if he was telling the truth.”

“That's pretty easy,” Eric said. “You could begin with the Bureau of Vital Statistics in that particular town or city, and also give his date of birth.”

“I don't know where he was born. And I don't know his date of birth.”

“Wouldn't it be simple just to ask him?”

“I can't, but I really need to know.”

“Jess, would you like me to get this information for you through the Internet?”