Puddlejumpers

by Mark Jean, Christopher Carlson

  Though taken aback by Ernie’s pledge, Russ couldn’t help but smile. “You think you got time enough for that in three weeks?” he asked.

  “I hope so.”

  “All right, Sherlock, glad you’re on the case,” Russ said, squeezing Ernie’s shoulder. “Now let’s get back to feathers—reach under and get those eggs.”

  Ernie reached for the next hen, but she squawked a warning.

  “Just a little spooked because she doesn’t know you yet. Go again,” encouraged Russ.

  When Ernie slipped his hand beneath the hen, she flapped into the air, inciting the entire coop. They both ducked for cover as hens squawked every which way in a whirl of chaotic feathers. Huddled together beneath the cramped nesting racks, Russ and Ernie shared a chuckle, then Russ laughed, which made Ernie laugh, which made Russ laugh all the harder.

  After chores, Russ retrieved two gloves and a baseball from the cellar. They played catch in the shade of the weeping willow. Every ball Russ threw went hard to Ernie’s chest. The man really knew how to pitch. Russ worked with Ernie on his mechanics, just like a big leaguer. He added a high leg kick to Ernie’s delivery, then showed him how to push hard off his back leg. Soon Ernie’s pitches zipped into Russ’ glove with a loud, leather-cracking pop.

  Russ finally called it quits, grinning as he took off the glove. “That’s about all my poor hand can take—you’re really throwing some heat. Let’s get some lunch.”

  As they walked back to the house, Russ looked down at Ernie and smiled. Ernie suddenly realized that he’d talked more with Russ, while playing catch, than with any other adult in his entire life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jaws of Death

  ERNIE CAREFULLY camouflaged the bear trap near the wheat trampled during the previous night’s attack. He’d taken it from the barn when Russ went into town to pick up a few things. Sassy grazed on some stubborn crabgrass while Joey, wearing her favorite rooster T-shirt, sat atop the split-rail fence.

  “That’s disgusting,” she muttered, pointing at a patch of black slime just inside the Holsapple property.

  Ernie joined her at the fence to see what she was talking about. “What is that?”

  “I don’t know, but it stinks. I think it spills off stupid Holsapple’s oil trucks.”

  “Doesn’t look like oil to me, Rooster.” He swung under the fence to get a closer look.

  “Don’t touch it!” she warned. “It burns, and it’s hard to get off. One time my mom had to throw away my jeans when I fell into some. And they were brand new, too.”

  Ernie leaned close to sniff the black slime, but quickly recoiled, pinching his nose against the fetid smell. “It stinks worse than rotten potatoes,” he said as he swung back under the fence.

  “Told you.” She hopped down and picked up a broken wheat stalk. Holding it like a fork, she pretended to eat, chewing and swallowing loudly. “Mmmm, this sure tastes good!” He thought she said it just like somebody in a TV commercial. “Oh yes, thank you, Gram, I’ll have another piece of that homemade apple pie. What about you, Cubber? Yeah, dish it out!”

  Ernie laughed. She reminded him of his friend Nate doing one of his impersonations.

  “Well, that’s where we’d be if we had any brains. You just better hope my mom doesn’t call my gram.”

  “You said she doesn’t check up on you,” reminded Ernie as he placed two sticks to mark the trap’s center.

  “Sometimes she’s unpredictable.”

  “We’ll just have to take our chances.”

  As far as Russ and Betty knew, they were scheduled to spend the night with Gram and Gramp Atwater. As far as Joey’s grandparents knew, they were spending the night at Russ’.

  “I just don’t think this is such a smart idea,” cautioned Joey. “Number one, Russ told me never to touch that trap, and number two, you better hope he doesn’t notice it missing from the barn. You absolutely positive we need it, Cubber?”

  “Did you forget this little detail?” He pulled up his T-shirt to reveal the red claw marks on his chest.

  She gulped, sobered, but caught a glimpse of something else as he pulled down his shirt. “Hey, what was that?”

  “What?”

  “That diamond thingy around your neck.”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Come on, let me see.”

  “Maybe sometime,” said Ernie as he retrieved the splintered broom from the trampled wheat. He shuttled backward to the fence, erasing his footprints.

  “Some blood brother you are.”

  “I said sometime, okay?”

  She burned a gaze into the back of his head while he used her jackknife to carve a big X into the fence post, marking the spot. “It’s personal,” he said at last.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Ignoring her, he fastened a string that ran from the trap to a cowbell dangling from the lower rail of the fence.

  “Okay, fine,” said Joey with disgust as she mounted Sassy. “You can go on up to Holsapple’s by yourself. Why should I risk my life if you’re not even gonna be straight with me?” She untied their gear from the saddle and dropped it into the dirt.

  “All right, already,” he muttered, then pulled out his Crystal Acorn and held it up for her to see. She stared openmouthed at the one-of-a-kind ice-blue crystal.

  “Jeez, Cubber,” she marveled. “Where’d you get that?”

  “When I was a little kid, I got left at a boys’ home in Chicago, and it was the only thing I had on me. Now it’s the only thing I’ve got to prove I belong to somebody somewhere, okay?”

  She offered a sympathetic nod.

  “And I think that thing last night was trying to steal it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but Harvey Holsapple wanted it, too, and I’m gonna find out why.” They glanced toward the distant Holsapple manse with a shared look of apprehension.

  “He probably thinks it’s worth a lot of money,” suggested Joey.

  “Maybe.” He put his crystal back under his shirt, then picked up the broom handle. “Watch this.” He approached the marked piece of ground and nosed the broom toward the trap. “Beware, Bigfoot, here comes…”

  The broom triggered a spring mechanism and the bear trap hammered shut, snapping the handle like a toothpick. The cowbell clanged until Ernie smothered it.

  “The jaws of death!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Blood Trail

  THEY TOOK THE roundabout way to the east end of the plateau. Joey claimed they’d be less likely to get spotted if they crossed into Holsapple property through the old bee keep on Emil Goetz’s land. As they made their way across the hard-packed dirt, she told Ernie that the keep used to be her favorite place to spend a summer day, with the bees purring in the clover and the sweet smell of honey in the air. A few times Emil had even let her lift the lid on some of the wooden boxes that housed the honeycombs so she could get a look inside. Thousands of bees busily crawled in and out of the comb, making sweet Warbling River honey. Now the clover was dried up like everything else, and the bees had all gone away.

  They led Sassy up a slope of oak and pine to the summit of a craggy bluff known as Black Rock. They dropped onto their stomachs and crawled to the edge of the sheer-faced cliff. Only thirty yards away was the four-story manse of gables, turrets, and spires. A gargoyle waterspout glowered from each corner of the steep roof. The black Cadillac was parked in the courtyard.

  Joey gave Ernie a hard look. He knew she was hoping he’d call it off, but that wasn’t going to happen. They hunkered down and watched and waited. But they didn’t have to wait long.

  The back door banged open and Harvey Holsapple and the twins lumbered across the barren ground behind the manse. They stopped beside an iron wheel attached to a pipe six feet in diameter that ran from the adjacent oil field directly under the house.

  “Open it up, boys,” ordered Holsapple. “She wants all we can give her.”

  The
twins gripped the rusted wheel and cranked it, hard. A rush of oil flowed down the pipe.

  “Let’s hope that’ll satisfy her,” Holsapple said.

  At the top of the cliff, Ernie and Joey watched, perplexed, as the men returned inside.

  “Her? Who are they talking about?” he asked.

  “And why are they pumping oil into the ground instead of taking it out?”

  “And why right under their house?”

  Without answers, they looked back to the manse.

  It was late afternoon and all was quiet. Chewing a wheat stem, Joey kept watch with binoculars while Ernie practiced sleight of hand with a pack of matches.

  “Russ must like you some if he told you all that,” she mused.

  “Can you believe it? No ransom!” he recalled.

  “’Course not.”

  “Just shows you’ve got no clue when it comes to economics, Rooster—a baby’s worth plenty,” cited Ernie.

  “Oh, please! Babies suck up greenbacks faster than Uncle Sam can print ’em,” she declared knowingly, then put down the binoculars. “I’m starving.”

  Joey retreated to the copse of tall pines where Sassy was tied. She got a box of crackers and a jar of peanut butter out of the saddlebag. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, she spooned the gooey spread onto some crackers, then let Sassy lick the spoon. She called softly, “Mr. Cub, you hungry?”

  When he didn’t answer, she started to repeat the question, but he twisted around and gestured for her to zip her mouth. She hustled back, dropping on her stomach to crawl the last few yards to the precipice. He was looking through the binoculars, but she could see it plainly with her own two eyes. “It’s the Corn-Cobb,” she whispered.

  They watched as Dicky Cobb removed what looked like a blanketed cage from the trunk of the Cadillac. A muffled cry sounded from inside the cage as he carried it across the courtyard.

  “Good night and sleep tight!” blurted Joey.

  He quickly covered her mouth, but she kept right on talking, her voice muted. “What is that?”

  “Probably another baby,” whispered Ernie.

  She pushed his hand away. Her eyes were bigger than Sassy’s as she murmured, “Kidnappers in our own backyard!”

  “Professionals.”

  As Cobb entered the manse with his victim, Ernie and Joey felt a sinking feeling in the pit of their stomachs.

  As twilight fell, the cicadas screamed in the dry pine needles and some crows cawed from the trees. Keeping their vigil, Ernie and Joey avoided each other’s gaze. Both were frightened by the coming darkness, but determined not to show it.

  “Holsapple!” he whispered.

  Below them, Holsapple, Cobb, and the twins walked across the courtyard and got into the Cadillac. Ernie and Joey watched it motor down the long drive and turn onto the highway. When it was out of sight, they probed each other’s eyes for a glint of fear.

  “We might get in, but I’m not so sure we’re going to get out,” she warned.

  “Keep your eyes out for any kind of clues or evidence,” he instructed.

  “I’m keeping my eyes out for Holsapple,” she muttered, gathering her backpack.

  “If by some miracle we find Shawn, he’s probably brainwashed, so be prepared to take him by force.”

  Joey swallowed. “If we don’t get decapitated first.”

  Looking her dead in the eye, Ernie presented his thumb. “Brothers.”

  “Sister,” she countered with a nervous laugh as they cranked their thumbs a quarter turn.

  Ernie grabbed the rope, tied one end around a pine, then tossed the coil over the edge. He descended hand-overhand down the cliff. Joey followed. Touching down, they bounded across the courtyard to the manse portico, where they slowed to a stiff walk. The gloomy walkway was covered in thorny vines and lined with pillars and statues like something from ancient Rome.

  Up ahead, two stone Chimeras guarded the steps leading to the front door. The sentries had enormous wings on lion bodies, with dragon tails, vulture claws for feet, and reptilian heads, whose granite faces seemed to leer at them as they passed.

  At the massive door, Ernie drew Holsapple’s keys from his pocket. He studied each key before inserting one into the lock. “Get Shawnie’s rattle out of the pack.”

  “What for?” whispered Joey.

  “For luck.”

  “Won’t make no difference.”

  “Go on, shake it,” he insisted.

  She reluctantly retrieved the rattle from her pack and gave it a shake. Satisfied, he tried the key. The door clicked open. Suddenly a car started up the driveway, its headlights washing over them. They collapsed in a heap and belly-crawled across the threshold into the manse. Ernie eased the door closed as Joey peeked out a window.

  “It’s the sheriff!” she exclaimed.

  “What’s he doing here?!”

  In the courtyard, Sheriff Dashin got out of his cruiser and trained a spotlight on the front door. Joey ducked down to avoid its harsh beam. “We are so dead,” she moaned.

  Dashin cautiously approached the door. He shined his flashlight through the window and peered inside. The intruders pressed against the wall as his flashlight beam washed just over their heads. The light illumined an enormous oil painting of Harvey and his twins on the wall facing them. Too scared to even breathe, Ernie and Joey looked at each other as if they’d just entered their worst nightmare. They didn’t blink until the sheriff’s flashlight went out. They didn’t budge until they heard his car motoring away.

  “I knew this was a bad idea,” she muttered.

  “C’mon,” he said, then started off. Joey wanted to go home in the worst way, but it was too late to back out now. So she did the only thing a blood brother could do—she followed.

  A chill swept over them as they crossed through the vestibule. The air felt dank and cold. Rugged stone walls were framed by long black drapes and adorned with iron sconces holding thick candles. Two lifelike mannequins, dressed like Samurai warriors, threatened with upraised swords. Joey put a finger to her throat and drew it slowly from ear to ear.

  Doing his best to ignore her, Ernie noticed something on the stone floor. He knelt down to touch a tiny red spot, then held his finger up to Joey’s flashlight.

  “Blood!” gasped Joey. “If it’s a baby, Holsy killed it, or worse.”

  “Shhhh,” hushed Ernie, trying to stay calm, “or we’ll be next. Keep your eyes peeled—there might be more.”

  He grabbed her flashlight and proceeded past a grand staircase that led upward into the dark. It was Joey who saw the second spot of blood. He found the third. They tracked the trail down a corridor into a large room with a vaulted ceiling made of rough-hewn timber. Ernie scanned the walls with the beam of light. It was as if they’d entered the stronghold of Genghis Khan. A collection of Mongol and Chinese swords covered one wall. Around the room were sculpted busts of fierce warriors, golden figurines, and jeweled icons from the Far East.

  “These people are even weirder than I thought,” whispered Joey.

  “Look, more blood.”

  They followed the trail into the next room, which was ornate and lavish. The antique French furniture was upholstered in red and purple velvet. Huge paintings of gory battles adorned the walls.

  “Where’d these creeps get all this stuff?” wondered Ernie.

  “Stole it, probably.”

  They crept into another room. This one looked like the Old West, with cowboy and Indian paraphernalia and a stuffed buffalo whose glass eyes were frozen in a dead stare.

  The blood trail led to the dining room, its walls lined with hunters’ trophies—heads of lions, tigers, bears, and a black panther. They gagged at the sight of flies buzzing around a half-eaten hog’s carcass splattered across a long wooden table.

  “This is too sick,” shuddered Ernie, backing away.

  “Watch out! Stop!”

  He shot her an exasperated look. “What?”

  “Look what you almost steppe
d in,” she said, pointing at a pool of black slime.

  He crouched down to examine it, recoiling from the smell. “This is the same gunk we saw up by the fence. What’s it doing here?”

  “Maybe Holsy drinks it with his dinner, how should I know? C’mon, let’s keep moving—maybe we can save that baby.”

  They pressed on into the next room, which turned out to be the kitchen. Everything was oversized. There were four ten-foot doors and cupboards that stretched from floor to ceiling. But what riveted their attention was the blue flame surging on the stove and the sound of something bubbling inside a big iron pot. They stood on tiptoes to peer inside.

  “What is that?” asked Ernie.

  “I can’t tell. It looks like something with a bone.”

  “It smells awful,” he said, on the verge of throwing up.

  “All I know is my mom never leaves the house with something on the stove. I don’t like this, Cubber, let’s go, let’s get out of here.”

  “Wait.”

  Ernie traced the drops of blood across the polished floor. His light froze on the blanketed cage Dicky Cobb had carried in from the Caddy. It was set on a butcher’s block below a rack of medieval knives. A bloodstained cleaver lay beside it. Horrified by the prospect of what they might see, Joey took a step backward and covered her mouth in case she needed to scream. Ernie slowly pulled off the blanket. It was a birdcage. And it was empty.

  “Poor little thing,” said Joey softly. “That’s probably him in the big pot, half eaten.”

  “Never had a chance,” added Ernie.

  “Cannibals, right here in Circle, Illinois,” she said, repulsed.

  “Yeah. It’s probably what happened to Shawn Frazier.”

  From another room, an antique clock struck the time. Its gong echoed eerily throughout the manse. Nine strikes. Once the final gong rang out, Joey was adamant. “All right, that’s it, I’m leaving!” she declared, grabbing the flashlight.

  Ernie didn’t need any convincing. He draped the blanket back over the cage so no one would know they’d been there, but, just as they turned to go, two black wolfhounds bounded through a dog door into the kitchen. Scrambling, Ernie and Joey escaped into separate rooms, slamming the doors behind them. The wolfhounds barked viciously.