Here by Mistake Page 18

  “Faye’s it is,” Quint said. “Which way t’Cherry Boulevard, B?”

  Five minutes later they were turning into Faye Birmingham’s driveway. Brandon hopped out of the car and raised the garage door. Quint eased the Edsel inside and cut the engine without a backfire. Everyone got out.

  “We’ll keep the car out of sight in case our trooper friend passes by,” Quint said. He pulled the garage door down. “After y’all go through the niche, I’ll spend the night in the house and head back tomorrow.”

  They walked quickly to the back door. Quint took out Faye Birmingham’s keys and let everyone into the kitchen. Brandon pointed out the nook and the metal door to the basement. Quint found the right keys and got the door open. Brandon hit the wall switch. Soft light spread over the floor beneath them. They descended the stairs.

  Movers had been in the basement but had not finished their work. Shipping statements from Liberty Moving and Storage littered the floor. Some crates had been set down haphazardly. Others were stacked neatly in rows.

  “The niche was in its own frame, away from the other things,” Stephen said.

  “Right,” Brandon said. “Let’s go.”

  They checked the wall where they had found the niche in 2005. It was not there. They walked up and down the rows of crates. They did not find the niche.

  “The movers didn’t bring it,” Sarah said anxiously.

  “They brought it,” Quint said, raking his fingers through his hair. “We’ve got the shippin’ statement. Let’s check above.”

  They climbed the stairs and searched the first floor. Many large items had been delivered. Brandon found the grandfather clock with the carved sailing ships in the entrance hall. Stephen came upon a pyramid of rolled-up rugs in the dining room. Packing boxes were everywhere and made it hard to get around most rooms. They looked behind every box, pile, and stick of furniture. They checked every closet. The niche was not there.

  “Two floors t’go,” Quint said grimly.

  They searched the second floor, then the third, without success. Quint’s temples were pulsing. “All right, we’ll double-check,” he said evenly. “B, take the first floor. Stephen, the second. Sarah, the third. The garage has an attic; I’m lookin’ there. Go! Don’t be sloppy. Treat it like y’all are lookin’ for the first time.”

  “It’s no good, Quint,” Brandon said. “It’s not here.”

  Quint wheeled on him, and Brandon stepped back. “B, just do it. We meet in the livin’ room in half an hour.”

  Thirty minutes later Quint was sitting on the pink velvet sofa in the living room, his hand clamped around a glass of water. Brandon was sitting on the pink velvet ottoman, watching him. Quick steps sounded in the hallway, and Stephen and Sarah came in.

  “Nothing,” Sarah said.

  “Not there,” Stephen said.

  Slowly Quint rose to his feet. Suddenly he pitched his glass into the fireplace with such force that it exploded. Sarah screamed.

  “Quint,” Brandon cried.

  Quint stormed to the windows and back, making a slashing gesture across the top of his head. “I’m up to here playin’ hide-’n’-seek with that damn niche,” he yelled. He took the shipping carbon from his pocket and nearly tore it in two unfolding it. “It says here it was shipped November 10. Today’s November 19. Where the hell is it?”

  “Let me see it,” Brandon said.

  Quint gave him the carbon and Brandon read it. Then he plucked a shipping statement from between the sofa cushions and read it, too. “Well, what d’you know.”

  “What?” Sarah asked.

  “The paper for the couch says it was shipped to Ten Cherry Boulevard. The paper for the niche says it was shipped to Rollings.”

  “So?” Quint said angrily.

  “So,” Brandon said, “maybe the niche was taken somewhere else in town.”

  Quint threw up his hands. “What the hell for? Faye doesn’t have another house in Rollin’s. She wants her things here, where she’s goin’ t’live.”

  Brandon ignored him and made a circle of the room, taking shipping statements from two chairs, two end tables, the coffee table, and a floor lamp. He checked each one and gave the bunch to Quint. “These papers all say Ten Cherry Boulevard,” he said. “Not one of them just says Rollings. Only the niche’s paper says Rollings.”

  Quint dropped down on the sofa. “B,” he said wearily, “they wouldn’t take it anywhere else in town.”

  “Why not?” Brandon asked. “Look at this place. You can’t even move in some rooms. It’ll be like that ’til everything’s unpacked and put where it should be. I’ll bet some stuff’s being stored in town ’til there’s room here.”

  Stephen peered over Quint’s shoulder at the top statement in the bunch. “It makes sense,” he said, raising his eyes to Brandon. “Maybe that’s why the niche was off by itself instead of stacked up like the other things. Maybe it was brought in later.”

  Quint was now listening. “So what’re we talkin’, a warehouse? Is there one in town?”

  “No,” Sarah said. “Not in 2005, anyway.”

  “Warehouse or not, this paper says Rollings,” Brandon said, holding up the carbon. “The niche is in this town—somewhere.”

  Quint scraped his teeth over his lower lip as he thought it over. “It does make sense,” he said finally. “Good thinkin’, B.” He put the shipping statements aside and rubbed his eyes with his palms. “But this screws up everything. I’m due t’start drivin’ Faye up here in five days. We can’t play with that. If we start changin’ how things happen in this town, or when they happen, Rollin’s’ll be changed along with ’em. It’ll be like dominoes fallin’. The town y’all lived in—the town y’all know—will be gone for good.”

  “You need part of that time to get back to New Orleans,” Sarah said.

  “That’s right. I can stretch and make it in three long days, but that’s it.” Quint sighed and said, “Folks, please sit down.”

  Sarah and Brandon sat down on the ottoman. Stephen flicked a shard of glass off the hearthstone and took a seat there.

  “Y’all have been doin’ great,” Quint said. “Sorry about my yellin’. I just couldn’t believe it when the damn thing wasn’t here. I need t’work on that temper of mine.” He took the carbon for the niche from Brandon, folded it carefully, and tucked it into his back pocket. “B’s right. The niche has got t’be here in Rollin’s. And this town’s not a patch on New Orleans. We’ve got two days to find it, and we can do it. Hard as it is, y’all need t’stay on track and deal with this thing a little longer. Okay?”

  “Yes,” Brandon said strongly.

  “Yes, sir,” Stephen replied.

  Sarah’s eyes were welling up. “Where will we start?”

  “That’s for tomorrow,” Quint said. “For now I’ll walk up t’— what the hell’s that road?—Broadway, and I’ll get us some food.”

  “That’s okay, Quint,” Brandon said. “Give me the money and I’ll go with Stephen. You look—”

  “Like hell?” Quint said it with a grin.

  “Tired.”

  Much to Brandon’s surprise, Quint took out his wallet and withdrew a five. “Remember where y’all are,” he said, handing it over. “Don’t talk t’anyone, and get back fast. No dramatic gestures.”

  “Okay,” Brandon said. He tried to think of something positive to say. “Anyway, tonight we have a house to sleep in, instead of a room.”

  “We’ll make a fire in the hearth,” Stephen said.

  Quint sank deeper into the couch. “That’s lookin’ on the bright side,” he said wearily. “Y’know, someday—in forty years or so—we’ll look back on all this and laugh about it.” Then he closed his eyes and whispered, “I hope.”

  THIRTEEN

  Someone Unexpected

  Saturday, November 20, began uneventfully. Sarah walked into the library and screamed.

  “Sarah, what?”

  It was Brandon’s voice. He and Stephen came boundi
ng into the room. They found Sarah backed into the space between a floor-to-ceiling bookcase and a writing table. Facing her was a grizzly bear with paws and claws outstretched. It stood on its pedestal, its dark eyes watching her.

  “It’s your old friend, Sarah.” Brandon laughed. “You shouldn’t scream every time you see him. He might think you don’t like him.”

  “Deadly beasts have feelings, after all,” Stephen said dryly.

  “I didn’t see it when we searched the house,” Sarah gasped. “Where’d it come from?”

  Brandon took a rolled-up sheet from the bottom shelf of the bookcase. “It was covered with this,” he said, smiling. “I pulled it off last night to take a look. Sorry—I should’ve put it back.” He threw the sheet over the bear and pulled the ends even. “There. Now he just looks like a ghost.”

  Sarah inched out of her space and took a seat in an alcove overlooking the front yard. Sunlight streaming in the stained glass surrounding her made her look pink. “This house is nasty,” she said. “Too big, too much junk. I want to go for a walk.”

  “Quint said wait,” Brandon said, his voice turning serious. “He’s calling the Liberty Company. He’ll be back by ten.”

  Sarah pointed an accusing finger at the bear. “This house has things like that, but not a phone?”

  “Not hooked up yet,” Brandon said. He glanced over some books on the floor and picked up Carnivores of North America. “Feel like reading?” He grinned. Sarah ignored him, and he looked past her through a wedge of clear glass in the window. “Come on, get your coats,” he said suddenly. “We can go out if we stick to the yard. The outside of this place’s even cooler than the inside.”

  They grabbed their jackets and ran downstairs to the entrance hall. Standing before the oak double doors, Brandon recalled his family’s visits to the house when he was little. His parents had always used the front door, and Brandon had always opened it for them. To do this he had found it necessary to punch the iron latch with his fist. Only after turning thirteen was he strong enough to click it with his thumb, as his father did. “Go on, Stephen,” Brandon said, smiling. “Open it.” Stephen flexed his fingers and grasped the iron handle. The latch clicked smartly under his thumb, and he dragged the heavy door open. He and Sarah went out. Brandon, smile now gone, sullenly followed.

  They poked around the front yard for a while. “Here’s where I dug the moat when I was seven,” Brandon said, regaining his good humor. He paced out a wide arc in front of the steps. “Did I catch hell for that!”

  They walked around to the backyard, which was surrounded by a spruce hedge twice as tall as Brandon. They pushed their way through a trellis gate. Three times larger than the front, the backyard was a collection of flower beds crisscrossed by fine gravel paths. In the center was a white marble fountain with a statue of a woman pouring out a jug. The water wasn’t running, and the beds were a tangle of stems and dead leaves. Even so, Sarah and Stephen stopped in their tracks.

  “Wow,” Stephen said. “I never saw anything like this in some-one’s yard.”

  “It’s . . . beautiful,” Sarah said. “Or at least, it must be in summer.”

  “It’s called an Italian garden,” Brandon said. “Once when I was little I climbed that statue. It bent over and the pipe inside got messed up.” He laughed. “I caught hell for that, too.”

  They walked the gravel paths for a while. The sun was bright but the day was cold, and after their second turn around the fountain Sarah zipped her jacket to her neck. “Want to go in?” Brandon asked, and she nodded. Stephen overheard him and started for the back door. “Wait,” Brandon called out. “Let’s use the castle door.”

  They returned to the front yard and climbed the steps. Brandon had just placed his thumb on the latch when he heard a commotion coming from the sidewalk. He and Sarah and Stephen turned around just as a fat kid with a suitcase walked into view. Behind him came five more kids, who were jeering and taunting the fat kid. The tallest of them ran ahead and blocked the fat kid, who gripped his suitcase with both hands and raised his head.

  Brandon looked from each kid to the next, but his attention settled on the fat kid. At once the air went out of his lungs. He knew the kid! Forty years or no forty years, he not only knew the kid, he knew him altogether too well. His eyes narrowed. “Jonesy,” he muttered under his breath.

  The tall kid pushed Jonesy back when he tried to get around him. “Going home to Mom-m-my?” the kid jeered. “Is she falling off her feet today? How can she feed that fat belly of yours if she’s falling off her feet?” The other kids laughed and spread out to circle Jonesy. “Fat, fat, fat,” they chanted, which turned into “Blubber, blubber, blubber.” Two of them started throwing punches. One shoved Jonesy from behind and he almost fell over his suitcase.

  Brandon was grinning. Once a slug, always a slug. As the taunts continued, however, his grin disappeared. One kid ripping into Jonesy would have been cool. Five against one wasn’t cool, even if the one was a slug.

  The taunts found their mark. Jonesy tried feebly to break out of the circle, then stopped trying and hunched over his suitcase.

  The tall kid cuffed him across the head and got in his face. “Blubberchops!” he yelled, and the others took up the chant: “Blubberchops, blubberchops, blubberchops!”

  Brandon gasped at hearing the word. Jonesy, face twisted and red, broke into sobs. He clung to his suitcase and wailed loudly enough to be heard above the jeers.

  Brandon felt jostled from behind as Sarah pushed her way past him. She hopped off the steps and strode toward the kids. Stephen followed her. “Sarah, Stephen,” Brandon called out, but they ignored him.

  Sarah broke into the circle and got between the tall kid and Jonesy. She leaned into the tall kid and backed him up a step. “You need to shut that mouth of yours and keep your hands to yourself,” she yelled. “Big man, you go after a little kid and need a cheering section to do it.”

  While she was yelling, a small kid in a corduroy jacket set upon Jonesy and tried to make off with his suitcase. Stephen grabbed the kid’s wrists and bent them back. “Ow, you’re hurting me,” the kid hollered. Stephen released him and pushed him back into the circle.

  Shamed by holding back when his friends were involved, Brandon started down the steps, stopped, started again, and stopped again. Quint’s warning against dramatic gestures was sounding in his ears. What if they started fighting and the police came? They’d never get home.

  Sarah stopped yelling and waited for the tall kid to do something. Smirking, he ever-so-lightly tapped her on the shoulder with his finger. Sarah looked at her shoulder and back into the kid’s eyes. Uh-oh, Brandon thought. He knew what was about to happen. The tall kid didn’t know but got an education when Sarah delivered a slap to his face so hard it knocked him off his feet.

  Two or three of the cheering section laughed with surprise. The tall kid, face purple, jumped to his feet and went for Sarah. Stephen blocked him, and the kid let out a howl. He pushed Stephen into Sarah, and they both fell down.

  “Nigger,” the kid sneered as he stepped over Stephen. He grabbed Sarah by the arms and started dragging her up the lawn.

  The kid in the corduroy jacket, seeing his chance, jumped on top of Stephen. “Nigger,” he said, and they rolled over each other, trading punches.

  The tall kid had dragged Sarah about three feet when he bumped into someone. He turned around in time to take a solid right to the jaw from Brandon. Staggered, he threw a wild punch, which Brandon used to grab him and get him on the ground. “Owww!” the kid screamed as he was pinned down. “Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me!” He went limp, and Brandon got off him to go help Sarah. The kid stayed on the ground, tears rolling off his face. “Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me,” he kept crying.

  Their mouths hanging open, his friends were gawking at him.

  The tall kid’s cries seemed to take all the fight out of the kid in corduroy. Stephen seized him by his jacket and brought him to his feet. “Let
me go,” he wailed, tears streaming. Stephen pointed him at his friends and gave him a shove.

  The tall kid remained on the ground, sobbing and crying, “Don’t hurt me.” His friends watched in silence until a husky kid with black hair stepped forward. His mouth curled at the umpteenth, “Don’t hurt me,” and he broke in: “Nobody’s hurting you, Jack. Get up.” He hit the tall kid’s leg with the flat of his foot. “Get up.”

  Jack got to his feet, still sobbing. He looked about him, ducked his head, and started walking up the boulevard. After a look back, he walked faster, and then he broke into a run. By the time he had reached the end of the block he was going flat out in the direction of Broadway.

  The husky kid and the rest of the cheering section drifted away. But not the kid in corduroy. He lunged for Jonesy’s suitcase and tried to make off with it. Brandon grabbed his wrists and yelled, “Drop it.” The kid let go, and Brandon let him yank himself free. He tore across the street and disappeared into a wooded lot.

  Jonesy was sitting on the sidewalk, looking dazed. Brandon and Stephen took his arms and raised him to his feet. “Thanks,” Jonesy said, looking at Brandon with something like awe. “All of you,” he added, turning to Sarah and Stephen. “Thanks.” He unzipped his jacket, pulled out his shirttail, and wiped his eyes with it.

  Jonesy looked to be nine or ten. He was a little shorter than Stephen, with brown hair in a crew cut and ears that stuck way out. His boxy red quilted jacket made him look fatter than he was.

  Feeling a little foolish, Brandon asked, “Are you okay? What’s your name?”

  “Reginald Jones.”

  Brandon saw that Sarah had known but that Stephen had not. “I’m Brandon; call me B. This is Stephen, and this is Sarah. What do they call you, Reginald?”

  Reginald looked strangely at him. “Reginald,” he said.

  Brandon laughed but passed it off as coughing. “Cool. What’s in the case, Reginald?”

  “My accordion.”

  Brandon gave Stephen a knowing look. “Oh.”

  “Do you live here?” Reginald asked, looking up at the house.