Stalk, Don't Run by Carolyn Keene Page A

alcohol.
    The receipt I found inside the bag told me the supplies had been bought at Hanson’s Drugs a few days ago.
    “It looks like whoever’s staying here was hurt,” I said.
    “I think I found something too,” Bess said.
    I walked over to Bess at the cubby shelf. She pulled a folder with faded newspaper clippings from the pile of papers and opened it up.
    “It looks like an old article,” she said. “Go get the candle so we can see what it says.”
    I grabbed what was left of the candle and held it over the article.
    “It looks like a wedding announcement,” I said. “From about ten years ago.”
    “Who’s the happy couple?” Bess asked.
    “Good question.” I moved the candle over the faded photograph of the bride and groom, and Bess grabbed my arm.
    I stared at the photograph of the beaming couple. Grinning in a dark tuxedo and bow tie was the crazy cult leader and bane of our existence.
    “It’s Roland!” I said.
    And there, gazing lovingly at him in a fluffy white veil, was someone we also recognized.
    “Amy Paloma!” Bess gasped.
    The caption underneath the photo read, “Marty Malone weds Amy Porter.”
    “We know Marty Malone was Roland’s name before he changed it,” I said. “Amy must have changed her name too.”
    “Nancy,” Bess hissed. “Do you know what this means?”
    I nodded as I remembered the sunburst tattoo on Amy’s ankle. “Amy was more than just one of Roland’s followers,” I said. “She was his wife !”
    The door slammed open, and Bess and I jumped.
    “George, you scared the daylights out of me,” I said. “Is someone coming?”
    “No,” George said. “But I found something on the porch you ought to see.”
    “We found something too,” Bess said, nodding at the article. “Amy Paloma is—or was—Roland’s wife.”
    “His wife?” George exclaimed. She held up an amber medication bottle. “Wait till you see this. An empty bottle of painkillers.”
    “Painkillers?” I said, taking the bottle.
    “Yeah, now read on the label. Look who the prescribing doctor is,” George said, her expression grim.
    Bess and I both read the label. The prescribing doctor was Dr. Raymond!
    “Dr. Raymond was the plastic surgeon who altered Roland’s appearance,” Bess said. “So he could hide from the police.”
    “Now read who the medication is for ,” George said.
    I turned the bottle until I found another name. My hand began to shake as I read it out loud: “Marty Malone.”
    “Roland!” Bess declared, and covered her mouth. “He’s alive, and he must be hiding out in this bunk.”
    “And in River Heights,” I said, feeling sick.
    “What do you think all those painkillers are for?” George asked.
    My eyes darted around while I put the pieces of the puzzle together. Dr. Raymond had performed a lot more than a nip and tuck on Roland—he’d transformed his whole face and hairline—and fast. Maybe too fast.
    “Maybe the painkillers are for Roland’s plastic surgery gone bad,” I said. “No wonder the campers kept seeing a guy with a disfigured face.”
    “I bet the noises Maggie heard were probably Roland moaning from the pain,” Bess said. “She was telling the truth about the monster man.”
    “Amy Paloma has been harboring a fugitive. Someone who could harm the campers,” George said furiously.
    My heart pounded. The mean girls weren’t trying to get us. Neither was Mr. Safer. All this time it was Roland—the demented cult leader from Malachite Beach!
    “Do you think Roland followed us back to River Heights?” Bess asked, her voice panicky. “Do you think he wants to get back at us for blowing the whistle on him and his cult?”
    “I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said. “Whatever the reason, we have to tell Chief McGinnis, and we have to do it before Roland comes back and finds us—”
    SLAM! The door swung open. Bess shrieked.
    We whirled around to see . . . not Roland, but Amy. She shone a flashlight in our faces. “What are you doing