Voices at Whisper Bend (12 page)

As she was buttoning it, she heard a voice—no, two voices, raised in an argument. She reached out to touch Robbie's hand. In the dark, she could see his face nodding. He'd heard it too. She strained to listen. It sounded like a man and a child.

“I don't want to,” the child said.

“What you want don't matter. You'll do as I say.”

“But—”

“No buts,” the man's voice said.

Charlotte fisted her hands and felt her fingernails bite into her palms. Were these their thieves? She ran a finger along the handle of Jim's baseball bat. Would she dare swing it?

“Please don't make me,” the child's voice continued. Charlotte heard sniffs; the poor kid was crying. And then a slap and the rough sound of a person hauling somebody where he didn't want to go.

She turned and caught Paul's eye. He shook his head. He was staring at the riverbank just like she'd been. Neither of them had seen a thing.

The boat rocked slightly, and Charlotte felt Robbie creep back from the bow to sit close beside her. Noiselessly, she slid over to make room. Little brother or not, he was a comfort. His hand reached out for hers, and it was cold and shaking. Were those voices coming toward them?

Except for the regular lapping of the river against the rowboat, she hadn't heard any water sounds. So if the crooks were coming, it had to be by land. But even as Paul drew the boat closer to shore, nothing moved, nothing showed in the bend of the river but the shine of water, the bare branches of trees, and the misshapen shadows that outlined the scrap pile.

Minutes went by—fifteen, maybe twenty—and still nothing happened. Paul kept rowing upstream to keep the cove in view, but except for that, nothing moved.

Then a splash. And another, coming toward them from the middle of the river. Whatever it was, it sounded big. Charlotte grabbed her flashlight in one hand, the bat in the other. She waited, counting her breaths. The splashing got closer.

From behind, Paul nudged her. She shoved the flashlight into Robbie's hands and gripped the bat with both of hers. She elbowed Robbie's side and he switched on the light, pointing it toward the sounds.

“Oh, geez. A dumb mutt.” Paul's voice came out shaky.

Charlotte released the bat and stared where the light pointed. A shaggy, good-sized dog was swimming across the water toward them. He looked almost like he was trying to wag his tail.

“If we don't watch out, that dog will try to climb in this rowboat and dump us all out,” she said. “Let's go home. I've had enough excitement for one night.”

Robbie's voice chimed in, “Me too. I'm kinda cold.”

Then she heard herself saying, “Well, smarten up, buster. Tomorrow night wear a sweater.”

Had she really done that? Had she somehow agreed to come out here again? She looked out on the river and shivered. Where had those voices come from?

C
HAPTER
11

V
OICES IN THE
F
OG

The next morning, Charlotte awoke to a gray and rainy sky. Thank heavens, they wouldn't have to go out on the river today. Only a crazy person would do that. As she dressed for school, she peered out the window. A steady rain, the kind that could go on all day.
Good for the garden,
she thought.
And good for me
.

She needed a gentle day and evening. After last night's hours on the river, she'd stayed awake a long time, afraid to let herself drift off to sleep. And when she finally did sleep, the dream came again—Jim and the water and the ship, but this time with ghostly voices floating in the mist.

It took the whole walk to school to fill Betsy in on the night's adventures. At school, the rain clouds had cast shadows on everyone. Nobody could remember how to smile. Of course, it didn't help that Frankie Zalenchak came back to school after his brother's funeral. Everywhere Frankie walked, silence followed. Even when he wasn't nearby, Charlotte didn't dare laugh, because what if he happened to turn the corner and she was laughing? If you had a dead brother, could you ever stand the sound of kids laughing?

By lunchtime, Charlotte felt as stretched and thin as a rubber band on a package. If anybody did or said one more bad thing …

“Hey, Charlotte, guess what?” Sophie Jaworski stood with her arms folded across her chest and grinned.

Charlotte had the feeling Sophie might just say that one bad thing. “Not right now, Sophie. I've got to go check with Betsy about something.”

“I'll come too,” Sophie offered. “That way I can tell you both at the same time.” She tagged along like a stray puppy, reminding Charlotte of the dog they'd seen in the river. She shivered at the thought.

When they reached Betsy, Sophie began to talk right away. “We know who the thief is,” she began.

“Oh, come on.” Charlotte snapped her mouth shut before she said any more, but inside, questions pushed so hard she had to clench her jaw to keep from spitting them out.
What do you know, and how? Did you find the thief's hiding place? No. Did you lurk in the shadows in a puny little rowboat to watch for him? No. Can you do anything at all, besides flap your tongue?

“Who is it?” Betsy asked.

“Wagon Willie. We know for sure.”

Charlotte felt her lungs swell. She took in a huge breath, then another. Her cheeks burned and she made her hands into fists. “That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard, Sophie Jaworski. Take it back.”

“I will not. It's true.”

“How do you know?”

“He's got keys to the school. By the second time the thief came, there was a lock on the cellar door, remember? So the room was locked up tight. But the thief didn't break the lock to get in. Which means he must have had keys. Wagon Willie has keys. So he's got to be the thief.”

“I don't know, Sophie,” Betsy began. “Mr. Willis doesn't seem like a bad man.”

“Betsy, you should be glad it's him. That way, kids will stop blaming you. You should help prove he did it, don't you see?”

“No.” The word came out so hard it nearly burned Charlotte's tongue. “What if somebody else has keys? What if somebody swiped his keys? What if he forgot to lock up that night? What if he put the lock in wrong and it didn't work? What if—”

“Why do you care, Charlotte?” Sophie interrupted. “He's just a crazy old man. My sister says they shouldn't let people like that work in schools. He could scare kids.”

“Your sister also said Mr. Costa was an Italian spy,” Charlotte said. “When it comes to meanness, your sister's a hundred times more scary than Mr. Willis. And so are you.” She grabbed Betsy's arm and marched away from Sophie, who for once had nothing more to say.

They held recess in the gym because of the rain. Charlotte grabbed a jump rope and spun it, jumping as fast as she could. She didn't even count the jumps, her mind was so stirred up. Rumors, suspicion, finger-pointing—it was rotten to think about poor Mr. Willis like that. It made Charlotte furious.

But by the end of recess, his name was a hum, spreading around the room under the sound of jumps and bounces and yells.

Charlotte wanted to stick her fingers in her ears. “What are we going to do, Betsy? Poor Mr. Willis.”

“Are you sure he didn't do it?” Betsy replied. “I mean, he could have taken the scrap upriver as easy as anybody else, couldn't he?”

“Not you too!” Charlotte turned away and bumped into Paul Rossi, who was charging toward her with a frown on his face.

“You hear what they're saying? About Wagon Willie?”

“Yeah.” Charlotte nodded.

“So what are we going to do about it, Charlotte? Unless you think, like the rest of these bozos, that Mr. Willis has a criminal mind just because he can't talk real smooth.”

“I don't think that! But what can we do?”

“Catch the real thief.”

Charlotte shook her head. “You don't mean … Not tonight … Not in the rain …”

“Why not? It's a perfect night for a thief. He can come and haul his loot away and nobody will see. Who else would be out?” He grinned at her.

Charlotte swallowed hard. She turned. “Betsy? Can you come?” Betsy understood how she felt about the river. With Betsy in the boat, she might make it through another night on the water. “Please.”

“I'd help if I could, Charlotte. You know that. But my ma is so strict.”

“But the rain …” Charlotte protested, turning back to Paul.

“Come on, Charlotte, your pa's a river man. You've got old oilskins around the house. If not, we've got extras from my brothers. Besides, it's May. A little spring rain never hurt anyone.”

Right, Charlotte thought. Spring rain was soft and gentle. Spring rain fed the flowers. But it also fed creeks and rivers. It turned into river water and popped huge barges from their moorings and set them adrift.

“Decide, Charlotte. We have to catch the real thief, or Wagon Willie could be in a lot of trouble. He could lose his job. Unless that doesn't matter to you.”

“Of course it matters, but—”

“Great,” he said, smacking her shoulder. “Meet me by the boat then. Same time as last night.”

“Come on, Charlie. Hurry up. It's getting dark.” Robbie stood by the back door, wrapped in one of Pa's old jackets. He kicked at the bottom of the door.

Charlotte buttoned her sweater. “Don't hurry me, buster. I don't want to go at all, so don't push.”

“Fine. Me and Paul will do better without you.” He reached for the doorknob.

She knocked his hand away. “Let me finish getting dressed. Are you sure you're wrapped up enough?”

“Stop fussing, Charlie. You're worse than Ma.”

“Yeah, and how am I supposed to explain to Ma if your clothes get soaked? Should I tell her you took a bath with your pants on?”

“We've been over this already. If anything gets wet, we hide it in Jim's closet. Come on. Paul will leave without us.”

Charlotte tightened Jim's spare oilskin around herself. She checked her bag from the night before and picked up the baseball bat. “Okay. I'm ready.”

What a lie that was. She'd take ten spelling tests, twenty arithmetic tests, if it meant she didn't have to go out on the water tonight with all that rain. But when she thought about poor Mr. Willis, what choice did she have? She'd spent the afternoon trying to think of a better way to catch the thief and she'd come up empty. Even if they showed the police the stash of metal, somebody could still say Mr. Willis had taken it and hidden it by the river.

She stood on the back porch and locked the door, wishing that somehow Betsy could sneak out and join them.

Robbie bounced down the steps. “Hurry up. I think tonight's the night. I got a feeling about it.” He splashed through a puddle and onto the street.

She hurried to catch up. “So do I, buster. A bad feeling.”

Her worry didn't lighten when they reached the river. Even in the near-darkness, she could see how angry and muddy it looked. When she stepped into the rowboat, the current rocked her. “Water's high, Paul.”

“I know. We'll have to be extra careful. You too, Robbie.”

“Aye, aye. Let's go get the crooks.”

Paul rowed. The beat of rain on the water hid their slight splashes as the boat nosed into the river. When he pulled his oars out between strokes, the current shoved the boat backward. Staying even with the cove would be hard work tonight. Charlotte might have to take a turn at the oars.

She peered forward into the gloom. If she were rowing, she wouldn't have to look out at the water rushing past. She'd be working too hard to hear it slap against the sides of the boat. She closed her eyes. They hadn't reached the cove yet. She didn't have to look at all. But not seeing was worse, for she could imagine …

“Paul. When we get there tonight, could we tie up somewhere? I don't like the feel of the river.”

“Maybe. But it would make a getaway harder. I'm not sure which is worse.”

Charlotte sighed and huddled on the seat. Already rain was leaking in around her collar and at the tops of her boots. She hugged herself and tried not to shiver. “Maybe we should just wait till Pa comes home and haul the metal to the scrap yard on his tug. Forget about the thief.”

“If we don't catch him before your pa comes home, maybe. But tonight we've got to keep watch for the thief. It's a perfect night.”

“Perfectly awful,” Charlotte grumbled.

“What if they have a motor?” Robbie asked. “We'll never catch them if they have a motor.”

“With gas shortages? Not likely,” Paul said.

“They could too have a motor,” Robbie argued. “If they could steal our metal, they could steal somebody's gas. So there.”

“Come on, buster. We've got to be quiet, remember?”

As they neared the small cove, the night grew darker, and fog began to drift along the river, mixing with the rain. Upstream somewhere a train whistle blew, long and loud and so lonesome Charlotte wanted to cry. “We should go home,” she said softly. “It's nuts to be out here tonight.”