Thirteen
It was a short walk to the rest area, where, when an attendant saw me enter the building, she hurried over and immediately set in motion a series of things to help me. She found a blanket in the staff room and wrapped it around me.
Then she called the police.
Who were there in moments.
I told them the same I-fell-off-a-boat story (which they seemed to buy, mostly because I was still pretty wet, head to toe).
They took me back to their station, where I told them I’d call someone to come get me (who?) but figured I’d come up with something before I got there.
Which I didn’t.
But I didn’t need to. When I entered the building, I heard a very familiar voice call out, “Vickie!”
I looked.
It was Father.
***
We embraced as if each of us had just returned from the dead—which, in a way, we had.
I have to say, though, that the cops were mystified—and seemed more than a little suspicious.
“This is a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?” asked one whose face was a perfect picture of skepticism. “Anybody want to explain?”
I tightened my grip on Father’s arm, letting him know I could do it. And so I did.
“I was on the boat, like I said, and when I fell off, Father, as soon as the boat reached the parking lot (which wasn’t very far away), drove over here, I would guess, right away, to see if there was any news.” I looked at Father.
“Right,” he said.
“And it was just really, really lucky,” I said, “that we both ended up here.” I started to cry—some of it was acting, some was not.
My tears apparently softened the officer we were with, and, though there was still a trace of disbelief in his voice, he said, “Well, I’m so glad this all worked out.” He paused a moment. “Whatever this is.”
We hurried out before more questions came—or more officers—climbed in his car and drove away before the police changed their minds and came after us.
Father took a few crazy detours—just in case—and we ended up in kind of a mini-mall, where he stopped, and we talked.
The only real questions that mattered to me were these: “Father, how did you know I was in New York?” And: “How did you escape from Dr. Eastbrook and his … crew?”
“The first is the easier—and the harder—part to explain,” he said.
“I’m listening …”
“Aunt Claire told me.”
***
And that, of course, caused a long conversation to begin.
I told him my whole story—how I came home from Dracula, Baby!—how I found the house ransacked—how Father was missing—how I called the police—how I ran away—and all the rest of it (including my “visits” with William Godwin and James Fenimore Cooper and Harriet)—my diner visit with Father himself, who hadn’t recognized me. And so on.
Oddly, Father did not express any evidence of doubt or disbelief.
But here—briefly, briefly—is what he told me. Not long before I’d gotten home that night, he’d gotten a call about a story he might be interested in—something that was occurring right then. He’d figured it would just take a few minutes, but when he got to the scene, nothing was going on.
He figured it was a prank (such things had happened to him before), and he quickly drove home, where he found things just as he’d left them. And then he was overwhelmed by … someone? Or some thing? “It must have been Dr. Eastbrook, and I have only a vague memory of how he questioned me, and all I could tell him was the truth: I did not know where you were. And then I was out cold again.
“Vickie, I don’t know how long I was out. Only when I came home, you still hadn’t come home.
At first Father thought I might have been with some other kids—but he didn’t think that for too long, so he hurried over to the school, where he found the cast still enjoying all the congratulations they were getting from their parents and classmates
He did’t see me.
But then Dracula (John) came over to him and told him he’d seen me leave quite a bit earlier. John told Father he hoped I was all right.
Another tear was forming …
“When I got home,” Father said, “still nothing, and I was about to phone the police when I looked up and saw Aunt Claire walk through the front door—and I mean walk through the front door, Vickie. She didn’t open it. She just passed right through it—as if she were a ghost.”
I nodded. Nothing was surprising me right now.
“And she told me where you were—and that if I stopped at the police station in New York, I would find you.”
We sat in silence for a bit.
“Where is she now?” I finally asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “She walked right back out through the door. I threw a few things in a suitcase and drove like a madman to find you.”
Another tear—and I could see that he was having some … leakage … problems as well.
“Oh, and I should tell you,” said Father. “Aunt Claire told me I needed to bring your toiletries—and a change of clothing.”
I looked at him hopefully.
“And so I did.”
***
Father had booked a nearby motel room, so we headed there, where I showered and changed into the clothing he’d brought along.
Afterward, we went to find a quiet restaurant where we could talk some more.
And it was there that I told him what had seemed the most important thing to Dr. Eastbrook—that seemed to be the reason that he had abducted me.
“He kept asking me,” I said, “about a device I’d found in the old lighthouse on Green Island.”
“He took you there again!” Father was shocked. And probably afraid.
“I was drugged,” I said. “So it’s hard for me to know what was real and what wasn’t. But he told me that he had waited too long to sneak more of the drug into something I was drinking—and while I was somewhat aware, I did find something. A device.”
“What do you remember about it?”
“Not much. It looked like a toaster.”
“Toaster?”
“Yeah, you know—to make toast for breakfast?”
Father smiled.
“Anyway,” I went on, “when I opened it, I vaguely remember seeing that it was not like a regular toaster—but had slots for things that looked to be the size of test tubes.”
Father looked interested now. “So, it must be something he was using in his work—and needed.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“You must have given it to someone …”
But memory betrayed me. I could remember nothing.
***
We finished eating, then drove back to the motel to see if we could figure out what to do next.
I knew one thing we had to do for certain: Avoid Dr. Eastbrook, Blue Boyle, and whoever else—or whatever else—the doctor had with him.
Our motel room had a small round table near the window (we’d drawn the drapes, and Father had parked the car far away from our room—just being cautious).
Father had gotten us a couple of soft drinks from the machine in the lobby, and we sat there drinking and thinking and talking.
And Father asked the most basic question of all, of course: “If John wasn’t there—and if you don’t have the device—and if Dr. Eastbrook doesn’t have it—where is it?”
I was stumped. Had no idea.
“All I can figure,” I said after a bit of a pause, “is that I hid it somewhere.”
Father then had a thought. “Did you have a backpack with you?”
“I did!” I’d forgotten.
“And where is it?”
“I have no idea.” I thought a little. “I didn’t have it in Cooper’s Cave …”
“Can you remember when you last had it?”
I could not.
And then it hit me. “I must have left it in Mr. Leon’s car!”
“Except Mr. Leon wasn’t ever there.”
“There is that,” I confessed.
Silence.
Then Father had an idea: “But you were in a car …”
“Dr. Eastbrook’s car!” we cried simultaneously.
***
There’s something about discovering a solution that also creates a bigger problem, isn’t there? Like, oh, nuclear energy? Or learning that something you really need is in the trunk of a car that’s pursuing you.
We talked about various strategies—until Father finally said what was obvious. “We have to let him think that he’s found us.”
I realized right away how sensible this was—and terrifying. I mean, I knew that we could not reacquire my backpack without access to his car. And the only way to get that access was to have him drive to where we were—or where he thought we were—but, of course, actually where we really were—but not precisely where he thought we were.
Confusing, eh?
But Father and I worked out something that resembled a plan—and we set it in motion.
It required involving the police—only they really wouldn’t know they were involved.
***
We knew that our room was visible from a nearby coffee shop. Ours was one of those high-rise motels, and our room was on the top floor, a room facing the parking lot. Inside, Father made a call to the police station where we had found each other.
He identified himself, told them that a “friend” would probably stop by looking for him, and they could tell him where he was staying. And he gave the police the name of the motel—and our room number.
“Do you think Dr. Eastwood will fall for it?” I asked when he’d hung up.
“Well, he doesn’t have a lot of options but the police right now, does he? He’s got to hope that you haven’t drowned—and that, ashore or rescued or whatever, you will find yourself at the police station.”
“So he’ll go there and ask about me.”
“That’s the plan,” said Father.
We didn’t dare take a chance that Dr. Eastbrook would find us quickly—find us in the room—so we walked over to the coffee shop and settled in for what could be a long wait. Father got a coffee; I, a soft drink. We bought a local newspaper, and, after a while, I asked Father if it would be all right for me to walk down to the drugstore about a half-block away. I could get myself a book to read. He told me to make it quick; I said I would.
The drugstore did have a paperback book rack, which I scanned quickly for something interesting. I saw newer titles by Stephen King (Desperation) and Anne Rice (Servant of the Bones), but I figured I had enough actual horror in my life right now—I didn’t need any of the fictional kind.
In one of the lower racks I saw a book by Kate Atkinson, a writer I’d never of, which certainly made sense because I saw it was her first book—Behind the Scenes at the Museum.[i] I flipped some pages; it looked interesting.
I went up to the counter and bought it, earning a strange look from the clerk, who probably hadn’t heard of Atkinson, either. He was probably disappointed I didn’t buy a Snickers bar to go along with it.
I headed back up the street—and saw Father waving at me with the motion that means, “Hurry up!”
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