The Trap Page 6

  When school ended that afternoon, I rushed out of my last class. We’d all arranged to meet at Alan’s. I thought Helen and I could get away with it for a few minutes if we went home right after; hopefully Mom and Dad wouldn’t notice. I felt awkward about it, and a little guilty. Helen and I hadn’t yet told Alan and Nicki that we’d been forbidden to see them. It’s hard to tell friends that your parents don’t like them.

  I hurried to the bike racks to find that Alan’s bike was already gone. I unlocked mine, and headed out into another sweltering afternoon.

  The Dunns lived in a double-wide trailer that was in pretty poor shape. The flat roof had a lawn growing on it and the gutter on the side leaned away from the downspout. Next to the front door there was a shattered window covered in plastic, and the whole place leaned to one side, like maybe it was about to collapse. If that house had been a horse I’d have shot it out of mercy. The only nice thing about it was the huge front yard. I remembered when Carl had laid out that baseball diamond there, years ago. He’d even installed a pitcher’s mound. You’d never know it to look at it now.

  The door to the trailer was open, so I stuck my head in. “Alan?” I called. A voice replied: “That Henry Nilsson?” It was Alan’s dad, Elmore. “Come in,” he rasped.

  The front hall to the living room was short but jammed with stuff—a hamper filled with empty beer cans, a chair with a broken seat, a roll of insulating plastic, to name a few things. At the end was the living room, whose only functioning component was an old couch that faced a flickering black and white TV. The sound was down, and a soap opera was on.

  Alan’s dad was a big man who took up most of the sitting space, a beer on one thigh and his belly on the other. His face was wide and round, his eyes glassy. “What’s doing, Henry?” he said. He lifted his beer and gestured with it, inviting me to sit.

  I perched uncomfortably on the far edge of the cushion. “Are you waiting for a game to start, Mr. Dunn?” I asked.

  “Kind of,” he said. His eyes were red. He looked like he might have been crying, but Mr. Dunn often had bloodshot eyes, so I wasn’t sure.

  “I bet Carl will come home soon,” I said.

  Mr. Dunn nodded. “You’re a nice kid, Henry,” he said. “I’m glad you’ve been friends with my boys.”

  I didn’t bother to correct him that only one of his boys was friends with me, and that the other had recently installed a black eye on my face.

  “I’d be out there looking,” said Mr. Dunn, “but they said to stay near the phone.” He paused. “It’s all I can do, anyway,” he added. “This damn back of mine.” Then he pointed with his beer at the TV screen. “Twins and Rangers,” he said. “Alan just stepped to the store for me. He’ll be back in a second.”

  Not sure what to say, I asked, “When did you play for the Twins, sir?” Now that I knew Alan wasn’t home, I wanted to go outside and wait, but it seemed rude to leave.

  “Fifty-nine,” said Mr. Dunn. “Best year of my life.” The words sounded strange, without feeling, like the blessing you give before dinner. And the falseness rang out—even Mr. Dunn noticed it. As soon as the words entered the room, he sat up straight, wincing. He looked at the beer on his knee like you’d suddenly seen someone who’d snuck up on you.

  Every time I’d chatted with Mr. Dunn (and it wasn’t often), he’d been friendly. But something entered his eyes now that I hadn’t seen before. Their watery look went icy. His hand tightened around the beer can, crumpling it a little. A seam on the metal broke, and a few drops fell onto the carpet.

  I shifted on my seat and looked down into the couch cushions, feeling awkward. And, to my surprise . . . there it was. Jammed between the cushions, I saw a spiral binding and a yellow cover. Carl’s notebook.

  Mr. Dunn’s eyes were on me. “Fifty-nine,” he said again, but this time it sounded like a curse. Next to us, the TV screen blanked after a commercial, and a new image appeared: Wrigley Field, from the top of the stands. “They wanted me to fail,” Mr. Dunn said, spitting. “Couldn’t wait to get rid of me. ‘Injun Pitcher Injured,’ the headline said.”

  The sweat I’d poured out on the bike ride went cold. I didn’t know what to say, or how to act.

  “And now,” Mr. Dunn continued, “now my boy’s missing, and nobody cares. Just another damn Injun.” He leaned forward like he was going to stand up, but he didn’t get enough momentum, and he fell back into the couch. He grunted in pain. “I’d be out there right now . . . out there looking for him . . .”

  Just then a voice boomed into the hall behind us—a big, deep voice from outside. “Elmore, you there? Any word about Carl?” It was McTavish. I remembered him asking after Carl the day before, and seeming concerned about Alan’s home life. And now here he was.

  “No word, Ted,” Mr. Dunn replied, calming down. “C’mon in.” He stood, grimacing, as McTavish entered, wearing a black suit with a white carnation on the lapel.

  “You’re dressed up,” said Mr. Dunn.

  “Coming from a funeral,” said McTavish.

  “Who died?” said Mr. Dunn.

  “Did you know Joseph, from Rotary Club?” said McTavish.

  Well, McTavish and Mr. Dunn were just jawing away, weren’t they? And so . . . I leaned forward, swiped Carl’s notebook from between the cushions, and shoved it under my shirt. I swear, I never acted so fast in my life. It seemed like I was watching some other kid.

  I stood up nervously, and McTavish turned toward me. “Henry Nilsson,” he said, “how’s that eye?”

  “Getting better, sir,” I said.

  “I saw your friends outside,” he replied. “What are you up to today?”

  “Nothing in particular, sir,” I said.

  “Well, be careful,” said McTavish. “We’re not certain what’s going on here.”

  “With Carl, you mean?” I said.

  “If you see anyone suspicious, Henry,” repeated McTavish, “report it to an adult, or the police. You know where the police station is, on Main Street?”

  “I know it, sir,” I said, holding one hand against my shirt, hoping the notebook didn’t show.

  “I suppose it’s none of my business,” said McTavish, “but don’t go out after dark, will you, Henry? Promise me that.”

  “I promise, sir,” I said. Half of me, I thought, would keep that promise.

  I exited as quickly as I could to the sunny front porch, where Helen and Alan were sitting. Alan had a grocery bag that held a twelve-pack of beer and some corn chips. As I sat with them Nicki pedaled up, rolling to a stop before the three of us.

  And with perfect timing (for once), I triumphantly pulled the notebook from under my shirt. “Look at this!” I said.

  Alan recognized it instantly. “That’s it, Henry! But how—where . . .”

  “The couch cushions,” I said.

  “Open it!” said Helen.

  We huddled up and I turned to the first page, which caused us all to gasp. Written across the top line, in a messy hand, were the unmistakable numbers: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13 . . . the exact series we’d all memorized.

  “Well, we knew that already,” said Nicki. “He must have learned them, or you wouldn’t have seen him that first night, Henry.”

  I flipped a few pages in and we found what we were really after—the notes on Carl’s spying. Times, places, things he observed. I saw “Tell Abe” and “Ambulance arrived 5 p.m.”

  “And here,” said Alan, pointing to the bottom. There was the address, just like he’d thought. Fifteen South Half.

  “South Half,” said Helen. “That must be the Brody mansion.”

  No sooner had she said it than we all remembered the name: Brody.

  “J. Brody,” whispered Nicki. “The other author of Subtle Travel and the Subtle Self.”

  “Do you guys know the place?” said Helen.

  We all knew it. The Brody mansion was the biggest house around Farro, and the only dwelling along the southern edge of Longbelly Gulch.

  “It’s
almost right across the gulch from Carl’s campsite,” I said.

  Helen and I looked at each other. If we didn’t go home now, and at full speed, we could be in pretty bad trouble.

  Helen winked at me. I wasn’t sure what that meant, entirely, but part of its meaning was that we were in this together, no matter what.

  The four of us jumped on our bikes and headed toward the gulch.

  AS WE RODE, WE TALKED. It seemed like there was a lot to say . . . or at least a lot to conjecture about.

  “So,” said Nicki, “we each have two bodies.”

  “And our heads are on fire,” said Alan.

  “It’s hard to believe,” said Helen. “I mean, that our second bodies are right inside us, all the time—even right now! Our heads are on fire right now!” She put both hands on her head, riding for a few moments with no hands (something she was always looking for an excuse to do).

  “And Carl knew about it,” I said.

  “Out in the woods—the book was out there,” said Alan. “He learned about it with that guy Abe, I bet.”

  “You think Abe was teaching him?” said Nicki. “Have you ever seen him? What does he look like?”

  “No, I’ve never seen him,” said Alan. “Carl just mentioned him, beginning when summer vacation started. Carl talked about him like . . . well, like he was a coach or something.”

  “What do you mean?” said Helen.

  “He’d say he had to go meet Abe for practice.” Alan paused. “And now he’s gone. It makes me wonder if, you know, if we might be in some kind of danger here.”

  “Especially since we’re heading straight for the place Carl was spying on,” Nicki added.

  We reached the turnoff for South Half, and the Brody mansion came into view in the distance, looming by the edge of the gulch. I saw clearly why people called it “mansion” and not “house.” It was big, three levels with two separate roof peaks and two chimneys.

  The South Half lane, like North Half across the gulch, was oiled dirt, full of bumps and potholes. The woods rose around us and I started feeling a chill, despite the heat of the day. Alan’s worries had wormed into me, and all of the unknowns crowded around like watchful crows.

  “Alan,” I said, hoping to change the subject to a lighter topic, “is Mr. McTavish friends with your dad?”

  “Kind of,” said Alan. “He’s been talking to Dad about getting back to pitching.”

  “I thought your Dad’s back was all messed up,” I said.

  “McTavish is talking to him about knuckleballs,” said Alan.

  “Knuckleballs?” I knew the term only vaguely.

  “It’s a slow pitch,” said Alan. “But you can still throw strikes.”

  “You think your dad could do it?”

  “Probably not,” said Alan. “But I’m glad someone wants him to try.”

  We made it to the cement slab in front of the mansion’s three-car garage, parked our bikes, and stood together, hesitating. The front door was awfully tall, with a huge brass knocker in the middle.

  “We don’t know what we’re getting into here,” I offered, cautiously. “Maybe we should stop and think—”

  This immediately set Helen in motion. She strode to the porch, lifted the knocker, and rapped it three times on the striking plate.

  Seconds passed.

  “Maybe nobody’s home,” I said.

  “Someone’s in there,” said Nicki. “I hear footsteps.”

  She was right. Soon we heard a lock unlatch, and the door swung open.

  I’d kind of expected to see a butler, like in a movie, but it was an old woman. She was short, partly because she was leaning on a cane. She had shoulder-length gray hair and wore a black dress, black stockings, and black shoes.

  Just as I’d expected to see a butler, so she seemed to have expected someone other than the four of us. She looked angry as she opened the door, but then she became startled.

  “I’m Helen Nilsson,” Helen announced. “This is my brother, Henry, and our friends Nicki and Alan. We’re looking for a man named J. Brody.”

  The woman opened the door wider. “Perhaps you should come in,” she said. She spoke with some kind of accent. It sounded Russian, but there are a hundred accents that sound Russian to me.

  Just past the door stretched an enormous living room, full to bursting with an incredible collection of stuff. At the center stood a low coffee table with some fancy photo books on it. Around that, several couches and nice chairs were arranged on a plush red rug. All the walls were hung with possessions—a spear with a stone head next to a mounted trout next to a yellowed world map in a frame. Near that, by the far wall, I saw a big dresser with tiny drawers, like a card catalog, in front of a glass display case filled with jewelry . . . so many interesting things. There was a ship in a bottle. Two woven baskets that were taller than me, a brass sculpture of a deer that was probably heavier than me, and a set of encyclopedias that was probably smarter than me.

  While we gawked, the lady hobbled to a chair next to the coffee table and sat, easing herself down with her cane. “Sorry to say, I’m not sure if I’ve met any of you before. You knew my husband?” she asked.

  “Husband?” said Helen.

  “Knew?” I said. “Excuse me, Mrs. Brody. But is your husband . . .”

  Mrs. Brody nodded. “I assumed that was why you were here,” she said. “I’ve just returned from the funeral. My husband died three days ago—Saturday.”

  When she said this, I almost cursed out loud, I was so embarrassed. Of course! Joseph Brody—I’d heard Mom mention his death when it was in the paper, and McTavish had been all dressed up from the funeral. I felt terrible. I wanted to curl up and disappear.

  “We’re very sorry, Mrs. Brody,” said Nicki. “We didn’t mean to intrude on your grief.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Helen, her cheeks scarlet.

  “Very sorry,” Alan and I said simultaneously.

  “I was about to scold you when I answered the door,” said Mrs. Brody. “I asked my friends to give me some time alone. But of course you didn’t know.” She paused. “Please, sit, and tell me—what did you wish to see my husband about?”

  Obediently, we occupied a couch in the order of me, Nicki, Alan, and Helen. My bare knee almost touched Nicki’s bare knee. I thought about moving mine across the inch of space, but it might as well have been the distance between the moon and the earth.

  “We’re looking into a mystery,” said Helen. “A missing person.”

  “My older brother, Carl,” said Alan.

  “We were hoping Mr. Brody could help us,” said Nicki. “We’re trying to find out something about a book.”

  “This book,” I said, producing it from my bag and laying it on the coffee table.

  Mrs. Brody looked surprised. She bent stiffly forward and took it into her hands. “I’ve never seen it,” she said, “but I know it. My husband wrote it years before we met. And for our whole marriage, he would try to find copies. To buy them, and burn them.”

  “Burn?” I exclaimed.

  “Why did he do that, Mrs. Brody?” said Nicki.

  “Subtle Travel,” said Mrs. Brody, reading the title out loud. “It’s so poetic. Where did you find it?”

  “In the—” I began, but I sensed Helen bridling next to me. I understood. We should be careful.

  Mrs. Brody changed the subject. “It’s been a long time since any young people have been in this house,” she said.

  “Did you raise your children here?” said Nicki.

  “My husband and I had no children. We had our work, which I never regretted until now—now that he’s gone.” She stopped, and I wondered if she was trying not to cry. Old people have a way of just looking old, and sometimes you can’t tell what they’re feeling. “Please explain more about your missing person,” she said.

  Given that our most important piece of evidence was my having seen Carl during a midnight out-of-body experience, we didn’t leap into explaining.

&nbs
p; Mrs. Brody lightly touched the corner of the book with one hand. “You’ve read it, haven’t you? You’ve used it, and learned the art.” She nodded as our faces gave it all away. “You’ve discovered something in that world. Something that worries you.”

  “It’s true, Mrs. Brody,” said Helen. “Only, it sounds crazy.”

  Mrs. Brody sat quietly, waiting to see if we’d tell the story. When we still hesitated, she said, “Let me go get us all some lemonade.”

  She stood and walked out of the room, in the direction of the kitchen. The four of us put our heads together and conferred.

  “What do you think—should we tell her?” said Helen.

  “I vote yes,” I said. “I mean, she seems nice enough. And maybe she’ll know something. She was married to the guy who wrote the book.”

  “I agree,” said Alan. “Besides, we don’t have any other clues.”

  “I agree, too,” said Nicki. “We should learn everything we can.”

  We separated again hurriedly, but there was no reason to rush. Mrs. Brody was gone for several minutes, and then her voice came from the direction of the kitchen—“Could I get a hand in here?” Helen jumped to service, carrying the lemonade pitcher and glasses, and pouring for everyone. Once Mrs. Brody was seated again, we told her the story. We all participated, me starting out, and then Helen taking it, and then Alan, and then Nicki ending with our arrival on Mrs. Brody’s doorstep.

  When we finished, Mrs. Brody said, “This man, the one Carl was spying for, is named Abe?”

  “Not only spying, either,” said Alan. “I think he was, well, a bad influence on Carl.”

  “I agree,” I added, pointing at my own eye.

  “Look here, at the cover of the book,” said Mrs. Brody, leaning forward and tapping it with a crooked finger. “See the other name—A. Møller. Perhaps you do not know that the A. stands for Abraham. Your evidence suggests that my husband’s one-time collaborator has returned to Iowa.”

  “You know him?” I said, amazed.

  “I know of him,” said Mrs. Brody. “Oh, I wish Joseph were still alive,” she said, and then added, “Forgive my tears,” though there were no tears on her face.