Cloaked (16 page)

Chapter 35

Meg and I stare down at the giants. Neither stirs. I mouth, “Dead?”

“Check,” Meg mouths.

We use the cloak to move to the ground. I tiptoe, eyes low to avoid slipping on any innards. I feel light breathing, like an industrial fan on high. Not dead, just out cold. The boulder they used lies nearby. I could finish them off with two good bashes, but I can’t. They’re human beings, really big, smelly ones. I can’t kill anyone.

And who knows? Maybe they’re under a curse themselves. Maybe they’re guys with families like Cornelius.

It had been Meg’s idea to have the giants take each other out. Our plan had been to throw pebbles from the tree as they slept off their turkey dinner, until, each thinking it was the other, they’d get into a fight. I didn’t think it would work, but I went along because I had no better ideas. I’d been the one who thought of buying an odd number of turkeys, though.

“I’m going to tie them up,” I whisper. “Wendell can decide what to do with them. I’ll take you up the tree. Then I’ll go back with the cloak.”

Meg thinks about it, then says, “I’ll help you with them.”

“No. This is my quest, my danger. Besides, you’re the brains of this operation, and I’m the brawn.”

Meg smirks. “Some brawn.” But I wish us back into the tree, take the cloak, and go before she can argue more.

When I get back down, I decide to start with the legs. That way, if the giants wake, they won’t be able to run. I wind the rope around four legs the size of a cord of wood, around and around, over and under. I use every knot I ever learned in Boy Scouts. It’s hard to concentrate with the smell.

I do the same with the arms, then walk around tugging the rope to make sure it’s tight. When I’m completely satisfied, I get Meg, and we take a picture with her cell phone.

“Let’s go tell Wendell,” I say.

When we reach his office, he says, “I know you tried to steal the frog. Be glad the scorpion didn’t bite you.”

He gestures toward the tank and the sign on it that reads:

Androctonus australis
: Yellow fat-tailed scorpion

Warning: Deadly to humans

I look at Meg. “But it bit me. How could—”

“Must not have been much of a bite.” She gestures toward Wendell. “Something you want to tell him?”

Other than thanks for siccing a poisonous scorpion on me? Not really. But I say, “The giants are all tied up in the woods. I’ll take my frog now.”

The ranger starts a little. “Tied up? You were supposed to kill them.”

I prepared for this. “Look, if I’d killed those giants, it would have been murder. You’d have solicited murder, which last time I looked, was a crime. It would be pretty hard to hide bodies that big. I knocked them out and tied them up.” I leave out the part about how the giants did it themselves. “You can call the police or the EPA, and they’ll believe you. You can give them to the Barnum and Bailey Circus if you want.”

Wendell thinks about it, then says, “But that wasn’t our deal. Our deal was to kill them, so I don’t see why I should give you the frog.” He rises from his chair and opens the door. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

I cannot believe this. After all I did, this jerk won’t give me the frog? I feel my hands itching and know that’s what it feels like when you really want to hit someone. But I’m no tough guy, like Meg says, so I take a bunch of deep breaths. Doesn’t help.

Meg’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Okay, Johnny, so let’s just untie them, and we’ll leave.”

Wendell stops. “Untie them?”

“Well, yeah. You didn’t want them tied up. This way, you can find someone else to kill them. Come on, Johnny. They should be close to waking now. Dusk is when they feed.”

I laugh. “Okay. Let’s go. You have the scissors?”

“Right in my backpack.” We start toward the door.

“Wait!” Wendell runs around and blocks our way. “You can’t untie them.”

“Watch me.” I start to shoulder past him.

“Okay, okay. Maybe I was a little hasty. You can have the frog. Just show me the giants in person.”

“Gladly.” But when we start toward the door, I see something that makes me stop.

It’s the tank on Margaret’s information desk. It says,
Alorian Marine Frog.

The top of the tank is open.

The tank is empty.

I grab Meg’s arm and point. She looks from my face to the tank. Back at my face. She starts toward Wendell. “Excuse me? Ranger?”

“What?”

“Did you put the frog someplace special for safekeeping?”

Wendell turns. “Yes, it’s right over on Margaret’s . . .” His face freezes, and I know. The frog was supposed to be in that tank. If he’s not, it’s because he’s dodging traffic, hopping down the Overseas Highway or worse, kidnapped by the Zalkenbourgians.

Wendell’s talking or, at least, moving his lips. But I can’t hear him above the sound of my own voice in my head, saying,
It’s over. It’s over.
I’m floundering through blackness, and I grab the only thing I can touch. Wendell.

“What have you done with him? Where is he?” My head may explode.

“I d-don’t . . .” Wendell’s stammering. “I can’t . . . he was here. I took him home, but I brought him back this morning.” He’s looking at the floor, the shelves, under Margaret’s desk. Nothing.

“He’s not here, you idiot!”

I feel Meg’s hand on my arm, trying to calm me.

“Did you see anyone?” she’s asking Margaret. “A woman, very beautiful, with long, blond hair, or a man, six-five at least.” She eases me away from Wendell, and I cling to her instead.

Margaret, who has her hand on the phone about to call the police, says, “No one like that.”

“How about . . .” Now, I remember the prince’s words,
Ze first family wiz a teenage girl.
“Any young girls, young women?”

Margaret looks at Wendell. He nods. “Well, there was one family from Ohio.”

Hope slowly flutters one eyelid, not completely dead yet.

“They had a sixteen-year-old daughter. She was looking at the frog, thought he was cute.”

“Are they still in the park?” At this point, I would have absolutely no problem with attacking a sixteen-year-old Ohio girl and wrestling the frog from her hands.

But Margaret shakes her head. “Nope. They were leaving. Just stopped by to get souvenirs and sign the guest register.”

I run over to the guest register. It’s summer, crowded, and there’s almost a page of entries for today. But only one from Ohio.

Debi and Rob Stephen, Tessa, and Rob, Jr., Columbus, OH.

Under comments, it says

A great place to stop on the way to Key West!

Key West! They’re on their way to Key West. Now all I have to do is go to Key West and . . . oh, boy.

I have to check every hotel in Key West.

And while I’m there, I also promised to look for the swans’ sister.

Hope lies down, saying it feels too tired to move on.

“Were they camping?” Meg asks.

Good question. There are fewer campgrounds than hotels.

But Margaret shakes her head. “No, but they had a minivan. White, I think.”

Well, that narrows it right down. Every third car is a minivan, and half are white.

Meg tries to pump her for more information, but the only thing she remembers is, “Red hair. The girl had lovely, long red hair.”

“Well, then, I guess we should go to Key West and look for a girl with long red hair.” Meg holds out her hand and leads me to the door.

Once outside, I say, “It’s no use. How can we find one frog in all of Key West?”

“Guess we just start south and head north.”

So we wish ourselves to the Southernmost Point.

Chapter 36

That which you have promised, must you perform.

—“The Frog Prince”

“Ever play Frogger?” I ask Meg. “It’s this old game Mom used to play when she was a kid, and last year, she bought it for me.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“It looks sort of easy, but it isn’t. You have to guide your frog across the highway, and there are cars and trucks coming from every direction. Bicycles too. And just when you think you made it, you have to guide your frog across a pond on logs, and he drowns.”

“So you’re saying our frog is like that?”

“I’m saying
I’m
like that. I’ve dodged traffic. I’ve gone underwater, and I’m still dodging stuff. I can’t believe you’re still here with me.
Why
are you still here with me?”

She shrugs. “I’ve never been to Key West before.”

The Southernmost Point is nothing but a big, striped cylinder that looks like a black beer can against the blue waves behind it, where everyone crowds around to take pictures. On it is writing that says, “Conch Republic: 90 Miles to Cuba
.
”
We stand, watching the water as it laps hungrily at the cement-covered land and thinking about what to do.

“‘Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, one night, sailed off in a wooden shoe,’” Meg recites. But I shake my head. I’m not in the mood to think of shoe quotes. We start down Duval Street.

Jimmy Buffett’s song about changes in latitude, changes in attitude streams from the doorway of a shop completely devoted to chickens. I keep my eyes out for red-haired girls or white minivans, but almost everyone’s on foot. Meg makes me stop to put a quarter in a donation can that says, “Save the Chickens
.
”

The first motel we see is called Eros and advertises a clothing-optional Jacuzzi. “We can probably skip that one,” Meg says. “Doesn’t sound like a family establishment.”

“You never know,” I say, sort of wanting to look in. “Some people are free spirits.”

We compromise by checking the parking lot.

“Wastin’ away again in Margaritaville,” sings Jimmy Buffett as we walk toward the house where Ernest Hemingway, the famous writer, lived. That reminds me of the swans Jimmy, Ernest, and Margarita, all named after Key West things. I promised the swans I’d look for their sister, Caroline, here. But no time now.

We’re about to pass the house when I see a girl about my age with copper-colored hair. She’s inside the gates, so I yell, “Tessa? Are you Tessa from Ohio?”

She stares like I might be a stalker, but I say, “Are you?”

“Nope. I’m Hailey from South Carolina.” Her accent is unmistakable.

I scan every crowd, every tour bus and ask at the desk of each hotel. We crisscross the streets that intersect Duval. Nothing. When we pass Harry Truman’s winter home, I feel another pang, thinking of Harry the swan and his brother, Truman. We pass bars crowded with tourists wearing nothing more than string bikinis and walk by T-shirt shops and nudist hotels. I approach every redhead and almost get beat up twice. I keep my backpack unzipped so I can whip out the cloak. It’s almost sunset when we reach the other end of Duval Street.

“We should go there.” Meg points to the sign that says
MALLORY SQUARE
. “Everyone comes here because it’s the best place to watch the sunset. Maybe you’ll find your redhead.”

I nod, even though I suspect Meg just wants to watch the sunset. Girls love stuff like that. Still, Meg’s right. It’s crowded. There’s a good chance our Ohio tourists are here.

Mallory. That was the last swan.

The square is mobbed. A man with nipple rings eats fire on a small stage, and another man does flips on stilts. Vendors sell your-name-on-a-grain-of-rice necklaces. There are at least ten redheads in sight. I start toward one.

“Let me.” Meg approaches the girl. “Tessa?”

She turns, and I feel a sudden leap of hope. But then, I see she’s at least thirty.

“Sorry,” Meg says. “Thought you were someone else.”

Over and over, Meg repeats this process, and each time, it’s the wrong girl. I say, “We should leave.”

“No.” Meg’s voice is patient, but her eyes are steely. “I’ve camped with you, gone without food, unwrapped slimy turkeys, watched giants wrestle, pulled you out when you got bitten by a scorpion, and spent several hours I’ll never get back listening to you talk about Princess Perfect. But sometimes, Johnny, you have to stop and watch the sunset. If you really think those fifteen minutes are going to make a big difference, go on without me. Here. Take the ring.” She hands it to me. “If you need me, you have it. Otherwise, see you later.”

And then, she turns toward the sun-reddened ocean, and I know she’s not going to move.

For about a second, I think about leaving, but I know she’s right. It won’t matter. We’ve been to thirty hotels. We can go to more later, and hopefully, the Stephen family will stay more than one night. I say, “Sure. Let’s watch the sunset.”

I’ve seen many sunsets on South Beach, and they’re beautiful. But the one at Mallory Square is different. Maybe it’s the latitude or something about the atmosphere. Or maybe, like Jimmy Buffett says, it’s the attitude, taking the time out to watch it, but the sun seems redder here. It streaks the sky not just orange and pink, but purple and gold too. Meg reaches for my hand, and I take it. The crowd around has grown silent. There’s little movement except the triangles of sailboats bobbing up and down against the blue. Light streams off the water, turning the world into a painting instead of a corny vacation postcard.

“Here’s a story I heard once,” Meg says. “Madame Pompadour, she was this lady in the court of Louis the Fifteenth.”

“Everyone knows that.” Even though I didn’t.

“Anyway, she loved fashion, and one day, a shoemaker delivered the most gorgeous pair of silk shoes. Of course, she was delighted. But on the first day, she took only a few steps, and they fell to pieces. Furious, she sent for the shoemaker. When he saw the wreck of his beautiful shoes, he spread out his hands and said, ‘But Madame, you must have walked in them.’”

“Ha! That’s a good one. What made you think of it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Seems like a lot of people want shoes they can’t walk in.”

I know she’s not talking about real shoes. She’s talking about me and Victoriana. But when I look at her, she won’t meet my eyes. Behind us, a guy with a guitar begins singing “Brown-Eyed Girl
.
”
I think of the Empire State Building yesterday, when I almost kissed Meg. She’s been my best friend my whole life. We do homework together. She models my shoes and listens when I ramble about my dreams. Isn’t that love? The sky is a strange shade of lavender, and I lean toward Meg.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see her. Sieglinde. She’s pretty again, like she was when she was Norina, but a little different. Still, I know it’s her, and she’s scanning the crowds, looking for something. Does she know about the redhead? No. Her eyes are downcast, like she’s looking for the frog. She knows he’s here. If she sees me, it will be a disaster. She might take me hostage again, so she can pump me for information. She might take Meg. I won’t let her take Meg.

I tug on the cloak in my backpack, then wrap it around us.

Meg looks startled. “What are you . . . ?”

I don’t have time to explain. I whisper the first place I can think of. “I wish I was in the Key West cemetery.”

An instant later, I’m sitting on a crypt that says:

I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK

B. P. ROBERTS

MAY 17, 1929–JUNE 18, 1979

Meg looks at it and laughs. “Always an adventure.” She squeezes my hand under the cloak. “Why are we here, exactly?”

“I saw her.”

“Tessa. I thought you wanted—”

“Not Tessa.
Her.
Sieglinde. I saw her at Mallory Square. She knows the frog is here. I had to get us away.”

Meg glances around. The cemetery is almost empty, probably because everyone’s at Mallory Square. Crumbling tombstones, some more than a hundred years old, surround us. In one corner are mausoleums, those sort of big, aboveground houses for the dead. It reminds me of the Haunted Mansion at Disney World. “But why here?” Meg asks.

“First place I thought of. Mom and I were here once. We took a ghost tour.”

Meg doesn’t look so sure. She glances around again, and despite the summer heat, I feel her shiver under the cloak. So I’m not surprised when she says, “It creeps me out. Why don’t we go see if there are any hotels around here?”

“Okay.” I ball the cloak up in my backpack, but I leave the zipper open. I start toward the main entrance. Even though Meg’s icked out by the place—or maybe because she is—I say, “Did you know there was a grave robbery here once?”

Meg tries to ignore me, but I repeat it. “Did you know—?”

“Yuck. Don’t tell me.”

“This old guy, he was a count or something, was in love with this girl who died. She was in one of the mausoleums, so one night—”

“Not listening! Not listening!”

“. . . he broke in and stole her body. He dressed her in a wedding dress and kept her.”

“Stop! Didn’t she smell?”

I shrug. “I guess. He replaced a lot of her skin with wax.”

“I hate you.” Meg’s step quickens, but she can’t run away because there are lots of tiny headstones, the kind you see a lot in old cemeteries, the kind for babies.

“Come on,” I say, “it’s a love story. In fact . . .” I stop.

“What?” Meg stops right next to a mausoleum. The sun is almost down now. I walk faster to catch up, pointing at the mausoleum.

“In fact what?” Meg says.

“In fact, she was buried right . . . here!” I grab Meg’s arm, hard. She shrieks and pulls away, then runs as fast as she can, out of the dusky graveyard. Some other tourists turn to tsk at us for spoiling the solemn mood. I laugh and run after her.

When we reach the gate, I see something that makes me gasp and stop.

It’s a house, a bed-and-breakfast, actually. The name on the sign is
CAROLINE’S
. It’s an old, tin-roofed building in a shade of purple so garish I can see it even in the near dark. None of that is really what I notice. What I notice is the sign, a banner hanging from a tree. It says:

HOME OF THE KING OF KEY WEST

And, below, in smaller letters:

FANTASY FEST
, 1980

“Meg! Wait! Look!”

“I’m not looking. I’m not waiting either. I don’t like graveyards.”

“Not the graveyard. There. It’s the house. The King of Key West. We have to go there. I promised the swans.”