The Secret of Loblolly Creek

Chapter Nine

Saturday night, 7:28 p.m.:  the eve of the invasion.

Richard and Deborah Barnwell of 212 Ocean Cove Parkway had places to go and people to see.  Well, actually, they had just one place to go—a restaurant in Summerville—and only two people to see: a client of Richard’s and his spouse.  But this was a big deal, no doubt about it, because this same client was also the largest Richard had, even though he maintained fatter brokerage accounts at two other firms.  Twenty-six-year-old Richard Barnwell was a stockbroker.  Deborah, though a stay-at-home mother, often acted as his public relations manager.  Through her tireless promotion of her husband’s investment savvy, she had won him nearly as much business as he had gotten on his own.

Right now this client was thinking about bringing all of his investments under one roof.  And Richard desperately wanted that roof to be his.

In the Barnwells’ absence, a neighbor’s fifteen-year-old daughter, Abigail Perkins, would be babysitting their son, Michael.  Abigail—brunette, dark-eyed, and just a bit on the heavy side—had looked after their four-year-old on several occasions already.  Richard and Deborah trusted her completely.  Having already said their farewells to Michael, the handsome young couple was trying desperately to leave the house.

“And you’ve still got my cell phone number, right?” Deborah said as she picked up her pocketbook to follow Richard out the door.

“Yes, ma’am,” Abigail answered.  “I have Mr. Barnwell’s too.  And I have the restaurant’s.”

“Come on, Deb,” Richard called, already at the car.  “We’ve got to go.”

“Remember,” Deborah said, halfway outside.  “If you have any problems at all, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Barnwell.  We’ll be fine,” Abigail assured them.  “Y’all have a good time.”

“‘Bye, Michael!” Deborah called, disappearing out the door.

There was no response.  With the Barnwells gone, Abigail went to look for Michael, found him sitting in a far corner of the living room, his back to her.  She walked up behind him, crouched down.  He always had a hard time when his parents—especially his mother—left him alone; he was not crying, but he was close to it, and out of shame he now kept his face away from her, toward the wall.  A mother’s absence can make a child feel as if he is the last person on Earth, no matter how many friendly people might surround him.

“Hey, there,” Abigail said, rubbing the tiny shoulders.  “Don’t be sad.  They’ll be back before you know it.”

***

8:19.  Dylan had convinced Don and Sally to let Scott sleep over; to bolster his case he had invoked the principle of reciprocity.  Because Scott had allowed to Dylan to stay over last Saturday, it seemed only fair that the Moores return the favor tonight.  Right?

Whether they agreed or not, his parents went along with it, which was all he could have asked.

“I don’t guess there’s much chance of your Dad going to bed early,” Scott said from the floor of Dylan’s bedroom.  He was flipping through a tattered copy of Penthouse that an older teenager had given to Dylan a couple of years ago.  His hope was that they could go downstairs and check out the late night cable offerings, as they had missed Palace of Ecstasy last week.

But Dylan, checking his e-mail on the computer, said, “No.  He usually stays up pretty late.”

“You need to get cable in your room, man.”

“I know.”

Downloading naughty stuff on the Internet was also a non-starter.  Don had a friend who specialized in IT systems.  Once every couple of months he called the guy to pipe in by remote access and look for viruses and spy-ware and other assorted nastiness, as well to examine everyone’s Internet surfing history.  Dylan didn’t know enough about computers to cover his electronic tracks thoroughly, and so he had no choice but to behave himself.