Dead Man's Hand (Caden Chronicles, The)
Page 16
Instantly a barrage of objects shot past—a wooden door, Einstein’s formula for relativity, an eyeball. Windowpanes shattered and shards of glass morphed into twinkling stars. Through the speakers a little girl began singing, “It’s raining, it’s pouring …”
Buried in my front pocket my smart phone began vibrating. I pulled it out and quickly read the text message. “PHONE ME NOW. RIGHT NOW! GOT KILLER OF A STORY FOR YOU! – Calvin.”
Right, I thought. Bet it’s just another zombie fest or supposed house haunting.
See, weeks earlier I’d signed on to be a reporter for the Cool Ghoul Gazette—an online website dedicated to exploring ghosts, zombies, werewolves, vampires and all things supernatural and freaky. We have a huge readership in the Briton. Ghosts sightings are huge over there. Anyway, for months my parents had been after me to get a summer job. Mom thought I needed to start saving for college. Dad kept saying it was time I did something other than sit around and watch TV, even though watching TV is my job.
No kidding. Watching television (online, mostly) is my job. I’m a founding member of TV Crime Watchers, a group of teens that analyzes and catalogues crime, cop, and detective shows. We have a huge database of episodes going back almost thirty years, and we use this information to catch real murderers. At least, when law enforcement officials will let us help. Our little group has an eighty percent close rate. That means in most cases we can correctly identify the killer before the real detectives can. Problem is, TV Crime Watchers doesn’t pay, and making money is apparently a big deal. Especially for my mom and dad. Our family is a victim of what Dad calls, “the Great Recession.”
I think what he means is that we’re middle class poor.
Before our trip to Disney, he was complaining about how his pension at the automotive parts company was wiped out in the stock market. Mom thinks we should sell our home, but according to the real estate company Mom works for, our house is worth less now than when we bought it. The only way we could afford the trip to Disney was to drive two days in our ten-year-old Buick and stay in a three-star motel on the outskirts of Orlando. So yeah, right now having a job is tops in our family.
“Can’t pay for the good life without a good job,” Dad keeps reminding me. “And sometimes, you can’t even pay for it, then.”
Dad hoped I’d get a job cutting grass like my cousin Fred. Fred has like a gazillion customers. He made enough last summer to buy his own truck—a used Ford Ranger that has over a hundred thousand miles on it and leaks oil like a Gulf oil well.
But I’m not Fred.
To me the idea of working outside all summer and coming home sweaty and tired is, well … work. Mom was after me to get a job dog sitting, but the last thing I wanted to do was to spend my summer picking up poop in a plastic bag. That’s just gross.
So after our trip to Deadwood Canyon, when I solved the murder of one of the ghost town’s actors, I landed the job at the Cool Ghoul Gazette, and now my editor was texting me with a “killer” assizgnment that I was pretty sure would be a huge waste of my time because most of the stuff he sends me is.
The elevator car stopped. Another set of doors opened, this time revealing a bird’s eye view of Walt Disney World’s Hollywood Studios theme park. Crowds choked Sunset Boulevard and moved in random directions like energetic ants bent on beating the other ants to the top the hill. Children lined up near a pretzel stand to get Buzz Lightyear’s autograph. Parents milled about in the designated stroller area.
Our car dropped.
Girls screamed. Kids shrieked. Not me. You couldn’t have blasted the smile off my face with a power washer. Down we plummeted! Sudden stop, then rocket back up. Once more doors peeled open, and the park flashed before us. Again we fell. Up and down we went with cables yanking us both directions. I’d learned about the cables from watching the Discovery Channel. It seems the initial design of the Tower proved too tame. The head of the design team complained that if his tie didn’t fly up and hit him in the face the car wasn’t falling fast enough. So they added cables underneath the car, and now when you fall the cable jerks you down at a rate of almost two Gs. It’s way better than just jumping off a building.
Our car fell the final time and stopped. Doors opened. Buckles unsnapped. Passengers rushed across the lobby of the old hotel toward the photo counter to see themselves on video monitors.
I checked the floorboard for my phone.
“I think you’re looking for this,” said Grayson’s mom, thrusting my phone at me. “It nearly hit me in the face.”
“I’m sorry. I meant to—”
“There’s no place for that on a ride with kids. Someone could get hurt.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m very sorry.”
“Children are very impressionable at this age, and when they see an older boy doing something like this …”
“Look, I said I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to have it out. It’s just that my editor texted me, and I was looking at the screen when …”
But Grayson’s mom, having loudly made her point in front of the other riders, turned away and marched toward the monitors, pulling Grayson along.
I hung back, waited for the crowd to thin and aimed my phone at the monitor and snapped a picture of the picture of myself. Outside I found Mom and Dad and Wendy waiting for me at the Fast Past gate.
Dad said, “Well? How was it?”
“Awesome! Can I go again?”
“Maybe after lunch,” Mom said. “If we have time. We’re supposed to be at the ESPN Sports Complex by four.”
“She has to be there,” I said, cutting my eyes toward Wendy. “Not me.”
“We’re all going,” Mom countered. “Your sister’s cheerleading is a big deal, and we’re going to be there for her.”
“Yeah?” said, Wendy, mounting her virtual high horse. “For once we’re doing something I want to do.”
What do you mean “for once,” I wanted to scream. That’s all we ever do.
ZONDERKIDZ
A portion of the profits from the sale of Dead Man’s Hand will go to Heart of the Horse Therapy Ranch, committed to promoting therapeutic riding by developing community awareness of equine assisted / facilitated therapy. HHTR serves the physically challenged and those suffering from emotional or behavioral disorders.
Nick and the rest of the Caden family invite you to saddle up and help. To learn more visit: http://heartofthehorseranch.com or email: heartofthehorsetherapy@gmail.com
Dead Man’s Hand
Copyright © 2012 by Eddie Jones
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EPub Edition © SEPTEMBER 2012 ISBN: 978-0-310-72389-9
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* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jones, Eddie, 1957-
Dead man’s hand / by Eddie Jones.
p. cm. — (The Caden chronicles; bk. 1)
Summary: When fourteen-year-old Nick Caden vacations at Deadwood Canyon Ghost Town, he finds himself in the middle of a mystery involving ghosts of infamous dead outlaws, disappearing dead bodies, and murders.
ISBN 978-0-310-72344-8
[1. Ghost towns—Fiction. 2. Ghosts—Fiction. 3. Robbers and outlaws—Fiction. 4. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.J68534De 2012
[Fic]—dc23 2012027549
* * *
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Cover design: Sammy Yuen
Editor: Kim Childress
Illustrations: Owen Richardson
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