A World of Trouble (25 page)

Despite his Scrabble affection, these are a lot of words for him to say all at once. This suggests he's nervous, which is reason enough to be concerned. But then I hear scratching. Skittering. Clicking. Whimpering. All coming from the direction of the pool.

I look at Lemon.

“We'll be right behind you,” he says with a nod.

I book it toward the ditch. A dull light shines out from underneath the sagging diving board. The rest of the yard is dark, and I'm glad. The house behind us is silent, but there's no telling if Elinor's roommates are lurking around, waiting for the perfect chance to attack.

Five seconds later, they're the least of my worries. Because when I reach the pool, I see that it's not empty after all. Filling the bottom, zigzagging across the sides, crawling all over each other . . . are scorpions. Tarantulas. Lizards. Beetles. Centipedes. It's like the bus that dropped off the adults drove back out into the desert, picked up every critter and creature in its path until the vehicle was stuffed, and dumped them all in here. Until the wriggling mass was two feet deep.

A red inner tube sits in the middle of the madness like a tiny desert island. And straddling the hole with one foot on either side, fighting for her balance as the creatures close in . . . is Elinor.

DEMERITS: 465

GOLD STARS: 300

I
start to call her
name. But then something slides over my right sock and shimmies up my calf. A hundred tiny legs tickle my skin. I close my eyes. Bite my tongue to keep from screaming. Lift my foot, bring it back, and fling it forward. The insect sails through the air and dives headfirst (or tail first, it's impossible tell) into the pool.

“Hello?”

My eyes snap open.

“Mother? Is that you?”

Elinor's voice wavers. She sniffs. She clearly doesn't see us, and I understand why.

She can't look up. She's too busy watching the critters, too focused on nudging them off the tube while trying to keep her balance—and avoid being eaten alive.

“I'm so sorry,” Elinor cries softly. “It won't happen again. I promise.”

Promise. There's that word again.

Annika's voice fills my head. I shake it out.

I open my mouth to say hi, then think better of it. At the very least, Elinor's rattled. At most, she's terrified. Either way, she's not expecting to see us there. And I don't want that shock to make her lose her concentration and send her flying into the fray.

I turn toward Capital T and press my pointer finger to my lips. They look confused but stay quiet. Stepping away from the pool, I take my K-Pak from inside my coat, turn it on, and shine it around the yard. There's a turned-over picnic table, a pile of rocks, and about a million dried exoskeletons left over from desert critters shedding skin.

I'm thinking we may have to look indoors for something to fish her out with when I spot a long, fat rattlesnake coiled up on
the cracked patio. It appears to be sleeping, but still. It's a
rattlesnake
. As in the vicious, venom-shooting king of the desert. It makes the creepy-crawlies in the pool suddenly seem as threatening as fluffy puppies.

I grab Lemon's arm. He holds up one hand, which apparently means he'll take care of it, and shuffles toward the beast.

“What's he doing?” Gabby whispers as he gets closer and squats down.

“I don't know,” I whisper back as he takes his lighter from his coat pocket and flicks it on.

“Crazy as a loon.” Abe shakes his head. “I knew it.”

I'd argue, but then Lemon leans forward. Waves the small flame before the beast's face. And laughs.

“Wait,”
I hiss, hurrying toward him. “What are you—?”

I'm too late. He already has the snake by the mouth and is dragging it across the patio. Toward us.

Gabby squeals. Abe leaps behind the toppled picnic table. I somehow stand my ground long enough for Lemon to reach me and hold up the rattler's head.

Which is unlike any snake I've ever seen in any zoo or rattler picture I've ever seen online. Because it doesn't have beady eyes
or fangs. It doesn't have a triangular neck or pointy tongue. What it does have . . . is a rubber nozzle.

“A garden hose?” I ask.

“Looks like,” Lemon says.

I shrug. “That'll do.”

I slide my K-Pak down the front of my coat. I take the nozzle, turn, and walk, dragging the hose behind me. It grows lighter as I near the pool, and I know without looking back that my alliance-mates have picked up the slack—literally. Staying in the shadows as much as possible, I tug until I hold several feet of hose. Then I raise it overhead, swing it around until the nozzle whistles through the air, and let it soar.

Now that the rattlesnake's just a hollow rubber tube, the creatures in the pool have regained their original scary status. Still, I feel kind of bad. Because unlike animal actors in movies, I'm pretty sure some of these are harmed during production—since there's a bunch of crinkling and crackling when the hose finally lands. Stepping forward, I make a mental note to go to the pet store whenever I return to Cloudview and give some tame, friendly insect or amphibian a nice, double-walled, padlocked home.

I watch Elinor. She sees the hose but isn't sure what to make
of it. Wanting to encourage her without terrifying her even more, I take the hose and gently wiggle it back and forth. My hope is that she assumes it's a peace offering from her mom.

It works. She carefully lowers to her hands and knees and waits until she's balanced in the lower position. Then she reaches one hand forward and grabs the nozzle, first with one hand, then both.

“One, two, three . . . pull!” I shout over my shoulder.

We engage in the strangest tug-of-war ever fought, and I revise my mental note. Because as the tube slides slowly through the pool, the cracking, creaking, and squeaking is deafening. I'll probably have to beg Mother Nature's forgiveness by adopting a hundred creepy-crawlies. Maybe I can tug on GS George's heartstrings, since he's such a pet enthusiast, and convince him to take in some.

That reminds me. When I pull back again, I peer down the opening near my coat collar. I can just see the clock at the top of my K-Pak screen, which must've automatically adjusted to Mountain Standard Time.

10:46.

I look up. Still on the tube, Elinor reaches the diving board. She wobbles to her feet and stretches both arms overhead. She grabs the board's edge with her fingertips and moans softly as she
pulls herself up. I fight the overwhelming urge to run over and help, since I don't want her losing her grip and falling back into the pool.

I exhale once she's safely on the ground, and wait for her to get her bearings. She shakes out her legs, then, staying several inches away from the pool, leans forward and peers inside. She hugs her arms around her torso, shudders, and starts toward the house.

“Hi, Elinor.”

She stops. Her back's to us.

I glance at Lemon. He shrugs.

She turns. Slowly. Her eyes—her pretty, warm, copper-colored eyes—travel from Abe. To Gabby. To Lemon. To me.

“Seamus?”

I smile. Wave.

“What are you doing here?”

The corners of my mouth begin to droop. I force them back up. “Rescuing you!”

Her pretty, warm, copper-colored eyes widen. I think I see a hint of a smile on her lips, but it's too dark to be sure and the hint's gone as soon as it appears. And there's no mistaking the frown that follows. It takes up half her face.

She looks behind her and steps toward us at the same time. “
Rescuing
me?” she asks loudly. “From what? Heaven on earth?” She pauses and listens before sprinting the remaining distance. When she speaks again, she whispers. “Seamus, what . . . ? How . . . ?”

“I can explain,” I say quickly, “but not now. There's no time.”

I reach for her hand. Not to be mushy, but because there's a chance shock and confusion might root her feet to the dirt. And with minutes to go before GS George leaves, we need to run like our lives depend on it.

And in this place, they probably do.

“You shouldn't be here, Seamus,” Elinor says sadly, sliding her hand from mine. “You shouldn't have come.”

I start to disagree. But then there's a tug on my coat again. Thinking it's Lemon hurrying us along, I shoot him a pleading look over my shoulder.

But it's not Lemon.

It's the child-giant.

Shepherd Bull.

DEMERITS: 465

GOLD STARS: 300

L
ittle lady's right,” growls Mr. Bull
, who's probably our age but is so big—and intimidating—the adult title seems appropriate. He raises a shovel with one hand, smacks the blade into his other. Again. And again. And again. “You shouldn't be here.”

My gaze fixes on the shovel blade. Its tip is caked in a dark red substance, but I can't tell if that's rust . . . or blood.

“Sorry.” I swallow. Breathe. “We were just leav—”

He laughs. The sound is like nothing I've ever heard. It begins with a boom that shakes the ground beneath my feet, then
grows louder, higher. Until it reminds me of a singing chipmunk. Under other circumstances, such a girly laugh might shrink such a big guy. Under these, it just makes him scarier.

“Who are you?” he demands.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” Abe scoffs.

My head shoots toward my arrogant alliance-mate. It's nice he's so proud of Capital T, but now's not really the time to fan our feathers.

“Actually, no.” Mr. Bull says. “I wouldn't. Matter of fact, I couldn't care less.”

He opens his mouth. I can see his teeth. They're cracked. Chipped. Filled with the remains of his dinner. I brace for screaming, but it doesn't come.

Instead he burps. Whistles. Burps some more. Clucks his tongue four times. Coughs. Spits.

The instant saliva hits dirt, eight kids step out from the darkness behind him. They're miniature versions of him, but they still tower over me. They hold baseball bats. Tennis racquets. Rakes. Screwdrivers. Hammers. Forks.

“Listen,” I say. “You seem like a reasonable guy. I'm sure we can—”

He burps again. The baby bulls rush past him and swarm
around us like flies to roadkill. They don't pulverize us, which is what I expect, but they do move so fast there's no time to think—or retaliate. My one attempt at self-defense is trying to snatch a racquet from the shortest kid in the group, but rather than getting a weapon, I get a swift smack upside the head.

The next thing I know, I'm lifted up and hoisted onto something. I can't tell what because I can't see. I think the blindness must be a side effect of my concussion, but then I smell sweat. Mud. Maybe even mold. Like my nose is shoved inside an old sneaker. And I realize I'm blindfolded. By tube socks. My hand automatically reaches for my face but doesn't get far. Because my wrists are tied together behind my back.

Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts.

Whatever I'm sitting on dips once. Twice. Three times. Four times.

“Lemon?” I whisper.

“No talking!” Mr. Bull roars.

My seat dips again. An engine starts.

As we begin moving, I hear two light taps. They sound like knuckles against metal. Certain this is my best friend communicating without words, the way he so often does, I breathe a silent
sigh of relief. As long as Capital T's together, we can get through anything.

I keep telling myself this. It's the only way to prevent panicking about Elinor. The time. GS George. The Kilter helicopter.

Our ride doesn't last long and soon I'm being dragged, lifted, and led. I pay attention to my still-functioning senses for clues, but all I smell is sweat. All I hear is the shuffle of feet. All I feel is the occasional shove against my back.