Stolen Secrets Read online

  She smoothed the bedspread. “All I know is that he’s a good man. And I’d rather let him talk to you when the time’s right.”

  I rolled my eyes. “When will the time ever be right? It’ll take 20 years.”

  “Sam wants us all to be safe. That’s all.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about.

  She picked up a book from my bedside table and scanned the back cover. Mom’s always looking at what other people write. “You ready for Friday night?”

  The elementary school had recently gone through No TV Week, and as a prize to kids who turned off the tube, the organizers had planned a sleepover at the school. The principal, Mrs. Genloe, asked Mom to read a story to the kids and wondered if Bryce and I would help with the event.

  “Think they’ll still have it if they haven’t caught the attacker?” I said.

  “I hope so. I’ve been working on a short story.”

  “About what?”

  She winked. “Wait and see.”

  Chapter 6

  Sam phoned the police, but I thought I saw him hesitate as he dialed. Was he afraid of something?

  Since we didn’t know whether the man had a gun, Sam said we shouldn’t follow him. When the police got to the gym, an officer in a dark blue uniform with the words City of Red Rock on a patch on his sleeve took a flashlight and looked behind the building. He seemed young for a police officer and eager, like a pup who thinks he’s being taken for a walk. I mean, the officer didn’t wag his tail—he just had that look.

  “Saw footprints,” the officer said when he returned, “but he could be anywhere.” He pointed to the interstate in the distance. “If he makes it there, he could hitch a ride to Denver or Colorado Springs.”

  Sam said the man was wearing a green jacket, had brown hair to his shoulders, and wore jeans and hiking boots. I hadn’t seen all that.

  “Think this is the guy who assaulted those girls?” I said.

  The officer scratched his cheek. “Possible, son.”

  He radioed in the information and asked for a tracking dog. Sliding behind the wheel of a squad car that said Proud to Serve on the door, he thanked us for our help. “If you see anything else suspicious, give us a call.”

  Chapter 7

  Bryce and I waited for the bus at the end of our driveway. The sky was dark, like our moods. We had searched through the newspaper but found only a tiny story about the attack.

  We weren’t happy about not being able to ride our ATVs. We always rode them unless it was raining or had snowed a few feet. The news said it might snow, like it does a lot here in April. If it did, we wouldn’t feel so bad.

  When we got on the bus I could tell some kids were surprised to see me. Marion sat near the back.

  “Find out anything?” I said.

  She pulled out a sheet of paper with several names on it. “These kids live near town and probably walk.”

  I leaned over and read. Most were eighth graders, but there were a few in Bryce’s and my grade, seventh, and a couple of sixth graders.

  “Somebody said the girls died last night,” Marion said.

  I could barely get my breath. “Died?”

  The kids in front of me turned around, and Marion made a face. “Shh,” she whispered. “I heard the guy tried to kidnap them and when they wouldn’t get in his car, he ran over them.”

  That hadn’t been in the paper or on the radio.

  A police cruiser sat outside the school, and the drop-off area for kids getting rides was packed. Inside, a poster directed everyone to the auditorium. I couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

  When everyone got there, the principal, Mr. Forster, walked stiff-legged to the microphone. He has a kind face and light brown hair, blue eyes, and a goatee. He limps—Marion said he’d been probed by aliens—and each time he saw me in the hall he said hello and remembered my name. When Bryce and I first moved to Red Rock, he had told us how sorry he was that our father had died and that he would do anything he could to make our years at the school good ones.

  “Good morning, students,” he began. “As most of you heard, two of your classmates were attacked yesterday as they walked home from school. I want you to know that you are all safe, and we’ll make sure you remain that way.”

  Teachers stood along the walls, watching over us like mother hens.

  “You will see a police officer here throughout the day,” Mr. Forster continued. “He’s here for your protection.”

  Someone raised a hand and asked if the police had caught the guy.

  “No, but the students are at the station trying to identify him.”

  So much for their having been run over.

  “Who are they?” someone said.

  Mr. Forster frowned. “We’re not saying. I’m sure you can understand how tough this has been for both of them.”

  When the assembly was over, everyone moved to their lockers like zombies. I don’t usually feel this way, but I couldn’t wait to get to band.

  Chapter 8

  Our band director, Mr. Scarberry, was late, so kids were chattering all over the place. One said the two girls had been beaten up and had lots of bruises. Others said they knew who the girls were but weren’t allowed to tell. Skeeter Messler, who has a thing for my sister, handed Ashley a fresh tulip. It looked like one of the flowers that grew outside the building.

  “I’m glad it wasn’t you,” Skeeter said.

  “Thanks,” Ashley said, looking like she was trying to smile.

  I knew she hated the attention, but the guy just couldn’t help himself. He treated her like a princess. I wanted to shake him and say, “Hello? This is Ashley! She burps and picks broccoli out of her teeth!” But I knew that wouldn’t stop him. He seemed in a trance every time he was around her.

  Mr. Scarberry finally walked in with a cup of steaming coffee and said hello to each section of the band. As usual, he opened his black book and called roll. When he came to Tracy Elliot’s name, he stopped, put the pencil to his tongue, made a mark, and moved on.

  Everybody knew Tracy was a party girl. She was last chair in a long line of clarinets, even behind Skeeter, who was affectionately called Squeaker by the other woodwinds. Tracy hung around with an eighth grader named Cammy Michaels, and their parents let them stay all day at the bowling alley, the arcade, or the Chapel Hills Mall in Colorado Springs. I guessed they were the ones who had been attacked.

  Chapter 9

  Usually you heard people laughing and telling jokes in the cafeteria, but at lunch it felt like someone had replaced our Twinkies with lima beans. Kids whispered. Soda cans popped and paper bags crackled.

  “I knew it,” Marion said, pulling from her brown bag an apple she said had been grown organically. “Cammy and Tracy do everything together.”

  “Still think they’re dead?” I said, knowing Mr. Forster wouldn’t lie about their being at the police station.

  Marion shrugged. “They have to notify the next of kin before they can tell us. I say the guy took off with them.”

  Hayley sat next to me.

  “This guy could be an alien,” Marion said.

  Hayley rolled her eyes.

  “Seriously, I’ve read about people being abducted right out of their houses and taken up to spaceships. I’ll bet the girls don’t even remember half of what happened. . . .”

  As Marion continued, Mr. Forster walked in. I stood and he nodded. “Ashley,” he said.

  “Mr. Forster, people are talking about Cammy and Tracy.” He didn’t seem surprised. “I’ve heard everything from them being beaten up to them actually being dead.”

  He shook his head and chuckled. “I met with the victims this morning. They’re shaken up, of course, but I expect they’ll be back at school tomorrow.”

  “So it is Cammy and Tracy?”

  Mr. Forster looked at his watch. “Lunch is almost over, Ms. Timberline.”

  Chapter 10

  The day dragged as we waited for news. Coach Bald
win ran us guys to death in gym class, getting us ready for our time trials in the mile.

  I nearly fell asleep in English class and would have if Mrs. Ferguson hadn’t decided to tell us a spooky short story about a teenage girl who decides to run away with some guy in a car.

  “Good literature—stories—help us make sense of what’s going on around us,” she said. “Some great stories have come out of terrible circumstances.”

  This was all leading to something I wasn’t sure I liked. Mrs. Ferguson glanced at her watch. “Think about something bad that’s happened to you. Make up a character, give him or her a name, and change that story’s outcome. You’ll read your stories aloud tomorrow in class.”

  Only one thing came to my mind. My dad.

  Chapter 11

  Just before English was over, Mr. Forster made an announcement over the PA system that he wanted everyone to exit at the front of the building. There are a million doors in our school, so going out only in the front means lots of crowding and pushing. I figured the guy who had attacked the two girls was still loose.

  Bryce and I can make it home in about 10 minutes on our ATVs, but when we ride the bus we have to go to the high school and take the long way home up Red Rock Hill, so it’s an extra 45 minutes.

  I wrote my story on the way, imagining that on the day Dad went on his trip I had spilled cereal on his suit and he had to change. Then I had a bike accident as he was backing out of the driveway, and he had to help me. I kept doing dumb things, and he kept getting delayed until he missed his flight.

  The last line of my story read, “On the day all the planes in the world were told to stay on the ground, my father came home and hugged me for saving his life.”

  I wished it were true.

  Then I thought about Sam and his confession. I hoped I didn’t have another story to tell.

  Chapter 12

  When I found out Ashley had written her story about Dad, I tore up what I had written. It was only two sentences, but I made a big deal about it, acting angry and hurt. Our upcoming basketball game was against Coronado, a team that had barely beaten us the last time. I could write about that.

  But I didn’t.

  I put off writing and played video games upstairs in the barn. Sam has an office there and an exercise room where he lets us play games and walk on the treadmill or lift weights.

  I was in there alone when Sam’s phone rang, and his answering machine picked up.

  My heart thumped as the beep sounded. I hit the Pause button on my game and strained to hear the message.

  A fast-talking man said, “Sam . . . have to get used to that. It’s Tim in D.C. Just making sure you got back okay. Hope things are going better for you.” The man paused. “Look, we’ve been talking about your situation. This is the kind of thing we were concerned about when you started this new family. The director thinks it’s best you keep as much information as you can to yourself. If we have to move you again, we’ll make it happen. Good seeing you again. Been a long time. Take care.”

  Chapter 13

  That night on the phone Hayley said her mother saw Cammy and Tracy going into the Toot Toot Café at about noon. That seemed odd, unless the police were taking them to eat.

  Mom kept the house locked tight during the day. Even our dogs, Pippin and Frodo, seemed skittish, milling around the back door and whining. When I let them out, they went as far as the invisible fence allowed and stuck their noses in the air.

  Sam said if the police hadn’t caught the guy by now, whoever it was had probably gotten away—maybe by hopping a freight train. The guy could have headed north to Denver, bought a bus ticket, and could be anywhere.

  Still, Mom and Sam wouldn’t let us ride our ATVs to school, and the local Girl Scout troop canceled its meeting. Leigh wanted to practice driving and get more night hours so she could get her license, but Sam had left to take Dylan for a haircut and Mom said she didn’t want to be out after dark.

  Leigh stomped to her room and slammed the door. I felt bad for her, having lost her mom and little sister in the same plane crash that killed my dad. I could tell she was trying hard to like Bryce and me, but she wasn’t trying hard enough, if you know what I mean. I couldn’t help feeling that Bryce and I were just one of the inconveniences in her life.

  I read a little in my Bible before I went to sleep. I try to read something out of it every day, but I don’t always. Tonight it was a passage in Luke 10. Jesus had just said you have to love your neighbor as yourself, and an expert in the law asked him, “Who is my neighbor?”

  Jesus said:

  “A Jewish man was traveling on a trip from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he was attacked by bandits. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him up, and left him half dead beside the road.

  “By chance a priest came along. But when he saw the man lying there, he crossed to the other side of the road and passed him by. A Temple assistant walked over and looked at him lying there, but he also passed by on the other side.

  “Then a despised Samaritan came along, and when he saw the man, he felt compassion for him. Going over to him, the Samaritan soothed his wounds with olive oil and wine and bandaged them. Then he put the man on his own donkey and took him to an inn, where he took care of him. The next day he handed the innkeeper two silver coins, telling him, ‘Take care of this man. If his bill runs higher than this, I’ll pay you the next time I’m here.’

  “Now which of these three would you say was a neighbor to the man who was attacked by bandits?” Jesus asked.

  The man replied, “The one who showed him mercy.”

  Then Jesus said, “Yes, now go and do the same.”

  I’ve heard a whole lot of sermons about this guy, the Good Samaritan, but it struck me tonight that Jesus was like this man. He didn’t have to come to earth and help us, but he did. He must have felt deep pity for us because we were so trapped by our sins. And he paid a lot more than just money to help us—he paid with his own life.

  I wrote in my journal:

  I want to be like the Good Samaritan, full of love and compassion. So much that I don’t think about myself but about others. God, help me be like this guy and do something, even at school tomorrow.

  You have to be careful what you pray for, because God just might take you up on it.

  Chapter 14

  I wrote my story during lunch the next day—at least I tried to write it. Words don’t come as quickly for me as they do for Ashley. She takes more after Mom, I guess. When I write a story or an essay, choosing words is like picking blackberries. I have to reach in and avoid the thorns, wondering if there’s a snake back there somewhere, and when I’m sure it’s okay, I write one down.

  I named my character Chet Becker, because I’d known a kid with that name in Illinois, and I had him sink every shot he took. By the end of the story, Chet had scored 70 points and had 20 steals.

  What had really happened to me wasn’t that spectacular. It was actually awful. You should know that I’m not a great athlete. I’m kind of dorky looking, with long arms and gangly legs, but Sam told me about this guy named Larry Bird who used to play for the Boston Celtics. Sam said Bird looked like somebody taken right off the farm, but when they put a basketball in his hands he knew what to do. That’s how I wanted to play.

  Anyway, our team had fought Coronado the whole game, trying to keep them from getting the ball to their big man, #23. We were down only a point with 17 seconds left when #23 clunked one off the rim and I got the rebound. I threw the ball to Duncan Swift, and he brought it across half-court and called a time-out. Now we had 13 seconds.

  Coach Baldwin called a play and told me to throw the ball inbounds. Everybody on the court and in the stands knew Duncan was going to take the shot, because he’s our best player. It was my job to throw it to him and get in position in case Coronado double- or triple-teamed him.

  After the buzzer sounded, the ref handed me the ball and started his five count. Duncan gave a head fake and darted into the bac
kcourt, and I tossed him the ball. But he didn’t turn when I expected, and the ball bounced off his shoulder and into the hands of a Coronado player. It took six seconds for me to catch the guy and foul him. He sank both shots, and there was only enough time for a desperation heave at the end, which Duncan almost made.

  The coach tried to make us feel better in the locker room, but I could hardly breathe. Everybody patted me on the back and said I had a good game, but I knew I’d blown it. I couldn’t wait until the next time we’d meet, coming up Saturday.

  Chapter 15

  “Look who’s here,” Marion said as Cammy and Tracy walked into the lunchroom. Immediately a group of girls gathered. Marion jumped up and glanced back at me. “Aren’t you coming?”

  It was like a rock concert. The only thing missing was the fainting. I could hear the girls talking several tables away.

  “We thought you were dead.”

  “Where were you?”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Were you scared?”

  “How’d you get away?”

  Mr. Forster came through and shooed everyone away, but as soon as he was gone, the noise returned with whispers, then got louder and louder.

  A few minutes later Marion returned.

  “Attacked by aliens?” I said.

  “No, they said it was the guy who sits outside the Toot Toot. The weird one with the army jacket and stringy hair.”

  I knew him. He sat in a rocking chair on the wooden sidewalk and slept or read. Once I saw him scribbling on paper as I walked by. He smelled like a wet animal—I guess because he slept outside—and I was surprised someone didn’t ask him to move.

  “What did he do?”

  Marion scooted closer. “Cammy said he grabbed them both by the wrists when they were headed home. He pulled them behind the row of shops next to the Toot Toot and into an old shed back there. He put duct tape on their hands and feet.”