The Chocolate Bear Burglary (16 page)

I thought of the possibility that Miss Brit was listening in. “Jeff hasn’t explained a thing,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t. Joe and I had found Tess without a hint from Jeff.

I asked a couple of questions about Alicia’s family, then hung up. When I turned around, Tess was standing in the doorway that led to the back hall and the bathroom.

“You didn’t tell her about me,” she said.

“There didn’t seem to be any need.”

“Thanks.” Her voice was calm, and if she blinked back tears, at least she wasn’t hysterical.

“Tess, the press is going to get hold of this,” I said. “Even if I don’t say anything, even if Chief Jones keeps quiet, word is likely to get out. Think about calling your parents later today.”

She nodded miserably and went upstairs.

I almost went up, too. But I’d had to pump myself up to call Rich’s office. Now that I could go to bed, I discovered I was too wide awake to want to. I decided to walk down to get the newspaper from the delivery box at the end of the drive.

I put on my jacket and went out onto the porch, and I entered a new world. When Tess and I had come home about eight-thirty, the sun had been coming up. The day hadn’t looked too promising, but it had been only partially overcast. Now it was snowing and the large flakes were being driven at an angle by the wind. The drive was rapidly being covered. It was mighty cold to a Texas girl.

I paused and looked the situation over, and I almost went back inside. Then I remembered that I was determined not to be a wimpy Texan who was afraid of a little snow, and I zipped up my bright red jacket, pulled my white knitted hat down over my ears, and started down the drive.

Earlier, one of the snowmobile jerks had been cruising around the neighborhood, but now things were silent—silent except for the occasional faint moan of the wind, and the scrunch of my boots as I walked through the fresh snow.

It was cold, true, but it was also pure, somehow. As soon as I was twenty-five or thirty feet down the drive, the house disappeared, hidden by the blowing snow. There was quite a bit of undergrowth in the patch of trees between the house and Lake Shore Drive, so the hundred feet or so that I had to walk became like a hike into the deep forest. The bare limbs of the trees lifted up into an icy fog, and the swirling eddies of snow isolated me. I might as well have been alone in the big woods. I felt that I’d left all my problems back at the house or downtown at the police station. I could have simply walked on into the woods and left the world behind. I might have been the only person left on earth.

Lake Shore Drive, which even in the winter has some traffic, was empty. I crossed to the clump of mailboxes and newspaper delivery boxes, then pulled the rolled newspaper out of the delivery tube. I took the newspaper out of its plastic sack and stuffed the sack in my pocket. Then I simply stood there, enjoying the woods and the snow, the silence, the loneliness, and the loveliness, and wishing I didn’t have to return to real life.

A snowmobile’s motor started, close to me. Resentfully, I turned toward the sound. And from the drive of the Baileys’ summer cottage—a house I knew was empty that time of year—a purple snowmobile came barreling out onto the road.

It headed straight toward me.

T
he next thing I knew, I was behind the row of mailboxes.

I will always half believe a guardian angel threw me there, because I have no recollection at all of jumping, sliding, or stepping aside. But suddenly I was behind the mailboxes, and the snowmobile—after almost running over my right snow boot—had gone by me and was disappearing into the blowing snow.

I was furious. I stepped into the road and shook my fist at the snowmobile’s driver, a shapeless blob in a furry jacket and a helmet like a black bowling ball. “Hey! Are you nuts?” I yelled loudly, though I knew the rider couldn’t hear me over the roar of the engine.

The snowmobile was just a faint outline in the gloom, but I could see it slowing down, and for a moment I thought—maybe a tad self-righteously—that the rider was coming back to apologize.

The snowmobile turned, chewing up the frozen slush alongside Lake Shore Drive with the tractor tread that pushed the thing. It swung back to face me—looking like a giant praying mantis with skis for front legs—then headed right at me again.

I jumped back behind the mailboxes. But the snowmobile had figured that one out. This time it left the road and went behind the mailboxes, heading for my hiding spot.

The driver was trying to kill me.

That realization got my adrenaline in gear. I ducked, curled myself into an egg and scooted under the mailboxes, as close as I could get to the poles that held them up. The snowmobile came right for me. It knocked one mailbox askew, but it missed me by six inches as it went by.

I huddled under the mailboxes. I had to find a better shelter than a few fence posts. I was across the road from Aunt Nettie’s house, on the lake side of Lake Shore Drive. All the houses on that side were summer cottages. And in mid-February every one of them was probably locked up as tight as the bank the day after Jesse James left town. Not only were they locked, but they had heavy shutters on the windows.

I could run into the underbrush, but I wouldn’t be able to run fast, and I’d risk tripping and breaking my neck. There was no help on that side of the road.

No, I had to get across Lake Shore Drive to the inland side. Aunt Nettie’s house was my nearest haven.

The snowmobile had almost disappeared in the swirling snow, but I could see the purple lump turning around again. And if I could see purple, I knew that the rider could see red. I cursed the color of my vivid jacket, but I didn’t dare take time to snatch it off.

The snowmobile was coming back—and this time it might simply mow those mailboxes down. I dashed across the road, toward the house. The snowmobile came roaring right after me.

Merely running up the driveway, where I’d be an easy target, was not my plan. I made it across the road six inches ahead of the snowmobile, veered into the woods, pivoted, and jumped behind a large maple tree.

The snowmobile went up Aunt Nettie’s drive, then slowed and turned around, coming back. The rider was getting better at those quick turns. The machine lay in wait in the driveway, between me and the house.

For a moment I considered just staying there, clutching my maple, in a standoff situation. But there was no permanent safety in that. I had no way of knowing if the snowmobile rider had a gun, for example. The furry jacket and helmet might disguise some kind of monster; he could get off, catch me with his bare hands, and break my neck.

No, my best bet was to try to get back on the drive, where I could run. But for now I had to stay in the underbrush, where branches and logs on the snow-covered ground would keep the snowmobile from following.

I edged forward, toward a new tree, one that was closer to the drive. But I got too close to the drive, and the snowmobile moved toward me. I leaped back toward a tree, tripped over one of those hidden logs and fell flat on my face.

For a moment I thought I was dead. I rolled into a ball, pulled my arms over my head and got ready to be run over and chewed up by that snowmobile. Its roar grew louder and louder.

Then it was past me. The log that had tripped me had also saved me. I had rolled close to it, and the snowmobile had not been able to pull in near enough to run over me.

I scrambled onto my hands and knees. The house was still a long way off, but I was within a couple of steps of the drive. I got out there and started running.

It was no good. A glance over my shoulder confirmed what my ears told me. The snowmobile was coming back. A giant cedar tree was looming up on my right. Aunt Nettie hated that tree. It followed the usual habit of cedars, so its branches only had needles on the outer edges. The whole interior of the tree was bare and ugly. But right now I thought it looked beautiful. I lowered my head and dived in among the lower branches.

That saved me from the next pass of the snowmobile, but it wasn’t a good place to be. I was stuck in there. It was going to be a lot harder to get out than it had been to get in. I tried to spot another tree I could hug, one closer to the house.

In the meantime, the snowmobile was turning around again. The black helmet had a reflective visor that turned the rider into an anonymous force and made the whole apparatus look more like a man-eater than ever.

I crawled out of the cedar and ran into the drive, daring the snowmobile to come toward me. It moved slightly, and I jumped behind another maple on the other side of the lane.

I was still about fifty feet from the house, with at least twenty feet of driveway before the stretch of beach grass Aunt Nettie and I called the lawn. And the snow on that lawn was deep; it would suck at my feet. The lawn might as well be quicksand.

The snowmobile had stopped, its motor still roaring, between me and the house. I jumped forward, but the engine gunned. The snowmobile seemed to be pawing the ground, like a bull waiting to run at the bullfighter. And I jumped back behind my tree like a toreador who forgot his cape.

Rats! The snowmobile was moving toward the house. As I watched, it came to the corner where the trees ended and the beach grass began. There it waited, ready for me to try to cross the cleared area.

Well, I didn’t have to do that. Pretty soon Aunt Nettie, no matter how soundly she was sleeping, was going to notice all that roaring in her yard. She’d look out. She’d see what was going on. She’d call the police.

All I had to do was stay put, and the cavalry would arrive. I contemplated that possibility, and I almost began to breathe normally.

But when it came, the cavalry was going to have a hard time catching that snowmobile. Police cars can not go down the footpaths that link the houses in Aunt Nettie’s neighborhood, but the snowmobile could. It could speed off into the woods and never be seen again.

Chief Jones was going to be asking me what that snowmobile had looked like. I peeked around my tree. The snow was still swirling, and my pursuer was just a dim shape. The snowmobile’s purple looked dull, a sort of eggplant. I could see the skis at the front and the heavy springs that linked them to the body of the snowmobile. Now I made out the slick plastic—fiberglass?—body, the swept-back windshield. And I could see the storm trooper who was riding it. His jacket was some dark color, black or navy, and it had a lot of texture.

The motor gunned again, and the snowmobile moved forward.

It was coming in. Maybe it planned to pin me to my friendly maple. I marked another tree a few feet closer to the house and jumped for it.

I got to that tree, huddled behind it, and put my head around to look at the snowmobile. It went by so close that I could have touched the faceless creature riding it. But he missed me. As he went by I ran closer to the house, to another maple—one tree nearer to safety. I peeked around my tree and decided I had enough time for one more dash.

And that dash took me to the tree closest to the house. Not that I could see the house very well, but this big elm, maybe sixty feet high and eight feet around, was on the edge of the lawn. The lawn was covered with several feet of snow. If I cut across the lawn, I’d cut a hundred feet or more off my dash to safety. But it wasn’t going to be easy running.

The snowmobile veered out onto the beach grass and swung around. Screaming wasn’t going to do any good. The snowmobile’s noise was deafening. I muttered under my breath. “Aunt Nettie, wake up and call those cops.”

What was I going to do? Throw snowballs at the snowmobile?

I looked at my hands helplessly. And for the first time I realized they weren’t empty. I was still holding a rolled-up copy of the
Grand Rapids Press.
Fat lot of good that was going to do.

I decided to feint. I’d jump out and entice the snowmobile into making another pass. Then I’d jump back behind my tree. After the snowmobile had passed me, I’d run for the back porch. I knew the back door was unlocked.

I took a deep breath and jumped out. But the snowmobile didn’t bite. It stayed on the drive.

I stepped forward one more step. Then another. Had it given up?

Suddenly the engine revved, and it came at me.

I was still out from behind my tree.

I ran back toward the tree. And that deep, horrible snow pulled at my feet every step. It was like slogging through mud, through five feet of water, through a vat of chocolate.

The snowmobile was nearly on me. I wasn’t going to make it. I was going to die. Desperately, I threw the rolled-up newspaper. It hit the swept-back windshield.

And the snowmobile veered, went by me, hit a tree and tipped over. It lay on its side, its front skis sticking out helplessly, its back tread churning in the air.

I stared. Then I ran for the house.

I’d been told that snowmobiles tipped over easily. But I’d also heard that they were easy to get back upright. So I didn’t wait around to check on the rider.

I didn’t look back. I slogged through the snow to the back walk, skidded over the new snow that was rapidly covering the flagstones, and jumped onto the porch. I didn’t stop. I charged right into the kitchen, slammed the door, and locked it. Then I took two deep breaths before I ran into the back hall, which had the closest window that looked over that side of the lawn.

For a moment the blowing snow almost kept me from seeing anything. Then I saw a purple form. And a woolly jacket and bowling-ball head. The rider was pushing the snowmobile upright. As I watched he got aboard and took off across the lawn and down the drive, leaving nothing behind but a chewed-up patch of snow. In less than a minute there was nothing to see but the snow, nothing to hear but the swish of the falling flakes.

I stood there, looking out the back window, and the whole episode seemed unbelievable. Had I really run through the snow, dodging a man-eater? I stood there in that odd little back hall—part pantry, part corridor between Aunt Nettie’s bedroom and the bathroom—and for a moment I actually doubted the chase had happened.