He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Fine. Call him,” he said, pushing past her.
When he reached the front door, he cracked it open and peeked outside. The sedan was still parked at the curb, but neither Mr. Trouble nor Fiona was in sight. He moved quietly out onto the porch and looked down the street. It was empty. Not only were Mr. Trouble and his sister not there, Peter and his friends seemed to have disappeared, too.
He took one more look around then stepped off the porch.
“There you are.” It was the unmistakable voice of Peter Garr, in that strange monotone he’d used at the library the day before.
Eric spun to his left, sure that Peter was standing just a few feet away. But there was no one.
“Eric! Get in the car!” Fiona yelled.
He looked back at the street and saw her way down at the other end of the block, running toward him in the middle of the road.
“Stay where you are,” the voice of Peter Garr said.
Eric took a step then stopped, not sure what to do.
“Now!” Fiona yelled.
That was the spark he needed. He raced to the car, half expecting Peter to grab him from behind, but he made it untouched then looked back down the street. There was a whole parade of people running in his direction. Mr. Trouble had just pulled ahead of his sister and seemed to be in a foot race with Peter Garr’s two friends. Fiona was closer to Eric’s side of the street, staying about a dozen feet in front of Peter himself.
Eric stared at them, confused. But I just heard Peter right here.
“Get in!” Fiona yelled.
Eric pulled open the front passenger door, but as he threw his bag inside, he heard a thud and a quick yelp of pain. Looking back, he saw Fiona sprawled on the street and knew Peter would reach her in seconds. Eric glanced at Mr. Trouble, but Fiona’s brother was in no position to help.
Without further thought, Eric sprinted toward her.
But Peter got there first. The moment Fiona stood up, he grabbed her arm and tried to pull her to him.
“Let go of me!” she yelled, twisting every way she could, trying to break free.
“Who are you?” Peter asked.
“Let go!”
Eric skidded to a stop a few feet away. “Give me your hand,” he said, reaching out.
His intent was to help pull her out of Peter’s grasp, but when she saw him, her eyes went wide.
“Don’t get near him!” she yelled. “Go back to the car! Go back!”
“I can help you. Just give me your hand.”
She purposely tucked her free hand against her body so that he couldn’t grab it. “Just get in the car!”
Peter gave Fiona a hard tug then asked again, “Who are you?”
Fiona might not have wanted Eric’s help, but there was no way he was going to go back to the car. He knew Peter was going to hurt her and he couldn’t let that happen. All she had done was come here to help him.
Almost without thinking, he took two quick steps forward and shoved Peter in the shoulder. “Let her go!”
What he’d been hoping was that the push would cause Peter to turn his attention to him, and in that moment of confusion both he and Fiona could get away. What happened instead was something else entirely.
In one fluid motion, Peter released Fiona and flew through the air a good dozen feet before slamming into the asphalt. He lay on his back, a low groan escaping his lips.
Both Eric and Fiona stared at him in surprise.
“Thanks,” she said in a hushed, astonished voice.
“I didn’t…I mean…”
“Are we staying here or are we going?” Mr. Trouble called out.
They turned and saw him standing by the car.
Fiona smiled at Eric. “Come on.”
As soon as they got back to the car, Fiona climbed in the back while Eric got into the front. Just as Mr. Trouble turned the ignition key, the front passenger door popped open. Eric reached over to grab it, thinking Peter had pulled himself off the ground and was coming after them again, but it wasn’t Peter at all.
“If you’re going, I’m going,” Maggie said.
She climbed in beside him, squeezing him halfway onto the center console.
“Are you crazy?” Eric said. “Your parents are going to wonder where you went.”
“I told them we were going to the library.”
Eric looked to Mr. Trouble for help. “Is she allowed to come along?”
“Allowed or not, she’s coming,” Mr. Trouble said, punching the accelerator.
As the sedan shot out from the curb, Eric frowned at Maggie for a moment, then twisted around and looked out the back window, expecting to see Peter still lying on his back in the road. But Peter was nowhere to be seen.
“So,” Mr. Trouble said. “It would help me a lot if one of you two lovebirds got in the backseat.”
5
They sped through Tobin and into the darkness of the ranch lands that surrounded the town.
“You can get us back by nine, right?” Eric asked from his new seat in the back with Fiona.
“Nine?” Mr. Trouble said. “You’ll be home by eight-fifty.”
After a few more moments of silence, Eric said, “I…I heard Peter’s voice when I came out of the house. I thought he was in the front yard with me.”
“Vocal projection,” Fiona said. “Common trick.”
“Common trick for who?” he asked.
Before Fiona could answer, Mr. Trouble said, “We should probably wait until we can talk everything over. It’ll make more sense then.”
“Well, I really think one of you should at least tell us where we’re going,” Maggie said. “Just so you know, I do have a cell phone. If I need to, I’ll call the police.”
Mr. Trouble looked confused. “Why would you call the police?”
“Because maybe you’re kidnapping us.”
“Who said anything about kidnapping?” He pointed his thumb at Eric. “We’re here because of him. He’s the one who called for our help.”
Fiona leaned forward. “There’s the…” She paused, swiveling her head to the right as they passed a dirt road. “Turn.” She scowled at the back of her brother’s head. “You just missed it.”
“I did not,” Mr. Trouble said.
“You did, too. That was the road back there.”
“For every destination, there are many paths.”
Fiona groaned and fell back against her seat. “You’re going to get us lost.”
At the very next dirt road, Mr. Trouble slowed the car and got off the highway.
Bumps and dips and rocks in the road kept Mr. Trouble in constant motion as he weaved the car through the darkness along the seldom used path. Twice the road forked, and twice he took the route to the right. Then, after a particularly bouncy section, the road suddenly disappeared in front of them.
“Whoa!” Eric yelled, grabbing onto the handle of the door and hoping they weren’t about to drive off the edge of a ravine.
But as the car dipped, the road reappeared, winding down the side of a small valley.
“What’s that?” Maggie asked, staring out the front window.
Eric leaned forward to see what she was talking about.
In the center of the valley were several lights — a series of blue ones, low to the ground and stretching out into the distance in two parallel lines, and a group of bright white ones clustered near one end.
Partially lit up by the white lights was a large airplane that looked like it was about the same size as some of the ones used by the major airlines. Only instead of jets hanging from its wings, there were four large, prop-driven engines, two on each side. Two broad stripes ran down the length of the plane’s silver body — one orange and one yellow — and what looked like a logo was painted on both the tail and the passenger door.
“Is that yours?” Eric asked.
“I hope so,” Mr. Trouble replied. “Otherwise, we’re in the wrong valley.”
“Ha. Ha. Hilarious,” Fiona said, not smiling.
“You have a plane?” Maggie asked.
“It’s much more than just a plane,” Mr. Trouble told her.
“What do you mean?” Eric asked.
“That, my friends, is Trouble Family Services’ mobile headquarters.”
“Mobile headquarters?”
Keeping his eyes on the road as they took the final curve onto the valley floor, Mr. Trouble smiled. “As much as it would be nice to live here in your beautiful town of…of…”
“Tobin,” Fiona said.
“Of Tobin…uh…uh…”
“Colorado.”
“Colorado,” Mr. Trouble repeated, “As much as that would be nice, this is actually our first time here. As you can imagine, our work takes us all over the place. So we need mobile headquarters. Make sense?”
“I guess,” Eric said. Of course, none of it made sense.
“If you came in the plane, then whose car is this?” Maggie asked.
“Well, technically it’s Eric’s,” Mr. Trouble said. “We picked it up for the job, after all.”
“You picked it up. You mean you rented it?”
“No,” Mr. Trouble said, laughing as if it were the craziest thing he’d ever heard. “You think someone would rent a clunker like this? We bought it. See, sometimes our cases can be a little rough on vehicles. We learned long ago it’s better to buy than rent.”
“Bought it?” Eric asked. “Well, what about that truck this afternoon?”
“Bought it, too.” Mr. Trouble pointed through the windshield. “See? It’s parked near the Lady Candice, and it’s also yours.”
Maggie scrunched up her face. “Lady Candice?”
“Name of the plane,” Fiona said. “Grandpa named it after Grandma.”
“Who gives a plane a name?” Maggie said, clearly thinking it was a stupid idea.
“A lot of people,” Fiona told her, clearly thinking Maggie had no clue.
Eric didn’t care if the plane had a name or not. All he could think about were the cars Mr. Trouble said were his. “I can’t afford to pay for these.”
“Who said you had to pay for anything?” Mr. Trouble asked.
“Hello?” Fiona said. “We went over this on the phone, remember? Free of charge? No cost to you? You do know what that means, right?”
“Then how can you afford to pay for them if you don’t charge anything?”
Mr. Trouble shrugged. “We’ve saved a few bucks here and there over the centuries.”
Over the centuries? Sure, Eric thought. “If you don’t want to tell me, then just say so.”
The sedan jerked to a stop and Mr. Trouble killed the engine. He then clapped his hands together and said, “Time to get to work.”
The first thing Eric noticed as he climbed out of the car was smoke billowing up out of the center of the plane. “Hey, your airplane’s on fire.”
No one reacted.
“Hey! Fire!”
“What?” Fiona asked.
“There’s smoke coming out of your plane,” he said.
“Relax. Mom’s just cooking dinner.” She leaned down a little and pointed under the plane.
Eric took a look. On the opposite side of the aircraft was what could only be described as an outdoor kitchen. The smoke he had seen was rising out of a pipe at the rear of a large, black stove.
As he stood up again, he caught sight of two men wearing white lab coats standing near the landing gear, staring at him. They were remarkably similar in appearance — receding hairlines, slightly overweight, large noses, small ears — and looked a few years older than Eric’s dad.
Mr. Trouble put a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “Gentlemen, he’s all yours.”
“Excellent!” one of the men said. Then he and his lookalike began walking rapidly in Eric’s direction.
Mr. Trouble took a step toward the airplane. “Maggie, this way.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m staying with—”
“He’ll be fine,” Mr. Trouble said, taking her arm.
“Really, I shouldn’t leave—”
“I guarantee you he’ll be back with you very, very shortly. Fiona, I need to check something onboard, so why don’t you take Maggie over to the kitchen and see if there’s any ice cream left?”
A small smile grew on Maggie’s face. “Ice cream?”
“Follow me,” Fiona said.
Eric looked at the two men walking his way, then at Fiona and Maggie heading for the kitchen, and finally at Mr. Trouble moving toward the ladder hanging under the plane’s door. “What am I supposed to do?”
Mr. Trouble glanced back. “Just stay where you are. It won’t take long.”
“What won’t take long?”
Mr. Trouble merely waved, hopped onto the ladder, and climbed up into the plane.
“I’m serious! What won’t—”
“Hello, hello,” one of the lab-coated men said. Now that they were close, Eric could see that the talker was slightly taller than his companion. He was also the only one smiling.
The shorter man wasn’t even looking at Eric now. All his attention was focused on a plastic-looking rectangular box in his hand. It was about the size of a paperback book, and every few seconds he would wave it back and forth through the air in front of him.
“I can’t tell you how pleased we are to finally meet you,” the first man said. He spoke with an accent that Eric thought was probably Irish. The man thrust his hand out. “So very pleased.”
Not knowing what else to do, Eric shook it, but when he tried to let go, the man held tight.
“You are Eric, of course. Eric Morrison?”
“Well…yeah.”
“I’m Colin,” the man said, his smile growing even broader. “Though, if you wish, you can call me Uncle Colin. Everyone else here does.”
“Can I have my hand back?”
“What? Oh. Of course, of course.” But instead of letting go, he pulled something out of his pocket with his left hand. It was a rectangular box only a couple of inches long, maybe as wide as a Magic Marker. “Which finger do you prefer?”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind. Any one of them is fine.”
He stuck the end of the box over the tip of Eric’s ring finger.
“What are you doing?” Eric asked. “That’s — ow!”
The box had pinched him. He tried to pull his hand back but Uncle Colin held tightly on to it. When he removed the box, Eric thought his finger would be bleeding but there was only the tiniest of scrapes.
“So sorry. Always the most painful part. Everything from this point forward is downhill.”
He pulled a plastic baggie out of his pocket and sealed the small box in it. He then applied some ointment on the scrape and covered it with a Band-Aid. Surprisingly, as soon as the ointment was applied, the pain went away.
“Ah, I almost forgot.” He put a hand on the other man’s back. “This is my brother Carl. Uncle Carl. Again, only if you wish.”
The corners of Uncle Carl’s mouth moved up and down in what Eric guessed was a smile, but his eyes never left the device he was carrying. “Troubling,” he muttered. “Very troubling.”
He moved the box closer to Eric, then began waving it around like it was one of those security wands Eric had seen used at the airport when he’d flown to visit his grandparents the previous summer.
“What’s he doing?” Eric asked.
“Routine. Simply routine,” Uncle Colin said. “Don’t you worry a bit.”
Eric glanced at the plane, wishing the others were still here.
“Hold him still,” Uncle Carl insisted. “Can’t get a clean reading if he keeps moving around.”
“A reading of what?” Eric asked.
“This is merely an initial assessment,” Uncle Colin explained. “Data gathering, that kind of thing. You understand.” The look on his face turned very earnest. “It will help us. You need to believe that. It will definit
ely help us.”
“Help you with what?”
“Helping you, of course.”
“Got it!” Uncle Carl announced, raising the device a few inches into the air.
“Excellent!” Uncle Colin exclaimed.
Without another word, Uncle Colin and Uncle Carl began walking quickly toward the rear of the plane.
“Wait. Where are you going?” Eric asked.
Uncle Colin stopped and looked back. “Thank you,” he said, his hands clasped in front of him. “And…don’t worry! Certainly don’t worry.” He started to turn away then paused. “Best not to try the pickle soup.” He nodded toward the kitchen and, as he shook his head side to side, mouthed, “Not good.”
Eric was left standing alone.
Who were these people? How had he ever thought this was going to be a solution to his problems?
And pickle soup?
“Hey, are you hungry?”
Fiona was standing on his side of the plane, holding a bowl of something in one hand and waving him over with the other. He hadn’t been eating much since his mother went missing. Not that his dad wasn’t a good cook. Well…he wasn’t, but he was good at ordering takeout. Eric just didn’t have an appetite anymore. Except now, he actually did feel hungry.
Maybe just a little something wouldn’t be so bad.
He trudged across the field and ducked under the plane to the other side.
The kitchen was amazing. It was raised above the ground on solid wooden platforms and consisted of an oven, a stove, a sink, two large reach-in cabinets, and a small refrigerator. Not too far away a generator hummed, giving power to the fridge and the lights.
On the other side of the kitchen, also on raised platforms, was a long wooden table with benches on either side. Above the table was a dark red canvas tent, held in place by several sturdy wooden poles and taut ropes staked into the ground.
Maggie was sitting at one end of the table eating a bowl of ice cream, while at the other end sat another girl hunched over something, her back to Eric.
Fiona was standing near the stove chatting to a woman stirring a large pot of something that smelled…horrible.
“Want some soup?” Fiona asked. “It’s my favorite. Pickle.”
“I, um, think I’ll pass.”
The older woman laughed. “I would pass, too. The only reason I make it is because Ronan and Fiona love it so. The rest of us…” She made a face that conveyed her distaste. Like the two uncles, she, too, had an Irish accent. She seemed about the same age as the men, but that may have only been because she had a few strands of gray in her otherwise brown hair.
Here Comes Mr. Trouble tfc-1 Page 4