First Date (11 page)

“I don't know,” Chelsea replied. “A lot of guys look like that.”

“Think about it,” Martin said. “Anyone at school fit the description? Do you work? Maybe someone at work?”

With these words, a face flashed into Chelsea's mind.

Tim Sparks! Chelsea thought.

Oh, my goodness! Sparks fits the description perfectly!

“Is—is this boy dangerous or something?” she asked, unable to keep her voice from trembling.

Agent Martin nodded, his expression turning somber, his cold blue eyes narrowing to slits as he studied her reaction.

“Yeah, he's dangerous all right,” he said. “And we have reason to believe he might be in the Shadyside area.”

Chelsea started to say something but stopped. She couldn't decide what to do. Should she tell Martin about Sparks?

“If you've met anyone who fits this description, you should tell me about him,” Martin said, as if reading Chelsea's mind. He shifted his weight, shoving his hands into his trench-coat pockets, staring at her expectantly.

“You said black curly hair?” Chelsea asked, stalling for time, thinking hard. “And looks like he works out?”

Agent Martin nodded.

Sparks always seemed so dangerous, Chelsea thought. I guess he really
is
dangerous.

“A boy came into my dad's restaurant where I work a few times,” she said slowly. “I guess he kind of fits that description.” She uncrossed her arms but couldn't figure out what to do with them, so she
crossed them again. She leaned against the banister, feeling very nervous.

Martin pulled a small notepad and a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket. He scribbled something on the pad.

Just like a TV detective, Chelsea thought.

“Did this boy give you a name?” Martin asked, keeping his eyes on the notepad.

“Yes. Sparks. Tim Sparks,” Chelsea said. “He told me to call him Sparks. He said everyone called him that.”

“Sparks,” Martin repeated, writing it on the pad.

“He's been in trouble before?” Chelsea asked, picturing Sparks, thinking about how angry he could become.

Martin didn't answer. “Did you go out with him?”

“No!” Chelsea replied more loudly than she'd intended. “No,” she repeated. “I just talked with him a couple of times. In the restaurant. He only came in a couple of times.”

“Did he tell you where he's living, Chelsea?”

She shook her head. “I don't remember. No. I don't think so. He said he was looking for a job.”

Martin wrote that information down, scribbling quickly, his eyes on Chelsea. “Does he go to your school?” he asked, lowering the notepad to his side.

“Huh?”

“Your school. Shadyside High. Have you ever
seen this boy Sparks in your school? Sometimes he enrolls himself in high school. He's twenty, but he looks about seventeen.” Martin waited patiently for Chelsea's reply.

“No,” she told him. “I've never seen him in school. Only in the coffee shop.”

He asked her the name and address of the coffee shop. She told him.

“You've been very helpful,” Martin said, shifting his weight again, shoving the pen and notepad back into his shirt pocket. He handed Chelsea a business card. “If you think of anything else that might be helpful, please call my partner or me. The number's on the card.”

He turned and started to the door, leaving two dark puddles of water where he'd been standing. “If you see him again, call me—okay?”

“Okay,” Chelsea replied, holding the card tightly in her hand.

“And don't take any chances,” Martin warned. He glanced outside. The snow had stopped. There was not even a trace of it on the ground. His partner in a dark trench coat waited beside the Plymouth.

“Chances?” Chelsea asked.

“Play it safe for a while, okay?”

“Okay,” Chelsea said softly, not moving from the banister.

“And don't lose my card,” Martin said, pushing
open the storm door. “If you see this Sparks guy, call me right away.”

He slammed the door hard behind him.

Chelsea watched him cut across the yard, taking long, bouncing strides, the big trench coat flapping behind him. Then she closed the front door, locked it, and leaned her back against it.

She closed her eyes, still gripping the agent's card in her hand.

Sparks had always seemed angry, but she had no idea he was dangerous. No idea he was wanted by the FBI.

And Sparks had actually asked her out on a date.

“Let's do something wild,” he had suggested to her.

Something wild.

What would have happened if she had gone out with him? What would he have done to her?

And then she had another frightening thought: What if Sparks comes back to the restaurant?

What would she do then?

chapter 16
 

“S
o where's this mystery boy?” Nina asked, scraping her chair against the floor as she pulled it up to the table. She pulled her lunch from the brown-paper sack. A vanilla yogurt and an apple.

“He wasn't in homeroom this morning,” Chelsea said unhappily. Her lunch was spread out in front of her. A ham sandwich, a bag of potato chips, a container of chocolate pudding, and a Coke.

Nina must think I'm a total pig, she thought miserably. But if all I had for lunch was yogurt and an apple, I'd be starving all afternoon!

“Want some of this yogurt?” Nina asked. “I can never finish a whole container.”

“No, thanks,” Chelsea replied, taking a bite of her sandwich to keep herself from punching Nina.

Nina absently reached across the table and took a
handful of Chelsea's potato chips. “So tell me about Will,” she said, her eyes on the double doors across the lunchroom.

“He's real shy,” Chelsea told her. “And cute. His cheeks blush bright pink all the time.”

“Cute,” Nina repeated, not really paying attention.

“Who are you looking for?” Chelsea asked impatiently. She took a long drink from her can of Coke.

“Doug,” Nina said, reaching for more of Chelsea's potato chips. “He and I made up last night.”

“That's great,” Chelsea said enthusiastically. “Maybe the four of us can do something this weekend.”

“Uh-huh.” Nina nodded without really hearing. “Hey—what happened to Will when I showed up at your house Saturday night? Why the disappearing act?”

Chelsea wasn't sure how to answer. She hesitated, then told Nina all about how it had been a first date for both of them, how Will had wanted to keep it a secret, their special night.

“Weird” was Nina's reply. Then she jumped up from her seat, having spotted Doug at the doorway, and ran to greet him.

Chelsea chewed on her sandwich, staring without focusing at Nina's uneaten yogurt and thinking about Will. She wondered why he wasn't in homeroom.
Maybe he was sick. Maybe he wouldn't be able to meet her after work.

She was eager to see him, to talk to him. She was dying to tell him that she had talked to a real FBI agent. She was dying to tell him about Sparks, about how Sparks was dangerous and was wanted by the FBI, and how she had almost had her first date with Sparks instead of with him.

Will would like the story, she knew. He'd find it as interesting as she did.

She and Will were a lot alike.

That night the restaurant got crowded at dinnertime. Chelsea had trouble concentrating on her customers. She kept staring up at the neon clock, wondering if Will would show up at seven.

“Pick up!” Ernie called from the kitchen. He slammed his hand against the metal counter where he had set out the food plates. “Chelsea, you deaf or something?”

“Sorry.” Chelsea hurried to pick up the plates.

“You're acting weird tonight,” Ernie rasped, working a toothpick between his teeth. “You in love or something?”

Chelsea laughed. She could feel her face grow hot. She glanced back at the clock. Only six-thirty.

As she headed back to the counter, carrying an armload of dirty plates, someone tapped her on the shoulder.

Sparks!

Chelsea shrieked, and the plates fell out of her arms and clattered to the floor.

She spun around to see a middle-aged man with a shocked expression on his face. No Sparks.

“Oh, sorry, miss,” he said apologetically. “I didn't mean to frighten you. I just wanted to ask for the ketchup.”

Chelsea uttered a loud sigh of relief. “Sorry. I didn't mean to scream. I just—”

The man bent down with her and started to pick up pieces of the broken dishes.

“No,” Chelsea insisted. “Please. I'll take care of it. Really. It's my job.”

She finally persuaded him to return to his booth. Then she picked up the biggest pieces of china, swept up the rest, along with the spilled food, and dumped everything in the trash.

The half hour before closing seemed the longest half hour of her life. From his place behind the smoking grill in the kitchen, Ernie kept teasing her about being in love, cackling to himself, grinning at her and winking, which made the time seem even longer.

Calm down, Chelsea. Calm down. She repeated the words over and over, but they didn't seem to help.

By ten after seven the restaurant had cleared out.
Chelsea turned the lights down, almost to off, and emptied the cash register.

“Will, where are you?” she asked out loud, carrying the night's receipts to the small, one-drawer desk in the back.

Maybe he's sick, she thought. Maybe that's why he wasn't in school today.

She decided to call him as soon as she got home.

If he didn't show up at the restaurant.

She started to count the money, thought about Will, lost her place, had to start again.

The grill, she saw, hadn't been cleaned or turned off. It hissed softly in the background. The only other sound was the loud hum of the big refrigerator against the wall, and the steady
drip, drip, drip
of water from the faucet into the stainless-steel sink filled with dirty dishes.

Where's Ernie? Chelsea wondered.

He must be out back, all the way down the alley, emptying the trash.

Chelsea lost count again.

Okay, one more time, she told herself.

Then she heard the front door open.

The bell on the door jangled softly.

She tensed.

Normally she locked the door before emptying the cash register. But tonight she had left the door unlocked in case Will showed up.

The door closed quietly.

Footsteps out front. Coming closer.

Single footsteps. Just one person.

“Will?” she called in a tiny voice not loud enough to reach beyond the kitchen.

The footsteps stopped.

“Will?” she repeated, a little louder.

More footsteps, scraping against the soft tile floor.

“Will, is that you?”

Why didn't he answer her?

Suddenly frightened, she wadded up the stack of bills and shoved them into the desk drawer, quickly slamming the drawer shut.

She jumped to her feet, her heart thudding in her chest.

Where was Ernie? He was probably having a smoke by the Dumpster. Why was he always missing when she was in danger?

“Will, I'll be right out!” she called.

She bent her head and peered through the kitchen window into the darkened restaurant. She couldn't see anyone.

“Will?”

It had to be Will.

Please
let it be Will.

chapter 17
 

T
aking a deep breath she stepped out of the kitchen and behind the long counter. “Who's there?” she demanded, forcing her voice to stay steady. “Will?”

It was Sparks who stepped out of the shadows, one hand resting on the seat back of the first booth, a strange grin on his face.

Chelsea froze, gripping the edge of the counter.

Why was he grinning at her like that?

His face was covered in shadow, but she could still see his gleaming, dark eyes and the evil leer on his face.