First Date

  She glanced at the copper kitchen clock above the cabinet. Eleven-forty. She wished it weren’t so late. She wanted the night to go on and on.

  She was still searching the cabinet, pushing aside slender boxes of spaghetti, when Will crept up behind her. He held the cord between his hands, leaving it slack enough to slip over her head. Once it was in place around her neck, he would pull it tight, as tight as he could, and wait for her to suffocate.

  It wouldn’t take long.

  It was really quite easy.

  Of course, it would have been easier if she had let him push her over the cliff.

  He had been ready to push her up on River Ridge. One shove. So quick, so clean.

  But she had decided not to cooperate.

  Some things are worth doing the hard way, he decided, slipping silently behind Chelsea.

  If something is worth doing, it’s worth doing right.

  He raised the cord, staring at her mousy brown hair.

  His hand didn’t shake, not even a tiny tremble.

  That’s because it’s not really my first date, he thought.

  He raised the cord higher. Up, up.

  He was close enough to smell her lemony perfume, close enough to read the tag that was sticking up from the neck of her sweater.

  He hated girls who didn’t tuck their tags in.

  His sister was a slob too.

  Goodbye, Chelsea, he thought.

  Good night.

  He moved his arms forward, the cord in place.

  The front doorbell rang.

  “Oh!” Chelsea cried out.

  He dropped his arms, struggled to change his expression, to make his face a blank.

  “Will—I didn’t hear you come in here!” Chelsea exclaimed breathlessly. She dropped two hot chocolate envelopes into his hand. “Here. Put these in the cups. I’ll see who’s at the door.”

  He watched her hurry out of the kitchen. Then, gritting his teeth angrily, he bent down and picked up the length of cord from the linoleum floor.

  So close.

  So close.

  He glanced at the clock. Who could be there so late? Who could be interrupting their first—and last—date? Her mother? No. Her mother wouldn’t ring the bell. Besides, Chelsea had said her mother was working all night.

  Setting the hot chocolate packets down beside the two mugs, he crept to the doorway to listen, wrapping the cord carefully around his hand as he walked.

  Wondering who it could be at this hour, Chelsea pulled open the front door. “Nina!”

  “Oh, Chelsea,” Nina wailed. “I just feel terrible coming here like this.” Her eyes were red rimmed, her normally perfect straight blond hair completely disheveled.

  “Nina, what’s wrong?” Chelsea cried, holding the door for her.

  Nina walked past her into the hallway, blinking under the bright hall light. “It’s Doug. We had a big fight. I think he’s breaking up with me, Chelsea. I really think he means it this time.”

  “Come in,” Chelsea said distractedly. She looked toward the kitchen to see if Will was coming out.

  It’s so like Nina, Chelsea thought unhappily, to burst right in and not even ask if I have a date or if I’m busy or anything. She’s so obsessed with Doug, she can’t think of anyone else.

  Nina caught her glance. “Oh, I’m sorry, Chelsea. Is someone here? You’re not alone?” She followed Chelsea toward the kitchen.

  “I have a date,” Chelsea whispered, unable to keep a smile from bursting across her face.

  “A date?” Nina whispered back, stopping to examine herself in the hall mirror on the wall. “With a boy?”

  Chelsea flashed her friend a dirty look.

  “I’m sorry,” Nina said, raising her hands to her cheeks. I’m just so upset. I didn’t know who to talk to. I’ve been crying and trying to drive and I thought—”

  “Go sit down,” Chelsea said, pointing to the living room. “I’ll be right back. I want you to meet him.”

  Nina hesitated, then obeyed her friend’s request. Chelsea hurried into the kitchen.

  “Will, I’m really sorry,” she said, keeping her voice low so Nina wouldn’t hear. “I guess our secret date can’t be a secret anymore. My friend Nina is here and—”

  Chelsea stopped short. Her mouth dropped open.

  To her astonishment, the kitchen door was wide open. And Will was gone.

  chapter 14

  “Can’t you practice softly?” Mrs. Richards asked, peering over the news section of the Sunday paper. “’m trying to read.”

  “Mother,” Chelsea replied impatiently, “there’s no way to practice a saxophone softly.” She shuffled through the music sheets on the music stand she had set up in front of the couch.

  “Maybe you could remove the mouthpiece,” her mother said, her face disappearing behind the newspaper.

  “Why are you always making jokes about my saxophone playing?” Chelsea asked, silently fingering the instrument, staring across the living room at her mother, who was seated at the dining room table, sections of the paper scattered out in front of her.

  “I don’t want you to get a swelled head,” Mrs. Richards replied from behind the paper.

  “Why don’t you ever encourage me?” Chelsea asked, her voice rising several octaves.

  “I don’t want to encourage you,” her mother said. “I hate the saxophone!”

  Chelsea raised the instrument to her lips and deliberately made it honk as loud as she could.

  Her mother jumped in her seat, nearly dropping the paper. She lowered the paper to glare at Chelsea. Then they both burst out laughing.

  “Okay. Truce,” Mrs. Richards said.

  “Truce.” Chelsea raised the instrument to her mouth and wet the reed, preparing to launch into her part in the Shadyside High Fight Song, when the phone rang.

  Startled, she lowered the instrument to the floor and walked over to the phone. “Saved by the bell!” Mrs. Richards exclaimed gratefully.

  “Hey, that was a short truce!” Chelsea exclaimed and picked up the receiver.

  “Hi, Chelsea. Is this too early to call?”

  It took her a moment to realize it was Will. “Hi. No. We’ve been up for hours.”

  “Who is it?” her mother called from the other end of the room.

  “It’s for me,” Chelsea told her. She turned to the wall for a little privacy. “Hey, where’d you disappear to last night?” she demanded of Will.

  “Huh?” Her question seemed to surprise him.

  “Come on, Will,” she said impatiently. “When I came back to the kitchen, you were gone. What happened?”

  “What? Didn’t you hear me yell good night?”

  “No,” Chelsea said.

  “I called to you. I said I had to go. I thought I heard you answer me. Don’t you remember? I said I’d call this morning?”

  Chelsea didn’t remember any of it. Was it possible that she just hadn’t heard him? “Well …” She didn’t know what to say.

  She had been so hurt when she had found him gone. Hurt and confused. Finally she’d decided that he was feeling too shy to meet Nina. Or maybe he was so romantic, he really wanted to keep their secret date a secret.

  “Well, I’m glad you called,” she said finally.

  “Who is it?” her mother called from behind her newspaper. “Is it a boy?”

  “Mom—please!” Chelsea pleaded, holding her hand over the mouthpiece.

  “Excuuuuuse me!” her mother cried sarcastically, loud enough so Chelsea missed what Will was saying.

  “I’m sorry, Will,” she said. “What did you say?”

  “I asked if you wanted to go out tonight. You know, sort of finish our first date.”

  He’s really sweet, Chelsea thought. She started to say yes, but then remembered she couldn’t. “I can’t,” she told him. “I have to visit my dad in the hospital, and I’ve got tons of homework. I haven’t even started my writing assignment for Lash’s class.”

  “Oh. Too ba
d.” Will sounded very disappointed.

  This had the opposite effect on Chelsea. Hearing the disappointment in his voice made her feel great.

  “Uh—maybe you could come meet me after work tomorrow night,” she suggested, surprising herself with her newfound boldness.

  “Yeah. Okay,” Will replied. “That sounds good.”

  She told him where the restaurant was and that it closed at seven. She warned him that she would smell of french fries when he picked her up. She always smelled like french fries after work. The grease smell seemed to stick to her hair.

  “That’s okay. I like french fries,” Will replied.

  They chatted awhile longer, about the movie they had seen the night before, about their short, chilly walk high above the river, about school. He seemed reluctant to get off the phone, which pleased Chelsea.

  When she finally hung up and turned around, she was surprised to see that her mother had lowered the newspaper to the table and was staring at her from across the room.

  “You’ve got a boyfriend?” Mrs. Richards asked.

  “Mom, you don’t have to sound so amazed!” Chelsea exclaimed angrily. “It is possible that a boy might like me, you know.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Richards said quickly. “Is he the same boy you went on the date with? What’s his name?”

  “Yes. Will,” Chelsea replied. “He’s new in school too.”

  “That’s great,” her mother said sincerely. “When can I meet him?” Glancing at her watch, she tossed down the paper and stood up. “Oh, no. I’ve got to get going. Fm taking an extra shift this morning,” she said before Chelsea could answer her question. A few minutes later she was out the door.

  Listening to her mother drive off, Chelsea bent to pick up her saxophone. But her eye was caught by something out the window. It was snowing.

  What a strange October, she thought.

  Forgetting the saxophone, she stood up and took a few steps toward the big picture window that looked out on the front yard. An early snow with fluffy white flakes as big as feathers slowly drifted to earth from a windless sky.

  How beautiful, Chelsea thought. It’s so soft and pretty, it doesn’t look real.

  Deciding to get a better view, she ran to the front door and yanked it open.

  “Oh!”

  She gasped when she saw an enormous, hulking man in a dark trench coat on her stoop. His face was nearly pressed against the glass of the storm door, staring down at her with the coldest eyes she had ever seen.

  chapter 15

  Chelsea leapt back and started to slam the door shut.

  The man’s ice blue eyes narrowed. White flakes of snow clung to his short blond hair, to his bushy blond eyebrows, and to his massive shoulders. He raised one hand.

  Chelsea hesitated.

  What was in his hand? What was he showing her?

  It was some sort of badge. A card above the badge said FBI.

  The man took a step back and then another, as if demonstrating to her that he meant no harm.

  Her heart still pounding, Chelsea hesitated, then pushed open the storm door a crack. The air was cold and wet from the falling snow. The sky was low and gray.

  “What do you want?” she called out, more shrilly than she had intended.

  “Sorry if I startled you,” the man said in a thin, reedy voice, not the booming baritone Chelsea had expected from such a big man. “I’m Agent Martin of the FBI. Are your parents home?”

  Through the snow, Chelsea could see a black Plymouth parked on the street, probably his car. Agent Martin continued to hold up his badge and ID card.

  “No, they’re not home,” Chelsea said hesitantly, staring into his blue eyes. They were as clear as marbles. They stared back at her as if seeing right through her.

  “Can I ask you a couple of questions?”

  Chelsea nodded her head yes and pushed the door open wider. He lowered his badge, then shoved it into his trench-coat pocket. “I’ll only keep you a second,” he said, lowering his head as he stepped onto the Welcome mat. He followed Chelsea into the small hallway.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. Chelsea told him.

  He wiped his well-polished black shoes carefully on the mat. Then he raised a big hand and brushed the wet snowflakes from his hair.

  “Am I in trouble?” Chelsea asked, staring down at the small puddles forming around his shoes.

  He smiled, a tight-lipped smile, but his blue eyes lit up, warmed for a second. He shook his head. “Nothing like that. My partner and I are canvassing the neighborhood,” he told her. Then he quickly added, “You know—going house to house. We’ve been assigned to look for a young man.”

  “A young man?” Chelsea crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  “We’re hoping someone has seen him,” Martin said. His eyes went beyond Chelsea to the kitchen. “You go to Shadyside High School?”

  “Yes,” Chelsea replied. “I just started last month. We’re new in town.”

  “Nice town,” Martin said dryly. Chelsea couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or sincere. He turned his eyes to her. “Maybe you’ve seen the young man. He’s medium height. Medium weight, only he looks like he works out. He’s got well-developed arms and a good chest. He’s got dark, curly hair. And dark eyes, almost black. When last seen, he was wearing blue jeans and a black leather jacket.”

  “I don’t know,” Chelsea replied. “A lot of guys look like that.”

  “Think about it,” Martin said. “Anyone at school fit the description? Do you work? Maybe someone at work?”

  With these words, a face flashed into Chelsea’s mind.

  Tim Sparks! Chelsea thought.

  Oh, my goodness! Sparks fits the description perfectly!

  “Is—is this boy dangerous or something?” she asked, unable to keep her voice from trembling.

  Agent Martin nodded, his expression turning somber, his cold blue eyes narrowing to slits as he studied her reaction.

  “Yeah, he’s dangerous all right,” he said. “And we have reason to believe he might be in the Shadyside area.”

  Chelsea started to say something but stopped. She couldn’t decide what to do. Should she tell Martin about Sparks?

  “If you’ve met anyone who fits this description, you should tell me about him,” Martin said, as if reading Chelsea’s mind. He shifted his weight, shoving his hands into his trench-coat pockets, staring at her expectantly.

  “You said black curly hair?” Chelsea asked, stalling for time, thinking hard. “And looks like he works out?”

  Agent Martin nodded.

  Sparks always seemed so dangerous, Chelsea thought. I guess he really is dangerous.

  “A boy came into my dad’s restaurant where I work a few times,” she said slowly. “I guess he kind of fits that description.” She uncrossed her arms but couldn’t figure out what to do with them, so she crossed them again. She leaned against the banister, feeling very nervous.

  Martin pulled a small notepad and a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket. He scribbled something on the pad.

  Just like a TV detective, Chelsea thought.

  “Did this boy give you a name?” Martin asked, keeping his eyes on the notepad.

  “Yes. Sparks. Tim Sparks,” Chelsea said. “He told me to call him Sparks. He said everyone called him that.”

  “Sparks,” Martin repeated, writing it on the pad.

  “He’s been in trouble before?” Chelsea asked, picturing Sparks, thinking about how angry he could become.

  Martin didn’t answer. “Did you go out with him?”

  “No!” Chelsea replied more loudly than she’d intended. “No,” she repeated. “I just talked with him a couple of times. In the restaurant. He only came in a couple of times.”

  “Did he tell you where he’s living, Chelsea?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t remember. No. I don’t think so. He said he was looking for a job.”

  Martin wrote that information down, scribbling
quickly, his eyes on Chelsea. “Does he go to your school?” he asked, lowering the notepad to his side.

  “Huh?”

  “Your school. Shadyside High. Have you ever seen this boy Sparks in your school? Sometimes he enrolls himself in high school. He’s twenty, but he looks about seventeen.” Martin waited patiently for Chelsea’s reply.

  “No,” she told him. “I’ve never seen him in school. Only in the coffee shop.”

  He asked her the name and address of the coffee shop. She told him.

  “You’ve been very helpful,” Martin said, shifting his weight again, shoving the pen and notepad back into his shirt pocket. He handed Chelsea a business card. “If you think of anything else that might be helpful, please call my partner or me. The number’s on the card.”

  He turned and started to the door, leaving two dark puddles of water where he’d been standing. “If you see him again, call me—okay?”

  “Okay,” Chelsea replied, holding the card tightly in her hand.

  “And don’t take any chances,” Martin warned. He glanced outside. The snow had stopped. There was not even a trace of it on the ground. His partner in a dark trench coat waited beside the Plymouth.

  “Chances?” Chelsea asked.

  “Play it safe for a while, okay?”

  “Okay,” Chelsea said softly, not moving from the banister.

  “And don’t lose my card,” Martin said, pushing open the storm door. “If you see this Sparks guy, call me right away.”

  He slammed the door hard behind him.

  Chelsea watched him cut across the yard, taking long, bouncing strides, the big trench coat flapping behind him. Then she closed the front door, locked it, and leaned her back against it.

  She closed her eyes, still gripping the agent’s card in her hand.

  Sparks had always seemed angry, but she had no idea he was dangerous. No idea he was wanted by the FBI.

  And Sparks had actually asked her out on a date.

  “Let’s do something wild,” he had suggested to her.

  Something wild.

  What would have happened if she had gone out with him? What would he have done to her?

  And then she had another frightening thought: What if Sparks comes back to the restaurant?