Chasing the Falconers

by Gordon Korman

  “We took you out of Jersey because you wouldn’t leave your brother’s driveway,” Meg shot right back.

  Miguel was offended. “I was just chilling. I don’t need help from anybody, least of all some girl!”

  He had been gradually coming alive in the course of yesterday’s drive. Now he was back to his old self. Meg liked him better sullen and silent.

  There was little chance of that now. “Vermont, huh? I’m not impressed. Let’s see if there’s any action around.” He was about to throw open the tattered curtains when he jumped back, cursing.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Aiden.

  “Cops! And they’re — oh, man. Not good!”

  Aiden and Meg peered out the streaming glass. Two cruisers, lights flashing, and two uniformed officers to match. There was no question about it — they were heading toward —

  “The car!” groaned Meg. “Can they tell it’s stolen?”

  “They can if the MacKinnons came home from Disney World,” Aiden reasoned.

  Miguel paced the small room like a caged tiger. “We gotta get out of here!”

  Meg felt the panic rising inside her. No escape through the front door …

  Then she saw it. “The bathroom!”

  A narrow window led to the alley behind the motel. Aiden got there first. He leaped onto the toilet seat, flipped the latch, and pushed. “Stuck!”

  Over the years, dozens of sloppy paint jobs had sealed the frame shut. Aiden pulled out the keys to the Tahoe and began to chisel at the layers of enamel.

  “Hurry!” Meg urged tensely. One of the cops was on his way to the office.

  In a minute, he’ll know exactly where we are!

  Aiden and Miguel grabbed the handle and pulled with all their strength.

  And then the first cop was jogging back toward them. Meg heard him call to his partner, “Twenty-two!”

  “Guys — ”

  There was a crack as the window jerked open. Miguel climbed onto the toilet tank and wiggled through the opening.

  “Meg!” Aiden cried.

  She didn’t wait for an engraved invitation. She bolted into the bathroom a split second before the cops entered with their passkey.

  “Police! Freeze!”

  But Meg wouldn’t have stopped for a stampede of elephants. Aiden practically threw her out the window into the rain. She hit the ground, reached up, and pulled him through. He landed right on top of her. She felt her ankle twist, a stab of fire, as the two of them went down.

  No time for pain. Not now …

  And then the first officer was glaring at her through the glass.

  “Run!” she yelled, hauling Aiden to his feet. They sprinted after Miguel, who was already halfway to the woods.

  A quick glance over her shoulder. Where are the cops?

  “Look!” Aiden pointed. The two officers were rounding the corner of the building in hot pursuit.

  The Falconers blasted into the trees, pounding blindly through mud and wet underbrush. Bracken and low branches scratched at their faces and bodies, but they blundered on, not daring to slow down. A cry of shock rang out somewhere in front of them.

  “Miguel?” Aiden panted.

  Meg looked around desperately. There was nothing but trees and brush — and the rapid rustling of their own frenzied movements.

  And then the forest floor disappeared beneath them.

  She heard another scream — her own. The next thing Meg knew, she was flat on her back, hurtling down a steep bluff toward the lakefront. Thirty-six hours of steady rain had converted the slope into a black diamond ski hill, coated with slick muck instead of snow.

  She called to Aiden, just a few feet away, but no sound came out. Her words were sucked right back inside her, along with her breath, as she plunged ahead. She could see Miguel ahead of them, a slime-covered rocket sled, racing wildly out of control.

  Frantically, she tried to dig her arms into the grade to slow her descent. Instead, she accelerated. The tickly sensation of free fall — that roller-coaster feeling — took hold in her stomach.

  But a roller coaster is a controlled drop! Who knows what’s at the bottom of this slide? Rocks? A barbed wire fence? A brick wall?

  Determinedly, she kicked a sneaker deep into the mud. All at once, her momentum halted. The world twisted violently, and she bounced head over heels, her slide now a roll. Lake Champlain became a spinning blur, and she lost all sense of where she was.

  She cried, “Help!” Or maybe it was just her mind screaming as she tumbled toward —

  Toward what?

  Suddenly, it was all over. She was sprawled across the broken line of a paved road —

  With a big pickup truck coming right at me!

  Two sets of hands grabbed her wrists and yanked her up and out of the way just before the pickup roared past.

  “You okay?” Aiden gasped, his face white behind a layer of sludge.

  She nodded, gasping for breath. “Where are the cops?”

  “We gotta disappear!” Miguel scouted the area. They were right at the shore — a small neighborhood of docks and beach cottages. “This way!”

  The Falconers had no choice but to follow. Surely the officers would be here soon. Or their colleagues would, answering a radio call to be on the lookout for three dazed and filthy kids.

  Moving like a cat, Miguel led them to a small marina by the ferry pier. Without hesitation, he burrowed under the tarpaulin that covered the open stern of a sailboat. He lifted the sheeting, beckoning Aiden and Meg to join him. The hatch was unlocked, and the three fugitives scrambled into the cramped cabin.

  They were quite a sight — wild-eyed from the chase and caked with mud.

  But we’re safe, thought Meg. For now, anyway.

  Aiden looked haunted. “I — I think I saw it,” he rasped, struggling to catch his breath. “No — I’m sure of it.”

  “Saw what?” asked Miguel.

  “The house — just past the ferry terminal on the lake side.” He clasped his sister’s hands, dribbling wet muck on the deck. “We made it, Meg. We’re here.”

  Agent Harris knew it was a long shot. Still, in law enforcement, sometimes it was better to be lucky than smart.

  SEARCH PARAMETERS: ________________

  He typed “Chicago,” and then “three juveniles.” The computer searched the FBI’s database of crime reports from coast to coast. More than six hundred hits registered. Another waste of time.

  He frowned. How had the Falconers avoided capture for so long? The Chicago police had been right on their tail. There were officers watching the airports, train stations, and bus terminals. If the fugitives were still in that neighborhood, surely they would have been found by now.

  Of course, Aiden and Margaret were with the Reyes boy. He was a hardened criminal, with a rap sheet and a half. He might know a few tricks that wouldn’t occur to a couple of professors’ kids.

  Hmmm …

  Eyebrows raised, Harris added “stolen car” to the search keywords.

  Suddenly, there it was — a 2003 Chevy Tahoe, taken from a suburban Chicago home and recovered at a motel in Colchester, Vermont. Officers there pursued three juveniles, who were still at large.

  It was them. It had to be.

  All the flights to Burlington, Vermont — near Colchester — were delayed because of high winds and heavy rain. Wherever the fugitives were hiding, they were probably soaked to the skin. The airline said it had been pouring up there for a day and a half. The National Weather Service was predicting no letup in the storm.

  Finally, a break. A friend in the military offered Agent Harris a seat on a helicopter transport to Ethan Allen Air Base on the west coast of Lake Champlain in upstate New York. From there, a one-hour ferry ride would take him straight into Colchester.

  The flight was a nightmare. Howling winds blew the chopper around like a kite. The ride was so bumpy that his entire Starbucks Extra-Dark Roast emptied itself onto his pants, one slosh at a time. Agent Harris conside
red wasting good coffee a crime against humanity, but today he didn’t mind. He was too airsick to drink it anyway.

  He landed in Plattsburgh, New York, to find that all ferries to Vermont had been suspended due to the bad weather. Standing in the blowing rain in front of the locked ticket booth, he used language not at all becoming an agent of the United States government.

  He was in luck, though. There was one rental car still available in the city of Plattsburgh — a Mini Cooper. He practically needed a shoehorn to cram his six-foot-seven frame into it.

  The route around Lake Champlain would take him almost to the Canadian border, eighty miles out of his way.

  Would the Falconer kids still be in Colchester by the time he got there?

  * * *

  The inside of the sailboat had become a sauna. The tarpaulin sealed the air inside, making the cabin as stuffy as a tomb.

  Aiden was too anxious to notice that it was impossible to breathe.

  They were being hunted — there was no question about that. Police sirens — distant, yet not distant enough — wailed all day long. Car doors slammed and voices spoke over walkie-talkies. As the storm pounded Lake Champlain, the boat bobbed in the waves, jerking its mooring lines and bumping up against the dock. To Aiden, every jolt, every sound was the SWAT team, preparing to swoop down and arrest them.

  Seasickness amplified their discomfort. When they got used to the motion, hunger came.

  Miguel gazed bleakly around the small refrigerator. “What kind of people own this crate? They got food to put on food, but no food to put it on.”

  It was true. The tiny galley had plenty of condiments — ketchup, mustard, and a hot sauce that claimed to be banned in thirteen states. Beyond that, there was nothing more than a half sleeve of moldy saltines.

  “Just be grateful they’re not the kind of people who enjoy boating in the rain,” Meg replied grimly.

  By late afternoon, the sirens had ceased. In fact, there were very few sounds at all from the world outside the sailboat. Whatever vacationers were still around had given up on the day. With the ferries canceled and the rain still going strong, the lakefront was deserted.

  Even so, the fugitives waited until night had fallen before creeping out from under the tarpaulin.

  Meg shuddered from the onslaught of blustery rain. “I was looking forward to getting out of that floating coffin. Now I’m ready to go back.”

  The summerhouse was smaller than Aiden remembered it, and the gleaming white paint had faded to a sort of air-pollution gray. But this was definitely the place. Same wooden shingles, same lamppost mailbox, same makeshift boat dock out back.

  Getting in was Miguel’s department. It took even less time than the MacKinnon home. He just pushed open a window, climbed inside, and helped Aiden and Meg in after him. “Hicks,” he muttered. “They never lock anything.”

  Meg flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. She tried the one in the living room. Same result. “Power’s off.”

  There was just enough glow from the street lamps to look around.

  Aiden was mesmerized. The outside may be different, but in here it’s exactly like it was nine years ago.

  Same shag carpeting. Same 1970s furniture. Even the muskie was there — a hideous two-foot-long openmouthed fish mounted on a wooden plaque. It still held the place of honor in the foyer. Mom used to be so grossed out by the thing that she claimed she could actually smell it decomposing.

  Miguel squinted in the gloom. “Kind of a dump, yo.”

  “Nothing worth stealing?” Meg asked sarcastically.

  Miguel shrugged. “I thought you Falcons were high society.”

  “Our parents are college professors,” Aiden told him. “You know, before … ” His voice trailed off. “I’m going to find my old room.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Meg.

  “I’ll check out the TV,” Miguel decided. “Maybe they’ve got some DVDs we can fence.”

  Upstairs, the outside lamplight shone a dull orange through the dormer windows. It was claustrophobic — the A-frame roof cut the bedrooms in half. Aiden remembered it being so big.

  “Okay,” Meg said. “Where’s this famous hiding place?”

  Aiden scanned the tiny room with anxious eyes. Nine years was a long time. It was more than possible that someone had repaired the wall between then and now.

  Funny — he had always known that. Yet right now the feeling that rose in him was close to panic.

  If we can’t find that picture, we’re stuck. No leads, nowhere to go, no light at the end of the tunnel …

  Being a fugitive wasn’t fun, but at least they had some direction — the goal of saving their parents. If that turned out to be a dead end, they’d have nothing. They’d be wanderers. Worse, hunted animals.

  Then he saw it. By the foot of the small desk, a square of paneling was attached at an odd angle. He dropped to his knees and began prying at it.

  It didn’t budge. Someone had nailed it into place. Had that person also removed his shoe box of treasures?

  Can’t think about that now….

  “Help me,” he said, and Meg joined him on the floor.

  There was a cracking sound, and the piece broke away from the wall. Aiden peered into the hole. This was it — the moment of truth.

  “Yes!”

  The cigar box was faded and dust-covered. But it was exactly where six-year-old Aiden had left it. Reverently, as if handling an ancient artifact, he took it out and opened the lid.

  There were a few rusted bottle caps, a penny minted in 1916, and a yellowed book of matches from the Colchester Grill. A couple of toy soldiers and a small cluster of amethyst crystals he had once discovered on the underside of a stone.

  “Not exactly the crown jewels,” Meg commented dryly.

  Most of all, there were pictures. Terrible pictures, although back then Aiden had been so proud of them. They were blurry and clumsily framed, with subjects’ heads cut off and large pink fingers in the way.

  But as Aiden flipped through the stack, he realized these were the crown jewels. No, much more valuable than that —

  The photographs showed the most notorious traitors in half a century, Doctors John and Louise Falconer, laughing, posing, and playing with baby Meg.

  Oh, God, was there really a time like this? A time before trials, and prisons, and foster homes, and the Department of Juvenile Corrections? Were we ever really this happy?

  Meg was choked up, too. “I forgot how they look when they smile.”

  And then the picture was right before their eyes in the dim light: a man and a woman, clad in bathing suits, relaxing on a hotel pool deck. The man was pale and lean, with long reddish-brown hair and a full beard.

  Uncle Frank. The man who had started in motion the series of events that destroyed the Falconer family.

  The only person who could save them.

  Miguel pulled the carton from the back of the closet and dumped out its contents. Junk, he thought, riffling through the pile of expired coupon books, broken swim goggles, single gloves, and cheap toys.

  He stood on tiptoe and felt around the shelf. Something heavy bounced off his forehead and hit the carpet. What the —?

  It was a thick hardback novel. He squinted at the cover in the dim light. The Venus Flytrap Gambit — A Mac Mulvey Mystery. At the bottom it said, by John Falconer.

  Their father. He wasn’t just a teacher; he was an author, too. Miguel remembered hearing something about that back when the Falconers first got busted. Not that Miguel was a news junkie, but you had to be deaf, dumb, and blind to miss that story.

  Were Aiden and Meg lying about not being rich? You sure couldn’t tell by this house. But this wasn’t their real crib. It was just someplace they went for the summers.

  “Rentals!” he spat in disgust. Little sis hit it right on the nose. There was nothing to rob in this dive. No cash, no jewelry — nothing worth the space it would take up in his pockets.

  A noise startled
him. He hadn’t heard the others coming downstairs. “No offense,” he added loudly. “I’m sure your family had some laughs in this — ”

  The face appeared out of the shadows. Chalky white skin on a completely shaved head.

  A cop? Or some homeless guy who moved in when the summer people left?

  “Yo, who are —?”

  A large hand with the power of a robotic claw grabbed Miguel by the throat. He tried to yell for help, but no sound came out.

  Miguel Reyes had been in many fights in his fifteen years. He had been picked on by his stepfather, by gang kids, and by inmates at three juvenile prisons. But he knew instantly that something was different now.

  This assailant was no bully. He was an assassin.

  He’s trying to strangle me!

  Unable to breathe or struggle free, Miguel felt around for a weapon. There was nothing — just The Venus Flytrap Gambit. His hand closed around the thick novel. It would have to do. Lack of oxygen was sapping his strength. His vision was darkening around the edges. It was now or never.

  With all the force he could muster, he swung the book at the bald head, aiming the corner of the hardbound cover at the man’s eye. There was a cry of pain. Miguel sucked in a huge breath as the constricting grip released his throat.

  He tried to kick at his attacker, but the powerful hands caught his leg in midair and hurled Miguel into a bookcase. Magazines and cheap knickknacks rained down on him.

  “Help!” He realized right then how much he needed it. Whoever this bald guy was, he meant business.

  Those two pampered kids upstairs were all that stood between Miguel and murder.

  * * *

  They heard the sounds of the struggle, followed by Miguel’s muffled cry.

  Aiden was instantly on his feet, stuffing the photograph into his pocket. “The cops!”

  Meg looked around. The stairs were the only way out. Except — “The window!”

  “What about Miguel?”

  “We can’t help him,” Meg reasoned, remembering Miguel’s own logic at the truck stop. “If the cops have him, he’s already done.”