by Bill Myers
No. Melissa pushed the thought out of her mind. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t think that.
“Misty?”
She looked over to see Dr. Troast standing in a doorway at the other end of the room. “She’s in here.”
With a wave of relief, Melissa followed the doctor into the other room. It was much smaller. There were
only three cages. Two were empty. The last one held Slobs.
Melissa sucked in her breath. Slobs was there all right, but she lay completely unmoving, and she looked so small and helpless. Her right back leg was bandaged. A tube was taped to her left foreleg and ran up to a plastic bottle suspended on a stand next to the cage. Large leather straps were buckled across her body.
“She . . .” Melissa swallowed back the knot growing in her throat. “She doesn’t. . . look so good.”
“She’s been through quite a lot,” the doctor answered.
Melissa nodded and looked on, feeling the knot grow.
“Don’t worry about that tube,” he said. “It’s putting medicine into her. And the straps are to hold her still so she won’t pull it out.”
Melissa nodded but could already feel her eyes starting to burn with moisture. Slobs had been one of the last gifts their mother had given her and her brother. And if anything were ever to happen to her--
She felt Dr. Troast’s hand rest on her shoulder. “Right now all we can do is let her sleep,” he whispered.
Melissa nodded and swiped at her eyes. “How about praying?” she asked.
The doctor smiled. “Praying is always a good idea.”
SUNDAY, 11:52 PST
Running into Sir Richard Falcrest the night before and reading the morning’s headlines hadn’t done much for Sean’s nerves, either. But unlike his sister, when Sean got scared, he got mad. Which explains why, instead of visiting Slobs, he’d headed back to the Middleton Museum to do a little more investigating. He wasn’t sure what he’d find, but anything was better than sitting around waiting to be attacked by some invisible knight or curse or whatever.
As he entered the museum, he was glad to see that Mr. Jennings, the curator, was nowhere in sight. He headed over to the stairs and quickly made his way down into the Medieval Room. He was also glad that Melissa had stayed behind. It could really be a nuisance keeping your little sister calm and relaxed . . . while having to make up excuses as to why your own knees were knocking so loudly.
By now all the suits of armor were pieced together and back in place. Sean moved past them until he finally arrived at Sir Richard Falcrest’s display. As before, it stood by itself on a platform, towering above him as silent and menacing as ever.
Sean could no longer hear his knees knocking together. It was hard to hear anything over the chattering of his teeth. It’s not that he was afraid, it’s just that dying on a Sunday afternoon can really be a drag . .. especially when you’re on summer break and there’s no school the next day.
He remembered what Dad had said about facing up to his fears, about looking into the lion’s mouth. He wasn’t particularly fond of the idea but knew it had to be done. After a deep breath, he stepped up to the display, crossed his arms, and glared up at the figure . . . The helmet. The chest piece, half covered by the shield held across it. The leggings of steel. And finally the boots.
It was then he noticed something he hadn’t seen before . . . a dirty smudge on the left boot.
Can ghosts get dirty? he wondered.
He glanced at the plaque that Melissa had started to read earlier. He took a step closer and started reading it himself. It seemed long (let’s face it, reading anything longer than a bubble gum wrapper seemed long to Sean), but the last part caught his attention. It dealt with the villagers from where Sir Richard Falcrest had lived.
Be it known the village stablemen—
Tom Morrisey, Peter Hickey, and the tailor,
John Bowman—all raised arms against the
great Lord Falcrest.
Sean stopped reading. Weren’t those the same last names as the recent robbery victims’? Morrisey Jewelers, Rickey’s Antiques, and Bowman’s Coin Shop? Was it possible? Were all the people being robbed actually descendants of those who overthrew Sir Richard Falcrest? Sean swallowed hard. He wasn’t crazy about this idea, not one bit. He continued reading.
Though this be true, the greatest blame
falleth upon two men who first hatched
the plot: the town miller, Deacon Pierce . . .
Again Sean stopped. Pierce, Pierce . . . where had he heard the name Pierce? Morrisey for the rubies, Hickey for the scabbard, Bowman for the gold handle . . . and Pierce for the—suddenly he got it. Of course. The Pierce and Jennings Steel Mill! That’s where the knight would go to get the steel for its blade. It was just as Sean had suspected. It had to be the scene of the next robbery.
But he still wasn’t finished with the plaque. There was one last sentence to read.
Although Pierce was the ringleader, let it be
known that his partner in the plot was the
village blacksmith, Jacob Hunter.
Again Sean tried to swallow, but this time there was nothing left in his mouth to swallow.
“Jacob Hunter.” Could this be one of his own ancestors? Could he and Melissa be descendants of this very villager . . . the one whom the knight hated and blamed the most?
His mind whirled. No wonder the knight knew their names . . . they were also on his list of vengeance! What had he said the night before?
“You of the Hunter clan! Follow me not,
for your time comes soon enough!”
Fear gripped Sean. For the briefest second he wanted to turn, he wanted to run. But remembering what Dad had said, he forced himself to stay. He forced himself to continue looking into the mouth of the lion. He could feel his body trembling, and he knew his heart was pounding a mile a minute. But after whispering a little prayer, he forced himself to remain.
And it was then that he noticed something else.
The bottom half of the plaque seemed to be different from the top half. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but the part mentioning all of their names looked different . . . newer. As if it had been written later.
Suspicion began to replace the fear. Something was up. Could somebody have added the bottom half to that plaque? Could somebody have added on those names? But why would anybody want to do that? Why would anybody add the names of all those people being robbed . . . unless . . . Sean frowned. Unless that person was somehow justifying the robberies . . .
But who? Sean stared at the plaque. He really couldn’t be certain. Maybe it was all the same plaque. Maybe his eyes were just playing tricks on him. There had to be some way to make sure. Some way to see if the bottom half of the plaque was as old as the top half . . .
Suddenly an idea came to mind.
He spun around and raced for the stairs. Unfortunately, he ran smack dab into someone carrying an armload of files. Well, whoever it was had been carrying an armload of files. Now those files were busy flying into the air and fluttering to the ground.
“I’m sorry!” Sean exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
The man turned around, and Sean saw he was face-to-face with none other than . . . the curator, Mr. Jennings.
“Oh no . . .” Sean groaned.
“You’re that Hunter boy!” Jennings stammered.
“Yes, sir,” Sean answered. “I’m sorry. I really am sorry.”
Jennings snorted in frustration and bent over to start picking up the papers.
Sean dropped to his knees and joined him. “Here, let me—”
“No, just go on. You’ve done enough already!”
But Sean knew he should stay to help, so he did. Well . . . at least for another 7.3 seconds.
That was the amount of time it took before they both reached for the same piece of paper. That was the amount of time it took before Sean accidentally knocked into Mr. Jennings. . . throwing him off balance, sending him stagger
ing, until he stumbled into—you guessed it— one of the suits of armor . . . which fell into another suit of armor, which fell into another . . . and on and on it went, just like old times.
The two watched in numb astonishment. When Sean finally turned to Mr. Jennings, he could see the man’s face was once again turning bright red. His mouth was already open, and he was already sputtering, trying to find the words.
Sean figured he’d save him the trouble. “I know,” he said, turning and starting for the stairs. “I’m going, I’m going.”
SUNDAY, 15:56 PST
Three and a half hours had passed since Sean had played his second game of dominoes with the armor. Now he and Melissa were once again riding their bikes. Only this time it was toward Doc’s house.
“Are you sure that plaque had everyone’s name on it?” Melissa asked.
Sean nodded. “Everyone that the knight has robbed.”
“Along with ours?”
Again Sean nodded. “Along with ours.”
“So that proves the curse is true,” Melissa said. “It proves that the knight came after them, that it somehow hurt Slobs, and—” she gulped—”it proves that it’ll be coming after us.”
“Maybe . . . but that doesn’t explain the bottom part of the plaque.”
“What about it?”
“When I got close to it, I could see that the bottom part—the part with the names on it—looked newer.”
Before Melissa could quiz him any further, they arrived at Doc’s house and were interrupted by a pathetic, high-pitched roar that sounded like a lawn mower caught in a blender. They turned and watched as Doc slowly appeared, floating above the roof.
“What is she up to?” Sean cried over the noise. “How’s she doing that?”
“Look at her tennis shoes!” Melissa shouted. “They’ve got little helicopter blades on them!”
“Hi, guys!”
Melissa and Sean both gave a jump as Jeremiah appeared on Melissa’s wristwatch. “Pretty cruel, huh?”
“Cruel?” Sean shouted.
“I think he means, ‘cool,’ “ Melissa corrected as they got off their bikes. “It’s pretty cool.”
Jeremiah nodded. “You took the words left out of my mouth.”
Melissa sighed, but before she could correct him, Sean shouted, “What about the Age Detector? I thought she was working on the Age Detector.”
“Oh, that’s yesterday’s news. Now we’ve got bigger fish to fly.”
The three looked back up at Doc. It was a beautiful sight. . . except for the part where the woman’s legs weren’t strong enough to keep her upright and the little propellers raised her feet higher and higher . . . while her body sank lower and lower. In a matter of seconds poor Doc was suddenly doing some very impressive midair splits.
“Boy,” Sean cried, “I bet that hurts.”
But she wasn’t done yet. Ever so slowly, her body started to tumble forward. The good news was she was no longer doing the splits. The bad news was she was beginning to tumble. With both legs spread apart, she began going around and around . . .
“Shouldn’t we do something?” Melissa shouted.
“Not much we can do,” Jeremiah called, “at least until she runs out of gas.”
“What about the off switch!” Sean yelled.
“A great idea!” Jeremiah called. “When she comes down, I’ll remind her to add one.”
Melissa and Sean glanced at each other and shook their heads.
“Listen,” Sean shouted, “do you suppose we could borrow that Age Detector thingie? We gotta check out the age of something.”
“We do?” Melissa asked.
“That’s why we came here. We’re going to borrow the Age Detector to see how old that plaque is at the museum.”
“Oh,” Melissa nodded, grateful to finally be clued in on his plan. But she wasn’t particularly grateful that the plan involved heading back to face the suit of armor.
“You don’t mind if we borrow it?” Sean repeated to Jeremiah.
“Be my pest,” the little guy chirped. “Go upstairs and hinder yourselves.”
Sean looked at Melissa.
“He means ‘help’ ourselves,” she explained.
Sean nodded and called, “Thanks!”
As they headed up the porch, Melissa asked, “How long before Doc runs out of gas?”
“Just another three hours, twenty-two minutes, and seventeen seconds,” Jeremiah answered.
Melissa closed her eyes and shook her head. Poor Doc. Then again, she wondered which fate was worse . . . not being able to land for a few more hours . . . or heading back to the museum and becoming dead forever.
8
trapped
SUNDAY, 16:50 PST
“But why can’t we see the Falcrest exhibit?” Sean asked.
The clerk at the museum’s information desk pushed up her glasses and patiently explained, “We had a little accident downstairs in the Medieval Room. It is closed for repairs.”
“Accident?” Melissa asked.
The clerk nodded. “Apparently, someone knocked over the entire display of armored knights.”
“No kidding,” Sean said with wide-eyed innocence. “Now, who would do something like that?”
The receptionist shook her head. “It was quite a messy affair. I’m afraid it won’t be open for at least another day.”
“Another day?” Sean exclaimed. He adjusted the heavy knapsack on his shoulders . . . the one containing the Age Detector. “We can’t wait that long.”
The clerk tried to crank up a smile. “I know that exhibit has become quite the attraction, with all of the robberies around town. But surely you can wait one or two more days.”
Melissa and Sean exchanged glances.
“Do you think . . .” Melissa cleared her throat. “Couldn’t we take just one little peek?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. The museum is about to close and—”
“It would only take a minute.”
“As I have previously stated, the exhibit is currently—”
“We understand,” Sean quickly interrupted. He grabbed Melissa’s arm and started pulling her away. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
“What?” Melissa asked in surprise.
“Come along,” he said.
“What are you doing?” she protested as he moved her away. “It will only take a—”
“Come along,” he repeated.
Melissa was about to start another one of their award-winning arguments, when she suddenly saw the reason behind Sean’s urgency. Mr. Jennings was approaching. They quickly moved away from the main lobby and headed into the Native American exhibit. “Is he still there?” Sean asked.
Melissa looked over her shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Is he following us?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Keep walking.”
“Sean, this is stupid.”
“Keep walking.”
“It’s been three days since your little catastrophe. Surely he’s forgiven you by now.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“It was a freak accident, a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”
“Uh, actually, more like twice in a lifetime.”
She turned to him.
“Remember, I said I was here earlier today?”
A look of realization slowly filled her face. “No,” she said. “You didn’t . . .”
He gave a painful nod. “Just keep walking.”
They crossed through the Indian exhibit, then the Mexico exhibit, then a half-dozen more displays before they finally entered the Prehistoric Room. In the center of this exhibit was the museum’s pride and joy . . . a life-sized replica of a brontosaurus. And not just some fake skeleton, we’re talking the whole ball of wax—fake skin, fake muscle, fake everything—so realistic that it almost looked alive.
“What are we going to do?” Melissa asked. “How can we check out the age of that plaque if we can’t even get down t
o the basement to see it?”
“Relax,” Sean whispered. He glanced up to the dinosaur towering above them.
“But—”
“Trust me.” He grinned. “I’ve got a plan.”
Melissa took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
SUNDAY, 17:25 PST
“Is it safe?” Melissa whispered.
“Yeah,” Sean called, “everyone’s gone.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, you can come out now. Just grab the rope and start climbing.”
It had been nearly a half hour since Sean had thought of climbing up into the brontosaurus’s mouth to hide. All it took was borrowing the ladder being used to repair a hanging pterodactyl, and then plenty of squirming and wiggling as they squished themselves into the mouth together.
At first Melissa had protested, “This is crazy.”
But Sean had insisted it was perfect. “We hide in the dinosaur’s mouth, wait until the museum closes, then we climb out and go down into the basement to check out the plaque with the Age Detector. No sweat.”
And for the most part, he had been right. Getting inside the mouth really hadn’t been a problem. It was getting back out that got tricky. It might have been less tricky if Melissa had managed to stay there. But since they were both crammed inside . . . and since she was the one farthest back toward the throat. . . and since the throat was made of slick fiberglass. . . well, it wasn’t too long before Sean squirmed one too many times, forcing her to lose her balance, causing her to slip and slide all the way down the throat
“WOAHHHhhh . . .
Until she landed in its belly.
Thunk.
