Hunter Moran Hangs Out (7 page)

I squint up to the ceiling. “Forty-one?”

“Fifty-one.” He squints, too. “You'll read one half, I'll read the other. We'll figure out two life changes.” He looks thrilled with his idea.

We're both yawning now; I can't keep my eyes open. It must be after midnight. We'll tackle fifty-one pages in the morning.

But Fred is barking again, a muffled bark.

Where is that coming from?

“It doesn't sound as if it's in the house,” Zack says. He goes to the window and peers out at the backyard. I look over his shoulder.

Is that Fred out there? We don't see him, but he's howling like Dracula.

How has he gotten out of the house?

We see the falling-apart playhouse we built with Pop a couple of weeks ago, and the half-dead bushes with their withered leaves dragging on the ground.

“Why hasn't someone watered all that stuff?” Zack asks.

I don't remind him that Pop told us to do it about fifty times.

But now we see something else. Someone is in the yard. It looks like an old man, all bent over, wearing one of those hats with brims that cover his eyes. His nose is huge, hooked like a pirate I read about once.

He's dragging an odd-looking striped bag behind him. It's big enough to stuff Linny inside. In the dim light it seems to move, to bulge one way and then another.

Without thinking, I shove up the window. “Hey!” I yell.

The guy, whoever he is, looks a little familiar. But before I can get a good look, he backs out the gate and takes off.

We're going to take off, too. We can't let him get away with this.

We won't bother going through the house. Nana sleeps with one eye open. Instead, we dive into the closet for one of those rope ladder things. Nana gave it to us; she's afraid of fire the way Linny is afraid of kidnappers.

“Just throw this thing out the window if necessary, then climb down,” she told us. “Read the instructions. It's easy as pie.”

We haven't read the instructions. And it's not easy as pie.

The thing is heavy, but we manage to loop it over the windowsill, the handles like claws, ruining the paint, but no one will notice; the whole room is chipped from our wall-walking in spikes last summer.

I go first. I climb out backward, the ladder swaying like the lookout platform. I look over my shoulder at the maybe-kidnapper, who's rushing down the alley.

“Hurry!” I yell to Zack as I find places for my toes. This ladder was built for feet like Mary's.

Zack backs out behind me.

The kidnapper looks over his shoulder, too . . . and trips over his feet.
“Oof!”
he yells.

I leap off onto the ground, but my own feet are caught; the ladder comes with me, and Zack lands on my head.

Never mind that my brain is scrambled. We untangle ourselves and go after the kidnapper, kicking the rope ladder away.

Too bad we've forgotten sneakers. A thousand stones with sharp edges are hanging around. We dance down the alley on tiptoes and zigzag across Pop's lawn again. We'll have to deal with that later. A hyena memorial, or a grand
WELCOME HOME, K.G
. sign.

But right now, we're saving lives. Our family is depending on us.

Ahead of us, the kidnapper sprints across the road, passing the streetlight. I know who this is; I'm sure of it. If only I could figure it out.

And what about that bag that seems to have a life of its own?

“Wait up!” I yell.

He doesn't wait; of course he doesn't.

We hobble over the curb, but here comes a delivery truck with a huge picture of bread on one side. Too bad the side's a little dented. The bread looks squashed.

We have to wait until it lumbers past. And even losing those seconds makes us lose the guy.

Which way has he gone? Into the woods? Down to the town round? Maybe he's racing to catch the midnight train to the city.

We look back and forth, toward the library, then the used-to-be-empty house, and the dark and creepy Werewolf Woods.

The guy has disappeared.

There's nothing more we can do tonight. We head for home.

It's morning. My head hurts, and the soles of my feet are torn up, but Mom and Pop are home with the new baby. We gallop down the stairs to see her.

The baby's face is a little red, a little squashed, and she looks like William, poor kid. She howls like Fred.

Mom sinks down with her on the big chair in the living room. Pop leans over them. He doesn't seem to realize that the baby isn't going to win any beauty contests. He looks thrilled. Good. It will keep his mind off the chewed-up lawn.

I reach out and the baby curls her fingers around mine. She belongs to us. I'm really glad she's here. I'm glad Mom's home, too.

Nana holds on to Mary, who's jammed half the couch pillow in her mouth. “Do you have a name for her?” Nana asks Mom, and crosses her fingers.

“Peaches,” Linny whispers.

“Joey,” Steadman says.

“Leonardo.” William stands two inches away from the baby. “She looks like me.”

Nana's eyes widen.

“She certainly does not,” Linny says.

Zack and I cross our fingers. “What was your grandmother's name?” I ask Mom, knowing very well what it was.

Nana and Mom say it at the same time. “Kathleen Grace.”

We nod.

They smile. “That's a beautiful name.”

“Kathleen Grace,” Nana breathes. “My mother's name. How perfect is that!”

“Great idea,” Pop says.

Linny's lower lip is out a mile. “I'm still calling her Peaches.”

“I'm calling her Joey,” Steadman says.

“We could even call her K.G.” Zack and I give each other a high five.
Killer Godzilla
.

The baby opens one eye and squints at me. It's almost as if she knows Zack and I have railroaded the family into her name, but she doesn't mind.

“Wait until Fred sees her,” Steadman says. “He's going to go bananas.”

“Where's Fred, anyway?” I ask.

Steadman looks around.
“Komazahere!”
he yells. He's
so loud, the baby stops crying and blinks. Mary knocks over a vase on the table and begins to chew on a daisy.

Fred doesn't
komazahere;
he doesn't even bark.

The doorbell rings. Becca is here to see the baby. She looks as if she's jumped off a ten-story building into a pile of cement.

“What happened?” Nana asked.

“Gymnastics,” Becca says absently. She stares at the baby. “She seems a little squashed.”

“She does not,” we all say together.

“Nicely squashed, I mean,” Becca says.

“Komazahere!”
Steadman screams. He runs through the dining room, into the kitchen. “Maybe he forgot the language,” he says over his shoulder. He clatters upstairs, and we clatter behind him.

“Fred, you're the best dog!” Steadman cries. “Come out wherever you are.”

I'm beginning to have terrible thoughts. Last night in the dark. Chasing the maybe-kidnapper. The bulging bag.

Fred has been taken away in that bag.

Fred, who never keeps quiet.

Fred, who'd fit in a cage.

Fred, the kidnappee!

Not Linny, not Steadman, but still . . .

. . . part of our family.

Zack's eyes bulge. He's figured it out, too. He looks
at me and shakes his head. We're both thinking the same thing. This is the work of a madman.

“Fred,” Linny breathes from behind us. “Who'd want Fred?”

Steadman opens every closet door, every dresser drawer. He's crying so hard he can barely get the words out. “He's a great dog. I bet he's been kidnapped. He's worth a hundred dollars at least.” He cries harder. “I have only three quarters and fourteen pennies to get him back.”

“Hunter and I are rich,” Zack says. “We have money tucked away all over the place.”

Actually, we have less than Steadman. But we're on our way to deal with the kidnapper. Somehow.

“Don't worry,” we tell Steadman. “We'll come back with Fred.”

Outside it's almost too hot to move, but we drag ourselves to the town round, whistling for Fred. Zack even tries a
“Komazahere”
or two.

But Fred doesn't
komazahere
.

We try every street in town. We see a couple of dogs panting in the shade, but not one that looks like Fred, with his weasel face and his sharp teeth.

We sink down on a bench; we're so tired we ignore the pigeon goop. “Why did we bother to look all over the place in this heat?” Zack moans. “We know he's been kidnapped, probably turned into hot dog meat by now.”

I think of Steadman's sad face, his tears. He's such a great kid. And then I remember the bulging bag last night. We know that bag. It's a Gussie's Gym bag. We look at each other in horror.

William?

“One of those bags was in William's room,” Zack says.

I can hardly get the words out. “William's the kidnapper?”

William has gone crazy.

“I thought it was an old man,” I say. “All bent over and wearing that hat.”

“It could have been anyone. Almost anyone,” Zack says. “We just have to hope it wasn't William.”

It feels as if it's 100 degrees; the sun is burning a hole in our heads. Still, we haul ourselves to our feet and head for Werewolf Woods. We'll try the lookout tower next.

The woods are shady, cooler, the insects loud. We can't find our tree. How is that possible?

“It was this side of the pond, right?” I ask Zack.

“I think so,” he says.

We wander this way and that way, and then we circle the muck at the edge of the water. Something is floating in the center. It looks like one of Pop's old boards.

We glance up at the trees. A board dangles from a skinny branch. Heads back, we zig zag underneath; we step on bent nails and a couple of boards that are sinking into the weeds.

The lookout tower is gone; the whole thing is torn apart. “I can't believe it.” I kick at one of the boards. “Bears, maybe.”

Zack makes a Jell-O mouth. “It wasn't a bear. This is the work of the kidnapper. He's afraid we're getting too close for comfort.”

I look around uneasily. “What's that?” I say.

Not far from Pop's floating board is a bunch of brownish hair. What did Bradley the Bully say?

“Dead bodies,” Zack mutters.

We stare at the hair. Stare hard. Could it be poor Fred? My heart stops beating.

Zack clutches my arm. “We have to go after him, give him a decent burial.”

“We'd need a boat,” I say.

Zack shakes his head. “No good. There's no time to build one.”

I slap at a mosquito, staring at the pond, trying for inspiration.

“I've got it,” Zack says. “Pop's old boards! We could build a raft.”

I've said it a million times. You can't beat Zack for brains.

“Actually . . .” He squints out at the pond. “We don't even have to go that far. We can each take a board, straddle it, and paddle out with our hands.”

I make my own Jell-O mouth. “Are you sure the boards will hold us up?”

I don't want to remind him that Bradley said once that the pond is miles deep. I don't even want to remind myself that I'm not the greatest swimmer in the world and Zack is worse.

Zack, the thinker, points. “Don't you see that board of Pop's in the center?”

“It's floating, all right,” I say. “At least half of it.”

“So what's your worry?”

I'm filled with worry. I don't even know where to begin. Instead, I check out boards under one side of the tree; Zack tackles the other side. Most of the boards have nails poking out like porcupines; a few would snap in half even if Mary tried to ride them. “I guess this isn't going to work,” I say, almost relieved.

“Don't worry,” he says. “I've got two perfect ones right here.”

They don't look perfect to me. But Fred's out there,
a floater
, as Bradley would say, and already I'm planning the perfect funeral.

We throw our sneakers under the tree, then pick up the boards. Like a pair of ponies, we gallop to the edge of the pond and belly-flop in.

We're soaked in muddy water in two seconds, but Zack is right. The boards seem to be holding up well underneath us.

Something slithers behind me in the murky water. It's long and narrow: a snake, of course. William collected them until Mom said they might be poisonous. This one certainly looks poisonous, with its slippery yellow back. Maybe it's a python.

I'm glad we have only a collection of worms.

I don't want to get my hands too close to the snake, but I have to paddle. I dip in two fingers and try to push the water away from me. The snake speeds after me as if we're having a race.