The Stranger Next Door (9 page)

When Rocky and Blake returned to the motel with their purchases, there was a message to call Mr. Franklin.

“Good news,” Blake said after he hung up. “Your mother testified this morning, and everything went as hoped. She was on the witness stand for nearly an hour; the attorneys said there’s no doubt that she won the case for them.”

“Can she come home now?” Rocky asked.

“She needs to stay until the jurors begin deliberating, in case she gets recalled.”

“When will that be?”

“Possibly as early as Monday; sometime next week, for sure.”

Rocky nodded. He knew that his mother could not have prevented the fire nor could she do anything other than what Blake was doing to make this time easier. Still, he would be glad when she came home and the three of them were together again, like an ordinary family.

“Mr. Franklin also said he spoke with Mrs. Woolsey and arranged for us to move into a different house in Valley View Estates. It’s two streets over from the one we had
before. You’ll stay in the same school and same class; we can even keep our new phone number.”

“When can we move in?”

“Mrs. Woolsey will meet us there tonight at eight to give us the keys. Mr. Franklin scheduled the appointment for after dinner because he wasn’t sure when we would get his message.”

“Are we going to stay there tonight?”

“If we sleep there tonight we’ll have to sleep on the floor. Mr. Franklin already had the power and water turned on, but the furniture won’t be delivered until Monday.”

“I vote for a bed and TV set,” Rocky said. “What would we do in an empty house?”

“I agree.”

Rocky cut the tags off his new clothes, then put Mr. Kendrill’s shoes and the extra clothes from Alex in a bag, to be returned. He would add the rest of Alex’s clothes as soon as they were washed.

He was glad the new house was two blocks from Alex. It would be easier not to get involved with Alex and his goofy little brother when they weren’t right next door. He would still see Alex in school, but he wouldn’t have to worry that every time he walked outdoors, someone would be waiting to invite him over.

Rocky knew he had hurt Benjie’s feelings by refusing
to look at the little boy’s paintings, and he knew Alex was disappointed that Rocky didn’t go over to shoot baskets when Alex invited him. Alex had made it clear that he would like to be Rocky’s friend, and under other circumstances, Rocky would gladly have accepted Alex’s invitations.

I don’t want friends anymore, Rocky thought. He missed Nathan a lot, but it was too hard to worry all the time that he would slip up and say something about his past, something that would give away the secret and put his family in danger. Better to keep to himself, and not take any chances.

Rocky opened the new book he’d just bought but couldn’t concentrate on the story. Mr. Franklin had said that the fire could have been set by someone in the mob as a form of harassment. If that was so, the fire was only the beginning. Like a cat with a cornered mouse, the mob would keep Rocky’s family constantly afraid of what might happen next.

“Blake,” Rocky said, “do you think the mob started the fire? Do you think they know where we are?”

“I can’t be positive,” Blake said, “but I don’t think so. Mr. Franklin feels it’s safe for us to stay in Valley View. He’s experienced in situations like ours, and he wouldn’t take a chance if he felt we were in danger here.”

Rocky wanted to believe that this was true, but he
couldn’t help feeling scared. He wondered what his mother was doing at that moment. He wondered if the fire investigators would find any clues to the arsonist. He wondered if he would ever feel like a normal kid again.

W
hen Alex got home
after school, a fire department car was parked in the Morrises’ driveway. Two
men stood in the midst of the rubble.

Benjie, with his binoculars around his neck and wearing his backpack full of spy supplies, watched them from the family room while he ate a slice of cold pizza. “They’re fire investigators,” he told Alex. “They were here when I got home. They told me they’ve been working all day.”

“Have the Morrises been back?” Alex asked.

“Nope. Not since I got home.”

“My class is collecting clothes and blankets and household things for the Morrises.”

“That’s a good idea,” Mrs. Kendrill said. “I got them some laundry soap and canned goods today, but I haven’t seen them.”

“The investigators are sifting the rubble through a
screen,” Benjie reported. “I asked one of them about it, and he told me it’s amazing how much stuff they find that way. He said people think a fire destroys all the evidence, but it doesn’t.”

“If they want evidence,” Pete said, “tell them to look for footprints in the weeds behind the house. Tell them the arsonist parked one street over and came in the back way, carrying a can of gasoline.”

“Does Pete need to be fed?” Mrs. Kendrill asked.

Alex checked the cat dish, which was half-full. “No. I think he wants to go out.”

“Yes. Yes. Let me out.” Pete stood on his hind legs and stretched his front paws toward the doorknob.

“I think he’s ready to be off the leash,” Alex said. “He’s so unhappy indoors. I try to walk him every day, but it’s only for a short time. He always growls when it’s time to come in.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Mrs. Kendrill said. “Surely he knows by now that this is our house.”

“I knew that before we moved in,” Pete said. “What do you think I am, a newborn kitten? Humans are the only creatures who need maps. We cats find our way without help, and we hardly ever get lost.”

“That constant yowling is getting on my nerves,” Mrs. Kendrill said. “Let him out.”

Alex opened the door. “There you go,” he said. “Come home when I call you.”

Pete did not bother to answer such a ridiculous statement. Alex ought to know by now that Pete would come home when he felt like coming home. If he didn’t want to come, Alex could call until his voice was hoarse, and Pete wouldn’t move an inch.

Pete strolled away from the house, heading toward the weeds behind the Morrises’ house. He had watched the investigators from the window all day, and nobody had looked for clues there.

He had no trouble picking up the arsonist’s trail. Not only were the weeds broken where the man had stepped on them, there were strong smells where gasoline had dripped to the ground.

Pete’s ears flattened as he slunk along, remembering what he had witnessed the night before. He wished now that he had run after the man, but at the time he had been so shocked all he could think of was getting safely home.

Pete passed the stake with a wide pink plastic ribbon fluttering from it that marked the back of the Morrises’ lot. He continued through the weeds until he reached Alder Court, the street that was one block over from Elm Lane, where he lived. He knew this was the way the arsonist had come.

Pete looked in both directions. Three houses at the end of the street sprouted
FOR SALE
signs in their yards; the rest of the property was vacant. An empty food wrapper clung to the weeds along the edge of the street.

Pete started toward the wrapper but stopped before he reached it. His tail swished with excitement. There, lying next to the curb, was the empty gas can. The arsonist, in his rush to get away, must have dropped it when he got in the car.

Pete stepped slowly around the can, smelling the gasoline. Then he turned and trotted back through the weeds to where the investigators were poking through the charred pieces of the Morrises’ house.

Yellow tape that said
FIRE SCENE KEEP OUT
in black letters surrounded the house. Pete went under the tape and approached the men.

“Come this way,” Pete said. “I found the gas can that the man used to start the fire.”

One of the investigators looked up. “Hello, cat,” he said. “I hope you didn’t live here.”

“Follow me,” Pete said. “I have something to show you.”

“Are you hungry, fellow?” the man said.

Pete wondered why humans always thought he was asking for food. Didn’t they know that cats talk about many subjects, including the best places to hunt for mice, how to bat your toys under the furniture, and the delight of shredding a full roll of toilet tissue? Why, Pete could hold his own in any conversation.

“Follow me,” Pete repeated.

The man put down the tools he held and walked away
from the fire site. For a moment Pete thought the man was actually going to follow him. Instead the man went to his car, which was parked in the Morrises’ driveway, and got in. Leaving the door open, he unwrapped a sandwich, broke off a piece of ham, and tossed it toward Pete.

After swallowing the ham, Pete said, “Thanks, but I didn’t come to eat lunch with you. I came to show you some evidence.” He walked a few steps toward the back of the lot.

The man stayed in his car, eating the sandwich.

Pete ran to the yellow tape, grabbed it in his teeth, and took off across the backyard. A length of tape snapped off.

“Hey!” The man laid his sandwich on the car seat, then ran after Pete. “Come back here with that.”

Pete raced through the weeds with ten feet of tape trailing after him. He was careful not to run in the same place where the arsonist had walked. He didn’t want to disturb any footprints or other evidence.

The arson investigator was fast, but Pete was faster. He reached the curb at the far side of the lot behind the Morrises’, then sat down to wait for the investigator. He dropped the tape.

“You scamp,” the man said as he picked up the piece of tape. “You just want to play, don’t you?”

The man stuffed the tape in his pocket then turned to go back.

“Open your eyes!” Pete shrieked. “Look around!”

The man glanced over his shoulder. “What’s wrong with you now?” he asked.

Pete trotted toward the gas can.

“Hey, Allen!” the man shouted. “Come here and bring the fingerprint kit. I found a gas can!”

Pete watched while the two men dusted the gas can for fingerprints. He washed his whiskers while they put it in a plastic bag and labeled it. He saw them carefully walk through the weeds, noting where some were trampled.

Finally, satisfied that the fire investigators had discovered everything he wanted them to see, Pete sauntered back to their car, jumped inside, and finished off the ham sandwich.

Then he needed a nap. His stomach bulged from the sandwich, and he was tired from all the excitement, but he didn’t want to go home yet. Once he went inside, Alex might not let him out again, so he crawled under the Kendrills’ back porch, curled up in the dirt, and fell asleep.

P
ete awoke to
hear Alex calling him: “Here, Pete. Here, Pete. Time to come home.”

Pete arched his back, stretched his hind legs, then stretched his front legs. He waited until Alex quit calling. When he heard Alex close the door, he came out from under the porch.

Pink clouds hovered at the horizon, chasing the setting sun. My favorite time of day, Pete thought. Mouse time.

He walked away from his house, across the backyard, and through the small grove of trees that separated the Kendrills’ property from the lot behind theirs. He planned to return to the place where he had found the gas can. He didn’t expect to discover any more clues; he was only curious to know what smells would remain from the investigators and their fingerprint dust.

Pete walked slowly, enjoying his freedom. He listened for any rustling in the long grass where an unsuspecting mouse might be caught unaware.

When he emerged from the weeds, he had reached the curb at the far side of the back lot. He stopped, then looked both ways.

To his left, at the curve of the dead-end street, a parked car hugged the curb in front of one of the vacant houses. It looked like the same car that the arsonist had used the night before.

Pete backed into the weeds, then crouched, making himself as inconspicuous as possible. Only his face peered out, staring through the dim light at the parked car and the three houses beyond it.

Soon he saw a person come around the side of the center house. Pete was too far away to tell if it was the same man who had started the fire at the Morrises’ house.

The person walked slowly around the perimeter of the house. Pete’s tail swished. His ears flattened. The faint scent of gasoline floated past him on the breeze.

He’s going to do it again, Pete realized. It is the same man, and he’s starting another house fire.

Pete raced for home, skimming the tops of the weeds, stretching his legs out as far as they would go. He ran up the back steps, pawed at the kitchen door, and called, “Alex! Come quick!”

Mrs. Kendrill opened the door, holding a mixing bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. “There you are,” she said. “We’ve been calling you.”

She held the door open, but Pete did not go in.

“Hurry,” he said. “Follow me!”

“Pete, get in here,” Mrs. Kendrill said. She stepped out and tried to nudge him with her foot in the direction of the door.

Pete backed away.

“Alex is out looking for you,” Mrs. Kendrill said. She set the bowl on the clothes dryer and tried to grab Pete.

He jumped out of her reach.

Mrs. Kendrill sighed, went in, and closed the door.

“Where is he?” Pete said. “Where’s Alex?”

The door opened again. “Do you want to come in or don’t you?” Mrs. Kendrill said.

Pete did not move. “I want Alex.”

“Honestly,” Mrs. Kendrill said. “I think you just like to hear yourself meow.” She shut the door.

Pete heard the lock click. He hurried to the front of the house; maybe Alex was looking for him there.