Nobody's There (13 page)

Abbie's heart gave a lurch. She liked Nick. Probably if her life hadn't changed so drastically, she'd be thrilled to date him. But now she didn't know anything for sure. She definitely didn't want to get hurt.

“After school let's walk down to the Dairy Queen and get a cone,” Nick suggested. “I've got a question for you, and you can answer me then. Okay?”

Abbie smiled. “Okay,” she said. “I'll meet you at my locker.”

Twice during the day Abbie thought about Mrs. Merkel. Once she almost telephoned to let
her know she wasn't coming, but she stopped herself in time.

She doesn't own me
, Abbie told herself, and walked away from the telephone. If she did call, Mrs. Merkel would either yell at her and try to make her feel guilty, or she'd threaten Abbie, forcing her into coming.
No!
Abbie told herself.
My life is my own, and I'm going to have ice cream with Nick if I feel like it.

By the time she and Nick were seated in a booth at the nearby Dairy Queen, Abbie had pushed any guilt away completely and defiantly. But her feelings about being with Nick were muddled. She knew she could like him a lot. But how could she trust what any guy said?

Her mother had trusted her father. She had trusted him enough to fall deeply in love, and she'd married him with trust. Then her father had thrown that trust away. He wasn't alone. Every women's magazine ran articles aimed at divorced moms. Did all guys walk away from their families the way Dad had?

The few dates Abbie had had so far weren't what she'd call wonderful. Manning's attack of hay fever at a barn dance, Jimmy's popcorn-greasy hand holding hers at a movie … she recalled a series of sweaty palms, damp kisses, bruised male egos. Wouldn't it be better to forget the whole dating thing and escape a lot of hurt?

But while they ate their cones, Nick told Abbie funny stories and made her laugh. And Nick asked her to the junior prom. He complained about having two left feet and stumbling around
on a dance floor until Abbie found herself promising to teach him to dance.

She was totally flattered that Nick had invited her to the prom, but she didn't know what to say.
Better not
, she told herself,
but
 …

She suddenly glanced up at the round clock on the wall and gave a start. “It's almost five!” she said.

Nick grinned. “Time flies—”

“I know,” Abbie said. “When you're having fun.”

“Were you?”

“Yes, I was,” she answered, and smiled at him.

“When do I get my first dance lesson?” he asked.

Abbie hesitated. Now came the reality, the time spent together, the questions without answers. “I don't know yet,” she said quickly as she slid from the booth. “I'll let you know. Okay?”

As she walked home, thoughts of Mrs. Merkel swept into Abbie's mind like a swarm of bees. She tried to brush them away. It was Nick she wanted to think about. Did she want to go to the junior prom with him? She hadn't given him an answer. Wouldn't it be easier to just walk away, close her mind, shut him out, protect herself from the hurt he might cause her?

But in her mind Mrs. Merkel's face kept pop-ping up, erasing Nick's big smile. Mrs. Merkel wasn't wearing her usual cross expression. She looked as she had the day before when she had dropped into a chair, tired and old, and probably a little frightened, in spite of what she had said.
I
should have gone to visit her as she asked me to
, Abbie thought as she unlocked the back door and entered the kitchen.
Maybe I still can.

No. Mom had the car. There was no way Abbie could get to Mrs. Merkel's house without a car. Thick as syrup, guilt began to spread through Abbie's body, making her feel a little sick.

I could go after dinner
, she told herself.
That's what I'll do. I'll take whatever scolding Mrs. Merkel gives me, but at least she'll realize she can't threaten me into going to see her every single day.

As she dropped her book-laden backpack on the table, Davy ran into the room, notebook in hand. He shoved aside her pack, making space on the table, and opened his notebook. “Okay,” he said. “Start talking. What did Mrs. Merkel do today?”

“I didn't go today,” Abbie told him.

“Why not?”

“Because … I had other things to do.” Quickly she defended herself. “I'm not even supposed to go every day.”

Davy looked so disappointed that Abbie said, “I'm going after dinner, after Mom gets back with the car.” She tried to ease the situation by adding, “I'll try to remember every single thing she says and does and tell you when I get home. Okay?”

Davy stood and shrugged. “Okay, I guess. But you won't go out spying on crooks at night, will you?”

I hope not!
Abbie thought, but she said, “Who knows what Mrs. Merkel will want to do?”

“Yeah,” Davy said. He immediately perked up. He jumped from his chair and snatched the notebook. “Gotta hide this,” he said, and ran from the room.

Mrs. Thompson came home early, carrying a bag filled with takeout cartons from a Chinese restaurant near her office. “You need a break,” she said to Abbie. “I got shrimp lo mein, beef and snow peas, and that garlic pork you like.” She sniffed inside the bag and sighed with pleasure.

As the three of them gathered around the table, sharing the food, Abbie wondered if the others remembered what it was like when Dad was still with them and they indulged in a feast of Chinese food. Dad had always loved sweet-and-sour chicken and put dibs on seconds. Dad had—She pushed away thoughts of her father. He no longer had a part in their feasts. He didn't belong with them anymore. Not because they wanted it that way, but because
he
did.

“Mom,” Davy said indistinctly, his mouth full, “Abbie needs to use your car tonight.”

Mrs. Thompson looked from Davy to Abbie and back to Davy. “What's up?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Davy said, trying to cover his eagerness. “Abbie didn't go to see Mrs. Merkel today, so she needs to go tonight.”

Mrs. Thompson smiled at Abbie reassuringly. “She didn't need to go this afternoon, and she certainly doesn't have to go tonight.”

“But—” Davy looked at Abbie.

“Mom, I did promise her I would come,” Abbie
said. “I'm just going to drop by and ask how she is. That's all.”

“You know you don't have to,” Mrs. Thompson reminded her.

“I know. But I want to. Is it okay if I use the car?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Thompson said, “but only if you really want to visit her.”

“I do, Mom,” Abbie answered.

“Davy, it's your turn to clean the kitchen,” Mrs. Thompson said.

“Aw …” While Davy tried to think up a logical reason why he should be excused, Abbie borrowed her mother's car keys and drove to Mrs. Merkel's house.

Darnell Street was bathed in the pink glow of sunset reflected off piles of cottony clouds. Abbie took a long breath, bracing herself for whatever was going to happen. She stepped into the shadow of Mrs. Merkel's porch and rang the doorbell.

She waited a few minutes, listening for footsteps or Mrs. Merkel's voice, but no sound came from inside the house. Abbie rang the bell again, then realized there were no lights inside the house. Had Mrs. Merkel gone out for a walk? She had said she liked to walk.

A strange chill began at the nape of Abbie's neck, trickling through her back and arms.
Nothing's wrong
, she told herself.
The police said they'd drive by her house, and Mrs. Merkel wouldn't open the door to just anybody. She may be upstairs. That's it. She didn't hear the doorbell.

Abbie pounded loudly on the door, wincing because the loud hammering jarred the quiet neighborhood.

No one answered. The house remained completely silent.

Abbie stepped to the side of the porch, leaning toward the nearest window. She cupped her hands and pressed her face and nose against the glass, trying to peer through the lace curtains into the room.

At first it was impossible to see through the gloom, but one at a time shapes began making themselves known, turning into a sofa … chairs … a desk … a coffee table …

As Abbie squinted, straining to examine the room, two white objects began to stand out. On the floor, sticking out from behind the coffee table, were a pair of tennis shoes. Inside the shoes were dark socks, and inside the socks …

Abbie shrieked and jumped back, nearly falling over the porch railing. She ran to the door, tugging, hammering, struggling to open it, but it was locked.

“What's the matter?” someone called.

Abbie leaped back and turned to see a woman standing on her porch next door. “It's Mrs. Merkel!” Abbie shouted. “She's lying on the floor! Call an ambulance! Call the police!”

The woman put her hands to her face. Her eyes widened with horror. “Is she dead?” she whispered.

“I don't know,” Abbie cried out. “Please! Call 911! Hurry! If she's alive she needs help!”

The woman disappeared inside her house, scuttling like a frightened rabbit. Abbie tried the door again, although she knew it wouldn't do any good. As she ran down the steps, heading for the back of the house, she stopped to tug something from the sole of her right shoe. It was a wad of sticky tape. She didn't stop to wonder what it was doing on Mrs. Merkel's steps. She was in too big a hurry. She leaped over broken stepping-stones and jumped to the top of the back steps to shake and wiggle the knob on the door, but it held fast.

Stumbling and tripping as she turned and raced back to the front of the house, Abbie scratched her hands and knees on the broken stones. She scrambled to her feet, ran forward and fell again. She cried out in frustration as she tried her best to hurry. She had to get into the house! She must get help! Mrs. Merkel needed her!

As she rounded the corner of the house, she heard sirens in the distance. The neighbor she had called on for help stood at the edge of the lawn, a little closer but still at a safe distance, as though something in Mrs. Merkel's house could harm her if she drew close enough.

A half dozen other neighbors stood nearby on the sidewalk, their faces eager for news.

“What happened?”

“Is something wrong with Mrs. Merkel?”

“She isn't dead, is she?”

Abbie winced. She didn't try to answer. She
ran toward the curb as both an ambulance and a police car drove onto Darnell Street.

She headed for the ambulance first, shouting to the paramedics who hopped out, “She's lying on the floor! You can see her through the window!”

Motioning to the police officers who walked toward her, she said, “The front door's locked. So is the back door.”

As one officer trotted up to the porch to join the paramedics, the other officer pushed back his hat and pulled out a notebook. “Are you the one who called us?”

“No,” Abbie said, and pointed at the neighbor.

“Ma'am?” the officer asked, but the woman backed away. “I don't know anything about this,” she said. She pointed in turn at Abbie. “She's the one who saw her. She told me to call.”

Abbie heard the thud of the door being forced open. She turned and took a few steps toward the porch, but the officer said, “Wait a minute, young lady. Let them do their job without interference. You stay here. I need to ask you some questions.”

“But I want to know—”

“They'll tell you soon enough. Now, first … what's your name and address?”

Impatiently shifting her weight from foot to foot, Abbie answered his questions, watching while he carefully filled out some kind of form he had in his notebook. She described her connection
to Mrs. Merkel through the Friend to Friend program, which explained why she had come to visit.

Finally Abbie could stand no more questioning. “Could we find out how she is now?” she asked. “Please?”

“Sure,” the officer said as he pocketed his notebook. “My partner probably has more questions for you.”

Abbie was puzzled. “More questions? Like what?”

“Like do you know the name and address of her nearest relatives? Things like that.”

Although the officer's strides were long, Abbie beat him to the front door. She stood on the porch, watching the paramedics, who knelt on the floor working on Mrs. Merkel. That meant she was alive. Abbie breathed a sigh of relief. The room was a mess. Things had been thrown out of the bookcases and the desk, as though someone had been looking for something.

As the other police officer realized Abbie was there and turned to look at her, she quickly asked, “Is Mrs. Merkel sick? Did she have a heart attack?”

The second officer looked questioningly at the first. He nodded and said, “You can tell her.”

The officer looked away and dropped his voice. “She was attacked,” he said. “Someone bashed her in the head. She's still alive, but the medics say she's barely hanging on.”

“What was she hit with?”

“We couldn't find a weapon.” He looked directly
into Abbie's eyes as he asked, “Do you have any idea who could have attacked her?”

“No,” Abbie quickly answered. Then, “Yes,” she added. “I mean I can think of a few people who could have done it.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “A few? You mean a gang?”

“Not a gang,” Abbie said. She told him about Officer Amanda Martin's Buckler's Bloodhounds, the fake roofers who had threatened revenge, and the guy who stole cell phone numbers and had come at Mrs. Merkel in his speeding car.

As she finished her answer, the officer nearest the door said, “A TV crew just arrived.” He looked down at Abbie. “I don't think you want to talk to them. Let's take you out the back door. You want a ride home?”

“No, thanks,” Abbie said. “I drove my mom's car. It's right out in front.”