Hunter Moran Digs Deep

by Patricia Reilly Giff

  Zack and I shudder. The bridge is high over our heads. A good-sized elephant could fall through the spaces in between the bars.

  “Down!” Zack almost screams at Steadman. “Two steps down.”

  “Steadman’s right,” a voice says in back of us. “The bridge will give us a bird’s-eye view. You’ll be able to see the holes under the station.”

  How did she get here?

  “She means us,” Zack mutters, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

  I don’t bother to turn around.

  “You try it,” Zack tells her.

  “I’ll go,” Steadman says. “Just hold on to Fred, or he’ll wind up in the cemetery again.”

  Zack and I look at him with horror as he barrels toward the metal rungs of the bridge.

  “No!” we yell together. We’re seeing him spread out across the tracks, head bashed in, feet missing. Imagine telling that to Mom.

  “We’ll do it,” I say, thinking of all that money buried somewhere below. Thinking of Pop’s Here’s to Wildlife entry. Thinking of leaving school. Thinking of sunshine in Hawaii, as the rain runs down in rivulets under my T-shirt.

  “Get going,” Yulefski says.

  Zack and I begin to climb, hand over hand against the sharp rungs, feet curled around each one. There must be a hundred steps. Yes, because it’s a hundred miles up.

  The rain pours down my face and I have to rub my nose. I have to . . .

  I stop. With one hand I rub my face, as Yulefski yells from below, “Don’t stop, Hunter. And don’t look down.”

  Steadman is arguing with her. “They have to look down. Otherwise, they’ll never find . . .”

  I stop listening to them. I see the town round in the distance. I see the ground far underneath me. Steadman looks smaller; so does Yulefski. I hear the sound of my breath. If we fall it will be the end of us.

  But at last we reach the top. We lie across the span, the rain beating down. We hold on, knuckles white. Far down along the tracks, lights from another train are closer.

  Is it coming or going? It doesn’t make any difference. It’s going to pass right underneath us.

  We plaster ourselves to the bridge, arms, legs, and feet, as the train thunders along, everything shaking, the noise deafening, and then it passes, the wind like a cyclone.

  We close our eyes against bits and pieces of dirt and stubby little sticks flying up at us, and wait until the bridge stops shaking underneath us.

  I open one eye. I see the tracks, the walkway outside the station where Steadman, Fred, and Yulefski peer up at us. I see that any minute, Zack and I are going to fall through the spaces and end our miserable lives under the next train as it hurtles toward the city.

  But Zack sees something else. He grabs my sleeve.

  “Don’t wiggle me,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m getting dizzy.”

  “Look,” he says.

  I open the other eye . . .

  . . . and see what he sees. Not far from Steadman is a set of mossy steps; they wind down under the station.

  And now I hear the sound again. Yes, here comes the 9:14 far down along the tracks.

  It all fits. I think of Pop’s birdhouse, William raking leaves, a new desk for Sister Ramona, motorcycle lessons for Mom.

  I lean over to see better.

  And then . . .

  I’m falling.

  Falling.

  Yeoooooow!

  Chapter 17

  . . . And caught.

  How caught?

  Who knows? I’m screaming so loud I can hardly tell.

  Upside down, I see Steadman below, zigzagging back and forth, arms out. He thinks he’s going to catch me!

  “I’ve got you, don’t worry,” a voice says from the ladder just below us.

  I swivel around, trying to peer through the rain that’s threatening to drown me.

  I know that Zack is above me. I can hear him yelling. “Save Hunter, whatever you do!”

  Who’s doing the saving?

  I swivel harder.

  “Hold still, for Pete’s sake,” says a voice. An irritable voice, as William . . .

  William!

  . . . grabs, pulls, yanks, until I’m on the ladder going down.

  Who would have thought: William!

  “Thanks,” I manage, breathing hard, my feet firmly beneath me.

  He mutters something, then backs down the ladder and disappears into the mist like Gray Ghost Swallows the Earth, Thursday afternoon, four-thirty.

  I look after him with my first good feeling about him. A surprised feeling. He just saved my life.

  Zack follows me down the ladder. Steadman is crying. “I thought you were a goner.”

  Even Fred is whining.

  And Yulefski says, “I thought you’d be dead before we were even engaged.”

  I look toward the steps under the station. “It was a good thing we climbed the bridge, or we’d never have seen them,” I say.

  “So let’s go,” Steadman says.

  “Wait,” Yulefski says. “We don’t want the train guys to see us.”

  Steadman shakes his head. “They’ll think we’re working on the tracks.”

  Zack bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “You’re only five, Steadman.”

  Steadman frowns. “Good point.”

  Now I bite my lip.

  “We’re wasting time.” Yulefski hunches her shoulders against the rain and starts for the end of the platform, dragging the shovel. “No one’s here anyway.”

  “Told you,” Steadman says. “They’re inside, eating Skittles.”

  We follow along. I’m last because I’m still recuperating from my near miss with death. Rain rolls down my back. I wish I were home raking leaves.

  Across the street, I see William coming out of Color Your World paint store. He’s lugging two huge cans of paint. It looks as if he has enough there to cover the whole town of Newfield.

  But I can’t complain. Didn’t William save my life?

  I can’t get over it.

  In front of my eyes, Yulefski and Steadman have disappeared. Zack waves me on. “We just have to jump to get to the steps.”

  I’ll have to jump about twenty feet.

  I’m not a great jumper. I’m not even a good jumper. My stomach turns over.

  Zack takes a running leap. There’s a thud, an “Oof,” and I can see he’s moving down there, so I close my eyes and tell myself big bucks are on their way. I sail off the platform down into the mud.

  Double “Oof.”

  And there are the steps. They lead to a tunnel that goes under the track, under the siding. I pick myself up and run through it.

  Ahead of me, Steadman is shouting, the noise echoing. “Monnnnnneeeeeyyyy.”

  Over my head, the 9:14 thunders by.

  Big bucks, I tell myself. Big, big bucks.

  A moment later, we find ourselves in an old workroom with tools rustier than Pop’s.

  I hear sounds, though. Someone, or something, is scrabbling around.

  We’re not alone in here.

  Yeow.

  Chapter 18

  “You’re not very brave, Hunter,” Yulefski says, chewing her gum and snapping on her flashlight. “I probably should be engaged to Bradley the Bully.”

  “Probably,” I agree. There isn’t enough light to see three inches in front of us.

  I grab Steadman’s hand and back out of the workroom as fast as I can.

  Yulefski doesn’t back out. Already she’s shoveling into the muddy dirt. “We’ll have the money before lunchtime,” she mutters to Zack.

  “Zack,” I call into the room. “I think you’d better get out of there.”

  He pokes his head out and whispers, “Do you want her to get all the money? I have to protect our investment.”

  He sounds like that guy on TV: Sunday morning, eight o’clock. It’s Your Money. Make the Most of it! Pop sits in his big chair every week in time to watch, moaning that he has no money to speak of.

/>   But that will all change. We’ll give Pop a generous allowance every Saturday. We won’t even count it out, the way he counts out our money.

  And we definitely won’t tell him, “A penny saved is a penny earned,” the way he tells us.

  Zack figured it out once. If we saved a penny every week, we’d only have fifty-two cents at the end of the year. No wonder Pop has no money to speak of.

  So Zack is right. No matter what, or who, is in there, I have to protect my investment.

  So that’s what we do. We crawl back in.

  “Mice,” Yulefski says. “Cute little things, red eyes, skinny tails.”

  “They like to watch us,” Steadman says. “It gives them something to do.”

  Great.

  “Give me the shovel,” I tell Yulefski.

  She hands it over and I begin to dig. It’s harder than I thought. Clumps of mud come up and stick to the shovel, until it weighs about a hundred pounds.

  It’s a relief that this room is small. Still, it will probably take about six weeks to dig up the whole place. By that time, the blisters that are popping up on my hands will be hardened, but I’ll probably have that lung disease that miners get.

  I see it. My family around my bed. Even William will be crying as I gasp out my last breath. My last rich breath.

  And now someone is calling.

  Screaming, actually.

  Linny, of course. “Steadman . . . STEAD-MAN!”

  Should we answer?

  “Everyone wants me,” Steadman tells Yulefski. He stands up, filthy, and goes to the entrance. “We’re digging for treasure!” he shouts.

  “Don’t . . .” I begin, but it’s too late.

  “Are you with Hunter and Zack?” Linny yells.

  I shake my head. But it will be worse if she thinks he’s alone and tries to get over here to capture him.

  I lean out. “He’s with us, don’t worry. We’re playing a game.”

  “Unplay,” she says. “Get home. It’s time for lunch and Mom doesn’t know where you are.”

  Sheesh.

  Lunchtime? Already?

  Yulefski sighs. “I’ll carry on,” she says, “even though I’m starving.”

  Zack and I look at each other. We’re free for the moment.

  We take ourselves out of there and head for home, passing Linny, who has her hands on her hips. “Someday, Steadman,” she says, “I’m going to pay someone to follow you around.”

  She stops. “You have mail, Hunter.”

  I have mail? This is the first time that’s ever happened. No, once I received an invitation to a pie-eating contest. Actually, it was addressed to William.

  “I never get anything,” Steadman complains.

  “Where is it?” I ask, going toward her.

  “In my pocket.” Linny brushes past us and heads for home.

  “Hand it over,” Steadman says. “It’s a crime to take other people’s mail. You could go to jail, maybe for fifty years.” He shakes his head. “Maybe a little less because it’s your brother.”

  Linny rolls her eyes. She digs into her pocket with two fingers and pulls out a crumpled envelope. It’s as filthy as Steadman.

  No stamp. Just H. MORAN printed in huge block letters.

  Linny leans over my shoulder.

  I hold it close to my T-shirt. A little more mud won’t make any difference. “Private.”

  “I could have looked, you know,” she says.

  She’s right. I’ll give her that.

  We head for home, the four of us. I’m dying to see what the letter says. So is Zack. But we need to wait. We have to wash first and change. Nana has come for lunch. It takes forever to crunch down all the green lettuce and celery salad stuff Mom has made because Nana loves it.

  But at last, Zack and I sit on the cellar steps by ourselves. I try not to think about the ruined birdhouse in Pop’s man cave. I’m feeling we have to hurry, though. We’re running out of time.

  I tear the envelope across the top. It’s printed out from someone’s computer.

  I bring it up to my nose. It has an odd smell, something familiar. But what?

  “Never mind that,” Zack says. “What does it say?”

  I hold it out so we both can see it.

  YOU’RE SEARCHING IN THE WRONG PLACE.

  YOU’LL NEVER FIND IT ANYWAY.

  STOP LOOKING, OR THERE WILL BE TROUBLE.

  “He could be dangerous,” Steadman says over my shoulder.

  We rear back to look at him. “How do you know?”

  “You think I can’t read?”

  We don’t answer. That’s what we think; that’s what we thought. But who knows, when it comes to Steadman? Maybe he’s learned in the last few days.

  Fred leaps up from wherever he was, grabs the note, and tears it to bits.

  And Yulefski appears an hour later, her hair more snarled than usual, her jeans a muddy mess. She raises her shoulder. “No luck at the train station,” she says.

  No luck at all.

  Chapter 19

  After school on Friday, I have a quick drum lesson with Sister Ramona. It’s very soothing, with lots of “Yowdie Yo”s, and cymbals bashing.

  But then, before dinner, Zack and I hold an emergency meeting. I slash my throat with one finger. “An anonymous letter writer who wants to do us in. Maybe Bradley the Bully and his miserable brothers.”

  Zack holds his head. “And what about Here’s to Wildlife tomorrow?”

  “If only we could find that treasure.” I’m almost moaning.

  Zack counts on his fingers. “Snake, arrow, and an S on the gravestone.”

  “Two steps down. Hear the sound,” I add.

  Impossible. We’ll have to work on that birdhouse. Somehow get it into shape by tomorrow.

  “And that’s impossible, too,” Zack says, reading my mind.

  We head down to the man cave and Zack fiddles with the doorknob, twisting hard. “It’s locked,” he says.

  We stare at each other, shocked. If Pop did this, we’re toast.

  We haul ourselves upstairs and sink onto a pair of chairs in the kitchen. Steadman is lying under the table, thumbing through a book. Mary is banging spoons in her high chair, and Mom is standing at the stove.

  Something in the oven smells awful.

  “Hun-ter,” I tell Mary, trying not to think about Pop’s birdhouse.

  Mary drops the spoons and picks up a Cheerio, paying no attention to me. Then Linny comes into the kitchen, sniffing, and William ambles in right after her.

  “What’s that cooking?” Linny asks.

  “I’ve made anchovy pizza,” Mom says. She sounds proud of herself.

  “I thought it was something like that,” Zack says.

  “I don’t think I’m having dinner tonight,” William says. He looks like a mess. He has sawdust in his hair and orange paint on his nose. “Is Pop coming home for dinner?”

  Good question. We all know Pop will make us eat a slice or two.

  “He’ll be late,” Mom says. “I’ll reheat some for him.”

  “Too bad we can’t eat with him,” William says, and we all try not to grin.

  Mom slides the pizza tray—loaded with anchovies—onto the table, and from underneath, Steadman speaks up. “Anchovies aren’t so bad. In this book . . .”

  I hear him slap his head so hard his brains must be rattling. “So that’s it,” he whispers. “I was wrong about the train station.”

  Mom leans over. “What are you doing down there?”

  “Reading an old book I found in the basement,” he says. “It has one of Lester Tinwitty’s snake soup recipes.”

  “And you can read that?” Linny asks, rolling her eyes.

  “I’ve been in kindergarten for weeks,” he says. “Do you think we just sit around doing nothing?”

  Zack snickers, but I swallow, thinking about the snake on the gravestone, wondering. “What about snake soup?”

  “You cut up a snake,” Steadman says, “and put it i
n a soup pot.”

  Linny sets down her slice of pizza.

  Zack’s mouth opens.

  “I know where . . .” Steadman says, but he’s told us enough. I stand up so fast my chair bangs into the cabinets.

  “Keep my pizza warm, Mom,” Linny says, and bangs out the door.

  “Mine, too,” Zack says.

  Mom is shaking her head. “Not one moment of peace.”

  Zack and I barrel into the garage and grab a shovel. Then we tear down the block, yelling, “Soup pot!”

  “Wait for me!” Steadman shouts, Fred barking madly behind him.

  We grab Steadman’s hands and pull him along. “We have to stop for Yulefski,” I say, through Fred’s noise. “It’s only fair.”

  “A waste of time,” Zack says. “But you’re right.”

  And that’s what we do: ring the bell, bang on the knocker. It seems to take forever. “We know where the treasure is,” we call in the window.

  And there she is, at the door at last. She flies down the steps. “What are we waiting for?” she yells. “Let’s go!”

  Chapter 20

  We dash along the street, trying to catch our breath. “The clues were about soup,” I manage to tell Yulefski.

  Zack says, “The arrow points toward the town round . . .”

  “The S is for Lester’s soup pot.” Steadman raises his arms in the air. “I’m the one who figured it all out.”

  Moments later we reach the entrance to the town round. Ahead of us is the soup pot, up on two steps.

  We stop dead, bumping into each other. We’re not alone! Bradley the Bully is marching around Lester’s soup pot, a shovel over his shoulder, while Linny and Becca look on.

  Linny and Becca? They’re Bradley’s partners?

  “We can’t waste a minute,” Zack says, “otherwise we’ll have to split the treasure six ways.”

  “Seven ways,” Steadman says.

  We dash up toward the soup pot. “Too late,” Bradley says. “We’re starting to dig. The treasure’s all ours.”

  Linny leans over the soup pot. “Ski lessons for me.” The pot echoes back, for meeee. “A trip to Switzerland.” Laand. She grins. “Hear the sound?”

  “I’m going with you,” Becca says.

  I close my eyes. We’ll get a carpenter for the birdhouse. And school is history. But then I think about drumming. I feel the rat-tat-tat deep in my chest. I’ll pay Sister Ramona a thousand dollars a week for lessons.