hand, punch through a pane of glass, reach in and unlock the window from the inside, and open it. Of course, I'm on the second floor, but the kidnapper could climb a ladder. He could be quiet. And in the dead of night, who would notice him?
I was trying to figure out how to board up my windows when something else occurred to me: The kidnapper could get me any time. He could get me walking to my house from the bus stop or on my way into school or to a baby-sitting job. I decided that I should try to be with people as much as possible. It would be harder to kidnap me if I weren't alone.
Should I tell Mom and Watson about the danger I was in? I wondered. No. They might think I was crazy.
I turned on my radio. I needed to listen to reports of missing lunatics. As far as I knew, there were no insane asylums around Stoney-brook, but who knows what a psycho is capable of?
I tuned in just in time for the news. I heard about the President's press conference, a plane
crash, a kid who was raising money to help fight drug abuse by running all the way from Connecticut to New York City, and I heard the sports and weather reports.
But the newscaster didn't say a word about a missing lunatic.
Okay, so he wasn't escaped. He was a new lunatic, one who hadn't been caught yet.
I didn't finish my homework that night.
Chapter 9.
Two days later I told Shannon my lunatic theory. She thought I was a lunatic for having come up with it. In fact, she had a new theory.
"I think," said Shannon, who had either read or heard about every single note I'd received, "that Bart is the note writer."
"But you said he couldn't be. You said you go to school with him and you'know him and — "
"I know what I said, but listen. I think Bart's afraid your Krushers are going to beat his Bashers in the World Series, so he's trying to psyche you out. He's trying to make you crazy so you won't be a good coach and the Krushers will play badly and lose."
I was incensed. Especially considering that Shannon and I were on our way to the ball field for a game against the Bashers. (As we walked along, I kept my eye out for slow-driving, suspicious-looking cars.)
Ahead of us were walking David Michael, the Papadakis kids, and a couple of other Krushers from our neighborhood. They were laughing and talking, paying no attention to Shannon and me.
"Well, if that's what Bart is doing, that is really . . . that is really despicable!" I exclaimed. (That was the worst thing I could think of to say.)
"I know," said Shannon. "I agree. I refused to speak to him in school today."
"Thank you," I told her.
The thought that the notes might be from Bart after all did two things for me. One, it made me less worried about a lunatic being after me, and two, it made me incredibly angry — which was good. The more angry I am the more energy I have, and the more energy I have, the better I coach the Krushers. We were going to beat the Bashers that day.
"You know what else is wrong with your lunatic theory?" asked Shannon as we reached the playing field.
"What?" I replied, even though I was tired of hearing about all the things wrong with my theory.
"If a psycho really did want ransom money, why wouldn't he kidnap Karen or Andrew?
They're Watson's own children, plus they're littler and they'd be easier to capture."
I just made a face. I didn't like the way Shannon had implied that "real" children are more important than stepchildren. And I didn't like to think about Karen or Andrew being kidnapped.
Shannon didn't see my face, though. She had spotted Mary Anne and Dawn. They were sitting under a tree. Dawn had brought the Braddock kids to the ball field (Matt as a player, Haley as a cheerleader), and Mary Anne had just come along to cheer the Krush-ers on. Shannon ran over to them and they began to talk. I almost joined them, but I was a little angry at Shannon for making those comments (even though I knew she hadn't meant to hurt me or upset me). Besides, the Krushers were
I was trying to figure out how to board up my windows when something else occurred to me: The kidnapper could get me any time. He could get me walking to my house from the bus stop or on my way into school or to a baby-sitting job. I decided that I should try to be with people as much as possible. It would be harder to kidnap me if I weren't alone.
Should I tell Mom and Watson about the danger I was in? I wondered. No. They might think I was crazy.
I turned on my radio. I needed to listen to reports of missing lunatics. As far as I knew, there were no insane asylums around Stoney-brook, but who knows what a psycho is capable of?
I tuned in just in time for the news. I heard about the President's press conference, a plane
crash, a kid who was raising money to help fight drug abuse by running all the way from Connecticut to New York City, and I heard the sports and weather reports.
But the newscaster didn't say a word about a missing lunatic.
Okay, so he wasn't escaped. He was a new lunatic, one who hadn't been caught yet.
I didn't finish my homework that night.
Chapter 9.
Two days later I told Shannon my lunatic theory. She thought I was a lunatic for having come up with it. In fact, she had a new theory.
"I think," said Shannon, who had either read or heard about every single note I'd received, "that Bart is the note writer."
"But you said he couldn't be. You said you go to school with him and you'know him and — "
"I know what I said, but listen. I think Bart's afraid your Krushers are going to beat his Bashers in the World Series, so he's trying to psyche you out. He's trying to make you crazy so you won't be a good coach and the Krushers will play badly and lose."
I was incensed. Especially considering that Shannon and I were on our way to the ball field for a game against the Bashers. (As we walked along, I kept my eye out for slow-driving, suspicious-looking cars.)
Ahead of us were walking David Michael, the Papadakis kids, and a couple of other Krushers from our neighborhood. They were laughing and talking, paying no attention to Shannon and me.
"Well, if that's what Bart is doing, that is really . . . that is really despicable!" I exclaimed. (That was the worst thing I could think of to say.)
"I know," said Shannon. "I agree. I refused to speak to him in school today."
"Thank you," I told her.
The thought that the notes might be from Bart after all did two things for me. One, it made me less worried about a lunatic being after me, and two, it made me incredibly angry — which was good. The more angry I am the more energy I have, and the more energy I have, the better I coach the Krushers. We were going to beat the Bashers that day.
"You know what else is wrong with your lunatic theory?" asked Shannon as we reached the playing field.
"What?" I replied, even though I was tired of hearing about all the things wrong with my theory.
"If a psycho really did want ransom money, why wouldn't he kidnap Karen or Andrew?
They're Watson's own children, plus they're littler and they'd be easier to capture."
I just made a face. I didn't like the way Shannon had implied that "real" children are more important than stepchildren. And I didn't like to think about Karen or Andrew being kidnapped.
Shannon didn't see my face, though. She had spotted Mary Anne and Dawn. They were sitting under a tree. Dawn had brought the Braddock kids to the ball field (Matt as a player, Haley as a cheerleader), and Mary Anne had just come along to cheer the Krush-ers on. Shannon ran over to them and they began to talk. I almost joined them, but I was a little angry at Shannon for making those comments (even though I knew she hadn't meant to hurt me or upset me). Besides, the Krushers were
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