Someone Was Watching (Albert Whitman Prairie Book) - Softcover

Patneaude, David

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0807575321 ISBN 13: 9780807575321

Verlag: ALBERT WHITMAN & CO, 1995

Inhaltsangabe

It's been three miserable months since 13-year-old Chris Barton lost his little sister, Molly. "Missing, presumed drowned" was what the paper said, and surely that is what everyone believes. After all, the Bartons had been picnicking by the river when Molly disappeared.

One night, Chris views a video he made the day Molly was lost. There doesn't seem to be anything unusual here: a rest stop, lunch by the river, a hungry squirrel, a familiar ice cream van. But the video harbors an awful secret. In the middle of the night, Christ Barton wakes from fitful sleep—and begins a journey filled with fear, doubt, and impossible hopes.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

When David Patneaude was a youngster, his favorite story was Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island, a tale of adventure, suspense, mystery, and best of all, buried treasure. David never found pirate plunder of his own, but now he digs for a different kind of hidden loot--story ideas. David lives in Washington, with his wife, a junior-high-school librarian. They have three grown children and two grandsons.

Aus dem Klappentext

When his baby sister disappears from the river near their summer home, eighth grader Chris fights the assumption that she has drowned and sets off on a journey to discover the truth.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Someone Was Watching

By David Patneaude

Albert Whitman & Company

Copyright © 1993 David Patneaude
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-8075-7532-1

CHAPTER 1

The trip started off better than Chris had expected. The day was bright and warm, with just a hint of the long shadows that would soon signal fall's arrival. And his parents actually spoke to each other at first, although the talk was forced and without laughter, the smiles rare and wistful.

But an hour into the drive, silence had taken over the conversation. His mother stared out the window at the fields and trees. His father kept his eyes on the road while he put a tape in the stereo. The soft sound of a saxophone floated back to Chris in the rear seat, reminding him of something that he couldn't identify, maybe just a feeling. A moment later his dad ejected the tape with a jab of his finger, as if turning off a memory. The only sound then was road noise: themurmur of the engine, the hiss of the tires, the wind whistling through half-closed windows. The occasional hum of a car passing in the opposite direction on the two-lane highway.

"What time do you think we'll get to the river, Dad?" His voice sounded louder than he'd intended, yet he still wasn't sure he'd been heard. He knew the answer, but he wanted a response, any kind of response. He waited, decided to forget it, then tried again anyway. "Dad?" he said, anxiously brushing back a stray wisp of his sand-colored hair.

His father glanced over his shoulder. "What time did we leave home, Chris?" he asked, the annoyance obvious in his voice.

"Eleven-thirty, about."

"It's always been a two-hour drive from Milwaukee. You figure it out."

Chris had gotten his response. He watched his mom turn and give his dad a look that said "Don't take it out on him," and his dad return it with a "Don't start on me." Then they went back to their private pain, ignoring each other, ignoring the purpose of the trip, ignoring the kid in the back seat. Chris slumped down in the corner, his head against the window, and closed his eyes.

The purpose of the trip was to return to the site of the Incident, as everyone called it now. To face up to the reality of it. To acknowledge that it had really happened. To exorcise the devils of grief that had haunted their souls for the past three months. But Chris figured the real reason was to humor Dr. Wilde, who had come up with the idea. After all, if you're going to pay someone for counseling, you should probably do what she suggests, even if it seems like a waste of time. Chris and his mom and dad were plenty aware of the reality of the situation. It had seeped into their lives like foul swamp water, filling the empty spaces and contaminating everything else. What they needed wasn't more reality; what they needed was a way to deal with it.

He tried to fall asleep but couldn't. He'd spent a lot of time sleeping lately. And when he wasn't sleeping, he tried to stay active. But these were the hardest times: when he was wide awake with nothing to do. And his thoughts were so loud.

He decided to think about something pleasant. Football. Football season was about to start, and this year he wanted to turn out for tight end. He knew there was some competition for that position, but he was bigger and faster than the other two guys were. And he was tired of being a regular lineman. He thought he had a chance. He just wanted to go out there and catch the ball and run over somebody — show the coaches what he could do.

And there was school. Not usually his favorite thing, but this year was different. This year he was going into eighth grade, and eighth-graders were the top class — the leaders — of middle school. He was anxious to try out that spot, to see what it felt like. And there was another — a bigger — reason: this year he needed to be there. He needed to be busy and to study and think and come up with answers to questions that could be answered. Not like the ones he'd had to face lately.

And there was always Pat. Good old dependable Pat: his best friend for as long as he could remember. The guy who always phoned him no matter what. When Chris didn't want to go anywhere or do anything, Pat would talk him into it, anyway. He'd have two tickets to a Brewers game, or an inside tip on what store had the best buys on baseball cards, or a rumor of a spot at the golf course where they could find lost balls by the bucketful. When he couldn't talk him into doing something, he'd wait a day and try again. When Chris didn't feel like talking, Pat would just come over and sit with him or throw the football around or go for a walk with him. Sometimes Chris didn't know why Pat had stuck with him through the long summer, but he had. And Chris was grateful. He wasn't sure how he would have handled the Incident otherwise.

The Incident. It seemed as if every train of thought huffed and puffed its way back to the Incident. He remembered it as if it were yesterday, or an hour ago. But it was three months now.

He thought back to the day it happened: the Saturday before Memorial Day weekend — a happy time. The first trip of the year to the river. Opening up the cabin for the summer, trips into town for a movie and ice cream, and exploring the shops. Boating and fishing and swimming and picnics at the park. And walks on the beach with Molly, her miniature hand in his, tugging him along, trying to make him go faster, to hurry to the water to feed the ducks or throw rocks or search for little turtles and fish and frogs in the shallows.

But that day, she had seemed content to stay on the grassy area that bordered the sandy beach. The holiday was a week away, and there weren't very many people in the park. No one was in the water. The day had grown warm by early afternoon when they finished their picnic lunch, but the water was still too cold for swimming or even comfortable wading.

Chris's mom and dad were sitting on the big plaid blanket, reading and watching Molly color in her coloring book. Chris felt himself getting sleepy and made up his mind to take the video camera and go for a walk. He thought he could get some shots of boats out on the river or maybe some snapping turtles poking their beaked heads out of the water. He decided to sneak off without letting Molly see him, so he made hand signals to his dad, who looked up from his book and nodded at him. Molly would have wanted to go. Why hadn't he taken her?

He got away unnoticed and wandered down to the beach. He videotaped a lone duck landing in the water, a boat pulling a hardy water skier, and a bullfrog diving from a log. Fresh out of live subjects, he slowly raised the lens toward the horizon, leisurely moving it from left to right, panning across the river's surface, the beach, the grass and trees. A cooperative squirrel ran out and got its picture taken stuffing food in its mouth.

Then the afternoon sun got to him. He lay down on the warm sand and dozed off for a few minutes. When he awoke he noticed some interesting clouds making their way across the sky. He decided to take some more shots, imagining the tape set to music. But he tired of that in a hurry, got up, and started back to the picnic area.

At first he noticed nothing, except that both of his parents had fallen asleep reading. His mom was flat on her back. His dad had his head propped up on his hand, but his eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply. Then it hit him like a low blow, driving his breath out of him and triggering instant nausea.

"Dad! Mom!" he shouted, staggering toward them. They were awake, sitting up, looking at him with...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: ALBERT WHITMAN & CO
• Erscheinungsdatum: 1995
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0807575321
• ISBN 13: 9780807575321
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 224
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar