by Jon Scieszka
Niko dashes outside before I can stop him. I think he’s going to jump this huge dude—climb him like a tree—but Niko runs right by him.
I head for the side door, then watch through the window as the driver enters the restaurant men’s room.
I’m not about to mess with that guy. He’s the size of a Mack truck. Each of his hands is as big as a turkey carcass.
When I get to our car, it’s already loaded on the tow truck, and Niko has climbed into the now slanted backseat. He makes a nest, burrowing low in the foot space. He pulls a beach towel over himself.
“Niko, get out of there!”
Niko ignores me.
“C’mon, the tow truck guy will be back,” I plead, wondering if I should drag Niko out. I don’t know if I can. He weighs twice what I did at that age. Besides, once Niko gets an idea, there’s no talking him out of it. It’s like the time he jumped into a motel pool from the second-story balcony because he thought a toy dinosaur was in there. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t our motel or his dinosaur.
“Please! Niko!” I beg.
But Niko won’t budge. I can’t let him go without me and I sure as heck don’t want Turkey Fist to see us, so I dive into the backseat and roll myself into the foot space, across the floor hump from Niko. I pull the other beach towel over my head, panting under the hot dry towel, which smells of chlorine.
What am I doing? This is stupid. There’s still time to get Niko out of here, I think, but then the truck cab door opens. The car jiggles as the big man gets inside. The motor turns over, the cables squeak, and we begin to move.
“River,” Niko whispers. “We don’t have our seat belts on.”
Leave it to Niko to worry about that, but I don’t want him to decide to climb up and snap one on. That’s just the kind of thing he’d do.
“It’s okay. Dad will understand,” I tell him.
“No, he won’t,” Niko insists, but he stays low in the foot-space, the towel pulled tightly around him.
On the freeway the wind beats through the open windows, battering our towels and sending Dad’s flying out. All I can think about is how to text Harpreet where to pick us up when I have no idea where we’re going. I can’t even tell which direction. All I see is the cloudless blue sky above me.
It’s fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before we get off the highway, but we’re slowing down, turning left, the pavement rising like we’re pulling into a driveway. The tow wires pop, the car twists and sways as the tow truck comes to a stop. The cab door opens, the weight shifts, the door slams shut.
He’s out.
Just to be sure, I wait ten beats before I look. We’re pulled in to a dingy strip mall in front of an empty storefront with no sign and black-painted windows. On the left is a liquor store, on the right a pawnshop. I’m guessing the tow truck driver went into the black-windowed store, since he parked right smack in front.
Either way, we can’t stay here. I’m not about to wait around for this tow truck dude to find us and crush us with his turkey fists.
“C’mon,” I tell Niko.
The back of the strip mall is even dingier than the front. A Dumpster overflows with Styrofoam and wood shavings, broken lightbulbs, plastic crates, and hundreds of those little hangers that come with new socks. By the back wall, I see a buzzer with a small sign. MOSTLY REPTILES, it says.
“Bingo,” I tell Niko.
“Dad’s in there?” Niko whispers.
“I think so,” I say.
Niko nods, his eyes dazed.
The back door is half open. Inside, I see steel girders holding shelves from floor to ceiling. On the shelves are plastic shoebox-sized boxes—maybe a hundred or more. Fans spin slowly, cutting through the hot air. Sawdust covers the floor. I’m just thinking I need our address so I can text it to Harpreet, when the door opens farther and a man with snakeskin boots, long sideburns, and a weird eye—might even be glass—repositions the doorstop.
I grab Niko and yank him behind the Dumpster, holding my breath, hoping we haven’t been seen.
“Man, it’s hot in here,” he shouts. “When’s the AC repair guy coming? We may need to unload in the alley.”
We don’t hear a response, but he rattles on. “Our man in Jakarta mislabeled a few frilled dragons as wild crested geckos. It can happen,” Glass Eye says to someone inside. He’s pacing, his voice is sometimes clear, sometimes muffled as he moves back and forth.
“And the Timor pythons he smuggled in his underwear?” Someone else asks.
“Dad?” Niko’s chest rises. I can feel him start to lunge forward.
My arms tighten around him. “No!” I whisper, pressing my mouth against his hot ear. “We don’t know it’s safe in there.”
“You can’t prove that,” Glass Eye says. “Not without your wire.”
“Police will be here if the wire goes dead.” My dad says.
Glass Eye’s voice gets clearer as he paces our direction. “What do you take me for? This is Fish and Wildlife’s baby. They don’t have the funding to buy toilet paper. You probably bought the wire yourself.”
A delivery truck is backing through the alley. The beep-beep of the back-up warning makes it impossible to hear.
Glass Eye has stopped pacing. He says something I don’t catch.
“You tore my house apart,” my dad says when the beeping stops.
“We wanted to find out about your kids. Your older boy goes to Squaw. The younger one, Valley of the Sun. He’s accident-prone anyway, isn’t he?”
“You said yourself without the wire I have no proof,” my father’s voice is strained, like rubber bands are wrapped around his windpipe.
“You aren’t known for cooperation. We thought we might need leverage.”
“Don’t threaten my sons!” My dad shouts.
My arms are still around Niko. I can feel him tremble.
Glass Eye whispers something back.
“Look, they know I’m here. You can’t kill me,” my dad’s voice is loud.
Glass Eye is moving again. “What do you advise?”
“I don’t have a lot of resources. You saw my car,” my dad says.
“Your car is here,” Glass Eye says.
“How’d you get the keys?” my dad asks.
Niko is panting like a dog. His face is so red I’m afraid he’s going to pass out.
“We think out of the box. Now, I have a job for you . . . ,” Glass Eyes says. “We are missing a venomous copperhead somewhere in the snake annex; got mixed up with a batch of rat snakes.”
“The copperhead is valuable. You can sell him, right?” My father’s voice trembles.
“Not a lot of money in venomous snakes, but I do have a customer for the copperhead, if I can locate him.”
“If I die, there’s going to be a—”
Glass Eye laughs before Dad can finish. “Snakebites are a rite of passage in this business.”
Niko squirms out of my grasp. I tighten my grip on him. Even without hearing every word, there’s no mistaking the threat.
“C’mon,” I whisper, pulling him back around the strip mall.
“No, River,” he says. “Dad’s afraid of snakes.”
“I know, but we need Harpreet,” I tell him.
Niko nods. After Dad, Harpreet is his favorite person.
I check the clock on Dad’s cell: 5:30. In thirty minutes, Harpreet will be out. I have to text him where we are.
The liquor store guy is Day-Glo white, like he’s never been outside his store. He glares at us as if he thinks we’re there to steal. When I finally get the address out of him, we run outside. My thumbs fly over the keys, texting Harpreet, but when I look up, Niko is gone.
I run around to the back door of Mostly Reptiles. The door is closed now. I try the handle . . . locked.
Oh great, they’re both locked in there. Doesn’t any-one think around here?
How long will it take Harpreet? Somewhere between twenty and forty minutes, I'm guessing, unless there’s traff
ic. But Harpreet’s class isn’t even out yet. It might be an hour before he gets here. A lot can happen in an hour.
I try to think what I know about snakes. We have a boa in our science class. It just slithers around its cage moving slowly like a bowel movement. It eats a lot of mice though—likes them live instead of frozen. Not that I even volunteered to feed it.
Hey wait. . . . I can call the police! My dad was wearing a wire—he must have been on some secret ops mission to catch these reptile smuggler guys. Glass Eye found the wire, so there’s no more mission. I slip my dad’s cell out of my pocket and dial nine-one when a big turkey fist wraps around my wrist while the other hand snatches the cell.
“Who are you?” the tow truck driver booms.
“River,” I mutter.
“What are you doing back here, River?”
“Looking for snakes,” I say, which is kind of a lie and kind of not.
“Does this look like a pet store?”
I shrug. “Could I see what you have in there?” I ask.
“Not a chance. Get out of here, kid! Get!” He takes a drag on a cigarette, then waves it in my face, his eyes scanning the back road as if he’s waiting for something.
“Can I have the cell back? It’s my dad’s.”
“Sure, come get it,” he says, holding the cell in his hand as an offering, but before I can reach it, he wraps his fingers around it and crushes it in his big turkey hand. He looks down at me, hoping for a reaction. Then he returns the smashed cell with a smile. “So you’ll remember not to come back.”
I take off running, like I’m scared to death, which isn’t far from the truth. Turkey Fist pulverized Dad’s cell in one hand. I’ve never seen anyone do that. I consider going into the liquor store and begging Day-Glo guy to call the police, but he was so cranky, I don’t think he’d help me if I were bleeding out on his floor.
I wonder if I’ll have better luck going to the front entrance. I’m about to try when I see a FedEx truck pull into the strip mall, then head around the buildings to the back.
A shipment. That’s what Turkey Fist is waiting for.
I return to my hiding place behind the Dumpster. Turkey Fist props the door open, signs for the boxes, and begins unloading.
The first box has compartments like a plant nursery, but each section has a rolled-up sock. He peeks into one and dips out a small baby snake—a python maybe—which looks as if it’s been dipped in white paint. He carries the box inside.
The next box has lizards with orange heads and bright green bodies. They are active, clambering to get out. This time when he goes inside, he’s gone a long time. I’m guessing wherever he’s taken the lizards is a considerable distance from the door. That gives me an idea. Next lizard box, I’m going in.
I have to wait through albino snakes in pillow cases and baby boa constrictors in gold-toed socks until a turquoise gecko scrambles out. This is my chance. I try not to think about what is inside Mostly Reptiles.
The smell hits me first—a strange, musty, animal smell like eggs and dirt and burnt hair. I slip between the metal girders of boxes, which are mostly full of mice. The sides of the room are lined with bunny cages. But, mice and bunnies aren’t reptiles.
Of course . . . they’re food.
Where would Niko have gone? Where is my dad?
I duck into the dark corridor. On either side are rooms with big glass windows. FROGS, one says. SPIDERS, another. And then TURTLES and TORTOISES. Each room looks like its own pet store, with wall to wall cages. I wonder where Turkey Fist has taken the lizards. Then I spot a door that opens to a dark passage. Above the door it says SNAKE ANNEX.
The lights are dim in this windowless hallway; one is flickering as if it’s about to burn out. Behind me a weird flip, flip stops me. What is that? Oh. A piece of cardboard caught in the ceiling fan. A row of rubber gloves creep against my arm.
The door has a small window reinforced with chicken wire. The door creaks as I push through.
On the other side is a hallway with rooms to the left and large chain-link cages to the right. The rooms have signs that read SNAKES, VENOMOUS SNAKES, and LIZARDS. I think I feel something on my leg and yank it up, but it’s nothing. Just my head messing with me. The snakes aren’t out here.
I force myself to walk toward the snake room and peek in the viewing window. Oh no! Dad. He’s there standing on a plastic chair, his back to me, in a sea of snakes. On the floor are snakes. Coiled in the corners, motionless in the middle, with heads tucked neatly over a coil, entwined so you can’t tell mouth from tail. One moves quickly, its head rising and falling as it crosses the floor. Another tries to climb the wall, in perfect s-curves, its scales shiny like the inside of a mouth.
My father’s chair is in the middle near a coiled snake tracking him with its cold reptile eyes.
I don’t want to go in there.
I look at the snakes between Dad and the door. One is coiled ready to strike. Another languid, long and drawn out. What happens if you step on a venomous viper? But didn’t Glass Eye say there was only one copperhead they couldn’t find? But which one?
“River!” Niko’s voice. He’s standing in the dark back of the hall by a cage that is bigger than he is. Inside is a reptile that looks like a cross between a rhino and a lizard—it must weigh more than a hundred pounds—some kind of Gila monster on steroids. Its legs are like turtle legs and it has a weird lizard double chin and a mean snakish head and a skinny white tongue constantly flicking. I didn’t know lizards came this big. Then I remember from some kid’s science report . . . this is a Komodo dragon. I thought you were only supposed to have those at the zoo.
“Look! He likes hot dogs.” Niko is popping hot dogs out of blankets and tossing the hot dogs in the Komodo’s cage. When the Komodo locates one, he flicks it up with his tongue.
“See?” Niko smiles brightly. “He’s friendly.”
“Niko, no.” My voice shakes.
“He likes me. He wants to come out.”
“Don’t!” I shout.
But Niko has already opened the cage.
“Niko.” My voice dissolves down my throat. I swallow hard and try to summon it back. “Give me the hot dogs. And go in that hallway and close the door. Wait while I get Dad out.”
“River . . . all of them?” Niko asks.
“Niko”—I can barely choke the words out—“I promise I’ll get you more.”
“Oh-kay,” he sighs, handing me the Baggie. The Komodo hasn’t left the cage. It’s tracking Niko, its wrinkly reptile neck moving slowly, its bright brown eyes keen on my brother’s shoes. It pushes out of the cage.
I toss a pig in a blanket toward the snake annex. The Komodo watches. You can almost see it thinking: Niko or the hot dog. The Komodo’s stare returns to Niko.
I throw three more, but the Komodo has found its prey. It shoots forward low to the ground, kicking its legs sideways as it gains speed.
“Niko!” I scream. He’s almost to the passage door. I take a handful of pigs in blankets and pound the Komodo. It pauses for a split second, which is all it takes for Niko to slip inside the passage. The door is closed. Niko’s safe on the other side. I let my breath out in a burst.
Now suddenly the Komodo’s eye is on me. My heart pounds. Adrenaline pumps through my brain as I rip toward the snake annex door, and toss the rest of the hot dogs into the room. The Komodo’s head wobbles as it looks from me to the snakes. Its whole body radiates energy as it blunders into the room, focused on a snake winding up the chair leg to my father.
“Dad,” I force my voice to come out quiet and calm.
“River?” Dad shouts. “Get out of here.”
“Put your broom down to the left. Get the snake coming up the chair leg. Be careful,” my breath runs out, “of the Komodo.” I gasp.
Dad’s arms shake like he has nerve damage. “I want you safe,” he sputters, jerking his broom down to the climbing snake. Is that the copperhead?
The Komodo is tracking my dad no
w. I toss the pig in a blanket box, but the Komodo doesn’t even blink.
“Dad!” I shout, just as a viper by the wall coils and shoots toward the Komodo, its jaws wide apart. The Komodo turns, thrashing the snake, battering it, whipping the air with it until it lets go. The snake hits the wall with a thud. My father tosses his broom—and leaps. A snake shoots across the floor, its fangs open, just missing my father’s bare ankle; another is motionless as my father jumps over it.
My arms are shaking so badly I can hardly get the door shut. My breath comes out in weird pants. My father’s face is white as powder.
“C’mon, we have to get Niko,” I tell him, heading for the passageway, picking up Niko and pulling him along. Running now through the dark hall, our feet pound the sawdust-covered floor. We fly by the bunny cages. People are yelling, but we are on fire, tearing through the building to the back door.
My dad reaches it first and yanks on the handle, but it doesn’t open. He gives a long hard pull, but the handle won’t budge.
Glass Eye and Turkey Fist are behind us.
“Brought your boys, did you?” Glass Eye jingles a key in his hand.
“We let the Komodo out,” I tell him, my eyes on Niko. That’s when it occurs to me how the metal girders of mice trays kind of look like playground equipment.
“I’m sure you did.” Glass Eye’s voice is thick with sarcasm.
“No, really,” I say. “You better go check.”
“Please,” my father tells Glass Eye. “You’ve made your point. Let us go.”
“This will be the end of your involvement?” Glass Eye asks. His real eye moving back and forth as if he’s lost control of it.
“Climb,” I whisper into Niko’s hot ear, “then jump.”
“This is Fish and Wildlife’s baby, you said it yourself,” my father says, as Niko climbs quick as a monkey.
“Hey!” Turkey Fist shouts, but Niko is too fast. In an instant, mice go flying—tails, feet, sawdust, water everywhere—and then Niko comes down, landing stomach first, a belly flop on Turkey Fist’s large jawed head. In the chaos of Niko and the mice, I snatch the key out of Glass Eye’s hand and manage to jam it in the lock. The three of us tear outside, dashing to the front, where our car has been released from the tow truck.