I pulled away from David. We smiled at each other.
“We better get back out there,” I said. “Here, let’s bring a bottle of Coke with us so it looks like we were doing something.”
“We were doing something.”
I grinned. “You know what I mean.”
We returned to the party.
Around eight when Brad grabbed Courtenay out of my lap and said, “Let’s play horsey, honey,” I stood up and said casually, “Gosh, Court, it’s past your bedtime. Let’s go upstairs.” I grabbed her back from Brad. It wasn’t past Courtenay’s bedtime at all, but she was tired from the evening, and couldn’t tell time anyway, so she didn’t know the difference. “I’ll be back in a while,” I said to everyone.
Upstairs, I helped Courtenay wash her face and brush her teeth. She put on her Cabbage Patch Kids nightgown by herself, and we settled down on her bed with Ramona the Pest, which Leigh and I were reading to her a little each night. I flipped ahead and realized we would probably finish the book before Dad and Leigh came back from Saint Bart’s.
At one point, while Courtenay was laughing over something Ramona said, I could have sworn I heard a creak in the hallway just outside the bedroom. A footstep?
“Shh a minute, Courtie,” I said, and she did, but all I could hear were the TV downstairs and the faraway murmur of voices. I began reading again.
When Courtenay was asleep, I went back downstairs to find that Brad had left.
Jane grinned at me.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Who cares?” she replied. “He’s not here!”
For some reason, that didn’t make me feel any better. Three times that evening I went upstairs to check on Courtenay, even though she wasn’t crying or calling out. And each time she was fine.
A feeling of unease had settled over me.
4
Missing
THE UNEASINESS DISAPPEARED BY the time I woke up the next morning. And we had so much fun taking Courtie to the park on that beautiful day that none of us wanted to go back to school. But Monday morning arrived, and with it rain, and we were thrust back into our routine.
I was in charge of breakfast that morning, so Mike dressed Courtenay while I tried to come up with something more interesting than toast. I was overjoyed to find a stack of frozen breakfasts in the freezer. I popped three in the oven.
When we were ready to eat, I made Mike and Courtenay sit at the table while I served them.
“The lady is a magician, folks,” said Mike, eyeing the stove suspiciously. “I don’t see any pots and pans.”
“Close your eyes,” I said. I removed the breakfasts from the oven, dumped everything out of the foil trays, and arranged the food on three plates.
Then I set the plates on the table and sat down. “Okay, open your eyes.”
“Hey!” said Mike in surprise. “Where did this come from?”
I giggled and held up the empty boxes and trays. “Swanson’s,” I said.
Mike burst out laughing, but Courtenay didn’t know what was so funny. She didn’t care, either. She was just happy to be eating waffles on a gray Monday morning. And she was a big mess by the time she finished, with syrup everywhere, including in her hair. But we got her cleaned up and ready for school in time to greet Birdie, who was driving again that morning.
Courtie dashed down the front walk to her bus. “Hi, Birdie! Hi, Birdie-Birdie!” She was in high spirits. Waffles and Birdie. A good start to her day.
“Hi there, young lady.”
I approached the bus, carrying Courtenay’s lunch, which she’d forgotten in her excitement. “Morning, Birdie.” I handed the lunch into the bus.
“Morning, Missy.” “Missy” is what Birdie calls any girl whose name she can’t remember. “Great day!”
I glanced at the sky. It was growing darker by the minute. “I guess … ” I replied.
“A great day for me. I’m getting my hair done. Right after I drop off the kiddies. Maybe I’ll try a new shade.”
“Oh, have fun!” I called as Birdie put the bus in reverse and backed down the driveway. I waved to Courtenay and she waved back, her nose pressed against the window.
Mike was supposed to be the one to go home after school that day and wait for Courtenay. David and I had plans to walk to the public library and look for books for a history paper. But Mike caught up with me during my free period, looking half harried and half angry, and said, “Maggie, I don’t believe it. Fiske is making me stay after school today.” Fiske is Mike’s math teacher. He’s about a hundred years old.
“You? Why?” Mike never gets in trouble. And math is his best subject.
“He says I didn’t turn in my quiz paper last Friday. What he means is he can’t find it. He’s senile. So he’s making me stay this afternoon to take the quiz again. He practically accused me of cheating.”
“Boy, if only Dad were here,” I said.
“Yeah, well. I can handle it. But it means I can’t wait for Courtenay. Can you do it?”
“Sure,” I said, but I was really disappointed. Even a study date with David was pretty exciting.
“Thanks,” said Mike. “I’ll meet her the next two days.”
“Okay.” And that was how I happened to be the one sitting out on our damp front steps that afternoon waiting for Courtie’s bus.
When I first sat down, it was about two-fifty, a little early for the bus, which usually arrived at three, so I got up, went into the kitchen, and made Courtenay a pitcher of apple and grape juice with pieces of apple floating in it. We call this Courtie’s Punch, and she loves it. Leigh says it’s a good way to get some fruit in her.
Then I took my French book and sat down on the porch steps with it. I was having a very hard time understanding this verb tense called the subjunctive. I just couldn’t figure out when to use it, and I knew I’d have to understand it in order to do well on the French final exam. I studied the chapter. At last something began to make sense. What a relief. Maybe I’d get it figured out after all.
I looked at my watch. It read 3:05. The bus was late. That never happened. What could have gone wrong? A flat tire? An accident? I wondered who was driving. Probably not Birdie, since she’d driven two times in a row.
Don’t panic, I told myself. I sat on the steps and decided to wait five more minutes before I did anything. I opened my French book to the back and took a self-quiz on the subjunctive. I answered all but two questions correctly. What an improvement.
Okay. It was time to take action. Courtie’s bus was definitely late. I thought for a moment. Jennifer McLogan, Jane’s cousin, also goes to Courtie’s school. She was usually dropped off just before Courtie was. I decided to start by calling the McLogans to see whether Jennifer had arrived home yet.
I checked the list of phone numbers by the kitchen telephone, found the McLogans’, and dialed it.
“Hello?” a voice answered.
“Jane?” I asked hesitantly.
“Yeah. … Maggie?”
“Yeah. What are you … Didn’t I dial the McLogans’?”
“Yup. I’m baby-sitting for Jenny and Scott this afternoon.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, listen. Is Jenny home from school yet? Did the bus drop her off?”
“Yes. Right on time. Why?”
“You’re kidding.” Panic was rising in me, but I fought it back. There was no reason to panic yet. Anything could have happened. A flat tire. A traffic jam. A tree in the road. One of the kids had an upset stomach.
I twisted the phone cord around and looked out the kitchen window. The sky had been gray all day, but now it seemed threatening. It hung heavy and black and the air had grown very still. There was not a breath of wind. As I watched, a flash of lightning streaked through the sky above the tops of the poplar trees, which were the color of charcoal in the eerie light.
I shivered and turned away from the window.
“Why?” I repeated Jane’s question. “Because Courtenay’s not home yet.??
?
“She’s not?” Jane sounded slightly alarmed.
“No. I—I guess I should call the school. If the bus is in trouble somewhere, the school would know about it. The other parents must be worried, too.”
I got off the phone with Jane. I was just about to call Courtenay’s school when something occurred to me. Maybe somehow Courtenay had been let off the bus early. Maybe the route had changed. Courtenay could have gotten home before I did!
I made a fast search of the house, even though it would have been locked when Courtie got home and she wouldn’t have been able to let herself in. No Courtenay.
Then I called several of our neighbors. No Courtenay.
I called the home of Courtie’s good friend Gabbie Perkins, who also rode the bus, to see if possibly, just possibly, Courtenay had gone home with her at the last minute. But I knew perfectly well that in the first place, Mrs. Perkins would have called to let us know where Courtie was, and in the second place, the bus driver wouldn’t have allowed it and neither would the school. A child needed written permission to go to any destination other than his or her home. I called the Perkinses anyway. No Courtenay.
Finally I called the school. The woman who answered the phone said she was the school secretary. I introduced myself and explained my problem to her.
“Well,” she replied, “we haven’t had a report that anything happened to the bus. Mr. Gunderson was driving this afternoon. Let me find out whether he’s finished with his route. I’ll call you right back, okay, Maggie? I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”
I was glad she said that. I needed to be reassured.
I sat on a chair by the phone with my hand on the receiver. In a couple of minutes, the phone jangled, making me jump. I grabbed it.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Maggie.” It was the school secretary. “I just spoke to Mr. Gunderson. He said Courtenay wasn’t on the bus this afternoon.”
“Not on the bus! I don’t believe it. Can—can you hold on a minute?”
I abandoned the phone in the kitchen and ran up to Leigh’s studio, where she has a private business line. I called Jane again. “Jane,” I said, trying not to sound too nervous. “Could you please ask Jenny if Courtie was on the bus this afternoon? It’s really important.” I figured Jenny would know since there were only eight kids on the route.
“Sure. Hold on.” There was a pause. Then Jane got on the phone again and said breathlessly, “Jenny said no—she wasn’t.”
“Oh—” I cried.
“Maggie, what’s going on?” asked Jane, but I didn’t bother to answer her. I simply hung up the phone.
Back in the kitchen, I spoke with the secretary again. “She really wasn’t on the bus!” I exclaimed. “Where could she be?”
“Maggie,” the secretary said quietly, “I checked with Courtenay’s teacher while I waited for you … Courtenay wasn’t in school today.”
Wasn’t in school? “But I saw her get on the bus this morning.”
“All right,” said the secretary. “I’ve got some calls to make and some more checking to do. Sit tight for ten minutes, and I’ll call you back.”
Once again I hung up the phone. The school, I knew, was liable for Courtenay if she’d been on the bus. They’d want to talk to Birdie and maybe a couple of parents along the route.
I waited, not for ten minutes but for an eternity. At last the phone rang. I snatched up the receiver. The principal of the school was on the phone. “According to Birdie,” she said, “Courtenay got off the bus when it reached school. Somehow, though, she never made it inside. It’s time to call the police, Maggie. I want you to know that we’ll help you every step of the way.”
I didn’t bother to hang up the phone again. I simply depressed the button, waited for the dial tone, and called the police.
5
Questions
THE POLICE WERE VERY nice, considering I sounded hysterical on the phone. They asked a million questions. What was Courtenay’s hair color, skin color, her height, her weight? What was she wearing? Did she have any unusual mannerisms? Where was she last seen? I answered their questions as carefully as possible. They said they’d send a couple of officers over to the house immediately. I hung up the phone, slumped into the kitchen chair, put my hands over my eyes—and found that I couldn’t cry. I tried to call Dad and Leigh then. It had to be done. But I couldn’t reach them. The overseas operator said she’d call back.
A minute later, the phone rang.
“Hello? Hello?” I said. I listened for static. The connection with the operator had been very poor. But I heard only light breathing.
Something occurred to me—a wonderful possibility: “Courtenay? … Courtie, is that you?” I cried. I was immensely grateful to Mike and myself for having taught her to use the phone. “This is Maggie,” I continued. “Where are you? Are you looking for a policeman?”
The voice on the other end of the phone laughed deeply. There was a pause. Then it asked, “Are you there alone?”
“No!” I screamed. “No!” I slammed the receiver into the cradle. What to do next? Mike. I should get Mike. I called Princeton High and got another school secretary.
“Can you please find Michael Ellis?” My voice was high and wavery. “He’s probably with Mr. Fiske. This is an emergency! … What? Oh, this is his sister, Maggie. Please, can you find him? In fact, just tell him to come home. Our sister is missing.”
As soon as I got off the phone, it rang again. I didn’t know what to do. I was sure it was the caller. But it could be Mike or the police or the operator or Courtie’s school or even Courtie. I stood in the kitchen hesitating, my heart hammering, remembering the caller’s raspy breathing, his constant question: “Are you alone?” What if one day I replied, “Sure, I am. Come on over!”?
After three rings the phone was silent. I didn’t have to decide whether to answer it. I only hoped it was a wrong number and not Courtenay. I sat down in the living room briefly, drumming my fingers on the arms of a chair. Oh, Leigh was going to kill me. Kill me. I’d failed her as completely as it was possible to fail a person. I wondered if she could disclaim me as her stepdaughter.
The emptiness of our big house surrounded me, enveloped me. … C-R-E-A-K. What was that? I glanced fearfully around the room, not wanting to know what the creak was, yet desperately needing to know it was nothing. The room was dim. The day was darker than ever, and I hadn’t turned on any lights yet. I ran around, switched on every lamp on the first floor, locked all the windows and all the doors, and then decided I was still too afraid to stay in the house alone. I let myself out the front door and stood on the steps shivering, watching the storm grow angrier.
The wind blew the tops of the trees violently back and forth. Lightning flashed almost continually. In the distance thunder rumbled, but no rain fell. Poor Courtenay, I thought. Was she out in this? She was afraid of thunder, almost as afraid of it as she was of the red mitten that snores.
Less than ten minutes after I’d called the police, Mike, two officers, and the rain all arrived, and all arrived fast. Mike came charging up the street and across the lawn just as a squad car pulled to a stop by our mailbox and two police officers stepped out and started across the lawn. Before any of them reached the porch, the sky let loose and the rain pelted down in huge drops that stung when they touched our skin.
I held the front door open.
“Maggie, what’s wrong? What’s going on?” Mike asked.
The police officers followed us into the house. They were two young men who didn’t look much older than Mike. “I’m Officer Stuart,” said one, a thin man with a scraggly mustache, “and this is Officer Martinez.” He pointed to his partner, a dark-skinned guy with friendly eyes.
We stood in the front hall. Mike looked totally confused.
“I’m Maggie Ellis,” I said, swallowing hard and trying to control my breathing. “This is my brother, Mike. He just got home.” I turned to Mike. “Courtenay is missing,” I expl
ained. “She didn’t come home this afternoon, so I called the school, and the secretary said she wasn’t in school today.”
“Wasn’t in school?” exclaimed Mike. “But what happened after she got on the bus?”
“Well, that’s what we’re here to find out,” said Martinez. “You’ll need to file a missing-person report and we’d like to ask you some questions. Can we sit down?”
“Sure,” I replied. I hung up their wet coats and showed them into the living room.
I sat down nervously next to Mike on the couch. The officers sat opposite us in armchairs.
“Now,” said Martinez, “let’s start at the beginning. Your sister’s name is—?”
“Courtenay,” Mike supplied. He spelled it out. “Courtenay Louise Ellis.”
“And she’s how old?”
“Four.”
“When’s her birthday?”
“July fifteenth. She’ll be five in July.”
Martinez nodded. “Do you have a recent photograph of her?”
“Tons,” Mike said.
I gave Martinez Courtenay’s school picture from the previous autumn while Mike got one of our photo albums. Martinez continued with the questions. “Where are your parents?” he asked.
“On vacation. Down in Saint Bart’s.”
Martinez frowned.
“Saint Barthélemy,” I explained. “It’s an island in the West Indies.”
“Have you tried to reach them?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t get through. I’m waiting for the operator to call back.”
“Good,” said Martinez. “Any other kids in your family?”
“No. Just us. Courtenay’s actually our half sister.”
“Your half sister,” repeated Martinez. “So one of your parents is a stepparent?”
“Yes. Dad is our natural father, Mike’s and mine. Leigh is our stepmother. Courtenay is Dad and Leigh’s kid.”
“And where is your mother?”
“Mine? I’m not sure. California, probably, but I don’t know where. The last address I was writing to was in Michigan, but she’s moved since then. She’s one of those people who can’t settle down. We haven’t seen her since she left.”