Missing (14 page)

A cold pit opens up in my stomach. Van is convinced that his grandfather is innocent. Could he be wrong? Then I think of that sweet old man with his birds, and none of it makes sense.

“Someone out there must know something,” I say. “A little girl can't just disappear like that.”

“Yeah, well she did.”

“It must have been hard on your grandmother too,” I say.

“Yeah,” says Van. “But she's tougher than Grandpa. She's kind of a rock. She's always there for everyone. Always.”

Van is quiet for a few minutes, brooding.

I say, “How did the chess game go?”

“Oh that,” says Van with a sigh. “Grandpa checkmated me in eight moves. It made his day.”

We cut across the lake and slowly follow the forested shoreline back to the ranch. Van says if we're lucky we might spot some wildlife—a bear or a moose. The boat noses around a point and we're at the edge of the marshy bay in front of the old abandoned cabin. Two black ducks with white patches on their heads skitter through the lily pads. They take off into the sky with a racket.

Van turns the motor off, and we drift.

“I wonder if that old boat is worth salvaging,” says Van.

A boat is pulled up on the bank, half hidden in bushes. Faded red paint is peeling along the sides, and a fist-sized hole gapes near the back. It doesn't look like anything I'd want to ride in.

“Be my guest,” I say. I study the cabin. It's not possible, but I'd swear it's sunk even deeper into the weeds today. Sun glints off the windows and turns the moss on the shingles a fluorescent green. Everything looks utterly neglected. It's hard to imagine Esta and Iris playing here so long ago.

And then I catch a shadow of movement behind a pane of grimy glass. I suck in my breath.

For a second a face peers out, wavy through the dust, as though underwater. It fades back into darkness.

“There's someone in the cabin,” I say softly.

“What?” says Van.

“Behind the window. Someone was looking at us.”

“I don't see anyone.” Van sounds skeptical.

I lean forward, my eyes riveted on the window.

Nothing.

“There
was
someone there,” I say slowly. “I'm sure of it.”

We wait for a few minutes, watching. Two squirrels chase each other down a tree, chattering shrilly and making me jump. Then it's dead quiet again. I imagine a shadowy figure standing back from the window, staying perfectly still, waiting for us to leave.

“It looks pretty deserted to me,” says Van. “You want to check it out?”

There's nowhere that looks like a good landing place for the boat. And I'm not so sure I want to go inside the cabin anyway. I sigh. “No, I guess not.”

Van starts the motor. He skirts the lily pads and points the boat back to deeper water. I look over my shoulder.

I don't really care whether Van believes me or not. There was someone there. I
know
it. I frown, trying to bring into focus the fleeting image of the face in the window.

I'm almost positive it was Marion Wilson.

S
eventeen

The next morning, Renegade and I are standing in the middle of the round pen. His ears flick back and forth as if he's thinking
Now what?
He lowers his head and sniffs the saddle blanket and saddle that rest on the ground beside us.

I coil my rope and rub it over his legs and up over his neck and ears. I bounce it up and down on his back. He's used to this. He turns his head and looks at me, his eyes soft.
We've done this before
, he says.
Get on with it
.

He pays a little more attention when I pick up the saddle blanket. His head raises and he takes a step backward. I go with him, holding the blanket in my arms. He stretches out his neck, blows through his nostrils. Slowly I feel him relax.

I lay the blanket over his back and then take it off before he has a chance to get upset. I do this several times. Finally I leave the blanket there. All the time, I'm alert to the signals Renegade is giving me. He's lowered his head again, and his mouth is gently chewing. All good signs.

I flap the sides of the blanket and thump it up and down. I slide it up his neck, almost to his ears, and back down again.

No problem.

I eye the saddle lying on the ground by my feet. A tickle of uneasiness curls in my stomach. I slide the right stirrup over the saddle horn, lay the cinch and the latigo over the seat. I pick the saddle up.

That's when Renegade bolts.

I make a loud
shooshing
sound as he pivots away. I want him to think that it's my idea that he go, not his. I put the saddle down and drive him around the pen with the rope, one lap, then two. A turn to the left. A turn to the right.

I allow Renegade to slow his steps and stop. I make the kissing sound and he walks toward me. His ears are forward, his lips move. He stands quietly.

Before I can change my mind, I pick up the saddle again, take a deep breath and place it on his back. Not a muscle twitches as I walk around him and lower the stirrup and latigo.

Back to his left side. I reach under his belly for the latigo. My hands are shaking. I'm not sure what's going to happen. I've been practicing in the barn, the saddle resting on a sawhorse. I tighten the latigo firmly and make a knot.

I stand back.

Renegade plunges forward. He crow-hops across the pen and bucks hard. Again and again. He's making a frantic effort to get the strange thing off his back. My heart thuds as saddle strings whip around and stirrups slap his sides. Dirt flies.

I'm starting to freak out, and then Renegade loses interest. Just like that. He stands still. I can almost see him thinking
Is this worth it?
I kiss and he comes to me willingly. I stroke his face and his ears.

“Next time,” I say, “I'm going to ride you.”

I go straight to Tully's computer and search for sites on horse training. Earlier Marion had suggested I type in
natural horsemanship
and
horse whisperer.
One link leads to another. I find lots more good stuff to add to what I've already got. But when I try to use the printer, it whirrs and hums and then makes a sick noise.

Then silence.

I investigate the problem. A sheet of paper is caught in the rollers. I fiddle for ten minutes before I get it out. It's deeply creased across the middle and I've torn the corner off, but you can still read it. The title at the top says
Anaphylactic Shock and Wasp
Stings.

I'm about to crumple it up and throw it in the wastepaper basket when I hesitate. Someone wanted it badly enough to print it.

Tully comes in from outside. He looks over my shoulder. I hold up the paper. “Is this yours?” I ask. “It's something about wasp stings.”

“Not mine,” says Tully. “It must be Marion's. She was using the computer a little while ago. Said she'd jammed the printer. I was just coming in to have a look at it.”

“I've fixed it,” I say.

Why would Marion be worried about wasps? I haven't seen any around here. And what is ana—
whatever
—shock?

I read the first few sentences.

Anaphylactic shock is a severe allergic reaction that
can be life threatening. On rare occasions complete
respiratory failure and death can occur within seconds
to minutes of exposure to the trigger. Common triggers
are high-protein foods, such as shellfish and peanuts,
and the venom of stinging insects, such as bumblebees
and yellow jacket wasps.

Sounds lovely. I push the paper aside and sink back into the world of horses.

In the afternoon I help Tully clean the lodge. Dad's working, Marion is out in the boat and Tully has chased the dogs outside, so we're by ourselves. Classical music is blaring. I can hear it even over the roar of the vacuum cleaner. Beethoven, Tully tells me, but that means nothing to me. Though I have to admit I like it more than I thought I would.

I'm dusting, and every once in a while Tully turns the vacuum off to tell me a story about the object I'm dusting: a piece of pottery from Peru, a carved wooden elephant from India, a Venetian mask, a chess set with detailed figures shaped like pirates and British soldiers. It takes ten times as long to get the cleaning done, but I like Tully's stories and I'm in no hurry.

When we're finished, Tully asks me to take some freshly laundered towels to Marion's cabin; after that I'm free, he says. The towels are stacked on top of the dryer. I pick out a bath towel, a couple of hand towels and a facecloth and head outside.

The blue boat is gone and nobody answers my knock on the door of cabin three. I glance out at the lake, but there's no sign of Marion. The water is slate gray and a breeze ruffles the surface. The sky has clouded over and it looks like it might rain.

I knock again but no one answers. The door is unlocked, so I go inside. It's the first time I've been in here since Marion came. The cabin is much smaller than ours. It has one main room with a kitchen sink, gas stove and mini-fridge at the end. There's one bedroom and a tiny bathroom. Everything is so neat. You'd hardly know anyone was staying here, except for the book sitting on the table beside the armchair and a jacket hanging on a hook by the door.

I take the towels into the bathroom and set them down on the counter. It's just as tidy in here. A toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste with one of those clip things on it sit in a drinking glass, a damp facecloth is folded over the edge of the sink, and the used towels are in the tub. I gather them up.

As I leave the cabin, something on the table beside the couch catches my eye. It's a beautiful carved box—the only personal thing of Marion's I've seen. It's made of golden wood and has a piece of abalone shell embedded in the lid. It reminds me of something that Tully might have brought back from one of his trips.

I put the towels down and touch the abalone. It's smooth, like silk. Curious, I pick up the box and lift the lid. Inside the box, a chain with a heart-shaped gold locket rests on a piece of white cloth. In the middle of the heart, a name is engraved in scrolly letters: