Text copyright © 2015 by Marcia Thornton Jones
Text and cover illustrations copyright © 2015 by Kevin Whipple
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, contact [email protected].
Although this work centers around historical events, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual incidents or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Calkins Creek
An Imprint of Highlights
815 Church Street
Honesdale, Pennsylvania 18431
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-62979-305-4 (print)
ISBN: 978-1-62979-437-2 (e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015931599
First edition
The text of this book is set in Legacy Sans ITC.
Design by Barbara Grzeslo
Production by Sue Cole
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my mother, Thelma Thornton, for sharing her stories; and to my father, Robert Thornton, a veteran of two wars.
—MTJ
CONTENTS
1. The Spy of Satan’s Sidewalk
2. Blood of the Brave
3. A Baseball Peach
4. The Adventures of the Warrior Kid
5. Last Words
6. The Demons’ Door
7. The Mallory Ghosts
8. The Courageous Adventures of the Warrior Kid
9. Whatever it Takes
10. Battle Lines
11. Sucker Punch
12. The Courageous Adventures of the Warrior Kid and his Sidekick
13. Guilty by Association
14. The Color of Death
15. Woodford Brave
16. The Revenge of the Warrior Kid and the Mighty Echo
17. Perfect Plan
18. Hero’s Act or Coward’s Scare?
19. Two Sides of the Same Coin
20. The Undercover Adventures of the Kid and his Mighty Echo
21. Superpower
22. Revenge
23. Enemy Territory
24. The True Adventures of the Warrior Kid
Author’s Note
Selected Bibliography and Further Resources
1
THE SPY OF SATAN’S SIDEWALK
A narrow strip of bushes was the only thing that separated Ziegler’s yard from my hiding place in the old Mallory house. Mom had warned me that the floors of the haunted house were bound to collapse if I ever stepped foot inside, but rotten floors were the least of my worries. Not when there was a spy living in our town. It was up to me, and me alone, to save Harmony and everyone in it from the Nazi living at the bottom of Satan’s Sidewalk. I knew it. Aidan knew it. And Sawyer knew it, even though he’d be the last one to admit it.
“I’m going to hog-tie Ziegler and turn him over to President Roosevelt,” I told Aidan and Sawyer. “Then I’ll be a hero just like—”
“We know, Cory. We know. Just because your last name is Woodford, you think you’ll be like your dear old dad and grandpa. You don’t have to keep grandstanding about it,” Sawyer said.
He kept his voice low, but he didn’t whisper, so the dogs pacing the fence let loose with a tangle of growls and barks that curled the hair on my neck. Ziegler’s wolfhounds were not the typical wag-their-tails-and-lick-your-face type of dogs. They were the grab-your-throat-and-shake-you-till-you’re-dead kind of beasts.
“Roosevelt said to keep our mouths shut and our eyes open because spies are everywhere,” I reminded Sawyer. “Ziegler’s one of them, I’m sure of it. I just need to catch him in the act.”
Aidan’s eyes were as wide as I’d ever seen them, but only because he was looking around the room for ghosts. Full summer dark was at least an hour away, but shadows already lurked in the corners of the old house. “Do you think this is where Cyn slept? Before she and her family were k-k-killed?” he asked.
My best friend’s words always tripped over his tongue, but the thought of facing a house full of ghosts made it worse. I checked to make sure the latest edition of The Cosmic Adventures of the Mighty Space Warrior was rolled up safely in my back pocket. Not even the Warrior’s StealthGrenades or Shield of Invisibility would help against ghosts. I didn’t really believe in haunts anymore, but I knew Aidan still believed the story about how the Mallory family had become acid-oozing phantoms after their gruesome deaths.
“There is no such thing as ghosts,” Sawyer said. “So get your foot out of the bucket and quit worrying.”
The tips of Aidan’s ears burned red at Sawyer’s dig. Aidan had been trying to impress Sawyer, the best baseball player in Harmony, ever since coming up with his lamebrain idea to make it to the Majors.
“But there are spies,” I pointed out, turning my attention back to Ziegler’s house. “If I had the Mighty Space Warrior’s StealthGrenades, I’d lob them through Ziegler’s window. Then I’d fire a subzero shock wave from my ray gun at his death hounds, freezing them in their evil tracks until they shattered into a gazillion pieces.”
Sawyer hooted as if he didn’t care that the wolfhounds below us were waiting to sink their teeth clear down to our bones. “You have about as much chance of being a superhero as you do of making the Majors, Cory.”
It was no secret that Sawyer ate, breathed, and lived for baseball. It was also no secret that I was the worst player in town. I clenched my jaw the same way I’d seen Dad do. “If I did have the Warrior’s superpowers, I’d turn Ziegler and his dogs into piles of ash. Then I’d hand you a broom and make you sweep them all up.”
“Sweeping is for girls,” Sawyer said. “Not baseball stars.”
The air was thick and humid and sweat trickled down my back like molten lava from the Torch of Evil’s home planet. From our hiding place in the upstairs window of the old haunted house, we could almost touch Ziegler’s place. The maple tree was the only green thing in Ziegler’s yard, since his two wolfhounds had worn away every blade of grass and nothing was left but sunbaked dirt. Especially in front of the short, rickety gate that looked like it was made of rotten Popsicle sticks. We called the alley Satan’s Sidewalk, and the gate the Demons’ Door, because of Ziegler and his dogs. There was no doubt in my mind that his hounds could soar over that gate in one giant leap to tear out my jugular.
I leaned out the broken window for a beeline view straight into Ziegler’s dining room. A single lamp cast his face in deep shadows, turning his eye sockets into nothing but black holes. Sitting on the table before him was the beat-up leather case he always carried.
“The lid’s blocking my view,” I whispered. “I can’t tell what’s inside.” Obviously, x-ray vision wasn’t my superpower.
“I bet it’s full of c-c-coded messages,” Aidan said, squeezing beside me to get a peek.
“About what?” Sawyer asked. “We live in the podunk town of Harmony. There’s nothing here a Nazi spy would want.”
Sawyer hated Harmony. He said it was because our town wasn’t big enough for a baseball team of our own, but I thought it was because Harmony was so small everyone knew his dad would rather belly-up to the bar at the corner tavern than enlist in the fight against Hitler.
“There’s the VFW,” I pointed out. The Veterans of Foreign Wars provided services for soldiers, and they had dinners and dances. Dad had taken Mom there the one time he was home on leave. “You’ve seen the posters. ‘Loose lips sink ships!’ That could happen if a soldier had one beer too many. Even here in Harmony.”
“I hate the Nazis like everyone else, Cory, but this spy hunt is a waste of time.” Sawyer spat like he alway
s did when we talked about the Germans, as if the word left a bad taste in his mouth. But it was really because the gum he chewed created more spit than he could swallow. Sawyer thought the huge wad in his cheek made him look like Spuds Chandler or Joe DiMaggio. He’d been chewing the same wad for two weeks, saving it on the bedpost every night. Aidan tried the same thing, but his mom yelled at him about it ruining the paint. Now he wasn’t allowed to have gum for the rest of the summer.
I pushed my Yankees cap firmly onto my head so it wouldn’t fall out the window when I leaned out farther to get a better bead on Ziegler’s case. That’s when Sawyer shoved me.
I jumped. Not from being scared, but because a sliver of glass dug into the palm of my hand.
Sawyer nearly choked on his gum, he laughed so hard. “Admit it, Cory. I just scared the snot out of you!”
“Nuh-uh. I’m brave. I’m . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Aidan said. “We all know. You’re W-W-Woodford Brave.”
I glared at my best friend while Sawyer slapped Aidan on the back.
“Watch out!” I yelped when Aidan almost toppled out the window. Of course, I forgot to keep my voice down and Ziegler’s dogs let loose with a volley of barks loud enough to wake the dead. Which wasn’t a good thing, considering we were hiding in a haunted house.
We hit the floor when Ziegler glanced out his window. Ten seconds later we heard his back door open, followed by his voice, with its thick German accent. “Odin. Pandora. Komm!”
I snatched the Yankees cap off my head so it wouldn’t give me away when I peeked over the sill. My head felt vulnerable in the air, like the Space Warrior without his Shield of Invisibility. Or my father without his Army helmet.
At the sound of Ziegler’s command, his two giant dogs loped away from their watch at the fence
“Good! Good!” Ziegler said as he held open the door for them. “Braver Hund!”
A few seconds later, I saw them trot past the dining room window. I held my breath when Ziegler made his way around the table, looking outside for a heartbeat before dropping the blackout curtains.
I slapped my cap on the windowsill. “If it wasn’t for you, we would’ve seen all those top-secret spy papers and I’d have my proof,” I told Sawyer.
“You’re the one who forgot to whisper,” he said. “Admit it, Cory. Your plan to prove Ziegler is a Nazi spy is nothing but a swing and a miss.”
“We c-c-couldn’t see anything from up here, anyway,” Aidan interrupted, trying to keep Sawyer and me from getting into it. Again.
“Shh,” I hissed.
“It doesn’t matter, C-C-Cory,” Aidan argued. “It’s too late. Z-Z-Ziegler’s gone.”
“Shh,” I said, holding up my hand to silence them. “Someone . . . or something . . . is in here with us.”
That’s when they heard it, too. Thumping. Right over our heads.
“It’s probably a b-b-branch scraping the siding,” Aidan said, his voice rising in a question.
I glanced out the window. The air was a heavy wet blanket. Nothing moved. Not even a leaf.
Thump.
Thump.
Scrrrrritch.
“There’s only one thing that c-c-could be,” Aidan whispered.
Sawyer looked at the ceiling, then at Aidan. They both turned to me. I was the only one brave enough to say the word that was on all our minds. “Ghosts!”
Sawyer shoved Aidan aside and jumped for the stairs. Aidan and I scrambled after him, jamming ourselves in the narrow door opening until Aidan finally pushed through. “Go, go, GO!” I urged, shoving on my best friend’s back.
A board gave way, trapping my foot, and all those warnings from Mom flooded my brain as I pulled and tugged and jerked until my foot broke loose, ripping a piece of skin off my ankle. Sawyer jumped down the last five steps, landed on the first floor, slipped, and ricocheted off a wall. Aidan rammed into his back. Their feet tangled and Aidan fell to one knee. I grabbed his arm before he went down.
Sawyer pushed off Aidan, stumbling toward the back door in a half-crouch, fighting for balance with every step. We jumped out the door a half-second after him and hit the ground running, racing for the safety of the alley.
Wham! Aidan pulled up short and Sawyer collided into him, knocking both of them to the ground.
Wham! I tripped over Sawyer and fell headfirst into the very thing that had stopped Aidan cold.
Aidan rolled to one side and Sawyer tried to butt-scoot back. Not me. A hero always holds his ground. Besides, Sawyer had me blocked, so there was nothing I could do but look straight into the eyes of the man I’d just knocked down.
Ziegler.
2
BLOOD OF THE BRAVE
Ziegler sat on Satan’s Sidewalk clutching the black case to his chest as if he were protecting a baby. “You! What are you doing in that abandoned house?” His heavy accent made it sound more like “Vhat are you doink?”
The Space Warrior would’ve ripped the case from his hands, pried it open, and flung his Nazi secrets into the hot August air. But I wasn’t the Warrior, and I knew Mom would swat my behind if I was rude. Even if Ziegler was German.
“We’re s-s-sorry,” I muttered, sounding more like Aidan than myself. Apologizing to a spy settled a vile taste on my tongue, and I fought the urge to spit like Sawyer. “We didn’t mean to knock you down.”
Ziegler used his left hand to push off the ground, but his right hand still clutched the black case. He stood tall and dark against the backdrop of the alley. He looked down his nose at us, straightening his wire-rimmed glasses to see me better. “Itz dangerous place to play in there. You should know better. Ztay away from that house.”
I didn’t move a muscle, waiting until he’d made it to the end of the alley and turned left up Catalpa before daring to talk. “Did you hear that? Ziegler threatened us.”
“M-M-Maybe he’s just trying to keep us safe from whoever . . . or . . . whatever was sneaking up on us,” Aidan said.
We glanced back at the haunted house. The sun had dipped low in the sky, coating the Mallory yard in shadows, but there was just enough light to see a scrawny yellow cat hop out the back door.
Sawyer burst out laughing. “Mr. Cory-The-Almighty-Brave-Woodford was scared of an itty-bitty kitty-cat!”
“Was not.”
“Were, too,” Sawyer said. “You ran so fast sparks flew from your shoes.”
“You’re the one who pushed us out of the way in order to high-tail it out first. I was following you, that’s all,” I said.
“I’m not afraid of a stupid cat,” Sawyer said. “I’ll catch him and wring his mangy little neck to prove it.”
When he stepped back into the Mallory yard, the cat froze with one foot in the air. I reached out and grabbed Sawyer’s arm. “He’s not the enemy. Ziegler is.”
For a minute, the setting sun reflecting off Sawyer’s eyes made him look as evil as a Mallory ghost, but then he shrugged off my hand and snatched my comic book off the ground where it had fallen. “You know you’re nothing like this stupid superhero. Being scared of a cat proves that.”
I grabbed my comic book, carefully rolling it up again so the cover wouldn’t crease, before I said what the Space Warrior says in the face of danger. “I don’t know the meaning of fear.”
“That’s what you always s-s-say,” Aidan said.
I was sick of not being taken seriously, of always having to prove myself. I was tired of the way my best friend laughed when Sawyer made fun of me, and how they both acted like the fact that my grandfather and father were war heroes had absolutely nothing to do with me. My veins carried the blood of the brave and they knew it, but before I got the chance to utter another word, a Ford flatbed piled with a kitchen table, chairs, a sofa, and boxes rumbled up Catalpa.
“It’s the n-n-new neighbors,” Aidan hollered.
“Let’s go!” Sawyer snatched his glove and bat off the ground where he’d dumped them, and they both took off together, leaving me standing alone
in the shadows of the Nazi’s lair.
Speed definitely wasn’t my superpower, and my shirt was sweat-plastered to my back by the time I climbed the hill to the top of Satan’s Sidewalk. Jackson sat on the worn step leading to the back door of Aidan’s house. The music of Glenn Miller and his orchestra floated through the screen door, the trumpet’s brass marching over the strings.
Most people listened to the radio for war news, keeping maps on their walls and following the Allied troops using different colored pins. They made a mess of holes in the walls, but no one cared. There were other war reports, too. Just last night there was one about the horrible conditions in the concentration camps that the Nazis were using for the Jews and anybody else they didn’t like. People were crowded into the camps without enough food and water even though they hadn’t done anything wrong. It was the kind of story that made my skin crawl and made me glad Dad was over there stopping the Nazis.
Jackson was the only person I knew who tuned in to music instead of news. His foot tapped and his head bopped to the beat.
Aidan always seemed to grow three inches around his brother, but Jackson nodded at me as if he didn’t notice Aidan. “Heard from your dad, Cory?” Jackson asked.
Sometimes we wouldn’t hear from Dad for weeks. Mom would be a nervous wreck. Then we’d get a bundle of letters all at once with sentences and entire paragraphs blacked out by censors in case the letters were intercepted by enemy spies. “Got three letters yesterday.”
“Any idea where he is?”
“Way north of Italy. But that was before the battle of Palermo.”
We had all sat spellbound the month before, listening to Edward Murrow reporting from Europe on the CBS World News Roundup radio show as Patton led Allied troops into Italy. But Hitler was the real enemy. Dad was probably dodging bombs, jumping over trenches, and ignoring bullets as he led a battalion north toward Hitler’s lair in Germany. That’s what a hero would do.
“He kill anybody yet?” I noticed Jackson’s Adam’s apple seemed to hiccup when he asked it.
I shrugged. People died in wars, and if people died then someone had to be doing the killing, but that was the kind of information the censors blacked out.
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