The Secret of Zoom (11 page)

Her harrier cry was loud with sudden panic. She flung out her hands, but the branches slid by, slipping through her grasp while pine needles lashed her cheek. She banged an elbow, a knee—she hooked her legs over anything they touched—felt branches give, break, then finally hold. She grabbed with both arms for the solid wood of the trunk and clung there, dizzy and trembling.

It was a long way down. Christina shut her eyes, feeling sick, unable to answer Taft's worried calls from above. She tried to calm her breathing, slow the frightened patter of her heart.

Her palm was warm where she had scraped it. No, it was hot, it was
burning
—

Christina looked at her right hand, glowing again with melted rock, dripping now onto the ground beneath, drops popping when they landed, like a string of firecrackers. And suddenly she knew what quality her harrier's cry had been lacking when she'd practiced in the tree, what had been missing until the moment that she fell.

It was the overtone of fear.

“S
O
that's
why Lenny Loompski wants orphans who can sing.” Taft pushed through the undergrowth and ducked under a low-hanging branch. “He wants kids who can make the streaky stuff melt out of the rock.”

“But why? What's it good for?” Christina followed, hoping that he hadn't gotten turned around. They had left the stream far behind, and if they didn't come upon the forest road soon, they'd be lost. And hungry, too—the sack with what was left of their lunch had been forgotten under the pine trees.

Taft shrugged. “It's good for explosions, at least.”

“I bet that's what they call zoom. My dad said zoomstones were dangerous to work with.” Christina snagged her sleeve on a sharp twig and yanked it away. “But I still don't see what good it is, unless Lenny Loompski wants to make
bombs
—” She stopped, aghast.

“It wouldn't have to be bombs. Stuff that explodes like that—they can turn it into energy. Fuel. And that's worth a lot.” Taft surged ahead. “Look, there's the road!”

Christina caught up with him on the forest track and swung into step, her feet scuffing up a fine tan dust. “Hey, that's it! Remember what my father said last night? He said Lenny wanted to turn Loompski Labs into a factory for cheap fuel.”

“So singing like a hyena kept me out of the fuel factory—and Danny, too.” Taft grinned. “Danny would copy me so well, he'd sound like
two
hyenas.”

Christina cocked her head, listening. “Hide!” she urged, tugging at Taft's elbow as the rumbling sound of an engine grew louder.

They ducked down into the undergrowth at the side of the road and waited as the garbage truck with the happy faces chugged past on its way down from the ridge, belching black smoke and leaving a fog of dust in its wake.

Christina looked up as Taft leapt to his feet. Where was he going? The ridge was in the other direction.

She ran to catch up to Taft, who was following the garbage truck down the mountain at a fast trot. He turned, his features blurred by the dust that still hung in the air. “I forgot—to remind Danny—to sing off-key,” he jerked out as he ran. “And that truck—is going to the orphanage—I'll bet you anything.”

“You can't beat a
truck
,” Christina protested, but Taft only increased his speed. Resignedly, she followed on weary legs. At least they were going downhill.

By the time they arrived at the orphanage, exhausted, the selection was almost complete. Christina crept through a stand of ferns to crouch beside Taft, and saw to her relief that Danny was
not
standing in the line of kids waiting to scramble in the hopper.

She stretched out flat, breathing in the rich, musty odors of earth and decomposing leaves. She didn't care if Taft wanted to go back up to the ridge after this—she wasn't going. She was tired, and she wanted her supper. At the thought, her stomach growled. She looked around; the afternoon shadows were growing long. What time was it? She had to get back before she was called for dinner, or someone would go to her room and discover she was missing.

“Can I go on the truck?”

Christina stiffened. Was that
Danny's
voice?

Taft's face was horrified. “
No!
” he breathed.

The large-headed boy lumbered closer to the yard boss. “Pick me!” he said, patting his chest. “Pick me, boss!”

The driver smiled broadly, pointing out the window, and the cheap ring on his hand gleamed red in the slanted light of late afternoon. “That's a
real
Happy Orphan, boss. Let him come, why don't you?”

The yard boss shook his bristled head. “Nah. He's only good for scrubbing and sweeping.”

“But I want to get free!” Danny protested. “Go on the truck and get free! Like Taff!”

Taft put his face in his hands and moaned softly.

“You can't even
sing
, boy,” said the yard boss. “I've heard you. What good would you be up on the mountain?” He loaded a cardboard box into the truck and waved at the driver. “That's all this trip, take 'em away.”

The truck driver lifted the children into the hopper. The yard boss turned aside. And suddenly a clear, sweet voice sang one pure note, high and lingering in the still air.

Every head turned. Danny, swaying where he stood, was singing.

The yard boss froze, his mouth open. Slowly he reached in his back pocket and took out the tuning fork Christina had seen once before. He tapped it against a rod and it rang out, silvery and piercing; the exact note Danny had just sung.

“Well, boy, I guess you get your wish!” The yard boss grinned widely, slapped Danny on the shoulder, and propelled him up over the high edge of the hopper.

“Go on the truck, get free!” Danny repeated, putting his glowing face out the back end.

“Yeah, you'll be free all right. Free to work!” said the yard boss. “Get back, get your hands in, or you'll lose 'em!”

The children's hands pulled back instantly. A grinding noise started up.

“No, NOT the red button, you doofus! The
green
button, on your left!”

“Sorry, boss!” Barney called cheerfully. “My bad!”

The ram panel crashed down. The truck started up with a roar. And as Taft stared helplessly from the ferns, the garbage truck carrying his friend chugged through the gates, up the forest road, and disappeared from sight.

 

“No,” said Christina firmly. “We're
not
going back to the ridge. I need to get home in time for supper, or they'll come looking for me, and I'll never get out again.” She brushed back the green vines that covered the entrance to Leo Loompski's tunnel and gave Taft what she hoped was a stern look.

“But Danny—” said Taft as she nudged him into the tunnel.

“Look, it's getting late. We won't be any good to Danny stumbling around on the mountain in the dark, tired and hungry.”

“He'll be tired and hungry, too,” said Taft, very low. “And he won't understand.”

Christina took his elbow and steered him down the long tunnel, beneath bulbs that seemed dim after the bright outdoor light. “Let's pack him some food. We'll find him tomorrow, and even if we can't rescue him right away, we can probably throw him something to eat.”

Taft nodded, looking slightly happier. “He'd like that pie. Will there be any left, do you think?”

Christina considered telling him that pie didn't toss as well as sandwiches but decided against it. “If there isn't, Cook will have another dessert he'll like just as much. Have you ever had chocolate cake?” She rattled the big, square wooden door as she passed. Still locked.

“No,” said Taft. “Is it as good as pie?”

“Better,” said Christina.

Their footsteps echoed in the tunnel, up the dimly lit stair, and across the slanting graveled roof of Christina's house.

“Are you going to tell your dad about your mom's message in the test tube?” Taft bent to shut the attic's service door behind him.

Christina was already two rungs down the ladder to her room, but she stopped and rested her elbows on the attic floor. She had been thinking about that.

“No.” She looked up at Taft's serious gray eyes with their oddly thick lashes. “Nobody can help her now. And if I tell
him, he's going to know I got out, and you can bet I'll never get free again. Besides”—she hesitated. “Lenny Loompski lied about my mom dying in a laboratory explosion. He's probably lying to my dad about what's really happening to the orphans. But he's my dad's boss, and until we know for sure how much my dad really knows—”

“Ask your dad tonight at dinner,” Taft urged.

“I can't ask him straight out. He gets mad if I even
mention
the orphans.”

“Hint around, then. Get him to talk about his work. He likes that, right?”

Christina groaned. “He'll just start talking about math, and a million things I don't understand—”

“You are so lucky!”

“—and don't even
want
to understand—”

“That's your whole problem.” Taft gazed at her intensely, his eyes dark in the dim attic light. “You think it's impossible to understand your dad, so you don't even try. It's like you shut a gate in your mind, or something.”

Christina glared at him. “And it's staying shut, thanks. You have no idea how boring he is when he gets going.”

“Okay, then, let
me
listen in. You can ask the questions and get him talking, and then you can just—I don't know, glaze out or whatever you do—and I'll do the listening and understanding part.”

“What, you want to hide under the bed and hope my dad comes up again? He hardly ever does, you know.”

“Then I'll listen in at dinner. There must be some place you could hide me.”

Christina thought. There were lots of places she could hide him . . . the hollow bench in the dining room, for one, or the hall cupboard that was hardly ever used . . .

“It's too dangerous,” she said. “Someone might see you. And then we're both in big trouble.”

“Well, so what if we are?” Taft's voice scaled up. “Danny's up there on that mountain—and so are a bunch of other kids. Maybe your dad knows what Lenny Loompski is up to—”

“I bet he doesn't,” said Christina suddenly. “My dad
can't
know how bad Lenny is, or he'd have turned him in to the police. And for sure he doesn't know what happened to my mother.”

“But he knows
something
. If we can just find out a little bit more, it might help.”

T
AFT
was very good at sneaking soundlessly around corners. He got past Nanny's room and the study where Dr. Adnoid, just home from the lab, was reading the paper. He was almost past the overstuffed chair in the front hall when Cook backed through the kitchen door, carrying a stack of plates.

Christina shoved Taft down. By the time Cook turned around, he was crunched behind the chair and Christina was staring fixedly at the portrait just above it.

It was just another Loompski, complete with a medal in a frame. Christina tried to look fascinated by the dough-faced man with the lumpy cheeks.

“That's Larry,” Cook said as she passed. “Poor man.”

“Was he one of the grandchildren?” Christina positioned herself so that Cook wouldn't see Taft on her way back out of the dining room.

“No—Larry was Dr. Leo's brother,” called Cook, over a clattering of china in the next room. “He wasn't much of a Loompski, though.”

Christina looked at the portrait with new interest. This must be the brother who wasn't scientific. But still, he had won a medal . . . she looked more closely at the copper-colored disc and read:

 

Tidiest Desk Award, Grade Three
Dorf Elementary—Everyone's a Winner!