If the Witness Lied by Caroline B. Cooney Page B

and comparison shops. She wouldn’t slam it around.
    Diana wants to phone Jack, but what if he’s in his room, rescuing his stuff? Diana’s call will give away his position. No, wait. Jack can’t be home, because he’s got Tris. Tris does not have an indoor voice. He has only an outdoor voice. Cheryl would know all too well if Tris and Jack were upstairs.
    Diana calls Jack, but it goes to voice mail. She is forced to leave a message. “Jack, Cheryl phoned me in school. She’s hunting for you. There’s something weird going down. Somebody else is in on it, but I don’t know who. Be careful, Jack. Call if I can help.”
    *   *   *
    “I’m Gwen!” cries the TV woman, jogging alongside Madison as if they’re on the same track team. “Madison, honey, you’re going to be a wonderful interview. You have so much personality. This program could open up a beautiful future for you, because you’re articulate and sexy and full of character. Are you interested in the film industry?”
    Is this the bait they offer Cheryl? She’s “articulate, sexy and full of character?” That would be a hard sell, but maybe they offered that line to Smithy. Smithy, who crosses state lines to come home and blat on television about precious, private things.
    Madison doesn’t want these people to know about her car. A car is freedom, but only if it’s a secret from the invaders. She trotsin a circle, heading instead for the backyard and taking the shortcut through the little woods to Kensington, the next street over.
    “Where’s your dentist appointment?” Gwen says. “We’ll want to follow you during your everyday activities. Shall I drive you there?”
    Even if Madison wanted to be on TV—especially if she wanted to be on TV—she would refuse to be filmed with her mouth open and her saliva dripping. The image is so preposterous that Madison giggles as she plunges into their neighborhood wilderness. It’s not wide, but it is long. Chesmore and Kensington are separated for the length of the creek, with enough wetlands and rock-strewn woods to support turkeys, skunks, at least one raccoon and some years a fox. Jack and his friends used to play
Survivor
here, pretending to face danger in the forest.
    Madison does face danger. But it isn’t in the trees.
    She avoids the path made by her father and Jack, because Gwen could just trot after her, and walks straight into the briars, letting them snag her jacket and trousers. Her sneakers sink into the little marsh, getting muddy and stained.
    “Let me give you my cell number,” cries Gwen, brought to a stop by thorns.
    Madison hurries. Gwen is just the type to run all the way around and meet Madison coming out the other side.
    *   *   *
    Jack and Tris have no sooner finished watering a tree than Jack’s cell phone rings. It’s Diana. He doesn’t even consideranswering. He can’t have a second conversation about Cheryl painting his room.
    When Tris spots the big-kid jungle gym, he forgets the library and hurries toward the playground gate. Jack trudges after him. In adventure films, people soar with adrenaline and leap from cliff to cliff, using some vast, untapped reservoir of energy. Jack can hardly hoist his own sneakers. It doesn’t bode well.
    The phone rings again in his hand. He jumps at the sound of his own ringtone.
    Madison. Twice in ten minutes. She sure is eager. How does television do this to people?
    Jack answers carefully. One syllable. No inflection. “Hi.”
    “It’s me, Madison.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “I just drove over to the house. Jack, Cheryl’s gotten hold of a TV producer. They want to do a special on us. On Tris, actually. They’re going to bring in a psychiatrist and get us to talk in front of cameras and portray Tris as some evil baby creature, and hope that we cry, and above all they want to film the moment when Smithy gets here and we have a reunion. Smithy’s agreed to this, Jack. She’s in favor of it. She is actually on the train