Hunter Moran Digs Deep (2 page)

It's something we do.

I speed after him, through the living room, into the hall, and down the basement steps.

We sail over Pop's tools that are spread around all over
the place, and dash into the private room he calls his man cave.

I'm one step behind Zack, ready to get him last.

“Watch out!” Zack screams.

My arms windmill, my feet slide. “Yeow!”

In front of us is Pop's special project, a huge thing twice our size. It's almost finished, and he's covered it with an old plaid blanket.

Zack tries to stop. I try, too.

No good.

Definitely no good.

We smash into each other, and into the huge thing, which Pop is going to enter in Newfield's contest, Here's to Wildlife, next Saturday.

The crash is spectacular. Wood splinters. The blanket sinks around it.

Zack's eyes are as large as a pizza. “There goes the wildlife entry.”

I can't even swallow.

“What's going on down there?” Mom calls from the top of the stairs.

“Nothing.” Our voices sound as if we're being strangled.

“You're not in your father's man cave, are you?”

“We're not allowed in there,” Zack says, gulping a little.

We'd give each other a high five for telling the truth, but we're in a desperate situation here. We sit on the floor, leaning sink down against the rough cement wall.

“This is the end of us,” I say.

Zack reaches out with his foot and shoves a wooden bird tail under the blanket. “Pop told me the supplies cost him a hundred dollars.”

I lift the edge of the blanket and drop it quickly. I lean my head back against the wall. “Nothing left of it. Even the welcome sign that goes on top is smashed to smithereens.”

Pop's been working on it for weeks. Hammering. Sawing. Sanding. He keeps saying, “I'm going to enter this contest if it's the last thing I do. It'll be the largest handmade birdhouse in the world: one room on top of the other, nests for a dozen birds.”

Not anymore. There's not even enough left for a party of ants.

“We have to do something,” Zack says.

“I know it. Poor Pop was so proud of himself.” I swallow. “All for nothing.”

We sit there staring at the collapsed blanket for a while.

“Good thing it's Pop's busy time,” Zack mutters.

I think about it. “We could run away before he gets home tonight,” I say. “Hit the road with the dollar Nana gave us last week.”

Behind us, a bloodcurdling scream: “I'll never see you again! Fred will be reading and you'll never get to see it!”

“Hunter's only joking,” Zack tells him. “It's going to get cold soon, and it'll be dark by dinnertime. We wouldn't even be able to afford supper. No breakfast or lunch, either.”

“Whew,” Steadman says, and disappears back upstairs.

“Poor Pop,” I say again.

“Wait a minute.” Zack taps his forehead. “Something is coming to me.”

You can't beat Zack for brains. I always say that.

He whispers, “We could go back . . .” His voice trails off. “Figure the whole thing out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Yulefski mentioned clues on Lester's stone. We could check them out. Maybe we'll be the ones who find his fortune. It has to be here in Newfield somewhere, after all.”

It hits me. He's right. This is the best idea he's ever had. We'll grab the treasure, buy a pile of wood and a keg of nails, and hire someone to rebuild the birdhouse.

“A carpenter,” Zack breathes.

Nothing to it.

Nothing at all! Except I picture Bradley the Bully trying to get the treasure first.

We're set to go if we can convince Mom it's vital, even though it's almost dark. Actually Saturday night is a great time. Alfred will be long gone from the cemetery, home to his apartment on Reid Street.

We'll get ourselves right over to Holy Gate and figure out the clues etched on Lester's stone.

In the hall, I give Zack his yellow Skittles, all but one. I can't resist.

Then we begin. . . .

“We need to do research,” Zack says, loud enough for Mom to hear. “That is, if we want an A.”

“I think the library's open late,” I say back.

The research part is true, just not at the library.

We hear Mom telling Linny what hard workers we are. But Linny is screeching louder than Alfred, the cemetery boss. “Hunter? Zack? Get back here. I need you to wrap goody bags for Fred's party.”

“Those two are useless,” Becca says.

Zack shakes his head. “Is that kid here again?”

Forget them both. We don't bother to answer as Linny goes on about how someday she's going to fly to Switzerland and get away from it all.

Sure.

Outside it's really dark. The streetlights are on, though, and overhead, the moon sheds a misty glow. We're on our way to big bucks. No problem for such hard workers.

First we rush into our garage, which is the worst mess in the world. We grab scissors, cutters, scrapers, a hammer just in case, and a flashlight.

We also find a pair of fruit bars, a little squished, which we hid in a flowerpot during the summer and forgot about.

“A good omen,” Zack says.

We trot past St. Ursula's School, and the library with its lights shining across the lawn. We pass Dr. Diglio's dental office. His sign, a huge tooth, swings back and forth creaking, a dried-up robin's nest caught in its roots.

Ahead of us is the cemetery, and Alfred has left the gate open. We're in.

A moment later, we're looking around to be sure we're alone, and . . .

“Oof!” Zack trips over Johnny Peach Pit's monument. But looming up in front of us is Lester Tinwitty's massive stone, almost hidden in the darkness.

Good old Lester, who traveled around with a gigantic
iron pot on his wagon, cooking soup. He'd clang the side of the pot with a huge spoon to attract soup lovers, charging the big bucks that we're about to find.

Mrs. Tinwitty is buried with him, faithful to the end. Their dog, Soup Bone, who used to follow the wonderful soup smells, should have been tucked in, too. But no. Everyone in town knows the old story: Soup Bone ran off to join the pirates and was never seen again.

We crouch down at the stone, dragging our equipment behind us. Zack points to the flashlight. “Let's get some light here. Turn that baby on.”

Baby doesn't turn on. The batteries are dead.

Sheesh.

And something is breathing down my neck. I spin around, ready to fight off a coyote.

Yulefski, wouldn't you know!

She holds a flashlight under her chin. It's huge, beaming light up onto her face, showing a gob of pink bubble gum stuck to her braces.

A nightmare.

But at least we see the stone clearly. And there they are, laid out on the bumpy old stone, the clues to the big bucks.

I lean forward, mouth open.

Nothing.

Nada.

No good.

But Zack gives me a
zip the lip
. He edges closer to the
stone, his forehead almost clunking against it. “Interesting.” He draws the word out like
Ivan the Investigator
, Saturday TV special, twelve noon.

“You see it, too,” Yulefski says.

“Hmmm.” Zack glances at me. He can't see anything, either. I'm not the only blind one here.

“I see it,” a voice says over my shoulder. “Fred would see it, too. Too bad he's home eating everyone's stew meat.”

Steadman, of course. How did he escape Mom and Linny?

“The arrow,” Yulefski says impatiently. Her hair and teeth are pathetic, but her eyes are X-ray wicked.

“Good for you,” Steadman says, an echo of Sister Appolonia.

I lean forward, our heads almost clunking against the stone.

“See,” she says. “See?”

What I see is a gray cobweb with a huge spider squatting in the middle. It's probably a black widow waiting to pounce. That doesn't bother Yulefski. She brushes it away and waves a sticky hand. “There.”

“Lots of things to see,” Steadman says. “Shadows all over the place. I just saw someone sneaking around.”

I look up uneasily. Bradley? Famous for arm twisting, neck squeezing?

Yulefski picks at her gummy braces. “Yes. Someone trying
to get in on this action.” She stares at Zack and me. “I don't know why I'm cutting you in anyway.”

“Wait a minute,” I say. “Lester's our relative.”

Zack gives me a nudge.

And then I see it. I really do. It's an arrow etched into the stone.

Already Yulefski is standing up, squinting, and Steadman—five-year-old Steadman, who should be home in bed—raises one arm straight out. “From the arrow to the treasure,” he mutters.

We stand up, too. We tilt out heads, narrow our eyes, and the arrow points straight to . . .

“. . . school?” Zack breathes.

“Right,” Yulefski says.

It fits. The school is ancient. Even older than Sister Appolonia, our teacher.

“Wait a minute,” Yulefski says. “There's something else here. Something . . . disturbing.”

Now Yulefski manages to sound like Sister Appolonia.

“Uh-oh.” Zack steps back.

I grab his shoulder. “What? What?”

“A cobra,” he says.

“Maybe a python,” Yulefski chokes out.

“Alive? Here in Newfield?” I grab Steadman and throw myself to one side and we sprawl onto Johnny Peach Pit's grave.

Steadman looks a little embarrassed for me. “It's just written in the stone,” he says.

Not alive. I can breathe. I crawl across the weeds to take a look. It's a picture of a snake, all right, ready to strike . . .

Except that it's coiled up at the end of the stone so the head and fangs are missing.

But I have a terrific imagination: the real snake's great-grandchildren are nested together, tongues darting in and out, guarding the treasure somewhere.

“Maybe we should forget about it,” I begin.

Sarah looks thrilled. “I'll just have to collect the money alone,” she says.

“Not on your life,” Zack says.

“Don't be a coward, Hunter,” Steadman whispers in a voice that would wake the buried bodies.

Zack and Yulefski aren't paying attention anyway. They're focused on something else now: a faint curve over the curled-up snake. An
S
?
S
for
school
.

In the darkness, the train station lights are coming on. And there's Pop, swinging his computer case, just in on the 8:15 from the city. He looks a little slumped over, tired from his long day.

Poor Pop, working on a Saturday. I have to feel sorry for him. I picture him bent over his birdhouse, whistling as he sands and paints.

Still, it's a relief. He'll never get down to the man cave
tonight. As soon as he eats, he'll be dozing in the armchair, feet up on the hassock.

“We'll dig up the whole school basement,” Zack whispers, looking around. Is he thinking of Bradley?

And another thing. I'll have to find a sharp knife and a bottle of anti-snake venom to pour into our wounds. (
Demons of the Jungle: What to Do in Case of Snakebite
. Wednesday night, six o'clock.)

Sunday morning, Zack and I are sitting on the back steps, swinging our feet, crunching Skittles.

“So Lester buried his fortune somewhere in the school,” Zack says.

But he doesn't get in another word.

The back door swings open and Pop steps out, briefcase in hand. “Leaves.” He waves the briefcase around.

We look up. Red, gold, and even a few green leaves drift down. “It's Sunday,” I say.

“Yes, and I have to go to work anyway.” He walks around us and clatters down the rest of the steps.

“But what about William?” Zack asks.

Pop frowns. “William . . .” he begins, and shakes his head. “He's cleaning paint off his floor.” He swivels around on the bottom step. “The rakes are in the garage. Two of them. It works out just right.”

Mom smiles at Pop from the window. He smiles back as he walks toward the train station.

We don't smile. We have more important things on our
minds. Besides, when we have big bucks, we'll pay William a couple of cents an hour to rake. He's cheap enough to go for it.

We sit back, listening to the train whistle. Pop will have to run for it.

“You know how big that school is?” Zack says. “We could be searching around until we're as old as Sister Appolonia.”

“Or Lester himself,” I put in.

“There's only one thing to do,” Zack says.

I know what's coming. Something we both dread.

“We'll have to haul ourselves down to the library,” he says. “Lucky it's open on Sunday afternoons. Maybe we can find something out in one of those old books.”

I sigh. We have to pay Mrs. Wu, the librarian, ten cents each time. It's because of last summer's book. Zack tried to hit William over the head with it, and it landed in Yulefski's pool and floated along, waterlogged, smelling of chlorine. It never did dry out, even though we kept it overdue, for a month.

It's a good thing Nana gave us that dollar when she was here last week. Maybe we'll be goodhearted and pay Mrs. Wu twenty cents today.

As soon as lunch is over, we head out. The leaves will just have to wait awhile.

Fred is tethered to the gate in front of the library.

“What's he doing here?” Zack mutters as we circle around him, and inside, Mrs. Wu is not happy to see us.
She holds out her hand and we give her the dollar. “Now we're getting somewhere,” she says. “Only fifteen more, or so.”

Before we can ask for change, she slips the dollar into her drawer and slams it shut.

We know what it's like to be poor.

Desperately poor.