Read Online The Twisted Window by Lois Duncan - Free Book Online
Authors: Lois Duncan
Tags: General, Action & Adventure, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Survival Stories, Mysteries & Detective Stories, Stepfamilies
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second open door led into a bedroom. This, too, appeared to be the sole province of an adult. The bedside table was piled with copies of Playboy, and a huge black and white poster of a well-endowed young woman in an infinitesimal bikini hung on the wall above the headboard. The bed was unmade, and a shirt with a tie still wound around the collar lay tossed across it. A pair of water skis was propped in a corner of the room, and the handle of a tennis racket protruded from beneath the bed.
Tracy stepped back from the entrance to the bedroom and turned to face the closed door directly opposite. Did she dare take a chance and open that? From what she could overhear of his conversation, it did not seem probable that Jim would remain on the phone much longer. "I don't have the number," he was saying, "but they're listed in the phone book. The last name's Carver. If you call tonight, maybe there'll still be enough time for them to dig up a sitter."
I've come this far, thought Tracy. I can't stop now.
She gave the knob a twist and shoved the door open. Disappointment surged through her as she saw that, although it was neater, this second bedroom bore no more resemblance to a nursery than the first room had. There was no sign of a youth bed or crib, nor were there toys. No dolls or crayons or picture books lay scattered about.
Entering quickly, Tracy crossed to the closet and pulled open the sliding door. She was confronted with an array of men's clothing—shirts, trousers, a rack of neckties. There were no tiny blouses and overalls, no little dresses. She glanced down at the floor. The shoes that were lined up there were obviously those of an adult—one black pair, one brown pair, some well-worn Nikes, and a pair of thongs.
Brad had to be wrong, she thought. Wrong, or maybe even crazy. Was the story he had told her true, or had he invented it? Did he really have a sister who had been kidnapped? Was there truly a wicked stepfather named Gavin Brummer? If so, then perhaps it was nothing more than coincidence that Jim Tyler's roommate had the same last name and first initial. The one thing of which she had now become absolutely certain was that no child lived in the Brummer-Tyler apartment.
Sliding the closet door closed again, she turned and started back across the room to the hall.
She had taken only three steps when suddenly she saw it.
In a silver frame on the table next to the bed, there stood a photograph of a blond baby in a yellow sundress.
CHAPTER 7
The Douglas Carver residence was listed in the phone directory as being on Sweetwater Drive, a street in a middle-class housing development on the eastern outskirts of Winfield. It was an odd, winding street that seemed to exist for the sole purpose of avoiding contact with any main artery of traffic, and by the time Brad had finally managed to locate it and follow its snakelike route to the twenty-seven hundred block, night had fully descended and turned the houses on either side of the street into faceless black rectangles.
"That's twenty-seven forty-seven," said Tracy, straining to make out the house numbers by the glow of Brad's headlights. "We're looking for twenty-seven fifty-three, which ought to be about—"
"It's there," Brad interrupted. "It's that house in the middle of the block. That Jaguar parked in front of it is Gavin's car."
"How can you tell?" Tracy asked doubtfully. "The house number is all faded out, and it's too dark to be able to see what color the car is."
"That's Gavin's car," Brad repeated firmly. "I'd recognize it anywhere."
He could remember the very first time he had seen that car. He had come home from school to find it parked in the driveway, its metallic paint glinting silver in the afternoon sunlight. Gavin had bought it as a "birthday surprise for Laura," but Brad's mother had been too upset by the cost of the vehicle to be willing to even think about trying to drive it.
Tracy stepped back from the entrance to the bedroom and turned to face the closed door directly opposite. Did she dare take a chance and open that? From what she could overhear of his conversation, it did not seem probable that Jim would remain on the phone much longer. "I don't have the number," he was saying, "but they're listed in the phone book. The last name's Carver. If you call tonight, maybe there'll still be enough time for them to dig up a sitter."
I've come this far, thought Tracy. I can't stop now.
She gave the knob a twist and shoved the door open. Disappointment surged through her as she saw that, although it was neater, this second bedroom bore no more resemblance to a nursery than the first room had. There was no sign of a youth bed or crib, nor were there toys. No dolls or crayons or picture books lay scattered about.
Entering quickly, Tracy crossed to the closet and pulled open the sliding door. She was confronted with an array of men's clothing—shirts, trousers, a rack of neckties. There were no tiny blouses and overalls, no little dresses. She glanced down at the floor. The shoes that were lined up there were obviously those of an adult—one black pair, one brown pair, some well-worn Nikes, and a pair of thongs.
Brad had to be wrong, she thought. Wrong, or maybe even crazy. Was the story he had told her true, or had he invented it? Did he really have a sister who had been kidnapped? Was there truly a wicked stepfather named Gavin Brummer? If so, then perhaps it was nothing more than coincidence that Jim Tyler's roommate had the same last name and first initial. The one thing of which she had now become absolutely certain was that no child lived in the Brummer-Tyler apartment.
Sliding the closet door closed again, she turned and started back across the room to the hall.
She had taken only three steps when suddenly she saw it.
In a silver frame on the table next to the bed, there stood a photograph of a blond baby in a yellow sundress.
CHAPTER 7
The Douglas Carver residence was listed in the phone directory as being on Sweetwater Drive, a street in a middle-class housing development on the eastern outskirts of Winfield. It was an odd, winding street that seemed to exist for the sole purpose of avoiding contact with any main artery of traffic, and by the time Brad had finally managed to locate it and follow its snakelike route to the twenty-seven hundred block, night had fully descended and turned the houses on either side of the street into faceless black rectangles.
"That's twenty-seven forty-seven," said Tracy, straining to make out the house numbers by the glow of Brad's headlights. "We're looking for twenty-seven fifty-three, which ought to be about—"
"It's there," Brad interrupted. "It's that house in the middle of the block. That Jaguar parked in front of it is Gavin's car."
"How can you tell?" Tracy asked doubtfully. "The house number is all faded out, and it's too dark to be able to see what color the car is."
"That's Gavin's car," Brad repeated firmly. "I'd recognize it anywhere."
He could remember the very first time he had seen that car. He had come home from school to find it parked in the driveway, its metallic paint glinting silver in the afternoon sunlight. Gavin had bought it as a "birthday surprise for Laura," but Brad's mother had been too upset by the cost of the vehicle to be willing to even think about trying to drive it.
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