Down the Rabbit Hole (13 page)

“Vincent.”

“Who's Vincent?”

“The Mad Hatter.”

“What's he like?”

“Nice.”

Mom went into the pantry, started eating something crunchy, crackers or potato chips. “I hope you thanked him.”

“Of course,” Ingrid said. She took out the keys to 337 Packer Street and slipped them into Mom's coat pocket.

“I
NGRID
. T
IME TO
get up.”

Ingrid opened her eyes and knew right away she'd had a good sleep. She didn't feel the slightest bit tired, unlike every other school morning since she couldn't remember when. What had happened last night? Ta Tung leftovers, chitchat with Mom, zip zip through her homework, of which there hadn't been much, thank the Lord, and early to bed,
Alice
script in hand. But she didn't remember reading any of it, must have gone right to sleep. She felt great.

Mom, already dressed for work, sticking a pearl earring in her earlobe, opened her door. “Ingrid? You awake?”

“I feel sick,” Ingrid said.

“Sick?” said Mom, stepping into the room. “What kind of sick?”

“In general,” Ingrid said, and realizing she sounded rather perky and energetic, added in a more subdued tone, “just not very well.”

“How not well?” Mom said, coming to the side of the bed.

“Hard to describe,” Ingrid said.

“Take off the appliance,” Mom said.

My God! She'd remembered to put it on. Ingrid knew that was going to be a big help in terms of whatever happened next, even though she could see no logical connection.

Mom reached out, laid her palm on Ingrid's forehead. So gentle. Mom loved her, with a huge basic love that asked for hardly anything in return. Ingrid felt bad, tricking her like this, but what choice did she have?

“You do feel a little warm,” Mom said.

Wow. The power of suggestion. Maybe everything human ended up being subjective and nothing could be known for sure. Ingrid didn't know whether that was good or bad, but Sherlock Holmes would have hated the thought, and she had to get in line. Wasn't
the whole point to find out exactly what had happened to Cracked-Up Katie, without uncertainty or subjectivity? That was number one. At the same time, she had to outmaneuver Ms. Groome till the end of the year so she could stay on the calculus track—number two; while playing soccer to win right through to the play-offs and the championship game—number three; plus give a performance of
Alice
that would blow them all away—number four. There: her life on a platter. And that was leaving out Joey.

“Ingrid? Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“You had a strange look in your eyes.”

“No pain, Mom. It's just…the fever.”

Mom removed her hand.
Keep it there, Mom, a bit longer.
But Ingrid squashed that thought. She was thirteen years old, for God's sake.

“I guess you'd better stay home,” Mom said.

“I guess,” said Ingrid.

Ty, a towel around his waist, his chest and abs starting to look like something out of the Abercrombie catalog—although the effect was undermined by the blood seeping unnoticed from a cut on his chin—stuck his head in the room. “She's staying home?”

“The name is Ingrid,” said Ingrid; the ugliest name in creation, but her own.

“How come she gets to stay home?” said Ty.

“Your sister's running a little fever,” said Mom. “And you're bleeding.”

“Huh?” said Ty. He touched his face, stared at the blood on his fingers. “Those blades suck,” he said. “Can't you get me better blades?”

“But they're the ones your father uses,” Mom said.

“They suck,” said Ty, and went off down the hall.

Hey. Ty had a bunch of pimples on his back even though he'd always been one of those lucky acne-free kids. And all those muscles. Whoa.

Mom turned back to her, gave a little shudder.

Hang in there, Mom.

“I'll get you some Advil,” Mom said.

“That's all right.”

Mom shook her head. “Bring down that fever,” she said.

Mom went off for the Advil. Ty came in, buttoning his shirt, a scrap of toilet paper on his cut, white with a red circle in the center, like the flag of Japan.

“You're faking, right?” he said.

“Mister Cynic,” said Ingrid.

“You're such a dork,” said Ty.

Ingrid gazed at him. The punch-in-the-eye episode: She was getting new glimmerings about the cause of that, glimmerings she didn't like at all.

“Is that look supposed to scare me or something?” Ty said.

Would he do something that dumb? Probably. Anyone who'd fall for the flea-flicker twice was capable of idiocy across a broad range. The opposing coaches for the next game would be studying the films. They'd spring the flea-flicker again the moment they saw good ol' number 19 out there.

“What's that stupid smile about?” Ty said.

If only she could see into her own future the way she could see into his.

 

Mom and Ty left soon after. Dad came up a little later, buttoning a button on the sleeve of his suit jacket; Dad actually had suit jackets with buttons that worked.

“On the DL today?” he said.

“I'll be fine.”

He rumpled her hair. “Got a game on Saturday?”

“Yup.”

“Plenty of time to get better.”

“I'll be better way before that, Dad. Like tomorrow.”

“Good girl.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you know Philip Prescott?”

“Actually know him? No. I might have seem him once or twice, but I was just a kid when he took off, like I said.”

“How old was he?”

“In his twenties, I'd say.”

“And he was the last one?”

“Yup.”

“What happened to his parents?”

Dad rubbed his chin, a chin much like Ty's but not bleeding. In fact, Ty's face was starting to resemble Dad's, just not nearly as good-looking. “Something not good, I think,” Dad said. “I don't recall. They ran out of gas, the whole family. It happens. Why do you ask?”

Ingrid shrugged. “Just curious.”

Dad rumpled her hair again. “Remember that cat.”

Cat! My God! What had happened to that huge cat of Kate's? And what was wrong with her, only thinking of that now?

Dad gave her a puzzled look. “Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“The cat that curiosity killed, I'm talking about,” Dad said. “Don't you know that expression?”

 

Twenty minutes later he was gone too. Ingrid got up, had a quick shower, dressed, and went into the garage, MapQuest printout tucked in her pocket. Her bike, a Univega mountain bike, red of course, with fat knobby tires and twenty-three gears, of which she used one, stood against the back wall. Ingrid brushed off a few cobwebs, got on, and pedaled down Maple Lane.

Not a bad day for biking—no wind, the sky pale blue. A little on the cold side, though. Ingrid kind of wished she'd put on gloves. She turned right on Avondale, left on Nathan Hale, right on Main. Ahead lay Starbucks—the new Starbucks, Echo Falls now having two—Harrow's Fine Men's Clothing, Championship Sports, and yes!
The Echo
.
THE CENTRAL VALLEY'S SECOND OLDEST NEWSPAPER
,
read the gold-leaf letters on the plate-glass window:
ESTABLISHED
1896—
THE WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT
.
Ingrid locked her bike to a lamppost, one of those old-fashioned black ones they had on Main Street, turned toward the door of
The Echo
, and saw a dog
trotting up behind her, a dog who looked something like—

Nigel.

Oh my God. He must have gotten into the garage, followed her the whole way. His tongue hung out, all floppy and absurdly big, hand-towel size, and he was panting like crazy.

“Nigel!” He pressed his head against her leg, almost knocking her down, slobbering over her clothes, moronic, loyal. What was she supposed to do with him? Through the plate-glass window, an old man watched. “You've got to be good, Nigel,” Ingrid said. “Look at me. Your very best.” She opened the door and went in, Nigel beside her, looking right at her as instructed, head at a strange angle and tail wagging violently.

There were lots of smells inside the
Echo
office—ink, wax, dust, mold. The walls were covered floor to ceiling by shelves of yellowed newspapers. Behind a low wooden railing stood five desks, all empty but the middle one, where the old man was now sitting. He wore a green eyeshade and a short-sleeved white shirt with a brown necktie and yellow sweater vest.

“Mr. Samuels?” Ingrid said.

“That's right,” said the old man. He had a high, scratchy voice.

If there's an Echo Falls historian, it's Mr. Samuels.
“Hi. I'm—”

“That your dog?”

“Yes.”

“There's a leash law in this town.”

“I know. See, what—”

“
The Echo
was instrumental in getting that law passed,” said Mr. Samuels. “I wrote seventeen editorials.”

“It's a good law,” Ingrid said.

“But you're not obeying it,” said Mr. Samuels.

For God's sake: She couldn't even get started. “The problem is the dogs didn't vote,” Ingrid said. “So it's a constant struggle.”

Mr. Samuels sat back in his chair. She saw how small he was, a tiny guy with a long nose, big ears, and alert little eyes, probably hardwired to be a reporter. “What did you say?” he said.

“It's a struggle.”

“No. Before that.”

“About the dogs not voting?”

“Yes. Say it again.” He took out a notebook.

“The problem is the dogs didn't vote,” Ingrid said.

He wrote it down. “And your name?”

“You're planning to put this in the paper?”

“Be a nice kicker at the end of the Heard on Main Street column,” said Mr. Samuels. “The award-winning Heard on Main Street column,” he added. “Name, please?”

“Ingrid.”

He wrote it down. “Last name?”

Sherlock Holmes never got into situations like this, so out of control. Why was that? On the other hand, who would know? No one read the stupid
Echo
, except her, of course; she was funny that way.

“Levin-Hill,” Ingrid said.

“That hyphenated?” said Mr. Samuels.

“Yes.”

He licked the tip of the pencil, paused. “Any relation to Aylmer Hill?” he said.

“He's my grandfather.”

“How's he doing?”

“Good.”

“Still raising hell out there?”

“I don't think so.” Was Grampy a hell-raiser?

“Wouldn't mind one of those free-range chickens of his,” said Mr. Samuels. “Pass that along next time you see him.”

“There are no more chickens,” Ingrid said. “No animals at all.” She glanced down at Nigel. He was sprawled on the floor, fast asleep, drool pooling under his jaw.

“No more animals, huh?” said Mr. Samuels. “Tell me something, off the record if you want—is he ever going to sell that place?”

“I don't know.”

“I hope not. He's a pigheaded old mule, but just this once it might do the town some good. The Ferrands want that land so bad they can taste it.”

“Why?” said Ingrid, trying to picture a pigheaded mule.

“Why?” said Mr. Samuels. “So they can develop it, of course, make more money.”

“What would they put there?”

“You name it—condos, mall, Wal-Mart, Home Depot, whatever comes along. But something's bound to come along. Look what's happening to the whole valley, going to ruination acre by God's little acre.”

There were pink spots on Mr. Samuels's cheeks now, and his breath whistled in his throat.

“Is it true,” Ingrid said, “that the Ferrands got rich by marrying the Prescotts?”

“Where'd you come across a fact like that?” said Mr. Samuels.

“So it's true?”

“More or less,” said Mr. Samuels.

“What happened to the Prescotts, anyway?”

“The last one, Philip—” Mr. Samuels began, but Ingrid interrupted.

“How did they even get to where there was just a last one?”

Mr. Samuels did that sitting back in the chair thing again, as though getting pushed by something invisible. “You active on the student paper?” he said.

“Student paper?”

“Newspaper,” said Mr. Samuels. “At your school.”

“We don't have one.”

“No student paper? What school?”

“Ferrand Middle.”

Mr. Samuels pounded his fist on the desk, much harder than she'd have thought him capable of, hard enough to raise a puff cloud of dust. “Damn prop three,” he said.

“What's prop three?”

“Prop three? You don't know prop three? That's how all the selfish empty nesters capped property taxes in Echo Falls, why the school board's starving
for cash, why there's no pool at Echo High, no gifted program, and now no paper at Ferrand Middle. It's an absolute disgrace.” He scribbled furiously in his notebook. After a minute or two he looked up, blinked at her, as though he'd forgotten where they were in the conversation and who she was exactly, which suited her just fine.

“What happened to Philip Prescott's parents?” Ingrid said.

Mr. Samuels blinked again. “Perished in a boating accident.”

“Where?”

“They went over the falls in a canoe.”

“Our falls?”

Mr. Samuels nodded. “This was before the park rangers strung the boom across.”

“So Philip was an orphan after that, all alone?”

“I suppose so, but he was grown up, in graduate school at the time.”

“Where?”

“Not far—down in New Haven.”

One of those top schools of Dad's was in New Haven. “At Yale?” Ingrid said.

Mr. Samuels nodded. “The School of Drama. Philip Prescott loved the theater.”

“Did he start the Prescott Players?”

“No. That goes way back. But he returned from Yale and took it over. Plus the Hall and all the Prescott assets, of course.”