Whirlwind

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

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  Also by DAVID KLASS

  Copyright Page

  For Madeleine

  1

  April Fool’s Day in Hadley-by-Hudson. Spring chill cutting sharp as a blade. Dusk descending. Musty smell of nearby river clotting my throat. Had enough sentence fragments? My English teacher said they were a weakness of mine. But that was nearly six months ago, when I was a senior at Hadley High School, leading a normal life. My biggest concerns then were chicks, flicks, and fast cars, roughly in that order.

  Nothing normal about me now.

  Parents gone. Friends lost. Old life vanished. Sense of security evaporated. Belief in the sanity of day-to-day existence drowned in the deep Atlantic.

  But I still like sentence fragments. They generate pace. You want pace? Stick around.

  Main street of Hadley. Six in the evening. People I know, or at least used to know, climbing in and out of cars. Buying groceries in the co-op. Picking up dry cleaning. Heading home to eat dinner with their families.

  They pass me. Rub shoulders. None of them give me a second look. Don’t you remember me? Jack Danielson? Straw-colored hair, piercing blue eyes, and above-average brain power, except when I do something really stupid. Once gained three hundred and forty yards in a school football game.

  No, they don’t remember.

  Can’t blame them. So much has changed.

  Swore I’d never come back here. Too many memories. There’s the Rec Center where I played hoops. The liquor store where we used to get Dan’s older brother to buy us six-packs. The ice cream shop where P.J. and I would split double-chocolate cones with sprinkles.

  P.J. Her house is three blocks from here. Do I dare? Yes, that’s why I’m here. I tried my best to run away from this moment. Tried to pretend I could make a new life. Realize there’s no explanation I can give that will satisfy her. She’ll be furious at me for disappearing. Maybe we can never repair it. Never regain what we had.

  Trust gone. Foundation of relationship caved in.

  Doesn’t matter. Have to try. Because I still love her. That’s why I came back. Pure selfishness. Clinging to last possession. My love for P.J. is all I’ve got left.

  Pass Mrs. Hayes. My third-grade teacher. Her eyes flick over me. And then away.

  Not completely her fault she didn’t recognize me. I’ve taken a few precautions. Wearing a cap, tilted low. Dark scarf, wound high. Grown a scraggly mustache, my first. Hair hasn’t been cut in three months. It falls to my shoulders in straw-colored mop.

  But I can’t hide my eyes. Supposedly the windows to the soul. That’s what Mrs. Hayes didn’t recognize as she walked by me holding a sack with toilet paper and cat food peeking out the top.

  New windows? Or is it a whole new soul? Did what happened to me change me to the point where I’m no longer myself? Or is this still me, walking away from the center of town, heading slowly up Elm Street?

  No doubt my Firestorm adventure and the long journey home transformed me. I’ve been so lonely. Spent so many sleepless nights staring up at the stars, trying to figure things out. Why was I chosen? If there’s a God, why did he or she let things get so messed up? Is our Earth really so fragile? If this is the Turning Point, can we save it? Do our lives have meaning, or is it all for nothing?

  Many questions. No answers. But when you agonize long enough, it doesn’t matter if you come up with answers. The questions and the pain change you.

  I know I’m very different from the guy who drove P.J. home from the Hudson River make-out spot six months ago, his mind on sex and football. But is he still recognizably part of me? Is there any Jack Danielson left in me?

  Only one way to find out. Last remaining touchstone. The ultimate litmus test. P.J.

  Here’s a sad but true definition of home: it’s where you go to find out if you’re still you, or if you’ve become somebody else.

  Less than two blocks from P.J.’s house. I slow down. Scared out of my mind. This was a bad idea. Should have tried to make a go of it in England, where I landed after my Firestorm adventure. Or joined the crew of the tramp steamer that brought me back across the Atlantic to America. Could have stayed in Maine, in the small port city where it never stopped snowing. Might have hung longer in Boston, where I got a job stacking crates. Guy in the warehouse needed a roommate.

  But I had to come home. A soft voice kept calling to me. Whispering across the months and the miles. “I’m still waiting for you. Come home, Bozo.”

  P.J.’s nickname for me. Not very respectful.

  Less than one block from her house. I can see the outline of her roof against the evening sky. The walls. My God, she’s inside there! She’s been there for the last six months without me. Doing her homework. Eating cereal for breakfast. Talking to her friends. Dreaming her dreams.

  Half a block. Her window. No light on. Maybe she’s studying at the library. I should go check there first.

  No, don’t leave. If I chicken out now, I’ll never come back. Better to be a man and tell her what happened.

  Sure, just tell her the truth.

  Hi, honey. Sorry. I didn’t mean to disappear. But members of something called the Dark Army came one night and killed both my parents. It turns out they weren’t my parents after all. They were just sheltering me.

  I’m from a thousand years in the future, when things are pretty bleak. I was sent back to find something called Firestorm and save the oceans, thereby improving living conditions centuries hence. A telepathic dog and a beautiful shape-changing woman helped me. I did what they asked. I found Firestorm and I destroyed a giant trawler fleet. But then the dog and the woman blinked out, leaving me alone. And now I’m back. Sorry I didn’t write or call. And how have you been the last six months, P.J.? Did you have a good Christmas? And how’s the French Club?

  I stop in my tracks. What the heck am I doing here? I can’t tell her the truth. And I won’t tell her a lie. So I can’t tell her anything. I know in
my heart I can’t come back here. Don’t belong anymore. Been away too long. Caused too much grief. Passed the point of no return.

  I turn slowly, and take a half step away. Then a hand grips my arm. “Jack? Is that you?”

  2

  A thin man. Balding. Strong hands. A printer by profession. Always been nice to me. His eyes unnaturally bright as they stare at me. Glad to see me? Can’t be that. I must have caused his daughter great pain. But he’s almost smiling. Gripping my arm tightly.

  “Mr. Peters? I … can’t come in. How are you? How’s P.J.? I’m sorry. I should go.”

  I babble excuses and awkward questions as he leads me up the walk toward the front door.

  “No, don’t go,” he says with quiet forcefulness. “You must come in. Don’t worry about anything. It’s important that you come in. Please, Jack.”

  Five seconds later the door swings closed behind us. I’m in P.J.’s house. “Ruth,” he calls. I’m dimly aware that he pauses to lock the door. “Look who I found out front! He didn’t even want to come in.”

  P.J.’s mom hurries in and stops short at the sight of me. A look of momentary shock on her face. Deep worry. Flashing pain. Something very wrong here. She’s trying to hide it. Get out, Jack. You hurt her daughter and this sweet woman is stunned that you’ve shown up.

  “Of course you had to come in.” Mrs. Peters nods. “It’s bitter out there. Let me get you something hot to drink.”

  Mr. Peters excuses himself for a second.

  I find myself seated in the kitchen. Familiar old wooden table. P.J. used to make me hot chocolate here when I walked her home from the library on winter evenings. Sometimes she would bring me delicious cookies that her mother had baked. I would sit in this very chair and she would sit next to me, in the rickety chair in front of the refrigerator. If her parents weren’t around we would hold hands and smooch. I once smooched her so hard her chair tipped over and her hot chocolate scalded both of us.

  “Would you like some cookies?” Mrs. Peters asks me now. Not “Where have you been for the last six months?” Or “Why did you break my daughter’s heart?” Or “Please leave before she sees you, and never, ever come back.”

  Extremely weird. But what can I do? I take a cookie. “Thanks.” Pop it in my mouth. Delicious.

  Mr. Peters comes back into the kitchen. He’s taken off his jacket. Seems very hyped up. Almost feverish. “Good,” he says, “you served him a cookie.”

  “And I’m making him some tea,” his wife adds.

  “Good. Tea. Good thinking. Yes. Tea.”

  I’m looking from one to the other. Are they out of their minds? What’s going on here?

  “I owe you two some sort of explanation,” I say. “You must think awfully of me. I want you to know how much I care about you. And P.J.” My voice breaks.

  “You don’t have to explain anything,” Mr. Peters says quickly, glancing out the window. “Where’s the tea, Ruth?”

  “Right here. Piping hot.”

  “Great! Milk, Jack? Sugar?”

  I stand up. Starting to get freaked out. “Who cares about tea? Why aren’t you curious about where I’ve been?”

  Mr. Peters is trying so hard to smile that it looks like his face may crack apart. “Sit, Jack. There’s no need to rush off.” He tries to push me back into my seat.

  I resist the pressure. Somewhere down the block I hear sirens. Could there be a fire nearby?

  Mr. Peters pushes harder. “You really must sit.”

  I pivot away so that he stumbles and almost falls.

  Mrs. Peters screams. I look at her. She’s holding a cleaver. “Damn you, park your butt in that chair or I’ll cut your nose off,” she threatens. All warmth and hospitality gone. “Where’s my P.J.? What have you done with her?”

  The news registers—P.J.’s missing! I take a step back just in case she’s serious about hacking off my nose.

  Sense a blow coming from behind. Dodge sideways. Mr. Peters with a baseball bat. It smashes across the wooden table. Salt and pepper shakers splinter. Napkins take wing like a flock of doves. “Where’s my little girl?” he demands. “Tell me or I’ll beat it out of you.”

  Sirens getting louder. Not a fire. When he disappeared, Mr. Peters called the police. They were pretending to be nice to keep me there. Setting a trap.

  I run for the back door. Mr. P. swings again. Connects. Not a home run. Maybe a double. Sharp pain in my right shoulder. But it doesn’t knock me off my feet.

  I make it to the door. Also locked. Mr. Peters is coming after me with the bat. I get the latch open. Half run and half fall down the steps.

  Spotlights converge on me. I can feel the heat on my face. Didn’t know Hadley had this many police. Cops crouching behind their cars, guns in hand. Ten, fifteen, twenty of them. All ready to fire and turn me into Swiss cheese. “This is Chief Parker,” a deep voice announces through a megaphone. “We have you covered. There is no escape. Lie down on your stomach. Get down right now.”

  I could run for it. But somebody might get hurt. And what would be the point of running? I need to find out what happened to P.J. So I get down.

  Dry smell of winter grass in my nose and throat.

  Policemen run toward me. Kneel on my back. Search me. Cuff my hands behind me. Hoist me back up to my feet.

  Mr. Peters standing there. Red-faced with rage. “What did you do to my little girl? Tell me!”

  “Nothing, sir. When did she—”

  He swings, and all I can do is roll away from the punch. Feels like it loosens the teeth on one side of my mouth.

  Pretty good right hook for a middle-aged printer.

  I buckle but don’t go down. “Nothing, Mr. Peters,” I repeat, looking straight into his enraged black eyes. “How long has she been gone?”

  His wife stands next to him, sobbing.

  A big man approaches through the evening shadows. Shoulders like a water buffalo’s. Neat uniform, as if to make up for destructive acne. Chief Parker. I played football with his son, Chris. Tough kid. Tough dad.

  “Hello, Jack,” he says softly. “Long time no see.”

  “Hello, sir.”

  But he’s turned away from me to look at Mr. and Mrs. Peters. “Don’t worry,” he tells them. “I’ll get some answers out of him. We have our ways.”

  3

  Police holding cell. Jack all alone. No other prisoners tonight. No drunks. No vagrants.

  Stone wall. Bars on three sides. A locked square cage. My hands are still cuffed behind my back. Painful. Not much circulation going on there. My mind roiled by what’s just taken place. P.J.’s missing, maybe even dead! Her parents blame me. Probably the whole town does. And the worst of it is maybe they’re right.

  A few lines of poetry come to me in the silence of the jail cell night. Always loved poetry. Read a good poem once, remember it forever. This is from “To Althea, from Prison” by Richard Lovelace:

  Stone walls do not a prison make,

  Nor iron bars a cage;

  Minds innocent and quiet take

  That for an hermitage;

  If I have freedom in my love

  And in my soul am free,

  Angels alone, that soar above,

  Enjoy such liberty.

  But unfortunately I don’t have a quiet and innocent mind. I have a troubled one, tortured and in tumult. The reason I fled from Hadley six months ago without trying to contact P.J. and my other friends was to avoid endangering them. I sensed that if I reached out for help to those who cared for me, I would be dragging them into whatever dark hole was opening around me.

  So I ran, to Manhattan and then to North Carolina, and finally to the open ocean, and my only consolation was that my friends, my teammates, and especially my girlfriend were slumbering on in Hadley, safe and oblivious.

  And now P.J.’s missing. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe she ran away to try to start a career as an artist in a big city. Or perhaps she was kidnapped and the ransom demand has been long in arriving.<
br />
  Dream on. It’s not a coincidence. There’s only one way her disappearance makes sense. Her parents are right. This must be linked to me. But who took her? And why?

  Footsteps approach. The door to the cell block opens and shuts. Big shadow. Loud footsteps. Chief Parker.

  He unlocks my cell. Steps inside. “Hello, Jack.”

  “Hello, sir. What happened to P.J.?”

  “We’ll get to that,” he promises as he locks us in together. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m okay. My wrists hurt.”

  “That’s too bad. How does it feel to be a celebrity?”

  I look back at him. “Huh?”

  “You’re already on the evening news. The FBI is sending a team from Manhattan. They should be here in about an hour. And reporters are heading our way, too.”

  “The FBI?”

  “They’ll take it right out of my hands. Small-town police chief. Multiple-murder suspect. Missing teen queen. Lotta bigwigs are gonna see an opportunity. Push me right out of the way. So you know what’s gonna happen first?”

  I shake my head very slowly.

  “You’re going to tell me everything. Come, sit down.”

  4

  Chief Parker pushes me back to the cot. He sits on the one chair. “Let’s have a chat. You want to go first?”

  “You said I was a multiple-murder suspect?”

  “The autopsy on your mom was not conclusive, but the medical examiner was pretty sure it wasn’t the burning house that killed her. A burning house doesn’t chop a woman nearly in half.”

  I fall off the cot to my knees. Throw up.

  He just sits there and watches. Then he reaches out. Grabs my hair. Hauls me up and deposits me on the cot again.

  “And your father. I always liked your dad, Jack. We used to sit next to each other at football games. He was very proud of you. A nice dad like that doesn’t deserve to be torched inside his car and pushed off a hundred-foot cliff into the Hudson River. Took us a while to find him. They died. You disappeared. No other suspect. No motive. A real mystery. And here you are. Like to clear it up for us?”

  My voice comes out a tinny whisper. “I’m so sorry. They deserved better. I don’t know what else to say.”

  “Then let’s talk about P.J.,” Chief Parker suggests.

  “Is she dead, too?” I gasp.