Sidekicked (19 page)

No connection.

I look at my phone. Call lost. No bars. Funny. It was working less than an hour ago.

Pressing lots of random buttons over and over again doesn't help. Nor does walking into three different rooms. So I flop back on the couch and stare at it for a while.

Then I pick up the ancient landline phone from the end table beside me.

No signal.

“That's so weird,” I say to myself. I'm holding the dead phone to my ear.

No sound at all.

Except breathing. I only hear breathing.

I hold my breath.

And my heart stops.

It's not my breathing.

I turn just in time to see the club flying toward me—like a police officer's nightstick, but rounded on both ends like an oversized, deadly Q-tip. I manage to duck, and it careens into the bookshelf on the opposite wall, sending several volumes to the floor. The club somehow circles back, like a boomerang, and I peer over the edge of the couch cushions to see a hand catch it.

A hand attached to a man in a black suit with a black shirt and solid black tie. With mousy black eyes, a scarred face, and an oily black handlebar mustache twisted on the ends. He is standing by the front door. Smiling. Even his teeth are black. Some of them, anyways.

“The Sensationalist?” the man asks.

For a moment I think he's got the wrong guy. This is the first time anyone I don't know personally has called me that. In fact, pretty much only Mr. Masters uses that name. Someday, he says, it will be famous. Someday it will be in headlines. Staring at the Jack of Clubs standing in my doorway, I decide fame is overrated.

“Who?” I say. I am instantly aware that I don't have my mask on, but it clearly doesn't matter. This guy already knows who I am.

The Jack of Clubs reaches back for another toss. I use the Lord's name, partly in vain, mostly in earnest, and roll off the couch and into the coffee table, catching the corner of it with my head as the club goes whizzing past me again. This time it smashes into the forty-two-inch LED television that was my father's Christmas present last year and gets stuck in the glass and plastic.

Now's my chance. I take off toward the kitchen and the back patio door. Behind me I hear a grunt and footsteps on broken glass. I slide on the kitchen linoleum in my sock feet and slam into the counter, smashing my knees into them. I turn to see him coming down the hall behind me, club in hand.

I look down just to confirm that my utility belt is, in fact, still stashed away in my backpack by the front door and hasn't somehow magically appeared around my scrawny waist. If it
were
there, it would afford any number of solutions to the problem that is stalking me down the hallway. Paralyzing gas, cryogenic bomb, even just a smoke grenade. As it is, I have a used gum wrapper in one pocket and sixty-five cents in the other.

I need a weapon.

I look around frantically.

Knives.

Our block of kitchen knives. Right beside me. I grab the biggest handle—the big butcher knife, the
Psycho
knife—and launch it, but it clatters uselessly off the wall, missing its mark by several feet. The Jack of Clubs stops. I've gotten his attention, at least. I grab two more—a bread knife and the other long, skinny one. The first sails right past. The other he blocks easily with his club. I toss the rest, including the paring knife, five steak knives, and even the scissors (miss, miss, block, dodge, miss, drop, big miss); then I throw the block of wood for good measure. He manages to avoid them all with ease, except the block, which hits him in the shoulder and falls to the floor with a pathetic
thunk
.

Jack looks at his shoulder, then back at me. I think his mustache actually twists around by itself. He flicks his wrist, and the club soars out of his hand again.

I dive to the left, past the center island, headed toward the dining table as, behind me, I can hear the splintering of our wooden cabinets. There is the sound of more glass breaking as I crawl beneath the table, facing the patio door. I can tell from here that it is unlocked. Through the glass I can hear a dog barking, many houses down.

I wish I had a dog. A Rottweiler or a Doberman. With big yellow teeth. And rabies. Dripping, nasty, froth-at-the-mouth rabies. I'd name him Chopper. Or Jack Ripper.

I slide out from under the table and put both hands on the door handle. I pull hard, but it only opens an inch. It's stuck somehow. I push and pull. The sound of metal hitting wood. I look down to see the dowel rod that my parents use as an extra precaution blocking the way, meant to keep the bad guys out.

The sound of air being split as something whisles through it. I duck just in time and squeeze back under the dining table as the club soars past in an arc, nearly taking my head off.

Then I hear something large—probably Jack of Clubs size—landing on the table above me. For a moment I'm paralyzed. I can see the backyard. I can see the Powells' house beyond it. I can even hear the sound of children playing in the street.

There's no way I can make it out the patio door in time, not unless I try to crash through it. He's right on top of me.

I wish I had Nikki's powers. I would melt right through the floor and into the basement. Surely linoleum is no platinum. But I'm no Nikki, either.

I turn and look the other way—back down the hall at the front door.

Which way to go?

I turn to look back at the porch.

I scream.

His face is right there, hanging down over the table. Grinning with all of his black and yellow teeth. For a moment I think his
mustache
is reaching for me.

“Hi there,” he says.

I scream louder and scamper backward, kicking out and catching him square in the jaw with one socked foot.

I wish I had been wearing cleats. With three-inch spikes. Coated in poison.

I'm free of the table and see him stand up and spin around, rubbing his jaw with one hand. I manage to pull myself up and head toward the front door, my lungs already burning, my senses kicked into overdrive. I can smell the orange soda seeping into the carpet. Then I hear the slightest grunt of effort and manage to twist sideways and onto the stairs as the club wings past, lodging in the front door. Scrambling up the stairs on my hands and knees, I fall into my room, slamming the door shut with my feet.

The whole world is spinning.

I can hear his footsteps on the stairs.

I stand and lock my door and press my ear against it. He is breathing right outside.

He smells like sweat and licorice.

That, apparently, is what pure evil smells like. Like black licorice.

The Jack of Clubs jiggles the knob. There are very few things more unnerving than watching your doorknob jiggle, knowing there is a crazed killer on the other side.

I scramble into my closet and dig through piles of clothes and old blankets till I find my trunk—an oversized toolbox that I keep most of my sidekick supplies in, including a few gadgets I don't have room for on the belt. Inside the box, at least, is a Taser with enough juice in it to bring down a rhinoceros. It might not be enough to take down the Jack of Spades, but it should at least trump the club.

I open the box.

It's empty.

“What the
what
?”

Suddenly I hear one smashing sound followed by another and watch as my doorknob falls to the floor and the door swings open.

He stands there, looking at me trapped in my closet. His black shoes are dusted with broken glass. There is a spot of blood in the corner of his mouth, presumably from where I kicked him. He grins wickedly.

He opens the bag slung across his shoulder and pulls out some of my stuff, including the Taser and several smoke bombs and even a nifty little device Jenna helped me design for blocking phone signals and radio transmissions. I had kind of forgotten about that. He tosses the gadgets back inside.

“Kids your age shouldn't play with toys like this,” he says.

He takes a few steps toward me, his club in his right hand, down by his side. I scoot backward until I am tucked into the corner of the closet, frantically considering my dwindling options.

My closet is filled with dirty laundry, old board games, and neglected sports equipment that my former football-star grandfather buys me every year for Christmas. I grab a hockey stick, figuring it at least makes for a better weapon than a basket full of dirty socks.

“What do you want?” I say, pulling myself into a crouch, trying to make myself as small a target as possible. I wish I had Gavin's powers. I would turn into a mountain. A very small mountain, but solid rock nonetheless. Then I would just let him whack at me until he got bored and left.

The Jack of Clubs stops for a moment, listening. He turns and looks out my bedroom window and then back at me.

“Actually, I was hoping for a little more of a fight. But I guess I'll have to make do.”

He takes another step.

I look up expectantly. This is the moment. The one when the Titan comes crashing through the ceiling, all flexed and fisted, tackling the Jack of Clubs and pummeling him through the drywall, beating the snot out of him while I cheer him on. Rule number four, again.

Except he's not here. Nobody's here. Even Jenna's not here. I'm on my own. Though I can still hear the Titan's voice in my head. Like Obi-Wan Kenobi, if Obi-Wan was a drunk, three-hundred-pound loser who smelled like six-day-old sweat.

Save yourself for a change
.

So I charge, shouting and swinging my hockey stick like a lunatic. Maybe I'll get lucky. I aim for his crotch.

I miss.

Jack takes three steps backward and then swings once with his club, breaking my hockey stick in half. With his other hand, he gives me a shove, and I'm suddenly reeling back toward my bedroom door, falling into the hall. My head hits hard, and I'm starting to wonder why so many of these encounters end up with me on the ground with my head ringing. Then the Jack of Clubs is hovering over me.

I really wish my grandfather had given me a shotgun for Christmas instead of a hockey stick.

“I'm sorry, kid, really. This isn't about you.”

Why does everybody keep
saying
that?

“But it doesn't look like either of us is getting what we want today.”

He raises his club to finish me off.

I close my eyes and wait for it. Listening to everything. The children outside. The Hungs' dog barking. The hum of the refrigerator. The creak of a door opening, of feet on stairs. The sound of our heartbeats, his and mine.

Or at least mine.

I crack open one eye to see him standing there, club still raised. Beady black eyes looking down at me.

Not moving. Not an inch. Not even the slightest quiver of a mustache hair.

Then I jump, because I suddenly realize there is someone crouched beside me with his hand on my shoulder.

“It's all right. It's me. Are you okay?”

I nod frantically. Then shake my head.

“All right. Come on. We've only got about forty seconds left.”

I somehow stagger to my feet and we careen down the stairs, taking them three at a time. I manage to grab my backpack and shoes as we head out the front door. Down the street I can see kids playing football, except nobody's moving. The ball is frozen in midair. Up above me, two birds are stuck to the sky.

“Let's go. In the car.”

The blue Chevy Malibu. I have ridden in this car before. To and from weekend field trips. Saving the environment and stuff. There are empty cans of Mountain Dew on the floor and a box full of papers in the backseat.

Mr. Masters slides into the driver's seat and counts backward from five.

Suddenly the ball comes down into the hands of one of the kids, and I can hear them shouting. Mr. Masters turns the key and throws the car into drive, swinging out into the street.

In the distance I can already make out police sirens. Judging by the sound, they will be here in a minute or less.

“My mom,” I croak, twisting around to look behind me.

“Don't worry,” Mr. Masters says. “The cops will be there, and he's probably gone already.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because he has no interest in your parents. In fact,” Mr. Masters says breathlessly, “I don't think he was really after you.”

I
stare at Mr. Masters the way you stare at anyone who's just said something incredibly stupid.

“What are you talking about? He tried to bludgeon me!” Why didn't anyone ever take my almost dying seriously?

“I'm not saying he wouldn't have
killed
you,” Mr. Masters says. “I'm just saying that it wasn't his first priority.”

Somehow that doesn't make me feel any better. I don't want my death to be on anybody's to-do list, even at the bottom. I take a moment to catch my breath. Mr. Masters doesn't look at me, just keeps his eyes on the road. He looks more resolute than I've ever seen him.

“He knew who you were,” Mr. Masters says. It isn't a question, but I answer anyways.

“He called me the Sensationalist.”

“Then he knew what you are. Who your Super is.”

I want to remind him that I don't really have a Super, and that if I did, I probably wouldn't have been in that mess in the first place. I turn back around and look in the direction of my house, just to make sure it hasn't exploded or anything. No thick columns of black smoke. No towering infernos. That's good. The TV is bad enough. Dad loved that TV.

“He said he was hoping for more of a fight,” I mumble.

Mr. Masters sighs as he pulls up to a red light. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel for a second, then reaches over and grabs my shoulder, pressing the button on the watch sitting in his lap. “Traffic,” he mutters, running through the red light, weaving in and out between the now-frozen cars.