by June Whyte
Once again he must have read my thoughts because he snatched his police badge and card from inside the top of his boot and shoved it under my nose.
“Now, if I take my hand away from your mouth will you promise not to make a sound? They’re bad guys out there and wouldn’t think twice about doing away with a nosy kid as well as a cop.”
I nodded. Cop or killer—I needed air.
The rough authoritative voice I’d heard before drifted under the door. “I’ll be in the gym for quite a while, Marcia. No phone calls. No disturbances. And if you hear any screams or strange noises—ignore them. Understand?”
“Of course, Mr. Simpson.”
“That’s the boss.” Arty screwed up his face—made him look like he’d bitten into a wormy apple and swallowed the worm. “If he finds us—we’re toast.”
Seconds after the footsteps passed our door, Arty dug his hand into an inside pocket of his coat then turned to me. I felt a lump rising in my throat, tasted fear in my mouth as my eyes fixed on the black handled revolver in his hand.
“It’s okay, kid. Don’t be scared,” he soothed, squeezing my shoulder. “This is just insurance—in case I have no other way of getting you out safely.”
He inched the door open a crack, snuck a quick look outside, then closed it again. “Can’t escape that way. Marcia’s standing outside her office flirting with the foreman.” He turned to me, eyebrows dragging downwards. “You didn’t tell me who you are and how the hell you got here.”
“I’m Chiana—I’m a sort of friend of your grandfather. I caught a ride here in the back of his ute.”
He looked confused. “Why?”
“Why?” I repeated slowly. Good question. With killers on the outside of the door and a guy with a gun standing beside me, I couldn’t work out why either. “I—well…I thought you and your grandfather were egg thieves.”
“Egg thieves?”
“Remember—you bumped into me at the museum just before the dinosaur egg went missing. And what about the professor? He has all those weird eggs in his shed, so I thought—”
“Grandpa and his obsession with that dinosaur egg,” Arty broke in. “It belongs to him, you know. His father, my great-grandfather, Cyril Goodenough, discovered the fossil while digging in the Adelaide hills and donated it to the State museum. Of course, when Grandpa heard the egg had been stolen, he went ballistic. And when he found out Eric Simpson, the boss of this company, intended smuggling his precious Therizinosaur to a client in Japan, he insisted I get the egg back.” Arty ran his hand through his hair. “Now—between you and him—you’ve messed up the entire police operation.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know—”
A noise that sounded like a door being ripped off its hinges or two rhinos wrestling sounded outside the door. “Search every room! Tear everything apart! That traitor, Goodenough, can’t have gone far.”
“Yeah, boss. No worries. I told Arty you wouldn’t like him bein’ in your office. Didn’t know he was nicking the egg though.”
“Shut up, you moron, and go get him. Sugar says she saw him talking to some big knob detective yesterday and they were acting real friendly like. He’s either a cop or a grass. I’ll get Gonzo to make a nice pair of cement boots in Arty’s size then we’ll drop him in the river and see how far he can swim.”
Arty, his face a mask, moved over to the cleaner’s cupboard and pulled open the door.
“Get in here, kid,” he whispered. “And stay there until this is over. They don’t know you’re here.”
“But what about you?”
I could hear heavy footsteps getting closer. Another door slamming. Muffled grunts and more loud swearing.
“Don’t worry about me, kid. Just do exactly as I say.” He thrust a small parcel into my hand. “This is the dinosaur egg. Give it to Grandpa then ring the police. Ask for Detective Inspector John Gilman. Got it? John Gilman. He knows all about the operation. Tell him where I am and what’s happened.”
“But—”
“God, you’re as stubborn as that cantankerous old man out in the car. Stay hidden in the cupboard. Then, when they take me away, get yourself out of the warehouse and follow my orders. Can you do that for me, Chiana?”
I put on my ready-for-anything P.I. face and stepped inside the cupboard. “You got it,” I assured him as he closed the door behind me.
Two seconds later I heard an ear-splitting crash, a loud Oof, lots of yelling, then something or someone being dragged from the room.
SEVENTEEN
Fifty one. Fifty two. Fifty three.
Counting in my head stopped me from breathing too loudly. Or screaming. Hand covering my mouth, I stared at the deep scratch marks on the inside of the scarred cupboard door, traced the shape of what looked like a skull and cross-bones with the tip of one finger.
Fifty four. Fifty five. Fifty six.
The smell of disinfectant was making me gag. Any minute now I’d chuck up all over the cleaner’s mops and polishing rags.
Fifty seven. Fifty eight. Fifty nine.
A cold shiver sent goose-bumps galumphing down my arms. Noah was right. I should have waited for back-up. I was twelve years old—scared—close to vomiting. Who did I think I was? Rebecca Turnbull—twenty five, tough, and street-smart? Oh yeah—and a complete fragment of my imagination.
Once again, my heart did a leap-frog inside my chest. What if Meathead and Fingers were waiting on the other side of the cupboard door? What if they were waiting to bat a home run with my head when I poked it out?
Sixty.
Hardly daring to breathe, I inched open the cupboard door a chink and scanned the room with one wary eye.
Empty—except for the faint smell of garlic and what looked like splatters of blood on the grey tiled floor.
Arty’s blood?
I didn’t want to think about it. All I wanted to do was run.
After a quick glance along the passageway, I forced my legs to move slowly, one step at a time, into the main warehouse. The front door seemed a trillion miles away. I wanted to bolt toward it but knew I had to play it cool, not draw attention to myself. At every sudden sound or movement I jumped like a scared rabbit but no-one even glanced up as I walked by. The workers were as busy as ants stocking up for a long cold winter.
Six more steps and I’d be safe. Five…four…
“Hey, kid!”
I almost leapt through the roof. Two strides from the doorway a guy with a foreman-tag on the front of his grey coat put his hand on my shoulder. Was this Gonzo? Was this the guy who measured shoe sizes? Made cement boots for a living?
“You’ve no mind to be in her,” Gonzo/foreman said through his stained yellow teeth. “Didn’t you read the sign on the door? This is for workers only. If you want to place an order for your Dad or pick up brochures for a school project go around to the front office.”
“O-oh, s-sorry, mister,” I stuttered, shaking in relief.
Geez. This P.I. business was way too scary. There was a cop in the gymnasium being fitted with cement boots. I had a mega-million year old dinosaur egg in my pocket that the bad-guys would kill me for. And I’d gone and left my mobile phone in the cleaning-cupboard. I remember taking it out of my pocket, switching it to vibrate and then burying it under some towels in case the sudden noise gave away my hiding place.
Still shaking, I staggered outside, grabbed a gulp of fresh air and looked anxiously up and down the street. Where was the professor? Of course, Arty had told his grandpa to leave if he wasn’t back in fifteen minutes. Although it felt like I’d been inside the warehouse for a year, my watch showed it was only half an hour.
With a nervous glance over my shoulder I pulled the collar of my jacket up and hurried along the street. No professor meant there was no car to make a getaway. No mobile phone meant I couldn’t ring the police as Arty had ordered.
Things were looking black.
As I slipped around the corner of the warehouse, I could hear this totally awful singin
g. The song was about a dog called Shep and the singer had to shoot the dog because it was getting old. Totally sad and weird. But the good part—the music was coming from the professor’s car. Yay! Never before had I been so pleased to see Professor Goodenough or his beat up old ute. Against his grandson’s orders, he’d stayed close by, just driven around the corner to wait.
I opened the passenger side door and dropped into the seat beside him.
“Let’s scram,” I said slamming the car door and fastening my seat belt.
The professor turned a blank face toward me.
“I’m Chiana from the riding school. Remember?”
He leaned over and switched off his tape-deck then turned to me with a slight frown. “Of course I remember you, Chiana. But I am sorry, I can’t give you a lift, I am waiting for my grandson.”
“Do you know where the nearest phone box is, Professor? I left my mobile inside the warehouse and we need to ring the police.”
“Police?”
“Please. We have to get out of here. Arty’s in big trouble—”
“My Arty?”
“Yes. Gonzo, the cement-boots man, could be after me too. Come on, professor, let’s go!”
The professor, although shaking his head like it was full of cobwebs, turned the key in the ignition.
“The phone box is half a mile away,” he said, doing up his seat-belt. “What’s happened to my Arty? Is he hurt?”
“I don’t know,” I choked, trying to speak around the lump in my throat. “Your Arty saved my life. Made me hide in a cupboard so Fingers and Meathead wouldn’t find me. Then there was a fight and I heard Arty being dragged away to the gym.”
I couldn’t tell the professor about the blood. I didn’t even want to think about the blood.
One hand on the horn to warn a little green hatchback to move itself—now—the professor crunched the gears into top and roared fire-engine fast down the street.
“Arty gave me the Therizinosaur, Professor,” I said, fingering the foam-packed box in my pocket. “He said to give it to you.”
“What use is the egg to me if Arty gets hurt?” he asked. And then, more to himself, “I shouldn’t have pestered him about the egg. It’s my fault Arty’s in trouble.”
“It’s not your fault, Professor. The boss found out Arty was a cop. Nicking the egg just made him a bit madder.”
Neither of us spoke until we’d screeched to a halt in front of the public phone-box. While the professor emptied his pockets onto the hood of the car looking for coins, I pushed through the glass door and checked to see if the phone was in working order.
“No coins,” bleated the professor, sounding like a lost sheep.
Turning out my pockets I found a fifty cent coin, two twenty cent coins and a half-eaten Mars bar.
“Here, Professor,” I said handing over the money. “Arty said to ask for Detective Inspector John Gilman. That must be his boss.”
While the professor made the call, I jigged up and down on the footpath; all the time watching out for Fingers and Meathead. If the deadly duo did come looking for me where could I hide? Under the car? Up a tree? Inside a rubbish bin?
Suddenly, over the hill, with the weak sunlight shining behind them, four horse riders appeared. Jack, Noah, Sarah and Tayla. Laughter bubbled in my throat as they waved and trotted toward me. My assistants had never looked so beautiful. Even Sarah, who had this sour—you’re-going-to-cop-it-when-I-tell-Mum—expression on her face.
“Hey!” yelled Jack, his grin matching mine.
“Hey!” I yelled back.
“You okay?” growled Noah.
“No. They’ve got Arty. And now I think they’re after me.”
“Who’s Arty? Who’s they?” It was Tayla, confused, sort of sick looking, but definitely still part of the team.
“Arty’s the professor’s grandson. You know, Tayla, the Greasy-Hair guy from the museum. He’s been working undercover for the police, but the crooks found out and they’re fitting him for cement boots.”
Noah stared down at me. “And now they’re looking for you? But why?”
“I have the dinosaur egg.”
“You’ve got what?” Jack’s eyes shone. “Where?”
“In my—” I frowned. I’d suddenly caught sight of four motorbikes in the distance. Something about the way the riders hunched over their bikes, determined and down-to-business, made me freeze. There’d been four motorbikes outside the warehouse.
“Oh geez!” I gasped. “It’s Fingers and Meathead and they’ve got back-up.”
“Quick! Get on behind me!” Noah leaned over, grabbed my hand and yanked me up onto his horse.
I struggled to find my balance. “What about the professor? We can’t leave him.”
“No way am I getting on a horse,” growled the professor as he let the door of the phone box swing shut behind him. “The police will be here any minute. Get going. I’ll be alright.”
“But—”
“Chiana! Go! These men don’t know who I am. If you gallop across country, you might lose them.” Using his stick to walk more quickly, he hurried to the car, wrenched open the door and slid inside. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping. I said, go!”
The bikes roared closer.
“You heard the man!” yelled Tayla flicking Angel with her reins.
“And Chiana,” said the professor, his voice a squeak. “Try not to break my egg.”
These were the last words I heard before we galloped off. Mega fast. From whoa to go. And if I hadn’t clutched Noah around the waist in a python-grip, I’d have slid right off his horse’s back and landed on the bitumen.
EIGHTEEN
The big chestnut show jumper leapt the stone wall and galloped on. With my arms wrapped around Noah’s waist, I bounced up and down behind the saddle. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t see where we were going. I could barely breathe.
Knowing the countryside around Gawler better than we did, Noah took the lead in our race against the motor bikes.
“Everyone still here?” he yelled over his shoulder.
Grunts and yells greeted his question. I could imagine Tayla shaking in her stirrups behind us. She loved riding Angel but was terrified of jumping—and yet here she was, galloping across country and jumping everything in her path. No wonder I was proud to have her for a best friend.
And what about Sarah? Somehow she’d been different since we arrived at Treehaven. Horses must agree with my contrary stepsister because she was friendlier now. Not such a pain in the butt.
And Jack—well, Jack was Jack. Always there. Always reliable. Always happy to be in the middle of a mystery.
“They’re still following us,” Sarah yelled as she galloped up beside Noah’s chestnut. “They must have found an opening in the wall.”
I glanced over my shoulder. The snarl of the bikes hit the air like wet towels on a windy day. Oil and smoke choked my nostrils. Screams and whines, like wild beasts intent on a kill, echoed around the countryside. In fact, the bikers were so close I could see their black helmets and leather jackets painted with strange red symbols on the front.
Yeah. We were in major trouble.
“Okay, here’s the plan!” yelled Noah as the other riders caught up and galloped in a line beside us. “There’s a dam up ahead. It’s surrounded by trees so you can’t see it until you’re almost on top of it. What we’re going to do is lead them into the water. Got it?”
“And what about us?” asked Jack.
“Remember the game we played in Kate’s lesson? Bang and go back?”
“Yeah. So?”
“What we’ll do is gallop in a line toward the water and the moment I yell Bang, spin around and gallop in the opposite direction. With any luck they won’t see the water until it’s too late.”
The noise of the bikes ricocheted and boomed around us as shoulder to shoulder the horses hurtled toward the water. Unconsciously, I hung on tighter to Noah.
Closer. Closer.
; “Bang!” Noah yelled at last, his voice scratchy.
Every horse spun as though in a ballet production. Sarah and Tayla galloped off to the right. Jack, Noah and I to the left.
And the bikes kept on going.
I grinned and whooped as the sound of four individual splashes were followed by loud yells and colorful swearing. It was better than any music ever downloaded onto my iPod. In fact, when Finger’s bike ploughed into the water, the people in the main streets of Gawler could have heard him cursing.
“Yesss!” cheered Jack, punching the air.
We reined in the horses, turned and gazed back at the dam. The bikes had disappeared under the water and four wet mud-splattered figures were dragging themselves onto the bank.
“You’ll pay for this!” shrilled Meathead in his squeaky little girl voice. “You’ll pay big time!”
Not wanting to hear how he intended to make us pay, we trotted the horses away from the dam.
“Guess that’ll hold them for a while,” said Sarah, her grin as wide as a paddock fence. “They shouldn’t get too far before the police arrive.”
“Hey, look!” I pointed ahead. Down the path, heading toward us, rattling and rumbling in protest, came the professor’s trusty old ute. Such a friendly sight. I felt like hugging the driver.
And there was Arty. Hair matted with blood, a jagged cut on his forehead and one eye almost closed. He hung out the passenger side window and waved to us. “Everyone okay?”
“We are now,” I said grinning at him.
“I think you’ll find who you’re looking for in the dam,” said Noah with a laugh. “They went for an unplanned swim on their bikes.”
“You mean…” A satisfied smile spread slowly across Arty’s battered face.
“He means Meathead, Fingers, and their biker friends won’t be going anywhere in a hurry.”
“Oh yes they will.” The professor smirked. “They will be going to jail. About five minutes after you children took off, the police arrived. They rescued Arty and took Simpson off to headquarters for questioning. And there are two patrol cars directly behind us.”
As if on cue, police sirens could be heard approaching. Fast. Red and blue lights jittered and flashed as they drew nearer. I looked across at the dam and grinned. Four muddy figures were trying to bolt in four different directions.
