Megan's Island (11 page)

Though there was nothing inside that Megan knew of that could incriminate them, there were signs of the rooms being occupied. Had she and Sandy left anything in plain sight that would indicate they were redheaded, and kids? She couldn't remember. She could only wait. The man came back around the corner on the porch, his hands jammed into his pants pockets, frowning. He tried the door again, and when he hesitated Megan wondered desperately if he were going to break in. He would certainly be able to tell, if he did, that there were two kids living there, as well as Grandpa.

And then something happened that made her literally break out in a cold sweat.

As he started down the steps, his foot struck the can of rocks that served both as a doorstop when they wanted to prop the screen open to carry in groceries, and as a repository for the key.

The can was on the edge of the porch. It went over, spilling its contents down the steps and into the yard.

Megan stared in horror as he kicked impatiently at the can, sending it across the yard. Was the key lying in plain sight, in front of him?

He hesitated, then retrieved the can and began to scoop up rocks to put back into it. So nobody would know he'd been there, she thought. Oh, please, please, don't let him find the key so he can get into the house!

He put the can back in place on the porch, then walked to his car and drove away.

Megan stayed on her knees for a long time after the sound of the motor had died away, after her heart rate had returned to normal, feeling the cold sweat dry on her body in the warm summer breeze. Then finally she got up and went out into the open.

He had missed the key because it had fallen beside the steps rather than on them. She picked it up with trembling fingers, not daring to put it back in the same place. Instead, she slipped it into the pocket of her jeans.

The sun felt good, but she was still icy on the inside.

Who was the man, and what did he want?

Megan sat on the porch, staring out across the lake. There was no sign of the boat, or the boys. Nothing stirred on the island. Not even a bird sang, now. The only thing she heard was Wolf's panting beside her.

She didn't know how much time had passed since Ben and Sandy had left her behind. They
had
taken a heavy load, and carrying all those things up the steep rock slope, and up the island to the tree house, would take time. Still, they would surely be starting for shore before long.

Wolf suddenly lifted his big head, listening.

Megan's heart leaped. “What is it?” she whispered.

The dog was definitely alert, hearing something she could not yet hear. She strained to detect it, too, and then, as Wolf rose to his feet, looking toward the road, Megan slid off the porch and stood up, too.

“What is it?” she whispered again.

Wolf looked at her, tentatively wagging his tail, remaining alert.

He'd only been here since last night, she remembered. Would he feel protective of this place—of her—when he was not yet securely a member of the family?

He'd sensed her fear a short time ago, though, she thought hopefully. He'd stayed quiet beside her when she was hiding in the woods. He hadn't betrayed her whereabouts while the man in the white car was here. He hadn't bounded out to make friends, though he hadn't growled, either.

“Is he coming back?” she wondered aloud.

And then she heard it, too.

A car was coming. Grandpa, returning early? Or Mr. Jamison in his sleek black Porsche? She'd never met Ben's father, but if it was him she was going to run out and flag him down, tell him she was frightened, and why.

No sooner had she thought that than the car stopped, still out of sight, and she knew positively it wasn't the Porsche.
That
had purred smoothly and quietly, and this car didn't. This one sounded as if it needed a tune-up.

And it had stopped somewhere between the cottage and the road. There were no other houses and no other driveways, and if the car had gone past the end of Grandpa's driveway, she'd have seen it, as they'd seen Ben's father leaving earlier.

Why had Grandpa picked today to leave them alone and go to town? What would happen when the man came back, even if she could warn Grandpa first?

Would he dare go to the police? If calling in the authorities were an option, surely Mom would have done it before this. So what other choice was there?

For the first time Megan began to understand why her mother had gathered them up and run away. She fought the impulse herself to run blindly, with no refuge in mind . . . simply to get away from the man who menaced her family in some way she didn't understand.

There was no time to lose. The car she had heard might be someone no more dangerous than the mail carrier, but she couldn't take the chance.

Megan ran toward the beach, reaching for the life jacket hanging on the tree and putting it on with fingers so cold and clumsy they could scarcely cope with the fasteners. Then she shoved the canoe into the water. If the man came back, or someone else came, she wouldn't be there.

*  *  *

Ben and Sandy met her at the beach on the island. They were getting ready to push off in the boat when Megan rounded the rock that formed one arm of the little cove.

They stared at her wet clothes and dripping hair as she nosed the canoe toward shore.

“What happened to you?” Sandy demanded.

At the sound of Sandy's voice, Wolf leaped to his feet from where he had been sitting in the canoe, eager to reach his new young master. The canoe slid in alongside the rowboat, and the big dog tried to leap from one to the other.

The result was that Wolf overturned the canoe, landing both himself and Megan in the lake.

They were on the rocky shelf, so the water wasn't very deep. Wolf swam ashore and shook himself, sending a shower over Megan as she rose to the surface, spluttering, and waded past a laughing Ben.

“Looks like he's even more dangerous in a canoe than in a boat. Why didn't you leave him on the mainland?”

“Because,” Megan said, drawing a deep breath, “he wouldn't stay there. That's how I got wet the first time. He swam after me and tried to climb in with me.” She twisted at her hair, wringing out some of the water. “Besides, I didn't have the heart to leave him, after he stood by me when that man came and I had to hide in the woods.”

Ben's amusement died abruptly. “What man? What happened?”

She told them, quickly, concisely. She didn't admit how scared she'd been—how scared she still was—but she could tell they knew. It was in their faces; they were scared, too.

“A guy with Illinois plates,” Ben mused when she had finished. “Are you sure he wasn't a cop?”

“I suppose he could have been, but he didn't act like one.” She waited defensively for him to ask why she hadn't demanded of the man who he was and what he wanted.

He didn't. “Wonder what he'd have done,” he muttered, “if he'd found you there.”

Sandy's blue eyes were enormous. “Do you think he'll come back?”

“I'd bet on it,” Ben said impatiently. “If he came all the way from Illinois, and asked questions about you back home and then here in Lakewood, and came out here to the lake, he isn't going to give up and go away just because nobody was home this morning.”

Sandy licked his lips. “Do you think he's . . . dangerous?”

Megan felt the man was dangerous. She had been terrified, crouching there in the woods while the stranger prowled around the cottage, testing doors and windows. She was nevertheless annoyed when Ben said, before she could speak, “Of course.” The response sounded as if he meant to add “stupid” on the end of it.

Ben considered the situation. “Your grandpa probably will be gone until suppertime. And no telling how long Dad will be away, maybe that long, too. I guess there's only one thing to do.”

“What?” Sandy asked, his voice squeaking.

“Stay here. I've got binoculars, we can take turns watching and see what he does if he comes back. Unless he goes down to our place and swipes our canoe, there's no way he can get at us here on the island,” Ben said. “Come on, let's go back to the tree house where we can see your cottage.”

He led the way up over the rock, with Sandy and Megan following. For once Megan didn't resent the way Ben took charge without asking anyone else's opinion.

For a few hours, until one of the grown-ups came home, they ought to be safe here on the island, she thought. Megan wished the idea made her feel better than it did.

*  *  *

“Make me another sandwich. Boiled ham with mayonnaise,” Ben said. He was lying flat on his stomach on the deck that projected from the side of the tree house, so that he could rest on his elbows as he held the binoculars to his eyes. The binoculars were at the moment trained on Grandpa Davis's cottage, although from time to time he swept them along the rest of the shore to make sure he wasn't missing any action.

He'd already had two sandwiches, and Sandy had had one. Megan felt too much tension to be hungry, though several hours had passed and nothing more had happened. Whoever had driven the car that needed a tune-up off the main road had never appeared where the trio on the island could see him. Maybe that should have made her feel better, but Megan only felt more tense than ever, waiting. Knowing the man would eventually return.

“Put a slice of cheese on it, too,” Ben added.

When she didn't move from where she sat cross-legged in the doorway of the house, Ben lowered the glasses to twist his head in her direction.

“What's the matter? We can't be out of cheese yet. I brought enough food out here to last for a week.”

“Who was your servant this time last year?” Megan asked, disgruntled.

Ben's grin was disarming. “I think it was my friend Fred. Yes, it was definitely Fred. But Fred's in Duluth. Besides, he's not allowed to associate with me anymore.”

“Why not?” Sandy asked, intrigued. He was sprawled inside the hut on a sleeping bag, reading a comic book. Ben had thought of practically everything.

“His folks said I talked him into skipping school to go swimming. Actually he was the one who said he wanted to swim because it was so hot, and we didn't have anything left of school but study hall and P.E. We didn't think anybody would miss us. Besides, how did I know Fred would lose our bus fare so we'd have to walk all the way home and we'd be so late both our dads would call the cops to look for us? Well, Lawrence is only my stepfather, and I don't think he was worried as much as mad. Lawrence must never have been a kid. He has no sense of humor whatsoever.”

“Did Fred make you sandwiches?” Sandy asked, tossing aside the comic book.

“Fred did everything I wanted him to do,” Ben said, nodding. “Until they grounded him.”

“Why?” Megan asked.

“I just told you why. We skipped the last two periods. . . .”

“No, I mean why did Fred wait on you?”

“He liked me. He looked up to me. He felt worthwhile, waiting on me. It gave him something to do besides count his zits.”

“I'm not Fred,” Megan said. “I don't like waiting on anybody. Especially when they don't say . . .”

“Please!” both boys chorused. “And thank-you!”

“Make your own . . .” Megan began, and then broke off, suddenly breathing more quickly.

“What's the matter?” Ben grabbed for the binoculars and swiveled them toward the cottage. “They're back! Or somebody is. Medium-blue Ford Escort, I think. Not a white car with a red top, so it's somebody different.”

There were any number of reasons why someone might legitimately drive into the yard. A meter reader, a delivery person, someone who was lost and wanted directions to a local cabin on the lake. Why, then, was Megan's mouth so dry? “Let me see,” she requested.

Ben handed over the glasses as the car doors opened and two men got out. “Is one of them the guy you saw before?”

The two figures seemed to leap toward her through the powerful lenses; she focused first on one, then the other. “No. These are different men. They're younger.” There was a tremor in her voice as she returned the binoculars.

“Let me see, too,” Sandy said, and Ben handed them over to him. He studied the men in silence for a moment, then frowned as he lowered the glasses. “I think I've seen one of them before, maybe. The smallest guy, the one with dark hair.”

“Where?” Ben asked.

“I don't know. I can't remember.”

“Fat lot of help you are,” Ben observed, so that Megan bristled.

“He can't help it if he can't remember,” she said in a challenging tone.

Ben refused to be riled. “You're no help, either. Get this description: the first one is skinny, dark haired. The second one is a lot bigger, blond, and he's wearing glasses with dark rims. They're both wearing jeans, I think, and plaid shirts.”

Sandy had reached for a pencil and a pad—Ben really had thought of everything, though it was doubtful those had been provided for such a purpose—and scribbled some notes. “What are we keeping this information for? Are we going to call the police? What if that first one
was
the police?”

“Then they ought to congratulate us on being observant.” Ben swung the glasses slightly. “I think that's a Minnesota license plate.”

Again the binoculars were handed back and forth. Although the glasses were powerful ones—Megan suspected they were expensive and Mr. Jamison probably would be upset when he found out where they were—it was enough of a distance across the water to make it hard to be sure about the license. “It could be Minnesota colors,” she said finally.

“What's that prove?” Sandy asked.

“Nothing. No more than the Illinois ones prove. Write it down anyway. It's evidence,” Ben said. “Who do you know in Illinois?”