by Brian Bakos
"All right, go get some." Albert jabs a threatening finger at me. "But don't wander too far off, understand?"
"No, sir, I won't."
Marnie scrounges up a little metal pail. I take this in hand and dash down the porch steps. Poochie appears, from out of nowhere as usual, and runs alongside me. The sun warms my face; a sweet, clover smell drifts in the air. Everything seems right with the summer world as I run south on Brazil Road.
If only I could keep going, all the way to Rio!
I sure don't want to head the other direction to the spooky little town of Bridgestock a few miles to the north. I've been there once and don't want to ever see it again. The place is filled with grungy, beat looking people, stray dogs, and rundown houses with the paint peeling off. Our old apartment building looks like a palace in comparison.
I reach the raspberry bushes. As I hoped, they are loaded with ripe fruit. Startled bees fly off as I wade into the patch.
The first raspberries I drop in make a clunky echo, but this sound is quickly replaced by muffled little thuds as the pail fills up. Sticky juice covers my fingers. For every berry I drop in the pail, I toss another one into my mouth. My starved body screams with pleasure.
I am reaching for some low hanging fruit when I spot the footprints. My heart leaps into my throat, colliding with the raspberries already there.
They seem to be people footprints, as far as I can tell. Whoever it was, his feet pressed into the soft dirt by the patch without leaving much of an outline. The tracks then head toward the orchard before they disappear on the harder ground.
I look across the road toward the Ponge house. Its white bulk squats in the fine day, ugly and run down, like a visitor from slumville. Somebody came from that house to spy on the orchard the other night, and I ran into him. I'd begun to doubt that, but now I know for sure.
"This could be real important," I tell Poochie.
The dog wags his tail stump. I move farther into the patch and finish loading the pail. Then I pull out my compact binoculars.
I shoplifted these camouflaged little beauties back when I was staying with Mom. Usually we just took things we really needed, but I couldn't pass these up. I never imagined how I'd be using them one day.
I keep the binoculars focused on the front door of the Grech house as I back away from the raspberry patch. Slowly, I creep farther and farther down the road. Then I feel a tingling in my ankle. The front door of the house flies open, and Albert Grech shoots out onto the porch. I shove the binoculars into my pocket and run back toward the house.
***
Albert is pretty ticked when I get back. He stands with his hands on hips and glowers at me like a drill sergeant in some goblin army.
"Don't ever wander off that far again!" he barks.
"I won't, sir, sorry." I hold up the pail full of fruit. "The best berries were the farthest away."
This seems to calm him down a bit.
"All right, go give 'em to Marnie," he says.
"Yes, sir."
I dash into the house toward the kitchen, grateful to have escaped physical harm. Albert didn't even tried to grab me, and he hadn't reached for his lethal cane, either. The charm offensive I started yesterday seems to be paying off.
Despite Albert's 'softer' attitude, I'm not dumb enough to think that he or Amitha actually care about me. I've seen their type before among Mom's so-called friends - mean, selfish people with no kindness inside. They are only 'nice' as long as it suits their purposes.
I place the pail on the kitchen table. "What do you think of these, Marnie!"
Her eyes flick down to the raspberries. "More work for me, eh?"
"No ... well, yes. I mean, I thought we could all enjoy them," I say.
She dumps the berries into a bowl on the sink counter.
"I could help," I say.
"Don't bother trying to get on my good side, boy, 'cause I ain't got one."
"Yes, ma'am, sorry."
She spins towards me with a potato masher clasped in her fist. She looks as if she wants to mash my face with it.
"And keep out of my kitchen," she says. "Maybe you can suck up to them other two, but don't try it here."
"Yes, ma'am."
I get out fast, as if I am escaping from the crocodile pit at the zoo. So much for making friends with Marnie. She is nasty clear through, but at least she doesn't seem to be an addict.
The Grech are addicted to something. I'm certain of that, as I've seen my share of addicts and am more of an expert than I care to be. Something really bad has them hooked, and it has turned them into dried-out old people with uncommon physical strength.
It must have something to do with those orange trees.
That's why they are so upset about the Ponge moving in - they don't want any witnesses. That's why they are buying protection from Judge Gulp. And that's why I need to find out more about the spy.
The biggest mystery: Why am I here?
Not just for cheap labor - they could hire somebody for much less money than they are paying Judge Gulp. No, the reason has to be pretty disturbing. My fondest hope is to be long gone before I can find out.
Better to focus on the things I know for certain. I know that the tracker sets off an alarm for Albert. I don't know if the other claims are true. Using the Grech house as the center, I can figure my safety zone. Without setting off the alarm, I can walk south to the raspberry patch, north to a big oak tree alongside Brazil Road, west to slightly beyond the orange grove, and east just past the tool shed behind the Ponge house.
The device has obviously been set so that I can move throughout the orchard doing maintenance work, but can get no farther.
Such are the boundaries of my nightmare world.
9: A Bold Proposal
I make my next move at dinner.
The main course isn't quite as bad as usual. Some kind of bird, a chicken perhaps, that looks like it was run over by a truck before it got roasted. My hay fever is acting up, and my nose is mostly blocked, so I am spared the delicious aroma. I force myself to eat so as to keep up my strength.
But when Marnie plunks down the dessert, I have to admit defeat. She's murdered my raspberries with her masher and smeared their carcasses over rock hard biscuits. The seeds glare out of the pulpy mess like hundreds of angry insect eyes. My own eyes widen with shock. The time seems right for some conversation.
"I saw Mr. and Mrs. Ponge take something big out of their car trunk the other night," I say casually.
Albert flinches, as if somebody has stuck a hot branding iron on his rear end.
"What was it?" he says.
"I don't know, sir, but it was heavy. They both had to carry it in."
"See, Amitha," Albert smacks a hand on the table. "I told you they was up to no good. If only there were some way we could find out!"
"There's Sheriff Fergueson," Amitha says.
"I don't trust him," Albert says, "and he's even greedier than old Gulp."
Amitha jerks her head my direction as if to say that I shouldn't be hearing such remarks. I pretend not to be listening. Albert shuts up anyway.
I stir my raspberry slop, marking the dead time and waiting for the right moment to make my bold proposal. The ceiling fan spins the warm air slowly. The old house settles around me and waits to learn what will happen next. The thought of my proposal tightens my stomach into a nervous knot.
A couple of minutes drag past. Albert grinds up the biscuits with his big yellow teeth like a werewolf cracking bones in its jaws. I put some of the berry glop into my mouth and am rewarded with a stinging, bitter flavor that seems like it came from inside a car battery. At least it clears my sinuses.
Finally I get up the nerve to speak.
"Perhaps I could find out something about the neighbors," I say.
Albert's eyes turn narrow and suspicious. He pins me into my chair with his glance.
"How do you mean?" he demands.
"Maybe I could go and see what t
hey're up to," I say.
I hold my breath and wonder if Albert will turn violent. He just sits stroking his chin, though.
"What'cya got in mind," Amitha says, "just show up at their house and start asking questions?"
"No, ma'am," I say.
"A break in?" Albert says. He seems excited by that idea.
"No, sir, I don't think that would be necessary. Not yet, anyway."
"What, then?" Albert says.
"I've noticed that they have no air conditioning," I say, "and since the weather has been getting hotter, they are leaving windows open. Maybe I could hang out by a window and listen in. I've got good ears."
"Yeah." Albert nods. "That might work."
"I don't see what there is to lose," I say.
"Right," Albert says. "And if you get caught, just say that you were snooping on your own, that we knew nothing about it."
"Of course, sir, but I won't get caught."
Albert turns things over in his evil mind. My stomach begins to unknot a little.
"It could be worth a try." Albert whacks the table again. "Just make sure you don't wander too far away."
He squeezes my shoulder with a big, gnarled hand. My collar bone seems about to snap.
"Of course, you know that already, don't you, boy?" he says.
"Yes, sir."
He lowers his voice almost to a whisper and breathes corpse breath in my face.
"Bring me useful information and you can take off some time from your chores," he says. "Marnie will do them for you."
Marnie gives me a poisonous look from the kitchen doorway. I guess she's got good ears, too.
***
My preparations don't take long. Amitha provides some little mirrors and the fat cardboard tube from a roll of Christmas wrapping paper. Out of these items I make a periscope.
I wonder where she got the roll of gift wrap, as the Grech don't seem like the type who give presents. Probably it was left behind by some previous tenant who fled the house long ago.
So, what can I expect to gain from this? I have no idea. I'm making up strategy on the fly. At least I can roam freely within my safety zone at night, instead of being locked in the house.
Only one thing is certain. I will never escape this monstrous place by just sitting around. Nobody is going to help me out, and routine is my enemy. I have to break the routine; otherwise I'll end up flattened like the chicken we had for dinner.
The Grech turn in right at sunset, withdrawing into their lair and bolting the door behind them.
"You'd better not be up to something," Marnie says as she withdraws into her own room.
"Good luck to you, too," I mutter.
I'm just about ready to go when the incantations start. My blood starts to run cold.
Get of out here, Billy! a voice inside my head warns.
But my curiosity is getting the upper hand. I creep upstairs and peer toward the Grech's room. A low, rumbling hum vibrates through the door, and light flashes underneath it into the dim hallway. I hear an extremely deep voice chanting unknowable words, the way a bear might sound if it could talk.
"They're at it again!" Marnie's voice whines from behind her own door. "It's getting so a body can't sleep at all."
I've definitely heard and seen enough. I retreat quietly down the stairs and move out into the night.
Part Two: Struggle for Freedom
10: Second Night for the Master Spy
After all this drama, nothing much happened the first night, and by the second night of spying, my enthusiasm has faded a great deal. Not that I object to spending hours crouched beneath an open window getting bit by mosquitoes. Who wouldn't enjoy that?
This little side window is the only one on the first floor with light coming from it. The picture window facing the road is curtained shut night and day, and the rest of the house is blacked out, except for a dim glow upstairs. Is somebody up there - the spy, perhaps?
The problem is, I haven't learned anything new, except for some curse words. Mr. Ponge is the foulest mouthed person I've ever heard, even worse than Mom's old boyfriend. And Mrs. Ponge doesn't talk like the Sugar Plum Fairy, either.
They are both in the living room again tonight watching TV. They say nothing important. I am thinking of leaving when a loud thump freezes me in place.
"This rotten TV," Mr. Ponge cries. "It can't pull in nothing!"
He didn't actually say "rotten" but something much worse.
"Putting your fist through the top won't help any," Mrs. Ponge says.
They aren't exactly the couple from the old Leave it to Beaver show. About all I'd heard these past two nights are complaints about the television. The TV set was the item I'd seen them drag in from their car. Telling Albert about it hadn't gotten me off any chores.
Aside from a battered old couch, the TV is about the only furnishing in the bare, uncarpeted living room. And one other thing - a small telescope on a tripod with its front end peeked through the picture window curtain. This is obviously used for spying on the Grech property. I haven't told Albert about that little item yet.
"We oughtta get the satellite hookup," Mrs. Ponge says.
"I don't want no outsiders poking around here," Mr. Ponge snaps back.
Last night, after Sally nodded off on the couch, Gregory watched XXX rated videos - real brutal, hard-core stuff. I'd had to listen to almost an hour of that crap before Sally woke up again. Mr. Ponge then quickly switched to a comedy TV show.
But there is nothing funny about this place. It is like a stereo speaker with a wire running straight down to hell. Across the road, the Grech house forms another speaker unit, complete with a powered subwoofer in the orchard rumbling out a demonic bass.
The air seems heavy tonight. Something is floating around in it making my hay fever worse. I fight to keep from sneezing; it's definitely time to call it quits.
But then headlights coming from the north pierce the darkness. I flatten myself into the bushes. Pickers jab my skin, looking for any spots the mosquitoes missed. A car pulls into the driveway on the far side of the house. A door opens and closes.
"He's here," Mr. Ponge hisses.
Tense silence, then a knock. The door creaks open.
"Good evening, folks," a familiar voice says.
Judge Gulp! I inch my periscope above the window sill to get a look. There's the old buzzard again, all fat belly and pin striped suit.
"So glad you could make it, Your Honor," Mr. Ponge says.
"Always glad to welcome new residents to our fair county," Gulp replies.
And more blah, blah, blah.
Mrs. Ponge brings out coffee and cakes from the dark kitchen while the men talk about the weather, the price of gasoline, about "that jackass" recently elected state governor. Now that they are diverted, I have a chance to study the Ponge more carefully through my periscope.
Mrs. Ponge, Sally, is an ugly dishrag of a middle-aged woman - dumpy and frizzled. Gregory Ponge is a tall thin man with veins sticking out of his arms. He seems much younger than Sally. He looks strong and rigid, like he's been carved out of a baseball bat.
"Your neighbors across the road were wondering about you," Judge Gulp says casually at one point, and my ears pick up like radar antennae.
"Is that so?" Gregory Ponge says.
"They were surprised to see anybody move into this place," Gulp says. "It's been empty for years, you know."
"I'm curious about them, too," Mr. Ponge says.
"Yes, I can understand that," Gulp replies. "They aren't the neighborly sort, like to keep to themselves, pretty much."
Everyone nods, and things got quiet for a while. Mosquitoes buzz my ears, but I don't dare swat them.
"I ain't no scientist," Mr. Ponge finally says, "but I have never seen trees like they've got. Gives you the creeps just looking at them from across the road here."
"Mmm." Gulp takes a long sip of coffee. "Yes, their interests are rather ... unique, one might say."
> More silence. Gulp obviously isn't getting what he wants. Time to turn the screws a little.
"So, have the County inspectors been out here yet?" he asks. "You know, to check the wiring, the septic tank, things like that?"
Sally and Gregory exchange glances. A little envelope appears in Gregory's hand and then quickly vanishes into the Judge's pinstriped jacket. I pull my periscope back down.
"Well, I don't think we need to bother about that, after all," Gulp says. "So nice to have met you both. Thank you for the coffee and cake."
"It was a pleasure," Mrs. Ponge says.
"About that other matter," the judge says, "If you stop by my office tomorrow, I might be able to tell you a bit more. Say, around 3:00?"
"Sure Judge, thanks," Mr. Ponge says.
Gulp leaves. It never takes him long to split once he has his payoff. Soon his car is driving north again toward Bridgestock, right past my position. I press myself deeper into the shrubbery.
"What do you think?" Sally asks.
"I think he's one greedy slug," Gregory says.
"Maybe it's time for another look around them trees," Mrs. Ponge says.
"Yeah, good idea, Sally. At least that won't cost us nothing."
I've heard enough. I untangle myself from the bushes and slip away.
11: Laying a Trap
The moon is bigger tonight, but clouds block much of its glow. I walk north along Brazil Road almost to the big oak tree before I cross over. I don't think Ponge has those night vision goggle things, at least I haven't seen him use any, but I have to be very cautious.
The air is even thicker on the Grech side of the road, and my nose itches like crazy. Except for the whir of insects, everything is dead silent. There are no passing cars, no air conditioners kicking in, no racket from the apartment next door - none of the sounds familiar to a city kid like me. Only the quiet step of fear walking alongside.
I try not to think about my mission. I already planned it in detail yesterday and don't need to hash it over in my head anymore. Just keep moving in automatic mode, get the job done. Don't let the fear walk over me.
I approach the storage tank on the Grech lawn and disconnect the lid handle. This is not difficult, since it is held in place only by a little clip. The cool, yard-long metal pipe feels powerful in my hands. I swing it around like a baseball bat as I walk toward the raspberry bushes. One whack from this thing could scatter Albert's brains into the next county.
