Into the Dark (6 page)

“W
hat’s wrong?” S
TACY
said.

Recess. They dangled on the swings, Ingrid and Stacy. A bunch of boys were shooting hoops on the paved court nearby, Joey one of them. He didn’t look her way.

“Nothing,” Ingrid said.

“That conservation guy?” said Stacy.

“What makes you say that?”

“There are all these rumors.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Stacy said. “About him getting shot on your grandfather’s farm.”

“That’s not a rumor.”

“Don’t get mad at me.” Stacy cracked her gum.

“I’m not mad at you. What rumors? Who’s spreading them?”

“I wouldn’t say exactly spreading them. But Sergeant Pina and my dad are buddies. They go hunting in Maine, stuff like that.”

“And?”

“And he came over last night. With his truck. My dad was putting new speakers in it. Sergeant Pina, I’m talking about.”

“And?”

“And when they were going into the garage, I heard Sergeant Pina say that Mr. Thatcher was a jerk.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Way too much of a—what’s the word?—when it comes to the environment.”

“What’s the word?”

“Begins with a
z
.”

The only
z
word Ingrid could think of was
zero
.

“Rubs people the wrong way for no reason. That was what my dad said. Sergeant Pina said he wouldn’t really blame your grandfather if…you know. Then they started with the drills and I didn’t hear any more.”

“He didn’t do it,” Ingrid said.

Stacy glanced at her sideways, said nothing.

“No way,” Ingrid said. “The bullet hole was toward the back of the head and the shooter wasn’t close-up. That’s how a coward kills. Not Grampy.”

Stacy put her hand on Ingrid’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze—a hard squeeze, Stacy not knowing her own strength. “I believe you,” she said. “One hundred percent.”

“Zealot,”
said Ingrid.

“Huh?”

“That’s the
z
word.”

The bell rang. They lined up. Ingrid found herself near Joey. Their eyes met.

“Hi,” said Ingrid.

“Um,” said Joey. He looked away.

“Two lines,” said Ms. Groome. “And you there—dispose of that gum.”

“What gum?” said Stacy, swallowing it.

Ingrid had rehearsal after school. A real bad rehearsal: She forgot everything—her marks, her cues, her lines. Jill wrapped it up early. Ingrid went into the lobby of Prescott Hall, prepared for a long
wait. But Brucie’s father, coming in the door, said, “Hello, Ingrid. Your mom called and asked if I’d drop you off.”

“Oh,” said Ingrid. Did Mom even know Rabbi Berman? She herself had met him only once, in the Prescott Hall parking lot.

They got in Rabbi Berman’s car, Ingrid, at Rabbi Berman’s insistence, in front, and Brucie in back.

“How was rehearsal?” said Rabbi Berman.

“Good,” said Ingrid. She remembered that he was a rabbi and added, “Thanks.” She didn’t know anything about rabbis, had no idea what to expect. She glanced at Rabbi Berman. He looked like all the other dads.

“Music?” he said, sliding a CD into the player.

“Sure,” said Ingrid.

“No,” said Brucie, a groaning kind of no.

Music started playing.

“Love Bob Dylan,” said Rabbi Berman.

Brucie didn’t say another word the whole way. Ingrid had never heard him so quiet.

Ingrid got out of the Bermans’ car in front of 99 Maple Lane. Ty was standing in the driveway. Not coming or going, just standing there, almost as
though he was waiting for her. She walked up to him. Were those tears in his eyes? That made no sense: Ty wasn’t a crier.

“Ingrid?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Grampy’s in jail.”

“In jail?”

“Locked up,” Ty said. “For murder.”

“Oh, no,” Ingrid said. Then she, also not a crier, was crying too. Ty put his arms around her. They hugged. “He didn’t do it,” Ingrid said.

“But he’s got no alibi,” said Ty.

Ingrid backed up. “How do you know?”

“There’s a lawyer inside,” Ty said. “I heard them talking.”

“Mrs. Dirksen?” said Ingrid. Mom had told Ingrid that Mrs. Dirksen was their lawyer for wills and stuff.

Ty shook his head. “This guy came from Hartford.” Ingrid noticed what she should have seen right away, a huge SUV in the driveway. The vanity plate read:
LEAGLE
. For no reason she could express it gave her a bad premonition.

Ingrid and Ty went in the house. Mom and Dad were in the dining room with a man in a dark suit
papers spread all over the table. Dad had that lump of muscle showing over his jaw. Mom had the two vertical lines deep in her forehead. Only the lawyer seemed relaxed. Ingrid wasn’t good at guessing the ages of adults, but right away she wished the lawyer looked older. He wore a nice suit—as nice as the ones Dad wore, but more tight fitting. His hair was somehow scruffy and well cut at the same time, like a lawyer in a movie.

“Kids,” said Dad, “go upstairs. We’ll talk later.”

Going upstairs? Unbearable. “But Grampy’s in jail,” Ingrid said. “What are we going to do?”

“We’re taking care of it right now,” Dad said. “Go upstairs.”

Taking care of it how? Very wrong for her to blurt that question out at a time like this, and Ingrid fought to keep it in.

The lawyer turned to her. “Is this Ingrid?” he said.

“Yes,” said Ingrid.

“I’ll need to speak to her.”

Getting talked about in the third person: Ingrid didn’t like that. “What about?” she said.

“We can get to that a little later,” said the lawyer.

Mom said, “Mr. Tulkinghorn is going to get
Grampy out on bail. Please do as your father says.”

Ty turned to go. Ingrid followed. But at the door she stopped—just couldn’t help herself—and said, “Is it true Grampy has no alibi?”

“Ingrid!” Dad said. “You’re wasting precious time.”

She left the room, feeling horrible.

Upstairs, an IM from Stacy (Powerup77):

“Ingrid?” Her door opened and Mom came in. “Mr. Tulkinghorn wants to talk to you now.”

“About what?” Ingrid said.

“I’m not sure,” Mom said.

“What should I say?”

“Just answer his questions honestly,” Mom said.

“But—”

“He’s on our side,” Mom said. “He’s our lawyer.”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Is he any good?”

“Of course he’s good, Ingrid. Dad checked.”

How did you check something like that? Ingrid didn’t know. “Chief Strade really believes Grampy shot Mr. Thatcher?” she said.

“I don’t know what he believes,” Mom said.

“But it’s impossible,” Ingrid said.

Mom took her hand. Mom’s hand was icy cold. She gazed deep into Ingrid’s eyes, as though searching for something. “Is it, Ingrid? Apparently Grampy kept guns at the farm. I never knew that.”

True. And also Mom didn’t know that Grampy had taught her to shoot the .22, lining up Coke bottles on the fence behind the barn, and how she was actually a pretty good shot; and maybe even worse, from Mom’s point of view, how all that shattering
glass was kind of thrilling. Ingrid had a strange vision of how life might be. You came in incapable of speech. Then you started talking. Pretty soon you said something that was wrong, or that someone thought was wrong, and then you were in your first snarl. The more you talked, the more chances you’d end up in more snarls, snarls spiraling within snarls. And by the time you were old, say Grampy’s age—how snarly could things get by then?

Ingrid said nothing. She went downstairs with her mother.

“Hi, again,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn. Just the two of them in the dining room: He’d wanted to talk to her alone. “I’m Rex Tulkinghorn.” A little pause. Was she supposed to say something yet? “And you’re Ingrid,” he went on. “I’ve already heard a lot about you.”

Like?

But Mr. Tulkinghorn didn’t go there. He opened a briefcase—all the papers had been cleared away, the table now bare—and took out a yellow notepad. “I’m a lawyer,” he said. “You’re aware of what lawyers do?”

They ask patronizing questions?
Ingrid kept that
thought to herself and just nodded.

“Your parents have hired me to defend your grandfather. Any help you can give me will be much appreciated.”

“He didn’t do it,” Ingrid said.

“Oh? You know that for a fact?”

Ingrid explained: first, how the footprint evidence proved that Mr. Thatcher had been shot from a distance; second, that Grampy would never do something so cowardly—and practically from behind, as well.

“You’re quite the little detective,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn. “What can you tell me about your grandfather’s guns?”

Ingrid glanced into the hall, saw no one, but thought she could feel Mom close by. She kept her voice down. “He has a .22 rifle and a .357 handgun.”

“Licensed?”

“I think so.”
What I own I own by right.

Mr. Tulkinghorn made a note on the yellow pad. He was one of those people who pressed way too hard with the pen, almost piercing the page. “And what about a .30-06 Springfield rifle, possibly equipped with a sniper’s scope?”

“No,” Ingrid said.

“No he doesn’t have such a weapon, or no you never saw one?”

“I never saw one.”

Mr. Tulkinghorn made another note in his heavy-handed way.

“Why?” Ingrid said. The word just popped out, unbidden.

He glanced up, annoyed. “Why what?”

“Why are you asking about this other kind of rifle?”

“Because the ballistics tests came back,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn. “The bullet was a .30-06.”

Not a .22 or a .357! “That’s good, right?” Ingrid said.

Mr. Tulkinghorn reached into his briefcase, removed a printout. Reading upside down, Ingrid made out the heading:
United States Army.
“Aylmer Hill was issued a Springfield M1903A4 .30-06 sniper rifle with an M73B1 2.5 power sight on February 1, 1942,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn, following his finger across the page. He looked up, his eyes cold. “There’s no record of that rifle ever being returned to the Army quartermaster prior to Aylmer Hill’s discharge on September 3, 1945.” He took out a
picture, showed it to Ingrid: an old-fashioned-looking rifle with a brown wooden stock and a skinny black scope mounted on the top. “Ever heard the word
implication
?” he said.

Ingrid nodded.

“Know what it means?”

She nodded again, not patiently.

“Then you see the implication of this combination of facts,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn.

“That he took the rifle home with him from the war and used it to shoot Mr. Thatcher?” Ingrid said.

“Exactly,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn. “So I’ll ask once more: Have you ever seen, or has your grandfather ever referred to, a gun like this?”

“No,” said Ingrid, her voice suddenly sounding very loud in the dining room. This guy was supposed to be on their side. That thought was followed by another:
What will the other side be like?

“If there is such a weapon,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn, “the police will find it. They’re out there now, turning the place upside down.”

“Can’t you stop them?” Ingrid said.

“They’ve got legal warrants, signed by a judge,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn. “Think they’re going to find anything?”

“Never.”

“Never because such a weapon doesn’t exist, or never because it will be so well hidden?”

“The first one,” said Ingrid, barely aware that her chin was tilting up in a defiant sort of way.

Mr. Tulkinghorn put everything back in his briefcase. “If we go to trial,” he said, “it’s your parents’ wish that I do all I can to keep you off the stand.”

“But why?” said Ingrid. “I want to help.”

“It’s not the defense that would be calling you,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn. “Unless I can work some kind of deal, you’ll be a witness for the prosecution.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They’ll want the court to hear all about the argument between your grandfather and the victim.” He rose, adjusted his tie. “And there’s no law that says a grandchild can’t be called to testify against a grandparent.”

The argument: Ingrid remembered, practically word for word, including Grampy’s reply when Mr. Thatcher said he’d be back, with a warrant if necessary.
I wouldn’t do that if I were you.
She tried to imagine how that would sound, coming from her on the stand. Oh, God.

Ingrid rose too. “What are we going to do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?”

“Get him out of jail, first,” said Mr. Tulkinghorn. “Then go at him one more time about an alibi.”

“An alibi—meaning he was somewhere else at the time, couldn’t have done it?”

Mr. Tulkinghorn nodded. “The medical examiner has established the time of death—something I could possibly attack at trial, but it would be pointless without more cooperation from your grandfather.”

“What do you mean?”

“Death occurred between the hours of noon and three
P.M
. on Tuesday. I asked your grandfather where he was at that time.”

“And?”

“And he said, ‘None of your business.’” Mr. Tulkinghorn started from the room. “Only he put it more strongly than that.”

Mom and Dad were in the hall. “Here’s your retainer,” Dad said, handing Mr. Tulkinghorn a check. Mr. Tulkinghorn looked at it carefully and slipped it into his pocket.

F
ROM
T
HE
E
CHO
—E
XCLUSIVE:

Ingrid read the article twice. “How come there’s nothing about the Medal of Honor?” she said. No one answered. She was alone in the house except for Nigel, relaxing by his bowl. “How come, Nigel?” she said. “It would help if people knew he was a hero.” Nigel found the energy to raise his tail an inch or two off the floor. Gravity took over from there, and it flopped down with a soft thump.

Ingrid read the article once more, forcing herself to go really slow this time. She found a pencil and paper, made some notes.

• 1. anonymous tip?
  
• 2. where was Grampy?
  
• 3. murder weapon?
  

Now she had a list, but what did it mean? Her mind refused to make those three questions add up to anything. What did Sherlock Holmes do in baffling situations? Sometimes he took cocaine; that was out. Or he played his violin; Ingrid, although she liked belting out songs in the shower, had no musical ability whatsoever. But sometimes Holmes went for a walk, maybe taking Dr. Watson along.

“Nigel? Let’s go.”

Nigel started to roll over, like he was getting up on command, big surprise. But he stopped halfway, remaining on his back, paws comfortably folded in.

“Nigel!”

She ended up dragging him outside on his leash, stubbornly supine all the way to the end of the driveway. After that he got up and trotted along beside her in his waddling way. “Let’s start with the anonymous tip,” Ingrid said.

Memory was tricky. There seemed to be two kinds. First: the kind that popped up all on its own, usually very clear—like Joey’s face, just before he’d
moved in for that snowshoe kiss that hadn’t happened. Second: the kind you had to go rooting around in your brain for, which usually ended up being pretty blurry—like facts about the Whiskey Rebellion. The anonymous tip problem involved both kinds of memories.

The dynamiting down at the sinkhole—that was the first kind of memory, sharp and unbidden. At the time, last fall, Grampy had been worried that the Ferrands and maybe other rich developers were trying to get hold of his land for building condos. He’d come up with this plan to make the sinkhole deeper, turning it into a permanent pond. That was the dynamiting part. Four sticks! After that—a huge boom and then a rising mud cloud that came splattering back down—Ingrid had waded in and planted eastern spadefoot toad eggs. The endangered eastern spadefoot toad: that was the whole point. In the spring, when they hatched and endangered toads started hopping around, any development plans would be…how had Grampy put it? Something about fish? Dead as a mackerel—that was it.

But the anonymous tip part: that was the other kind of memory, the kind you had to hunt for. Ingrid didn’t know who the tipster was; she just had
a vague sense of some tiny fact buried way down deep in her…All of a sudden she pictured a phone. Not just any phone, but that old-fashioned black one with the rotary dial in Grampy’s kitchen. And she fished up the memory, maybe not word for word, but close enough.

Ring.

“Aylmer?”

“This is his granddaughter.”

“Bob Borum here, over on Robinson Road. You people hear a boom? Thought it was a transformer, but we’ve got electricity.”

“So do we.”

“Not to worry then.”

“’Bye, Mr. Borum.”

“Bob Borum,” Ingrid said. Nigel paid no attention. In fact, he was chewing on a—“Nigel!” And what was this? They were practically at the end of Avondale, almost at the strange cul-de-sac part where three new houses had been standing for months on bare, unlandscaped lots, waiting for buyers. Ingrid pulled Nigel around. A car was coming toward them, not fast, a beige car, small and boxy. As it went by, it slowed even more, and the driver looked out, a fat-faced guy with greasy blond hair
and a cigarette in his mouth.

“Come on, Nigel.” Ingrid headed for home, picking up the pace. She heard the car rounding the cul-de-dfsac, returning. Then she felt it moving up alongside her, now at a walking pace. She looked sideways. The window rolled down. Then a weird thing happened. The driver leaned out, his face partly obscured by a camera. His finger pressed the button, once, twice, three times. Ingrid actually flinched, and Nigel, not much of a barker, barked real loud. The car sped up, zoomed away. Fast, but not so fast that Ingrid, with her sharp eyes, wasn’t going to read that license plate. Except she couldn’t: It was smeared with mud. The car turned the corner and disappeared, leaving a cigarette end spinning in the air.

The cigarette was lying on the road, still smoking slightly, when Ingrid got there. She bent over it, read the label: Virginia Off-Label Generics. Ingrid didn’t want to touch it, not even with her mittens on.

She and Nigel walked back home. “What a creep!” she said. Nigel barked. “Good boy.” One little thing: From the way the camera was pointing, kind of down, Ingrid got the idea that either the creepy guy was a bad photographer or he’d been deliberately taking pictures of Nigel.

No one home. A note from Ty on the fridge:
Greg’s.
The phone was ringing. She picked it up.

“It’s me,” Joey said. “Joey.”

“I know.”

“You sound a bit, um. Like you’re mad or something.”

“Yeah,” said Ingrid. “I’m mad.”

“At me?”

“Yeah, at you.”

“Oh,” he said, almost inaudible.

“Not just you,” Ingrid said. “Everybody.”

“Huh?”

“Figure it out.”

“Well,” said Joey, “me because I haven’t been—you know…”

“Talking to me?”

“That’s it. The thing is…”

Silence. It went on and on.

“The thing is what?” Ingrid said.

Joey got even quieter. “My dad…”

More silence.

“Your dad told you not to talk to me?” Ingrid said.

“Yeah. But not like to be rude or anything. ‘Don’t
be a jerk about it.’ That’s what he said.”

“Why?” Ingrid said.

“I guess because he didn’t want me to be not polite,” Joey said. “He has this thing about not—”

“Not that,” Ingrid said.

“Why not to talk to you, you mean?”

“What else?”

“Oh,” he said. “The main point, right?”

“Right.” Hard to stay angry at Joey, but she still felt lots of anger inside her, burning away—a feeling she wasn’t that accustomed to, and didn’t like.

“Because of the case,” Joey said.

“The case,” said Ingrid, “is about my grandfather.”

“A man died too,” said Joey. “Mr. Thatcher.”

“I know,” Ingrid said. The truth was she hadn’t had one single thought about Mr. Thatcher, or his wife, quoted in
The Echo
as being so worried when he was still missing, or any family or friends he might have had. But Grampy didn’t do it. “Why didn’t he say you could talk, just not about the case?” Ingrid said.

“’Cause,” said Joey, with a little laugh. “Here we are talking about the case.”

Ingrid laughed too—not much, but she couldn’t help it. If only—

“Gotta go,” Joey said suddenly.

“He’s there?”

Click.

Call him back? Out of the question. Besides, she could hear the front door opening, people coming in.

“Hi,” Mom called. “Anyone home?”

“Me,” said Ingrid.

“Come see Grampy,” Mom said.

Ingrid ran to the front hall. There were Mom, Dad, and Grampy; Grampy with a suitcase, that same suitcase she’d seen in his kitchen, looking around like he didn’t know quite where he was.

“Grampy.” She just kept going, into his arms.

Grampy patted her back. “Hiya, kid,” he said. He was trembling, very slightly, but she could feel it. And his voice sounded thinner than usual, as though not all the vocal cords were working. “Hey,” he said. “No crying in battle.”

She stopped.

Mom took Grampy upstairs. Dad stood by the sink, rubbing his eyes. “Grampy’s staying here?” Ingrid said.

“One of the conditions of his bail,” Dad said.

“Was it really five hundred thousand dollars?”

“Not actual cash,” Dad said. “We don’t have five
hundred thousand dollars in actual cash, in case you’re under any illusions about that.” Dad’s look softened. “Sorry, Ingrid. This is a stressful time.”

She nodded.

“We just had to sign a note, backed by the farm.”

“Grampy could lose the farm?”

“Only by jumping bail—and that won’t happen.”

“Mr. Tulkinghorn’s going to get him off, right, Dad?”

“It may not even come to trial,” Dad said.

“You mean they’ll drop the charges?”

“Snowball’s chance,” Dad said. “But Tulkinghorn, and don’t breathe a word of this, wants—” Dad stopped himself. “You haven’t been talking to Joey, have you?”

“Hardly at all.”

“I don’t want you talking to him.”

“But what if we just don’t discuss—”

“You heard me,” Dad said.

Ingrid nodded. “What am I supposed to not breathe a word about?”

Dad lowered his voice. “Tulkinghorn’s thinking of making a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Having Grampy plead guilty to a lesser charge,”
Dad said. “Avoiding a trial.”

“What lesser charge?”

“Manslaughter,” Dad said.

Ingrid had heard that word lots of times, but besides the fact that it sounded horrible, like a kind of butchery, what did it really mean? “That’s less than murder?” she said.

“Because of lack of intent or premeditation,” Dad said. “Something that happens in the heat of the moment.”

Lack of intent? Mr. Thatcher got shot from behind and from a long distance. But maybe none of that mattered if—“Dad? Would a deal mean Grampy goes free?”

“No way,” Dad said. “Just that the sentence wouldn’t be as long.”

“But Dad. He’s almost seventy-nine.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“And he didn’t do it.”

Dad gazed down at her.

“You know that, Dad, don’t you? Grampy couldn’t do a thing like—”

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Dad said. “The problem’s going to be getting Grampy to agree to a deal if Tulkinghorn can work one out.”

“But why should he plead guilty to something he didn’t do?”

“Even if that’s true—”

“If?” said Ingrid. “If?”

“Let me finish,” Dad said. “Try to imagine what Grampy would look like to a jury.”

“Like a—” She was about to say
hero
, but Dad interrupted.

“Especially if the prosecutor pressed one of his buttons,” Dad said. “One of his many buttons.”

Ingrid said nothing. She could picture that scenario, way too clearly.

Dad checked his watch, frowned. “Got to go to the office for a few minutes,” he said. “Be back soon.”

Mom came downstairs. “Grampy might like some tea.”

“I’ll make it,” Ingrid said. “Want some?”

“Thanks,” Mom said. “Where’s Dad?”

“Had to go in to the office.”

“The office?”

“He said he’d be back soon.”

“That’s funny,” Mom said. She stood there for a moment, an empty cup in her hand.

Ingrid took tea upstairs to Grampy. He was staying in the old spare bedroom, now Dad and Mom’s home office. She found him sitting on the cot jammed between Dad’s desk and the wall, staring at nothing. Light from the streetlamp came through the window, shading his skin and hair a sickly kind of yellow.

“Here’s some tea, Grampy.”

He took a sip. “Ah,” he said. “That’s more like it.”

Ingrid went to the window, started closing the curtains. A car went by, passed under the streetlight: green hatchback. Ingrid recognized Mrs. McGreevy, hunched over the wheel. She closed the curtains. Grampy looked normal again, or almost. Ingrid had a sudden thought.

“What about Piggy?” she said.

“All set,” Grampy said.

“Someone’s taking care of him?”

“Yup,” said Grampy. “And anyway, I intend to be back there soon.”

“Really, Grampy? Are they going to let—”

“One way or another,” he said.

“Oh,” said Ingrid, trying to think how to steer him away from that idea. She sat beside him. “Who’s taking care of Piggy?”

“Someone.”

“Bob Borum?”

“Bob Borum?” said Grampy. “How do you know about him?”

“Isn’t he a neighbor?”

“Yup.”

“What’s he like?”

“Got nothing against Bob Borum,” said Grampy. “Used to run a dairy farm, second-last farm in Echo Falls.”

“What does he do now?”

“Bob Borum? Owns that ice cream place.”

“Not Moo Cow?” Moo Cow had the best ice cream in Echo Falls, possibly in the whole state.

“Yup,” said Grampy.

Ingrid thought of her three-item list. She could try asking him where he was at the time of the murder. Or about what had happened to his Springfield .30-06 with the sniper scope. She glanced at Grampy’s face. Bob Borum and the anonymous tip seemed a safer place to start. “How about we go there?” she said.

“Where?”

“Moo Cow.”

“Ice cream in winter?” Grampy said. “I’ll wait till spring.”

That last sentence—
I’ll wait till spring
—sparked a bad thought in Ingrid’s mind: What if Grampy was locked up in the spring, living in some horrible cell, dangerous inmates all around? Unbearable. The most important item on the list, by far, was the second one, because the answer could make this all go away in a flash. She had to ask, no matter what. Ingrid took a deep breath, looked him in the eye.