Free Into the Dark by Peter Abrahams

Grampy.
    He drove down the driveway, onto the road, toward town. Snow started falling, a few flakes at first, then more. “What did the chief say, Grampy?”
    “Nothing important,” said Grampy. “Damn nuisance.”
    He didn’t speak the rest of the way. When they were almost home, Ingrid tried, “I hear you’re going to do an interview with Mr. Samuels.” Grampy just grunted.
     
    Ingrid tossed and turned.
    “Never seen woods like these,” said Grampy.
    Neither had Ingrid: trees hundreds of feet tall, packed closely together, darkness everywhere, as though an enormous black umbrella hung overhead.But everything would be all right. Grampy had the .22 in one hand and the .357 in the other.
    “We’ll be all right,” Ingrid said. “You’ve got the guns.”
    “Ammo’s no good,” said Grampy. “Warranty’s up a long time ago.”
    “We’ve got no ammo?” Ingrid said.
    Grampy said, “I’m scared.”
    “But what about the Medal of Honor, Grampy?”
    No answer. The trees closed in.
     
    Ingrid awoke in a sweat. She reached for Mister Happy; gone, of course, gnawed to nothing by Nigel.
    “Nigel?”
    She switched on the bedside light. No Nigel.
    “Nigel?”
    Then from out in the hall came a slurping sound. She got up, went into the bathroom, found Nigel drinking from the toilet.
    “Nigel!”
    He raised his head, snout dripping, glanced over at her, and went back to what he was doing, stubby tail wagging. Ingrid turned on the tap, poured a glass of water, drank it down. She saw herself in themirror: dark shadows under her eyes, damp twists of hair stuck to her forehead. She looked like an actress made up to play a haunted version of her.
    Nigel stopped drinking, sidled over, leaned against her leg. Maybe it made no sense, but she felt a little better.
    Ingrid started back toward her bedroom. In the hall she heard voices from Mom and Dad’s bedroom.
    Mom said, “What do you think happened?”
    Dad said, “Hell if I know.”
    Mom said, “What should we do?”
    Dad said, “I don’t have all the answers.”
    Mom said, “I know, Mark. I just—”
    Dad said, “I’m tired. I need my sleep.”
    After that, silence. Ingrid went back to bed. There was a dream she could sometimes make happen: Griddie on a snug and unsinkable boat in a wild ocean storm. She tried it now, picturing herself in a cozy bunk belowdecks. It worked. She fell into a deep sleep, the wind rising around her.
     
    Mom and Ty were already gone when Ingrid came downstairs Monday morning. Mom had to go right by Echo Falls High on the way to the Riverbendoffice, so Ty got a ride every day. Ingrid took the bus.
    Dad was usually at the kitchen table, in one of his beautiful suits, drinking coffee and reading The Wall Street Journal , but not today. She heard TV voices, followed them into the living room. Mom didn’t like having a TV in the living room, so they’d compromised with a very small TV on rollers kept behind a big plant unless someone—meaning Dad—was watching.
    He was watching now, on his feet, just a few feet from the screen. And on the screen? An overhead shot, maybe taken from a helicopter, of a barn, orchard, snowy fields, yellow tape: Grampy’s farm. “…awaiting the results of ballistics tests,” an announcer was saying. “According to Echo Falls police chief Herman Strade, there are no suspects at this time. Back to you, Rita.”
    Dad switched it off, turned, and saw Ingrid.
    “His name’s not Herman,” she said.
    “They get everything wrong,” he said. “The more you—”
    The doorbell rang.
    “Who could that be?” Dad said. He checked his watch.
    “Want me to answer it?” said Ingrid.
    “I’ll get it,” Dad said.
    She followed him into the front hall. Dad opened the door. Chief Strade stood outside. He took off his chief’s hat with the gold braid. “Good morning, Mark,” he said.
    Dad nodded.
    The chief’s eyes shifted for a moment to Ingrid, then back to Dad. “As I’m sure you know, I’m