The Age of Amy: Mad Dogs and Makeovers Read online

  The Age of Amy: Mad Dogs and Makeovers

  By Bruce Edwards

  To

  Rod Serling

  Whose own magic mirrors

  reflected our true nature.

  CONTENTS

  Title

  1. Are You Watching?

  2. School Daze

  3. Graduation

  4. The Barber Zone

  5. War Wounds

  6. Customer Service

  7. The Afternoon Off

  8. The 2-Bit Solution

  9. Mirror, Mirror

  10. Back Splash

  11. The Prom

  12. Breaking and Entering

  13. Squirrelly

  14. The Phone

  15. The Hearing

  16. Be Gone

  17. Giving Back

  About the Author

  The Series

  Credits

  Cover

  Chapter 1

  Are You Watching?

  Let’s call him Policeman #1. I had forgotten the officer’s name the moment he said it. And why wouldn’t I? It’s not every day that the Law comes knocking at your door. I spied the man on my front porch through the peep hole and thought, What have I done wrong now?

  True, I was known for being somewhat of a trouble-maker, but I never raised a stink that wasn’t justified. So, what was I worried about? I mean, the cops wouldn’t haul an innocent 16-year-old girl off to jail for no reason, would they?

  The porch light lit up one side of the man’s face, while the other side faded into the night. He seemed harmless enough.

  I opened the door to find a short, portly gentleman in a white shirt and thin black tie, wearing a Shankstonville Police Department windbreaker. He politely removed his cap and asked, “Is this the Dawson residence?”

  There was a time when officers of the law had that macho look—lean and hunky, with a mustache that matched the curve of their teardrop shades. I was a city girl back then, and like most adolescent females, I viewed policemen as brave and incredibly sexy. Lawmen in the farming community where I now lived didn’t quite fit that city cop mold, especially with their expanding waistlines.

  “I’d like to speak with the head of the household, please,” said the officer.

  Hearing the voice of our unexpected visitor, my dad bounded up beside me. “That would be me, sir,” he said. “What brings you out this way?”

  A good question. Our upscale neighborhood seldom required the need for law enforcement. Every home was equipped with the most up-to-date, hi-tech security systems available. We had more surveillance cameras on our block than the Federal Reserve building in Washington D.C.

  “Who’s at the door, honey?” called my mom, shuffling across our marble entryway in her flip-flops.

  “Sorry to bother you at this late hour, ma’am,” said the officer. “Hope I didn’t intrude on your dinner.”

  Another policeman, this one taller and much, much thinner, paraded up our walkway like a military general. Under his jacket was a service revolver, tucked in a shoulder holster. He stood at attention behind his partner, then said, in a deep baritone voice, “Ma’am . . . Sir . . . Miss.”

  We’ll call him Policeman #2.

  “If it’s convenient,” said #1, “we’d like to have a word with Amy.”

  Amy! Hearing my name gave me the heebie-jeebies right down to my toes. My dad, who was well aware of the mischief I was capable of, looked down at me sharply.

  I tipped my head back, and with puppy dog eyes, whimpered, “I’m innocent!”

  My playful remark broke the tension, and showed that I wasn’t always so serious about everything. Just because I was politically active, people figured I didn’t have a sense of humor. But, I didn’t care. If there was a protest march against some social injustice, I was in it. If an anti-war movement needed volunteers to gather signatures, count me in. My only activity that didn’t raise eyebrows was my charitable work for The Wild Things Survival Fund—an animal rights group. Last I heard, stuffing donation envelopes and serving coffee at fundraisers was not a criminal offense.

  “Forgive me,” said #1. “I didn’t mean to suggest that your daughter had broken the law. We’ve been tracking a suspicious man who we haven’t been able to identify. He made a phone call this evening that was traced to Amy’s cell phone.”

  “Sounds like a computer glitch,” said Dad. “The only suspicious calls we get here are pranks from Amy’s friends.”

  “Maybe that’s all it was, but we’d still like to ask her a few questions.”

  My mom swung the door open. “Won’t you come in?”

  “Not so fast!” I said. “Isn’t someone going to check their ID?”

  Dad laughed nervously. “Amy, you’re embarrassing these gentlemen.”

  #1 raised his hand. “No problem.”

  The men held out their identification cards. I studied each one closely. They didn’t look much different than common drivers licenses, with profile photos and signatures.

  “How do we know these are even real?” I said. “Have you ever seen a police ID before? Anyone could fake one in Photoshop, print it, put it in a fancy sleeve, and claim to be a cop.”

  Dad grinned impishly at the officers, then said apologetically, “She’s at that age.”

  “Dad!” I cried. “You’re not going to let total strangers into our house, are you? They’ve got guns!”

  My appeal for caution, which seemed perfectly reasonable to me, was ignored. The officers were graciously ushered into the living room. Then I noticed that #1 wasn’t a local policeman at all, but a federal agent. FBI in bold letters spread across the back of his jacket.

  I took the comfy armchair, while the short one faced me from the edge of the coffee table. #2 hovered over him, content to remain standing.

  Whipping a notepad and a pen from his shirt pocket, #1 promptly asked me, “Did someone call you earlier this evening?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did he sound?”

  “That’s hard to say.”

  “How long did you talk?”

  I turned to my dad, sitting wide-eyed on the couch with my mom. “Do I have to do this?”

  #2 leaned down over me. “We welcome your full cooperation, miss.”

  “Don’t be afraid, Amy,” said Dad. “Just answer the questions as best you can.”

  I felt like I was standing naked at the center of a three-ring circus. Everyone was staring at me. Something didn’t feel right about all this. I couldn’t put my finger on what, but I decided to play along for now.

  “I didn’t talk to my caller very long,” I said.

  “Tell me everything that happened—from the beginning, please.”

  “Well, I was alone in my room, reading. I read a lot. I’m just into my first Agatha Christie mystery: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. You guys know that one, right?”

  Two blank stares.

  I went on. “Next thing, my cell phone rang. ‘Hello,’ I said. A voice on the other end—a man’s voice I’d never heard before—said, ‘Are you watching?’”

  #1’s pen point was pressed against his notepad, but hadn’t moved an inch. “Aren’t you going to write this down?” I asked.

  “Not until I hear something relevant. What did he say next?”

  “The man told me to turn on the TV news. All the local stations were broadcasting live helicopter video of a police pursuit. The car being chased was one of those humongous pickup trucks everyone drives these days. Then the man said, ‘See that black truck? I’m driving it.’ Then he hung up.”

  “Did he say anything els
e?”

  “That was pretty much it.”

  Normally, I’m not in the habit of lying, but I had just told one. There was much more to our conversation, but I still had my doubts about those men, and didn’t feel comfortable giving them the details.

  This is the rest of what the caller and I said to each other:

  “Who is this, really?”

  “I told you. I’m the one being chased.”

  “Yeah, right! And I’m suppose to believe that?”

  “I’ll prove it to you. Watch!”

  The news chopper camera was tight on the driver side window. An arm extended out of it and waved up and down.

  “See that? I’m waving to you. Believe me now?”

  “I guess I’ll have to. But why are you calling me?”

  “I called some others, but no one would talk to me. So, I dialed this number at random.”

  If this was a prank, it was a pretty convincing one.

  “What’s your name?”

  This was where I should have hung up, but I figured, how much trouble could this guy make?

  “Amy.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “I have a daughter about your age. She’s graduating from high school tomorrow. In fact, this truck is her graduation present.”

  “Why don’t you call her, then?”

  “She was the first one to hang up on me. What’s the news saying?”

  “That your truck was reported stolen.”

  “That’s my Debbie! That’s my little cherub! She blames me for everything, even the birthmark on her nose—a tiny dot you can hardly notice.”

  “What’s she got against you?”

  “I don’t spend enough time with her. I’m way too busy for parenting. Guess I’m not a very good dad.”

  The truck made a hard left, with the police cruisers right on its tail.

  Do you know where you’re going?”

  “Are you kidding? I grew up in this town. Know it like the back of my hand.”

  He slowed down as he passed Shankstonville Elementary School.

  “This is were I learned to cheat kids out of their lunch money.”

  He slowed in front of the Shankstonville National Bank.

  “This is where I learned how a deliberately misplaced decimal point would put money in my pocket.”

  He drove past a tall office building.

  “I swindled Wall Street investors out of millions here.”

  Why was this guy telling me all this? I felt like a priest listening to a con artist confess his sins.

  “You know you can’t get away. These pursuits always end the same, with the driver spread-eagle in the street and guns pointed at his head.”

  “Who says I want to get away? I’ve been running all my life, Amy, and I can tell you this: You can escape justice, but you can’t outrun your conscience.”

  Our conversation was getting freakier by the minute. Whatever his issues were, nothing I said could possibly resolve them.

  “This all sounds like a matter for the police. Turn yourself in. I’m hanging up now.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t. You’re the last person on Earth I’m ever going to talk to.”

  Shivers ran through my whole body. The man was obviously suicidal. I was in a dangerous position, and had no clue how to handle it.

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “Two miles down this road—two turns to the left and one to the right—the asphalt turns to gravel. Beyond that is Grand Gorge.”

  Everyone in Shankstonville knew about “The Gorge.” It was our town’s most famous natural wonder. Tourists flocked there each year to overlook the three-thousand-foot drop to the canyon floor.

  “I told you I know this town.”

  “I know what you’re thinking, and you can’t do it!”

  “Of course I can. There isn’t a wall or a barricade this tank can’t crash through.”

  I was now on my feet, pacing the room, listening to a total stranger preparing to take his own life.

  “Sorry I won’t get to know you better, Amy. You sound like the daughter I always wanted, but never got.”

  “Stop! Turn around!”

  “I’d really like to oblige you, but I’ve got a date with the devil.”

  The phone went silent.

  From the edge of my bed, I watched as the pickup accelerated. Dirt spewed from its tires while skidding around road blocks. Fences fell like they were made of popsicle sticks. And as the truck reached the edge of the cliff, the news chopper veered off, sparing viewers the gruesome finale to the dramatic chase. All I saw after that was a brilliant flash against the canyon walls, like exploding fireworks.

  Though I kept this information to myself, I really wasn’t withholding much more than anyone with a TV didn’t already know.

  “One final question,” said #1. “Did the caller tell you his name?”

  “No,” I said. “But why ask me? Doesn’t your phone-tracking app tell you that?”

  “The phone was activated under a bogus name. The truck was brand new, and wasn’t registered. We were hoping you could tell us who he was.”

  “What about DNA testing on the body?”

  The pudgy agent stood up and closed his notepad. “That’s just it. There is no body. When we examined the wreckage, the truck was empty.”

  “Maybe the man jumped out before he went over the cliff.”

  “The pursuing officers would have seen it.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. There must be something left of him.”

  “So you would think. Even an explosive crash like that leaves some forensic evidence, but we found nothing. No skeletal remains, no personal effects, no melted credit cards. The fire destroyed his fingerprints if there were any. But we did find this on the ground nearby.”

  He handed me a business card with burn marks around the edges. It read:

  Ravi’s 2-Bit Solution

  Hairstyling and Makeovers

  “We’ve already spoken with the owner,” said #2, “He was no more help than you.”

  “Why don’t you keep this card,” said #1. “It might help you remember something you may have forgotten.”

  The interview was over, but I had a few questions of my own. “What did that man do?” I asked. “Why were the police chasing him?”

  “He’s a suspected terrorist. A suspicious package was found in front of an office building. Eyewitnesses reported seeing a black pickup fleeing the scene. We were after him almost immediately. When he didn’t stop, we were sure we had our man. Now, we don’t know what we have. What worries us is that whoever he is—or was—may still be out there.”

  “What was in the package?”

  “A homemade explosive device. The bomb squad defused it before it went off.”

  “What kind of maniac would do such a thing?”

  “Someone who hates America . . . or hates animals. His target was The Wild Things Survival Fund. We know you’re a volunteer there, Amy. Strange, that the suspect called you of all people, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Quite a coincidence, isn’t it, miss?” added #2.

  Mom and Dad walked the officers to the door. The men tipped their caps. “Evening, ma’am. Sir.”

  The house was dead quiet after the front door closed. My parents’ eyes were solidly fixed on me.

  I looked back at them timidly. “You don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?”

  Mom rushed to my side. “Of course not, sweetie. No one’s saying you did.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Dad. “Why would you be involved in blowing up the very organization you love working for? Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about it.” He yawned. “I think I’ll turn in.”

  “Me, too,” said Mom.

  As they both retired for the night, I sat alone in the quiet. No fingers were pointing at me, yet a dark cloud of suspicion still lingered in the air. That was mostly my fault. With my reputation for stirring
things up, why wouldn’t the police doubt my sincerity? True, I had a streak of rebellion as plain as the blue streak in my hair, but inferring that I had collaborated with a terrorist was insane! Until I could separate myself from that despicable act, that dark cloud would always follow me.

  I knew what I had to do: find that mystery man! But, where to begin?

  My clues were a suicide with no body, a terrorist with no name, and a scorched business card from a barbershop. Not much to go on. Still, the idea of playing detective sparked my imagination. Attempting to solve a real-life mystery excited me. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and a chance for an adventure worthy of Agatha Christie.

  Chapter 2

  School Daze

  “Did you walk the dog?” Asked my father—his voice echoing down the staircase.

  “Can you do it, Dad?” I replied. “I’m late for school.”

  “Need I remind you, Amy? He’s your dog.”

  That statement was slightly inaccurate, because that dog really wasn’t mine—not by choice, anyway. “Scraps” had been my late Aunt Sylvia’s dear companion, and her loyal friend in her final days. With my aunt’s passing, the fate of her beloved canine created a huge rift within our family. No one wanted to take custody of the little mutt. Driving Scraps to the animal shelter was discussed, even though we all knew it would likely be a one-way trip. Finally, to keep peace in the family—and Scraps alive—I assumed responsibility for him. What else could I do?