Dangerous Deception by Peg Kehret
“Does this mean Midnight can stay permanently?” I asked.
“It means we’ll be Midnight’s foster family until you can reach Sophie.”
We both knew I might never find Sophie, but if Mom wanted to call Midnight a foster cat, it was okay with me as long as I got to keep him.
As I fell asleep that night with Waggy curled up on one side of me and Midnight snuggled on the other side, I wished Sophie could see us. I wished she could know that Midnight was safe and loved. I hoped she and Trudy were safe and happy, too, but I knew I might never find out what had happened to them.
• • •
When I got off the school bus the next afternoon, No Help was waiting for me. He stood half a block away, on the far side of Big Mouth Braider’s property, with his arms crossed. He wore jeans and a black hoodie.
I had to walk toward him in order to get home.
If I had seen him before I exited, I would have stayed on the bus and ridden back to school and called Mom for a ride. But I had no reason to survey the sidewalk before I got off the bus so I stepped down as usual, put on my backpack, and heard the bus doors wheeze shut before I looked up.
My mind raced through my options. Turn and run away from him? Go to Mrs. Woodburn’s house? What if she wasn’t home? Mrs. Braider was the only neighbor who seemed to always be at home, but I couldn’t get to her door without going closer to No Help. Should I run all the way to the corner, where Mr. and Mrs. Freeman lived? But the Freemans might not be home, either, and I’d be even farther from my own house.
If I ran, No Help would know I was afraid of him. That would be almost like admitting I was the one who had tipped off the police.
I could pretend I didn’t recognize him and walk to my own house, but I knew I couldn’t get there before he intercepted me, if that’s what he wanted to do.
Acting as if I had not seen him, I pulled out my phone. Mom turned her cell phone off when she was working. Usually I texted her and she responded during her next break. That might be an hour away, or more. I needed to talk to someone now. I scrolled to Lauren’s number but before I could place the call, No Help said, “Put the phone away.”
He came toward me. I put the phone back in my pocket.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“I thought I’d look in your front door, the way you looked in mine.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do. I saw you staring into my apartment, the day you lied to me about a reward for that cat.”
“I didn’t lie! I saw posters about a missing cat and it was black, like Sophie’s cat. I thought it was hers.”
“I searched for those posters but I never found one.”
“Maybe someone found the cat and collected the reward, and the posters got taken down.”
“And maybe you made the whole thing up to trick me into leaving my apartment so you could go inside and poke around.”
“I never went in your apartment. I swear!”
“I suppose you never called the police and told them about me, either.”
“Police?” I said, as if I had no idea what he was talking about. “Why would I call the police? I was only trying to find a cat.”
He stood directly in front of me now, blocking the sidewalk.
“You’re a good liar,” he said. “I believed you once, about the reward, but you can’t fool me twice. I know you told the cops what you saw in my apartment. Why else would they have come?”
“Am I the only person in the world who ever came to your door?” I asked. “If someone told the police what you have in your apartment, it was somebody else who went there, because it wasn’t me. I don’t even know why the police wanted to talk to you.”
He shook his head slowly, as if to show he didn’t believe me. “No one else I know would rat on me.”
“Someone must have.”
“Who?”
“How should I know? Somebody you bullied in high school; someone you cut off in traffic; someone who’s mad at you. Maybe the man you pushed down the stairs.”
“How do you know about that? Who have you been talking to?” His eyes narrowed. “Oh, now I get it,” he said. “I thought you were just a punk kid trying to get me in trouble, but now I can see you’re working with somebody. Did Max put you up to this?”
“I don’t know anyone named Max, and nobody put me up to anything. You have the wrong person. All I did was knock on your door and ask about my friend’s cat. That’s all! The rest of what you’re saying is craziness that doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
“It makes sense now,” he said. “Max plans to cut me out and keep all the money himself. He doesn’t have the guts to face me in person so he lets a kid do his dirty work for him.” He reached for my arm, but I jerked away.
“Let’s go.” He motioned for me to go up the walkway toward my house.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Some friendly conversation. You’re going to come with me, and you’re going to tell me all about your deal with Max, and then I’ll show you what happens to little snoops who poke their noses into other people’s business.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said. I tried to sprint past him, but he grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back. He stood directly behind me.
“I have a gun,” he said. “Make a sound, and I’ll use it.”
“You would never get away. My neighbors would hear the shot.”
“Maybe they would and maybe they wouldn’t. Either way, it would be too late to help you. Now move.” He pushed me in front of him toward my house.
“Where are we going?”
“My truck is parked in the alley behind your house. We’re going to take a little ride together.”
We walked along the side of my house to the backyard. I considered screaming. Mrs. Braider would hear me, but what if she also heard a gunshot? I couldn’t take a chance that he really had a gun, and would use it.
Inside the house, Waggy started barking. When I looked at the patio door, I saw him standing on his hind legs, pawing frantically at the glass.
An old white pickup truck was parked behind our garage. I gasped when I saw it. The bed of the truck contained our TV set, Mom and Dad’s computer, our stereo system and speakers, and even our microwave oven.
“You broke into my house!” I said.
“Quiet! Get in the truck.” He opened the passenger side door and shoved me toward the interior.
As soon as I was in the truck, he slammed the door and ran around the front of the truck to the driver’s door. With his attention momentarily off me, I pulled out my phone and selected “create message.” I chose Mom’s number, and typed “White truck.” I started to add “help” but I had only typed the “h” and the “e” when the driver’s door jerked open and No Help got in.
I thrust my phone in my pocket so he didn’t see it. I knew if he caught me texting he would take the phone away, and it might be my only means of getting help. I kept my hand in my pocket. My finger felt along the phone for the Send button and pushed it, hoping Mom would see the text right away and would figure out what I was trying to tell her.
I thought about Waggy, scratching at the glass, trying to come to my aid. How had No Help kept Waggy from biting him when he was robbing our house? Probably he had bribed Waggy with meat or a dog biscuit. Or maybe he simply said, “Good dog,” and friendly old Waggy had licked his hand.
I wondered if No Help had seen Midnight inside my house. If he had, did he recognize Midnight as the cat he had put in the Dumpster? Maybe Waggy’s frantic barking and scratching was because he was trying to tell me that someone had hurt Midnight or put him outside.
As we left my neighborhood, No Help kept glancing at the speedometer, and I realized he was staying exactly at the speed limit so he
I wanted to ask No Help if he had seen my cat but I knew he didn’t like cats and I feared it would only make him angry.
I knew Waggy was okay. With any luck, Midnight had recognized the bad person who had thrown him in the Dumpster and had hidden under the bed or in a closet.
Whatever had happened to my pets while No Help robbed us, I knew Mom would soon be home and would take care of them.
But who would take care of me?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As Emmy’s mother rang up a sale on the cash register in Dunbar’s children’s department, one of the secretaries from the office approached.
“There’s a phone call for you,” Mrs. Lopez said. “The woman says it’s urgent.”
Mrs. Rushford waited while her customer signed the charge slip. She put the receipt in the package and handed it over, saying, “Thank you for shopping at Dunbar’s.” Then she thanked Mrs. Lopez and hurried toward the phone in the office.
Employees were not supposed to make or receive calls on Dunbar’s line, so Mrs. Rushford could not imagine who her caller was. Her friends and family all knew to use her cell phone number, or to leave a message on her home phone.
“Line three,” the office manager said, when Mrs. Rushford arrived.
“Hello?” she said. “This is Mrs. Rushford.”
“It’s Mrs. Braider, from next door.”
“Yes?” Mrs. Braider was a busybody who often gossiped to Mrs. Rushford about what went on in the neighborhood, but she had never bothered Mrs. Rushford at work before.
“I’m wondering if you have company,” Mrs. Braider said. “Is there supposed to be a man at your house?”
“No. What’s going on?”
“When Emmy got off the school bus, a seedy-looking man was waiting for her. He had been standing on the sidewalk by my house for ten minutes. I didn’t like the looks of him, so I watched out my front window. The same man was with her one afternoon several days ago.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. The first time he came he only walked behind her until she went inside, as if he was seeing her safely home. Then he left. This time she talked to him for a while out in front. I couldn’t hear what they said, but they appeared to be arguing.”
Mrs. Rushford tried to think who the man might be.
Mrs. Braider continued. “He grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her and marched her around the side of your house into the backyard. I don’t know what happened after that. You know I don’t usually pry into my neighbors’ business, but the situation seemed suspicious to me and I thought I should call you.”
“You did the right thing. Thank you.”
“If you would prune those bushes in your backyard, I would be able to see better and could tell you what happened after they went around the side of your house.”
“Thank you for calling,” Mrs. Rushford said. “I’ll call Emmy right now to be sure she’s okay.”
She hung up, took her cell phone out of her pocket, and called Emmy. After ringing four times, the call went to voice mail. “This is Mom,” Mrs. Rushford said. “Call me right away.”
Who would Emmy have argued with? Why didn’t she answer her phone?
She looked at her watch. Not quite four o’clock. She had another hour to go before her shift ended. She was tempted to take an hour of vacation time and leave early, but by the time she got permission to do that and filled out the necessary paperwork, the hour would be nearly up.
She also hesitated because she knew that Mrs. Braider always imagined the worst in every situation and often exaggerated what she saw. She had called the Rushfords’ home many times over the years to warn Mr. and Mrs. Rushford of so-called problems. Once she reported that Emmy had been seen buying a ticket for an R-rated movie when Emmy was merely using the Multiplex Theater’s common ticket window to buy a ticket for a new Disney film.
Then there was the time Mrs. Braider called at midnight to warn them that Emmy was sneaking out in her pajamas and going who-knows-where with an older man. That night, Emmy had been on her way to a surprise pajama party where the girls who had been selected for the school’s drill team were picked up at their homes and taken to the team captain’s house. The “older man” had been Lauren’s dad, and the Rushfords had known about the plans ahead of time.
In all the years of Mrs. Braider’s calls, there had never been a single time when Emmy was actually doing anything wrong.
Still, Mrs. Rushford could hardly believe all the things her daughter had done recently without her knowledge in an attempt to provide food for a needy family and rescue that family’s cat. She hoped Emmy was not involved in some other secret scheme to save the world.
She wondered what Mrs. Braider’s definition of a “seedy-looking man” might be. Jim Grayson, from the Garden Club, usually wore jeans with holes in the knees and had his shoulder-length hair pulled back in a ponytail. He had stopped by the house last Saturday to return a book he’d borrowed.
For that matter, Mrs. Rushford’s younger brother, Josh, who played guitar in a rock band, favored the punk look and had been known to dye his spiked hair purple. He frequently showed up around dinnertime. No doubt Mrs. Braider would consider both Jim Grayson and Josh seedy-looking. However, neither Josh nor Jim Grayson would ever twist Emmy’s arm.
Colleen, the part-time clerk, stuck her head in the office door. “Mrs. Murphy wants to know what’s keeping you,” she said. “She’s covering your station but she needs to leave for a meeting.”
“Coming,” said Mrs. Rushford. Putting her phone in her pocket, she hurried back to the children’s department. Once there, though, she kept worrying about Emmy. It was odd that Emmy had not returned her call immediately. Their agreement was that Emmy could have a cell phone if she always had it turned on so that her parents could reach her any time they tried. Until now, Emmy had kept that bargain.
When there was a lull between customers, Mrs. Rushford decided to call again. That’s when she saw that a text from Emmy had just arrived. She opened it, and stared at the screen: White truck he
He?
A feeling of dread crept up the back of Mrs. Rushford’s neck. She dialed Emmy’s number again. It rang and went to voice mail.
“I have to leave,” she told Colleen. “Something is wrong at home. I’m afraid Emmy might be in trouble.”
She didn’t wait for permission from Mrs. Murphy. She didn’t bother to punch out on the employee time clock. She didn’t even go back to the employee room for her coat. She just grabbed her purse, ran across the parking lot to her car, and headed home.
He. He what? Had Emmy started to identify whoever “he” was? Why had she not finished the text?
Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Rushford drove down the alley and pulled into her garage. She ran to the back door. Although dark clouds hung low overhead, no lights glowed in the house. Waggy barked when she opened the door.
“Emmy?” she called as she turned on the kitchen lights.
Instead of acting all silly as he usually did when someone came home, Waggy whined and panted. He pawed at Mrs. Rushford’s pant leg.
“Emmy? Are you here?” Her gaze swept the kitchen. Something seemed different. Something was wrong. She realized that the microwave was gone.
She ran into the family room. The desk top where the computer usually sat was empty. The TV was missing, too.
Trying not to panic, Mrs. Rushford called 911.
“My daughter is missing!” she said. “Someone broke into my house, and Emmy isn’t here.”
She gave her name and address, as well as Emmy’s name and description.
She answered several questions. “The TV is gone, and our computer and our microwave. My neighbor saw Emmy talking to a
She was told not to touch anything until the police arrived. “Please hurry,” she pleaded. “I think Emmy has been abducted.”
When she finished the call to the police, she called her husband.
“I’ll be on the first flight home,” he said.
Mrs. Rushford fervently wished he had been working in his home office this week, rather than in Colorado. It would be hours before he could get home. He might not arrive until the next morning.
She called Mrs. Braider and asked her to come over. When she explained the situation, Mrs. Braider said, “I knew it! I knew that man was no good the minute I laid eyes on him. I said to myself, I said, Emmy is asking for trouble keeping company with him.”
Mrs. Rushford wanted to deny that Emmy was “keeping company” with whoever had been there, but she didn’t want to argue with Mrs. Braider. “I’m sure the police will want to question you,” she said.
Next she called Lauren and asked if she knew where Emmy was. “She isn’t here,” Lauren said. “She took the school bus home, like she always does.”
By then Mrs. Rushford’s hands were shaking so much she could barely hold the phone. She hung up, dropped to her knees, and buried her face in Waggy’s fur.
“What happened, Waggy?” she whispered. “Who was in our house?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As I rode through Cedar Hill with No Help, worries bounced around my mind like Ping-Pong balls while I tried to figure out how to save myself.
“White truck” was not a good enough description. I needed to get the license plate number, and text it to Mom. As soon as I got out of the truck, I would look at the license plate and memorize the number.
My phone rang again as No Help drove across town. Although I knew from the news broadcast that his real name was Donald Zummer, I still thought of him as No Help.