I’m free.
But what good is that? I’ll only be able to see my poor brother Zack on visiting days at the local jail.
Chapter 6
Yulefski stands outside, one leg bent, her foot against the brick wall like a stork. She runs her hands through her nest of hair. “Thought I’d wait for you,” she says.
I can’t talk. I can hardly even think.
I stand there, looking up the street, waiting for the sound of sirens and flashing lights as the police car comes for Zack.
Yulefski steps forward, tapping the book that’s still under my arm. “You’ve got it!” She reaches out.
I keep a firm grip on it. Tinwitty’s treasure is my only hope to spring Zack from jail.
I picture my private jet circling the prisoners’ exercise yard. No, wait, it’s a helicopter with one of those long strings hanging out. I’ll send Yulefski down on the string and she’ll pluck Zack up into the air, with his white beard and cane.
I’ll even give her a diamond ring for her trouble.
“A diamond ring,” Sarah breathes.
I jump. Did I say that aloud?
She gives me a rainbow smile. “I’m too young to get engaged,” she says. “Maybe next year.”
Sheesh!
I’m in such a state, she even manages to pull the book out of my arms, pages flying again.
Footsteps bang down the hall. Diglio’s feet, probably size forty!
I slide in behind a bush—no sense in having us both incarcerated—as he pulls Zack along by the ear.
Ouch.
They stop at the front door of the dentist’s office.
“Whatever you Moran kids are up to now,” Diglio snarls, “I’m on to you. Tell that to your sneaky brother.”
Sarah speaks up. “Hunter’s not so bad, Dr. Diglio. We’re almost engaged. He’s going to buy me a diamond ring.”
Diglio looks at her as if she’s lost her mind.
I do the same thing.
Diglio gives Zack’s ear one final twist, swivels around, and marches inside, slamming the door behind him so hard the little glass window rattles.
Zack is free.
We begin to run, the three of us. We tear up Murdock Avenue, Zack and I yelling, “Yee-ha!” and Sarah screeching about treasure.
We stop dead.
Our treasure.
Sarah keeps going, with the book under her arm. She heads for the town round and slides onto a bench in front of Tinwitty’s huge iron soup pot.
Next to me, Zack whispers, “There’s no help for it, Hunter. We’ll have to cut her in on the big bucks.” He shakes his head. “Too bad. A three-way split.”
Just as well, I think. Sarah is bent over the book, devouring it. She’s probably the fastest reader in all of Newfield, even beating out Sister Appolonia. I hate to admit it. She might even be smarter than me.
Zack and me put together.
We slide onto the bench, one on each side of her, to look over her shoulder.
She reads aloud, telling us about Lester Tinwitty’s last look at Soup Bone, as the dog trots east with the pirate crew. Lester is in such a state that he gives up soup and takes up painting.
Zack and I look at each other. That’s where William got it from. But never mind that. “What about the poem?” I ask Yulefski.
She wrinkles her forehead. She stops reading and turns down the corner of the page.
Mrs. Wu would have a fit.
Yulefski flips through the book, pages whirring. She doesn’t bother to ask what we’re talking about. “Poem,” she mutters. “I thought I saw . . .”
And there it is. She holds up the page and reads a few lines. “Lester writes a poem for his granddaughter, Josephina, someone to find the treasure for Soup Bone.”
She looks up, then reads the poem:
TWO STEPS DOWN.
HEAR THE SOUND?
DIG AROUND.
UNDERGROUND.
“It’s under the school, I’m sure of it,” Yulefski says, running her hand over the book as if it’s actually Tinwitty’s treasure.
“But how do we get under the school?” Zack asks.
“That’s the problem,” Yulefski says.
Wait a minute. Here come Mom and Pop, arm in arm, taking a walk. Pop home from work? Already?
Zack reads my mind. “It’s Sunday,” he whispers. “Pop doesn’t work all day.”
We have no time to think about treasure. Pop thinks we’re emptying the backyard of a thousand falling leaves.
What to do?
Where to go?
In front of us is Tinwitty’s soup pot, up on a stand.
Never mind. We dive in.
It’s disgusting, filled with old leaves; a couple of ice cream cups float in a puddle of water. We sit there, feet wet, trying to figure out how soon we can get out of there.
Chapter 7
After school on Monday, Zack and I blow up about a hundred balloons for Fred’s party. William is drawing a fake tattoo on his arm, while Linny and her friend Becca drag tables and chairs around in the yard, whispering to each other . . . as if we care about their private stuff.
The tattoo finished, completely smudged, William paints something across his wrist—who knows what . . . a cougar, maybe. But I can’t concentrate on that, I have hardly any breath left from that balloon blowing, or from rushing to rescue K.G., screaming from her crib upstairs.
I run up to grab her. “Hey, Killer Godzilla,” I say, carrying her down to see what’s going on. She needs a diaper change desperately, but I’m ignoring that.
If we can figure things out, if we end up being rich, I’ll hire someone. All he’ll have to do is change diapers, dozens of them every few minutes.
And the party begins. Half the neighborhood is here to sing around Mom’s lopsided cake: “Happy birthday, dear Fred, happy birthday to you.” Sarah Yulefski is the loudest, her chocolate-milk mustache quivering.
Fred wears a pirate party hat that looks like a third ear, exactly like the ears of Alfred, the cemetery boss. Already Fred is chomping down on one of his presents, a greasy bone from William.
Yulefski keeps tilting her head, glancing toward the back of the yard. Sheesh. She wants to tell me something, probably about a diamond ring.
Do I want to hear?
Bad enough Zack and I have to waste the afternoon at Fred’s party, when we should be hot on the trail of the treasure.
Sarah pokes my arm. “News,” she whispers urgently.
I take a pretzel off the table and nibble at one end as I stare up at the leaves blowing around. If only they’d sail out front and across the street.
Yulefski gives me a pinch. “More about the treasure,” she whispers.
“We’d better listen,” Zack says, reminding me that she probably read all of The Fascinating History of Newfield last night.
We follow her to the back of the yard. But what’s this? Bradley is sneaking along in back of us, listening.
We stop dead. Yulefski puts her hands on her hips. “Get lost, Bradley,” she says, not a fearful bone in her body today.
We watch Bradley pull the leaves off the lowest tree branch and tear them into pieces. “I have partners, you know,” he says. “Watch out!”
He turns back to the party table as a shiver runs through my bones. Could they be his two brothers? They’re both partners in bullying?
“I’ve solved one problem,” Sarah says, herding us into a corner of the fence.
Sure.
“I know how to get under the school.”
A relief. We don’t have to think about pneumatic drills and hard hats.
“There’s a coal chute, built by Lester himself.”
What is she talking about, anyway?
But just then, the wind blasts through the yard and balloons float above our heads.
Fred takes a bite of one. It explodes, and he takes off under the fence, going a hundred miles an hour.
“Get him,” Steadman yells, “he’s spoiling his ow
n birthday party!”
“Don’t move. Stay right there,” I tell Steadman. “We’re on his case.”
Zack gives out a piercing whistle that can be heard all the way to the town round and Lester Tinwitty’s soup pot. But Fred doesn’t stop.
Zack and I chase after him, yelling, “Sit! Stay!”
And behind us, with a mound of cookie dough ice cream in his mouth, William shouts a garbled “Give me your paw,” Fred’s only trick.
As if that would stop him.
I throw myself over the fence into the churchyard, leaving one sneaker behind.
Zack is right in back of me. We crash through the dried-up fountain that’s filled with crumpled leaves and circle the bird-gunked statue of St. Egbert.
Ahead of us is the open schoolyard gate. And ahead of us, for one brief second, is Fred’s skinny brown tail.
And then he’s gone.
Completely gone.
I lean against the brick wall of the school, one bare foot in the air. Next to me, Zack is furious. “That dog is almost as much trouble as Linny,” he mutters.
I look around, ready to yell, “Give me your paw!” I’m that desperate.
We circle the school one more time. And then . . .
Zack’s eyes open wide. He raises one finger to point.
What does he see?
Nothing but a brick wall. And behind the bushes, a little graffiti. SCHOOL SUCS. No doubt it was written by Bradley the Bully. I think about his brothers. Bigger. Stronger. Bigger bullies.
When Sister Appolonia sees it, she’ll have him wash down the wall. She’s the only one I know who’s tougher than he is.
But then I see what Zack’s looking at. Hidden behind a pile of crumpled leaves, a few sticks and stones, there’s a half-open door, not even kid-sized, it’s that small. “It’s like Snow White and the Eight or Nine Dwarfs,” Zack says.
“You mean What’s-Her-Face in Wonderland,” I say.
But then it comes to me. Coal chute. That’s what Yulefski was talking about.
Zack nods. “Pop told me about that once. In the olden days, they heated the school with lumps of coal. A truck came in and dumped them down—”
We hear a yip.
Fred’s yip.
I open the door farther, stick my head in. Down in the darkness, I see a pair of eyes.
Fred’s eyes.
“Here, boy,” I say, snapping my fingers.
Boy doesn’t here.
“It’s too slippery for him to climb back up,” Zack says.
I know it. There’s only one thing to do.
We have to slide down there.
I try not to think about how we’ll get up again.
Chapter 8
I poke in my head. It just fits. Suppose I get stuck? I’ll be wedged in here forever, breathing dust, dirt, and sticky cobwebs.
Think positively, Sister Appolonia would say. All right. My neck’s no problem. It’s skinny as a pretzel.
But here come my shoulders. Squeeze, I tell them.
At that moment, Zack grabs my two feet, stones embedded in one of them, and gives me a gigantic push.
Then . . .
Yeow.
I’m not stuck; I’m hurtling down into the darkness, like that rocket on TV. Last Sunday, it headed toward extinction as it crashed into a giant metropolis.
Steadman screamed through the whole thing.
I’m screaming now, too.
Something is crushing me, coming fast.
It’s Zack behind me, hurtling to extinction as well. I just hope Fred gets out of the way.
Too bad my mouth is wide open. Something has just passed my teeth, down my throat. It’s one of those huge black spiders, I know it is.
We reach the bottom, but we don’t stop. We barrel across the dirt floor, heads banging, stones digging into us, arms scraping against cement walls.
I take a breath.
Wait a minute.
I pat the dirt floor next to me.
Could it be?
Yes, Fred has led us to the treasure’s burial ground.
Then it hits me. What about snakes? What about rattlers, cobras, pythons, all guarding the treasure?
Far above us is a huge sound. The wind—I hope it’s the wind and not Bradley—has slammed the door shut.
We’re in total darkness, with hardly any room to move. And who knows what venomous things are moving around us?
The birthday party seems miles away.
Linny will be furious; we’re supposed to give out the party favors, stale puppy biscuits and rolled-up liver dog treats wrapped in blue cellophane so the guests don’t see what they’re getting.
Zack and I drag ourselves up against the wall and sit there, just breathing. “Letting the dirt settle,” Zack mutters, trying for a laugh.
I’m not laughing. No one will look for us until dinner.
By bedtime, William will have moved into our room with all his junk. It’s bigger than his, after all. He’ll be painting most of the night, probably more of those green lumps.
And by tomorrow, Pop will realize that we haven’t picked up one leaf. He’ll be furious. And wait until he goes down to his man cave and spots his birdhouse in a million pieces. I can see him holding his head, whispering, “There goes Here’s to Wildlife.”
Maybe he won’t even come to our funeral.
But poor Mom. She’ll feel terrible.
If I ever get out of here, I’m going to do something really great for her. As soon as I get the big bucks, of course.
But what about the dog? I try for a whistle, but my mouth is dry.
“Hey, Fred.” I hear the irritation in my voice. It’s all his fault.
Fred doesn’t call back.
Is he still alive? If not, Steadman will never forgive us.
“Fred!” I yell again. “Get over here!”
From under my feet there’s a growl, and then a sharp bite to my ankle. Fred. Please let it be Fred who’s doing the biting and not a rattler.
“It’s Fred,” Zack says, reading my mind. “Acting like a killer.”
My voice is suddenly muffled. Something is covering my mouth.
Zack’s filthy hand.
I can hardly breathe.
Then I hear a voice I recognize. It’s Sister Ramona, the first-grade teacher. She’s older than Sister Appolonia by about fifty years, and a nervous wreck.
No wonder. She gives drum lessons after school every afternoon. The sound probably drives her crazy. Bang, bang, boom!
“Who’s there?” she quavers.
Where is she?
Now I see a rim of light. Is it coming from underneath a door?
Whew! We’re not trapped in here forever.
Sister Ramona is talking to someone. “Thieves, robbers,” she says, her voice rising. “Killers. They’ve said so themselves. One of them is named Fred.”
Sister may be almost as old as Lester Tinwitty, but there’s nothing wrong with her ears.
Someone answers her. Zack presses his hand harder on my mouth.
I recognize that voice, too.
“It’s your imagination,” says Sister Appolonia. “Just lock the door anyway. If robbers are in there, they’ll run out of air in no time. They’ll be buried for the next millennium, maybe two.”
Sister Appolonia doesn’t have an ounce of pity.
“Good idea, Apple,” Sister Ramona says.
Apple?
Zack begins to laugh.
Hysterical, but we’re going to strangle ourselves to death any minute. I take tiny breaths, saving myself for another minute or two.
But maybe we’re buried here for the next millennium . . .
Maybe two.
And Lester Tinwitty’s treasure may be right here with us.
Chapter 9
The rim of light disappears. The footsteps fade away into the distance.
“When we’re rich,” Zack says, “I’m never going to get myself into a mess like this again.”
“Me,
neither.”
We don’t mention that this may be our tomb, that we’ll never get out.
Fred is digging into my other ankle now. It’s definitely Fred. I recognize the growl that goes with every bite.
How late is it, anyway? The party must be long over.
Dinner, too.
It’s probably the middle of the night. Mom will be coming to look for us, stumbling along in the dark, with a flashlight and no battery.
Next to me, Zack scootches around, moving an inch at a time, his elbow in my neck.
“What?” I say.
“I’m looking for the door.”
You can’t beat Zack for brains, but I don’t want to remind him that the door is locked.
“Before we run out of oxygen,” he manages.
Beneath me, Fred sounds as if he’s frothing at the mouth. He does that when he’s annoyed. He wants to get out of here as much as we do.
“Too bad, Fred,” I say. “Your miserable life is coming to an end.” Desperadoes On the Loose, Monday, three-thirty.
I hear footsteps. Coming toward us?
Yes.
I’m about to yell for help, but then I remember. Sister Appolonia would probably have us expelled.
Next to me, Zack whispers, “Wait.”
From the other side of the door a voice whispers, too. “I can’t let you be mummified in there.”
Mummified? Horrible. No one would even recognize us. We’d end up in a museum behind a glass window, the sign reading TWO BOYS FROM ANTIQUITY; ONE WAS CALLED FRED. THEIR FAITHFUL COMPANION LIES BENEATH THEM—A LION, PERHAPS.
The quavering voice goes on. “I’m going to unlock the door. Don’t try to escape until you count to a thousand by twos. Slowly.”
That would take all night.
“I’ll be listening,” Sister Ramona says. “I’m tougher than I sound, and I have a pair of drumsticks in my fists. I’ll bop you over the head if you come out sooner.”
Fred growls.
“Are you speaking English?” Sister asks.
Zack snickers.
I whisper to myself as fast as I can, trying not to breathe, in case I run out of air. Two, four, six, eight, ten. Concentrate, I tell myself.
On and on.
Hunter Moran Digs Deep Page 3
