The Accidental Keyhand (23 page)

Dorrie dodged something hairy on the floor. A moment later, Mr. Scuggans burst out from between two bookcases with a great, bald expanse visible on the top of his head and a flapping poster wrapped around his middle. “Where will a book take you today?” it proclaimed in rainbow letters. Dorrie and Marcus skidded to a stop. The parts of Mr. Scuggans that Dorrie could see didn't have a stitch of clothing on them.

“Help! Police!” he shouted, disappearing down another aisle.

“Mr. Gormly,” murmured Dorrie fiercely, running for the door. Her mind reeled. Outside, the Pen and Sword Festival was still going strong. She and Marcus ran to the railing of the library's porch and, breathing hard, looked up and down the street.

“There!” Dorrie shouted, pointing into the park. Wearing Mr. Scuggans's khakis and yellow button-down shirt, Mr. Gormly was turning a water fountain off and on, looking delighted. Dorrie and Marcus scrambled down the steps in pursuit. A large herd of people in monk's robe costumes followed and obscured him from view.

Marcus surveyed the crowds in the park. “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.”

“Stop
Star
Wars
-ing!” snapped Dorrie. “This is serious.”

“That's how I
do
serious,” said Marcus.

The traffic stopped, and Dorrie caught a glimpse of Mr. Kornberger at the wheel of the bookmobile. He waved happily as she and Marcus shot across the street.

Inside the park, Dorrie saw Mr. Gormly sauntering toward a tent. “There he is!”

Dorrie and Marcus plunged into the crowd. Beyond where the blacksmith banged mightily on a piece of armor, Mr. Gormly paused at a tent displaying slingshots, pouches, and leather shoes with upturned toes. Dorrie and Marcus watched him trail his fingers along a table and then disappear down the little alley between two tents.

Putting on a burst of speed, Dorrie found her path blocked by a pudgy man hung with cameras, his hands full of steaming turkey legs. Dodging him, she caught one of the blacksmith's iron racks with her foot. Hoes and shovels and a collection of blades clattered to the ground.

“Sorry,” Dorrie called back over her shoulder as she and Marcus reached the tents between which Mr. Gormly had disappeared.

Breathing hard, they squeezed through, and poked their heads around the back of a tent. Mr. Gormly was strolling away along a hedge as though he didn't have a care in the world. He stopped and carefully slipped the star into a pouch, hung it around his neck, and tucked it inside his shirt.

“He just stole that pouch!” whispered Dorrie.

“What can we do besides follow him?” said Marcus. “He's got a knife and a sword!”

“Sacre bleu!” spat Dorrie. She didn't think they were going to be able to
talk
Mr. Gormly into giving up the star.

“Keep an eye on him. I'll be right back!” called Dorrie, sprinting back the way they'd come.

The little crowd around the blacksmith's area had begun to melt away, and the blacksmith had picked up all the things that Dorrie had accidentally knocked over. As Dorrie watched, the blacksmith stepped over to a nearby tent full of looms. Dorrie's fingers twitched. She'd be borrowing, not stealing. A trench coat had its uses.

Two minutes later, Dorrie plunked herself down beside Marcus and pulled something vaguely rapier-like out from inside her trench coat. “Here,” she said, holding an orange-sized iron ball out to Marcus.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” complained Marcus, his hair limp with sweat, the voluminous parka halfway unzipped. “I'm an ax-thrower.”

“I didn't see any axes!”

“I don't think you even looked,” sniffed Marcus, finally taking the iron ball.

“Where is he?”

Marcus pointed to the open part of the park, where crowds had gathered around the enormous circle of straw bales. Mr. Gormly had stopped beneath an immense oak tree that stood between two bales on the far side of the circle. All his attention seemed focused on a plump woman with a garland of flowers in her curly brown hair.

“Oh, isn't he the player,” said Marcus. He turned to Dorrie. “So what's the plan?”

“We grab the pouch from him?” said Dorrie uncertainly.

“I like it,” said Marcus. “Bold. No irritating details to remember.”

“Do you have a better one?” snapped Dorrie.

“We get closer to him, and
then
we grab the pouch.”

Dorrie hefted the sword. “We should come at him from different directions.”

“Fine,” said Marcus, shoving the iron ball experimentally into the rubbery bottom of the plunger. It stuck there.

At that moment a loud cheer went up all around them. From opposite sides of the circle, two groups of fully costumed medieval battle reenactors entered the circle carrying shields, foam-covered swords, and foam-covered battle-axes.

“The Melee!” said Dorrie, remembering how little time had passed in Passaic. “They're just about to start the Melee.”

“We've been looking all over for you!” said a voice behind Dorrie, as a man with a horn walked to the center of the field.

Dorrie spun around to see Lavinia and Rosa running toward her.

“Rosa! Lavinia!” Dorrie said, pleased and shocked somehow to see them standing there.

Rosa's face was bunched with worry. “Did you find him?”

“Who?” said Dorrie, craning her neck to keep Mr. Gormly in sight.

“Moe!” said Rosa.

Dorrie's brain creaked backward through all the days spent in the Library, their fall through the hole, and all the way back to the moment when Moe had gotten loose in the park. Of course. Moe. To Rosa, Dorrie and Marcus and Moe had only been gone a few minutes. “Uh, he's…he's in the library,” said Dorrie, catching Marcus's eye. “It's a long story, but he's…safe.” She stood on tiptoe, looking over their heads.

“Tiffany said if you don't come back in two minutes, then you've forfeited, and she's still coming after you for her points,” panted Lavinia.

“Uh-huh…” said Dorrie absently, creeping to the right to get a better view of Mr. Gormly. Marcus, Lavinia, and Rosa trailed after her.

“Don't you care?” Lavinia's puzzlement seemed to give way to irritation. “And why are you wearing those coats? And why is Marcus carrying a plunger?” she asked as Dorrie peered between a man and a woman bouncing fussy babies in their arms. “And uh, Dorrie? Tiffany is heading this way!”

Lavinia's speech, which Dorrie until this point had heard as simple noise, suddenly became words with meaning. Dorrie's head snapped around. She sucked in her breath. Swords at the ready, Tiffany and her two friends were standing on a straw bale, examining the crowd, midway along the circle between where Dorrie stood and Mr. Gormly lounged against the tree.

Dorrie swallowed hard.

“Hey!” said Justin, jogging into their midst, panting. “Any sign of Moe?” He caught sight of Marcus's parka. “Dude. It's seventy-five degrees out.”

“I uh, chill easily,” said Marcus. He elbowed Dorrie in the ribs. Mr. Gormly looked as though he was saying good-bye to the woman with the flowers in her hair.

Dorrie spun to face the Academy students. “Look, forget Tiffany.”

Justin's mouth fell open. “But what about the T-shirt?”

“Forget the T-shirt,” cried Dorrie. “We've got bigger problems.” She pointed out Mr. Gormly. “See that man? He stole something. Something really important. And a whole lot of people might get really hurt if we don't get it back.”

Justin, Lavinia, and Rosa stared at her bug-eyed.

Dorrie licked her lips. “Mr. Kornberger would want us to go after him!”

“But he does have a real knife and a real sword,” said Marcus. “So don't get too close to him.”

“Um, I think he's getting closer to us,” said Justin.

Dorrie spun to see Mr. Gormly sauntering across the circle.

“And I think Tiffany just noticed you,” said Lavinia.

Dorrie shifted her gaze to find Tiffany glowering at her in a purely predatory fashion. Dorrie's attention snapped back to Mr. Gormly as the man with the horn sounded a short blast. Mr. Gormly jerked his sword upwards as the two costumed teams of reenactors surged toward him, swords aloft. He disappeared in their colorful cloud.

“C'mon!” said Dorrie. “Before he hurts someone!” She lifted her borrowed blade, jumped the nearest straw bale, and ran forward with the rest of Mr. Kornberger's students into the swirling mob of foam-wielding warriors. “Try to keep people away from him!” She pushed and shoved her way through the crowd, desperate to glimpse Mr. Gormly again.

Finally getting through to clear ground, she saw him put a great gouge in a foam-covered shield and was about to sprint toward him when Tiffany Tolliver jumped in front of her. “I want my points, geek girl,” snarled Tiffany. “So I can see you wear that T-shirt fair and square.”

“I don't have time for this,” said Dorrie, craning her neck to keep Mr. Gormly in sight.

Tiffany lunged at Dorrie, sword extended. Without stopping to think, Dorrie parried it to one side. For a split second, Tiffany looked shocked before going on the attack again. Once more, Dorrie parried and then tried to sprint past Tiffany, but Tiffany, with a roar of rage, blocked her path, crossing swords with Dorrie so that their hilts clattered together. “You're not going anywhere.”

Dorrie tried to dodge around Tiffany in the other direction, but the bigger girl gave her a mighty push backward and lunged again. Furiously they lunged and blocked, thrust and parried. Dorrie deflected Tiffany's attacks one after another, her blade dancing, and her feet alive and shifting the way Savi had taught her. Salty sweat trickled onto her lips, as she glanced desperately in Mr. Gormly's direction. He seemed to have figured out that the “warriors” around him were anything but and had cleared a wide circle around himself, laughing.

Frustration set Dorrie's blood on fire. Desperate to be done with Tiffany, Dorrie went on the attack, touching Tiffany twice on the shoulder, and then on her arm, and then “There! Now can we be done?”

Tiffany's face reddened, her eyes narrowing with fury. She sliced at Dorrie's arm, narrowly missing it. Dorrie sifted through the strategies Savi had taught her. When Tiffany lunged at her again, Dorrie let her sword blade slide against Tiffany's until their hilts banged together again, the blades trembling against one another, their faces inches apart.

“I said I don't have time for this,” Dorrie panted.

Savi had made Dorrie practice her exit strategy from a moment like this over and over. She hoped it worked now. She hooked her foot around Tiffany's ankle and, with all her might, pushed against Tiffany's sword while pulling her leg out from under her. Tiffany fell to the ground, bellowing. A sprinkling of applause came from the spectators. Shocked that the move had worked, Dorrie remembered her promise to Savi. “And you can do whatever you want with that T-shirt,” wheezed Dorrie. In another instant, she was running as hard as she could toward Mr. Gormly. She planted herself in front of him in a fighting stance.

“Don't be an idiot,” he said, grinning.

Dorrie took a step toward him. In a flash, he'd kicked her blade to one side. She only barely held on to the hilt as the tip hit the ground, twisting her wrist painfully.

“I'm warning you. I have no scruples.” With practiced fluidity, he pulled his short sword from his belt.

“Yes,” said Dorrie, as she stepped warily around him, “but you don't want to make yourself obvious by killing anyone, either.”

On other side of the circle, the Melee's raging combatants swirled, hacking at one another with loud shouts. Dorrie caught a glimpse of Marcus running along the edge of the mob.

Dorrie engaged Mr. Gormly in earnest, hoping for a chance to pull the pouch from his neck. He swung hard at her legs with his sword. Dorrie only just had time to leap out of the way. The crowd cheered. She thrust forward as she landed off balance, meeting his blade with hers, as he swung again for her legs. The force of the blow sent tremors down her arm.

Dorrie's confidence fled. Mr. Gormly knew far more about sword-fighting than Tiffany. All Dorrie could do was to try to stay just out of his reach and hope for an opportunity to grab the pouch. The tip of Mr. Gormly's blade caught her in the shoulder and scratched deeply into her skin through the trench coat. She cried out in shocked pain.

“Had enough, little madcap?” said Mr. Gormly.

Anger flooded Dorrie. She had trusted Mr. Gormly. She had defended him against other people's insults. “No,” she said, her lungs heaving.

“Your choice.”

Dorrie raised her sword again and then went slack-jawed. Out of sight of Mr. Gormly and led by Marcus brandishing his plunger, the shouting, seething scrum of red-faced, foam-wielding warriors was heading straight for them.

Dorrie took three giant steps backward, and just as Mr. Gormly began to look vaguely inquisitive as to why, the mob simply ran over him. As the scrum stampeded on, leaving Mr. Gormly facedown and dazed in the dust, the crowd roared its approval. In a flash, Dorrie was at Mr. Gormly's side, pulling the pouch string over his head, terrified at every second that he'd grab her. It finally came loose and she bolted after Marcus and his legion of Kornbergers.

“Home, Marcus!” she shouted when she caught up with him. “Home to Great-Aunt Alice!”

LYBRARIANS AT WORK

The pouch seemed to burn in Dorrie's hand as she and Marcus dashed toward Great-Aunt Alice's house. They sprinted through the driveway gates that led into the yard and together hammered on the locked back door. It opened and Dorrie screamed as Mr. Biggs emerged, carrying the enormous, drooling lizard that Dorrie had seen him with in Athens.

“Good of you to return. I had just asked my assistant to go look for you.”

“Where's Great-Aunt Alice?” whispered Dorrie, backing away with Marcus and raising her sword.

“Aw, isn't that cute, Mr. Biggs,” said a voice behind her. “She has a ‘weapon.'”

Dorrie and Marcus whirled. A man with long, stringy hair and one ear was leaning on the driveway gate. Even with the bowler hat crammed down on his head, Dorrie recognized him from Athens as well. He held a stout-looking stick in his hand. A chain hung from one end. From the bottom of the chain hung a second black stick. He made the bottom stick swing ever so gently.

“Adorable, Mr. Lamb,” said Mr. Biggs mirthlessly.

Dorrie's heart began to thunder. The air felt dangerous, as Mr. Lamb draped his chained sticks over one shoulder.

Mr. Biggs trailed his gloved hand along the lizard's great jaws. “Now. I'd like my book back.”

“What book?” challenged Marcus.

The pouch in Dorrie's hand seemed to grow heavy as lead.

“What book?” Mr. Lamb repeated. He began to laugh in an ugly sort of way, showing all his teeth until he abruptly stopped. With blinding speed, he grabbed hold of Marcus and bent his arm behind his back.

“Let him go!” said Dorrie, crouching with her sword pointed in Mr. Lamb's direction.

Grinning, Mr. Lamb bent Marcus's arm so that he gave a shriek of pain.

Dorrie froze.

“I'm not fond of games,” said Mr. Biggs, putting the lizard gently down on the ground.

In an instant, he had wrenched Dorrie's sword from her hand and sent her sprawling in the grass.

The pouch bounced away from her. As she lunged for it, Mr. Biggs kicked a cloud of dirt into her face and scooped it up himself.

“
No,
” Dorrie howled, as Mr. Biggs kicked her sword to one side.

He stepped hard on her arm, sending an excruciating pain shooting up it, and hefted the pouch in his hand. After a moment of startled disbelief, his lips shifted into a terrifying arrangement that Dorrie guessed was supposed to be a smile. “Even better.”

In the next instant, the broad snout of the library bookmobile exploded through Great-Aunt Alice's driveway gates with a monstrous splintering crash, Mr. Kornberger at the wheel.

Mr. Biggs bobbled the pouch, dropping it, as the vehicle screeched toward them on two wheels. With a low growl, he leaped out of the vehicle's way, and Dorrie, freed from the crushing weight of his foot, lunged for the pouch and rolled out of the way.

When she could look up again, she couldn't see Mr. Biggs, but Mr. Lamb had let go of Marcus and was bearing quickly down on her. Trying to scramble away, Dorrie watched in amazement as, for no apparent reason, Mr. Lamb came to a sudden jerking stop, Looking utterly blank, he toppled to the ground. Dorrie looked back at the bookmobile. Ebba, her face still screwed up in concentration, was leaning from one of its windows, her slingshot in her hands.

“Ebba!” cried Dorrie.

“To me,” shouted a familiar voice.

Dorrie scrambled to her feet to see Savi, wearing the eye-popping flowered raincoat, leap out of the bookmobile. She and Marcus streaked to his side. In the driver's seat, Mr. Kornberger was working hard to untangle himself from his seat belt.

Dorrie stared up into Savi's grim, relieved face. “How did you—”

“Two keyhands. One key-mongoose,” he answered, drawing his sword. He jerked his head toward Mr. Lamb as he cut down a length of the Barnes clothesline. “Who's that? “Where's Gormly?”

“We left Mr. Gormly in the park. This one works for Mr. Biggs!” Dorrie felt a stab of panic as Savi bound Mr. Lamb's hands behind his back. She looked wildly around the yard, filled with a terrible dread.
Where
had
he
gone?
She ran for the back door. “We've got to find Aunt Alice!”

“She's right here,” said Mr. Biggs in his velvety voice as he stepped into the yard through the back door.

Dorrie skidded to a stop. Mr. Biggs had his arm around Great-Aunt Alice as though escorting her into a fancy dinner party, except that her hands were trussed behind her back, and he held a gun near her pale, drawn face.

“Great-Aunt Alice!” Dorrie called, both relieved and horrified.

Marcus looked to Savi, whose eyes narrowed. In the sudden silence, a horrible, wet sort of growling arose from the lizard.

“Almost dinnertime, Darling,” said Mr. Biggs. He nodded in Savi's direction. “You put that sword down, and the girl will hand me over that pretty little star she's holding.”

Dorrie glanced at Savi. He stood stock still, his eyes flickering, as if making calculations. Heart bucking, she squeezed the pouch tightly, unsure of what to do.

Mr. Biggs gave a luxurious sigh. “I assure you, I have plenty to bargain with.” He spun Great-Aunt Alice around. Dorrie gasped. Elder, his wrinkled face a cut and swollen mess, was tied back-to-back with Great-Aunt Alice.

“Elder!” Dorrie cried out, aghast. “Savi, he's a friend!”

“Now,” said Mr. Biggs, his voice everyday and conciliatory. “I'm going to guess that you'd prefer that they not die. So for the last time, hand me over that pretty little star.” On the grass, the lizard opened her mouth wide and took a few steps toward Savi, tail swishing back and forth like a great, meaty windshield wiper. Strings of yellowish goo stretched between her jaws.

Mr. Biggs moved the gun closer to Great-Aunt Alice. “You have three seconds to hand it over. One, two…” Dorrie's head filled with desperate fear-choked whispers. She looked pleadingly at Savi.

“Give it to him,” barked Savi.

Dorrie threw the pouch at Mr. Biggs feet.

“You see, Darling,” said Mr. Biggs, picking up the pouch and slipping it into the pocket of his suit jacket, “a friendly request does it every time.” He surveyed the bookmobile thoughtfully. “Alas, I need to get away, and my trussed friends will have to come with me. I'm afraid I won't be able to return them.” As betrayed rage screamed through Dorrie, Elder suddenly bent forward, lifting Great-Aunt Alice off the ground. She kicked mightily at Mr. Biggs's arm with her good leg. The gun sailed out of his hands and disappeared in the thick ivy that grew along the edge of the yard.

Savi dived at Mr. Biggs, who, shielding himself with Alice and Elder, snatched Dorrie's sword off the ground. Savi leaped around to Mr. Biggs's other side before he could drag Elder and Alice around. Furious, Mr. Biggs shoved them hard so they fell onto the stones of the patio. Savi and Mr. Biggs's blades crossed and clanged as Marcus searched frantically for the pistol in the ivy. Amanda and Ebba—her long, yellow poncho flying—burst from the bookmobile and ran with Dorrie to Elder and Alice. They clawed at the ropes.

“Aunt Alice, you were amazing!” shrieked Dorrie.

“It was Elder's idea,” Aunt Alice panted. “He's hurt.” A chill tumbled through Dorrie. She crawled around to Elder's side. He looked terrible. For a horrible moment, she thought he was dead.

“Elder!” Dorrie cried, touching the red smear near his shoulder. “Oh no.”

A grunt from Mr. Biggs made Dorrie glance up. He thrust viciously at Savi, trying for a killing stroke, which Savi dodged in a blur maneuvering Mr. Biggs across the yard and away from Elder and Alice.

“What should I do, friend?” cried Mr. Kornberger to Savi. He was finally free of his seat belt and holding aloft his stage-combat sword.

“Absolutely nothing,” ordered Savi, as he met another of Mr. Biggs's blows.

A slash of Savi's blade opened up Mr. Biggs's suit jacket pocket. As walnuts, broken and whole, tumbled to the ground, a glint of fear mixed with the cold business in his eyes. He managed to grab hold of the pouch before it fell, but Savi flicked his weapon upward and sent Mr. Biggs's blade flying. With a sweep of a leg and a shove, Savi forced Mr. Biggs to the ground, a foot away from where “Darling” snapped and slobbered, filling the air with a putrid cloud of foul breath. Savi pressed the point of his sword against the skin of Mr. Biggs's throat. “
We
need to get away. Throw the pouch to Dorrie.”

Mr. Biggs slowly unbent his elbow. Dorrie trembled with relief and held out her hands, but instead of throwing the star, Mr. Biggs grabbed Darling's tail. In a flash, he'd swung the lizard at Savi's face. Savi leaped backward. With the lizard under one arm, Mr. Biggs scrabbled to his feet and ran toward the narrow gap between the bookmobile and the garage, scooping Dorrie's sword up once more.

With a bellow, Savi pursued Mr. Biggs. Unable to squeeze through the gap, Mr. Biggs slid with his back along the garage wall, thrusting first the sword and then the lizard forward to snap and slobber in Savi's direction. Dorrie danced along helplessly behind Savi.

“I'll give you three seconds to hand that pouch over,” Savi said, his face furious, “or I'm going to run you and that dragon through, defensive policies be damned. One, two…”

At that moment, Darling decided she'd had enough and clamped his her jaws down hard on Mr. Biggs's arm. With an enraged roar, Mr. Biggs dropped the pouch and staggered backward, frantically trying to wrest his hand from between the lizard's jaws.

Darling, for reasons of her own, suddenly let go, and Mr. Biggs fell through the open door that led into Dorrie's father's workshop. Savi leaped over the lizard and dived in after him. Dorrie heard glass shatter and then the sound of heavy things crashing to the ground. She ran for the pouch but hesitated a few feet away. The lizard stood over it, gnashing its teeth. Dorrie's head snapped toward the garage door as another crash and an eardrum-bursting hissing sound erupted from inside.

Mr. Kornberger shot past her and into the workshop, his blade held high. “You are not alone, Cyrano de Bergerac!”

“No!” shouted Dorrie.

“Dorrie, look out!” yelled Ebba. Dorrie turned back to see the lizard launch itself at her leg. Time seemed to slow as Darling's jaws yawned toward her. It sped up again as the beast jerked in midair and flew off to one side.

Her heart pounding, Dorrie lunged for the pouch and scrambled up to see Amanda hauling on what was left of the Barnes' clothesline. The lizard bucked and jumped, its jaws held fast by a noose. “I've been practicing for a moment like this since I was five years old!” cried Amanda.

A yelp and a streak of French swearing came from the garage, and then silence, except for the hissing.
Mr. Kornberger!
Dorrie charged through the garage door.

Mr. Biggs, breathing hard, had something cold and smile-like on his face, and Mr. Kornberger in a shielding headlock, Dorrie's sword to his throat. Dorrie's father's workshop was in shambles.

“God's fillings,” croaked Mr. Kornberger, his face utterly drained of color.

“You idiot!” shouted Savi.

Marcus appeared in the garage door. “I couldn't—” He stared from Mr. Kornberger to Mr. Biggs to Savi, and to the wreckage of the workshop, where one of Mr. Barnes' helium-suit prototypes lay in an explosion of torn pieces. “Uh-oh.”

“I'll take my little trinket back, thank you,” said Mr. Biggs, “and be off with my new friend here.”

Dorrie clutched at the pouch in her hand.

“Give it to me,” Savi said to her tightly.

Dorrie stumbled over and put it in Savi's free hand.

“You let him go, and I'll give you your trinket,” said Savi.

“I don't think so,” said Mr. Biggs. “You give me my trinket, and I'll let go of this cunning warrior.”

“It's a stalemate then,” shouted Savi over the hissing, which was growing steadily louder. “For if you even begin to harm him, I will be upon you.”

Dorrie saw Marcus's eyes catch on the overturned helium tank, from which, she now realized, the hissing sound issued. Dorrie and Marcus locked eyes.

“Savi,” Dorrie said slowly. “We should just go.”

“Your friend is a bootless, clay-brained muttonhead,” spat Savi, “but I don't intend to abandon him!”

“Just outside for a minute,” begged Dorrie. “I have, uh, something private to tell you.”

“Private?” barked Savi.

Mr. Biggs looked at her suspiciously.

“Trust me,” Dorrie said, grabbing hold of Savi. She hauled him backward through the door. Marcus slammed it shut and threw the bolt.

“Don't worry about me,” said Mr. Kornberger faintly from inside.

“What are you doing?” shouted Mr. Biggs through the door.

“The valve's broken off a tank of helium gas in there,” whispered Marcus. “The gas will knock them right out. We just have to make sure we open the door after they're unconscious but before, you know, they die.”