Read on for a look at Into the Dark, Ingrid s next Echo Falls adventure Dad put on his jacket, went into the garage. Echo s still in the driveway, he called. One of you come get it. Then came the throaty rumble of the TT s engine; it faded away. Mom had her head cocked to one side, as though listening. Rock paper scissors, said Ty. He d won the past three paper, every time, which was so unlike him, Ty being a rock or scissors type. On three, said Ingrid. One, two Ingrid: scissors. Ty: rock. Rock? Now he went back to rock? How did he know to do that? She walked outside to get The Echo. Hey! Maybe she was in it that picture of her with Major Ferrand. Or was it too soon? She was bending down for the paper, wrapped in orange plastic, when a car went by, going pretty fast. Ingrid glanced up. The streetlight shone for a moment on the face of the driver, Mrs. McGreevy. She was hunched forward, holding the wheel tight in both hands. Ingrid took The Echo inside, slipped off the wrapper. She wasn t above or below the fold, at least not on the front page. Instead there was a picture of a prematurely-gray man. Ingrid recognized him. The headline a big one for The Echo read: Conservation Agent Missing. Harris H. Thatcher, assistant agent for the Department of Conservation in Echo Falls, has been missing for two days. According to his wife, Marleen Thatcher, Mr. Thatcher was last seen leaving for work on his bicycle on Tuesday morning. Mr. 1
Thatcher, an energetic proponent of alternative transportation, is a common sight for Echo Falls residents, riding his bike in all weather. This just isn t like Harry, said Mrs. Thatcher. I m worried sick. Gilbert L. Strade, chief of the Echo Falls police, said that a missing persons report has been filed and an active investigation is underway. He urged anyone with information to call the station. When asked if the police were currently pursuing any leads the chief had no comment. Hey, Mom, did you see this? But Mom was on the phone. I m afraid that s under agreement, she was saying, but we have another nice listing in that area. She made an impatient not-now gesture to Ingrid. With surprising quickness, Nigel snatched the last egg roll off the table and ran from the room. Gum? said Joey. Thanks, said Ingrid, taking a stick. Lunch line, cafeteria, Ferrand Middle: the special of the day was labeled tuna casserole. Ingrid and Joey were near the back of the line but no one had ordered it yet. Guess what? Joey said. What? There s an old Indian trail. Yeah? It s on this old map. What old map? 2
On the Internet. There s this old map of Echo Falls on the Internet. See what I m saying? No. My dad showed me. He Wait a minute - is the farm on it? Farm? My grandfather s. Oh, yeah, sure. The Indian trail cuts right across his fields. It does? We could try it out, Joey said. Next, said the lunch lady. Joey pointed to the tuna casserole. You re having that? Ingrid said. Even the lunch lady looked surprised. Joey didn t seem to notice. Tomorrow, maybe, he said. Like, on our snowshoes. Goes without saying, said Ingrid. How about I drop you right here? said Chief Gilbert L. Strade, slowing down and pulling over. He was a big man with a big jaw, strong nose and prominent brow ridge, but his voice was soft, at least in Ingrid s experience. They were on 392, not far from Uncle Lou s Hot Dog Emporium at the town line, now boarded-up for the winter. Joey, sitting in back, hunched over his map printout Ingrid, following Chief Strade s direction, sat up front said: Are we near Old Post Road? 3
The chief tapped the windshield. Joey looked up. A road sign a few yards ahead read: Old Post Rd. Oh, he said. A crackle came from the cruiser s radio and a voice said: Bike path check complete, chief. Negative. The chief spoke into his transmitter. Okay, Sarge, he said. See you at the station. He clicked off, turned to Ingrid. Missing persons case. Harris H. Thatcher? said Ingrid. I saw it in The Echo. Left home on his bike, said the chief. Had special tires for snow packed snow, at least rode in all weather. So you think he had an accident? Ingrid said. Nothing else to go on, said the chief. Sometimes middle-aged guys just disappear, start a new life somewhere, but Thatcher doesn t seem like the type. What s the type? Ingrid said. A little smile crossed the chief s rough face, very brief. Disappointed guys, he said. Guys in a jam. Guys tired of responsibility. No sign Harry Thatcher fits any of that, plus he was all wrapped up in community issues. Can we get going? Joey said. The chief glanced at Joey in the rear-view mirror, looked like he was about to say something, did not. Ingrid and Joey climbed out of the cruiser, strapped on their snowshoes. The chief s window slid down. See you back here in two hours, he said. Okay, said Joey. Wearing your watch? the chief said. 4
Course. Let s see. Joey pulled up the sleeve of his jacket. His wrist was bare; he looked surprised. But Ingrid was wearing hers a red watch with the word Rollexx on the face, Christmas present from Stacy and one of her favorite possessions, especially since Stacy had forgotten to remove the $9.95 price sticker from the back. She wore it every day; Sherlock Holmes, who had a pocket watch, always said he needed data, and if time wasn t data what was? The chief wheeled around and drove back toward town. Joey stuffed the map in his pocket and climbed up on the snowbank that ran beside Old Post Road, gazed across a snowy field. We should see a there it is. What? That old gate. A falling-down wooden gate stood in the middle of the field, looking kind of strange all by itself, unattached to a fence or anything. They walked through it, found the path well-packed by skiers and snowmobilers, easy going. How do we know this is an Indian trail? Ingrid said, taking off her mitten to check the compass ring. Says on the map, said Joey. That expression she heard from time to time, begging the question? Ingrid understood it at last. They went up a long slope, not steep, then back down, across a wide valley and up a short, steep hill. At the top, Ingrid looked down and saw a fence, then another rise, and in the distance a crooked storage shed, an orchard, a rusty-red barn, an old 5
farmhouse. A view she d never seen from this angle: it took her mind a few moments to spin it around. Grampy s farm. Yup, said Joey, like he was Kit Carson or some other famous guide. Ingrid punched him on the arm, an affectionate sort of punch. Their breath clouds rose and came together in the air. Ow, said Joey. They went down to the fence, saw that the trail swerved and ran parallel to it, avoiding Grampy s land. Joey took out his map. The real trail cuts right through to the river, he said. Let s take it, said Ingrid. Grampy won t mind. Joey raised one of the strands of wire. They climbed through, started up the rise, now in unpacked snow, not easy. Joey pulled ahead, reached the storage shed ahead of her. Hey, he called. What? Your grandfather left his bike out. He doesn t have a bike. But when Ingrid got to the shed she saw a green bike leaning against the side, its big fat tires sunk an inch or so in the snow. Maybe we should put it inside, Joey said. But the door was padlocked shut. I wonder Ingrid began. Joey, looking past her, interrupted. What s that? Ingrid turned. Not far away lay a round depression, the size of a small pond. All 6
covered with snow now, but Ingrid realized this must be the sinkhole where last fall she d helped Grampy rearrange the surface level a little bit, as he d put it, a rearrangement that had involved four sticks of dynamite. At the near edge of the depression she could make out something red and black. A long twisted form, actually, that made her think: scarecrow, knocked down by the wind. But she d never seen a scarecrow on the farm. That was thought two. And then came a third. Red and black: Grampy often wore a red-and-black lumberjacket. The next thing Ingrid knew she was running, running in her snowshoes, which should have been awkward and clumsy but she didn t even seem to be touching the ground. And almost every step brought a new horrible detail: a man; white hair; blue skin; very still. Grampy! Grampy! Dead, yes. A man, yes. A white-haired man, yes. But not Grampy. And also not a stranger: Ingrid had seen this man before, once in person and once on the front page of The Echo. It was Harris H. Thatcher, missing conservation agent. She felt Joey s hand on her shoulder. Her first dead body, but Ingrid knew Harry Thatcher was dead, beyond a doubt. It wasn t just the blueness of his frozen skin, or the emptiness in his staring eyes. Something else - some huge thing she couldn t name was gone. For a moment there wasn t a sound. It was then that Ingrid noticed red drops in the snow, three of them, the size of quarters. Oh my God, said Joey. Don t go any closer, Ingrid said. She checked the time on her red Rollexx. Into the Dark, Copyright 2007 by Peter Abrahams. All Rights Reserved. HarperCollins Publishers 7