The Lost Girl Page 2

  The big station wagon crunched over the long gravel path that led to the stable. I saw the flag flapping hard at the top of the flagpole in the front. Red-white-and-blue banners were draped over the main entrance doors to the horse barn.

  A crowd had already gathered. Two kids in blue snowsuits were wrestling in the snow. A photographer in a long gray trench coat had his box camera trained on them.

  I recognized six or seven of our cousins. They huddled near the entrance, slapping their gloves together to keep their hands warm. And I saw some of the teachers from the middle school where Mom used to be the librarian.

  Dad stopped the car at the end of the gravel driveway, and we piled out. The crowd started to cheer, and Dad took a short bow and raised his new hat to them. He was beaming with pride and happiness.

  Enjoy the celebration, Beth, I told myself. Clear your mind. Stop thinking about Aaron.

  And I was able to do that during the short, happy ceremony. And during my father’s speech, thanking everyone for coming and thanking all those who had helped him reach this wonderful day.

  When he thanked my mom, I saw tears form in her eyes. She wiped them away quickly with a gloved finger, a trembling smile on her face. Mom would never want anyone to see her be emotional. Then we all enjoyed glasses of champagne or sparkling cider and toasted the new stable.

  I was able to relax and enjoy myself and chat with people and keep Aaron Dooley from my mind.

  Until Aaron’s uncle, Martin Dooley, showed up. And our happy day turned to horror.

  4.

  I saw Martin Dooley arrive a few minutes after everyone had climbed back into their cars and left for home. Dad had stayed behind in the office to go over a few papers with Mr. Kliner from the bank.

  I took a walk through the horse barn as I waited for Dad to finish. The sweet aroma of fresh straw made me happy, and I imagined the stalls filled with horses.

  When I heard the hard thud of boots stomping over snow, I peered out the window and saw Martin Dooley walking fast, his purple-gloved fists swinging at his sides.

  I held my breath. What is HE doing here?

  Martin Dooley isn’t tall or big or muscular. But he looks powerful and important. It’s hard to explain. He isn’t very good-looking. He has tiny gray bird eyes the size of marbles, and a turned-up nose, and his lips are practically as pale as his skin. He’s in his forties, I think, but he has sharp bristly white hair, cut short in a flattop. His head always reminds me of a hairbrush.

  I’ve never seen him smile.

  Dad once said that Martin is like a shark. He never looks from side to side. He just barges forward with his teeth snapping.

  He wears very expensive suits that he buys in New York and colorful wide ties with wild flower designs that don’t suit his personality at all. And he splashes cologne on his face that makes him smell like a lemon.

  Through the barn window, I glimpsed his long black overcoat with a fur-trimmed collar and his polished black boots as he hurried over the snow to the office. At first, I decided to stay in the warmth and safety of the stable. But my curiosity got the better of me, and I crept to the side door where I could overhear the conversation.

  The door had a frosted glass window. I stayed back a few feet, eager not to be seen. Through the smoky glass, I watched the blurred image of my dad jump up from his desk. “Martin? What are you doing here?” He couldn’t hide his surprise.

  Martin’s heavy boots made the floorboards creak as he crossed the room. “I think you forgot to send me an invitation, Angelo,” he said.

  His voice is deep, but he always speaks softly, as if holding himself in. His parents came from Ireland, and he speaks with a tiny bit of an Irish accent. Dad says he puts it on because he thinks it’s charming.

  “Well, I’m very surprised—” Dad started.

  “I’m the one who’s surprised, don’t you know,” Martin interrupted. “I expected gratitude from you, Angelo. Instead I get betrayal.”

  My dad hesitated. “Betrayal? That’s a strong word, Martin. I haven’t betrayed anyone, especially you. If you’re talking about this stable … I … I discussed it with you and—”

  “And we decided it was a mistake, a bad idea.” Martin snickered. “An idea whose time hasn’t come.”

  I clenched my fists. I wanted to shout in protest. I held my breath to keep myself from making a sound. Even through the door, I could feel the tension in that room. Distorted in the frosted window glass, I saw Martin Dooley lean over the desk, bring his face close to my dad, challenging him.

  “Angelo, did you really think I could allow this to happen?”

  Dad was silent for a moment. “You have no choice,” he said sharply. My dad can be tough when he wants to be.

  “No choice?” Martin uttered a mirthless laugh. “This stable will not be standing in a year. That’s not a prediction. It’s a fact.”

  Dad stood head-to-head with Martin Dooley. “I-I don’t think we have anything to say to one another,” he stammered. “I think—”

  Martin Dooley slammed a fist on the desktop. “Do you really think I will allow a stable boy to destroy my business?”

  “I think you should leave,” Dad insisted. His voice trembled with anger. “I think you should leave. I was your business manager. I ran your business. I’ve earned a little respect. I’m not a stable boy, Martin. Perhaps you need eyeglasses. I’m not—”

  “And how can you explain your daughter?” Martin suddenly changed the subject.

  I gasped and took a step back from the door. Did he see me? Is that why he mentioned me?

  My dad sputtered in surprise. “Explain?”

  “My nephew Aaron tells me she keeps rejecting him. Does Beth really think she’s too good to go out with a Dooley?” Martin boomed. “You’ve put some bad ideas in her head, Angelo. Bad ideas. Your daughter is very confused. But don’t worry. My nephew Aaron will teach her what’s what.”

  Dad had remained in control. But now he began to shout. “Why are you talking about Beth? Why do you bring up my daughter? Your worthless nephew isn’t going to teach her anything. Get out of here, Martin. You have no business talking about my daughter. You have no business—”

  “You’re a stable boy, Angelo!” Martin screamed back at him. “You’re a stable boy. You belong with a shovel in your hands. Only, you know what? I think you’re not good enough to shovel what my horses leave on the ground. You need to be taught—”

  Martin never finished the sentence. I heard a hard thwack. I gasped as I realized my dad had punched him.

  Martin’s cry rang off the bare stable walls.

  My hand trembled as I pulled the door open a little wider. My heart was racing, beating so hard my chest ached.

  Martin Dooley’s head was lowered. He rubbed his jaw. He raised his face slowly. His cheeks were scarlet, his eyes watery pools.

  My dad stood behind the desk with his fist still clenched. Beneath his open suit jacket, Dad’s chest was heaving up and down.

  Martin bent to pick his hat up off the floor. Still rubbing his jaw, he narrowed his eyes in a cold, menacing stare. “I’ll be back, stable boy,” he said softly. “You’ve made a big mistake.”

  It wasn’t an empty threat. Two days later, my family paid for the punch Dad had landed on Martin Dooley’s jaw.

  Two days later, my life ended.

  5.

  The first horses were to arrive at our stable that night. In the afternoon, Dad held a meeting of his workers, six of them in all, to discuss assignments.

  I was there because the boiler had broken at Shadyside High and the school was closed. Dad gave me a job. He had dozens of reins and harnesses tangled together in a big wooden crate. He asked me to pull them out and untangle them.

  I was halfway through the crate when Dad ended the staff meeting. They all hurried to their cars to take a short break before the horses arrived and things would get crazy.

  A bunch of black leather reins were tangled together like snakes. I wa
s leaning over the crate, working on them with both hands when I heard a car pull up on the gravel drive. Curious, I pulled myself up straight and crossed to the office door.

  I gasped as two men in large black overcoats burst noisily into the office. I blinked several times. I didn’t really believe what I was seeing. Their faces were hidden. They had black wool masks over their faces, their wide-brimmed hats pulled low.

  Startled, Dad jumped up from behind the desk. “What—?”

  The two men rushed forward and grabbed him roughly by the arms.

  Dad twisted and squirmed and tried to free himself. They struggled. “What is this? Is this a robbery? I don’t have any money here. What do you think you’re doing?” He managed to pull one arm free. But a masked man grabbed it and twisted it hard behind Dad’s back.

  Dad let out a sharp cry. “You … You’re breaking my arm! What is this about? What are you doing?”

  “We have a surprise from Martin Dooley,” one of them rasped.

  I almost cried out when he gave Dad a sharp blow on the back of the neck with his open hand. Dad groaned and his head slumped forward. His shoes scraped the floor as the two men dragged him to the door.

  I didn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I stood staring with every muscle in my body tensed and tight, as if I’d been tied up with rope.

  This isn’t happening. I didn’t really believe it. This kind of thing happened only in the movies, right?

  Halfway to the door, Dad groaned again, and one of the men gave him another hard punch in the back of the neck. Dad’s head jerked back, then fell forward. His arms fell limp over the overcoat shoulders of the two men as they dragged him.

  When the door slammed hard behind them, the sound finally shocked me out of my stupor. I staggered into the now-empty office, gasping for breath. A flood of questions washed over me. Where are they taking him? What are they going to do? What should I do?

  My eyes glimpsed Dad’s car keys on the edge of his desk. I realized I had to follow them. I can help him. I know I can. I HAVE to help him. I swiped the keys off the desk, my hand cold and wet.

  I stumbled to the door, my heart racing. I knew I had to calm down. My whole body was shaking. My head was throbbing. I kept hearing Dad’s groan of pain when the man punched him.

  I can’t drive unless I calm down. I need to think straight. I’ve got to overcome this panic.

  I’d never felt anything like this. We all have moments of fear, I guess. But total paralyzing panic was something I never dreamed I’d experience.

  You have your tricks, Beth. Remember, you have powers.

  The thought gave me a little reassurance, enough to start breathing again, enough for my head to stop throbbing as if it was ready to burst apart.

  Through the office window, I saw the two men heave Dad into the backseat of their long black sedan. The afternoon sun was setting behind the trees. Long shadows spread over their car as it squealed backward, spun hard, then shot down the gravel drive.

  Taking deep breaths, fighting the panic away, I waited till they were out of sight. Then I bolted out the door and ran to our little Ford, my shoes sinking into the wet snow. The burst of cold air sent a shiver down my body, but it helped revive me. I dropped behind the wheel and fumbled the key into the ignition.

  “Please start. Please start,” I begged the car. The car had bad habits, like not starting the first four or five tries. I pulled out the choke, turned the key, and stepped down on the gas pedal. The car coughed once, twice, then the engine started with a roar.

  I turned the car and gunned the engine. The tires spun on the slick surface, and the car began to slide. Dad had been talking about getting new tires for ages. These were worn down to the hubcaps. I worked the wheel furiously until the tires took hold, and then I headed the car down the hill, determined to follow the thugs who had kidnapped my dad.

  I didn’t expect so much traffic on the River Road. People driving home from work. I turned a little too hard and nearly rear-ended a red Mercury. The driver blasted his horn at me. I eased my foot off the brake and took another deep, shuddering breath.

  You can do this, Beth. You’ve got to help your father.

  I could see the black sedan three or four cars ahead of me. I wondered if I could keep it in sight. But when their car turned onto Park Drive and headed in the direction of North Hills, I knew where they were going. I didn’t need them to show the way.

  They were heading to the Dooley Stable.

  The offices and staff building, the barn and stables, the supply house and other outbuildings of the Dooley stable face each other and form a wide square. The riding paths lead into the Fear Street Woods, which stretches behind the huge barn. In the middle of the four buildings is a courtyard big enough to hold dressage and equestrian contests.

  The snow had been cleared from the wide asphalt driveway that leads to the parking lot beside the staff building. I pulled the Ford two-thirds of the way up the drive, just close enough to see the parking lot. The black sedan was parked at an angle next to the building. Squinting into the dying sunlight, I could see that the car was empty.

  “Dad, where did they take you?” I murmured out loud.

  I shut off the ignition. My car was safely out of view, I decided. I climbed out, my breath steaming up in front of me.

  I gasped when I heard the scream. I thought it was my dad. But it was only the high whinny of a horse from the long line of stalls.

  I let out a long whoosh of air. Forced my heartbeat to slow. My eyes scanned the parking lot and the front of the staff building. No one in sight.

  My shoes sinking into the snow, I started to make my way toward the staff building. I kept under the shadow of the trees that lined the driveway.

  Where did they take him? What do they plan to do to him? Am I in time?

  I ducked against the wall at the side of the building. Long silvery icicles, like shiny sword blades, hung down from the gutter over my head. I moved forward keeping my back against the wall and studied the front entrance.

  Should I risk it? Go in the front entrance and search for him in the staff offices?

  I hesitated. I took a few steps toward the front doors, then stopped when I heard voices. Men’s voices. They seemed to be coming from the courtyard behind the building.

  The sun had started to melt the snow, leaving a slippery, slushy layer on top. I half-walked, half-slid as I made my way to the courtyard. Purple evening sunlight washed over the ground.

  When I saw my dad, between the two masked men, I almost called out to him. He struggled to free himself, but they held tightly to his shoulders. His hands were tied behind him. He stumbled and nearly fell, but the two thugs held him up.

  I took a few steps closer, squinting into the hazy gray light. Oh, no. Dad was in his underwear. They had stripped his clothes off him. He was in a sleeveless undershirt and white boxer shorts. He was barefoot. Walking barefoot in the snow.

  He shouted and cursed at his two captors. He lowered a shoulder and tried to butt one of them to the side. The man’s boot tromped down hard on Dad’s bare foot, and Dad groaned in pain.

  I saw two low stakes poking up from the snow. The men shoved Dad to the ground. They had coils of rope. They prepared to tie him down to the stakes.

  “Please—” Dad was begging now. “Please—let me go. What are you doing? This is crazy. You know this isn’t right. Let me go. I won’t call the police. I won’t say anything. Just let me go.” He was pleading in a voice I’d never heard, a trembling stream of words.

  One man shoved Dad onto his back in the snow and held him in place. The other man tugged at the ropes around Dad’s hands and started to tie his hands to one of the stakes.

  “What are you doing? Are you going to leave me in the snow? You know this is murder. Do you really—”

  The man let go of the rope and back-handed Dad across the face. Dad’s head snapped to the side. The man turned and went back to tying Dad to the stake.

  Why am I sta
nding here? I asked myself. Why am I watching them preparing to let my dad freeze to death in the snow?

  I knew I had to act.

  “Let me go! Let me go!” Dad’s frightened cries rang out around the courtyard. Horses began to whinny. Their shrill cries drowned out my father’s pleas. The bleats of the horses echoed off the buildings, the sound rising until it became deafening, a blaring animal symphony of fright, of terror.

  I covered my ears, but I couldn’t shut out the shrill whinnying. I struggled to breathe. I could feel the blood pulsing at my temples.

  I have powers. Time to use them.

  I shut my eyes. I murmured the words I had memorized long ago. Murmured the words and repeated them rapidly. Kept my eyes shut tight, seeing nothing, forcing away all images, murmuring in a soft whisper, repeating the words, urging the spell to work quickly.

  Again, I heard my dad’s terrified cries. Again, the bleats of the horses drowned him out. I heard the crash of horses kicking their stall walls. A burst of icy wind blew through the courtyard.

  I murmured the words … whispered … repeating them again … again. Then in the rushing wind with the horses kicking and crying, I opened my eyes to see what I had done—and gasped in horror.

  6.

  I squinted in the gray light. Dad, on his back, kicked and thrashed. His hands were stretched over his head, tied to the stake. The two men bent over him, working to tie his feet to the other stake.

  I let out a long sigh. My spell hadn’t worked. Was it because I was so scared, too frightened to summon the magic I had learned?

  The men suddenly looked up. I pressed myself flat against the wall of the building. I held my breath. My head throbbed. The magic always started my brain spinning.

  Why didn’t my spell work?

  Dad screamed for help. His scream made the horses start up their cries again. The two men left him on his back. They both trudged toward the supply building, their boots crunching loudly over the snow.

  I pushed away from the wall and took a few steps toward my dad. But then I stopped. I knew I probably couldn’t get him untied before the men returned. And if I was captured, too, I wouldn’t be able to use my tricks to save him.