Spartacus Ryan Zander and the Secrets of the Incredible

by Elwood, Molly;

  “You never know when they’ll come around the corner and nab you,” White muttered while Blue nodded in agreement.

  “Who?” I asked, hastily putting on my seat belt.

  “What?” asked Blue.

  “Who?” I repeated.

  “Who what?” asked White, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

  I shut my mouth, wishing Blue had left her window down because the entire car smelled horribly of vanilla air freshener. Five yellow trees dangled from the rearview mirror alone. More hung above the back doors. I held out as long as I could, but after a silent minute, I cracked the window so I wouldn’t suffocate.

  “You roll that window back up, young man,” White said sharply and, because I didn’t know what else to do, I did. I tried to hold my breath.

  “Dangerous,” said Blue, shaking her head.

  “I was asking who would sneak around the corner and nab me?” I asked finally.

  “The pigs! The fuzz! The po-po! The law! The constabulary! The ol’ black-and-white!” White croaked, her voice growing louder with each word.

  “Police,” chimed in Blue.

  I wasn’t sure what the “constabulary” was, but I thought I was getting the idea. Blue turned around in her seat to peer at me. I could only see her eyes over the headrest, her giant, thick glasses making her dark eyes look at least ten times their normal size.

  “Why would the police care about me?” I asked nervously.

  “You tell me,” said White. “You break out of the clink?”

  Blue’s eyes just blinked at me.

  “What?” I asked. This was getting weird.

  “Bust out of the slammer? Skip bail? Fly the coop?”

  “Fugitive,” Blue whispered and I just stared at her.

  The red arrow of my Mistake-o-Meter started to creep upward as the car drifted all over the road, cutting off cars and running red lights, windshield wipers at full speed: thwakita-thwakita-thwakita.

  “I wasn’t in jail,” I managed between gasps of vanilla-scented air. I closed my eyes tight as White narrowly avoided hitting a van.

  “Just as I thought!” beamed White. “On the lam!”

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, gripping the handle above my door, the air freshener flapping against my arm. I was about to tell them I’d rather walk to Albuquerque when White’s eyes narrowed in the mirror.

  “Are you packing a biscuit?” she asked coldly.

  “A what?”

  That’s when we swerved into oncoming traffic to go around a car slowing for an exit.

  I truly believed it was my last moment alive.

  Somehow, through a commotion of red brake lights, horns, and skidding tires, we avoided unavoidable death.

  “Hippies!” White cursed, shaking a veiny fist at the traffic in general.

  Blue either didn’t notice or didn’t care that we’d nearly been flattened like a pop can.

  I was starting to think that this was more than just a three on my Mistake-o-Meter—it was starting to look like a four or a five. A Flashing, Red, Bad Idea.

  “A biscuit! You know, a slug-thrower. A six-shooter.” White was all but shouting, gesturing with her pale, wrinkly hand. “A rod! A gat!”

  “Gun,” Blue whispered.

  Hailey had been right. You can’t trust anyone.

  “Are you carrying? Strapped up? Packing heat?” White finished.

  “No!” I exclaimed. “Of course not! I’m only twelve,” I added for good measure.

  I need to get out of this car, I need to get out of this car, I chanted to myself, desperately trying to figure out an escape.

  Through the windshield, the rain was coming down hard. The road in front of us was just a blur. There was no way these old ladies could see where they were going.

  “Ask him his name,” White said to Blue. But before she could, White changed her mind. “No, no, never mind. I don’t think we should know it.”

  “My name is Ryan,” I said. These crazy bats wouldn’t remember what I told them anyway.

  “I can’t hear you!” said White, putting her fingers in her ears and letting the steering wheel spin on its own. The Lincoln immediately veered to the right.

  “Steer!” screeched Blue, grabbing the wheel. She pulled too hard and we went flying toward the shoulder. I thought we were going to crash, but a curb stopped us, the hubcaps singing against the concrete. My heart thudded so hard in my throat I thought I was going to choke.

  “Gimme the wheel!” White squawked, wrenching the car back to the left. “You know you can’t drive,” she admonished Blue before turning back to me. “She lost her license, poor thing.”

  “Yes,” agreed Blue somewhat wistfully.

  White looked at me again in the mirror. “So Randy—”

  “Ryan.”

  “Right. Brian. We’re supposed to believe you don’t have a gun?”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I said, holding my hands up. “I’m just a kid. I just need to get to Albuquerque. I’m not a criminal or…whatever it is you think I am. Really.” I swallowed loudly.

  “Sure,” said White, squinting at me. “He’s in disguise,” she whispered to Blue out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Really?” Blue mumbled back, turning to face me again, her big bug-eyes blinking.

  Reality must have taken the day off.

  “Check his bag,” White said, and before I knew it, Blue, a creaky old lady nearing a hundred had grabbed my suitcase from my lap as easily as Will snagging my cupcake.

  “Give it back!” I leaned forward, but my seatbelt locked and tightened across my lap as White slammed on the brakes.

  “Chill, Rambo,” she said coolly, looking over her shoulder at me.

  “Please, please, just look at the road,” I pleaded, covering my eyes.

  And just when I thought things had spiraled completely out of control, they got worse. I uncovered my eyes to see Blue pull a pistol out of the glove compartment.

  “Oh—!” I choked on my words and my blood turned to ice as Blue fiddled with the honest-to-god, reach-for-the-sky gun. “Lady, please!” I cried, pushing myself back into the velvet seat.

  Drivers honked and swore at us silently from behind closed windows as the Lincoln hurtled past them, running some off the road. We slowed for a sharp corner and I reached for the door handle, but Blue shook her head. White glared at me in the mirror. Her voice turned quiet and sweet, as though she were offering me a cookie.

  “Don’t make us mad, Rufus,” she said. We kept driving. How was I going to get away?

  I decided to panic.

  My mouth began sputtering anything and everything, and before I knew it, I was telling them I had to get out so I could save my mom and had to give Will his money back and make my dad proud. Telling them things I didn’t even know I felt until the words came tumbling out. The only reason my lips stopped flapping was because there wasn’t anything left to say.

  That, and Blue slapped me. The big ruby ring she wore cut my cheek and when I reached to touch it, my hand came back with a smear of blood.

  “Hush,” she said sternly.

  “Cool it, Ralph,” White added.

  Blue then proceeded to go through everything in my suitcase. She showed my rescue plan to White who made a tsk-ing noise. Blue then stuffed everything back in, except for the scarab, which I saw fall onto the seat.

  “Spy,” Blue concluded, chucking my suitcase back at me.

  “What?” I squawked.

  “Quiet,” she growled in her tiny voice.

  We left the city limits and began picking up speed, blasting down the highway at what had to be a hundred miles an hour. White threaded the car in and out of traffic like a needle.

  I thought about knocking White over the head with my flashlight, but
I couldn’t hit someone’s grandma, gun or not. I mean, they might have kidnapped me but, well…they were old. What can you do when they’re old? Besides, if I hit her, we’d crash for sure.

  “I’m not a spy,” I said. I was trying to be calm, but my voice shook.

  “What’s with the camo paint then?” countered White. “And the disappearing ink? The—” she squinted her eyes. “Top Secret Escape Plan?”

  “I’m a runaway!” I yelled, shocking both women and myself. “I have to hide and escape sometimes, don’t I?” I wriggled a bit to the left, out of the direct sightline of the gun bouncing in Blue’s hand as the big white Lincoln clipped a smaller car. While her finger wasn’t on the trigger, Blue didn’t seem fully in control of the thing and I worried it might just go off if we were jounced the wrong way.

  “What should we do with him?” White asked Blue. Blue shrugged.

  “You can let me out here,” I said, leaning forward. “I won’t say a single word about—” About what? What was this anyway? “Well, any of this. I promise,” I finished.

  “You’ve seen too much,” said White.

  “Yep,” said Blue.

  “No, I haven’t!”

  “You know everything,” said White.

  “Everything,” repeated Blue.

  “No, I don’t! I don’t know anything!” It was well beyond the time to panic. Hailey would have been so disappointed.

  “You’ve heard all our plans.”

  “Plans,” echoed Blue.

  “What plans? I didn’t hear any plans!” My face broke out in a cold sweat, making the cut on my cheek sting. Suddenly, I had an idea.

  “Look out, it’s the po-po!” I screamed, pointing out the windshield.

  “Where?” they both shouted at once. White slammed on the brakes and the car skidded across the wet pavement. Cars screeched (and no doubt crashed) around us, but I knew what I had to do.

  I threw myself and my bags out the door.

  I was aiming for a cool tuck-and-roll, like something from a James Bond movie. But I probably looked more like a kid accidentally falling out of Grandma’s car. I clutched my suitcase to my chest and rolled away from the Lincoln in an awkward tangle of limbs. The wet blacktop bit into my knuckles and knees, but I was free.

  “No!” White wailed.

  I sat for a moment in disbelief, only to be brought back to earth by a pickup swerving around me and landing in the ditch with a crunch. White and Blue appeared to argue in the car for a moment before giving up on me. They took off, tires squealing, and made a sudden right turn…

  Right into a cop car.

  Holy. Crapola.

  I peeled myself off the road and broke into a limping sprint. Holding my backpack and suitcase, I jumped down into the ditch and tried to scramble up the other side. My fingers dug into the wet dirt, but the edge was too steep to climb.

  “Easy there, boy,” boomed a voice above me. I turned around to see a huge silhouette looming above me. I could just make out the police badge on his chest through the pouring rain. I closed my eyes and slumped down into the ditch.

  I was done.

  

  I was sitting in an air-conditioned office at a police station somewhere in New Mexico, waiting for the police officer to come back and ask me some questions about the old ladies. The last I’d seen of Blue and White, the police had been gently handcuffing them and nudging them into the cop car. White had actually tried to spit in a cop’s face, but she was too short.

  Insane.

  I could tell the police officers didn’t know who I was. Maybe it was the dirt on my face (I’d seen my reflection and barely recognized myself) or the fake name and address I’d given them. Maybe it was the fact that they had their hands full with two little old ladies who’d created the worst traffic pile-up in state history.

  For whatever reason, everyone had been really nice to me so far, but I knew I had to get out of there. I was in an office down the hall from the main lobby of the police station, which wasn’t very big. There were three desks and a bunch of office equipment in the room with me, but not much in the way of escape routes—which makes sense for a police station, I guess. There was a locked door that led to the rest of the building, and a window with vertical bars on the outside. I guess they were used to keeping suspects in the room. Or at least suspicious-looking kids.

  I was alone for now, but somebody was going to come back soon. They’d offer me a damp towel to clean my face, and then they’d see my freckle and—I didn’t want to think about it. Not when I was this close. Plus, my bags were at my feet and I knew it was only a matter of time before they asked to search them. It just seemed like something police did.

  As I waited, I eyed Mom’s gold scarab, sealed in a plastic evidence bag and lying on the desk in front of me. An attached sticky note read:

  Recovered at scene. Run past FBI? Interpol?

  Check against known art-theft list.

  It was just a silly piece of jewelry, but it was special to me and I wanted it back. I sat on my hands to keep from grabbing it. Not just yet. I’d get it on my way out—if I could find a way out. I looked around the office again. There was a chance I could squeeze through the bars in the window, but the window was painted shut. What about the air-conditioning vents? I saw one next to the window, but it was only a foot across. How did people always get away through vents in the movies?

  That’s when I saw the bulletin board covered with posters of the FBI’s Most Wanted. And guess whose face was front and center? Lloyd—Dan—Lloeke’s.

  Extremely dangerous.

  The letters were big enough that I could read them from across the room. I went over and looked at his face again. Honestly, he hadn’t looked that terrifying in real life. He stared out of the poster with gleaming eyes and a twisted mouth. He looked so angry, you had to wonder if he’d tried to kill the camera guy right after he took his picture. I shivered, remembering how close I had been to him.

  I wondered again if I should tell the cops about Lloyd, but then I remembered what Hailey said. If I did, they probably wouldn’t let me out of their sight. I pushed the thought away and instead tried to memorize the faces of the other people on the list, just in case Eli sent another one to pick me up. Hailey would probably think that was a smart idea.

  The guy in the poster beside Lloyd’s was wanted for armed robbery, murder, and extortion. Compared to Lloyd, he looked completely boring and normal. He had neat, short hair and a polite little smile. You would never have thought he was a murderer. Like Hailey said, you couldn’t tell with people. Better to mistrust them first just to be on the safe side.

  The last paper on the wall was this fuzzy, black-and-white picture that must have been taken with a security camera. It showed a two-story, square-shaped adobe building at night, lit up by a few bright streetlights. I could see a man’s silhouette on the roof. He had his hands on his hips and his head turned to the side and facing up, kind of like a pose you’d see a superhero make. Under the picture was written, Georgia O’Keeffe Museum Robbery, Santa Fe. It was dated the night before.

  Georgia O’Keeffe must have been a painter. There were small, color copies of maybe seven paintings that were missing—bright close-ups of flowers and trees. And one of them had a price scrawled beneath it, circled vigorously. $14 mil.

  Mil? As in, fourteen million?

  Wow.

  I didn’t know people actually robbed museums. I thought stuff like that only happened in the movies. Then I thought about Lloyd. And Blue and White. They weren’t exactly the normal, every-day types either.

  I went back to looking around the office for a way out, but came up with nothing. There was no way out. I sent a silent apology to Mom. I had failed her. The cops were going to know I gave a fake name. I was trapped.

  I sat down and felt something poke me through the lining of my jean
s pocket. It was the note from Lloyd. Unfolding it, I couldn’t help but feel confused. How could such a nice, kind person be a murderer? He’d been so understanding—and helpful. Maybe there’d been some sort of mistake…?

  I read the quotation again:

  Maybe there is no peace in this world for anyone, but I do know as long as we live, we must be true to ourselves.

  I looked at my name at the top of the page. Spartacus. Funny how Lloyd had tried to make me feel better about my name. And what was the other thing he’d said about the movie? Freedom is worth fighting for—even if you die trying?

  I couldn’t give up now. Not after having come this far. And suddenly, my real name seemed more appropriate than ever.

  Think, Spartacus, think.

  I looked at the barred-up window and had an idea.

  

  “So, you say one of them pulled the gun on you?” The cop was gripping the stub of a pencil in his hand, taking down my story. His nametag said Garcia. No officer, no rank, just Garcia.

  “Yeah. The blue-haired one had the gun.”

  The officer jotted this down. Just then the phone on his desk rang and he picked it up, swiveling around in his chair.

  “Garcia here.”

  I leaned forward, trying to read what he had been writing, but I couldn’t make anything out.

  “Yes? Yes. Really? I see…” He swiveled his chair back to look at me. “I’ll call you back.”

  “So, Jeff,” Garcia said, hanging up his phone. “Where are your parents? We tried the number you gave us and it’s been disconnected.”

  I looked down at my hands. All right. It’s time for the plan.

  That’s when I started with the waterworks.

  I know, I know, it’s not particularly brave, but it was always a useful skill when I was younger and Will was about to pulverize me. And if I’d figured right, it was going to come in handy here, too.

  “Hey,” said Garcia, looking at me with concern. “Don’t do that. What’s wrong?”