 
CAPTIVE IN TERROR ORCHARD

The trees are waiting for You

Book 1 of the Terror Orchard series

by Brian Bakos

Cover Art: Othoniel Ortiz Photos: Brian Bakos

Copyright 2013 Brian Bakos / revised 09-2019

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

One: Life Over the Edge

Two: Captivity

Three: Struggle for Freedom

Four: The Closing Ring

Five: Flight

Six: Final Terror

Next Book in the Series

Brian's Other Books

#  One: Life Over the Edge

1. Crud Hotel

The usual crowd is hanging around our apartment when I get home from school. I want to avoid them, but it isn't possible.

"You're back early, ain't ya?" somebody says.

"Yeah."

The sofa is full of losers. More stretch out on the carpet. Two of them, a woman and a biker type guy, are in the easy chair, groping under a blanket.

I shuffle past the empty beer bottles toward my room. The cigarette and marijuana smoke is thick enough to swim through. My eyes burn from the stink.

"Hey, kid," somebody says, "want some?"

He drags on a joint and blows the smoke my direction.

"Cut that out!" I snap.

Everyone howls, like a pack of psychotic chimps. Mom wouldn't like this, but she's in the kitchen blabbing on the phone with somebody from school. They must be telling her why I've been sent home.

Well, at least our landline hasn't been cut off again.

Mom's latest boyfriend is flopped out with the others – high, laughing, and yowling – a big, mean-looking guy with tattoos and a bald head. Biker type. His name is Steve, or Bill, or something. I can't keep track.

I make it to my room and shut the door, which blocks the party racket somewhat. I open my window, and the air becomes more breathable – although the smoke stench is a permanent fixture in our place.

At least another lousy day at school is over. This one was a real classic.

Some big mouth called me "trailer trash" during lunch period and I had to bust him up a little. This surprised him because he was bigger than me and didn't think I'd object to such a funny comment. He was only trying to be clever, impress the girls at my expense.

I got in a good take down before he knew what hit him. His head smacked a table edge, and the fight was pretty much over. He had this blubbery, frightened look on his face, and I just couldn't bring myself to slug him. His tray went flying and scattered food over the lunch room. I hope everybody liked the 'chopped steak' or whatever it was supposed to be.

They blamed me, of course. I'm a hair's breadth away from another suspension unless Mom can talk them out of it, which doesn't seem likely.

Thing is, we don't even live in a trailer. We have this wonderful place, courtesy of the welfare department.

It's no worse than the other places we've lived. Better than some, actually, but the same type of awful people keep showing up. It's like we have a big flashing sign in the window:

CRUD HOTEL

Bring All Your Friends

I flick on my little garage sale TV and sprawl on my bed. A program about Brazil is on, and it sweeps me away from my ugly world like a magic carpet. One minute I'm stuck in the Crud Hotel, the next I'm walking though a beautiful rain forest, then I'm dancing in a carnival parade.

The warm glow lasts right through the commercial break – a couple of stupid ads selling drugs. As if I don't have enough drugs around me already! Some guy comes on talking about his heart attack and how wonderful the hospital was that took care of him. Great stuff.

Brazil comes on again – the wonderful golden shore by Rio this time. An unbelievable blue ocean mixes with the sky and laps against the beach. Guys are playing soccer in the gleaming sand along the water line. All of them have big, toothy smiles and tremendous sun tans. I narrow my eyes and imagine myself among them – kicking the soccer ball, splashing into the water with the dolphins...

My door bursts open, and Mom's boyfriend stumbles in. I stand up to face him.

"What the hell!" He's swaying around, trying to focus. "Ain't this the bathroom?"

"No, it's down the hall. If you can make it that far."

He gives me a stony look. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. You're not supposed to come in here, so get out."

This is a dumb thing to say, but I'm mad and still fired up from the battle at school. Besides, I'm confident I can outrun him if I need to.

But with incredible speed for a drunk, he grabs my shirt front before I can dodge away. Next thing I know, I'm flying across the room. I slam against the wall and knock down the bulletin board. Pain explodes through my body, but I'm too shocked to be frightened.

"Time you learned some manners, punk!" the boyfriend says, spraying alcoholic breath over me.

He starts to undo his belt. Maybe he intends to hit me with it, or perhaps he has something worse in mind. I'll never know because Mom comes in, swinging a tire iron. He turns toward her and catches it square.

WUMP!

He stands for a couple seconds, stunned. His mouth gapes open and his eyes roll back, a big cut runs down his bald head. Then he crashes face-first to the floor and starts bleeding on my comic book collection.

"Scum!" Mom kicks his fat ribs. "I said I'd kill you if you ever touched him!"

She raises the iron two-handed for the killing blow, but others rush in and disarm her before she can finish him off. The weapon tumbles onto the floor. The posse drags Mom away. She is screaming and cursing like a maniac.

I sit propped against the wall, trying to get my breath back. Sharp pain tears through my side whenever I move. A bloody taste seeps into my mouth.

Finally, I manage to get up and step around the slob mountain spread on my floor. I grab the tire iron and drag it to the living room, ready to smash anyone who tries to harm Mom. My ribs hurt so much I'm about ready to pass out.

"Leave her alone!"

Everyone stares at me; no one is laughing anymore. Mom seems to be okay. She's sitting on the sofa with a couple of women, crying and drinking cheap vodka. Somebody is calling 911.

Lover boy survives the little spat. The last I see him, he's being wheeled out on a stretcher, whimpering like a baby. Big hero. Then I have to go to the hospital myself for my cracked rib. It's the same place where the TV heart attack guy went.

2. The Grech Appear

Soon afterwards, the child welfare people declared Mom an "unfit parent" and sent me to the Children's Home for abused and neglected kids.

"It's for the best, Billy," Mom told me between sobs – hers and mine. "I know I can't take care of you right."

That was my last conversation with her, and it's been well over a year now.

I was so angry that all I could see was a new bunch of kids to fight with, another crummy school. It's just recently I've realized the Children's Home wasn't such a bad place. Some of the counselors were really nice; they tried to be on your side. If I'd been smart, I would have tried to get along better, but that's all in the past.

They put me through a lot of tests. I was evaluated as being "highly intelligent," but also "rebellious and defiant." The Home was glad to get rid of me when the Grech appeared.

What a snow job those two gave! Yes, they'd be happy to take a "problem child" like me into foster care. They had a beautiful country home, and they came highly recommended – by a county judge, no less. A guy named Franklin Gulp.

I was so desperate to leave the Children's Home that I jumped at the chance the Grech offered. But I suspected that something wasn't right.

# Two: Captivity

3. Sweet Home on Brazil Road

Marnie, the cook, plops down the food. The ancient table groans, and a smell like unwashed laundry wafts into the air. The Grech dig in. That's a good way to put it because this dinner has been dug up from someplace ugly. My heart sinks to a new low.

_I have to break out of this nightmare before it's too late_ , I tell myself for the thousandth time.

Good old Mr. Grech jaws a mouthful of the stuff. Juice dribbles down his chin stubble and onto the front of his shirt.

"Dang, Marnie," he says, "you sure make good roast beef."

"Use your napkin, Albert!" Mrs. Grech snaps.

I look at the soggy mess on my plate and force back a gag. This is roast beef? And to think I used to complain about the Children's Home food. Compared to this garbage, the hamburger blobs at the Home were gourmet heaven.

My stomach grumbles, and my brain roams over the escape plans I've thought about for the past two weeks. I mentally travel through the whole rickety house and around the property outside – over to the big oak tree and the raspberry patch – looking for a way out. Try as I might, I keep stumbling over the same problem, which is strapped to my ankle.

Marnie slithers back into the kitchen with her black dress rustling. Mrs. Grech brushes back her frizzy gray-streaked hair with one hand and slurps peas from a twisted spoon she holds in the other. She munches away, her dentures clicking along.

"Eat up, boy!" she says between chomps.

I shovel in a couple of peas and chew them slowly. They explode in my mouth like boiled pimples. At least they temporarily take my mind off the two frightening old people sitting at the table.

The Grech are not really old years-wise, but the life juice has got sucked out of them somehow. The more I am around them, the less they seem to be real people at all. They are more like walking Halloween costumes with nothing human inside.

Not that they're feeble. My arm still hurts from when Mr. Grech twisted it last week to let me know I was working too slow. He'd seemed powerful enough to break my arm. Every throb brings back the terror and humiliation.

You'll pay for that, sucker.

Right now, he looks contented as he munches away like a fat, balding old ape. Then the glare of car headlights stabs through the picture window and ruins the happy scene. As the light scans Mr. Grech, his face turns ferocious, as if someone is smearing it with angry paint.

He hobbles to the window and peers at the house across the road where Mr. and Mrs. Ponge are backing into their driveway.

"Drat those people!" he says. "They're up to something."

Whoosh!

He swings his cane through the air as if it's a saber hacking off Mr. Ponge's head.

"Calm down, Albert," Mrs. Grech says. "You'll get your blood pressure up."

"Look at them," Albert says. "Coming and going at all hours. _Backing_ into the driveway? They'll be unloading something they don't want us to see."

One of his dark rages is about to explode, so I think it best to get out of the way. Unobserved, I dump my 'roast beef' into my napkin and get up.

"Think I'll do my chores now."

Mrs. Grech fixes a twitching eyeball on me and grunts permission. I scurry for the front door and am almost there when Mr. Grech slashes his cane again. A hate filled breeze whips across my face. As I dodge out of the way, I nearly upset the teacups on the side table.

"Watch out, you idiot!" Mrs. Grech shrieks.

* * *

A sliver of moon throws off light, and masses of stars dot the sky, so I am able to keep from tripping. I stumble down the porch steps and onto the lawn. I dash half way to the road before stopping.

The warm country evening offers me refuge. I want to escape into its dark, cricket-chirp distance, but I know I can't do that – yet. I look off toward the raspberry patch at the edge of the property. Would any of them be ripe enough to eat? I'd love to find out but don't dare wander that far without permission.

I nudge my foot against the electronic tracking device chained to my left ankle. It hangs there cold and terrible, crushing my spirit in an iron nutcracker.

Fireflies dart through the grassy-smelling air. They tease me with their constant flashes: _"Look at us, Billy Conner, we come and go as we please."_

Something rushes at me from behind. I turn –

The dog jumps, nearly knocking me over.

"Poochie! You little idiot."

Poochie doesn't bark, he knows better than to bark when Albert Grech is around. He limits himself to little whines and yips. I give his head the old knuckle-duster treatment.

"Are you trying to give me a coronary, like that guy on TV?"

The dog licks my face.

"Ugh, gross."

Poochie is a stray that looks like a cross between a collie and a German shepherd, but smaller than either. His hair is short and his ears too big. You can't tell about his tail because somebody chopped it off. Everything about him says, 'misfit!' Kind of like me.

I slip my dinner scraps to the little mutt. Starved as he must be, he takes the food cautiously, as if he fears it might bite him back. What I wouldn't give for some fast-food burgers about now – even those little steamed things you get by the dozen.

I leave Poochie to his feast and walk the rest of the way to the road. The light breeze favors me, pushing away the stench from the nearby storage tank. I pause on the gravel shoulder and light a cigarette.

The smoke steadies me, but makes me feel a bit faint at the same time – hardly surprising, since I am more than half starved. It drifts around me, an old friend from the real world come to visit nightmare land. Then it vanishes with the breeze.

Across the road, by the dim light of their car trunk, Mr. and Mrs. Ponge wrestle with something large and awkward.

"Be careful," Mr. Ponge says. "You'll ruin everything."

He talks in a low voice, but I still hear him because I've got excellent ears.

The trunk slams, and I can't see much anymore. The side door grates open as they enter their house. I expect a light to come on, but the old place remains dark and spooky, like a haunted house in some cheap horror movie.

"This is some neighborhood," I mutter.

I take another drag on my cigarette. In the moonbeams, the road is a river of concrete flowing southward. I place a foot onto the pavement and feel its great power vibrating. Thousands of miles away, this same road enters Brazil, winding through the vast forests, the great cities, and down to the beach.

Hope surges into me. Soon I will be escaping down this road – before the life juice gets sucked out of me, as well. After just two weeks, I am already half dried out. Everything will change when I get to Brazil.

I'll take refuge there until I'm not a kid anymore. By that time Mom will be over her drinking and doping problems, so we can be a family again. I'll find her when I came back, right after I visit Albert Grech and punch in that fat belly of his.

Samba music drifts up the road from Brazil and mingles with the tangy scent of ocean water. A golden beach calls to me; its brightness stings my eyes. A soccer ball rolls up. Everything is so real I can actually see it, touch it. I reach out my hands...

Poochie brushes against me, begging to be petted, and my wonderful vision blinks out of existence. I reach down and stroke his head. With my other hand I wipe away tears.

"You want to go with me to Brazil, pal?"

Poochie wags his stump of a tail so hard I think he'll spin himself around. A crack of light shoots across the lawn.

"Quit stalling!" Mr. Grech yells from the doorway. "Take care of them trees!"

Pain throbs behind my eyeballs. I drop the cigarette butt onto the pavement and crush it under my foot. If only it were Albert Grech's face!

4. Grove Encounter

The night becomes threatening. As if on cue, the wind kicks up and clouds elbow aside the sliver of moon. Brazil flees thousands of miles down the road. Poochie starts to whine.

I turn slowly, like a door on rusty hinges, until I face the orange orchard looming thirty yards away. The big trees form a smear of blackness darker than the surrounding night.

In the middle of them, the largest tree shoots up – a crooked finger summoning a curse from the sky. It's the ruler of the orchard, the "Czar Albert" tree, as I've named it. The one around which all the others gather, the one with the mouth gaping at its base.

The moon pokes back into view, but the grove remains dark. Its greenish-black leaves absorb the moonlight the way wet pavement soaks up car headlights and turns the most familiar route into a trip to the unknown.

The leaves rustle impatiently. The orchard is hungry. Tonight is its feeding time.

"Come on Poochie. Let's get this over with, okay?"

The dog whimpers and slinks along behind me. He looks exactly the way I feel.

I approach the dumpster-sized food storage tank, climb the step ladder beside it, and grab the large bucket from its prong. This weekly chore hadn't been fun in the daylight, but since the Ponge moved in a few days ago, I have to work under cover of darkness.

I brace myself for the coming assault and reach back my right foot to the control lever. I stomp down.

As the tank lid screeches open, a fist of rotten stench nearly punches me off the ladder. I gag. If anything was in my stomach, I'd be throwing up for sure. I lower the bucket on its chain and scoop out a batch of lumpy ooze. Who knows what's in it? I sure don't want to know.

I somehow get back down the ladder without spilling anything.

Struggling with the foul load, I make my way across the lawn toward the orchard. It waits beyond the house, tolerating me just barely, like a big zoo cat aching to devour its keeper.

I've never thought plants could feel anything, much less think. Now I know different. Those trees are aware of the world around them, and they hate it. They are big brutes, much larger than the usual fruit tree.

And how can oranges grow this far north? I'm a city kid and haven't been in the country much, but I've read things and watched documentaries. These trees are _definitely_ not normal.

My sneakers squish in the damp grass. Fear walks beside me, tickling the back of my neck with cold, bony fingers. I have the eerie feeling that someone is following me. It's just Poochie... right? I don't want to look back.

I can't believe what's happening to me. How did I get myself into this mess?

_You haven't done anything wrong,_ answers a voice inside my head. _You're just a thirteen year old 'ward of the state.' It's not your fault Mom can't keep sober, and you don't even know who your dad is._

All this is true, but it doesn't make me feel better. A rotten citrus smell hangs in the air around the trees. A decaying elephant corpse covered with orange peel might smell like this. I turn on my flashlight, and a tiny bit of courage returns.

I creep around the rim of the orchard. Leaves rustle overhead. They turn towards me as I pass, sniffing the filthy load in my bucket. Sniffing _me_.

I come to a pair of chained doors set in the ground just inside the grove – _Wizard of Oz_ type storm cellar doors leading down to who knows where.

The creepy feeling that I'm being observed is stronger now, but who'd want to be out in this place just to watch me? Well, there's nothing for it but to walk in and get the job done. I look behind me.

"Let's go, Poochie... Poochie?"

He's nowhere around. My batteries are getting low, and I can't make out anything in the dim flashlight beam. There are fresh batteries in my room. Why didn't I put them in already? Idiot!

"All right, chicken," I say into the darkness, "I'll remember this the next time I have a delicious dinner for you."

I try to concentrate on how much my arms ache from lugging the bucket. Blot out everything else. Get through this! I'm just about to enter the grove when Poochie trots up.

"Good boy!" I pat the dog's head. "Thanks for coming back."

Poochie whines. We plunge into the grove together.

Lots of fireflies in here, but they're not like the ones outside. These are much bigger – ugly piercing eyes flitting around blinking at me. And they hum. The ground hums, as if a gigantic tuning fork is buried in it. I'm no longer in the regular world. This place is on the dark side, away from everything good and decent.

The orchard is only an acre or so, but a horrible vastness presses down from it, as if I'm in the middle of a haunted jungle. The breeze is dead, replaced by a low murmur – voices whispering in some evil language. My flashlight blinks out.

"Oh, man!"

A panic vise grips my chest. The trees bend in to devour me. I shake the flashlight until it comes back on.

"Don't do that to me again."

My heart slows to something like normal. I shine the faint beam overhead where bunches of large oranges hang. They resemble bombs ready to drop and crush my skull. I have strict orders not to disturb them. No problem there. I'd never want to touch those things.

At last I reach Czar Albert in its little clearing. I can't tell for sure – maybe it's just my fear seeing this – but the tree seems to throb, as if it has a pulse. A large metal funnel is stuck in the ground in front of it; maybe it leads all the way to Hell.

I grip my flashlight in my teeth so as to free up both hands. The funnel leers back at me. Its toothless mouth utters an invitation: _Come on in, little boy._

I empty the bucket quick. The funnel makes harsh, gurgly-slurping noises like a platoon of vampires all sucking blood. The last of the glop disappears. Done!

Then I hear it. A low, moaning noise coming from under my feet. I jump back.

It's just my imagination... but Poochie hears it, too. He cowers against me, whimpering. He's rigid with fear, like me.

The sound becomes louder, as if the earth itself is crying out: _uhhhhhh Ohhhhhh!_

Why can't I move?

A scream – mine or something else's – uproots me, and I take off stumbling over the rough ground. Somehow, I keep on my feet. If I fall, I'm a goner for sure!

The grove seems endless. The low voices are laughing now. I lurch between the trees, brush up against them and feel their disgusting hides. Poochie dashes on ahead, and something else is running beside me. I don't dare look.

Just as I think I'll never get out, I burst free of the orchard and shoot across the lawn. My shoes are slippery with mud, and I fall sprawling on my face. From my position in the grass I see a dark figure run toward Brazil Road and vanish. Clouds swallow the moonlight.

I lay gasping for air. My old rib injury throbs. I can hear nothing except my pounding heart. But through all my terror, an idea flickers into life.

An idea for escape.

5. Fond Memories

Albert Grech meets me as I come through the front door.

"What was all the racket?" he growls. "Was that somebody screaming?"

"Just a big old cat fighting with the dog."

Albert looks suspiciously at my wet, grass-stained clothes.

"They knocked me over," I say.

Albert grunts. "Who won?"

"The dog."

"That stupid mutt is good for something, after all," Mrs. Grech says from across the room.

Albert peers out the window at the darkened house across the road. His face hardens even more than usual.

"The cat must belong to the Ponge," he says. "Good. This'll let 'em know they can't poke around here unchallenged."

"You should've bought that dump when you had the chance, or at least rented the place," Mrs. Grech says. "You've always been too cheap."

He glowers at her. "No, Amitha, I should have _burned_ the place down. I've always been too soft."

I wouldn't use "soft" to describe either of these vultures.

"Guess I'll get on up to bed," I say.

Nobody pays attention as I bolt the stairs to my third floor attic 'room' and shut myself in. The last of my adrenaline rush fades, and I'm suddenly exhausted.

My mind reels at what I have learned.

Something awful is in the orchard, lurking in the ground. Yet, it wasn't really hostile. It seemed to be crying for help. I was too scared at the time to understand this, but now I do.

And somebody else was out there in the grove with me. A spy from the Ponge? Yeah, that might be it. He ran toward their house, didn't he?

Then again, maybe everything had just charged out of my imagination. What could you expect from somebody who's scared to death and half starved? Poochie heard the moaning in the ground, too, though. I've got excellent hearing, but his doggie ears are a whole lot better.

And where was Poochie when I was walking to the grove? With the spy, I'd guess. Maybe the spy gave him a snack to keep him friendly. I don't understand... how can I use any of this for my escape plan?

I am too wrecked to think straight. I strip down to my undies and flop onto the ragged sheet. The heat and musty smell are almost unbearable. Sweat clings to my skin.

Albert and Amitha are still prowling the house. They are up late, probably fretting about the neighbors across the road. They seem to hate the night, like vampires in reverse. Soon they'll withdraw to their chamber, and I can slip down to the bathroom for a rinse off.

As I squirm on the cot, unable to think about anything practical, my mind wanders back to my years with Mom. Compared to my situation now, these are pleasant memories – a big party with Santa, almost.

Okay, Mom would never win a _Parent of the Year_ award, but she'd looked out for me as best she could. The tire iron episode proved that. There'd always been somebody to look out for me – Mom, the school, the children's home counselors. Now I'm totally alone.

Usually our situation sucked, like when we had to live out of an old car. Other times things were better, when Mom didn't drink up the welfare money or when she actually had a job. Then we didn't have to shoplift, and we could buy a meal at a restaurant instead of sneaking off without paying.

Whenever I began to hope things might improve, a new bum always showed up – Mom's latest "romance" – and everything would go downhill again.

Hashing all this over isn't helping me any. I need to rest, conserve my brain power for making plans. Tomorrow, things will start to change.

The 'incantation' begins – a weird, low chanting coming from the Grech bedroom, an evil sound related to the hum in the orchard. I've heard it before, but never so loud and for so long.

Ungggggg Mungggg!

Cold fear elbows aside my exhaustion.

Ungggggg Mungggg!

Words in a harsh, mysterious language vibrate through the house, finding me in my isolated corner. Then everything goes silent.

6. The Visitor

By morning I haven't figured out what anything means, but I do have a new strategy. From now on, my attitude will be much more cooperative. The "rebellious and defiant" routine is getting me nowhere. Letting the Grech know I hate them only makes them more suspicious.

I can't fight these people unless I'm willing to get really violent, give them some tire-iron therapy. Maybe it will come to that, but for now the wisest course is to get them to drop their guard by being nicer. I'll keep my eyes and ears open, gain some trust.

This is house cleaning day, and I fling myself into the work cheerfully. My gosh, I'm even whistling! By late morning I have finished the dusting, the mopping, and am about to fire up the vacuum cleaner for the living room rug.

Amitha Grech sprawls on the sofa, supervising my work as she puffs an El Stinko cigar. The front door bangs open and Albert rushes in. He's red-faced and out of breath.

"Judge Gulp is coming!"

Quicker than I thought possible, Amitha springs off the couch and crushes out her cigar in the ashtray. She shoves the butt in her pocket and hands the ashtray to Marnie.

"Dump this, and bring some lemonade. Hurry!"

"I'll get the... things ready," Albert says. "You stall him here, Amitha."

Mrs. Grech snatches the vacuum cleaner from my hands. "Get up to your room, and don't come down til I call you."

"Yes, ma'am."

I clunk up the stairs, making plenty of noise so they'll know I've gone all the way to the attic. I stay in my room only long enough to take off my boots before slithering back down to the second story hall. I lay flat on the carpet where I can peer through the banister rungs at the ground floor.

The bell rings. Amitha takes a deep breath and smooths back her hair. She reaches out her hand. It hesitates a moment, then twists the doorknob.

A man enters. He's tall and white-haired with a good sized gut. He wears a blue, pin-striped suit. He seems old enough to be retired from any real job, but I guess judges can hang around as long as they want.

"Hello, Amitha!"

"So nice of you to stop by, Your Honor," Mrs. Grech says. A phony smile twists her face.

Marnie slides up to him with a pitcher. There's nothing fake about her smile. "Would you care for some lemonade, Judge?"

"Thank you, Marnie," Gulp says.

She pours him a glass, all the while pressing closer to him than is necessary.

"That will be all for now, Marnie, thank you," Amitha says.

Marnie returns to the kitchen and waits in the doorway.

"I was in the area, so I thought I'd stop by," Judge Gulp says. "Figured I may as well check up on your foster child while I'm at it."

"How nice," Amitha says.

"I told the social worker not to bother coming over, since I'd be out this way." The judge sips his lemonade. "I said I'd handle the home inspection for her. They're awful busy, you know, the social workers."

Mrs. Grech keeps smiling, but a knife is behind her grin. "How thoughtful of you, Judge. Billy has been doing just fine. He likes it here very much."

"Glad to hear that."

The hairs on the back of my neck bristle. I grind my teeth. Gulp sips more lemonade while Marnie watches him sweetly from the kitchen doorway. Amitha keeps smiling. The silence is getting awkward.

Mr. Grech comes in. "Hello, Judge. Good to see you."

They shake hands.

"Good to see you, too, Albert," the judge says. "I was just telling Amitha here that I'll be handling the foster care inspection today. Thought I'd interview young Billy myself."

Mr. Grech produces a little white envelope. The Judge's hand flicks it into his suit coat pocket.

"On second thought, I don't think an interview will be necessary at this time," Gulp says.

The bum! He's just taken a bribe. I choke back my rage.

"So, Albert, how is the citrus grove business doing these days?" the Judge asks.

Mr. Grech slips him another envelope. It disappears into Gulp's pocket.

"Fine, fine," the judge says. "I'm glad to know you're doing so well."

He drains the last of his drink and hands the glass to Amitha. "I really must be going. Thanks so much for the lemonade. Let me know if there is anything else I can do for you."

"There is one thing, Your Honor," Albert says. "It's about the new people across the road."

"Oh?" Gulp says.

"I was wondering if you could check them out, and... well, let me walk you to your car, Judge."

The two men leave through the front door, talking in low voices.

"What a fine gentleman the Judge is," Marnie says.

"Humph!" Mrs. Grech snorts.

I'm angry enough to explode, but I have to wait where I am, pressing myself into the picky carpet. A couple minutes later, Albert comes back in.

"That old windbag gets greedier all the time," he says.

"Humph!" Mrs. Grech repeats.

"At least we don't have to put up with him too much longer," Albert says. "This will all be over soon enough."

That last comment has a nasty ring to it. I slip back up to my room. My skin crawls with goose bumps all the way.

7. Tracker Puzzle

As I sweat in my stuffy attic waiting for Amitha to call me back downstairs, I churn over the frightening new information. The stench of cooked tar from the roof adds to my unease.

At least I know where I stand with the law – nowhere. I'm just another kid dropped through the cracks in the foster care system. I've been thrown to the wolves.

All right then, if the people who are supposed to look after me won't do it, I'll look out for myself. It all boils down to the tracking device. The most important thing is to learn its true capabilities. When Albert chained the thing on my ankle, he made serious threats.

"If you try to take this off or tamper with it in any way," he said, "it'll send an alarm to the Sheriff's office and to my own monitor as well. Got that, boy?"

"Y-yeah," I managed to say through my horror.

"Go too far from the house, and it'll transmit a locating signal. Either me or the cops will find you in no time. Better hope it ain't me who gets to you first."

What else? Would some alien spaceship fire a death ray at me from a million miles up?

It's hard to believe the small, clunky thing could do all that, but what do I know? A DVD is a shiny little disk, but a whole movie can be stuffed on it. I have to find out more. The raspberry patch might be the place to learn.

Amitha shouts up the stairs. "Get down here and finish the vacuuming, boy!"

"Yes, Ma'am."

I climb downstairs in my noisy boots and get back to work. Everyone is in a foul temper, except for Marnie who is still mooning over Judge Gulp. This is not the time to start anything. Just do a good cleaning job and keep out of their way.

8. Raspberry Surprise

Things are more settled the next morning, so I decide to push ahead with the first phase of my escape plan.

"There are some raspberry bushes nearby," I say in my most helpful voice. "I could pick some for us, before they get too ripe."

Amitha grunts and turns a yellowish, twitching eyeball my direction. It's as if a watery, sunny side up egg is staring at me – but that can't be right, Amitha has no sunny side. I am revolted but keep a smile on my face.

"I kinda like raspberries," Albert says.

"Yes, sir," I say, "and they won't cost anything. Raspberries are expensive at the grocery store."

That clinches it. Those two cheapskates would never pass up a freebie. I'll bet Amitha wears dentures simply because the dentist ran a special on pulling teeth one day.

"All right, go get some." Albert jabs a threatening finger at me. "But don't wander too far off, understand?"

"No, sir, I won't."

Marnie scrounges up a metal pail. I grab it and dash down the porch steps. Poochie appears and runs alongside me. The sun warms my face; a sweet, clover smell drifts in the air. Everything seems right with the summer world as I run south on Brazil Road.

If only I could keep going, all the way to Rio!

I sure don't want to head the other direction to the spooky little town of Bridgestock a few miles north. I've been there once. It's filled with grungy, beat looking people and rundown houses with the paint peeling off. Our old apartment building looks like a palace in comparison.

I reach the bushes. They are loaded with ripe fruit. Startled bees fly off as I wade into the patch.

The raspberries I drop in make clunky echoes, followed by muffled little thuds as the pail fills up. Sticky juice covers my fingers. For every berry I keep, I toss another one into my mouth. My starved body screams with pleasure.

I'm reaching for some low hanging fruit when I spot the footprints. My heart leaps into my throat, colliding with the raspberries already there.

They seem to be people footprints. Whoever it was, his feet pressed into the soft dirt without leaving much of an outline. The tracks head toward the orchard before they disappear on the harder ground.

I look across the road toward the Ponge house. Its white bulk squats in the fine day, ugly and run down – a visitor from Slumville. Somebody came from that house to spy on the orchard the other night, and I ran into him. I'd begun to doubt that, but now I know for sure.

"This could be real important," I tell Poochie.

The dog wags his tail stump. I move farther into the patch and finish loading the pail. Then I pull out my compact binoculars.

I shoplifted these camouflaged beauties when I was staying with Mom. Usually we just took things we really needed, but I couldn't pass these up. I never imagined how I'd be using them one day.

I keep the binoculars focused on the front door of the Grech house as I back away from the raspberry patch. Slowly, I creep farther and farther down the road. My ankle tingles. The front door of the house flies open, and Albert Grech shoots out onto the porch. I shove the binoculars into my pocket and run back toward the house.

Albert is ticked when I get back. He stands with his hands on hips and glowers at me like a drill sergeant in some goblin army.

"Don't ever wander off that far again!"

"I won't, sir, sorry." I hold up the pail full of fruit. "The best berries were the farthest away."

This seems to calm him. "All right, go give 'em to Marnie."

"Yes, sir."

I dash into the house toward the kitchen, grateful to have escaped physical harm. Albert didn't even try to grab me, and he didn't reach for his lethal cane. My charm offensive seems to be paying off.

Despite Albert's softer attitude, I'm not dumb enough to think he or Amitha actually care about me. I've seen their type before among Mom's so-called 'friends' – mean, selfish people with no kindness inside. They are only 'nice' as long as it suits their purposes.

I set the pail on the kitchen table. "What do you think of these, Marnie!"

Her eyes flick to the raspberries. "More work for me, eh?"

"No... well, yes. I mean, I thought we could all enjoy them."

She dumps the berries into a bowl on the sink counter.

"I could help," I say.

"Don't bother trying to get on my good side, boy, 'cause I ain't got one."

"Yes, ma'am, sorry."

Marnie spins towards me with a potato masher clutched in her fist. She looks as if she wants to mash my face with it.

"And keep out of my kitchen. Maybe you can suck up to them other two, but don't try it here."

"Yes, ma'am."

I get out fast, as if I'm escaping from a crocodile pit. So much for making friends with Marnie. She's nasty clear through, but she doesn't seem to be an addict.

The Grech _are_ addicted to something. I'm certain of that, as I've seen my share of addicts. Something really bad has them hooked, and it's turned them into dried-out old people with uncommon physical strength.

It must have something to do with those orange trees.

That's why they're so upset about the Ponge moving in – they don't want any witnesses. That's why they're buying protection from Judge Gulp. I need to find out more about the spy.

The biggest mystery: Why am I here?

Not just for cheap labor – they could hire somebody for much less money than they're paying Judge Gulp. The reason has to be pretty disturbing. My fondest hope is to be long gone before I can find out.

Better to focus on the things I know for certain. I know the tracker sets off an alarm for Albert. I don't know if the other claims are true.

Using the Grech house as the center, I can figure my safety zone. Without setting off the alarm, I can walk south to the raspberry patch, north to the big oak tree alongside Brazil Road, west to slightly beyond the orange grove, and east just past the tool shed behind the Ponge house.

The device has obviously been set so that I can move throughout the orchard doing maintenance work, but can get no farther.

Such are the boundaries of my nightmare world.

9. A Bold Proposal

I make my next move at dinner.

The main course isn't quite as bad as usual. Some kind of bird, a chicken perhaps, that looks like it was run over by a truck before it got roasted. My hay fever is acting up, and my nose is mostly blocked, so I am spared the delicious aroma. I force myself to eat so as to keep up my strength.

But when Marnie plunks down the dessert, I have to admit defeat. She's murdered my raspberries with her masher and smeared their carcasses over rock hard biscuits. The seeds glare out of the pulpy mess like hundreds of angry insect eyes. The time seems right for some conversation.

"I saw Mr. and Mrs. Ponge take something big out of their car trunk the other night," I say casually.

Albert flinches, as if somebody has stuck a hot branding iron on his rear end.

"What was it?"

"I don't know, sir, but it was heavy. They both had to carry it in."

"See, Amitha," Albert smacks a hand on the table. "I told you they was up to no good. If only there were some way we could find out."

"There's Sheriff Fergueson," Amitha says.

"I don't trust him," Albert says, "and he's even greedier than old Gulp."

Amitha jerks her head my direction as if to say I shouldn't be hearing such remarks. I pretend not to be listening. Albert shuts up, anyway.

I stir my raspberry slop, marking the dead time and waiting for the right moment to make my bold proposal. The ceiling fan spins the warm air slowly. The old house settles around me and waits to learn what will happen next. The thought of my proposal tightens my stomach into a knot.

A couple minutes drag past. Albert grinds up the biscuits with his big yellow teeth like a werewolf cracking bones in its jaws. I put some of the berry glop into my mouth and am rewarded with a stinging, bitter flavor that seems like it came from inside a car battery. At least it clears my sinuses.

Finally, I get up the nerve to speak. "Perhaps I could find out something about the neighbors."

Albert's eyes turn narrow and suspicious. He pins me into my chair with his glance. "How do you mean?"

"Maybe I could go and see what they're up to."

I hold my breath and wonder if Albert will turn violent. He just sits stroking his chin, though.

"What'cya got in mind?" Amitha says. "Just show up at their house and start asking questions?"

"No, ma'am."

"A break in?" Albert says. He seems excited by that idea.

"No, sir, I don't think that would be necessary. Not yet, anyway."

"What, then?" Albert says.

"I've noticed they have no air conditioning," I say, "and since the weather has been getting hotter, they're leaving windows open. Maybe I could hang out by a window and listen in. I've got good ears."

"Yeah." Albert nods. "That might work."

"I don't see what there is to lose," I say.

"Right," Albert says. "And if you get caught, just say you were snooping on your own, that we knew nothing about it."

"Of course, sir, but I won't get caught."

Albert turns things over in his evil mind. My stomach begins to unknot a little.

"It could be worth a try." Albert whacks the table again. "Just make sure you don't wander too far away."

He squeezes my shoulder with a big, gnarled hand. My collar bone feels about to snap.

"Of course, you know that already, don't you, boy?"

"Yes, sir."

He lowers his voice almost to a whisper and breathes corpse breath in my face. "Bring me useful information and you can take off some time from your chores. Marnie will do them for you."

Marnie gives me a poisonous look from the kitchen doorway. I guess she's got good ears, too.

* * *

My preparations don't take long. Amitha provides some little mirrors and the fat cardboard tube from a roll of Christmas wrapping paper. Out of these items I make a periscope.

I wonder where she got the roll of gift wrap, as the Grech don't seem the type to give presents. Probably it was left behind by some previous tenant who fled the house long ago.

What can I expect to gain from this? I have no idea. I'm making up strategy on the fly. At least I can roam freely within my safety zone at night, instead of being locked in the house.

Only one thing is certain. I will _never_ escape this monstrous place by just sitting around. Nobody is going to help me, and routine is my enemy. I have to break the routine; otherwise, I'll end up flattened like the chicken we had for dinner.

The Grech turn in right at sunset, withdrawing into their lair and bolting the door behind them.

"You'd better not be up to something," Marnie says as she withdraws into her own room.

"Good luck to you, too," I mutter.

I'm just about ready to go when the incantations start. My blood starts to run cold.

_Get of out here, Billy!_ a voice inside my head warns.

But my curiosity is getting the upper hand. I creep upstairs and peer toward the Grech's room. A low, rumbling hum vibrates through the door, and light flashes underneath it into the dim hallway. An extremely deep voice chants unknowable words, the way a bear might sound if it could talk.

"They're at it again!" Marnie's voice whines from behind her own door. "It's getting so a body can't sleep at all."

I've definitely heard and seen enough. I retreat down the stairs and move out into the night.

# Three: Struggle for Freedom

10. The Master Spy

I cross Brazil Road by the oak tree.

Small bats explode from the branches. They flutter and dodge, snapping mosquitoes from the dead air. They swoop down close.

"Get away!"

The brutes avoid my flailing arms. Higher up, larger bats soar past the moon, headed for who knows where. I approach the Ponge house indirectly, crouching low.

A side window is the only one on the first floor with light coming from it. The picture window facing the road is curtained shut, and the rest of the house is blacked out, except for a dim glow upstairs.

Is somebody up there – the spy?

Taking advantage of every shadow and bit of cover, I creep to the window. Television noise coming through it covers my movements. I inch my periscope up... The Ponge sit on the living room sofa watching TV, and I am watching them.

Glow from the screen flickers on Mr. Ponge's hard and narrow face. Mrs. Ponge's head sags, she's dropping off to sleep.

Poochie suddenly rushes up, yipping and demanding to be petted.

"Not now," I whisper.

He tries to lick my face.

"What's going on out there?" Mr. Ponge snarls.

I flatten myself, nearly crushing my periscope as I dive to the ground. Mr. Ponge is at the window screen above me.

"Stupid dog. Git before I bust you!"

Poochie whines with terror and slinks away into the darkness.

"Don't come back!"

Mr. Ponge leaves the window, grumbling and cursing. The earth tremor under my pounding heart fades. I begin spying again.

Second night

After all the drama, nothing much happens the first night, and by the second one, my enthusiasm fades a great deal. Not that I object to spending hours crouched beneath a window getting bit by mosquitoes. Who wouldn't enjoy that?

Problem is, I haven't learned anything new, except for some curse words. Mr. Ponge is the foulest mouthed person I've ever heard, even worse than Mom's old boyfriend. Mrs. Ponge doesn't talk like the Sugar Plum Fairy, either.

A loud thump freezes me in place.

"This rotten TV," Mr. Ponge cries. "It can't pull in nothing!"

He didn't actually say "rotten" but something much worse.

"Putting your fist through the top won't help any," Mrs. Ponge says.

They aren't exactly the couple from the old _Leave it to Beaver_ show. About all I've heard these past two nights are complaints about the TV set. It was the item I'd seen them drag in from their car. Telling Albert about it hadn't gotten me off any chores.

Aside from a battered old couch, the TV is about the only furnishing in the bare, uncarpeted living room. And one other thing – a small telescope on a tripod with its front end peeked through the picture window curtain. This is obviously used for spying on the Grech. I haven't told Albert about that item yet.

"We oughtta get the satellite hookup," Mrs. Ponge says.

"I don't want no outsiders poking around here!"

Last night, after his wife nodded off, Mr. Ponge watched triple X rated videos – real brutal, hard-core stuff. I had to listen to an hour of that crap before she woke up again. Mr. Ponge then switched to a comedy show.

There is nothing funny about this place. It's like a stereo speaker with a wire running straight down to hell. Across the road, the Grech house forms another speaker unit, complete with a powered subwoofer in the orchard rumbling out a demonic bass.

The air is heavy tonight. Something floats around in it making my hay fever worse. I fight to keep from sneezing.

Headlights coming from the north pierce the darkness. I flatten myself into the bushes. Pickers jab my skin, looking for any spots the mosquitoes missed. A car pulls into the driveway on the far side of the house. A door opens and closes.

"He's here," Mr. Ponge hisses.

Tense silence, then a knock. The door creaks open.

"Good evening, folks," a familiar voice says.

Judge Gulp! I inch my periscope above the window sill. There's the old buzzard again, all fat belly and pin striped suit.

"So glad you could make it, Your Honor," Mr. Ponge says.

"Always glad to welcome new residents to our fair county," Gulp replies.

Mrs. Ponge brings out coffee and cakes from the dark kitchen while the men talk about the weather, the price of gasoline, and about "that jackass" recently elected state governor. Now that they are diverted, I have a chance to study the Ponge more carefully through my periscope.

Sally Ponge is an ugly dishrag of a middle-aged woman – dumpy and frizzled. Gregory is a tall thin man with veins sticking out of his arms. He seems much younger than Sally. He looks strong and rigid, like he's been carved out of a baseball bat.

"Your neighbors across the road were wondering about you," Judge Gulp says casually, and my ears pick up.

"Is that so?" Gregory Ponge says.

"They were surprised to see anybody move into this place. It's been empty for years, you know."

"I'm curious about them, too," Mr. Ponge says.

"Yes, I can understand that," Gulp replies. "They aren't the neighborly sort, like to keep to themselves, pretty much."

Everyone nods, and things get quiet. Mosquitoes buzz my ears, but I don't dare swat them.

"I ain't no scientist," Mr. Ponge finally says, "but I have never seen trees like they've got. Gives you the creeps just looking at them from across the road here."

"Mmm." Gulp takes a long sip of coffee. "Yes, their interests are rather... unique, one might say."

More silence. Gulp obviously isn't getting what he wants. Time to turn the screws a little.

"So, have the County inspectors been out here yet?" he asks. "You know, to check the wiring, the septic tank, things like that?"

Sally and Gregory exchange glances. A little envelope appears in Gregory's hand and quickly vanishes into the Judge's pinstriped jacket. I pull my periscope back down.

"Well, I don't think we need to bother about that, after all," Gulp says. "So nice to have met you both. Thank you for the coffee and cake."

"It was a pleasure," Mrs. Ponge says.

"About that other matter," the judge says, "If you stop by my office tomorrow, I might be able to tell you a bit more. Say, around 3:00?"

"Sure Judge, thanks," Mr. Ponge says.

Gulp leaves. It never takes him long to split once he has his payoff. Soon his car is driving north again toward Bridgestock, right past my position. I press myself deeper into the shrubbery.

"What do you think?" Sally asks.

"I think he's one greedy slug," Gregory says.

"Maybe it's time for another look around them trees," Mrs. Ponge says.

"Yeah, good idea, Sally. At least that won't cost us nothing."

I've heard enough. I untangle myself from the bushes and slip away.

11. Laying a Trap

The moon is bigger tonight, but clouds block much of its glow. I walk north along Brazil Road, almost to the big oak tree, before crossing over.

The air is even thicker on the Grech side, and my nose itches like crazy. Except for the whir of insects, everything is dead silent. There are no passing cars or air conditioners, no racket from the apartment next door – none of the sounds familiar to a city kid.

I'm not alone, though. Fear walks with me.

Just keep moving, get the job done. Don't let the fear walk over me. I've planned this ambush since yesterday and don't need to tax my brain.

I approach the storage tank on the Grech lawn and disconnect the lid handle. It's only held in place by a little clip. The cool, yard-long metal pipe feels powerful in my hands. I swing it around like a baseball bat as I walk toward the raspberry bushes. One whack from this thing could scatter Albert's brains into the next county.

But it isn't Albert I'm worried about now – the Ponge spy is coming. All the time I was crouched by the window, he was lurking in the dimness upstairs like some lethal fungus. Now he has his marching orders.

I don't think Mr. Ponge himself will come. He obviously has money, and a man with money doesn't take unnecessary risks. Also, if the spy gets caught, Ponge can deny being involved – play the same game as Albert.

If my guess is right, the spy will walk past the raspberry bushes again. It's an indirect route that gives the best chance of avoiding notice from the Grech house.

I need to find out more about this intruder, whatever the risk. The steel pipe is my insurance. I don't want violence, but if it comes to a choice between hitting somebody and getting my own head knocked in, well...

My nose starts to run and my eyes burn. What is that stuff in the air? Vapor is rising off the orchard, like a belch of gas from a rotting corpse. The crickets and the whirring bugs quiet down as if the air is pressing the noise out of them.

Where is that stray dog when I need him? Albert has been giving him food lately, convinced by my lies that Poochie has some value as a watch dog. And my reward? The mutt has probably forgotten about me and is off looking for a girlfriend.

So, I wait alone, hunkered in the raspberry pickers. My nose runs so badly I have to use my shirt tail as a handkerchief. I've got nothing else, however gross this is.

I grip my weapon in sweaty hands. With each passing minute, the spy grows larger and more terrible in my mind, until he blots out the dim horizon. He's a great, fat, baldheaded sucker wearing a pin-striped vest over his obscene tattoos. In one fist he hefts a tire iron, in the other a white envelope. Time drags past...

Footsteps on the road.

I sink deeper into the raspberry plants. My heart slams in my chest, and I shut my eyes to calm myself.

This is it, Billy!

The footsteps come closer. They are in the middle of the road, on the gravel edge, shuffling in the grass right by me. I force my eyes open.

12. Ambush

Heck, it's just a girl!

Relief washes over me. I relax my grip on the pipe. As my guard goes down, a long overdue sneeze explodes before I can stop it.

The girl spins toward me. Any instant she'll scream or run. I leap from my hiding place, grab her and press a hand over her mouth.

"Quiet!"

She struggles fiercely in my arms. She sinks her teeth into my hand. Incredible pain shoots through me, and I choke back a cry of agony.

"Stop that!" I hiss into her ear.

I clamp my other hand over her mouth. She makes a last frantic effort to break free, then goes limp. I fear she has passed out.

"Keep quiet, please." I relax my hold. "I'm not going to hurt you."

She jerks free, and an elbow shoots up against my chin. I tumble backwards into the bushes. Something sharp jabs at my throat.

"Darn right you're not gonna hurt me, punk!"

Her angry face lunges out of the darkness. With one hand she grips my hair. Her other hand is at my throat. The knife it holds is small, but from my viewpoint it seems big as a guillotine blade.

My chin feels cracked, but I must talk fast, while my head is still connected to the rest of me.

"Uh... hi." I scarcely move my jaw so as to avoid being slashed. "Could we start over? My name's Billy Conner. I'm glad to meet you."

The blade slowly retreats and I can breathe again. The girl releases my hair and stands.

"Okay, Snot Nose, you can get up. But don't try anything."

She holds the knife at the ready. This might sound nuts, but I can't help thinking that she looks rather cute – from what I can see. I move to a sitting position and gently work my chin with my fingers. It seems to be in one piece. I wobble up into a blinding flashlight beam.

I hold a hand over my eyes. "Turn that off, will you?"

"I recognize you," her voice mocks from the brightness. "You're the big secret agent."

"What?"

"Don't play dumb."

She switches off the flashlight. Blobs of brightness squirm inside my eyeballs.

"I saw you spying on Uncle Gregory and Aunt Sally. I was looking out the window right above, but you didn't even notice."

"You mean... you're _related_ to those people?"

"No need to rub it in," she snaps.

Is nothing impossible in this lunatic corner of the world?

"You gonna stand there all night with your mouth open?" she says.

"What's your name?"

"Cyndy."

"Ponge?"

"Certainly not!" Her knife takes a threatening step towards me. "No more questions, now, understand?"

"Okay, sorry."

We stand in the dim moonlight, eyeing each other. I don't want any more violence. What I need is an ally, not another enemy. Which one is she?

"I'm supposed to check out those trees," she says. "You gonna try to stop me?"

"Be my guest."

She glances over her shoulder at the orchard, then back at me. Her bold stance becomes uncertain. She's tough, all right, but also plenty scared of those trees – like I am. In a snap, I decide to help her.

Maybe I just want to make up for my humiliating defeat. Or maybe I want to impress a girl who is way out of my league. Anyway, I owe her. She could have turned me in to the Ponge but didn't.

"You don't need to go near those trees again," I say.

She stands uncertainly, hefting her blade.

"You were in the grove a few nights ago, weren't you?" I say. "The one who screamed?"

"You're the one who screamed, Billy."

"Whatever."

I instantly feel about as heroic as a stranded jellyfish. She tosses me a shred of dignity.

"I was too scared to make a sound," she says. "Those trees are perverted."

"Tell me about it."

"I have to show Uncle Gregory something." Her voice has become very small. "Maybe some leaves or a piece of bark. He'll get really mad if I don't."

The rugged heroine is changing into a frightened little girl. I begin to feel strong and protective, despite my aching chin.

"Bring your uncle some oranges. That should satisfy him."

"Yeah, he'd like that, but I don't know if I can..."

"Wait here."

I pick up the metal pipe and dash toward the grove. I'm almost there before realizing what an idiot I am. I'm breaking the strictest rule of Albert Grech. What'll he do if he finds out I've stolen his precious oranges?

How do girls manage that – make you do stupid things, all the while letting you think it's your own big idea?

The air is thick by the trees. I seem to be wading through a swamp as I cover the last few yards. In slow motion, I leap up and stab at an orange bunch. By an incredible stroke of luck, the pipe hits exactly the right spot. Three oranges thud down, still attached to a long twig. I could swear the tree grunted when my pipe struck it.

I pick up the oranges and immediately drop them. They're warm like animal flesh – squishy and pulsing. A violent shudder rocks me.

"Let's try this again."

I heft the bundle by the piece of branch. It's creepy, too, but not nearly as bad as the oranges. I return to Cyndy.

"Don't touch these things. They're weird."

"Thanks, Billy... I think."

She holds the dangling blobs as far away from herself as possible. I study her in the moonbeams and try to decide my next move. She doesn't seem to be evil, or even threatening – despite her blade and rough talk. She must be as trapped as I am and in desperate need of friendship. I decide to trust her.

"I'm being held captive," I say. "The Grech have foster care and they're paying off some old judge to keep it."

I pause, afraid I've said too much. _Don't be an idiot, Billy!_

What has trusting anyone ever gotten me? Nothing. I decide to plunge ahead, anyhow.

"I'm trying to escape."

"Why don't you just run off? That shouldn't be too hard for a super sleuth like you."

Her snide comment reassures me. Anyone this sarcastic is unlikely to be an informer.

"They chained this electronic tether thing to my ankle, and I can only go a short way. I don't know how to disconnect it, yet."

"Really?" She sounds a little bit concerned.

"That's why I was spying. I told Mr. Grech I could find out about your aunt and uncle. He's very suspicious."

"Yeah, and what else?"

"Well, I thought I might discover something that could help my escape plan."

Across the darkness, Cyndy turns my words over in her mind. I can't tell yet if she is a friend, but at least she doesn't seem to be an enemy. She's shrewd and very cool.

She touches my arm, and a surprising tingle runs up it. "I have to get back now. Can you meet me here tomorrow night, an hour past dark?"

"Sure, I guess so."

"Good."

Then she's gone, as stealthy as she'd come, and I'm alone again in the darkness. Did any of this really happened?

I stroke my sore chin – yeah, it did.

13. Garden Chit Chat

The next morning is gardening day, so I'm up early working the vegetable patch.

I'd managed to grab a cup of coffee on my way out of the house. Marnie's fresh-brewed pot smelled decent, so I walked into the kitchen and politely poured myself a cup under her glowering stare.

The pleasant coffee taste is still in my mouth as I dig my hands into the crumbly soil and yank out weeds. Why doesn't some giant hand reach down from the sky and pull _me_ out of this gruesome place?

A cold shadow falls over the garden – Albert Grech. Every muscle in my body tenses and my breath catches short. I look up and force myself to smile.

"Good morning, sir."

Albert grunts.

He looks like a fat, screwed-up Buddha statue with the sun winking over his shoulder. He holds a coffee mug, and his flabby gut hangs over his belt. Such a nice belly. I want to give it a pat – with a chain saw.

"Did you find out anything last night?" Albert says.

He doesn't seem particularly angry. He must not have discovered the missing oranges, or if he did, he doesn't appear to suspect me.

"Yes, sir, I found out a couple of things."

I brush the dirt off my hands and stand up, catching a whiff from his coffee as I rise. The stench is horrible, as if a dead rat is in that mug. Understanding flashes in my brain.

Something foul has been added to what was once good coffee. He wants it that way. Likewise the food. They don't eat such rotten stuff just because they're too cheap to buy anything better.

Why would they do that?

"Speak up boy!"

"Yes sir." I force my mind back on track. "Judge Gulp visited the Ponge last night."

Albert doesn't seem surprised. He'd asked Gulp to investigate them, after all.

"So, what happened?"

"Mr. Ponge paid him off to keep the county inspectors from checking the house."

Albert nearly chokes on his coffee. "Really?"

"Yes, sir."

He roars with laughter, the way a shark would laugh, if it could, right before it bites into some poor guy bleeding in the water.

"That's great!" Albert's glowing face lights up the morning. "That's just great!"

His laughter dies out. I'm so glad he's enjoying himself. Now to drop the bombshell.

"Mr. Ponge made an appointment to see the Judge this afternoon in town."

Albert flushes purple. "What about?"

"I don't know, sir. Judge Gulp said they were going to talk about 'some other matter.'"

A volcano burns inside Mr. Grech, ready to blow any second. I step back, outside of cane-swinging range.

"I might be able to find out more tonight," I say.

"Yes, yes, do that!"

Albert raises the mug to his mouth with a trembling hand. Fear is creeping into his rage. Good.

"I want to know what they are up to with the Judge," he says. "Got that?"

"Yes, sir. I'll find out for you. You can count on me."

"That better be right."

He stalks off toward the house, all hunched and limping like a creature from some cheap horror movie. Hey, thanks for the time off, pal!

I don't care about the chore work, though. It's actually better to keep busy and out of the way. For the first time I begin to feel as if I have some power.

Amazing how Albert bought everything I said. Must be my honest face. Besides, I wasn't even lying – just mentioning certain facts and passing over others. I've been around a lot of low-lifes, and I'm good at reading them. Albert thinks he's real smart; he's really just a dumb bag of crap and a coward.

I return to my work with a smile on my face. The great Albert Grech is shaking in his boots. One way or another, things are racing to a finish.

14. Rendezvous

I'm at the raspberry patch an hour after sunset. Cyndy is late, of course. Here's another tactic girls use to put you in your place – force you to wait for them. Mom always did that to her boyfriends. She said it was a sure-fire way to keep them in line.

This is no social occasion. It's life or death! Where the heck is she?

Air wafting from the orange trees is not as bad as last night, and there's a bigger piece of moon. The Grech house hulks underneath it black and dead, like a slum mausoleum.

I eat some raspberries and light a cigarette. The breeze is getting cooler and stronger; it does nothing to calm my nerves.

Dinner had been especially horrible. As always, Marnie didn't eat with us. She must cook decent meals on the side for herself, although she's happy to serve garbage to me. Good old Marnie.

Cyndy finally appears from her side of the road. My excitement at meeting her again vanishes when I see what she's carrying – two shovels. A chilly claw scratches up my spine.

"You shouldn't smoke," she says.

"Nice to see you again, too."

She sets the tools down and brushes off her clothes, as if anybody could see her out here.

"What's in those oranges, Billy?"

"Beats me. I'm a raspberry guy."

She stops brushing herself and gives me what is probably an irritated look. Not enough light to tell, though.

"Uncle Gregory and Aunt Sally each ate one. It turned them meaner than they already were. I thought they were going to kill each other over the third one."

"Maybe that's not such a bad idea."

"They're real angry and jumpy," she says, "and sort of drained, too. They went straight to bed without watching TV."

So... I have the answer to the Grech's condition. They're addicted to the oranges. Why didn't I figure that out sooner? Well, give me a break. I only entered the detective business a few days ago.

I take a final drag on my cigarette. "Do they look old and burned out, too?"

"Yeah, sort of, but they want more oranges just the same. Uncle Gregory says I'd better bring some, or else."

"That could be a problem."

A vision of Albert in a psychotic rage pops into my mind: his face all purple, foam sputtering out of his mouth as he slashes his cane at me demanding to know where his precious oranges have disappeared.

"If you can't help me, Billy, I'll get them myself."

"Hold on. I didn't say I couldn't help you." I'm turning into the macho idiot again. "I just want some questions answered first."

"Fire away." Cyndy places a hand on one hip. "I've got all night."

She's clearly ticked, but doesn't she look great standing like that in the moonlight?

"Okay, tell me about Gregory and Sally Ponge. Why are they out here, and how come you're with them?"

The night turns quiet. A much older person seems to be standing before me, feeble and scared.

"All right," Cyndy says in a trembling voice, "if you must know... Eight months ago, Mom and Dad went down in a plane crash. They were on their way to their second honeymoon and never got there..."

A sob chokes off her voice.

I'm stunned and ashamed. That's me – Mr. Sensitivity – always sticking the brutal questions where they can hurt most.

"I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean to..."

I want to take her in my arms, but that doesn't seem proper somehow. I don't know what to do, so I just stand there until she can talk again. My eyes get misty. Compared to this disaster, my own problems seem like a nonstop joy ride.

"They didn't leave a will." Her trembling little voice is breaking my heart. "There were no written instructions as to who should be my guardian. So Uncle Gregory got custody."

The words "Uncle Gregory" bring some strength back to her voice. I can hear the clenched teeth.

"Wasn't there anybody else to take you in?"

"Yes, I've got very nice aunts and uncles who wanted me, but Uncle Gregory could afford a mean lawyer. So, he won in court. Maybe he bought off the judge."

"Why would he go through all that trouble?" I say. "It doesn't sound like he cares about you much."

"He _doesn't_ care. He only wants custody because he knows that others want it. He likes to take away whatever people truly desire."

"Oh, man. That's sick."

This Ponge character sounds even worse than Albert Grech, if that's possible.

"You should see their house in the city. Rooms full of stuff he's cheated people out of – artwork, furniture, guns..."

"Is he a blood relation?"

Cyndy is recovering her strength. Her voice punches through the dark.

"No! He's Mom's step brother, and a disgrace to their family. But he's smart, and he's got psychic radar in his head."

"How's that?"

"For instance, when Aunt Sally's first husband died and left her a lot of money, he knew just when to zero in and marry her. She's a lot older than him, which must be why she was so foolish. She used to be kind of nice, now she's as bad as he is."

I ask the main question. "Why did they move out here?"

"The Grech must have something they desperately want to keep, so they popped up on Uncle Gregory's radar. He means to steal it from them."

She's back to her old self again. I admire her tremendously, but it's better not to say anything because I'd probably just stick my foot in it.

She pushes a shovel into my hands. "If there are no further questions, let's get to work."

15. Digging Party

We walk toward the orchard, lugging our shovels like two riflemen with guns on their shoulders. No, I'm the only rifleman in this outfit. Cyndy is the commanding general. Resentment pushes aside the admiration I felt only a minute ago.

She didn't even ask my opinion; she just decided everything on her own. We're going to dig up whatever made those horrible noises the other night – whether I like it or not.

I don't owe her anything, do I? Sure she's had some tough breaks, but haven't we all? It doesn't mean I have to put myself in danger. Why am I letting her control me like this?

I already know the answer. Mom told me once during one of her mellow drunks.

"See this little finger?" she said, holding up her pinkie. "It's amazing how big a guy can get wrapped around it."

I fumble out a cigarette and stop to light up. The wind blows so much that I have to use three matches.

"Uh... do you really think this is such a hot idea?" I ask when I finally get the thing lit.

"I don't know, Billy. It seemed like it in the daytime. Now I'm not at all sure."

My blood runs cold at the thought of what we were getting ourselves into. Really. It's like ice water in my veins. My hand shakes so much I can hardly bring the cigarette to my lips.

"I'm thinking this isn't a very smart move," I say.

I expect an argument, but she says nothing. We stand together, me puffing my cigarette and Cyndy twisting a lock of her hair. I can't bring myself to walk away from this crazy mission, but I sure don't want to go through with it, either.

"Okay, we know there's something under the ground," I say, "but we have no idea what it is. Maybe it's really dangerous. If we let it out, anything might happen."

Cyndy brushes against me, and I wrap an arm around her. It seems the most natural thing in the world. She doesn't pull away.

"I think it's something, or someone, in horrible trouble," she says. "I'd like to help."

"Yeah, but who knows what monster might jump out if we start digging in that orchard? Maybe we should forget the whole thing."

There's a long, sad pause filled with wind and cricket chirps.

"Alright, Billy," she finally says, "maybe that would be best."

She's sagging against me, relying on my strength. But I'm not feeling very strong.

Why am I being such a coward? Do I think I can get out of this chamber of horrors by playing it safe? I look toward the Grech house and imagine myself stuck there – permanently.

Heck, nobody lives forever, no matter how much they might want to. I flick away the cigarette and speak with all the steel I can muster.

"Let's do it, Cyndy."

"Okay, whatever you think best." Her voice is tiny but strong, and it's full of respect. I suddenly feel about ten feet tall.

We stride across the final yards to the orange trees, me boldly in the lead. My hands don't shake anymore, and my shovel has become a mighty weapon – a rocket launcher, or something.

Once we're inside the grove, the breezy air gives way to a suffocating calm. The tree limbs press down like a coffin lid. I'm terrified again, and my shovel seems about as dangerous as a burnt match stick. We crowd together and shine our pitiful little flashlights on the ground ahead. The beams jiggle with fear.

"We have to get to the big tree," I whisper.

Cyndy nods. Leaves rustle overhead, straining to hear my words. Big fireflies hover, flashing yellow and red. Creatures scurry through the underbrush, just outside our beams. Ghosts flutter about. Drums and chanting I don't want to hear.

We walk farther in, gravediggers following a gruesome funeral procession. Our feet make little noise in the dead air.

At last we come to the Czar Albert tree. All I can do is stand rigid before it, my muscles frozen stiff. Anger throbs at me from Czar Albert. It knows why we've come.

I feel doomed. What happened to that big shot with the missile launcher?

"Billy?" Cyndy nudges my arm.

I manage to raise my shovel with both hands, all stiff and jerky. I jam it into the ground as hard as I can. A horrible groan shoots up.

Ohhhhhhh!

My knees give out. I drop the shovel and fall over backwards. Hatred stabs at me from the branches.

"Come on, Billy!"

I scramble up on rubbery legs and grab my shovel.

Ohhhhhhh!

I try to ignore the cries.

Ohhhhhhh!

We gouge up the soil, racing each other. The flashlights gripped in our teeth give jittery light. I bite mine so hard the plastic cracks and cuts my lip. Coppery blood taste fills my mouth.

The ground heaves. A thick root breaks through and begins to curl around my leg. I jump straight up, nearly breaking my ankle on the way down.

"There's some one here," Cyndy cries.

A burst of mud slams into us.

"Euu, disgusting!" Cyndy brushes at her clothes.

Naked tree roots glisten, throwing off a stench of evil bones. A brownish-green creature lays tangled up in them, squirming under our flashlight rays.

My heart nearly quits when the thing opens its eyes. Cyndy falls against me just as I am collapsing from the opposite direction. We brace each other up.

"Help me," the thing moans.

The voice is so pitiful it breaks through my terror. "Let's dig it out!"

We hack the roots with our shovels. The things writhe and snap at us like poisonous snakes. I'm totally out of my mind. It's Albert Grech's face I'm chopping at now.

"Take that, you scum!"

The roots eject their prisoner. It catapults out of the hole and flops face down between us. It begins crawling away.

Cyndy moves after it. "Are you all right? Can you hear me?"

The roots squirm and hiss; fluid drips from their wounds. A few drops splatter on my jeans and burn through. Branding iron pain stabs my leg.

"Help me fill in this hole!"

We pile dirt back into the hole and bash it down. The ground churns and bucks – then finally goes still. We flop on our backs. I have never been so exhausted in my life. The creature is gone.

Cyndy swings her light around. "He's over there."

Somehow, I find the energy to stand up and chase after the thing we've rescued. We each grab a side and pull it along the ground. It weighs very little.

Just below the level of actual hearing, the trees wail and call out for our destruction. We lumber on, slower and slower, until we are barely moving. The trees pull on our minds, trying to hold us back.

At last we break out from the orchard into the grassy night wind. I drop my side of the load and run to the garden for the wheelbarrow. When I come back, Cyndy is kneeling beside the creature trying to talk to it.

"Let's put it in this," I say.

"Yeah, just a second."

Cyndy runs back to the edge of the grove. She leaps up with her shovel and knocks down a bunch of oranges. How did she get up the nerve to do that?

We dump the creature into the wheelbarrow and rush across the road to the shed behind the Ponge house.

16. The Mud Doctor

The thing covers its eyes with its hands when Cyndy flicks on the overhead.

"Too bright!"

Before she can turn the light away, I get a look at the creature's hands. The fingers are long and pointed, like tree roots, and they scrape together with a sound of dry branches. I've made a wrong turn somewhere and stepped into a horror movie.

"What is this thing?"

"A man – I think," Cyndy says.

"Of course... I... man," the blob of mud in the wheelbarrow says.

"Who are you?" I say.

He makes sloppy, gurgling noises.

"He's all filled with gunk," Cyndy says. "Let's wash him up."

"Good idea. He stinks like a rotting hippopotamus."

Cyndy gives me her annoyed look. "There's a garden hose outside."

We wheel him out and give him a good rinse. Then we clean ourselves off. I'm dying of thirst and drink about a gallon of water from the hose.

Then we bring the guy back inside and place him on a pile of old burlap sacks. With some extra sacks, we dry him off as best we can.

"Thank you," he says.

He stretches himself out. His body makes popping sounds as it unfolds into an approximately human shape. With a big sigh, he drops off to sleep.

We move the light back on him. He looks more like a real person now, although his skin has a weird greenish look. Long scraggly hair and a beard cover much of the face.

"He looks like a scaled down Jolly Green Giant," I say.

Cyndy gives me another annoyed look. "If he is jolly, it's no thanks to you."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean he'd still be out there if I hadn't forced the issue," she says.

"Well, pardon me. You act as if I buried him myself."

Heck, I was only joking. Why is she being such a snot? Cyndy begins to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"I'll be back soon. Don't worry, Billy, he won't eat you."

How do you like that? Now that the danger is over, the sweet little charmer has disappeared. The girl with the sharp elbows is back in charge.

I study our guest. He's an average-sized man, though extremely thin. I don't suppose being underground does much to fatten a person up. His clothes are largely rotted away, and dozens of little twigs stick out of his skin. Otherwise he looks great.

Cyndy returns carrying blankets, clothes, and some glass jars of food. Ordinarily I would have pounced on the food, but I don't feel much like eating just now. One of the jars slips from her arms and thuds onto the sacks.

"Thanks for helping me, Billy."

"You could ask politely once in a while."

Our guest jerks awake. "Ah!" He looks frantically around with bugged-out eyes.

"It's all right," Cyndy says. "You're safe, now."

He settles back on his makeshift bed.

"Maybe we should get a doctor," Cyndy says.

"I am a doctor," our guest mumbles.

"The police, then. We should call them."

The mud doctor struggles onto his elbows with horror on his green face.

"No cops... tell nobody!"

He falls back onto the sacks.

"Guess he doesn't want anybody to know he's back in the social whirl," I say.

"You have such a crude way of talking, Billy."

"At least I'm not dumb enough to suggest calling the cops. Who do you think controls them? Judge Gulp, that's who, and that Sheriff Fergueson crook."

"Gulp... scum," the doctor murmurs.

"That's right," I say. "And I've got to live with Albert Grech, don't forget."

A spidery root hand grabs my wrist. "You're in great danger, boy."

The hand drops away. My arm feels numb where he touched it. The rest of me is chilled to the bone.

"The poor man's exhausted," Cyndy says.

I'm ready to collapse myself. I have to get out of here before I come totally unglued. Sure wouldn't want Cyndy to think I'm anything less than the supreme macho hero. Besides, I've had all I can stand of her nastiness.

I head for the door. "I'll be back tomorrow night."

"But – "

I step outside before Cyndy can finish talking. I walk back to the Grech house, stopping at the food tank to reattach the handle. All the while, the mud doctor's final words boom in my mind like a funeral drum.

17. Tormented Thoughts

As I toss in my lumpy bed, I'm not sure if I'm still sane or have gone totally wacko. Despite the muggy attic heat, I pull the blanket up to fight my chills.

Was any of this real?

My injuries sure are. The burns on my leg itch like crazy, but they don't look too bad, just a few small blisters. My lip hurts, but isn't bleeding anymore.

Cyndy is real enough, too. I got a good look at her under the shed light. She's about the most attractive girl I've ever seen – despite her rough personality.

She has reddish hair and a beautiful, intelligent face set off by a few freckles. You just know she's a top student at school. She has full lips which are either clamped tight together or slightly open, showing her perfect teeth. And she has brown eyes that can bore right through you. She moves gracefully, her body curving in all the right places.

And me? Not bad, if you like scarecrows. I've always been thin, but lately I've really taken on the concentration camp look. I have a nice face, though. I've even been referred to as "cute" now and then. Blue eyes, surprisingly good teeth considering all the fights I've had. Straight brown hair badly in need of a trim.

And don't forget my elegant fashion sense. What girl could resist a guy in a beat-up denim jacket, a size too small, with a skull and cross bones drawn on the back?

But what's all this about? My life is at stake – even the mud doctor knows that. There's no time to worry about Cyndy being hot.

A steady rain begins outside, blowing cool, moist air into my prison. Thunder rumbles in the distance.

# Four: The Closing Ring

18. Security Arrangements

I wake up early because people are making a lot of noise outside. I slip out of bed and peer through the cracked little window with my binoculars. A work crew is staking a perimeter around the orchard and stringing barbed wire.

Isn't that interesting? Looks like Albert is getting cautious.

I need to be more cautious, myself. Through my binoculars, I can see a groove in the lawn where we dragged the wheelbarrow last night. Good thing the workmen are stomping about and creating their own tracks.

Make that your last mistake!

I spend the next hour watching them work. These are normal men, from the real world. They have wives and kids back home, and they stop at the bar after work for a drink with their buddies. I want to run outside and throw myself on their mercy.

"Take me away! I'm a prisoner here!"

But that couldn't work. They'd think I'm a juvenile delinquent troublemaker. Heck, I look like a juvenile delinquent, don't I? Maybe their boss would feel a little sorry for me, but Albert would slip him a white envelope stuffed with cash.

"Here's a bonus for you," Albert would say.

Then he'd come back in and reach for his cane. No, it's better not to expect anything from anybody – least of all a bunch of strangers.

This is laundry day, so I go directly to the basement where the wringer washing machine and rattling old dryer lurk. My muddy clothes are the first things to go in.

I remain strictly in the laundry area, avoiding the dark recesses of the basement with their piles of rotting junk. There are bottles of dark, evil-looking liquids sitting in one corner. I choose not to investigate them. Maybe that's the stuff Albert pours in his coffee.

By late afternoon, the fence is completed and the work crew is gone. I've washed the big throw rug from the back hall and take it outside to dry. This makes for a good excuse to poke around. The air outside is hot and muggy, quite a shock after the hours in the dank basement washing and ironing. Everything seems unnaturally still.

As I wrestle the throw rug onto the clothes line, I look out toward the Ponge house. No sign of life anywhere, no car in the driveway. I shudder to think of Cyndy cooped up in there.

The new fence slashes its way around the orchard. Large _Keep Out!_ signs complete the friendly appearance. A small prefab shed with its door removed stands inside the gate. Albert and Amitha Grech are surveying the new construction and talking between themselves. I casually shuffle through the grass behind them, as if I have no interest in what they might be saying.

"How much does this dang fool thing cost?" Amitha says.

"I already told you. Can't you hush up, woman? First you say I'm cheap, then you complain when I spend money."

Amitha spits on the grass and pulls out a cigar. A long flame shoots from her hand, scorching the cigar tip. Albert steps out of harm's way. What is she using, a blow torch?

"We need to secure the grove," Albert says. "I've got suspicions some oranges might have been stolen."

I hold my breath. Amitha turns suddenly alert, like a mangy cat seeing a mouse scoot by.

"Yeah?" she says.

"Yeah! We sure don't want nobody poking around in there now. It'll be time for the planting soon."

"Sooner the better," Amitha mumbles, the cigar hanging out the side of her mouth.

"There's some bad weather moving in, too," Albert says. "We gotta get this done fast."

A minute goes by without further talk. Amitha puffs her El Stinko, and Albert whacks off dandelion heads with his cane. Then he notices me.

"What are you doing out here, boy?"

The familiar knot grips my stomach. "I just hung up the rug, sir. It's too big for the dryer."

He looks at the rug, seems to buy the excuse.

"Did you find out anything new?"

"No, sir. Sorry."

I'd been so rattled by last night's events that I hadn't even thought about a cover story. Another dumb mistake! Then a reasonable tale pops up from my memory.

"Mr. Ponge spent the night watching pornography," I say. "Real hard core stuff. Mrs. Ponge turned in early."

"That figures," Albert grunts, "damned low life."

Before he can say anything else, a small truck pulls up on the road shoulder.

The driver opens his door. "Delivery for Albert Grech!"

"That's me." Albert hobbles over.

The man climbs into the back of the truck. When he jumps back down, he's holding a leash with a very large and vicious looking dog attached. I retreat toward the house.

"Wait there, boy," Albert says.

He takes the leash. Immediately, the dog heads straight for me, dragging Albert along.

"Slow down, Devil!" Albert yells. "Heel!"

The dog slows, allowing itself to be guided. Albert brings it right up to me. My flesh crawls as the brute sniffs me up and down. My sweat becomes a clammy torrent.

"Let him get a good look and smell," Albert says. "Then he won't bark every time he sees you. I can't stand dogs barking all the time."

I force myself to remain still while every cell in my body screams for me to run. Devil is built like an overgrown German shepherd, only jet black, and it has incredible silver gray eyes.

The look in those eyes says the dog aches to tear me apart. The look in Albert's eyes says that he'd enjoy giving the command.

"He'll attack anybody who enters the grove, except me." Albert yanks the dog back a few inches. "So keep out of there, boy, unless you want to die horrible."

"Y-yes sir."

Albert smiles.

19. The Storm

All night, a storm blasts the area with pounding rain and hail. Lightning rips the sky, followed by fearsome thunder crashes. It's like the end of the world has come, and I don't dare venture outside. All I can do is wonder what terrors the next flash might reveal.

The attic is an echo chamber of horrors. Water drips on me from the leaky roof, but I'm too scared to move from the window into the dark corners. At one point, I see a huge funnel cloud raging past, its tip skimming low above the ground.

"Hit the orchard! Tear it up!"

But the tornado passes without touching down. Just as the uproar seems it can't get any worse, a huge explosion rocks the world like an atomic bomb going off – a blinding flash. I tumble onto the floor.

Through it all, the house remains still and silent, nobody talking or moving around. No lights come on, not even a candle. I seem to be the only living thing in this House of the Damned. I think of fleeing to the basement but decide against it. If the house is blown to kingdom come, I may as well go with it.

And the devil dog lurking in his hut. The Ponge across the road with Doctor Frankenstein in their shed. Me and Cyndy. The ring is closing in.

20. Calm Between the Storms

By morning, there is plenty of clean up work to do. Water has leaked through the windows and roof. Floors have to be mopped, curtains taken down and laundered, furniture dragged outside to dry in the sun.

I do all this myself, of course, but Amitha is happy to supervise. Marnie stays in the kitchen slamming things around. Albert spends the whole day in the grove clearing broken branches and stuff. The devil dog follows him around like an obedient puppy.

The orange trees have not suffered major damage, unfortunately, but the big oak north of the house is split down the middle like a banana. That must have been the atomic bomb last night. I feel kind of sorry for the old tree. Then again, maybe it was happy to get blasted rather than keep living in this awful neighborhood.

Albert returns in an outstandingly foul mood.

"I've worked hard to get where I am," he gripes to nobody in particular. "It's a hard world out there, and nobody ever gave me a break!"

There are no replies. Even Amitha keeps her mouth shut.

"You work hard, sacrifice, then somebody else takes the gravy!" Albert whines, gesturing across the road toward the Ponge house.

_That's right, sucker. I plan to take your gravy_ _real_ _soon._

Albert's self-pity trip is too much for Amitha.

"You think this has been a picnic for me, Albert Grech?" she shrieks. "All I do is slave all day long, and what do I have to show for it? This dump of a house and a barbed wire fence, that's what!"

Give me a break, you old witch.

Dinner is brief, and everybody turns in early – except me, of course.

* * *

Soon after dark, I squish my way across the road to the Ponge tool shed. Cyndy meets me at the door. As always, the first glimpse of her gives me a thrill.

"Where were you last night?" she demands.

I quickly feel a lot less thrilled. "There was a slight bit of rain, you may have noticed. I didn't want to end up like that oak tree."

"I could have used your help, Billy."

Man, she just won't let it go!

I enter the shed. The place is lit by scented candles. Vanilla and peach replace the rotten stink from the other night.

"Good evening, Billy," a mellow voice says.

I spin around. A fairly normal looking, though greenish, man is sitting in the corner, smiling at me.

"I'm Professor Jonathan Rackenfauz, Ph.D. I want to thank you for rescuing me."

He stretches out a hand. I hesitate before taking it. The hand is gnarled and hard, but the sharp tips are gone from the fingers.

"You're welcome," I say. "How are you doing?"

"Never better, thanks to you two. I think I'll be up walking before long."

"Glad to hear that, uh... Professor."

Exactly how are you supposed to talk to a guy you've dug out of the ground?

He sure looks better. He's gained some weight, and most of the twig things have come out of his skin. He is clean and dressed in faded overalls. His hair is tied back in a pony tail, and his beard is neatly trimmed.

"The Professor has been talking about his background," Cyndy says. "If you'd been here earlier you would have heard it, Billy."

"I can start over," the Professor says. "It's best you both hear the full story."

Cyndy rolls her eyes as if to say: "Why bother explaining things again just for this dope?"

Thanks, Cyndy.

The professor seems to be about 50 and not bad looking, if you don't mind his weird complexion. Maybe he can start a new fashion trend – the green look. People just might be messed up enough to go for that.

I notice some empty glass jars on the floor. "Do you have any more food, Cyndy?"

"Yeah. I've got to be careful sneaking it out, though," she says. "Would you like some more, Professor?"

"I'm fine for now," he says.

"Canning was about all Aunt Sally used to do," Cyndy says, "there's still a good supply in the basement. But ever since they started eating those oranges, she just drags around like a zombie."

"Ah yes, the oranges," Rackenfauz says. "That's what I want to tell you about."

My ears pick up, and I forget about the canned food.

21. The Professor's Story

"Let me tell you up front," the Professor says, "I was the one who created those trees."

"What?" My hands ball into fists. "I should stick you back in the ground!"

Cyndy steps between me and Rackenfauz. "Listen to him, Billy. You might learn something important."

"I don't blame you for being angry," the Professor says. "I admit that everything is my fault."

"Thanks a lot," I say. "That's very... big of you."

I want to slug the guy, or at least shout a few nasty words. But I push my fury back down, like some ugly Jack returning to its box. If this bum really has "something important" to say, I need to hear it.

"Go ahead, talk," I snarl.

Rackenfauz shifts position and yanks a twig out of his forearm. It makes a disgusting little _pop!_ as it comes free.

"I spent many years in South America researching plants," he says. "My dream was to discover new substances to benefit mankind. I had some successes, but I started getting arrogant. That must be why I was so easily led astray."

"Who did that?" Cyndy asks.

The Professor's face hardens. "Albert Grech!"

He seems about to turn violent, so I take a step back. The guy might be more dangerous than he looks. He drinks some juice from a glass jar to steady himself.

"I shouldn't make excuses," he says. "To be totally honest, I led myself astray with my stupid ego. But I wanted so much to be famous. Is that so bad?"

"Let _me_ be totally honest," I say. "I'm in deep trouble because of those trees, so cut the self pity routine."

Cyndy gives me a sharp look. "Don't be such a snot!"

The Professor holds up a hand. "He's right, Cyndy. I deserved that."

He shifts position again and spends a few seconds massaging his knees and wiggling his toes. He starts talking again.

"I met Albert and Amitha Grech in a town by my research station. They were slumming around the world and persuaded me to hire them as assistants. I needed the help, and my wife, Marnie, liked them, too."

" _The_ Marnie?" I say. "That horrible cook at the Grech house?"

The Professor strokes his forehead, and his greenish shade fades a little. "This might surprise you, Billy, but she was rather attractive once, before she threw in with the Grech."

"Uh huh." My sympathy is strictly limited.

"Anyway," Rackenfauz says, "at Albert's urging, my research turned toward developing the 'Tree of Life.'"

"What's that?"

"A tree that gives power and extended life. There's a lot more than science in that big tree, let me tell you. There's evil magic from the dark forest. Wicked characters helped me create it, but I was too obsessed to understand what I was doing."

"What about all the other trees?" Cyndy asks.

"They're offspring, sap producers. There's only one main tree."

"Czar Albert," I say.

"Yes... that's a good name for it," Rackenfauz says.

"What about those oranges?" Cyndy asks.

Rackenfauz waves his hand.

"Mere appetizers. That's why we planted the orchard outside the tropics, so that the real power would stay inside the trees. Once you process the sap, you'll have the pure stuff of the devil. It'll give you great physical strength, extend your life – and destroy your soul!"

He professor is getting all worked up, like some TV preacher talking about the terrors of hell. He calms himself with another slug of juice.

"I finally wised up," he says. "When I learned what Albert was plotting to do, I decided to poison the trees. Albert found out – from Marnie probably – and he knocked me senseless. I regained consciousness to discover I'd been buried alive. April first, it was. Some April fool joke, huh?"

"You were down there _four months_?" Cyndy gasps.

The Professor nods. "I was supposed to die and get sucked up as fertilizer, but the Czar didn't kill me. It tried to turn me into something monstrous. I fought back in my mind, though."

He taps his chest. "You can see what it did to my body. I'd about given up the struggle when I heard your footsteps. Thank God you listened to me."

He leans forward, eyes burning. Cyndy shrinks back, but I am not moved.

"Those trees are worlds more dangerous than even I thought possible. The full knowledge didn't come to me until I was almost under their power. The drugs that can be made from their sap are powerful enough to destroy the entire human race!"

Maybe he's exaggerating. It would take quite a bit to wipe out the whole race, I think. Besides, what's 'humanity' ever done for me?

I go into cynical mode. "Sounds like you created a Frankenstein monster, and it came back to kick you in the butt."

"Really, Billy!" Cyndy cries. "Can't you say anything better than that?"

"Pardon me, little Miss Ladyfingers. I'm just calling things as I see them." I jab a finger at Rackenfauz. "This screwball wants to play God, so now I'm the next victim."

"You're such an ignorant little dirtball!" Cyndy cries.

She stomps out the door.

22. Unwired

I draw back my foot to kick over a box of gardening tools, think better of it. I start to charge outside, think better of that, too. If I confront Cyndy, she'll probably stick a knife in my ribs. She'd enjoy that. Shove in the blade and twist.

"Billy."

I spin around. "What?"

"Let her cool off," the professor says. "Everybody needs to cool off."

"You're giving _me_ advice now? If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be in this mess."

"I know that, Billy. I'm sorrier than you can imagine." The professor closes his eyes and strokes his forehead with his fingertips. "Please don't hate me. I already hate myself enough."

"Yeah, right... well."

My fury drains away. I never could stay angry at somebody who wouldn't get angry back. I head for the door. Rackenfauz reaches for me.

"Please stay, Billy. We need to talk about your future, or possible lack of one."

A jab of fear stops me in my tracks. "What does that mean?"

The snug little hut suddenly feels cold and threatening, a place where vampire coffins are stored. Rackenfauz gestures toward an upturned bushel basket. I plop down on it and light a cigarette.

"So, go ahead, Professor – shoot." I try to sound tough and casual, but it isn't working very well.

Rackenfauz fixes me with hard, sharp eyes. "Early last spring, Albert began suggesting that we get some young people to help us. Kids that nobody would miss."

"Like me, huh?"

Rackenfauz nods. "The foster care system in this state is badly underfunded – incomplete records, poor oversight. It's mostly run by the individual counties. Children can, and do, get lost in it."

"That's good to know," I interrupt sarcastically.

"Albert said if we bought off Judge Gulp, we could get kids to come out here. You must be the first one, Billy."

The coppery blood taste returns to my mouth, even though my wounded lip is no longer bleeding.

"Albert said that when the kids disappeared, we'd simply claim they ran away. Like an idiot, I paid no attention to him at first. Then, by degrees, Albert made it clear what he really intended."

I'm scarcely breathing now. "What did he plan to do?"

Rackenfauz leans forward. His greenish face has the look of doom. "Albert meant to bury them in the grove – like he did to me. He said the trees would flourish best with live fertilizer."

Horror numbs me. The cigarette burns down to my fingers, but I hardly feel it.

"I tried to stop him, Billy, please believe that." Tears spring into Rackenfauz's eyes. "I am _not_ evil. I'm just a fool, or at least I used to be."

"When did Albert plan to start... burying?" I can't speak above a whisper.

The professor wipes tears from his eyes. "About a week after the trees pollinate. They'll start their final growth cycle then."

"Pollinate? Is that when the trees give off a thick stink that makes you sneeze?"

Fear twists the professor's face. "You mean, it's happened already?"

I nod. "Three days ago."

He grips my arm hard. "There're only a few days at most – you've got to go, Billy!"

"W-where?"

"Get out of the state, or at least the county. I'd help you if I could, but you can see the shape I'm in."

His words slam into me like a giant fist. I pull up my pant leg with trembling hands.

"I-I've got this tracker thing on my ankle."

The professor runs his fingers over the metal device. A thunderous frown creases his forehead; then a smile spreads across his face. "I never expected to see this gadget again."

"You've seen this before?"

"Sure, I made it."

What's going on – did Rackenfauz invent every evil thing in the world?

"There were poisonous snakes around my research station. I'd heard that pigs eat snakes, so I bought one and made this device to keep track of him. It worked fine for a while."

"What happened to the pig?"

"Snakes got him eventually."

I can scarcely grasp what's going on. "Y-you mean... this isn't some high-tech thing?"

"How high-tech do you think it's got to be for a pig?"

Rackenfauz glances around the shed. "Give me that screwdriver over there."

I get it for him. With a twist, he opens the tracker. Then he digs in the screwdriver blade and pops out two batteries.

"There." He hands me the batteries. "Dead as a doornail now."

The little silver disks weigh down my hand like the finest diamonds.

"Don't stick around, Billy. Good luck!"

23. Decision

I step out into the night on feet that barely touch the ground.

Everything is different now, as if somebody has erased the whole world while I was in the shed and redrawn it with a magic pencil. I've climbed out of a grave.

A single thought fills my brain, _I can leave!_

The air holds the sweet scent of freedom. The insect choir sings a victory hymn just for me, and a full moon bathes my escape route with incredible brightness. I make feverish calculations.

Should I pack?

No. My few possessions are not worth entering the Grech mausoleum again. Besides, if I take my stuff, Albert will know I've run off. If I simply vanish, maybe he'll think the Ponge captured me. This might confuse him for a while.

What about Cyndy?

Well... she'll just have to get along as best she can without any help from a dirtball like me. Too bad about her situation, but nobody is threatening to stick _her_ in the ground!

I've crossed the road and drifted to the raspberry patch. I'm still not ready to take the final plunge. From out of nowhere, Poochie runs up and nearly knocks me over.

"You little dope. Where have you been?"

He's doing his frantic, tail stump wagging routine, jumping on me, trying to lick my face. He starts barking.

"Quiet!"

Poochie shuts up. Devil is observing us from behind the orchard fence. His silvery eyes glitter in the moonlight. The brute makes no sound, though. He must be so well trained he doesn't react to non-threats like Poochie.

I look across the road to the dim upstairs window of the Ponge house. Cyndy is up there, feeling angry and superior. How dare an ignorant twerp like me gaze upon her exalted residence.

I glance back at the Grech house of horrors. It waits for me, dark and ghastly – home of the worst people to ever walk the earth. I look toward the trees lurking behind the Devil dog.

_Come to us, Billy,_ they murmur across the night, _we have a nice spot for you!_

I can actually hear their words drifting on the wind. Of all the horrors, this is the worst. Fear starts me moving.

"Let's go, Poochie."

# Five: Flight

24. Down Brazil Road

I run south on Brazil Road with Poochie close behind and the free air whipping my face.

My sneakers _pock-pock!_ on the concrete, along with the clack of Poochie's claws. A blazing liberation moon soars in the sky, throwing my shadow across the pavement. The shadow runs along beside me like an Olympic champion.

My bare feet pound on golden sand. Surf washes over my ankles, and samba music urges me along. I run and run for a thousand miles down the gleaming Road to Brazil.

A fearsome monster is chasing me. Its jaws snap, and hatred burns in its silvery eyes. But with every stride, with every breath I pull into my burning lungs, the monster drops farther back. Then it disappears. Its wails fade into the night.

Finally, I have to stop. My head is reeling, I feel ready to collapse any second. All I can do is stand bent over, hands braced on my knees, and gasp for oxygen.

"We did it!" I pant.

Only we haven't _really_ done it. I'm still in great danger until I can get much farther away. I push the thought into the darkest corners of my mind.

The dog licks my face, but I don't care. I suck in gigantic breaths, as if the entire atmosphere does not have enough oxygen for me. Every moment I stay here is a terrible waste of time. I have to roll!

My breathing settles down, and fresh energy surges through my body. I start walking, slowly at first, then faster – ten steps, a hundred, each one putting more space between Horror-ville and me, each one bringing me closer to the golden sand.

By daylight, I need to be as far beyond Gulp's territory as possible. I don't know how big the county is, but I do know the state line is over a hundred miles south of Bridgestock.

"Let's pick it up, Pooch."

We take off again, this time at a more reasonable jog. Now that my opening burst of gladness and terror is behind me, second thoughts begin to squirm in my mind.

Should I have brought Cyndy along?

... _No_

She wouldn't want to go with an _ignorant dirtball_ like me. And the Ponge would be after me, too then, not just Albert and Judge Gulp. Besides, she's in the past now – forget about her and think only of escape.

Well...

I could have at least asked her. How long would that have taken? But I'm sure she would've shot me down. She enjoys doing that.

We come to an intersection. Far off toward the left is a spot of light. I train my binoculars on it. It's a little general store and gas station. The light is coming from a pay phone out front. Who am I supposed to call? We continue on.

Car headlights appear in the north, and I duck behind a tree. Straining my eyes through the moonlight, I try to judge the approaching vehicle. I don't have a good feeling about it.

The car is coming fast and angry. A hostile person is driving, someone who would have no sympathy for me. I let it pass and start jogging again. Several minutes later, another car comes from the north, slow and cautious this time. Again I hide myself.

A single, perhaps older, woman is driving, I think. Maybe she has a young child with her. She'd be nervous on this isolated road and would have her cell phone handy. One look at me and she might call the police. For certain, she wouldn't pick me up.

What I need most is a ride. I'll never make the county line by daylight otherwise. And when Albert finds out I'm gone, what next? I've read that bloodhounds can follow you for incredible distances. I must be leaving a scent trail as wide as a freeway behind me.

I trot on several more minutes. Another car zips by, heading the wrong direction, and I conceal myself again. The road begins to curve and rise sharply. My heart pounds like a jackhammer as it blasts my way uphill. Finally I reach the top, one step ahead of a coronary.

"Look at that, Poochie!" I pant. "The whole universe is at our feet."

An otherworldly landscape spreads below us, silvery and black, without any man-made lights. Endless fields, trees, and night sky. A thick chorus of insect noises adds to the prehistoric effect. The dinosaurs heard insects like those.

I feel like the only person on earth. No trees clutter my hilltop, just bare, open fields sprawling away from my outstretched arms. I look upwards. Where is that friendly alien spaceship that will carry me off to the Land of Wonders? An unwelcome thought barges in.

Yes, Billy, you should have brought Cyndy along.

A car appears from the north.

It moves at a moderate speed, following the curve we've just pounded up. I have a really bad feeling about that car – as if it is being driven by the headless horseman. Its reflective paint glints in the moonlight, and terror slugs me in the gut.

Cops!

I fling myself into the drainage ditch alongside the road. Dampness penetrates my clothes, and sharp stubble pokes my skin. Tires hiss on the pavement, headlights jab ahead.

The car is almost to my position when the stupid dog suddenly bolts out into the road. The car screeches to a halt, and a door flies open. I burrow deeper into the wet grass and pray that nobody can see me. The stench of rotting vegetation nearly makes me gag.

Footsteps approach on the road shoulder, and the glare of a flashlight beam plays about. Even through my tightly shut eyes I see it stabbing for me.

"Why are you looking over there?" a voice calls from the patrol car. "The dog ran off the other direction."

"Dunno, I've got a hunch," another voice says, very close to me. "Somebody might be out here."

Boots crunch in the gravel and stop right above my hiding place. The flashlight probes like a stiletto. I press myself into the ground as time stops dead.

A voice crackles over the patrol car radio. I can't make out the words.

The deputy in the car yells, "There's a burglary in town!"

The flashlight switches off, and footsteps hurry away. A door slams. The car does a U-turn and roars away toward the north, lights flashing.

I return from the dead and climb out of the ditch. Bless that burglar. May all his thefts be happy ones!

Poochie slinks back from across the road.

"You idiot!" I raise my hand to smack him, but he looks so pitiful that I stop myself. "I should grind you into a mongrel burger."

Poochie licks my hand, and my anger fades.

"Oh, all right... but if you do that again, you're history, got it?"

Poochie whines with pathetic gratitude.

Then I see it coming – a big, light-colored old sedan going the exact speed limit. For some reason I can't explain, I feel drawn to it. I gulp hard to get rid of the lump in my throat and step into the road waving my arms. I'm moving on autopilot.

This is it, Billy!

The car swerves to avoid me and drives past. Then it stops. It sits rumbling, like some great beast under the moonlight.

25. The Big Sedan

I turn shaky, and my good feelings about the car blow away into the night air.

I can see two heads through the back window; they appear to be male. Plus the driver, this means I'm outnumbered three to one – not including Poochie, and I sure can't count on him. I wish I had my steel pipe, or that knife Cyndy used to cut my heart out.

I look across the open fields. It wouldn't take three fresh guys long to chase me down if I tried to run. I move a few steps toward the car, stop. Poochie whines.

"Should we risk it, boy?"

The car is really big, like a hearse or something. Dead people ride in cars like that. I screw up the last of my courage and move to the passenger side, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.

The electric window slithers down. I can't see much of the person behind the wheel or the two shadowy figures in the back seat.

"What's up, kid?" the driver asks. "Was it you that chased off the Sheriff's car?"

Is he trying to be nasty, or is this just a little joke? He doesn't sound mean, but he could be well camouflaged.

"No, sir, it wasn't."

"You want a ride?"

I hesitate. "Can I bring my dog?"

"Sure, put him in back."

"Oh, great!" someone protests from the back seat. "Just what we need."

"Don't worry, kid," the driver says. "There's plenty of room. Hop in."

I open the passenger door. The dome light shows the driver to be a young guy with curly blond hair and glasses. He seems okay, like some college student on summer break – but aren't psychopathic killers often the most gentle-looking people? The two guys in back are teenagers, also with blond hair. Maybe they're a whole family of psycho murderers.

I watch my hand reach out and pull the seat forward. It seems to be acting on its own.

"Get in, Poochie." The crazy dog just stands on the road, whining. "Come on, boy."

Poochie barks a couple of times, then turns and starts trotting back the way we came. He stops a short distance away and looks toward me. Convinced that I'm not following, he continues on his way. I feel like crying.

"Looks like your friend's not interested," the driver says. "Are you still coming?"

He's giving me a choice. If the three of them wanted to hurt me, they could have grabbed me already – or maybe they're just biding their time.

"Yeah," I say.

I climb in. The car starts moving.

26. Ride into the Unknown

I'm alone, at the mercy of three strangers. I think of that _Godfather_ movie when the back seat killer flips a cord around the guy's neck and strangles him.

Or maybe a bullet through the back of the skull, or –

"My name's Morton." The driver offers his hand. "And, please, don't call me 'Mortie.'"

"You tell him, Uncle Mortie," one of the guys in back says.

He and the other passenger laugh, as if this is the world's funniest joke.

"Ignore those two," Morton says. "What's your name, kid?"

"Billy."

"Where you off to, Billy?"

My fantasy slips out before I can stop it. "Brazil."

"Brazil, sweet!" The back seaters start laughing again.

"Why not?" Morton says. "We're going no place in particular. Brazil is as good a destination as any."

The passengers laugh even louder.

"Cut that out, or I'll drop you two off right here," Morton says.

More laughter and playful insults. I've never heard guys entertain themselves so much over so little.

"Sorry Billy," Morton says, "It's not my fault I'm their uncle. My sister is a lot older than me, and she had her kids early. You can see the disastrous outcome."

More goofing off and bad jokes. This car is like a rolling comedy club. At least I get to feeling less uncomfortable. The nervous fist in my stomach unclenches, and I realize how hungry I am.

Morton is cool, and the nephews – Wesley and Tom – seem all right, too, if totally childish. A few miles breeze past. Then a can pops open in the back seat. I catch the familiar aroma of beer.

"Hey, give me some of that," Tom says.

Morton spins around. "Get rid of that beer! I'm not getting busted again because of you two."

He stops the car. Wesley gets out sheepishly and carries the six pack to the trunk.

"Let's drive off without him," Tom whispers.

Morton ignores the suggestion. Joke time is over.

"This county is _real_ tough on drinking and driving," he says. "It cost me a week in jail to learn that, courtesy of Judge Gulp."

I freeze at the mention of that horrible name.

"Sorry, Uncle Morton," Tom says.

"I'm lucky to have my license back," Morton says. "And now you two bozos want to mess things up for me?"

Wesley gets back in, and the car starts moving. The happy atmosphere is gone. Morton flicks on the radio and channels the sound to the rear speakers. Classic rock flows over the nephews.

Morton looks toward me. "Running away from home, aren't you, Billy?"

What good would it do to lie? My situation is obvious. "Yeah."

"Won't your folks be worried? Maybe you should call them, see if you can work things out."

"I don't have any folks. Just a couple of so-called foster parents."

"Oh... things are pretty bad, huh?"

"Morton, they're worse than you can imagine. I have to get out of the state."

I don't want to talk more about my situation. I don't want Morton involved. He seems to pick up on this and asks no more questions. We drive on for a while with just the radio sound. The banter and joking gradually start again.

Various feelings are boiling in my mind – relief at my escape, joy at meeting friendly people, sadness at losing Poochie.

And Cyndy. What do I feel about her? Now that she's out of my life, I shouldn't have to think about her at all, but I do.

Why did she have to be so mean? Even so, I should have at least said good-bye. Maybe I should have helped her escape too, but she wouldn't have come... or would she?

Now and then I notice Morton glancing over, trying to scope me out. A couple of hours pass.

* * *

The car pulls over.

"Here's the state line, Billy," Morton says. "I could get in serious trouble taking you across, so I'll just let you out here."

"Fair enough. Thanks Morton."

I start to get out.

"Hold on a minute," Morton says. "See that 24-hour restaurant down the road?"

I look toward the glowing little glass box of a diner. Beyond it, a freeway roars in the night.

"Yeah."

"We're going to stop there. Now, if you should happen to show up and ask for a ride – I might just take you farther south. Deal?"

"Deal!"

"I'll leave the car door unlocked, so you can slip in the back."

"Okay."

I get out.

"See you, Billy," Tom and Wesley say.

27. At the Crossroads

I stand by the side of the road watching Morton drive across the state line. The turn signal flashes at the restaurant parking lot entrance, and the car turns in. He parks in a dim corner, where I can sneak up unnoticed.

I've done it! With one bold thrust I've broken out of my terror prison. The free state calls to me across the darkness, like the promised land. I know exactly how that runaway slave in _Huckleberry Finn_ must have felt when he escaped.

I hash over my situation. It's unlikely anyone is searching for me. Albert is still asleep, no doubt. He won't know that I'm onto his scheme, so he won't think I'm a threat. He'll just write me off, say that I ran away – at least I hope so.

Even if the authorities do pick me up, surely they won't send me back to the Grech, especially not from a different state. Best believe I'd tell them everything I know about those monsters – and about Judge Gulp.

I won't be so easy to catch, though. Maybe I _can_ get all the way to Brazil!

I've heard the border with Mexico is easy to slip across. I'll just wander through Mexico, picking up the language, blending in. Maybe I can get some kind of no-questions-asked job. Next thing you know, I'll be kicking a soccer ball on the Rio beaches.

So, my plan is to ride as far as Morton will take me, then keep heading south any way I can. I light a cigarette and blow a smoke ring at the moon. Tobacco has never tasted better. My world has never been so bright. I feel wonderful!

And I feel like a rat, too. Cyndy is still back there, held captive by those terrible Ponge, with nobody on her side but some dug-up weirdo professor. Maybe not even him.

Sure, Rackenfauz has a score to settle with Albert Grech, but that doesn't mean he is Cyndy's friend. Maybe he plans to use her as an instrument of revenge, and to heck if she gets hurt. Is that why he was so anxious to get rid of me, so he could have a free hand?

That must be it – he's going to make some kind of deal with Gregory Ponge. What will happen to Cyndy then? She knows too much, and will have to be rubbed out. They'll bury her alive, just like they planned to do to me! Rackenfauz is capable of anything. He invented those trees, didn't he? And I bought into his "I'm not evil" routine like a total idiot!

Why did she have to be so mean and stuck up? If she acted nice, people would be more willing to help her. But oh no, she's got to be Miss Nasty about everything. I am _not_ an ignorant little dirtball!

Well, maybe I am... but she didn't have to say so.

I cross the road to the northbound side and sit down on the gravel shoulder – just to rest a minute before I continue on to the restaurant. I light another cigarette.

But how was I supposed take her along? Somebody tell me that. She'd get tired of being on the run and would start blaming me for any problems. How can I know what might happen on the road? I'm not a luxury tour guide.

Maybe Rackenfauz wasn't lying. Maybe he's okay. I only know one fact. Horrible things are going to happen back there, very soon, and Cyndy needs to be far away when they do. Even Poochie knew it was wrong to leave like this.

A car pulls up.

"Hey, Billy," Morton calls out. "What gives?"

I toss away the cigarette. "I don't know, Morton."

"You want to go back, don't you?"

I nod.

"I figured as much. Thought I'd let you think it over by yourself for a while. Hop in."

I climb into the front seat, reluctantly, as if I'm entering a hearse for an express trip to the cemetery. The door clunks shut like a dead body drawer at the morgue. The back seat is empty.

"Where're your nephews?"

Morton jerks a thumb toward the restaurant. "Back there, playing video games. They can hop a bus or call Sister for a ride. I don't want them involved anymore."

He hands me a paper bag. Inside are two huge cheeseburgers with the works, and a big order of fries. My heart leaps like I've just opened a sack full of diamonds.

"Thanks!"

Morton gestures to the cup holder. "There's some lemonade to wash it down."

He starts driving while I inhale the food. These aren't just cheeseburgers but manna from heaven, like they talked about in that Bible class they made me attend at the children's home.

I'm in paradise for a few minutes. By the time I reach the final bites, though, I've become aware of my earthly surroundings again. Morton is looking at me. His face wears a sad expression. Sadness washes over me as well. I gulp down the last of the lemonade.

"Do you want to talk about... anything?" he asks.

Of course, I want to spill my guts. I want Morton to take care of everything like the father I never had. But would he even believe me? Until a couple weeks ago, I wouldn't have believed such a horror story myself. He'd think I was nuts, and he'd try to help me somehow. That would only make things worse.

Morton is too nice to understand how evil the world can be. I don't want him dragged into this lousy mess. He's already admitted to drinking and driving troubles with the law. Anything else – marijuana possession, a shoplifting bust?

He couldn't have done anything really serious, but enough for Judge Gulp to tear him apart if he got involved in my problems. Gulp is the evilest one of that whole lot.

"No, Morton, I don't want to talk. All I can tell you is that I have an important matter to settle before I can leave again."

"Okay, Billy."

He flicks on the radio.

# Six: Final Terror

28. Snake Attack

After a long silent drive, we reach the last intersection before the Grech place.

"Better let me out here," I say. "You don't want anybody to see your car."

Morton pulls over. He reaches into his pocket and takes out some money.

"It's all I've got right now, but I want you to have it."

"Morton, no – "

"Just take it, all right?"

"Okay, thanks."

I stuff the bills into my pocket. Morton hands me a slip of paper.

"Here's my phone number. Call me anytime."

I nod and take the paper. I'm on the verge of tears and can't say anything more.

"So long, Billy. Good luck."

I get out of the car.

"You know, I cruise around a lot," Morton says. "Not much else to do in this area. So, maybe I'll see you again."

"Thanks, Morton, for everything."

The car disappears. I study the paper, memorizing the phone number, then tear it into little pieces and toss them into the ditch.

I trudge alone up the road, dragging my crushed spirit behind me like a sack of trash. The sun is rising. This could be the one morning when the Grech roll out of bed early, so I break into a jog. A condemned prisoner hurrying to the gas chamber.

As I pass the raspberry bushes, the Grech house comes into full, ugly view. Devil Dog stares at me from the orchard, as if he is carved from stone. Silver knife blades gleam in his eyes.

I drag myself up the stairs to my attic room – my death row cell. The grimy window holds back the sunrise, and the rafters press down on me. I flop on the lumpy bed, completely depressed and exhausted.

What next?

Somehow, I'll get through this day. I'll talk to Cyndy tonight and offer to escape with her – if I haven't already used up my lifetime supply of luck, that is. Maybe she can swipe a cell phone from the Ponge, or we could use that pay phone at the general store to call Morton...

I can't think straight anymore. Despair squashes me down like the boot heel of some giant ogre. I can scarcely breathe under the weight. I sink off to sleep and an immediate trip into Nightmare Land.

I dream of a huge, poisonous snake thrashing around in the lower stories of the Grech mausoleum. The thing approaches the stairs and begins slithering up. It glistens in the dim morning light, its scales are covered in slime. A rotten stink of evil moves along with it.

Closer and closer it comes, darting its tongue out, probing for a victim. Its thick, ropy body throbs as it slides up the stairs, making a harsh, rasping sound. It nudges open my door and slithers in. Yellow eyes stab at me from out of its massive triangle head.

Cold sweat bursts from every pore as my body goes rigid with terror. I fight to wake up and am almost there when something presses hard against my face.

I inhale a paralyzing chemical odor. I try to move, but strong hands pin me down.

"Tape him up!" a distant voice commands.

29. Underground

When I regain consciousness, the Grech are carrying me out the side door. My wrists and ankles are bound with heavy tape, and my arms are pinned down with the same stuff. I try to cry out, but Amitha slaps more tape over my mouth.

Panic squeezes me in a vise. I struggle to break free.

"Stop that," Albert hisses, "or I'll strangle you right now."

"You should've used more of that liquid stuff," Amitha says. "Put him under good."

"Shut up, woman! I've had enough of your complaining."

We're outside, heading for the orchard. Furious barking charges toward us across the lawn. Poochie! The brave little mutt tears at Albert's pant leg.

"Get away!"

Albert almost drops me as he fights with the dog. For a mad instant I think I might break free, but Albert regains his hold. He sends Poochie flying with a savage kick.

The dog limps off toward Brazil Road, yelping with pain. My last hope disappears with him.

The barbed wire gate swings open and we pass into the orchard. The thick, sickening odor of the trees oozes into my lungs. Devil Dog comes to investigate with its dead, silver eyes.

"Outta the way!" Albert snarls.

The beast pulls back, teeth bared.

We come to the storm cellar doors. Marnie starts unlocking them.

"Hurry up," Albert says, "before somebody spots us."

"I'm working fast as I can!" Marnie says as she fumbles with the locks and chains.

Finally she gets the doors open. They groan on their hinges like the gates of hell pulling back.

"That's good enough, Marnie," Albert says. "Go back to the house now."

"No way! Ain't I the one who seen him sneaking around? Didn't I warn you he'd run? I got every right to see what's gonna happen to him."

They drag me down a short stairway and toss me on the ground. An overhead light flicks on. We're in a sort of dirt basement. In back, the dark mouth of a tunnel gapes open. The stench of death hangs there.

"The little creep is heavier than he looks." Albert wipes his bald head with a handkerchief. "You shouldn't have fattened him up so much, Marnie."

Marnie snorts. By the glow of the single light bulb her face shows its full hard cruelty. With the toe of his boot Albert nudges the tracking device on my ankle. It pops open.

"So, you figured this out, eh?"

Amitha plants her hands on her hips. "You were a fool to trust him, Albert. Letting him run around unsupervised like that. What was going through that fat head of yours?"

"Didn't I tell you he'd cause problems?" Marnie says.

"Okay!" Albert throws up his hands. "No real harm done. We just have to plant him a little earlier, that's all."

He nudges me with his foot. "And I did find out a few things about the Ponge, didn't I, boy?"

He walks back to the tunnel entrance and turns on a flashlight. The beam vanishes when it enters the tunnel, as if a knife has sliced it off. My new home lurks inside there. I fight against my bonds. My terrified mind races for an escape strategy.

"Struggling won't do no good," Marnie says.

Albert walks back toward me. "Well, I guess we may as well get it done."

I try to cry out, but only a strangled gurgle makes it past the tape. Outside, Devil Dog begins a murderous barking rampage.

"What the hell?" Albert says.

He moves toward the stairs. The growls and barks become deafening, as if a werewolf is outside.

"Stay outta sight, you two," Albert says, "and don't let that kid act up. I'll see what's going on."

_Bam!_ A gun shot.

The barking stops. Albert freezes, and wild hope flames in my heart. All eyes turn toward the entrance. The doors bang open.

30. A Noteworthy Arrival

Gregory Ponge walks down the steps.

"Hello, neighbors!"

He holds a pistol in one hand. The other hand grasps the steel pipe from the feeding tank. His eyes are sunk in, and wispy gray hair frames his wrinkled face. His forehead is high and bald – the radar set behind it hums with evil.

"W-w-what's going on?" Albert gasps.

Despite my desperate situation, I get a burst of joy from his terror.

"Just paying a friendly visit," Ponge says.

Albert cringes away. "W-with a gun?"

Ponge glances my direction, then he grins at Albert. "Looks like a person needs a gun around here. Might come to a sticky end, otherwise."

Albert licks his lips. "I can explain – "

"You should watch your dogs. One of 'em made quite a stir at my place. When I came here to see what's happing, the other one tried to attack." Ponge holds up the gun. "Had to use my little persuader."

"That's all right," Albert says. "The lousy dog was just a nuisance."

Poochie sounded the alarm. Bless that little mutt! What about Cyndy – what about Rackenfauz?

"You've come for the oranges, haven't you?" Albert says.

Ponge grunts.

"Yes, I can see you've been eating them. I know all about them oranges... I know a lot of things, I... I..."

Shoot him already!

"W-we can make a deal," Albert says. "I'll share the crop."

"Maybe I'll just take it all. Can't see why I need you."

"But the real power's in the tree sap!" Albert's voice cracks. "I know how to process the sap."

Ponge turns this over in his radar dome. "Stands to reason you'd know more about them trees than I do."

"Yes, right. I'll teach you everything. We can be partners."

Ponge looks down at me, and a cruel smile spreads across his face. "Cut the boy loose."

"You ain't thinking of including him in the deal? He's only fertilizer. He's got to go in the tunnel."

"Do as you're told!"

Albert reaches into his pocket. Ponge aims the gun at his head.

"Hold it!"

"I'm just getting my jack knife."

"Let one of the women do it."

Amitha creeps up and sticks her hand into Albert's pocket for the knife. She kneels beside me and hacks the tape while Ponge observes. He glances up the stairs, then down at his wrist watch.

Amitha frees my arms and legs. I reach up my numb hands and rip the tape from my mouth. It feels as if half my face has come off, but I'm free!

By way of thanks, I kick Amitha as hard as I can.

"You rat!" she shrieks.

I kick her again.

Ponge laughs. "Okay, against the wall everyone."

I retreat to the back, shoving Amitha ahead of me. I take a place as far away from her and the others as possible.

"H-how about a deal, Mr. Ponge?" Albert says.

"Shut up! I'll give you my answer soon."

Albert shuts up. Fear vibrates in the dank air, coming off those three terrible people in waves. But I feel joyous – almost. Several minutes pass...

A shadow darkens the entrance.

"Hello, Your Honor," Ponge says, "glad you could make it."

"Good morning, Gregory." Judge Gulp picks his way down the creaking steps. "I came the minute Sally called."

He brushes off his pin striped suit and gives us a friendly wave.

"Greetings everyone."

"Hello, Judge," Albert says. "We were just discussing a deal for the orange trees. There's a place for you in it, too, of course."

"Is that so?"

"Don't listen to him, Judge!" Marnie shouts. "He'll betray you."

Albert shoots her a murderous glance. "Shut up, Marnie."

"No I won't! You're a double crosser and you know it."

A desperate hope flares in my heart that Ponge might let me go – but in my head, I can't believe it. My choices are grim, either flee into the tunnel or charge for the doors and get shot.

"Sorry you got dragged into this, Billy," Gulp says, "but you would have come to a bad end one way or another."

Oh, if I could just take him out!

A violent scuffle begins outside – shouts, punches.

"Cyndy!"

I lunge forward. Ponge aims the gun at me.

"Stay there, boy."

Gulp bolts up the steps, real quick for such an old guy. A strangled scream. My heart rips in two.

The judge backs down the steps, holding Cyndy's legs. Sally Ponge follows, gripping Cyndy's arm pits. Cyndy is winded and purple-faced, her beautiful hair frazzled wild. Grief tears through me.

"Thanks, Judge. I can handle things myself now," Sally Ponge says.

She has the blown-out look of an orange addict. She's plenty strong, though, and grips Cyndy's arm in a hammer lock.

"What's she doing here?" Ponge says.

"I caught her sneaking over from the tool shed."

Our eyes meet. "Billy – !"

Mrs. Ponge silences her with an arm wrench. "Thought you were clever, huh?"

"Let her go," I say. "You've got me."

A gruesome smile twists Gregory Ponge's face. He waves his pistol. "Come here, boy."

I take a few steps.

"Hold it."

He tosses the pipe. It thuds by my feet.

Under the watchful eye of the gun barrel, I pick up the weapon. It's powerful and righteous in my hand.

"Go ahead," Ponge says. "Have some fun."

31. The Reckoning

"YAHHHHH!"

I charge Albert, swinging at his head. He throws up his cane and strikes the pipe so hard it nearly flies out of my hands. Pain vibrates to my armpits.

Whoosh!

Albert slashes the cane at me. I stumble back and nearly fall over. Blood trickles down my cheek where the cane grazed it. I taste blood in my mouth.

"Billy!" Cyndy screams.

It was foolish to rush him. He's too strong to fight head on, but he's clumsy, like an elephant stuck in the mud.

We face each other, holding our weapons two-handed. A wild-beast snarl twists Albert's face, and murder glints in his pig eyes. I have absolutely no fear, only a cold determination to win.

I try a side attack, but a ferocious cane slash drives me away.

"Careful, ugly man. You'll get your blood pressure up."

"Why you..."

Albert rips his cane at me, but misses by a wide margin.

"That's the best you can do, pig face?"

I leap forward, going for his head. He throws up his cane to block the attack, but my move is only a feint. Half way to my target I jerk the pipe back, then whip it forward, hitting Albert's hands.

"Ahh!"

His weapon tumbles to the floor.

I'm on him, pounding his fat body wherever I can find an opening. Albert tries to flee, but has nowhere to run. He hobbles around in circles, flailing his arms. He tries to grab the pipe; I jerk it upwards against his chin.

Thunk!

His head snaps back. I swing at the ugly face. He throws up his arms and absorbs the blow. Twice more I clobber his arms, but can't get to the skull underneath.

"My arm's broke!"

Albert retreats, clutching his left arm, and I strike him a vicious blow on his back. He still won't go down! Frustration supercharges my killer rage. Albert slips behind Amitha and tries to hold onto her.

"Hold it, Billy! Wasn't I always decent to you? It was Amitha had it in for you. Her and Marnie."

"Okay, I'll get them next." My voice is calm and deadly, an executioner's voice.

Amitha wriggles away and cringes to the far wall. Albert stands defenseless, his battered arms hanging at his sides. I pause to enjoy his helplessness.

"Do it, boy!" Ponge shouts.

I drive my weapon into Albert's gut with every ounce of my strength.

Ooof!

A blast of foul air and bloody spit explodes from his mouth, forcing me back. Albert doubles up in agony and sinks to his knees. I am a mighty avenger, a lord of justice. The little cavern rocks with Albert's groans and the roaring laughter of Gregory Ponge.

"There's my answer, neighbor," Ponge says. "How do you like it?"

Amitha and Marnie are shrieking like damned souls. I rip my weapon through the air at them, and they both collapse.

I return to Albert for the final blow. I raise the pipe and take aim at the bald head. Every humiliation and injury he inflicted on me flashes through my mind. I remember Mom and the tire iron.

Everything goes red, then black. I'm no longer in this world.

"Billy, no!" Cyndy cries.

Her voice stops me in mid stroke – nothing else could have done that. My vision clears, and I'm back in my hellish surroundings. I stand panting for air, my heart pounding in my ears. Albert Grech kneels before me. I kick his face and he falls back sprawling.

"Nice work," Gregory Ponge says.

His brutal face glows with enjoyment. He grabs Judge Gulp and shoves him toward me.

"Here's another one for you, boy."

"Wait!" the judge yelps.

I come in fast and low, striking Gulp's knee. _Crack!_ He goes down screaming.

"That's for all the people you cheated."

"No! No!" A vicious coward begging for mercy. He'll get none from me.

_Crack!_ His other knee cap gets steel pipe therapy.

"That's for all the crooks you helped."

Gulp's screams nearly shatter my eardrums.

"Shut up!" Ponge yells. "You sound like a stuck pig."

Judge Gulp is a blubbering mess. "Everything happens to me! I just wanted to run an honest county and do what's right."

I kick dirt in his face. "Tell it to the worms."

Gregory Ponge steps forward and puts the gun against my head. With his other hand, he snatches the pipe. Marnie rushes to the fallen Judge and strokes his white hair.

"Oh Judgie, Judgie!" She looks at me with murder in her eyes. "Monster!"

"Stuff it, you old witch."

"You can't do this to me," Gulp moans. "I run this county."

"Really?" Ponge sneers. "I talked to Sheriff Fergueson. He's as fed up with you as everybody else is. He'll cover for me."

Lying on the dirt floor, squirming with pain, Gulp shrinks – like a punctured air mattress – until he's just a pathetic, little old man.

Gregory Ponge turns serious. "Fun's over. Everybody into the tunnel." He grips Mrs. Ponge's arm. "It's time for a divorce, Honey. You get in, too."

"What?" Mrs. Ponge gasps.

"You heard, and take the girl with you." He looks at Cyndy. "Sorry, but I can't have no witnesses."

Fury erupts in my heart. I jump at Ponge and try to wrench the pistol away. His arm is like an iron bar. I attempt to pull him off balance, leap up and strike his face with my head. He reaches up his other hand and smacks me with the pipe.

Everything goes black.

I blur back into consciousness to find Cyndy at my side. She strokes my hair and kisses my face.

"Oh, Billy." Tears run down her cheeks. "I'm sorry I said all those cruel things. I love you so much."

My head is exploding, but for an instant, all seems right with the world. I manage to sit up and wrap my numb arms around her.

"Move it!" Ponge says. "Into the tunnel."

"No way..." I struggle to get my jaw working. "You'll just have to shoot me."

"Me too!" Cyndy cries. "And you can go straight to hell, Uncle Gregory."

"Okay." Ponge aims his gun at me. "You did good, boy. This won't hurt at all."

We squeeze our eyes shut and hug each other. The gun fires.

32. Finish

A heavy thud.

I'm dead. My body has fallen and I am free of it. Well, it's been quite a show.

"Help me..." someone gasps – Professor Rackenfauz.

I'm not dead after all! I open my eyes to an incredible new situation. It's Gregory Ponge sprawled on the floor, not me, and Dr. Rackenfauz is holding him by the legs.

It takes me another second to pull my mind back and figure out what's happening. Rackenfauz must have flung himself down the steps, knocking Ponge over from behind. The pistol went off and tumbled onto the floor.

"Stop him," Rackenfauz says. "I can't hold on."

Ponge is crawling toward the gun, dragging the professor along with him. Sally Ponge is also reaching for the gun. Cyndy tackles her.

Gregory Ponge is nearly free. Acting on pure adrenaline autopilot, I fling myself across the room and jump on him, wrapping my legs around his waist.

"Get the gun, Cyndy!"

Demonic power surges through Ponge, jolting me hard. He soon breaks my hold and knocks the professor aside, as well. He starts to rise, but I kick his legs out from under him.

Nearby, Sally and Cyndy struggle for the gun.

I grab Ponge by the hair and try to get a choke hold on him. I glance around for more enemies – Albert and Gulp are crippled, Marnie has thrown herself over the judge, and Amitha has collapsed.

The fistful of hair pulls out, like grass coming out of wet ground. Ponge shoves a hand under my chin, knocking my head back and breaking my grip. I try to grab him again, but he kicks me aside and rises to his feet, huge and terrible.

"I've got it!" Sally Ponge shrieks, holding up the gun.

"Not yet, Auntie!"

Cyndy lunges forward, throwing her weight behind a hard uppercut to Sally's jaw. Sally flails her arms and goes down, the gun flies out of her hand.

Rackenfauz, who has crawled up onto the steps, catches the pistol in mid air. With a smooth, almost casual motion, he fires.

Bam!

"Ahhh!" Gregory Ponge screams.

He hits the dirt and flops around like a beached fish. He scoots away on his rear end, frantically examining the long, bloody rip in his shirt.

"The next bullet goes through your head, mister," Rackenfauz says.

"I get it! I get it!" Ponge thumps against the back wall. "Don't shoot, p-please!"

Sally follows him, helped along by hard kicks from Cyndy. I want to laugh, but the effort is way too much. Cyndy returns to my side.

"You okay, Billy?"

"Yeah, great."

She helps me sit up. I notice the handful of Ponge's hair I'm still clutching. My stomach heaves, and I throw away the disgusting glob.

"Ugh!"

A terrible thought barges into my mind. Is the professor _really_ on our side, or does he plan to kill us all so as to have no witnesses for his revenge? How many bullets are left in that gun? The same suspicions seem to play across Cyndy's face.

"Get ready," I whisper in her ear.

The professor stands up on rubbery legs and braces himself against the wall with his left hand. His eyes look blankly about the room. They settle on the weapon in his right hand.

"What a beautiful Luger," he says. "Excellent balance. Yes, yes, very fine – collector's grade."

He stares at the gun, head nodding. His hand slides a few inches down the damp wall. He's exhausted and confused. Gregory Ponge starts creeping forward. I'm in no condition to fight anymore, so I throw in 100 percent with Rackenfauz.

"Look out, Professor!"

Rackenfauz snaps back to alertness and aims the pistol at Gregory Ponge, who falls over backwards.

"I won't warn you again. Another move and you're a dead man."

"Y-yes sir!"

Rackenfauz hefts the gun, the dazed look comes back into his eyes. "Yes... superb condition. Manufactured by Krieghoff, I believe. What a find."

"Professor!" Cyndy and I both call.

He looks our direction, as if he is seeing us for the first time. "Get over here and help me."

Cyndy moves to the Professor's side and places his free arm over her shoulders. I drag myself up. Every inch of my body howls with pain, but I manage to grab hold of the pipe. Using it more as a crutch than a weapon, I stand guard beside Dr. Rackenfauz.

The two groups – decent people by the steps and monsters at the back wall – stare at each other across the dirt room.

"You know I'm an expert shot, Albert," Rackenfauz says. "So tell those others not to try me."

Groaning and gasping, Albert struggles to his feet. He wipes slobber from his lips and fixes burning eyes on the professor.

"Rackenfauz!"

"Yes, it's me. Back from the dead as it were."

"They told me you ran off to South America!" Marnie cries.

"I didn't, obviously."

"Well, I'll be..."

Marnie looks down at Judge Gulp lying on the floor nursing his busted knees. She turns back to Rackenfauz.

"Don't think I'm coming with you, Jonathan. My place is with Judgie."

"That suits me fine," Rackenfauz says.

Dismay spreads over Gulp's face. "Oh, no Marnie, I wouldn't hear of it. Please go."

Marnie stamps her foot. "No, I won't!"

Gulp is sure having a bad day. I almost feel sorry for him – but not quite.

Now that the fond reunion is over, Rackenfauz gets down to business. "You all have the same choice you gave these kids. The tunnel or a bullet. You first, Albert."

"Wait!" Albert wails.

Rackenfauz levels the gun. "Three seconds. One... two..."

His finger tenses on the trigger. The others shrink back, leaving a clear field of fire. The last wooziness has left Professor Rackenfauz. He stands strong and firm.

"All right, I'm going!"

Albert hobbles toward the tunnel, feeling his way along the slimy dirt wall. He stops at the entrance and peers into the dark. An evil glow shines on his face.

"Come on, Amitha," he says, "maybe this won't be so bad."

They enter the tunnel together. Silence. A huge, violent slurping sound. Their muffled screams die quickly.

Rackenfauz motions for the Ponge to go in next.

"Looks like the divorce is off," Cyndy says. "You two deserve each other."

After the Ponge disappear, Marnie helps Gulp into the tunnel without so much as a glance at her former husband. More slurps and screams. Quiet falls on the cursed place.

All of them moved with terrible dignity. They almost seemed eager to go – as if they were entering their true home.

"That's the end of that," Rackenfauz says.

"Hooraaay!" Cyndy and I cheer.

"We've got one more thing to do," Rackenfauz says. "Then we'll get out of here."

33. Victory Day

Following Dr. Rackenfauz's instructions, I venture into the Grech basement and retrieve a large jug of blackish liquid. The thing is heavy, but I'm so wired I scarcely notice the weight as I lug it upstairs and out to the front lawn.

"Dump it into the feeding tank," Rackenfauz says. "That'll poison their medicine supply."

I reattach the handle – my glorious sword of vengeance – and pull the tank lid open. Foul stench pours out.

"What's in that stuff?"

"You don't want to know, Billy."

I scale the stepladder with the jug of poison and dump it in. Another awful stink fills the air. I could sure use a gas mask.

This terrible job finished, I slam the tank shut and go back into the Grech house.

I'm packed within two minutes. In a few more I've washed up and changed clothes. I bolt down the stairs and leave the death house for the last time, making sure to knock over Amitha's tea cups on my way out. They make a wonderful noise shattering on the wood floor.

Despite my injuries, I move fast, pumped with pure joy. Cyndy is waiting outside with the professor, a knapsack slung over her shoulder. Poochie capers around them, his tail stub wagging at supersonic speed.

"What kept you?" Cyndy asks. "We haven't got all day, you know."

I laugh. For the first time in my life, I feel totally happy. Cyndy is the most perfect girl of all time. I try to kiss her, but she pulls away.

"None of that now. We'll see about later."

"Okay, I'll remember that."

I grab the metal pipe for a walking stick – and weapon should the need arise.

"This is a fine day for a journey," the professor says. "Of course, any day is fine to leave this place."

"You've got that right," I say. "What'll happen to those trees?"

"They can't survive without their medicine. That first crop of oranges will rot soon, and there won't be another one. Then the trees will wither and die."

He looks toward the orchard and shakes his head. "I wish we could stay long enough to destroy them, but I think the sooner we get out the better."

"No argument there," Cyndy says.

"Now, if you two will please assist me, we can get going."

We stand on either side and take hold of his arms. With my free hand, I use the metal pipe to steady myself. We head south down the road as Poochie dashes on ahead.

I never imagined the Earth could be so wonderful. The clean country air loaded with pollen tickles my nose. The sun warms my injured spirit – even the flies buzzing around seem magnificent, like golden hummingbirds. We walk until the raspberry patch is far out of sight, then we stop to rest.

I pull out my cigarettes, but they have no appeal any longer. I toss the pack into the ditch.

"Smart move," Cyndy says.

"Getting back to your earlier question, Billy," Dr. Rackenfauz says, "I'm not really sure how long it will take for those trees to die out – with all that fertilizer we gave them."

"Couldn't have happened to nicer folks," Cyndy says.

"Perhaps it was a mistake to send them in like that. I just couldn't shoot them in cold blood, though."

"You did the right thing," I say. "This way nobody can tie you to those killers."

We get going again. The professor seems to gain strength with every step. He carries himself erect, hardly leaning on us anymore.

"This is truly a blessed day," he says. "I have lived to see my greatest errors put right. How many men can say that?"

"Not many, I'd imagine," Cyndy replies.

"You'll be going back to your family, Cyndy?"

"Oh, yes, Professor, absolutely."

"And you, Billy, what are your plans? Will you try to find your mother?"

I think a while before answering. "No sir, not yet. She's got lots of serious problems to work out first."

"Come with me, then."

"Where?"

"Brazil. I'm going to open a new research station. I'll do only the best type of work – discover new vaccines. No more mumbo-jumbo orange trees, believe me."

This really _is_ the Road to Brazil! A bolt of pure joy hits me. If the professor's arm wasn't weighing down my shoulders, I'd leap high into the air.

"Thanks. That sounds great!"

"I could use a bright young man like you for an assistant. I'll teach you everything I know. 'The Land of the Future' is what they call Brazil. Maybe your future is there too."

"Could I go to the beach?"

"Sure. There're miles of beaches down by Rio. And the girls! I wish I was your age again, Billy. Well, maybe a bit older than that."

Cyndy stiffens. "What's the big hurry?"

"I've got no time to waste," Rackenfauz says. "If you'd been buried alive like me, you'd understand."

"Billy could come down any time, though, couldn't he?"

"Absolutely."

"It's settled, then."

Cyndy lets go of the professor and steps close to me, her body making just the slightest contact. She tangles our fingers together.

"I've got two sets of wonderful aunts and uncles. I'm certain one of them would be happy to take you in, once I tell them how you helped me."

She gives my hand a little squeeze, and the whole rest of the world vanishes.

"Wouldn't it be great to have a stable family life," she says, "after everything you've been through? Later on you could go to Brazil, if you want."

"It's up to you, Billy," the professor says. "You're welcome any time."

Two fantastic offers, all on the same Victory Day! I'm absolutely glowing. It's a couple miles to the pay phone where we can call Morton, and I feel I can float all the way there.

Then a car stops behind us and honks. A head full of curly blond hair pokes out the window.

"Hey, kid, where're you off to?"

"Morton!"

"At your service."

I run up to the big sedan.

"I've been cruising around looking for you," Morton says. "Hey, what happened to your face, a rhinoceros tap dance on it?"

"Yeah." I touch the lump on my head. "Pretty, aren't I? I'm not hurt too bad, though."

Morton lowers his voice. "Nice girl, Billy. She must be the 'important matter' you mentioned."

I smile.

"I love the old dude's make up job," Morton says. "It's very... green. Can't say much for his taste in clothes, though. Those overalls have seen better days."

I motion for the others to join us.

"Morton, I'd like you to meet some very special friends."

We all climb into the big sedan and drive far away.

Epilog

Sheriff Fergueson didn't want the disappearances to cause him any problems.

He'd covered up plenty of his own dishonest actions over the years, and he hoped to avoid any investigations. So, he released some details to the press about the crooked dealings of Judge Franklin Gulp. In that way, he became a public hero and assured his reelection as county sheriff.

Everybody assumed that Judge Gulp and the Grech had fled to avoid the law. "Fugitives from justice," the news reports called them. Before long, the whole matter was forgotten.

And the Ponge? They hadn't told anybody about their mission to steal the Grech's secrets. They had only rented their house from one of Judge Gulp's pals, and he sure didn't want to be involved. So, he developed instant amnesia about his strange, vanished tenants. Their car and other possessions were quietly scrapped.

When the Ponge were declared legally "Disappeared," the people inheriting their money sure didn't want to ask any inconvenient questions, either.

"Let sleeping dogs lie," was the general attitude.

Only the sleeping dogs did not remain still...

THE END

Thanks for reading! You must have liked the story if you got this far, so why not write a review? Just a few words, either at the online bookstore where you obtained this book or in any other medium you wish. May numerous blessings come your way.

# Next Book in the Series

Here is an excerpt from book 2 in the _Terror Orchard_ series. If it sounds interesting to you, I hope you will read the complete book. Please click here to purchase.

THE BULB PEOPLE

Coming to Your Town Next

1) Nightmare Grove

Icy dread gripped Mr. Thromp's heart as he emerged from his pickup truck.

Shafts of late afternoon sunlight jabbed through the clouds like death rays, and muggy heat strangled the air. He reached a trembling hand into his pocket for the little whiskey bottle, then stopped himself.

Somebody – or some _thing_ – might be watching.

He climbed aboard the big, yellow loader machine. A coffin lid of stillness pressed down as he settled into the cab and shut the door. The bones in his neck cracked as he twisted his head around, scanning the area.

Behind him stood a half-completed mansion with skeleton timbers poking the sky. Ahead lay a dead orchard, its trees bent like tormented ghosts.

A big man approached. Low sun glare turned him into a dark figure fringed by a halo of light. Thromp fumbled for the wrench hidden under the seat.

"Hello, Jim," the dark figure called.

It was only Steve Cozzaglio, the construction supervisor.

"Oh... hi, Steve." Thromp tried to sound calm. "How're things going?"

Cozzaglio stepped from the shimmering heat and looked into the cab. His face was tight and his eyes carried a hard, disapproving look.

"Not too bad, Jim. I didn't think you'd make it today."

"Something came up. I'm running a bit late."

Thromp should have said, "I'm running a bit drunk," which was the real reason he hadn't arrived earlier.

"You've got the whole place to yourself now," Cozzaglio said. "We're just packing up."

"Uh huh."

"Can't say as I envy you, working here alone."

Thromp mopped his bald head with a handkerchief. "It don't bother me none," he lied.

The last of the building crew was leaving the mansion, walking faster as they neared their cars, until they were almost running.

"So long, Jim." Cozzaglio hurried off to join the exodus.

The whole area was deserted now, and the stifling cab suddenly felt cold as a tomb.

"Drat this place," Thromp muttered. "What am I doing here?"

He already knew the answer. Some rich guy was building his "country estate" on this site, and Thromp had been hired for the wrecking crew. First, he'd helped demolish the original house. Now he was to tear out the old orchard to make room for the tennis court and pool.

Sure, he was grateful for the job – but something about this place was frightening. Especially those big trees. A ghoulish presence seemed to hang over them, like the stench of a rotting elephant corpse.

He gripped the door handle. "I oughtta go home!"

But he was already too far behind schedule. And what was waiting for him at home... Leota?

Thromp shuddered and released the handle.

Mr. Warwick, the big boss, planned to build a subdivision near town, and Thromp wanted to work on that project, too. He had to prove himself as a reliable employee, and he'd been botching it lately.

So, with a final nervous glance about the grounds, he settled into the cab like a man trying to make himself comfortable on an electric chair.

He fired up the engine – _Brooom! Brooom!_ and belched along with the roaring diesel.

Power vibrated through him, making him feel like part of the great machine. He fished the bottle from his pocket and brought it to his lips. Whiskey scorched down his throat.

"Ahhh, that's better."

The alcohol soothed him, taking his mind off his troubles – Mrs. Thromp, for instance. The thought of her made him take another swig.

He lurched the machine toward the grove. Its big tires gouged the earth, and smoke vomited from its stack. Thromp lowered the shovel and took aim at a tree. The blade cut into the trunk and knocked the tree down with a loud _Crack!_

"Yeee-hah!"

Thromp took aim at a second tree. _Crack!_ It went down hard.

The dried and rotted trees tumbled easily. Another one fell with a tremendous snap, as if some giant had broken the granddaddy of all pencils.

"Take that!"

Thromp forgot his earlier fear. In his god-like machine, fortified with whiskey, he was King of the Universe. A magic incense of diesel fumes wafted around him.

He invaded the heart of the orchard, driving toward a particularly large and menacing tree. It glowered at him angrily. The thing almost seemed to have a face.

Naw... it can't be.

Thromp blinked and ran a hand over his eyes. If his judgment was less clouded with booze, he might have paused to think matters over. But his blood was up. He hunkered down with Kamikaze pilot determination and aimed for the great brute of a tree.

Thunk!

A violent jolt flung him against the steering wheel and back into the seat. Pain exploded through his alcohol numbness. The tree groaned backwards, partially uprooted.

"Why you lousy – !"

Anger pushed aside Thromp's pain. He wrenched the gears and backed up.

_Beep! Beep!_ sounded the caution signal, but no human was around to hear.

He stopped and shifted into forward. His machine growled, a massive beast preparing to charge. Dead ahead, the tree leaned crazily. A tangle of broken roots poked into the air, beckoning him.

Thromp ground forward, positioned the shovel under the roots, and gunned the engine hard. A horrible cracking-sucking noise filled the air as the tree collapsed.

"Gotcha!" Thromp bellowed, half mad with rage and triumph.

A hole gaped by the fallen tree. A rotten stench belched up from it gagging Thromp. The machine began sinking into the abyss.

"Hey!"

Thromp wrestled the gears into reverse and tried to back out. More ground crumbled away. Panic slammed his chest as he battled to keep the machine from flipping over. Tires flung globs of muck. The diesel roared, drowning out Thromp's shrieks.

The tires bit into solid ground. With a final desperate effort, the machine pulled out of its grave and hurtled backwards, crashing into another tree. Thromp bounced around the cab.

The engine died, leaving him stunned and battered in the eerie silence. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and was dismayed to see blood.

You really screwed this one up, Jim.

Was the back of the machine banged up where it had crashed into the tree? Thromp prepared to leave the cab and check for damage.

Then . . .

Something emerged from the gaping hole in front of him. It was long, flat, and greenish brown – like a piece of kelp.

_It's the booze._ Thromp licked his sandpaper lips. _I'm seeing things again._

Another green, ropy tendril flopped out of the pit with a disgusting _thud!_ Thromp sat frozen, eyes bulging and hands clamped on the steering wheel. The two snaky things began feeling about, vibrating, testing the ground.

A pointy head, sporting wiry hair, poked up from the hole. Then a huge pair of eyes emerged, yellow and glowing with pure evil.

Thromp tried to scream, but nothing exited his gaping mouth. He wrenched open the door and fell flat to the muddy ground. He got up and started to run, fell again. A horrid rustling noise followed him, snaking along the ground.

He dared not look back. Mud sucked at his boots, slowing his flight.

Somehow he made it out of the orchard and lumbered across the open field toward his truck. It seemed impossibly far away. The more he struggled, the slower he moved. Gurgling, rasping noises pursued him – coming ever closer.

Then he was at the truck, and his scream finally erupted.

" _Ahhhhhhhhhhh!"_

Thromp leaped through the open window. His head banged against the steering wheel, but he scarcely noticed the pain. Thank heaven, the key was still in the ignition. Thromp nearly snapped it off in his terrible haste. The engine roared into life.

Something was snaking in the open window on the passenger side. He wrenched the truck into gear and stomped the gas. Roaring off toward Bridgestock, screaming all the way.

2) The Psychotic Ice Cream Man

Ryan's story

I hate this rotten town – and almost everybody in it, too! I kick a stone hard. It clatters down the sidewalk angry and alone, just like me. I'm in an outstandingly foul mood.

More than that, I am sick of being in a foul mood. I've been in one ever since we moved here. Me, Ryan Keppen, the kid everybody used to say was so upbeat and sociable. The boy who had lots of friends and interests, a guy who the girls were beginning to notice.

Now I'm trapped in Bridgestock – the only town of any size in this whole lousy county – also known as the "Kidney Bean Capital" of the state. Well, this place sure gives _me_ a pain in the kidney. My four and a half months here have been the worst of my whole life.

_Hang on, Ryan,_ I tell myself, _there must be a way out of here._

I have to hold onto that thought, otherwise I'll go nuts.

The idiot tune of an ice cream truck – _The Arkansas Traveler_ – drifts down the street toward me. My mouth waters while my stomach tightens at the same moment. To buy anything, I'd have to deal with Mr. Johnson, the man in the truck, and that's too grim a thought for me to handle just now.

I start walking toward the house, but a friendly voice stops me.

"Hey, Ryan! What's up?"

My day instantly brightens. "How's it going?"

Spider, Mark Cozzaglio, stops his bike on the sidewalk. He's about the tallest boy in 7th grade, and very thin. This great skinniness must be the reason for his nickname.

"Just fine," he says. "Thought I'd limber up on my bike before class."

"Class?"

"Yeah, jujitsu. Monday nights as usual, most Saturdays, too."

"Oh, right," I say.

Spider and his high school brother, Carl, studied Brazilian jujitsu before they came to Bridgestock. Now that Carl has wheels, they get out every chance they can to their old haunts where the martial arts school is.

"Did you talk to your mom?" Spider asks. "Will she let you come for a trial lesson?"

"Well, she didn't say 'no,' exactly. Maybe she'll let me go next week."

"Sure, just let me know," Spider says. "We've got a nice group – me, Carl, and another high school guy, Billy Conner. He's real good, like an assistant instructor."

"Yeah?"

"Billy's usually there whenever we go. He'll teach you a lot."

Actually, I haven't talked to Mom at all. She'd probably let me go, as she is always saying I should be more involved in sports. And I doubt my stepdad would mind if I went on the two hour drive to the suburbs. That would get me out of his way for a while.

To tell the truth, I'm not the athletic type, and the idea of flopping around on floor mats choking people doesn't do much for me. It would get me out of Bridgestock, though.

"We learned this really neat arm bar hold," Spider says. "Want me to show you?"

"Some other time, maybe."

"Sure thing."

The ice cream music draws closer. The white truck is several doors down with its cheery, yet somehow ominous, graphics of outsized frozen treats. A smiling clown face on the side of the truck is probably intended to cheer you up, but it's downright creepy.

Now that I have some support, I'm feeling more confident. "How about an ice cream, Spider?"

"Naw, I'm broke."

"That's okay. I'll cover it."

I have plenty of spending money, as Mom has really gotten open-handed since we've moved here. She's trying to smooth the road for her guilt trip, I suspect. Besides, I enjoy being generous with my friends, and Spider is my only friend in Bridgestock.

"Okay, thanks, Ryan."

I hold up my hand. The ice cream truck passes me, then pulls over one house down. It sits lurking at the curb, music wailing and engine rumbling.

Spider rolls on his bike toward the truck while I walk behind. A mean, twisted face, covered with stubble, pokes out the window.

"What d'ya want?"

As always, the sight of Mr. Johnson scares the heck out of me. I'm glad Spider is around.

"Well?" Mr. Johnson says.

"I'll have the Daisy Cutter pop," Spider says, "the one with the strawberry goo center."

Mr. Johnson turns a yellowish, twitching eyeball my direction. "What about you?"

I take a step back. This guy is _really_ weird. Sure, I've seen adults who are rude to kids, but this guy is way beyond being a simple jerk.

"I'll have the same."

Mr. Johnson flings open a freezer and thrusts his arms into its depths. Icy mist bathes his face. He looks like a demon surrounded by hellfire smoke.

All the while the idiot tune plays through the truck's loudspeaker. No wonder the guy looks demented, listening to that music all day could warp anybody.

Mr. Johnson gives over our Daisy Cutter pops, and I fumble out the money. I have the exact amount, thankfully, as the thought of handling change from Mr. Johnson scares me. He snatches the money and returns to the driver's seat. Then he is off to frighten people on other blocks.

"That guy is definitely bad news," Spider says.

I nod. "So why do we keep buying from him?"

"Because he's got great stuff like this." Spider tears the wrapper from his pop. "You can't find it at any store. Have you tried his Bunker Buster cone?"

"Not yet."

"Get one next time. You'll never forget it – trust me on that."

I remove the wrapper and bite into the barrel-shaped pop. A tart, almost unpleasant taste stings my mouth. Then the sweet goo shoots out and mixes with the tartness. The combined flavor is incredible.

"How is it?" Spider asks.

"Like cold strawberry jam mixed with battery acid."

"I knew you'd like it." Spider turns philosophical. "You know, there are lots of strange people in Bridgestock. Maybe that's why Mr. Johnson can operate here without attracting too much attention."

"You've got that right. I can't imagine a guy like that running an ice cream truck back home."

I recall my beautiful street in the suburbs – the wide pavement and friendly neighbors, the graceful trees, the pleasant ice cream lady who makes the rounds in her truck . . .

"Billy Conner is always asking about this town," Spider says. "I wonder why."

"Maybe he wants to move out here."

"Fat chance of that!"

We are both outsiders. Mark's dad works for my stepdad, Bob Warwick, and our families moved here in January. We were in time to start winter term at wonderful Bridgestock Middle School.

There are some really mean kids there – such as "Dirty" Larry Nolan, my stepsister's latest boyfriend. Most of the other kids are merely peculiar and stand-offish. I haven't made any friends, except for Spider.

Everybody is so grungy. I've never seen so many people with dirty, stringy hair and rumpled clothes. You see them shuffling about the 'downtown' kicking stray dogs or throwing stones at squirrels.

"This whole town is stuck in some crazy time warp," Spider says. "It's like a car stalled out at a trash dump."

"That's a good way to put it."

Of course, all this will soon change, according to Bob. Once his 'Melody Acres' housing development gets built, people will flock here bringing prosperity with them. Then the state will bash a new freeway into town, and we'll be rich, too.

Sure.

The ice cream tune drifts away. A new and frightening sound comes from the opposite direction.

"What's that?" Spider says.

I move to the curb and look up the street. A battered old pickup truck is barreling toward us going way beyond the speed limit. It runs the stop sign at the corner.

The driver's head sticks out the window. His scream grows louder as the pickup approaches:

_. . . aaaaaAAAAAAAAHH_ HHH _!_

I jump back onto the grass. The truck zips by.

The driver is a scruffy older man, bald except for a fringe of gray hair blowing in the wind. His eyes and mouth gape wide open in an expression of absolute terror.

As he disappears down the street, the scream trails off:

AA _AAHHHHHaaaahhhh . . . ._

"Who is that lunatic?" I say.

"Looks like Mr. Thromp."

" _Mr_. Thromp? Like, is he related to our English teacher?"

"Yeah, her husband," Spider says. "He works with my Dad."

"Wow!"

Spider gives his pop a thoughtful lick. "Poor guy, no wonder he's screaming his head off with a wife like her."

Mom appears at our front door, she looks worried. "What's all that noise, Ryan?"

"Nothing. Just some nutcase driving by."

"Yeah, but he's gone," Spider says.

"Come in now," Mom says, "dinner will be ready soon. Would you like to eat with us, Mark?"

Spider nudges me with his elbow. "Ask her about jujitsu."

"Not now."

Spider raises his voice. "Thank you, Mrs. Warwick, but I've got plans already."

The words _Mrs. Warwick_ grate my nerves like fingernails on a chalk board. I turn toward Spider,

"See you at school tomorrow. Good luck with your class."

"Right."

Spider rides off, one arm jabbing the air with martial arts punches. I head toward the house and an evening with my Happy Blended Family.

3) The H. B. F.

The front door bursts open just as I'm starting up the porch steps. Larry Nolan rushes outside and nearly knocks me over.

"Hey, watch out! What are you doing creeping around?"

"I live here."

"Oh, yeah." Larry smirks. "Too bad, ain't it?"

He jogs away, laughing. Some little kid has left a toy wagon on the sidewalk next door. Larry kicks it hard. The wagon hits a parked car, leaving a nice dent.

That is some funny joke. Then again, the dent might be an improvement on the rusty old vehicle.

Larry takes off fast and turns the corner just as the neighbor comes to his door. The guy sees the wagon crashed against his car and gives me a dirty look. I smile back.

I hope he doesn't suspect me. I mean, I don't exactly look like a juvenile delinquent. My time here hasn't warped me that much, has it? I bound up the porch steps and go inside.

Good old Larry. Not only do I have to put up with that ugly jerk in my English class, but now he's hanging around my house, too. Inside the house lurks my Happy Blended Family – the H. B. F. Pronounce that "he-beef," as in a lot of bull.

Bob Warwick sits at the dining room table with a stack of business type papers. Smoke curls from his cigarette, and one hand combs through his thinning black hair. His neck tie runs over his spreading gut like a blue river passing through a bulging field of snow.

All this smoke does wonders for my asthma – thanks Bob.

Mom places a hand on his shoulder and kisses him on the cheek. I want to vomit.

"Can you put away your papers now, Honey?" she says.

Bob grunts something and shuffles the papers into his briefcase.

Mom and Bob have been married seven months. My real dad is in Arizona with his new wife. For a while, I thought I might be moving in with them, but I didn't hit it off with my step-mom. Besides, there are too many cactuses on people's lawns out there.

Dad didn't seem too upset by this. After all, he's "grown apart" from Mom and our family, and he needs "space to make a fresh start." Those are his exact words; I overheard them myself.

Bob maneuvers his midsection around the table and lumbers off toward the bathroom. He might not be the sharpest looking guy, but at least he dresses well – part of his effort to bring civilization to Bridgestock.

Bob's daughter, Katie Warwick, tromps down from her room upstairs. You can't mistake her booming steps, and you'd assume that some huge person was coming. Katie isn't real big, but she's solidly built – like those tough girls you see beating each other up on the TV fight shows. She can hit hard, she claims, and has offered to show me.

"Dinner's almost ready, Katie," Mom says. "Please set the table."

"Sure, Mom," Katie answers in her sweetest voice. "I'll be right there."

'Katie War Witch' is my nickname for her. In her diary, which I've secretly read, she calls herself 'Leopard Girl.' For example:

Leopard Girl finds Bridgestock to be rather dull. My dork step-brother is especially boring.

and

Leopard Girl has found a new boyfriend, he should be amusing for a while.

She notices me sitting on the couch, and her phony smile fades.

"How are you, dweeb?" she whispers, exaggerating her lip movements so I can understand.

Katie wasn't part of the original deal. She was thrown out of the house a few months ago when her mom tied up with a new boyfriend. Guess the new guy didn't like Katie much. She's a high school sophomore, so at least I don't have to see her at school.

We all sit down for dinner. It's a good meal, as Mom had enough time to cook from scratch. She stayed in Bridgestock to work at Bob's office today rather than make the long commute to her law firm's office in the suburbs. I bite into a delicious breaded drumstick.

"Please pass the corn, Ryan," Mom says.

I move the bowl her way. She's so pretty and young looking, a real class act. What could she possibly see in a guy like Bob Warwick?

Bob says very little. He always seems to be mad about something, as if a huge belch of anger is ready to come blasting out of him any second. He never says angry things to me, though – he even tries to be 'friendly' sometimes. I like it better when he says nothing.

How did so many ugly things elbow their way into my life? Not long ago, Mom and I were living in a beautiful house in the suburbs. I went to a great school and had tons of friends. Things had settled down from Dad walking out, and I sure didn't miss the constant arguments he and Mom were having.

Then Bob Warwick showed up with his big real estate schemes and hired Mom's firm to do his legal work.

And now this!

There must be a way out, I just need to find it. There has to be some mathematical formula I can apply to the H. B. F. so that Mom and me can be subtracted from it. Math is one of my strong points, or it used to be before I moved here and got my brain numbed.

If Mom is too far gone and can't leave, then there has to be a way for me, at least, to get out.

And far away from here.

Thanks for reading!

Please purchase a full copy of the book to continue.

# Brian's Other Books

Here are brief descriptions of my other books for young readers. They are available at all major online retailers in e-book format. Also, please check my Smashwords author page.

The Lost Country

Crown Prince Rupert struggles against ignorance and superstition to rally his countrymen against a dire threat coming from the mysterious Eastlands. When disaster finally strikes, it's up to Rupert and his band of often questionable allies to win through or face destruction of his kingdom and everything he holds dear.

Young adult action / adventure fantasy

The Bulb People

Sequel to _Captive in Terror Orchard_

Book 2 of the _Terror Orchard series_

What's going on in the awful little town of Bridgestock? Why did the English teacher's husband race his truck down the streets screaming his head off, and why are people vanishing? Of course, only nasty types have disappeared so far, but that could change at any time.

Ryan Keppen, a 13-year-old newcomer, must tackle these mysteries, along with the issue of his "happy blended family" which he desperately wants to disappear as well. Maybe everything is related, and one problem can help solve another.

light horror / action adventure / humor

Disaster Productions

Matt's struggle to win media fame by his 14th birthday leads to escalating disasters. Matt knows that he is too much of an impractical dreamer achieve this goal on his own. He needs help from a smart collaborator. Enter manipulative genius and borderline frenemy Stephan "Duals" Chrono.

The resulting power struggles and unexpected consequences drive the story. Throughout the chaos, Matt develops the focus and leadership skills necessary for true success and, incidentally, does become famous in a totally unpredictable way.

humor / satire

Raptor Aces

The terrifying Zone of Destruction – ZOD, the absence of God. It has taken over the Raptor Aces, an elite Youth League air squadron.

Its leader, Dytran is the cream of his totalitarian country. His world unravels when a poor decision goes horribly wrong, resulting in death and destruction. He grabs at a chance to volunteer for support aviation duty in the war. At the front, he and his comrades are swept up in violence and revenge until escape seems beyond reach.

New Adult / Action-Adventure / War

A Hurricane in Your Suitcase

Brett's constant lying is getting him into serious trouble. Can big brother Joe stop admiring himself long enough to help turn things around? A strange mixture of cautionary tales leads to a showdown with the Giant Hill.

Children's humor / satire

The Daring Rooftop Rescue

"Coming up in the world" can bring unexpected problems as Johnny Badger learns the hard way. Despite his new-found wealth, Johnny is no match for the complicated political situation in Forest Towne. His own bumbling arrogance adds to his woes.

Children's humor / satire

TIME BEFORE COLOR TV SERIES

Follow the adventures of Amanda Searles and her friends as they make astonishing discoveries, invent new stuff, and generally save the world. Based in 1950's USA, they branch out into strange realms of the wider universe to set things right. It's all in a day's work.

Middle grade – Young Adult humor / adventure / fantasy

How Raspberry Jam got Invented

Book 1 of the _Time before Color TV series_

The last summer picnic turns into an astonishing disaster! Melissa's snotty arrogance involves the friends in a situation they may not survive, but maybe they will.

Middle grade humor / adventure / fantasy

The First Ring Rainbow

Book 2 of the _Time before Color TV series_

1950's cold war tension at it's scariest. Anything can happen during the Atomic Summer. Amanda struggles to deal with the era's sexist restraints, her fugitive Russian communist grandparents, and the appearance of a bizarre creature at Secret Pond. Somehow, everything ties together.

Middle grade humor / adventure / fantasy

Adventure Bike Club& the Tire Giant

Book 3 of the _Time before Color TV series_

The huge tire on the freeway outside town is not an advertisement, as people think, but a vessel from another universe on a sinister mission. Can Amanda and her friends make it back out alive? The fate of the world might hinge on the outcome. Not only that, but the town mayor stands to lose a fair amount of money.

Middle grade humor / adventure / fantasy

The Great Flying Adventure

Book 4 of the _Time before Color TV series_

Amanda and Quentin fly to an alien universe where Quentin competes in a brutal sports tournament to determine the fate of the Earth and of human civilization. Amanda falls for the enemy team captain, and things become terribly complicated.

Tween humor / adventure / fantasy

Return of Mr. Badpenny

Book 5 of the _Time before Color TV series_

Tommy gets more than he expected from a mysterious two-headed coin. The power it gives him goes rapidly to his own head, setting him on a course to moral decay. Solution? Hand it off to Melissa, who also goes off the rails with her new found power. Eventually, they team up to battle the danger.

Tween humor / adventure / fantasy

