Read Online Behind the Curtain by Peter Abrahams - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Abrahams
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Spanish, the words at the bottom reading Fabricado en México . The only other words she knew were halfway down: Anabolic Steroids. Ingrid placed the bottle back in the leaf pile, covered it up.
Back at home, she found a note on the fridge: At the office, won’t be long. Mom.
“Ty?” she called. “Ty?”
No answer. She checked the mudroom. The Red Raider varsity jacket, with TY on one sleeve and his number 19 on the other, wasn’t hanging on his hook. She was alone in the house.
Ingrid went upstairs. The door to Ty’s room stood open. She went in. Chaos. She looked around, not knowing what she was looking for. Maybe just some sign that everything was all right. What she saw were clothes all over the place, four or five copies of Sports Illustrated scattered on the bed, lights blinking from all the electronic stuff on Ty’s shelf—TV,CD player, VCR, DVD.
Something was bothering her, but what? She stepped over some damp towels, switched on the TV. ESPN. She pressed Play on the CD player. Rap. She popped open the drawer of the VCR. Jerry Maguire . What was wrong? Some little thing, some trifle.
What trifle was she looking for? She reached for the DVD player, popped open the—Only she didn’t. The DVD player was gone.
Dust balls lay on the shelf where it had been. A cable hung unattached. That was all data. Impossible to reach conclusions unless you had enough of it, according to Holmes. She could think of one more bit of data: Sean Rubino had a new DVD player. What did Stacy say? Some friend of his didn’t want it anymore.
Ingrid stood in her brother’s room, very still, waiting for some idea to arrive. She was still waiting when a horn honked on the street.
Ingrid peered out the window. A pickup was parked outside. A bright-red pickup, pretty old, but spotless.
Another honk, longer this time. Grampy didn’t like waiting.
eight
“H I , G RAMPY ,” I NGRID said through the open window of the pickup. “No one’s home.”
“What does that make you?” said Grampy. “A ghost? Hop in.”
“Where are we going?”
“Questions, questions,” said Grampy.
“That was only one question,” said Ingrid.
“What if the answer was ice cream?”
“At Moo Cow?” Moo Cow had the best ice cream in Echo Falls.
“Where else?” said Grampy.
“I’ll just leave a note,” Ingrid said.
They drove off in the pickup. A cold day, the clouds dark and heavy, but Grampy kept the windows open. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just a T-shirt, old corduroys held up with suspenders, and filthy work boots. The wind ruffled his hair, white as chalk but very thick. He looked pretty happy about something.
“Hey,” said Ingrid.
“What?”
“Isn’t Moo Cow down that way?”
“How did that happen?” said Grampy. “We’ll swing by after.”
“After what?”
“You’ll see,” said Grampy.
He crossed the bridge, the river flowing fast and black down below, and turned up Route 392 on the other side. After a while the farm appeared on the right—brown fields, bare apple trees in the orchard, and the sheds, barn, house, all painted red that might have been bright at one time.
“How old’s the farm, Grampy?”
“We stole it from the Indians,” Grampy said.
“Very funny,” said Ingrid.
Grampy did not reply.
He parked by the barn, led her out back, where astack of boards and a toolbox lay waiting.
“Just hold things steady while I hammer,” Grampy said.
“What are we building?” said Ingrid, holding things steady.
“A box,” said Grampy, hammering. He hammered hard and fast, his arm muscles like stiff cables under his skin.
“A box for what?” said Ingrid. The look in his eye reminded her of a recent project she’d helped him with, a sort of ecological renovation down below the orchard that had involved dynamite and rare toads.
Grampy plugged a power saw into an outlet on the barn wall, started sawing. “Can’t hear you with all this noise,” he said.
He worked faster and
Back at home, she found a note on the fridge: At the office, won’t be long. Mom.
“Ty?” she called. “Ty?”
No answer. She checked the mudroom. The Red Raider varsity jacket, with TY on one sleeve and his number 19 on the other, wasn’t hanging on his hook. She was alone in the house.
Ingrid went upstairs. The door to Ty’s room stood open. She went in. Chaos. She looked around, not knowing what she was looking for. Maybe just some sign that everything was all right. What she saw were clothes all over the place, four or five copies of Sports Illustrated scattered on the bed, lights blinking from all the electronic stuff on Ty’s shelf—TV,CD player, VCR, DVD.
Something was bothering her, but what? She stepped over some damp towels, switched on the TV. ESPN. She pressed Play on the CD player. Rap. She popped open the drawer of the VCR. Jerry Maguire . What was wrong? Some little thing, some trifle.
What trifle was she looking for? She reached for the DVD player, popped open the—Only she didn’t. The DVD player was gone.
Dust balls lay on the shelf where it had been. A cable hung unattached. That was all data. Impossible to reach conclusions unless you had enough of it, according to Holmes. She could think of one more bit of data: Sean Rubino had a new DVD player. What did Stacy say? Some friend of his didn’t want it anymore.
Ingrid stood in her brother’s room, very still, waiting for some idea to arrive. She was still waiting when a horn honked on the street.
Ingrid peered out the window. A pickup was parked outside. A bright-red pickup, pretty old, but spotless.
Another honk, longer this time. Grampy didn’t like waiting.
eight
“H I , G RAMPY ,” I NGRID said through the open window of the pickup. “No one’s home.”
“What does that make you?” said Grampy. “A ghost? Hop in.”
“Where are we going?”
“Questions, questions,” said Grampy.
“That was only one question,” said Ingrid.
“What if the answer was ice cream?”
“At Moo Cow?” Moo Cow had the best ice cream in Echo Falls.
“Where else?” said Grampy.
“I’ll just leave a note,” Ingrid said.
They drove off in the pickup. A cold day, the clouds dark and heavy, but Grampy kept the windows open. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just a T-shirt, old corduroys held up with suspenders, and filthy work boots. The wind ruffled his hair, white as chalk but very thick. He looked pretty happy about something.
“Hey,” said Ingrid.
“What?”
“Isn’t Moo Cow down that way?”
“How did that happen?” said Grampy. “We’ll swing by after.”
“After what?”
“You’ll see,” said Grampy.
He crossed the bridge, the river flowing fast and black down below, and turned up Route 392 on the other side. After a while the farm appeared on the right—brown fields, bare apple trees in the orchard, and the sheds, barn, house, all painted red that might have been bright at one time.
“How old’s the farm, Grampy?”
“We stole it from the Indians,” Grampy said.
“Very funny,” said Ingrid.
Grampy did not reply.
He parked by the barn, led her out back, where astack of boards and a toolbox lay waiting.
“Just hold things steady while I hammer,” Grampy said.
“What are we building?” said Ingrid, holding things steady.
“A box,” said Grampy, hammering. He hammered hard and fast, his arm muscles like stiff cables under his skin.
“A box for what?” said Ingrid. The look in his eye reminded her of a recent project she’d helped him with, a sort of ecological renovation down below the orchard that had involved dynamite and rare toads.
Grampy plugged a power saw into an outlet on the barn wall, started sawing. “Can’t hear you with all this noise,” he said.
He worked faster and
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