The Siren's Cry

by Jennifer Anne Kogler

  “They can’t do that when they’re inside the museum!” Lindsey exclaimed. “They might run into each other and knock something over.”

  It was a dilemma Candace was ashamed she hadn’t considered. Being able to teleport while invisible was the perfect skill set for a burglar. Having a partner in crime who couldn’t be seen, though, was potentially problematic.

  “Why don’t they talk to each other?”

  “It’s too risky. There are sound-activated recording devices,” Candace said. “We can’t leave any record of their voices. They’ll have to hold on to each other.”

  “Fine, fine, let’s get this over with,” Fern said, as if she were merely waiting to get blood drawn, instead of about to steal a multimillion-dollar item out of a national museum.

  “Where are you, Fern?” Miles asked, trying to follow the sound of her voice.

  “Right in front of the left side of the bench.” Fern felt Miles’s hand grab her hip.

  “That’s not my hand,” Fern said, annoyed. She felt for Miles’s hand and placed it in her own.

  Lindsey and Sam laughed, imagining where Miles’s hand might have landed.

  “Time to man your positions,” Candace announced to Lindsey and Sam.

  “Good luck,” Sam said, in the direction of the bench where he knew Fern and Miles were standing.

  “We’ll be waiting for you when you get back,” Lindsey added, abandoning the urge to give Fern a hug because she had no idea where Fern’s shoulder might be.

  “Thanks,” Fern said, still gripping Miles’s hand. Sam and Lindsey began running in opposite directions, streaking across the landscape in their dark clothing.

  “Are you ready? Miles asked.

  “Ready,” Fern responded.

  “Let’s go on three,” Miles said.

  They both looked down at the photo of the podium that held the moon rock, focusing on the exact location for their arrival as Candace had outlined.

  “One,” they both said.

  “Two,” they continued counting.

  “Three.”

  Candace thought she felt a slight breeze rush past her face.

  “Fern?” she said into the still darkness. “Miles?” Candace knew she was alone.

  Though Fern McAllister and Miles Zapo had disappeared from sight several minutes ago, now they were actually gone.

  Chapter 28

  The Imperfect Crime

  Fern had arrived standing up, but she was no longer holding Miles’s hand. She took a moment to marvel at where she was. Though most of the lights were off in the gallery, each of the room’s important exhibits was illuminated with dim spotlights. Fern hadn’t realized it before, but the ceiling was made of glass, which let in the capital’s ambient light. The windowpanes cast long, subtle shadows on the floor.

  Although it was dark, Fern could see out of the Milestones of Flight gallery to the street outside. Hanging above her head was the North American X-15, a rocket-powered research aircraft. Fern spotted SpaceShipOne floating above the south side of the gallery, gleaming in the darkness with its white rocketlike frame and red-tipped wings. It hung between Charles Lindbergh’s Spirit of St. Louis propeller plane and Chuck Yeager’s Bell X-1, a record-breaking supersonic jet.

  The silence was spooky. A few days before, the same gallery had been filled with screaming kids running around gazing up at all the famous planes and spaceships. Now, though, you would be able to hear the tiniest sliver of moon rock hitting the floor.

  She looked down at the podium curiously. The moon rock was there. The plaque on the podium, Fern noticed, called it the “Lunar Touchrock.” Museums always had a way of expressing things in fancy terms, she thought, making them sound more impressive.

  She cautiously felt around the podium for Miles, groping the stand as she circled it. At last she grasped something solid in what appeared to be the empty space in front of her. She wanted to shout his name, but with effort, she adhered to Candace’s strict silence warning.

  She felt a hand on her wrist. Fern was still flummoxed by the fact that she couldn’t see her own hands or Miles’s. It was more jarring than an out-of-body experience . . . it was a no-body experience.

  Miles gripped Fern’s wrist tightly as they moved toward the moon rock. With her free hand, Fern reached into her pocket and pulled out the screwdriver. She felt it in her invisible hand, but she couldn’t see it. She could hear the soft scratch as the tip of the screwdriver hit the smooth, shiny surface surrounding the small triangular Lunar Touchrock.

  As she wedged the screwdriver in the crevice between the moon rock and the shiny surface, Fern realized how unrealistic heist movies were. In the Commander’s favorite To Catch a Thief, which Fern had been forced to watch a half-dozen times, Cary Grant played a cat burglar stealing jewels while remaining cucumber cool. His hands never shook, his knees didn’t knock, he never breathed heavily, and there wasn’t the faintest trickle of perspiration on his face.

  But in the reality of the dark stillness of the Air and Space Museum, Fern was so nervous she thought she might throw up. She imagined being put in a “national treasure thief” prison. If she was locked up for the rest of her life, she questioned whether the Commander, Sam, and Eddie would even visit her. She might have to teleport out and spend the rest of her life on the lam, like Richard Kimble in The Fugitive, another of the Commander’s favorites.

  Her breathing became shallower until she wasn’t sure her lungs contained enough air for her to maintain consciousness. Her heart was thumping so loudly, she thought Miles could probably hear it. Of course, she couldn’t ask him. She worried that her shaking knees would give way, causing her to collapse on the floor.

  Fern inhaled deeply, guiding Miles’s hand to where she held the screwdriver securely in the crevice. She positioned his hand so that he would know where to aim the hammer. Wincing prematurely, imagining that when Miles brought the hammer down blindly, he would hit her hand and not the top of the screwdriver’s handle, Fern braced herself.

  THWAP!

  The metal of the hammer pounded the plastic of the screwdriver handle with force. Fern felt the reverberation shoot through her hand. The moon rock had not budged much, and Fern steadied herself for another blow, wondering how many it would take to pry it out.

  THWAP.

  The sound of the hammer’s second blow echoed off the walls of the Milestones of Flight gallery. Fern glanced around, scanning the edge of the gallery where the glass roof met the walls, seeing if any of the motion detectors, sensors, or alarms had been activated. Through the paned glass of the entrance, she spotted what she assumed was a security guard. The guard put something to his mouth, and Fern could see the momentary orange glow of a cigarette.

  Fern’s nerves were completely frayed.

  Was the man outside the night watchman? Was he supposed to be patrolling inside and had stepped out for a smoke break? Fern wanted more than anything to urge Miles to hurry, but there was no way to communicate with him verbally.

  THWAP.

  Fern lowered herself so that she was eye level with the triangular piece of stone. The hammering had lifted the rock enough for Fern to wedge her finger in next to the rock. A gooey substance was visible beneath the stone. A few more blows and she could get a good enough grip to pull the rock off with her hand.

  Riiiiiiiinnngggg!!!

  Fern leapt in the air. At first she assumed the hammering had activated the alarm. Then she felt Miles’s arm wrap tightly around her bicep, squeezing it with panic.

  Miles was terrified too.

  Then she recognized the sound—it was her phone. Both burglars knew the signal. One ring and they were to teleport out of the museum back to their meeting place. Two rings and they were to go back to the hotel. Either way, it was a very bad sign. Fern wondered if the night watchman outside had heard the hammering and alerted the police.

  Riiiiiiiinnngggg!!!

  Fern was dripping with sweat. She felt Miles’s continuing iron grip around h
er upper arm. Fern looked down at the moon rock. It was partially dislodged. A few more blows and they would have it. Her mind raced. Should they stay a few seconds longer in a final attempt to dislodge it? They were so close! But then again, most likely, so were the police.

  Riiiiiiiinnngggg!!!

  Fern let out a low gasp. Three rings wasn’t part of the established code. There was no three-ring signal. What did it mean? Outside, she saw a flashlight come to life. Whoever was there might not have heard the hammering, but the cell phone had been a dead giveaway. The light was now shining into the museum through the glass entrance, scanning the exhibits for any sign of movement. Fern heard the jingle of keys. Soon the watchman would be inside the gallery with Fern and Miles.

  Riiiiiiiinnngggg!!!

  Fern jammed the screwdriver back in her jacket and grabbed her phone in her pocket, fumbling to silence a device she couldn’t see. Suddenly she no longer felt Miles’s grip on her arm. He had teleported. Fern was alone and about to be caught invisible-handed.

  Chapter 29

  The Bush Ambush

  Fern didn’t hesitate for even one second. Her most daring instincts took over. A single image dominated her thoughts—the silver-glinted smile of Haryle Laffar. She could not abandon the moon rock, leaving it for him to steal. There simply was no other option.

  Minus Miles’s hammer, Fern would have to work quickly. She could hear the sound of the dead bolt retreating into the door after the guard slid his key into the slot. The flashlight gleamed near the doorway, advancing at waist level with the security guard.

  Quickly Fern grabbed the bolt cutters from beneath her jacket. Aghast when the shiny bolt cutters appeared fully visible before her, Fern realized that she’d not succeeded in turning the bolt cutters invisible. She was relieved, though, that at least her hands still could not be seen. The visibility of the bolt cutters worked to her advantage in one respect, allowing Fern to quickly place the closed blades directly beneath the loosened part of the moon rock. She shoved the metal head as deeply as it would penetrate beneath the rock.

  Then, as if on one end of a miniature seesaw attempting to launch an object from the other side, she raised up on her tiptoes and fell on the end of the bolt cutters, pushing with all the force in her on the red handles that extended out past the edge of the Lunar Touchrock podium. She felt a jolt as the head of the bolt cutters jerked violently upward, completely dislodging the moon rock.

  The maneuver accomplished exactly what Fern planned, hurling the small lunar arrowhead up in the air. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the guard, now in the gallery. Just as the moon rock took flight, the guard shone his flashlight on the podium.

  “Freeze!” he yelled, though he was unable to see Fern. The blade of the bolt cutters reflected in the flashlight’s white light.

  Distracted by the guard, Fern had completely lost sight of the rock. Her frantic eyes scanned the air, unable to spot it.

  Fern was about to give up until she found the rock in flight, inches below the Spirit of St. Louis.

  She took off sprinting.

  With one hand around the bolt cutters, she looked up, following the flight of the soaring rock like one of baseball’s best center fielders chasing a deep fly ball. She extended her hand as the rock plummeted back to earth. Fern quickened her pace, hoping to intercept it before it hit the ground.

  She reached it as it tumbled to eye level. Cupping one hand to form a pocket, she felt the smooth rock nestle into her makeshift invisible mitt.

  Then came the crash. Fern had been looking up, not forward, and was unable to see that the guard had been tracking the moon rock as well. They collided with a thud.

  Fern felt a crack as her skull hit the concrete floor. She wouldn’t allow herself to acknowledge the pain. Instead she clutched the bolt cutters in one hand and the moon rock in the other, as if her life depended on it.

  At that moment it did. She remembered the unending ring of her cell phone. Something unexpected must have happened—it was the only reason she could think of why Sam, Candace, or Lindsey would’ve let her phone ring more than twice. Even though everyone might have left the southern entrance by now, her invisibility would allow her to check the area as a precaution before teleporting to safety.

  With her skull throbbing on the hard floor of the Milestones of Flight gallery, Fern imagined the southern entrance. Blackness enveloped her. But she had the moon rock. She had triumphed.

  Fern knew that a clean landing was unlikely, considering her state of disarray at the moment of her departure from the museum. But sprawling across Candace’s planning bench was not the touchdown she’d hoped for. The bolt cutters dug into her side, and she rolled off the bench onto the ground. She stood up, gripping the bolt cutters, quickly determining that there was no sign of Lindsey, Candace, Sam, or Miles. She took the moon rock, which she carried snugly in the palm of her hand, and placed it carefully inside the zippered pocket of her jacket.

  As soon as the guard recovered, she knew he would summon the authorities. It was only a matter of time before the Air and Space Museum would be crawling with Capitol police.

  When he materialized in front of the bushes, calmly stepping out of the shadows, Fern froze.

  Haryle Laffar reached into his worn leather jacket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros and then a match. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and then struck the match on his gleaming silver tooth. The match sparked. Laffar held it to the end of the cigarette, and the tip burned red, then orange.

  “Next time,” Laffar said, his eyes focused on the far-off horizon, “you should probably get around to turning everything invisible.” His voice was rough and ragged. paralyzed, Fern studied Laffar. His outfit was the same as before; dirty dark jeans with his steel-tipped boots, sunglasses, and bandanna. Laffar chuckled, each laugh punctuated with gravel and phlegm. “Those bolt cutters almost blew your whole gig, you know?”

  Fern looked down at the bolt cutters that she held by her side. To Laffar, they must have appeared to be floating in air. He advanced toward Fern. She considered dropping the cutters and moving away from them so that Laffar could no longer locate her. In the distance, she heard police sirens.

  “I guess you aren’t exactly the talkative type, Fern McAllister, which I understand. But I’m gonna ask anyway. I need to know if I have to send the boy in to finish the job. Did you get the lunar rock or not?”

  Laffar tapped the steel of his boot against the concrete.

  “A yes or no will do just fine.”

  Laffar waited and Fern stood there, crippled with fear, wondering if Laffar had captured her friends.

  Laffar didn’t wait for Fern to answer. Instead he dropped his cigarette and lunged toward the floating bolt cutters. His clawlike hand made contact with her throat, squeezing as hard as he could, slamming Fern back against the bench with the force of his charge. Laffar growled like an attacking lion.

  He felt for the girl’s small windpipe with his strong hands and pressed down with his thumb. Fern could barely breathe. Trying to teleport, she couldn’t think of anything except her throbbing head and decreasing air supply. Tears collected in the corners of her eyes as she struggled in his grip as Laffar pressed her tightly against the bench. Her head was bent so far backward, Fern thought it might snap off entirely. As Laffar applied pressure to the blood vessels in her neck, she saw spots forming against the cold night sky. Her thoughts began to float away from her. Fern wondered which would happen first—the stopping of her heart or the crushing of her windpipe.

  “I’ll make this real simple for you, sweetheart,” Laffar purred in Fern’s ear. His breath was putrid. The back of the bench cut into the skin above her shoulder blades. “Your friends are all in a trance with my dear friend Flarge, not far from here. You have five minutes to produce the moon rock. If you don’t, I’ll kill 'em all,” he snarled.

  With a jolt, Laffar pressed harder against Fern’s throat. “And it won’t be an easy or pretty death, sweetheart. I can guar
antee you that.”

  Fern tried to speak but could only cough and gasp. Laffar lessened the pressure. When she spoke, she could hardly recognize her own voice.

  “I—I—have—it,” Fern said, coughing up a mixture of mucus and blood. Laffar smiled. For the first time, Fern saw the chiseled sharp fang in Laffar’s mouth, opposite the silver tooth. Laffar’s face had a coarseness that made his menacing smile all the more frightening.

  Fern couldn’t imagine how Haryle could possibly be related to Vlad. Though Vlad was menacing in his own right, he was polished, with a calculated, almost sophisticated appearance.

  “Where is it?” Laffar said, unwilling to remove his hand from Fern’s throat.

  “I want to see that my friends are still alive first,” Fern said defiantly with her hoarse voice.

  Laffar leaned in again, this time close enough that Fern could see her own reflection in the silver mirror of his tooth. Blood was dripping from her forehead. It was then that Fern realized she was no longer invisible. Miles’s magic had worn off.

  “Finally, we can see eye to eye. Swell,” Laffar said sarcastically. He stared into the girl’s eyes and was troubled by a bizarre familiarity. But he dismissed the thought. His repulsive breath made Fern squirm from his grasp.

  “I want to see my friends,” Fern said, coughing again as she restated her demand.

  “I don’t have a problem with that, considering that this place is going to be swarming with the police in about three minutes, but let me explain how this is going to work. You try anything and Flarge will break the neck of one of your friends. You teleport, and Flarge will kill one of 'em and I’ll ask questions later. I have five in total, so I can afford a few mistakes.”

  Fern figured he must have Sam, Lindsey, and Candace, but she wondered who the other two were.

  “Now walk,” Laffar said, finally releasing Fern. She put her hand on what seemed to be permanent indents where his fingers had been.

  Though wobbly, Fern followed Laffar down Independence Avenue, away from the Air and Space Museum. Laffar’s steel-tipped boots made a click-clack noise as he guided Fern, his painful grip on her shoulder. The two walked side by side and Fern’s earlier tears returned—she thought how different this scenario was from the way most teenage girls walked with their fathers among the storied monuments of Washington, DC. The real difference, Fern supposed, was that her father happened to be the embodiment of pure evil. The sidewalks on Independence Avenue were wide, and the avenue itself was six lanes across. They passed Seventh Street, and the blare of the police sirens seemed to come from only a couple of blocks away.