by June Whyte
Sixteen
“If you weren’t at school this morning, where were you?” Mum thumped the empty saucepan on the table.
“Tayla’s bike got a flat tire and—”
“I just can’t trust you anymore.”
Mum slammed a bag of potatoes beside the saucepan and drew a serrated edged knife from the cutlery drawer.
“But Mum, Tayla’s bike—”
“Until a few weeks ago, the worst thing I could accuse you of was dressing like a scarecrow. Now you’ve turned into an alien. What’s going on, Cha?”
The knife sliced through the air, coming very close to shredding a hanging Aloe Vera plant. Leroy slunk belly down out of the room.
Yep! You guessed it. The stepsister from Hell had dobbed Tayla and me in for cutting school that morning. And even now, Sarah hung around like the pong from a stinky squashy fart.
“I told you, Mum, we just went for a ride and lost track of time.”
“All morning?”
“Tayla rode over some glass and got a flat tire so we had to walk. It took ages to wheel our bikes back to school.”
Mum took a deep breath, visibly trying to control her anger, then spoke calmly, quietly and without a trace of emotion. “Chiana Ryan…you are grounded until you are twenty one. Now go to your room.”
“Muum! You can’t do that. It’s against the law.”
“We’ll discuss it further when Ken gets home. Now, go.”
The way Mum was chopping into those poor potatoes I thought it wise to go, just like she said. I pushed past Sarah, whose smirk was sending the cream sour, and went to find Leroy.
Poor Leroy hated the sound of people yelling. I found him shivering in the laundry. After giving him a cuddle I promised him a Tim Tam biscuit if he did his newest trick without swallowing the cord—for the sake of my dressing gown.
Handing Leroy a knotted cord to undo, I pressed my ear to the keyhole and listened. My grin widened with each muffled yell. Seemed like Mum was going off at Sarah for acting like a spoilt brat and dobbing on me.
Cool.
A sliver of slime hit my leg, bringing my attention back to Leroy. There he was, sprawled at my feet, a huge open mouthed grin splitting his face in two, his raisin black eyes twinkling up at me. The dressing gown cord, covered in green slime, but still in one piece, lay across my shoe…and he’d undone the knot.
“Good boy. What a clever dog,” I told him, smiling as his whole body wagged back at me.
With Leroy spilling out from under my arms, I struggled up the stairs to my bedroom. Who needs expensive gym exercises? If anyone’s serious about getting fit, try carrying a fat bulldog up and down the stairs ten times a day.
A goofy look of utter bliss spread across Leroy’s face at the first bite of his Tim Tam. Then chocolate and biscuit crumbs scattered like confetti at a wedding. Finally, a pool of drool was all that remained.
I’d had dinner—steak, eggs and chips on a tray in my room—and just settled down with my notebook and pen, when the tinny sound of Three Blind Mice sent me pawing through my underwear drawer in search of my mobile.
“Hello.”
“I want the microfilm.” It was Sam from the Weapons Research Centre and his words made me gasp. They were gruff and harsh and so unlike the voice he’d used earlier, prickles of fear raced through my body.
“You’re crazy!” I yelled into the phone. “I’m not giving you anything.”
“Meet me in half an hour and bring the microfilm.”
“No way!”
“I said, meet me in half an hour—or you’ll never see your friend alive again.”
“Tayla?” The prickles of fear turned to ice. “You’ve got Tayla?”
“All you have to do is give me what’s mine and I’ll set her free.”
“What have you done to Tayla?” My voice broke into a trillion pieces as I thought of how scared my best friend must be. It was all my fault. If I’d listened to her the microfilm would be in the hands of the police now…and Tayla would be safe at home listening to music on her iPod.
Sam’s gruff voice cut through my thoughts. “Be outside the warehouse on Wharf 6 at exactly 8 o’clock. And tell no-one—or she dies.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “But my guard dog comes with me. And I’m leaving a note with my sister. If anything happens to us and we’re not home by nine, my sister will ring the police.”
But the line was dead.
Oh God, I thought, barely registering how much my hands shook. Sam had kidnapped my best friend in the whole world. If I didn’t meet him at eight he’d kill her. If I told the police he’d kill her.
I glanced down at my watch. Almost 7:30 p.m. Time to move.
First I rang Tayla’s number. After all, Sam could be lying so I would bring him the microfilm. Tayla wasn’t home. Her mum didn’t know where she was, said she’d probably stopped off at the library after school.
Next I rang Jack. When his mobile didn’t answer all I could do was leave a message and hope he checked it out. Soon.
Now for Sarah.
I quickly wrote a note, then, unsure of my reception, knocked on her bedroom door.
“Sarah. I have to talk to you. It’s important.”
“Go away. I hate you.”
“What’s new?” I answered, coming in anyway. I expected a pillow or something harder to whiz past my head as I opened the door. Instead, she was sitting at the dressing-table brushing her hair.
I handed her the note. “This is a matter of life and death, Sarah. If I’m not home by nine o’clock I want you to show this to Mum and Ken.”
She frowned at the paper as though it was a message from the devil himself. “You’re going out?”
“Huh. Huh.”
“But you’re grounded!”
“I have to go, Sarah. Tayla’s in trouble. If I’m not on the wharf in half an hour she could be killed.”
I quickly filled her in on what was happening and stressed again how important it was to tell Mum and Ken if I wasn’t home by nine o’clock.
She slowly stood up and I could see her eyes were red and puffy as though she’d been crying.
“Why didn’t you tell me what was going on, Cha? You never tell me anything. I thought you were just being sneaky and trying to make me feel left out.”
“Sarah, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re not what you’d call best friends. Why would I confide in you? Ever since you moved in here it’s been like World War Three.”
“And I suppose that’s my fault?”
I thought of what Mum said about Sarah still grieving for her mother then her Dad remarrying and expecting her to fit into a new family and felt a twinge of conscience.
“I guess I’ve been pretty horrible too. I’m sorry if I’ve made it harder for you.”
Her eyes blinked and she shoved the paper back at me. “Here—keep your note. I won’t be here to give it to Dad and Marg.”
She walked across to her dresser, picked up a torch and grabbed her jacket. “I’m coming with you.”
With a ping my mouth shot open. “But you can’t.”
“If you think I’m letting you go on your own, you’re crazy. What if Jack doesn’t get your message in time?”
“I’ll have Leroy.”
She did up the buttons on her jacket and laughed. “Leroy? What’s he going to do? Drown the bad-guy in drool?”
“Sarah…you can’t come. One—Sam said not to tell anyone. And two—Mum will have a fit if I drag you into this.”
Sarah shook her head. “One—who said the bad guy can make up the rules?”
“But Sarah, he’s got Tayla.”
She switched her torch on and off a couple of times. Then, apparently happy with the state of the batteries, crammed it into her jacket pocket.
“Two—Marg won’t scream at you, she’ll blow my ears off.”
“No she won’t, she’ll—”
“Three—if you don’t let me come with you, I’ll go straight downstairs
now and dob.” She shrugged one shoulder, confident of victory. “So…what are we waiting for?”
Seventeen
A huge old oak tree grew beside my bedroom window. It had been my play house when I was younger. Now I used it as an escape route and a bolt hole when I wanted my own space. After we’d lowered Leroy to the ground, tightly zipped in an old Barbie backpack, I turned to Sarah.
“If you fall out of this tree Mum will ground me for life. So listen up.” I sat on the window sill and dangled my legs over the edge. “First you grab for that branch with the big knot on the end, then monkey grip your way along until you reach the fork. After that it’s a piece of cake to slither the rest of the way to the ground. Think you can manage that without breaking anything?”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Stop fussing,” she growled. “My grandmother was an expert mountain-climber.”
I slid to the ground then stood watching Sarah come down. Thankfully the television inside the house was tuned into a rowdy episode of The Simpson’s, because Sarah’s descent sounded like a mob of baby elephants playing football.
I only hoped her grandmother was better at climbing mountains.
“Shhhh.” I hissed as she let out a loud Owch on landing.
“It’s okay for you,” she wailed, inspecting her nails with a look of total horror. “I’ve broken my favorite nail!”
Her favorite nail?
Who has a favorite nail?
Ignoring her whining, I untied the rope from the bag and buried it under some leaves, then unzipped Leroy.
As we crept towards the bike shed an eerie wind sprung up. Bushes moaned. Windows rattled. And once, when a white plastic bag floated round the corner of the house I stopped dead in my tracks.
“Ooooh,” I squealed, hand on my stuttering heart. “For a minute there, I thought that was a ghost.”
“You’re safe with me,” quipped Sarah, her white teeth flashing in the fading light. “My Aunty Pat is a psychic.”
“Oh yeah?” I drawled. “And I suppose she taught you how to scare off ghosts.”
“Hey, I’m a natural. My ghost-scaring gifts are as good as my tree-climbing skills.”
It took both of us to lift Leroy into the bike basket. So many rolls of fat to cram into such a small space. Almost like squeezing toothpaste back into the tube.
Traffic was slow as we rode across the Birkenhead Bridge and steered our bikes onto the wooden wharves beside the river. Wharf 6 was way down the other end, hidden from the streetlights and in solid darkness. My uneasy gut sensed trouble.
“I don’t like the look of this,” I said, my voice sounding too loud in the silence. “Let’s leave our bikes here and check it out on foot.”
“I’m with you, sis.”
With Leroy waddling along at our heels we edged our way between mooring posts and dark buildings. In earlier days these buildings had been used to store wool from cargo ships, now they mostly lay empty. The monotonous slap of the river as it hit against the side of the wharf sounded like a ticking clock—or a time-bomb counting down the seconds to our doom.
Where was Tayla? How had Sam tricked her into coming here on her own? I’d never forgive myself if he’d put one tiny scratch on her.
Wharf 6 was eerie and menacing. Not a soul in sight. Unless you counted the mangy white cat sitting washing itself on the deck of a burnt out hull floating on the water.
“Eeeyuggh!” Sarah almost gagged beside me. “What’s that horrible stink?”
Eyes glued to the ground, nose screwed in disgust, she picked her way along the wharf on her silver sandals.
“I’m sure that was a human turd on the ground back there,” she informed me, a mixture of shock and disbelief in her voice. “It was way too fat for a doggy doo.”
I looked across at her, choked on a chuckle and almost bumped into a large man leaning against a forty-four gallon drum.
“Is that you Sam?” I squeaked, my heart racing. Then I recognized him in the dark by the shape of his stomach. “Where’s Tayla? If you’ve hurt her I’ll—”
“Did ya bring the microfilm?”
“I said…where’s Tayla?”
“Inside,” he muttered, rubbing a finger through his stubbly beard. “Give me the microfilm and I’ll let her go.”
“Not till you show me Tayla.”
He stabbed his head in Sarah’s direction. “Who’s she?”
“That’s my sister, Sarah.”
“Thought I told you to tell no-one.”
“She wouldn’t stay behind. And I’ve left a message for our parents. They’ll ring the police if we’re not home by nine.”
“You’re asking for trouble, you are.” His scowl deepened as he peered over my shoulder. “And what’s that?”
“Our guard dog.”
I nodded at Leroy who sat squarely on his rear end, no more than an arm’s length away. You couldn’t miss him. He was the one panting, drooling and making sucking-up faces because he wanted me to pick him up and carry him.
“But that’s just a fat bulldog.”
When Sarah muttered, “Takes one to know one,” I thought it time to get on with business. “What have you done with Tayla?”
“She’s in the office.” He indicated a room at the back of the warehouse. “She’s fine and as soon as you pass over what I want, you can have her.”
Sam moved a step closer and pushed his sweaty face into mine. He looked pig mean. His face as hard and unmoving as the rough side of a mountain.
“I’m not playing games any more, kid. Give me the microfilm…now.”
“Not until you let Tayla go.”
He snarled, his lip curling back like a dog ready to attack. “Don’t think you’ve got much say in the matter.”
Where was a policeman when you needed one? I gazed hopefully around the wharf, but no strong, broad-shouldered rescuer stepped out from behind a wool bale. Not even a skinny one.
All I could see was a white van parked in front of the warehouse with ALLPAINTS CO displayed on the side.
Painters? My mind did a quick check through my memory-files and pulled up short. Heart skittering in alarm, I glanced down at the number plate. MARS 45. So the old guy wasn’t completely off his face after all. I stared into Sam’s cold hard eyes.
Oh! Uh!
Seemed like I’d found Frank’s killer.
Which meant Sarah, Tayla and I were in more trouble than three fish in a frying-pan.
Eighteen
Sam was one of the painter guys seen hanging around outside the church hall. But why follow Frank to Patsy’s house? Why kill him? Being mates, wouldn’t they be in this crooked deal together?
And then there was the mystery of the pink handkerchief. Sam’s name didn’t start with a K. And he sure didn’t look the type to blow his nose on anything the size and color of a Barbie evening gown. So who dropped the handkerchief? Surely Sam didn’t bring his girlfriend along when he killed Frank.
No matter how hard I tried, two and two weren’t adding up to four. Instead they were adding up to a whole heap of trouble…for Sarah, Tayla and me.
There was no way Sam would let us walk away. Once he had what he wanted, we’d be dead. I needed time to work out a plan. It was my fault we were in this mess, so it was up to me to get us out of it.
But how?
Matching Sam eyeball for eyeball I went for the big bluff.
“What if I didn’t bring the microfilm with me? What if I left it with my parents for safekeeping?”
Wrong plan.
For a big guy with a seriously fat stomach Sam certainly knew the right moves. With a dive that would do a goal-keeper proud he had his arm around Sarah’s throat before Leroy could haul himself up off the ground and show his ugly sharp teeth in a slobbering grin.
“You!” Sam barked at me. “Give me the microfilm or I break your sister’s neck.”
Sarah began to struggle but Sam grabbed one of her arms and roughly hooked it behind her back. She shot a glance at me, her mou
th twisted in pain. Fear, surprise and panic showed in her eyes, making the whites around the pupils flare in the gathering darkness.
Anger shot through me like a raging fire. I wanted to run at him with a baseball bat and use his head to hit a home run. Smiling Sammy from the Weapons Research Station had tricked us completely. He’d kidnapped Tayla, got me right where he wanted me and now he had Sarah in a death-grip.
Just play it cool. Don’t do anything to upset him until he lets Sarah go.
“Okay. Okay,” I said, holding my hands out, palms up. “I brought the microfilm with me. Now, let Sarah go.” While talking I moved closer to the side of the wharf and glanced down at the moving river below. “If not,” I paused, letting the threat sink in. “I swear I’ll throw it in the river.”
I could see his conflicting thoughts as though they were tattooed across his forehead.
“You wouldn’t…”
“Try me.”
“Where is it?”
“You’ll be diving for it in about ten seconds if you don’t let my sister go.”
He pushed Sarah away from him.
“There,” he snarled, a dribble of spit stuck to the corner of his mouth. “Now get inside the warehouse and we’ll talk.”
As if.
“Run, Sarah!” I shouted, picking up a nearby fish-cage and throwing it at Sam’s head. I could see Sarah staggering to regain her balance. “Split up! Run! You get the police and I’ll find Tayla.”
“I wouldn’t advise that, Chiana.” The new voice coming from behind us was silky soft with a hint of steel and dripped with menace. “Move and you’re both dead.”
I froze in mid-stride. The word ‘dead’ bouncing around in my head like one of those nightmares you have after pigging out on pizza. Every nerve jangled. Every muscle was on high alert. And I had a cramp right where my heart was busy running an Olympic marathon.
“Cha,” Sarah whispered, her voice rustier than an old iron gate. “P-please don’t move.”
As if.
“Now turn around slowly.” The voice was vaguely familiar, yet I couldn’t place it.
Slower than a tortoise with his legs tied together I inched around to confront the owner of the chilling voice.
