Dangerous Deception (13 page)

T
he water climbed slowly toward my knees. Although I had turned on both the hot and cold faucets, there was no warmth in the dampness that soaked my jeans. All the hot water must have been used up.

I inhaled, trying to settle my nerves, but the air smelled acrid, as if the water was contaminated. I remembered the filthy sink, toilet, and bathtub, and the dust balls, hair, and dirt on the bathroom floor. The apartment had probably not been cleaned since No Help rented it. No wonder the water smelled yucky.

My eyes had adjusted to the dark. I saw a pizza box floating near my chair like a square brown raft.

I shivered. My panic rose as fast as the murky water.

If I get out of this mess, I told myself, I will never, ever do anything remotely dangerous again. I should have shown the photos to Mom and Dad and let them be the ones to contact the police. At the very least, I should have let them know what I had done, even if it meant losing privileges. I would rather be grounded for the rest of the year than drown in No Help's apartment.

A sudden shriek of sirens in the distance made my heart flutter. My hopes soared as the sounds came closer. The sirens stopped nearby and blue lights arced in circles outside the window, as if the police cars had parked in front of Sophie's building and left their lights moving.

“Yes!” I shouted. “I'm up here! Hurry!”

I listened for voices. I anticipated someone knocking on the door, but it didn't happen. Instead, after only a minute or so I saw the blue lights leave. The sirens screamed again but this time they went away from me, fading into the distance until the shrill sounds dimmed and disappeared.

I closed my eyes and let my head droop down as my optimism fled with the police cars.

• • •

Mrs. Spangler also heard the sirens and noticed the blue lights outside. She went to the window and looked out. Three police cars were parked directly in front of her building. She watched as three officers started toward the front door, stopped, then turned and rushed back to their cars and drove off.

Gracious! What was that all about? It was more exciting outside her window than it was on the TV. She turned the program off and slowly made her way to her bedroom where she put on her favorite flannel nightgown, the blue and white one her daughter had sent for her birthday. The next time Marcia called, she would tell her about the police cars. She liked to have something interesting to tell her daughter. Marcia always liked it when Mrs. Spangler had tidbits of news to relate.

Mrs. Spangler brushed her teeth and eased her weary bones into bed. She wished she could still care for a pet. After Richard died, it had been comforting to curl up with Penny, the Pomeranian that she and Richard had rescued from the shelter all those years ago. The warmth of the small dog beside her had made the bed less lonely, and she had liked the soft snuffling noises that Penny used to make in her sleep. When Penny died at the age of nineteen, Mrs. Spangler had thought her heart would break.

Sighing, she closed her eyes. There was no use weeping for times past. I am lucky, she told herself, to have such happy memories. She let her thoughts drift back to when Penny's predecessor, Muffin, was a young dog and Richard was healthy and Marcia still lived at home. What good times those had been!

She smiled, and snuggled under the quilt.

Plop!

Mrs. Spangler's eyes flew open. What was that?

Plop! Plop! It sounded like water dripping. She must not have shut the faucet off all the way. She sat up, fumbled for her glasses, and turned on the light. She swung her feet to the floor and reached for her walker.

Plop! There it was again. She pushed her walker into the bathroom, but the faucets were not dripping. Mrs. Spangler frowned. Could it be the kitchen faucet? She stood still, listening.

Plop! Plop! She started down the hall. Plop! What on earth? It seemed to be coming from the living room. It couldn't be a leaky roof, not when she lived in a first-floor apartment. Besides, it wasn't raining tonight.

She made her way into the living room, turning on lights as she went. The plopping sounds came faster, and she followed them until she found a large puddle on the floor beside the sofa. Looking up, she saw a dark stain on the ceiling. Water dripped from it to the floor below.

Mrs. Spangler inched her walker to the kitchen, took her largest pan out of the cupboard, and put the pan where it would catch the drips.

That awful man upstairs must have let his bathtub overflow. Or maybe his toilet had stuck and he didn't know it. Probably he wasn't at home. He didn't seem to spend much time here.

She didn't know his name, so she couldn't call him. She knew from past experience that there was no use trying to call her landlord except during business hours because all she got was an answering machine. Well, she couldn't wait until tomorrow morning to notify someone. By then, the whole ceiling might fall in.

Mrs. Spangler called 911. “There's water coming through my ceiling from the apartment above me,” she said.

“Have you called the person who lives there?”

“I don't have his number. I don't even know his name.”

“Can you go upstairs to talk to him?”

“I'm eighty-nine years old and I use a walker. I can't go up the stairs.”

“Did you call the apartment manager, or the landlord?”

“There is no manager. The landlord only takes calls between eight and five.”

“What's the address?”

“1135 East Sycamore. Apartment one.”

“I'll send someone to help you, ma'am.” The 911 operator knew most of the police were attempting to stop the fleeing truck from the AMBER Alert. If no officer was available, he would ask a firefighter to check on Mrs. Spangler.

Mrs. Spangler thanked the operator. She put on her yellow bathrobe and her fuzzy slippers while she waited for help to arrive.

The police dispatcher frowned at the address the 911 operator gave him. It seemed familiar. Had something else happened there recently? He scrolled back through the calls he'd taken earlier that evening. When he got to the request for Donald Zummer's address, he stopped.

How odd. It seemed unlikely that an elderly woman would have a water problem on the same night that someone else in her building was accused of abducting a child. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He had learned long ago to trust his intuition about 911 callers and emergency situations. Instead of asking a firefighter to check out the problem, he called Lieutenant Benson.

“Benson here.”

“Have you been to that apartment on East Sycamore yet?”

“I got there but didn't go in because I heard the alert that Zummer's truck had been spotted. I'm on my way to 405.”

The dispatcher told Lieutenant Benson about Mrs. Spangler's call. “It seemed too much of a coincidence,” he said, “so I thought I'd run it past you before I call the fire station.”

“There are plenty of other units following that truck,” Lieutenant Benson said. “I'll head back to East Sycamore.”

Mrs. Spangler stood in the open doorway of her apartment, waiting. When Lieutenant Benson opened the front door, Mrs. Spangler said, “Look!”

A thin stream of water now trickled down the stairs.

Lieutenant Benson took the stairs two at a time. When she reached the top, she saw water oozing under the door to apartment 4, the same apartment she had entered with a search warrant when she arrested Donald Zummer.

I
heard the sirens approach again but after what had happened earlier, I didn't assume that the police cars were coming to rescue me.

Once again they seemed to stop in front of Sophie's building. When I saw the whirling blue light outside the window, I dared to hope they were headed here.

The water covered my knees and soaked the seat of the chair. I trembled both from the cold and from fear.

I heard footsteps thump up the stairs.

“Help!” I yelled.

Someone pounded on the door. “Police! Open up!”

“I'm tied up! I can't open the door!”

I heard a thud, as if something hard had rammed into the door. A second thud followed. This time I heard wood splintering and then a loud BANG as the door fell forward onto the floor. Water splashed over me when the door landed.

“Emmy Rushford?” the officer said. “Is that you?”

“Yes! I'm here!” I felt as if it were my birthday and the Fourth of July and the first day of summer vacation all rolled into one.

The officer shined a flashlight around the room. The beam of light swept across my chest, glinted off the water, and illuminated the officer's face.

I recognized Lieutenant Benson, the one who had downloaded my photos. “Are you injured?” she asked.

My teeth chattered so hard I could hardly talk. “I'm not hurt, just cold. The water's coming from the bathroom.”

Lieutenant Benson turned off the faucets and removed the drain plugs before she started to untie me. By then the water level had already dropped several inches as the water flowed out the open door and down the stairs.

“I am really glad to see you,” I said as she undid the knots in the rope. What an understatement! Five minutes earlier every muscle in my body had been tense with fear. Now that tension had dissolved, replaced by relief and gratitude.

“I'm glad to see you, too,” she said. “Your mother is frantic.”

As soon as I was free, Lieutenant Benson called headquarters. “Emmy Rushford is safe,” she said. “Request paramedics at 1135 East Sycamore to check her condition. She appears unharmed.”

When the call ended she said, “Your parents are being notified.” Then she added, “It's odd. Your mother seems to think your name is Emmy, not Louise.”

“I didn't use my first name when I gave you the photos,” I said, “because I didn't want the thief to find out it was me who turned the photos in.”

“So much for that plan.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“The woman who lives below this apartment called 911 because water was dripping through her ceiling.”

I grinned. “Then one of my plans worked,” I said.

“You're the one who turned on the faucets and plugged the drains?”

I nodded. “It was the only way I could think of to call attention to the fact that I was here.”

A Medic One van arrived. The two medics quickly wrapped a blanket around me, and then took my temperature and blood pressure. They examined my wrists where the rope had been.

While I was being checked, more police officers arrived.

“Why are they here?” I asked.

Lieutenant Benson said, “Kidnap is considered a priority felony case. This apartment is a crime scene and needs to be secured.”

The medics decided I did not need to be transported to the hospital.

“I just want to go home,” I said.

“That's where we're going,” Lieutenant Benson said.

I followed Lieutenant Benson down the stairs. Mrs. Spangler stood in her open doorway, watching all the activity. She had laid a folded blanket across her threshold, to keep the water out of her apartment.

“Emmy!” she said, when she saw me. “What in the world are you doing here? What's going on?”

“Your neighbor abducted me! He tied me up and left me in his apartment.”

“Why would he do that?” Mrs. Spangler asked. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

“No. I'm okay.” I had finally stopped shivering.

“Where's all the water coming from?”

“The water has been turned off,” Lieutenant Benson said, “and your landlord will get an emergency call right away. Is there a bulge in your ceiling or is it just dripping?”

“It's dripping.”

“Someone from the city building department will be here within an hour,” Lieutenant Benson said, “to decide if it's safe for you to stay.”

“She can come to my house,” I said.

Lieutenant Benson said, “Do you want to stay here until your ceiling gets checked, or come with us?”

“I'll stay,” Mrs. Spangler said, “but thank you for the offer.”

Lieutenant Benson ushered me to the squad car and offered me a dry blanket in exchange for the first one, which was now damp. I buckled my seat belt, then draped the blanket over myself. I wasn't cold any more but I couldn't stop shaking. I felt anxious again, as if I expected another catastrophe to occur at any moment.

Watching all the police activity had reminded me that, even though I was now going home, No Help had not yet been captured. He would learn of my rescue. Then what? If he managed to escape, would he harbor a grudge? Would he return some time in the future, still blaming me for his problems?

Reporters from the TV stations and the local newspaper milled around our front yard. A van that said KOMO on the side was double-parked in front of Mrs. Braider's house. Bright lights illuminated the crowd. They couldn't have arrived so soon after I was found; they must have come because of the AMBER Alert.

As Lieutenant Benson and I got out of the car, the lights focused on us. Cameras whirred and flashed.

Mom had been watching for us and she came flying through the crowd, hugging me and weeping. I shed happy tears myself. Even Mrs. Braider cried.

Lieutenant Benson steered me through the media people, who thrust microphones in our direction while they shouted questions.

“We'll have a statement in about half an hour,” Lieutenant Benson told them, but they kept calling to us anyway.

We trooped inside, where Waggy pranced around like a circus pony, acting as if he had not seen me for a year.

“I called your dad to tell him you're safe and that he doesn't need to come home,” Mom said, “but he's coming anyway. He booked a midnight flight. He said he needs to see you for himself.”

I quickly changed into dry clothes, and then we all gathered in the living room. Sergeant Whitman had arrived, and was talking to Lieutenant Benson.

I had never seen Mrs. Braider smile so much. A truly newsworthy disaster had finally occurred, and she had been an important witness.

It took a while for me to tell them everything that had happened. While I talked, Sergeant Whitman kept glancing at his computer. In the middle of my report, he said, “You might want to turn on the TV. They've caught our suspect.”

When the TV came on, big letters filled the screen: BREAKING NEWS. I was startled to see my picture appear. A reporter said, “Emmy Rushford, the twelve-year-old girl who was abducted earlier this evening, is safe. She was found tied to a chair in an empty apartment on East Sycamore Street in Cedar Hill. The AMBER Alert has been canceled.”

The scene changed to an aerial shot, taken from a helicopter. I could see the white truck, its bed piled high with stolen items, pulled to the side of the freeway. Police cars surrounded it, lights flashing.

“The suspect in this case has been apprehended,” the reporter said. “Thanks to the AMBER Alert, a citizen recognized the suspect's truck, called 911, and told police the truck's location. After a high-speed chase down Interstate 405, police used spike strips to stop the suspect's vehicle. As officers approached, he fired a gun out the window of the truck, but did not hit anyone. When he realized he was surrounded by police, he dropped his weapon and surrendered.”

So he did have a gun, I thought. It's a good thing I didn't try to run from him.

No Help stood next to the truck while the officers handcuffed him. As I watched him being put into a squad car, the anxiety seeped out of me.

“No doubt he'll plead not guilty to abducting Emmy,” Sergeant Whitman said.

“I got the license plate number of the truck that he put me in,” I said. I thought for a minute. The start of the alphabet, Dad's age, piano keys, and three blue jays at Grandma's bird feeder. I said, “A-43-88-3J.”

The corners of Sergeant Whitman's mouth curved into a smile. “He won't be able to deny that he's the one who took you,” he said.

“There won't be any bail offered this time,” Lieutenant Benson said. “Mr. Zummer is going to prison.”

I felt completely safe for the first time since the day he had ridden home with me on the bus.

The news story ended with a promise to update the viewers as soon as more information was available. Mom turned off the television.

I told Lieutenant Benson that No Help had another apartment where he kept stolen goods. “He also has a partner named Max who used to work with him in the kitchen of Porky's Pig Palace,” I said. “Max rents an apartment a few doors down from Sophie's building. He kept stolen goods there, too. No Help, I mean Mr. Zummer, said the police had not found it.”

“You do good work,” Lieutenant Benson said. “We may have to put you on the force.”

“Emmy is done tracking down criminals,” Mom said.

“That's for sure,” I said.

Lieutenant Benson said she needed to give a statement to the press and asked Mom if she wanted to say anything. Mom stood in front of the microphone and said, “I am grateful to the police for bringing Emmy home safely. Thank you to everyone who paid attention to the AMBER Alert and watched for the suspect's truck.”

When the officers and Mrs. Braider left, I searched for Midnight but I didn't find him. Mom and I turned the TV on again. This time my jaw dropped as I heard Lieutenant Benson declare I was a hero! “By turning on the faucets, Emmy made sure that she would be found. She had also memorized the license plate number of the suspect's truck, so he can't deny that he abducted her.”

As I listened to the broadcast, Midnight crept into the room, swishing his tail nervously. “Where were you?” I cried as I scooped him up and hugged him. “I was afraid something had happened to you.”

Midnight refused to be petted. Instead, he struggled to get down and headed for his food bowl.

Mom checked my sore shoulder, which now had a purple bruise, and gave me some ibuprofen.

Dad got home in the middle of the night so I didn't get a whole lot of sleep but I went to school the next day, anyway. Mom and Dad drove me.

When I got to my classroom, Shoeless high-fived me and Jelly Bean pounded his crutches on the floor. My classmates crowded around, telling me they had seen my picture on TV. They asked a zillion questions and Mrs. Reed let me answer all of them, even after the bell rang.

Crystal's eyes grew wide as she listened. When I told about leaving Sycamore Street, she gasped. “You rode in a cop car?” she asked. She said it as if I had ridden home on the back of a vicious grizzly bear.

“Lieutenant Benson drove me home.”

“You should never ride in a cop car,” Crystal declared.

Shoeless interrupted. “It will make your teeth turn black,” he said. “Right, Crystal?” He almost fell out of his chair laughing at his own wit. The other kids laughed, too.

“Class!” Mrs. Reed said. “Quiet, please. We want to hear about Emmy's experience.”

Before I could continue, Crystal blurted, “Riding in cop cars causes . . .”

Mrs. Reed said, “Crystal! Stop. It is Emmy's turn to talk.” She nodded at me, and I finished telling them what had happened.

• • •

A few days after my rescue, Dunbar's announced that a sixty-eight-year-old woman who said she wanted a clothes dryer had won Dunbar's Dream Contest. The woman had hung her laundry outside to dry her whole life, but now she had back problems, and it was getting too hard for her to carry the heavy loads of wash.

“As soon as I read her entry,” Mom said, “I hoped she would be the winner. It's nice to know that all the time I spend reading entries results in something good happening to someone who deserves it.”

I thought about Sophie, who had received food as a result of entering the contest even though she was not an official winner. Thinking of Sophie was like reading an exciting mystery novel that's missing the last chapter. I had lots of questions, but no answers. I wondered where she lived now. I hoped she and Trudy were safe, and had enough to eat.

The next afternoon, Mrs. Reed asked me to stay behind when the class went outside for recess. As my classmates filed out the door, Mrs. Reed handed me an envelope.

“This letter is for you,” she said, “but it was sent to my attention.”

Crystal said, “Emmy's going to be on
The Today Show
. That letter probably explains that she has to wear something green. Otherwise the cameras make your nose appear too big.”

Several kids stopped walking and gawked until Mrs. Reed said, “Emmy is not going to be on
The Today Show
.”

I looked at the return address on the envelope. Sophie Stanford. Stanford? Had Sophie changed her last name? Or had she been registered at school under a false name? The street address was in Liberty, Missouri.

Missouri! How did Sophie get all the way to Missouri? Instead of following my classmates outside, I sat at my desk and opened the envelope.

Dear Emmy,

I hope you get this letter. I remembered your teacher's name from when I saw you at the hospital. I thought it was better to contact you through her than to try to send another letter to Dunbar's.

I am in Missouri, living with Mama's cousin, Joanie. She and her husband, Doug, paid for our plane tickets after Mama called Joanie and told her that we had to move out of our apartment because Mama had been too sick to work, and we didn't have money to pay the rent.