Ambush: 3 (Pillagy)

by Obert Skye

  I think he was trying to sound nice, but it actually sounded pretty sinister. Walks with grown-ups never end well. I was sort of worried that I might never come back from where we were heading.

  “Come on,” he insisted, not giving me a choice.

  I started to walk with him. After ten steps he still hadn’t said anything. Ten steps more and nothing. Apparently my demise was going to be silent. After twelve more steps I couldn’t take it.

  “I’m sure you have better things to do than stroll along with me,” I reasoned. “I’m happy to just walk the rest of the way alone to wherever it is we’re going.”

  Sheriff Pax sighed. We stopped walking, and he took his arm off my shoulder. He turned to look me directly in the eyes. The thin mustache above his lip twitched slightly. I was no stranger to the law. I had met a few police officers in my life. When I lived out west, there were a number of times when the things I had done caused the cops to take notice. Most of the police officers I had met were strict and overly disappointed in me being me. It always seemed like they were sad that a kid like me was freely walking around. Sheriff Pax was slightly different, however. And the people of Kingsplot liked him a lot. I had once heard Millie say that he was just the right mix of helping hand and iron fist.

  “It was an accident,” I said sincerely, breaking the silence that had been smothering the two of us like a thin plastic bag.

  “Beck, your family—” Sheriff Pax stopped himself from saying more.

  “I know, I know,” I said dejectedly. “My family’s got a few issues, but I didn’t mean for those buses to do that. It seems like maybe the parking brakes on those things were faulty. Do you think I should sue?”

  “Let’s see,” Sheriff Pax said lightly. “You break a museum display, cause a panic in a public place, commandeer a school bus and then drive it and two others over a dock and into a lake, and you’re blaming the brakes and want to sue?”

  “I’m pretty sure I have ADHD,” I tried.

  “That might very well be the case, but there are millions who do and have still never driven a bus off a dock.”

  “It was an accident,” I tried again.

  “Beck, this isn’t the first trouble you’ve created.”

  He obviously wasn’t about to let the past rest peacefully. Some people had the hardest time letting go of things.

  “Really, I—” I tried to say.

  Sheriff Pax held up one of his big hands to stop me. “Listen, Beck, I know you might not believe me, but I understand you better than you might think.”

  “Good,” I said relieved. “Actually, maybe you could explain myself to me because I’m really confused.”

  Sheriff Pax almost smiled.

  “What happened today was bad,” the sheriff whistled, “really bad, but I feel like I should tell you something.”

  I gulped accordingly.

  “When I was a kid,” he continued, “I accidentally killed a turtle.”

  It was not what I expected him to say, but suddenly I was way more interested in the conversation we were having.

  “Really, a turtle?” I asked.

  “Actually, it was a tortoise.”

  “I don’t know the difference,” I admitted.

  “My class took a field trip to the Kingsplot Zoo,” the sheriff went on. “There used to be an extremely old tortoise that walked around the zoo. Kids could touch it or get their picture taken by it.”

  “That sounds amazing,” I said, trying to sound excited.

  Sheriff Pax rubbed his forehead. “That’s not the point,” he continued. “I’d always been curious about whether a tortoise really could get stuck on its back. So while the tortoise was walking by our class, I reached down and grabbed the right side of its shell. I then pulled it up and flipped it onto its back.”

  “And?” I prodded.

  “Well, I flipped it so hard that it rolled all the way over and then kept rolling down the hill on the edge of the path. It tumbled and crashed into a stone wall that surrounded the ostrich pen.”

  “Wow,” I whispered. “Then what?”

  “Well, there were no more ‘then whats’ for that turtle,” Sheriff Pax said.

  “It was dead?” I chattered.

  Sheriff Pax nodded. “The zoo had a funeral four days later. All the businesses of Kingsplot shut down for the day, and I was banished from going near another living animal for five years.”

  “Wow,” I said softly, a new appreciation for Sheriff Pax growing in my soul. “That’s worse than ruining a few buses.”

  “Nice try,” Sheriff Pax said. “That turtle was beloved, but it was on its last leg. I shouldn’t have done that, but what you did was far worse. You could have hurt or killed a number of people. You could have killed yourself. What if someone had been in front of the buses or on the dock?”

  “I prefer to point out the fact that nobody was,” I pointed out.

  “Beck, there will be repercussions,” Sheriff Pax said sternly. “We will need to take you to the police station for a little bit.”

  “But you understand, right?” I argued. “I mean, you knocked off a tortoise, and I only ruined a field trip to the museum.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Can’t we just have a funeral for the buses?” I said frantically. “I promise I’ll cry in public so everyone can see how bad I feel. I’ll even write one of those sad poems that people write to convey how sorry they are. ‘Today we all make quite a fuss, because we lost our dear old bus.’ See?”

  “I need you to come with me to the police station,” the sheriff said calmly.

  “But you’re just like me, remember?” I pleaded.

  “Beck, I didn’t tell you that story to give you an out,” Sheriff Pax said compassionately. “I told you that story so that as you experience what is about to happen you might realize that it won’t be comfortable for either of us.”

  “But . . .”

  Sheriff Pax pointed down with his right hand and whirled his finger, signaling for me to turn around.

  I turned around, questioning what was happening as it was happening. “Why do you need me to turn around?” I was suddenly scared that he might kick me in the butt and send me back over the edge of the lake and into the water.

  “Hands behind your back,” the sheriff said.

  I put my hands behind my back and felt something cold slip up against my wrists, and then I heard the handcuffs click closed.

  “You have the right to remain silent—” Sheriff Pax told me my rights and then turned me around and marched me back toward his car.

  I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. Sure, a lot of odd things had occurred since I had moved to Kingsplot. I had raised dragons, discovered my father, and destroyed a few things along the way, but this was the first time I had been arrested.

  We reached the cop car, and a short woman cop with really awful teeth opened the rear door so that Sheriff Pax could push me into the backseat. My arms burned as I sat back against my shackled hands. Sheriff Pax closed the door and then climbed into the driver’s seat. He looked back at me through a wire divider that separated the backseat from the front. His big eyes were cold and almost as metallic as the ball bearings I had accidentally set loose.

  “I—” I tried to explain.

  “Save it,” Sheriff Pax stopped me. He then swiveled his head, turned on the car, and drove away.

  Two things bothered me. One, I was being arrested for something that had been a complete accident. And two, Sheriff Pax didn’t even have the courtesy to turn on his siren and make the ride back to the police station a little more exciting.

  We drove past the museum and I could see all of my fellow students standing around the front of it, most likely waiting for new buses to come and take them away. I could see Kate standing by Wyatt. She looked up as we drove by. Since my hands were bound behind me, I waved with my head. Kate shook hers in reply. Professor Squall was frantically trying to keep everyone in order. I hoped he had
a really hard go at it. After all, this field trip was his idea. If this was what I got for finishing my work on time, I decided that I’m going to start turning things in late.

  Some great reward.

  Chapter 5

  Every Little Thing

  Kingsplot’s police station was located in one of the old structures near the center of town. It was an interesting square building with a ring of ornate stone molding that ran around the top of its third story. The windows were tall and skinny, and there was a massive granite eave that jutted out over the front door. On top of the eave were two naked stone angels with wings and sashes. Beneath the angels were the words order and peace.

  Sheriff Pax walked me through the front doors and over to a row of short desks near a painting of a flock of birds. The birds looked as if they were trying to fly out of the frame they were trapped in.

  I sat down on the edge of a gray plastic chair and hung my head to give the appearance of humility. Sheriff Pax asked me a few questions and filled out a couple of forms. He then took off my handcuffs and allowed me to call home. I picked up the phone on his desk and dialed the manor. Millie answered.

  “Millie, it’s me,” I said.

  There was a short pause. Sheriff Pax looked away and pretended to be busy with something else.

  “Millie, I . . .”

  “I’ve heard,” she spoke, without letting me finish.

  “Heard what?” I asked.

  “Every little thing,” she scolded. “Beck, there’s too much Pillage coursing through your blood.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “I blame my ancestors also. Could you send Thomas to get me?”

  “Thomas isn’t here,” Millie reported.

  “Wane?” I asked. “Could you send Wane to bail me out?”

  “She’s unavailable,” Millie informed me.

  “Scott?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “You?”

  “I never learned how to drive,” Millie reminded me. “There are stations in life, Beck. I know my place is in the kitchen. I leave the driving to others.”

  “Right,” I said, bothered. “What about my dad?”

  “What about him?” she asked. “He’s still in the hospital; you know that.”

  The hospital that Millie was talking about wasn’t a regular hospital. Many months ago my father had been moved to the “special” hospital where he was working on being able to think properly again. I knew it was the nut house, but everyone just called it the hospital as if he were there to be treated for a broken leg or a bad case of the flu.

  “Well,” I said, extremely bothered now. “Someone needs to come bail me out. I can’t spend the night here.”

  “There are worse things than jail,” Millie informed me. “Besides, the Kingsplot facilities are some of the finest in the world.”

  Really irritated now, and getting a little worried, I was still sidetracked enough by her response to ask, “How do you know?”

  “Beck, we’ll send for you as soon as possible.”

  “Can’t you . . .”

  “Do you realize what you did?”

  “Yes,” I sighed. “I was there.”

  “Then you should know that there are consequences and details we need to work out before we can get you back.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” I said, wondering why nobody in the world understood that. I looked at Sheriff Pax as he continued to act as if he weren’t listening.

  “People have accidents. Sheriff Pax killed a turtle,” I argued irrationally.

  “I remember,” Millie said, suddenly sounding very sad. “That was a dark time for Kingsplot. But Sheriff Pax’s history is not yours. Who knows how many fish you killed with those buses?”

  “Fish?” I shouted.

  “Lake Mend is a beautiful lake, and now it’s littered with those machines you destroyed. Machines your family will have to pay for.”

  Millie made it sound as though I had intentionally slaughtered a few giant robots and tossed them into the lake to poop oil all over the fish.

  “It was an accident,” I repeated, sounding like a guilty parrot.

  “Beck, Thomas is quite disappointed,” Millie said softly. “Quite disappointed. And poor Scott, well, he had to sit down when he heard the news.”

  This call was going far worse than I had anticipated. I knew I would be in trouble, and I figured there would be a bit of swearing and perhaps punishment that involved pulling weeds around the property or having to write a letter of apology to the museum. What I hadn’t expected was the guilt being administered in such heavy doses.

  “Wane cried,” Millie added. “And your father—”

  Millie let her words drift off into an uncomfortable silence.

  “Did you tell him?” I finally asked.

  “Thomas had to,” Millie informed me. “He’s responsible for you. Those buses will take a considerable sum of money to replace.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said as sincerely and honestly as I possibly could. “Really, Millie, I’m sorry.”

  I could hear Millie sigh deeply. She groaned just a little and then spoke. “The Pillage name is something to honor, not destroy.”

  I wanted to point out that every Pillage before me had spent far more time destroying than honoring our family name, but I let it go.

  “Will you come get me?” I asked in complete earnestness.

  “In time,” Millie answered. “In time.”

  I cupped my hand over the phone and turned as far away from Sheriff Pax as I could. In a whisper I said, “You don’t understand, Millie. Tell my dad that mushrooms were trying to get me.” I had not told Millie about how much plants hated me, but I wanted out badly enough that I thought I would let her in on my problem.

  “What?” Millie asked, as if I had suddenly started speaking another language.

  “Mushrooms,” I whispered. “Plants have been attacking me.”

  “Beck, this is nonsense,” Millie insisted.

  “My dad will understand,” I pleaded. “Will you send someone to get me?”

  “In time,” Millie said again.

  There was a soft click as she hung up the phone. I sat there listening to the silent receiver. I felt so different from the kid that had wandered into Kingsplot all that time ago. I was taller, stronger, and my brown hair was finally long enough to look properly shaggy. My ears didn’t stick out as much and my brown eyes looked darker. Of course, no amount of hair or height could change the fact that I was still a walking mess. I wanted to be like other kids my age. I wanted to stress out about normal teenage things like acne and being accepted. I thought about how comforting it would be to simply worry about who liked who or how grown-ups were messing up the world that would someday be ours. Instead, my life was filled with dragons and destruction, and I was constantly turning things like field trips into long, painful, drawn-out life lessons.

  I hung up the phone and looked at Sheriff Pax.

  “Millie said you need to just let me go,” I tried.

  “Really?” Sheriff Pax said, not buying it for a second.

  “Yeah, so I’ll just see myself out.”

  I tried to stand up, but the way the sheriff was staring at me frightened my legs, and they refused to move.

  “Maybe I’ll just stay awhile,” I gave up.

  “That sounds like a better idea,” Sheriff Pax said almost kindly.

  A couple of other cops came in and reported on a few things. They also told Sheriff Pax how it would be next to impossible to get those buses out of the lake. All three of them then looked at me and shook their heads.

  Sheriff Pax instructed a skinny officer to take me away. I was placed in a small iron jail cell in the basement of the police department. There were three other jail cells, but they were all empty. The skinny officer handed me some clothes and instructed me to change into them. I took the clothes, but I had no intention of ever wearing them.

  “We haven’t locked anyone up in months,” the skinny cop tol
d me as I stepped into the cell.

  “I feel really special,” I replied.

  I think my words caused him to slam my cell door much harder than was necessary.

  Chapter 6

  A Really Hard Day’s Night

  Surprisingly, the cell I was in was clean and didn’t look like any jail cell I had ever seen on TV before. There was a nice twin bed with two big fluffy pillows and a toilet in the corner behind a privacy wall. Near the front of the cell was a white sink and faucet. There was also a small end table that was bolted to the ground. Above the table was a light switch that turned on a round fluorescent ceiling light above the bed. When I squinted and pretended the bars were just long shadows the place almost looked cozy. It didn’t feel as confining as my own room at the manor because I could see out into the other empty cells and down the hallway to the office door. There was also a tiny high window that let a little bit of daylight in.