wall. Her fingers found the wooden frame, and then the sill—a window. She pushed against the furniture with all her might, but it would not move. She went back to the tray on the table by her cot and ate more crumbs for energy.
Oh, how dumb. She needed leverage, not muscle.
Gwen picked at the remaining crumbs as she looked around the room for something she could use as a pry bar. The cot was a trove of levers in its legs and slats. And now her eyes were riveted to the tray. She could see more clearly—too clearly.
She had eaten the entire roll, including the dangerous moist center.
Oh, stupid Gwen! Stupid, stupid!
Tears streamed down her face as her legs folded, and her small body fell to the floor. Her eyes were closing. And only now it occurred to her that someone might be starving Sadie too, and drugging her best friend’s eggs and rolls.
Her hand went to the amulet with the magic engraving of the all-seeing eye, a gift from Sadie, a comfort in the dark.
It was gone.
Gwen sat up, resisting, fighting sleep. She spread her hands along the floor, searching with her fingertips, exploring all the ridges of the rug and the grout between the tiles.
It was not here. She had lost her eye. The amulet was gone.
And now her body was made of lead. She spread out flat on the tiles, and her soft rounded cheek pressed into the hard floor.
First she whispered it as a question, and then with great effort, she lifted her face and screamed, “Sadie! Where are you!”
The reporters were back in full force this evening, filling the short flight of stone steps leading up to the station house. Most of them were feeding on sandwiches and coffee. Some were stamping their feet to shake off the cold night air.
Rouge opened the passenger door and roughly pulled out his gift from Mr. Caruthers. Gerald Beckerman was startled, mouth hanging open as he was dragged from the front seat. The English teacher had been lured into the car with the pretense of polite questions about his missing students. Beckerman had made amiable conversation all the way to the police station. But now he was being treated like a criminal. And then he began to act like one, eyes full of fear as he tried to pull away from Rouge’s firm grasp.
One reporter’s nose went up. And then the rest of them were turning on the car, heads swiveling to watch the cop and his prisoner. The men and women were slowly moving down the steps. Some had already crossed to the parking lot, heading toward Rouge and the teacher, circling around them, watching, waiting.
When the media people were all together in one encompassing mob, Rouge made the promised announcement. “Gerald Beckerman is only here to assist the police in the investigation. This has nothing to do with any connections he might have to NAMBLA.”
One reporter stood out in the lead. “So, you’re saying he only does little boys?”
First blood.
Two reporters converged in a flanking maneuver. “Hey, Beckerman, is that right? Or do you swing both ways?”
And now they were on the man, the whole pack, elbowing and crowding one another, jockeying for position, yelling questions, coming at Beckerman from every side and backing him up against the car—no escape now, nowhere to run.
Rouge stood at the edge of the fray and watched the teacher go down, figuratively and literally, for Beckerman was sliding along the side of the Volvo, tucking in his head as he sank to the ground. His hands were outstretched, flailing wildly in an attempt to stave off the cameras.
Behind him Rouge heard one of the reporters talking to Marge Jonas, addressing her as doctor . The secretary had just passed herself off as a cop-house shrink, and Rouge supposed this was closer to her true job description. He looked back over one shoulder to see Marge primping her blond wig in the reflection of a wide camera lens.
The reporter was saying, “Isn’t that the same cop who caught the guy with the purple bike?”
“Yes,” said Marge,
Oh, how dumb. She needed leverage, not muscle.
Gwen picked at the remaining crumbs as she looked around the room for something she could use as a pry bar. The cot was a trove of levers in its legs and slats. And now her eyes were riveted to the tray. She could see more clearly—too clearly.
She had eaten the entire roll, including the dangerous moist center.
Oh, stupid Gwen! Stupid, stupid!
Tears streamed down her face as her legs folded, and her small body fell to the floor. Her eyes were closing. And only now it occurred to her that someone might be starving Sadie too, and drugging her best friend’s eggs and rolls.
Her hand went to the amulet with the magic engraving of the all-seeing eye, a gift from Sadie, a comfort in the dark.
It was gone.
Gwen sat up, resisting, fighting sleep. She spread her hands along the floor, searching with her fingertips, exploring all the ridges of the rug and the grout between the tiles.
It was not here. She had lost her eye. The amulet was gone.
And now her body was made of lead. She spread out flat on the tiles, and her soft rounded cheek pressed into the hard floor.
First she whispered it as a question, and then with great effort, she lifted her face and screamed, “Sadie! Where are you!”
The reporters were back in full force this evening, filling the short flight of stone steps leading up to the station house. Most of them were feeding on sandwiches and coffee. Some were stamping their feet to shake off the cold night air.
Rouge opened the passenger door and roughly pulled out his gift from Mr. Caruthers. Gerald Beckerman was startled, mouth hanging open as he was dragged from the front seat. The English teacher had been lured into the car with the pretense of polite questions about his missing students. Beckerman had made amiable conversation all the way to the police station. But now he was being treated like a criminal. And then he began to act like one, eyes full of fear as he tried to pull away from Rouge’s firm grasp.
One reporter’s nose went up. And then the rest of them were turning on the car, heads swiveling to watch the cop and his prisoner. The men and women were slowly moving down the steps. Some had already crossed to the parking lot, heading toward Rouge and the teacher, circling around them, watching, waiting.
When the media people were all together in one encompassing mob, Rouge made the promised announcement. “Gerald Beckerman is only here to assist the police in the investigation. This has nothing to do with any connections he might have to NAMBLA.”
One reporter stood out in the lead. “So, you’re saying he only does little boys?”
First blood.
Two reporters converged in a flanking maneuver. “Hey, Beckerman, is that right? Or do you swing both ways?”
And now they were on the man, the whole pack, elbowing and crowding one another, jockeying for position, yelling questions, coming at Beckerman from every side and backing him up against the car—no escape now, nowhere to run.
Rouge stood at the edge of the fray and watched the teacher go down, figuratively and literally, for Beckerman was sliding along the side of the Volvo, tucking in his head as he sank to the ground. His hands were outstretched, flailing wildly in an attempt to stave off the cameras.
Behind him Rouge heard one of the reporters talking to Marge Jonas, addressing her as doctor . The secretary had just passed herself off as a cop-house shrink, and Rouge supposed this was closer to her true job description. He looked back over one shoulder to see Marge primping her blond wig in the reflection of a wide camera lens.
The reporter was saying, “Isn’t that the same cop who caught the guy with the purple bike?”
“Yes,” said Marge,
Similar Books
