Missing (9 page)

“Can I touch them?” I ask.

“Oh yes,” says Heb.

I pick up a little bird that is the color of a summer sky. “I love this one,” I say.

“Mountain bluebird,” says Heb. “The male. It's a pretty little thing.”

He gets up stiffly and walks around the room with me, naming birds: northern flicker, blue-winged teal, wood duck and a ruby-throated hummingbird that fits in the palm of my hand.

I'm amazed at how good his memory is now. “I've spent my whole life watching birds,” he says. His eyes twinkle. “Tried to get my grandson here interested but no luck. Now young Ginny, she's got the bug. I'm starting her on a carving of a mallard.”

“I think they're wonderful,” I say.

“Well, it's a hobby that's kept me out of trouble.”

Heb is tiring. He sinks back into his chair and pulls the blanket around his thin legs.

“We'll leave you now, Grandpa,” says Van.

“Thank you for showing me your birds,” I say.

“Goodbye, Thea.” Heb puts out his hand for me to shake. It feels as fragile as the tiny hummingbird.

“Goodbye,” I say.

“You come in and see me before you go to bed, Van, and we'll have that game of chess.” Heb's grin is wicked. “My boy and I are at a draw, Thea, three games to three. Tonight's the night I whump him.”

On the way back in the boat, I tell Van about the newspaper article about Livia Willard. He's amazed that he has never heard of her before. We're both sure that his grandfather was talking about Livia at dinner. In his muddled-up mind, did he think that Van would get blamed for Livia's disappearance?

We decide to go to the museum on Friday to see if we can find any more newspaper clippings. The museum is open from one till four, so we'll have to skip out of school. It's the last day so it'll just be pizza and a movie anyway. Since Van and I usually ignore each other at school, I almost make a sarcastic remark about Van preferring to hang out with his youth-group friends instead of coming with me to the museum.

I bite my lip and keep my mouth shut. I'm getting smarter.

N
ine

It's Thursday after supper and something amazing has just happened. I've lured Renegade into the round pen. First I opened the pen's metal gate, and then I got a bucket of grain. I walked slowly down the middle of the corral, shaking the bucket so the grain rattled. Renegade followed me at a wary distance, unable to resist, right through the gate and into the pen! I dumped the grain on the ground, then slid back around Renegade with the empty bucket and shut the gate.

Now I am outside and he is inside.

I take a deep breath. I'm not so cocky now about trapping him, just apprehensive.

In my pocket is a crumpled piece of paper. I don't need to take it out to read it. I know what I wrote.

Control movement.

Control direction.

Those are the two things I need to work on first.

Renegade finishes his grain. He trots around the pen, his head lowered to the ground, blowing through his nose. He makes three or four circles and then he stops and presses his nose against the metal pipes. They're too high for him to stick his head over. I wonder if he's feeling as nervous as I am.

I pick up a coiled rope that I've laid on the ground, ready for this moment. It's soft and about twenty feet long. I felt a small burst of triumph when I found it in the tack room. It's exactly what the articles from the Internet say I need.

That's all. Just a rope. I bite my lip and slide the latch on the gate. I slip inside the round pen and shut the gate. It clangs and Renegade jumps. I move to the middle of the pen, my eyes on Renegade. He swings his butt toward me and flattens his ears.

Control movement
.

That's where I'll start. My plan is to make Renegade move. Anywhere, it doesn't matter where. As long as he moves when I tell him to. That will establish my leadership. Or, as one article said, I will be the lead mare in this tiny herd of ours. Horses need a leader. They feel safer, more secure. That's the theory, anyway.

I hurl the end of the rope toward his butt. I don't mean to throw so hard. It smacks against his flank and wraps around his back leg.

He kicks out hard. The rope jerks from my hand and dirt sprays my face. I duck instinctively. He explodes into a fast gallop, streaking around the pen as if he is being chased by a thousand demons. I'm terrified he'll fall or crash into the pipe walls. The pen is small, too small for this speed. The eye I can see rolls in fear. Hooves churn the ground into dust. Flanks turn sleek with sweat.

I am rooted to the ground, my legs weak. Every part of me says to stay out of his way. Everything I've read leaves my head. I've no idea how to stop him. I'm sure he's going to kill himself. Or kill me.

He gallops around and around, his hindquarters surging, his hooves drumming rhythmically. Dust and the pungent smell of his sweat choke my nostrils.

I'm in awe of his power.

I think he's gone crazy.

I remember more words.
Round pen work is not
about mindlessly racing a horse around in circles.
A horse that is not fit can run to exhaustion or death.

A random thought jumps into my head: Dad would know what to do.

Change direction
.

That's the second step. Now that he's moving, I have to tell him which direction.

I'm terrified to try. I'm certain I'll be trampled. So I do nothing.

After what seems like forever, Renegade slows to a canter and then a trot.
Control movement. Change
direction
. Since I tossed the rope, Renegade has been the boss. I'm nowhere near being the lead mare. Renegade knows it too. He kicks out in my direction—hard, resentful—and then stands still, his sides heaving, blowing through his flared nostrils. He won't look at me.

The dust settles. I stare at him, my heart racing. Flecks of foam speckle his black muzzle.

Shaken, I open the gate. I leave it open for Renegade. I pick up the rope and loop it over my shoulder. Then I grab the empty grain bucket and escape back to the barn. I need to think. I need a better plan.

T
en

When Van and I get to the museum at twenty after one, one of those plastic clocks saying
Back
in Ten Minutes
is hanging in the window. We go to the 7-Eleven for Cokes and guzzle them on the hot, sunny sidewalk in front of the museum. I'm filled with the joy that comes on the last day of school.

An old rust-speckled car pulls up to the curb and a woman gets out, calling, “Sorry to keep you waiting.” She has spiky black hair sticking out of a brightly colored bandanna and piercings on her nose and eyebrow. She walks around to the passenger side and lifts a small blond boy out of a car seat. “Had to pick up Jeremy at the day care,” she explains. “He's not feeling well. I'm Hana.”

Hana unlocks the door and turns on lights. We're in a small room filled with glass cases; a display of old-fashioned dresses stands against one wall. “There's a lot more to see in the other rooms,” says Hana. She sets Jeremy on a blanket in the corner with a couple of picturebooks and a plastic container of Cheerios. “Any questions, just ask.” She eyes our Cokes. “Please leave the drinks out here though.”

We set the cans on the counter. “We're wondering if you have any old newspapers,” I say.

Hana frowns. “How old?”

“From the fifties,” I say.

“We don't actually have whole newspapers,” says Hana. “But we have file folders of clippings. You know, stuff that happened in the town that was interesting. I don't know how far back they go, but you can look. If you can't find what you want, you might check at the newspaper office. I think they keep archives.”

She directs us to several tall gray filing cabinets in a tiny room behind the counter. It's more like a walk-in storage closet, filled with boxes of books, tattered magazines, an old clock and a bulging bag of clothes. There's a kettle and a box of tea beside a sink.

“I'm new here,” says Hana, “and I'm not sure how things were filed. You might have to do some digging.”

The first filing cabinet is crammed with folders with headings like
Arctic Animals, The Galapagos,
Aviation, Greek Architecture
. I peek inside a few of them; they're filled with articles and pictures cut out of glossy magazines. The second filing cabinet has newspaper clippings, but they're all recent: municipal elections, the campaign to build a new recreation center, closures at the mill. I'm starting to feel discouraged. Maybe the newspaper archives would have been better.

“In here!” Van bursts out. He's been rummaging through the filing cabinet beside me. “This goes way back.” And then “Aha!”

He produces a tan file folder with
Livia Willard
written in black felt pen on the tab. I can't believe our luck. I had started to think we were crazy.

Inside are five newspaper clippings, held together with a paper clip. I spread them out on the table in the front room. We sit down and I pass Van the article dated July 9, 1954. The headline reads
DOUBLE
TRAGEDY AT CARIBOO GUEST RANCH
. It's the same one that I found in the guest book.

I pick up another article and start to read.

July 10, 1954

SEARCH FOR MISSING GIRL
CONTINUES

An extensive search for four-year-old Livia
Willard, who disappeared the afternoon of July
7 at the Double R Guest Ranch, continues. Police
and volunteers have searched the shoreline of
Gumboot Lake and the forested area around the
ranch. The police are not ruling out foul play. Beth
Ryerson, sister of Wayne Willard, arrived from
England on July 9 to be with her two young nieces,
eight-year-old Iris and fourteenyear-old Esta, and
her daughter Melissa, who has been visiting the
family. She says she would like to thank everyone
who is working so hard to find Livia and that the
family wishes privacy at this time. Funeral services
for Livia's parents, Wayne and Joan Willard, killed
in a car accident as they returned to the ranch, will
be held in North Vancouver on July 14.

There's not much in there that I don't already know. I pick up the next article. The headline catches my attention.

July 14, 1954

ARREST IN WILLARD
DISAPPEARANCE

There has been a breakthrough in the case of the
missing fouryear-old girl, Livia Willard, who
was last seen on the afternoon of July 7 at the
Double R Ranch. Livia's fourteen-year-old sister,
Esta Willard, has come forward and said that
shortly before Livia disappeared she saw her
sister in the front seat of a truck belonging to
Heb Gallagher, an employee at the ranch.
Gallagher has worked at the ranch for the past
four years as a maintenance and general handy
man. His wife, May Gallagher, is the cook. After
extensive interrogation, police have charged
Gallagher with abduction. He is being held
without bail.

My first thought, after the shock of seeing his grandparents' names, is for Van. I would give anything for him not to know this, but it's too late. He has already picked up the clipping and is reading.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “Grandpa.” He stares at me, stricken. “This is awful.”

I feel sick. I wish I'd never suggested coming here. I have a horrible feeling that I have disturbed something that was meant to stay buried. “Look, maybe we should—,” I start to say.

“No,” says Van. “I need to know.”

The next clipping is only a few lines.

July 17, 1954

CHARGES IN WILLARD CASE DROPPED

Charges against Heb Gallagher, an employee at the
Double R Ranch, have been dropped. Police have
declined to comment, saying only that he remains
a person of interest.