Bobby lay in the back seat of the car. His ankles and wrists were sore from the tape. His face was wet with tears. He sniffed.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” said Marcus. “Just stop crying, all right?”
“You already hurt me,” said Bobby.
“I couldn’t leave you there,” said Marcus. “Just think of it as coming along for the ride. If everything goes fine, I’ll let you go tomorrow, and it’ll be like nothing happened.”
Bobby lay in the back seat. It didn’t feel like nothing was happening. He adjusted his weight to make himself more comfortable. A hard object was digging into his back. He scooted along the seat to grab whatever it was with his hand.
“None of this is my fault,” Marcus protested from the front seat. Sometime in the last half hour, his tone had switched from angry to defensive. “Your family took my kid. And now he’s gone off and run away with your sister. She probably put him up to it. And they’ll find nothing but trouble if they get to that woman before I get to them.”
Bobby said nothing. His hand was getting closer to the object jabbing into his back. If he could just get his fingers around it….
“And all this on a full-moon night,” said Marcus, his anger rising. “What’re they going to do when the sun goes down and they’re stuck on a train? Did they think about that?” He looked at Bobby in the rear-view mirror. “Did they think of that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, how are they going to get around that little inconvenience?”
“They have a…potion.”
“Potion?” exclaimed Marcus. He kept glancing from the road to the rear-view mirror. “Cure for Werewolf? Is that what you’re talking about?”
“Yeah, that’s what it’s called,” said Bobby. His fingertips touched the object digging into his back. It was made of hard plastic.
“And they’re planning to drink it?”
“Yes,” said Bobby. His hand wrapped around the object. It was an old cellphone. He clutched it tightly.
“Just great,” said Marcus sarcastically. “They might as well drink a bottle of ketchup, for all the good it’ll do them.” He scoffed and stared straight out the front window. “That stuff doesn’t work,” he said. “Not if you drink it.”
Bobby explored the phone with his fingers, trying to get his bearings on the old numeric keypad. He rubbed the buttons with his thumb, trying to remember which numbers corresponded to which letters.
Number 2 is ABC, he thought. Number 3 is DEF….
He pressed the power button.
The phone beeped.
Bobby held perfectly still for several moments to make sure Marcus couldn’t hear it over the sound of the highway. If he could do this quietly, it might be his only chance to let his parents know what had happened to him.
He pressed a button, beginning the most important text message he would ever send.
John’s eyes were closed. His breathing was slow and rhythmic. He had balled his sweater into a pillow and tucked it into the corner between his seat and the window. His hands lay folded on his lap. His mouth hung slightly open.
Kate tried very hard, but couldn’t sleep. The train made a continuous click-click, click-clack as it rolled through the eastern Ontario countryside. They’d been riding for several hours now, including a stopover in Toronto around midday. Around her, Kate could hear the quiet chatter of some of the passengers they’d picked up along the way.
She opened her eyes and looked at John. He was drooling a bit. She smiled.
This boy was capable of making her feel so many things. She thought of this past summer when she had been so angry with him she couldn’t even look at him. And then one evening—at a bowling alley of all places—she had realized she liked him. Like, liked him, liked him. And she was sure he liked her back. For those few minutes, it was the feeling she’d always imagined—knowing the person you love actually loves you back.
Until you find out he doesn’t.
Living with him was such a roller coaster. Sometimes she resented him. Sometimes she adored him. He was so infuriating. He was so fun.
Kate sighed. She couldn’t figure out what she felt for him.
The train blew a long blast of its horn as it crossed a rural highway. John stirred. He stretched and looked back at Kate with groggy eyes.
“What?”
Kate blushed. “You’re drooling.”
“Oh, god,” he said, putting his hand to his mouth. “Sorry.”
They sat quietly, watching trees and farmland rush past the window.
“Hey,” he said. “Thanks for doing this. I know you didn’t have to.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, really,” said John. “I know this isn’t a small thing, going across the country like this. I really appreciate it.”
“No, really,” she said back. “It’s okay. We’re friends.”
John smiled a sleepy smile and leaned back into his seat. “Best friends,” he said. “I’ve never had a best friend before.”
“Really?”
“We moved so much, I never got to know anybody.” He rested his head back onto his sweater-pillow and closed his eyes. “I didn’t want to do this alone. Thanks, Katie.”
Kate wrapped her arms around herself. “No problem.”
John had such an easy way about him, she’d always assumed he’d had lots of friends. It was hard to imagine him needing anyone, let alone her.
She balled her own sweater into a pillow and laid her head on it. She felt warm inside. She knew exactly how she felt for this boy.
“That’s what best friends are for,” she whispered, closing her eyes, finally ready for a rest.
Marge and Brian walked chatting and laughing into the house, each carrying a pair of grocery bags. Lisa met them at the kitchen door.
“Have you seen the kids?” she asked them.
“Nope,” said Brian, setting his bags on the counter. “They’re not here?”
“No, and I didn’t see them this morning, either,” said Lisa.
Marge frowned. “It’s not like them to be gone for so long without telling us.”
“What’s the worry?” asked Brian. “I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”
Lisa scowled. “It’s just—the house was a disaster when we got back. Chairs knocked over. Drawers left open. And the back door was wide open.”
“That’s odd,” said Brian.
The door burst open and Bea walked in, reading a crumpled piece of paper. “You are not going to believe this,” she said.
“Believe what?” said Lisa.
“Kate and John are off searching for his mom,” she said, holding up the letter from Kate.
“Where’d you find that?” asked Brian, snatching it from her hands.
“Crumpled up in a ball out in the driveway.”
“This is all very odd,” said Marge. “Why wouldn’t they leave it in the house where we’d find it?”
“And what about Bobby?” said Brian, finishing the letter. “‘P.S. Bobby doesn’t know anything,’” he read.
“Well then, where is he?” demanded Lisa. She grabbed the letter from her husband.
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Brian. “Whatever plan they made, it looks like it’s already gone wrong.”
“Okay,” said Marge. “We’re not doing any good working ourselves into hysterics. Brian, put the kettle on.”
“But—” he began.
“But nothing,” she cut him off. “I’ve yet to see the situation that couldn’t be helped by a cup of tea.”
Brian begrudgingly grabbed the kettle and filled it from the tap.
“Now,” said Marge, taking control. “Let’s start with what we know. The letter says Kate and John are on their way to his mother’s house.” She looked at each of them. “I thought she was
dead.”
“So did I,” said Bea.
“Well, they must know something we don’t,” said Marge flatly. “Anyone have any idea where Marcus and John are from, originally?”
“I always assumed the States, but I never heard for sure,” said Brian.
The whole group turned to Bea. She shrugged.
“Let’s count that as an ‘I don’t know,’” said Marge. “So if the kids have somehow figured out in the last two months where she is, how did they do it?”
The group was silent. Lisa sat on a kitchen chair and crossed her arms.
“John’s been at the library an awful lot,” she said.
“Okay,” said Marge. “What’s he been doing there? He certainly hasn’t been bringing home any books.”
No one had an answer.
“I think that’s where we start,” decided Marge. “Bea, you come with me to the library. Lisa and Brian, stay here. Drink some tea. They may show up yet.”
As Marge finished her sentence, Lisa’s cellphone beeped in her pocket. She fished it out and read the screen.
“Brian!” she gasped. “Look!”
She handed him the phone.
“Oh my god,” he said.
Marcu S g0t me b0bbY 911
Marty whistled to himself and looked at the clock. Three minutes to six. In just a few minutes, he could close up the library, grab a quick bite, and be home in time to catch the latest episode of his favourite TV show, K9 Runway All Stars.
He closed the ledger in front of him and was about to switch off his desk lamp when the front door opened. Two women walked in.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “we’re closing in—”
“Oh, we’ll just be a minute,” said the older woman. Marge approached the counter and looked him in the eye. “My grandson, John, has been coming in here quite a bit. I was wondering if you know him.”
“John?” said Marty, brightening. “Of course I know him. Lovely kid.” He turned to Bea. “You must be…his mother?”
“Ah, no,” she said, smiling. “I’m his…auntie.”
“Well then,” said Marty. “What can I help you with?”
“He’s been working on a special project,” began Marge. “For school. A research project.”
“Okay,” said Marty. “That explains all those hours at the microfilm station. I’ve been curious about what he was working on, but I didn’t want to pry.”
Bea and Marge looked at each other.
“Right,” said Bea. “Well, before he hands it in to his teacher, he wants us to check some things over. There were some facts we wanted to make sure he got right.”
“Okay,” said Marty. “He went through dozens of spools of microfilm. Do you have any idea where you’d like to start? This is something that might take a bit of time.” He eyed the clock.
“Oh, we’ll just be a minute,” said Marge again.
“When did you last see John, by the way?” asked Bea.
Marty scrunched his face. “Must be—gosh—a week? I miss him. He was here every day for so long. I was getting used to having him around. But one day he just stopped showing up.”
“Right,” said Marge. “I’d like to take a look at the last roll of film he was looking at. That’s the one he said to check.”
“No problem,” said Marty, standing up from his desk. “Honestly, he left in such a rush that day, and no one—I mean no one—ever uses the microfilm station. I think it may even be still spooled up in the machine.”
Marty led them to the back of the library. He flicked a switch on the microfilm station. The screen lit up with a giant newspaper headline.
“A WOLF STOLE MY BABY!” CLAIMS MOTHER.
Bea gasped.
“Yes, that’s the one,” said Marge calmly. She placed a reassuring hand on her daughter’s arm. “Just let me read that over quickly to confirm the details.”
Marty yielded the seat to Marge. She read it carefully, jotting down a few notes, and stood up.
“That’s everything we needed,” she said. “You’ve been so kind. Thank you so much, Mister....”
“Marty,” he said, smiling and extending his hand. “Please. Call me Marty.”
“Well, thank you, Marty,” said Marge, shaking his hand.
Marge escorted her speechless daughter out of the library. Once on the sidewalk, she whispered into Bea’s ear. “For the love of…they’re on their way back to New Brunswick. Marcus stole John right from his crib in a place near Moncton called Boundary Creek.”
“Then Marcus must be—” began Bea.
“—on his way to stop them,” finished Marge. “We’d better warn that woman before the big bad wolf shows up at her door.”
Kate squeezed out of the tiny bathroom at the back of the train car. Somehow, that room seemed to get smaller and smaller the farther east they travelled. The smell wasn’t improving either.
She half-swayed, half-walked up the narrow aisle in rhythm with the train. More than eight hours into their trip, she realized her body had become used to the click-click, click-clack of the rocking train.
“I’m going up to the snack car. You want anything?” Kate said to John when she arrived at their seats.
“Nah, I’m good,” he answered, looking up from his book.
“You want to come with me? Stretch your legs?”
He put his feet up on the chair opposite him, put his hands behind his head, and let out a deep, contented sigh. “You mean, more than this?”
“Why is it that boys take up as much space as possible wherever they go?” said Kate, knocking his feet off the seat as she walked past.
To get to the snack car, Kate needed to navigate through four cars’ worth of burly passengers, feet stuck into the walkway, and a two-year-old boy running up and down the aisle screaming “I’m an airplane! VROOOM! I’m an airplane! VROOOOM!”
In comparison with the sardine-packed passenger cars, the snack car was beyond spacious. Only a few tables and booths were scattered throughout. A family with small kids sat around one table in the midst of what appeared to be an intense game of crazy eights. A pair of older women played chess at another. The rest of the passengers were engrossed in a bad action movie playing loudly on a TV screen in the corner. Kate approached the concession stand, where a uniformed man sat leafing through a tabloid newspaper behind a row of chips and prepackaged sandwiches.
“Hi,” he said, laying the newspaper face up on the counter in front of Kate. “What can I get you?”
“Uh,” said Kate, staring at the front page of the newspaper. All thoughts of a snack had vanished. “I, uh….”
“A bag of chips, maybe?” suggested the man. “Something to drink?”
Kate was frozen.
“You okay?”
Kate blinked. She pointed at the newspaper. “How much for that?”
He picked it up. “This? Oh, this is mine. I’m all done with it if you want it.”
Kate nodded, her eyes still fixed on the front page.
“You want something to eat as well?” he asked, handing over the paper.
“Chips,” blurted Kate. “Barbecue.”
“Great. That’ll be two thirty-nine.”
Kate dug into her pocket and laid a five-dollar bill on the counter. She walked away, clutching the paper to her chest.
“Hey, don’t you want your change?” called the man.
Kate nearly breezed right past her seat when she returned, her face buried in the newspaper as she walked. John managed to flag her down.
“What’s so interesting?” he asked, grabbing the bag of chips from her hands and tearing it open.
“Oh, just the worst possible thing that could possibly ever happen,” said Kate, thrusting the magazine at him.
John turned the paper over. NIGHT OF THE WEREDUCK, screamed
the full-page headline superimposed on an image of the full moon.
“Oh. My. Gosh.”
“It gets worse,” said Kate, yanking the paper from him and flipping through to the article. “Listen to this: ‘Senior investigative reporter Dirk Bragg spent months in pursuit of an elusive and vicious band of werewolves living in secret in eastern Canada,’” read Kate. “‘What he found was a story even more than it was quacked up to be.’”
“Ugh,” groaned John.
“I know,” agreed Kate, turning the page. “The whole thing is a bunch of lies about how we tried to kill him. It makes him come off like some kind of superhero.”
“Idiot,” said John.
“But look at this. He tells the story of how I turned into a duck. They hired a police sketch artist to draw a picture of me.”
She turned the newspaper to reveal a sketch that looked remarkably like Kate.
John whistled. “Pretty good likeness, actually.”
Kate looked at it again. “You think? I think he made my nose too big.” She touched her face. “Anyway,” she continued, slamming the paper on the table, “this is horrible.”
“Horrible,” repeated John, taking back the paper and leafing through its pages.
“Terrible!” said Kate.
“Terrible,” said John mindlessly, turning a page.
“The absolute, most worstest-worst thing that could happen!” she said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said John lazily. He flipped the page.
“Then why don’t you seem THE LEAST BIT CONCERNED BY THIS?”
“Because look!” said John, showing her a headline. “‘PINEAPPLES ARE ALIEN BRAINS GROWING FROM THE GROUND!’” He flipped a page. “And this: ‘THIS BABY ATE A WHOLE GERMAN SHEPHERD!’”
“Very funny,” said Kate.
“Come on,” said John. “Yeah, the story seems bad, but put it in context. Who is going to believe anything written in Really Real News?”
“I suppose,” she said, grabbing the bag of chips John had left on the table. She crunched one and watched trees whiz by the window. “D’you think Dirt Bag is still out there looking for us?”
Cure for Wereduck Page 8