Shooting Star (2 page)

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Authors: Cynthia Riggs

BOOK: Shooting Star
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Suddenly, a light flashed in her face, dazzling her. She shaded her eyes with the hand that still held her own flashlight and tried to see beyond the brightness.
“Who is it?” She laughed nervously.
No answer. The light beam traveled to the room behind her.
“What do you want? Who are you?”
“Where’s the boy?” asked a muffled voice.
“The boy?”
“The boy. Teddy. Where is he?”
Was the speaker male or female? Was it someone she knew or not? She couldn’t tell. “He—he’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“I want the boy.”
“Who are you?”
She sensed movement and ducked instinctively. A gloved hand slapped her on the side of her face.
Peg screamed, dropped the costumes on the floor, and backed away. The intruder was barely visible in the dim light, a shape in dark clothing. Before she could scream again, a hand covered her face. Peg tried to shake her head free of the thick woolen glove. She couldn’t breathe. In the background, she heard bicycle tires on the crushed shell of her drive.
“Where’s the boy?” The hand moved enough for her to answer.
Instead, she screamed out, “Run, Teddy! Run!” before the glove covered her mouth and nose again.
Two teenaged girls, Tracy and Karen, left Island Java, the coffeehouse in Vineyard Haven, around midnight and stopped partway up the unlighted hill that led out of town. The night was cool for early July, and so clear the two could see the Milky Way above them.
Karen, the taller of the two, pointed to a slow-moving bright streak near the horizon. “Look! A satellite!”
Tracy, the shorter, dark-haired girl, watched the light die out. “A meteor,” she said. “An earthgrazer.”
“Wow!”
“My Dad always gets us kids up in the middle of a night in August to watch the Perseid meteor shower. He says the meteors come from the tail of a comet.”
“Awesome!” said Karen.
Dew had settled on leaves and blades of grass, and as they brushed past hedges in front of closed stores, drops splattered on the brick sidewalk.
They stopped walking, and Tracy held her thumb out. “I feel funny doing this, you know?”
“Roddie said hitchhiking is safe on Martha’s Vineyard, that thumbing cuts down on traffic,” said Karen.
Tracy peered down the dark hill. “There’s not exactly what you’d call, like, a lot of traffic right now.”My parents would kill me if they knew I was thumbing rides.”
Karen held her hair out of her eyes. “I see a car now.”
Tracy looked toward the vehicle. “It’s a police car. Going the wrong direction, anyway.”
“Well, my parents would kill
me
if they knew I was picking up boys in coffee shops,” said Karen.
“He was kind of cute.”
“He would be if he took off, like, thirty pounds?”
“That’s mean.” Tracy turned as headlights flashed into view at the bottom of the hill. “Here comes a car. Smile.”
The vehicle, an old, white station wagon, pulled up to the curb. Tracy opened the door on the passenger side. The dome light went on. She leaned down.
“Hi,” said the driver. “Where are you going?”
Tracy backed away, put her hands over her mouth and screamed.
“It’s okay,” said the driver. “I’m in a play.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Karen. “What is it?”
The driver leaned over the passenger seat and grinned. “It’s okay, really,” he said again.
Karen, too, stared at the driver, and backed into Tracy. Both girls turned and raced down the dark hill toward the lights and safety of Main Street.
 
Howland Atherton had expected the police siren. When he heard it and saw the flashing blue lights in his rearview mirror, he sighed and pulled over to the side of the road. He rolled down the window and was searching for his registration in the glove compartment as the police car pulled in behind him. It took a few minutes before the officer got out. Probably checking the license plate. Howland watched in the mirror. The cop hiked up his gun belt, threw back his shoulders, and sucked in his incipient gut. Howland recognized him. Tim Eldredge, one of the state troopers.
Eldredge reached the open window on the driver’s side, bent down to speak to Howland, got as far as “Evening, sir. May I see …” when he, too, backed off. He straightened up, stumbled, and almost fell.
“Holy shit!” he mumbled. “What are you?”
Ordinarily, Howland would have gotten out of the car, but he thought about the boots he was wearing. The four-inch lifts made him close to six-foot-six, so he remained in the car.
“Atherton, Tim. It’s Howland Atherton. I’m coming from dress rehearsal at the playhouse.”
The officer moved toward the car, his hand on the butt of his gun. “Could I see your license, sir. And registration.”
Howland handed them to the cop, who looked from Howland’s picture on the license to Howland, the actor. “Dracula?” he said finally.
Howland sighed again. “Frankenstein’s monster.”
“A hysterical girl called nine-one-one.”
“I figured,” said Howland.
“Excuse me, Mr. Atherton, sir, but why in hell did you stop for them? I mean, knowing that you look like that.”
“I forgot,” said Howland.
“It’s pretty realistic, you know, all that blood and the stitches on your face. No wonder you scared the shit out of them.” The cop examined Howland critically. “Bolts coming out of your head. Fangs. Look at those claws, will you. Did you shave off your hair?”
“Bathing cap.” Howland tugged it off to show his matted, silver curls.
“I don’t think I can cite you for anything. I know where you live if I need you.” Eldredge saluted. “My advice, Mr. Atherton, is don’t stop for any more hitchhikers tonight.”
Howland headed for home again. He’d had nothing to eat since lunch, and his dogs hadn’t been fed since early morning. He thought of the cold London broil in his refrigerator. A baked potato. A salad. His mouth watered. His stomach growled.
He had gotten as far as the big, split oak tree at the end of North Road when he heard the police siren again.
Again, he pulled over onto the grassy verge. This time he got out of the car.
Eldredge, who was five-foot-seven, shone the flashlight up into the distorted face, at the stitches, the blood, then down the torn clothing to the clumsy, hairy boots. “The full effect is something else, I gotta tell you.”
Howland clawed at the rubbery, blood-soaked makeup, which started to come off his face in dirty, flesh-colored globs.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Atherton, sir, you better leave the makeup on for now.” The trooper paused. “I’m afraid, sir, I’ll have to ask you to come with me to the police station.”
“You arresting me?” muttered Howland. “You got probable cause?”
“All that blood, sir.”
“Blood? This isn’t blood.” Howland stopped pulling at the gory makeup. “What’s the trouble, Tim? Can’t you locate the girls?”
“No, sir, we can’t. But it’s something else.”
“Not at liberty to tell me, I suppose?”
The trooper coughed softly. “You’re in law enforcement, Mr. Atherton. You understand.”
Howland leaned a hairy paw on the roof of his car. “I need to get home to feed my dogs.”
“I’ll call the animal control officer. Joanie will take care of them.” Eldredge paused. “This is embarrassing, sir, but according to the rules, I’m supposed to put the cuffs on you.”
“What!” said Howland, standing up straight.
“I gotta go by the book, Mr. Atherton. Hands behind your back, please.”
“Wait a goddamn minute,” said Howland. “You can’t do that.”
“Sir, you don’t want to be charged with resisting arrest.”
“This is outrageous,” Howland blurted out. “You know me.”
“Yes, sir. DEA. But I’ve got orders.”
Howland muttered something about rights and lawyers and Miranda, all the protests he, himself, had heard from others
many times before. Then he turned sullenly, hands behind his back. He looked over his shoulder. “What the hell is going on?”
Eldredge snapped handcuffs on, then led Howland to the open door of the police car. “Sorry about this, Mr. Atherton, sir.”
Howland sidled into the back seat and settled himself at an angle so he wouldn’t have to lean against his shackled hands. “Not the girls, right?”
“You know I can’t tell you, sir.”
“Did something happen at the playhouse?”
The trooper eyed Howland in the mirror and reached for the radio mike. “I’ll call Joanie about your dogs.”
“Thanks,” Howland muttered.
After the trooper made arrangements with the animal control officer, he rekeyed the radio mike. “I picked up the suspect at the down-Island end of North Road.”
Howland leaned forward. “Suspect?”
“Sierra fourteen to eight-six-zero,” said the voice on the radio. “Ten-fifteen. One male.”
“Jail!” said Howland.
“Ten-four.” Eldredge hung up the mike and turned onto State Road heading into West Tisbury. He reached for the button that activated the siren.
Not a car had gone by in either direction.
“For God’s sake,” Howland growled. “Goddamned cops and robbers. Got to fight your way through traffic, Eldredge?”
Tim Eldredge looked again in the rearview mirror and withdrew his hand from the button. The headlights, on high beam, reflected off the occasional road sign and the reflective tape on telephone poles. The arboretum and the agricultural hall were dark. Howland could smell new-mown hay in Whiting’s pasture as they drove past.
The radio crackled and Eldredge lifted the mike.
“What’s your location, Tim?”
“I’m on Deadman’s Curve. Passing the cemetery.”
“You going by Mrs. Trumbull’s?”
“That’s a ten-four.”
“Pick her up, too, will you?”
“What!” Howland sputtered. “Victoria Trumbull is ninety-two, for God’s sake. What in hell do you think she’s perpetrated?”
Eldredge released the mike key and grinned at Howland in the mirror. “Mrs. Trumbull? I wouldn’t put anything past her.” He pressed the key again and spoke into the mike. “Does she know I’m stopping by?”
“She’s aware that we need her help.”
“Ten-four,” said Eldredge, and hung up the mike.
“Putting cuffs on her, too, I suppose,” said Howland, shifting to find a less uncomfortable position.
Tim grinned again. “I only have the one pair with me.”
“Very funny,” said Howland.
“We’re not arresting her,” said Tim. “She’s coming in as a courtesy.” The trooper turned left at Brandy Brow, paused at the stop sign, and looked both ways. No cars.
“You know, of course, Eldredge,
normal police procedure,”
said Howland, emphasizing the words, “would not allow for arrestees and any other person to be transported together.”
“Yes, sir,” said Eldredge. “Mrs. Trumbull is a deputy police officer. We’ll put her in front.”
They passed the old mill and millpond. The still surface reflected stars. At the far end of the pond, Howland could see the pair of resident swans, ghostlike in the starlit night.
They passed the tiny, shingled West Tisbury police station, the only light showing in this part of the village.
Eldredge slowed at New Lane and turned into Victoria Trumbull’s driveway. In the starlight, Howland could make out the shadowy roofs that cascaded from the tall main house to the two-story kitchen wing to the one-story summer cookroom and, finally, to the attached woodshed.
Before he’d known Victoria, Howland used to pass the rambling
old house set back from the road and partly hidden by an anemic-looking horse chestnut tree and a spooky dark cedar laced with trumpet vine. He would imagine the ghosts that must inhabit the centuries-old Trumbull house, with its weathered shingles and mottled dark trim. On windy days he could see loose shutters swinging back and forth, banging against the house. Probably squealing on their hinges.
Once Howland got to know Victoria, she had disabused him of his ghosts. We don’t harbor any ghosts in this house, she’d snapped. Look for your ghosts someplace else.
Eldredge pulled up in front of the kitchen door. The lights were on. Victoria, shrunk somewhat from her once stately five-foot-ten, was still imposing. She came to the door, McCavity, her marmalade cat, twisting himself around her feet. She stooped down and scratched his head, then started down the stone steps.
Eldredge stood at the bottom. “Evening, Mrs. Trumbull.”
Victoria held the railing firmly with one hand, her cloth bag and lilac-wood walking stick with the other.
In the light from the kitchen, Howland could see on her wrinkled face the shadow of her large nose. Victoria paused. “I’d better turn off the lights.”
“I’ll get them, Mrs. Trumbull, ma’am,” said Eldredge.
“Thank you,” said Victoria. “And what is your name?” she asked when the trooper returned.
“Tim Eldredge, ma’am.”
“You’re George’s boy, aren’t you?”
“No, ma’am. I’m his nephew.”
“You look just like your grandfather,” Victoria said as she moved toward the police car.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Eldredge held the passenger door open for her.
Victoria peered into the back seat. “Still in costume, Howland?”
“And shackles.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“Probable cause.” Howland smiled, exposing fangs. “I’m covered with blood.”
Eldredge went around to the driver’s side, got in, and started out toward the main road.
“Did they tell you why they’re picking us up?” Howland asked.
“All they said was that a problem of some kind had cropped up, and they’ve asked the play’s cast and crew to meet with them at the jail.” Victoria smoothed the skirt of the suit she had been wearing at the playhouse earlier that evening.

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