Driver's Dead Page 7

Kirsten ran to her window and looked outside. An unfamiliar bike was propped up against a maple tree out front.

  She ran downstairs and through the house, then pulled open the front door.

  “Doesn’t your bell work?” Virgil was pressing the button repeatedly.

  “No,” Kirsten replied. “It’s busted.”

  Virgil looked over Kirsten’s shoulder into the house. “Hey, nice place.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I was never in here before.”

  “No?”

  “I didn’t know Nguyen.”

  “Want to meet him?”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  Virgil looked at her oddly. “Is something wrong, Kirsten? You look like you saw a ghost.”

  “No!” Kirsten shot back. Just heard one, that’s all.

  Virgil shrugged. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be critical. I, uh, just wanted to apologize to you. You know, for walking away after school like that. When Maria and I had that argument.”

  “Why are you apologizing to me?”

  “It was … you know, rude of me to just storm away without saying good-bye or anything.”

  “That’s okay. I mean, we’re all … tense.”

  Kirsten had no idea Virgil was so polite. The apology seemed a little ridiculous. But boy, was she glad for the company.

  “Uh, can I come in?” Virgil asked with an awkward smile.

  “Oh, sorry! Sure … sure.”

  Virgil stepped in and plopped himself on the living room sofa.

  Sniff, sniff. He scrunched his nose. “Do you smell something funny?”‘

  Kirsten winced. “We, uh, we’re not sure what that is.”

  “I can’t get over what happened,” Virgil said, shaking his head. “I mean, Rob—I knew him.”

  Kirsten sat opposite him on a chair. “Me, too.”

  “You never think it’ll happen to someone you know, and then—you know?”

  “Yeah. I know… .” They both shook their heads sadly and looked around. Kirsten felt tongue-tied. Virgil was a nice guy, but she still didn’t know him well. “Um, where’s Maria?”

  “Her dad took the day off,” Virgil replied with a sigh, “so the whole family could talk about Rob’s death with a shrink. I didn’t want to stay home alone.”

  “Oh.” A shrink. What a good idea. Leave it to the Siroccos.

  “Can I have something to drink?”

  “Of course. Sorry! Orange juice okay?”

  “Perfect. I’ll come with you. See your house.”

  “Okay.” Kirsten led him out of the living room, saying, “This is the dining room … the kitchen …”

  Kirsten smiled as Virgil pretended to be impressed. Poor Virgil. Too afraid to be alone, without his girlfriend. It was kind of sweet that he came over.

  Kirsten was feeling a little less tense as she got some orange juice from the fridge and poured two glasses. Virgil was a good guy. Intelligent. He seemed trustworthy.

  “Yum,” he said. “I haven’t had anything to drink all day.”

  Kirsten took a long gulp. “Virgil, you think Gwen really did it?”

  Virgil furrowed his brow. “Well, she kind of admitted it.”

  “But you know her, right? I mean, she is obnoxious, but she doesn’t seem like a murderer.”

  “Jeffrey Dahmer didn’t seem like a murderer, either. What are you getting at, Kirsten? Do you have any other ideas?”

  Kirsten swallowed. She was dying to tell someone what she’d seen.

  “Well, there’s been some really strange stuff going down lately,” Kirsten began.

  “Like?”

  Go for it, Kirsten said to herself.

  “Virgil, do you happen to have that contest flyer we got in driver’s ed?”

  “Maybe.” Virgil began emptying his pockets—candy wrappers, coins, a bankcard, pieces of tissue, rubber bands, paper clips… . “Wait a minute.”

  He ran into the living room and came back with his coat, rummaging through the pockets. “Here it is.”

  Virgil held out a folded piece of paper and Kirsten grabbed it.

  She quickly opened it and laid it out on the table.

  His Escort was angled forward, all right. Even more than hers had been. Almost as far as Rob’s.

  “There!” she exclaimed. “Do you remember what this looked like when you first got it?”

  Virgil looked at it quizzically. “Flatter. Cleaner.”

  “Come upstairs—and don’t get any ideas.”

  “Kirsten …”

  Both of them tromped up the stairs to Kirsten’s room. She pointed to the flyer on her desk. “Look at that.”

  Virgil seemed ill at ease. He looked around the room nervously. “Was this Nguyen’s room?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kirsten replied. “Why?”

  “Just curious.” He peered at the flyer. “Yeah … so? Hey, wait. The picture’s different.”

  “Hallelujah! You see? It’s moving!”

  Virgil threw back his head and laughed. “Kirsten, you are weird. They must have printed different versions.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But—”

  But Rob’s “version” jumped off the page. That was where this conversation was leading. And Kirsten couldn’t tell him that. She hadn’t even told Maria.

  “But what? What does this have to do with Gwen?”

  “Nothing. I … guess I’m just jumpy.”

  Virgil looked at her as if she’d just pulled a bicycle out of her nose. “Right. Uh … can I use your bathroom?”

  “Yeah. Go through my mom and dad’s room, and it’s the door next to the attic.”

  Virgil disappeared, and Kirsten went downstairs. She felt like a fool. She should never have mentioned anything to Virgil.

  In the kitchen she began assembling ingredients for a bagel and cream cheese. She took out an extra one in case Virgil was hungry.

  She made her own, toasting the bagel, slathering it with cream cheese, and stuffing it with lettuce and sliced tomatoes. She read the newspaper as she ate.

  Virgil was still upstairs as she finished.

  She put her dish in the dishwasher. Where was he?

  Nat would do the same thing. Disappear into the bathroom and emerge ages later, having read an entire Hardy Boys novel.

  But Virgil hadn’t brought anything in with him.

  He was taking an awfully long time.

  She thought about going upstairs, but decided against it. Instead she began preparing the second bagel.

  Whoooooooo …

  A wind was whipping up outside. Kirsten gazed out the window.

  Odd. The sun was shining brightly. Not a leaf was moving.

  Kirsten shrugged and slit the bagel in half.

  Whhacckkk!

  The door to the back foyer opened and smacked against the wall.

  With a thundering crash, the china plate on the wall fell to the floor and broke into a thousand pieces.

  Chapter 15

  THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP thump thump … “Kirsten?”

  Virgil appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He stared at the shards of the ceramic plate. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Kirsten’s right hand ached. She looked down and realized she’d been clutching the bread knife tightly, as if she were about to be attacked. She set it down on the table. “I was making a bagel and cream cheese when the door flew open.”

  “Whoa. Must be some wind.”

  They both looked through the opening and into the foyer. Just beyond it was the back door. Tightly shut.

  “Was that open?” Virgil asked.

  “No.”

  Virgil gave her a perplexed look. “Then where … ?” His voice trailed off.

  “See, Virgil, I told you some strange stuff was happening.”

  “Dwee-dee-dee-doo, dwee-dee-dee-doo …” Virgil began singing the theme to The Twilight Zone.

  “Not funny. Help me clean up. My mom is going to kill me
. This was valuable.”

  “Couldn’t be too valuable if you can’t eat off it,” Virgil groused as Kirsten handed him a dustpan.

  They swept up the mess and dumped it in the trash.

  “Thanks,” Kirsten said as she put away the broom and pan. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, thanks,” Virgil replied. “I should be going.”

  Kirsten walked him to the living room, where he put on his coat. At the door, he turned to Kirsten with a smile. “Listen, I know how you must feel. Gwen won’t get away with this.”

  “If she did it,” Kirsten said.

  Virgil exhaled loudly. “Kirsten, don’t get me wrong, but you’re naive. You don’t know Gwen—”

  “I’m not naive!” Kirsten blurted out. “The tire tracks began in the middle of nowhere! They started near the pond, but they don’t trace back along the pond to the street.”

  Virgil chuckled. “Gwen is a very good driver. Her parents started letting her practice when she was twelve.”

  “Twelve? Isn’t that illegal?”

  “So’s murder. Look, when Gwen sets her mind to something, nothing stops her. That stuff about the tire tracks doesn’t surprise me one bit. Piece of cake for a good driver.”

  “Unlike me, right?”

  Virgil looked at the floor. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. And I guess I should have an open mind about Gwen. Innocent until proven guilty, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, look, if you need me …” Virgil smiled. “I’m here for you.”

  Kirsten felt his hand closing around hers. She felt a surge of warmth for him. “Thanks, Virgil.”

  His hand lingered a moment. “See you,” he said softly. “Soon, I hope.”

  As he walked to his bike, Kirsten’s hand tingled.

  And she suddenly felt creepy.

  Was it possible? Was Virgil trying to flirt with her?

  Couldn’t be. Not with a friend of his girlfriend. Guys like Virgil weren’t that low.

  Kirsten walked back through the house. The smell was almost indistinguishable now, flushed out by the chilly air.

  She examined the kitchen door, swinging it back and forth a few times. Seemed perfectly normal.

  Stepping into the foyer, she checked the back door. It was locked. Opposite that door and next to the kitchen was the basement door.

  That one was open.

  She peered downstairs, into the darkness.

  “Nguyen?”

  She flicked on the light and took a step down. Two.

  “Anybody there?”

  Three. Four.

  “Hello?”

  At the bottom she stopped and looked around.

  What a mess. Moving boxes, old bikes, un-needed furniture—all were strewn about haphazardly.

  Kirsten walked back upstairs and turned off the light. She had to pull the door especially hard to get the latch to click.

  Aha! That’s what had happened—the door hadn’t been shut all the way. It swung open suddenly, making a backdraft that opened the kitchen door.

  Kirsten picked the knife up off the table. She went to the counter and finished making the bagel Virgil didn’t want.

  If in doubt, eat.

  As she munched away, she began feeling calmer. It was strange living in a house. Apartment living had been so much simpler—everything on one level, scrunched together. She’d had her whole life to get used to the corners and closets of their old place—which hadn’t been hard to do in an Upper West Side “Classic Six.” Bedroom, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room, “maid’s room.” It was small, cozy.

  Now she was living in a cavern. Cold and unfamiliar. The house still seemed so foreign, as if she were a visitor. No wonder she was hearing things, imagining ghosts. It was probably normal to go through this stage.

  Give yourself a break, Kirsten, she thought. Stop getting all worked up over nothing.

  The blood was a dream, the moaning a migraine headache (after all, Dad said those were provoked by high stress). The flyers—well, there had to be some explanation for those. Gwen had killed Rob. Plain and simple.

  And that made her angry.

  Where was Gwen now? Halfway across the country, probably, with dyed hair, a new wardrobe, and a fake name.

  No one would ever find out how Rob died.

  Kirsten got up from the table. If she had to stay silent about the killing to the public, at least she could face the murderer.

  If Gwen was home, Kirsten was going to confront her.

  She raced upstairs, looked up Gwen’s address in the phone book in her parents’ room, and wrote it down:

  147 Padanarum.

  On her way out, she caught a glimpse of an open door to her left.

  The attic door.

  Had that been open before? She didn’t think so.

  Virgil probably had gotten lost on the way to the bathroom. She closed the door and ran downstairs.

  She checked a map of Port Lincoln, which her dad kept by the phone. Padanarum Avenue was across town, near the road to Fenimore Village. She mapped out a route in her mind, bolted outside, and grabbed her bike.

  The Port Lincoln streets were quiet; the other schools were in session. Kirsten raced past the new shopping center, where she spotted a bunch of high-school kids hanging out, gathered around a gleaming turquoise Camaro.

  Then came the older part of town—big houses, winding streets—and Port Lincoln Park, a rectangular green with crisscrossing pathways and huge maple trees.

  Padanarum was one of the streets that began opposite the long side of the park. She sped across the green, taking a middle path, pumping hard, training her eyes on the street signs.

  A thick tree partially obliterated one of the signs. She pedaled past the tree, jumped the curb, and landed in the street.

  HONNNNNNK!

  A red Jeep, hidden by the tree, seemed to come out of nowhere.

  Kirsten lost her balance. Her bike went flying.

  She tumbled to the street, the screech of brakes in her ears.

  Chapter 16

  KIRSTEN HIT THE BLACKTOP hard. On her back. She felt the heat of the engine. She could see the pebbles wedged in the tire treads, which were sliding, sliding toward her face.

  She rolled to the right, gritted her teeth, and closed her eyes.

  The impact was more like a yank backward. She felt a sharp pain in her scalp.

  The screeching stopped.

  Kirsten opened her eyes. A lock of her hair was on the street below her, lying across a black skid mark.

  Inches away was the right front tire of the red Jeep.

  Kirsten sat up. She was dizzy. She scanned as much of herself as she could. Her khaki pants were ripped at the knee, her elbow was bloody, and the palm of her left hand had a wicked cut.

  Plus she was now a little balder.

  “You’re worse on a bike than in a car!”

  Kirsten spun around. The voice was unmistakable.

  “Mr. Busk!” she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet. “I’m sorry!”

  “Sorry?” Mr. Busk’s face was beet red. His eyes bulged with anger. “Sorry? You almost gave me a heart attack! You ought to be glad you’re alive!”

  “I know … I am!”

  “You think you don’t have to look both ways on a bike? You think you can just cross wherever you want? And you want to get your driver’s license?”

  He was practically spitting his words. The sickly sweet smell of alcohol blew past Kirsten in putrid gusts. She thought of asking him for some—to put on her cut—but that didn’t seem like a wise move.

  Besides, he was not going to give Kirsten a chance to speak. After his tirade he turned and stomped back to his Jeep.

  With a squeal of tires, he tore off.

  The jerk.

  The drunken, irresponsible, ought-to-be-fired-if-I-had-the-guts-to-report-him jerk!

  Nearly killed me, and he didn’t even ask if I was all right!

  Besides, couldn’t he see
her riding across the park? Or would he have, if he were sober?

  He was the last person who should be teaching driver’s ed, and she vowed to report him to the school officials.

  Kirsten stretched her legs and arms. Everything seemed to be intact. She was lucky.

  Her bike was even luckier. It had rolled to the curb and fallen onto a soft patch of grass.

  A few yards away, in the green, Kirsten spotted an old cement water fountain. She went over and let the water rinse her elbow and palm.

  Next she found a bandanna in her jacket pocket and pulled it out. The skin that had scraped off her palm hung in a loose semicircular flap. She flipped it over to cover the scrape, then wrapped the bandanna around her hand to hold the skin in place and stop the bleeding.

  That would protect it until she got home. The elbow would just have to air out.

  Carefully she picked up her bike and started riding. Padanarum was the street to her left. She turned onto it and looked for number 147.

  Kirsten had figured that Gwen’s family must have been on the rich side. But that wasn’t likely in this neighborhood. The houses were old, small, and close together. Some were neatly kept, but others were run-down, with scraggly, weed-strewn dirt patches for lawns.

  Number 147 was on a corner, a modest aluminum-sided colonial-style house with a screened-in porch.

  Kirsten slowed down. She could hear the tick-tick-ticking of another ten-speed bike.

  A moment later, Gwen shot out of the driveway on the other side of the house, wearing a bulky backpack. Pedaling fast, she headed away from Kirsten.

  When Gwen was a block and a half away, Kirsten began to follow.

  It wasn’t easy keeping Gwen in sight. She darted left and right, taking a winding route through streets Kirsten had never seen before.

  At a five-way street corner, Kirsten stopped. Gwen was nowhere in sight.

  Poof. End of search.

  Kirsten muttered a curse. All that effort—a brush with death—and all Kirsten had to show was a sore back and a souvenir of the Port Lincoln Highway Department embedded in her skin.

  Now what? Go back to Gwen’s and wait, or go home?

  Kirsten looked at the street signs: Main St, Beckwith Ave, Teichner Pl. She might as well have been in Bulgaria. Not one name rang a bell.

  With a sigh, she headed down Main. It didn’t seem very main, but you never knew. Sooner or later, something might look familiar.