Hunter Moran Digs Deep (5 page)

“Too bad, Fred,” I say. “Your miserable life is coming to an end.”
Desperadoes On the Loose
, Monday, three-thirty.

I hear footsteps. Coming toward us?

Yes.

I'm about to yell for help, but then I remember. Sister Appolonia would probably have us expelled.

Next to me, Zack whispers, “Wait.”

From the other side of the door a voice whispers, too. “I can't let you be mummified in there.”

Mummified? Horrible. No one would even recognize us. We'd end up in a museum behind a glass window, the sign reading
TWO BOYS FROM ANTIQUITY
;
ONE WAS CALLED FRED. THEIR FAITHFUL COMPANION LIES BENEATH THEM—A LION, PERHAPS
.

The quavering voice goes on. “I'm going to unlock the door. Don't try to escape until you count to a thousand by twos. Slowly.”

That would take all night.

“I'll be listening,” Sister Ramona says. “I'm tougher than I sound, and I have a pair of drumsticks in my fists. I'll bop you over the head if you come out sooner.”

Fred growls.

“Are you speaking English?” Sister asks.

Zack snickers.

I whisper to myself as fast as I can, trying not to breathe, in case I run out of air. Two, four, six, eight, ten. Concentrate, I tell myself.

On and on.

The footsteps fade, then come back. “I forgot to unlock the door,” Sister says apologetically.

One hundred eighty-two. Eighty-four.

It must be the middle of the night.

I reach five hundred.

“Enough.” Zack crawls over me and pulls at the door. It grinds open, inch by inch, over dirt and stones, and digs into my side.

I cover my head, just in case. No one wants to be bopped on the head with a pair of drumsticks.

Fred darts out ahead of us, growling fiercely, and Zack sticks his head around the door. “It's all clear, Hunter. Come on.”

We crawl out, blinking. Where are we?

Which way to escape? Too bad Sister Ramona didn't leave the light on.

We feel our way around until we back up against a door, and give it a push. We're in a cellar hallway. It's lighter here, but not a whole lot. The place might have been a prison in the olden days. Or worse, another graveyard with skeleton bones crunching underneath my feet.

“Here's something odd,” Zack says, pointing down to the cement floor. “Someone's footprints.”

A kid's sneaker prints: about our size, maybe a half-inch bigger.

Someone's been in the coal chute ahead of us, and it wasn't Bradley with his fat duck feet.

So whose?

Before I can think about it, Fred darts around us, paws full speed ahead, on his way home, if he can find his way out.

“Go for it, Fred,” Zack says as the two of us sink down to catch our breath.

We're surrounded by junk: old desks on their sides, one of them missing a leg, a few torn lampshades, cartons filled with dusty books that look as if they must be a hundred years old, the back of a bed with Sister Appolonia's name written in her own handwriting.

A bed?

Sister Appolonia actually sleeps?

You never know.

There's still another door. We open it . . .

. . . and fall over something, me almost breaking my toe. It cries:
Wah, wah, wah
.

A baby? Here in the dark? A prisoner.

What could be worse?

I reach out and run my hands around what seems to be a couple of plates.

No, cymbals!

Zack crashes into something, too. It bangs and echoes. “It's a drum,” he says.

We're in the Music Room.

“When we get out of here,” I tell Zack, “I'm heading straight for bed, I'm that worn out. It must be almost midnight.”

Above us is a dusty window, so small it lets in almost no light. But Zack points. “It's still daytime.”

Amazing.

And now I hear singing:
“Happy birthday, dear Fred, wherever you are.”

And is that Steadman wailing?

We're almost home.

But I hear footsteps. They're not the quick patter of Sister Ramona's, but a heavy
thump-thump
.

Yeow.

Sister Appolonia is on the loose.

I grab Fred, who gives my shoulder a vicious snap, and look around wildly. Which way?

“Sideways,” Zack whispers urgently.

Up the wall? I don't think so.

But no, he's racing up a narrow stairway that's half hidden by a pair of drums.

With Fred wiggling in my arms like a giant eel, I scramble up the steps behind Zack. And at the top, we're back in the world of school.

We run past bulletin boards pasted with scads of dried
leaves, and then the principal's office with a crooked
WELCOME
sign on the glass door.

We won't be so welcome if he turns from his desk and sees us.

Zack tilts his head. Here come Sister Appolonia's footsteps again. We keep going, up the stairs, running on tiptoes. My bare foot will need a cast before this is over. I'm out of breath, and Fred is climbing up my shoulder.

We dive down another stairway, and there's the door. We pull it open and dash outside. We don't stop until we reach our backyard.

Finding Fred was as hard as coming up with Lester Tinwitty's fortune.

It's breakfast time. Steadman is scolding Fred, “You won't get anywhere if you don't know the alphabet,” and begins to sing
“A, B, C, D.”
His voice is loud enough to rattle the cereal bowls.

Mary's mouth is opened like a baby robin's as Mom spoons in some kind of mush.

And K.G. is screaming. She wants mush, too.

I give her a little taste, trying not to yawn. Zack is yawning, too. We were up most of the night, thinking of narrow escapes, thinking of how we're going to dig up the treasure.

“Cover your mouth, for Pete's sake,” Linny tells Zack, and I jump. She looks as if she's going to gag. “I'm sick of looking at your tonsils every day,” she manages.

“Why don't you pay attention to William instead?” Zack puts in for me.

“Yeah,” I add. “He's got at least a pound of dirt in each ear.”

As if I'm joking. William's ears haven't been washed since last summer. At least.

Zack shudders. “Green stuff.”

Some of it is from whatever William is painting in his room, those huge lumps on every wall.

William kicks out at us under the table but misses. His aim is pathetic.

Mom glances up. “No joking around, guys. You have about four minutes to get to school.”

Zack and I slide away from the table. We pick up our lunch bags. Mom's not too good at lunch. The other day, she made sardine sandwiches. Their horrified dead eyes stared up at me with every bite.

We toss a kiss at Mom, and Nana who shows up every so often. She says she loves to see her grandchildren. We wiggle our ears at William, who'll be right behind us, then head for school with Steadman in tow.

Fred is whining miserably.

Steadman shakes his head. “He hates that I go to kindergarten.”

We try not to look at all the leaves that have cascaded down since last night. You can't even see the grass underneath.

Yulefski is waiting for us at the schoolyard gate, waving her hand around. What's that on her finger?

A fat rubber band in a bunch of colors.

She's into rainbows.

She's into a place holder for a diamond ring.

I can't bear it.

She hands us pieces of paper. I take a quick look:
Treasure Hunt, engineered by Sarah M. Yulefski
.

Impossible.

“She's worse than Linny,” Zack says.

Still, we find a secluded spot in the schoolyard, wind blowing, leaves dropping, to see what Yulefski has in store for us.

But before she can open her mouth, I hear footsteps. I look over my shoulder. It's Bradley the Bully. What's he up to now?

He leans forward. “You'll never get there first,” he cackles, and heads off in the opposite direction.

I look after him. Is he talking about the treasure? Is he trying to get there before we do?

“We have to rush,” I say. “We really have to—”

“Hurry,” Yulefski finishes. “Read the list I made. Don't waste a second.”

Number one on the list for me is
REMINDER: buck-fifty for drum lessons
. “What's that about?” I ask.

She looks over her shoulder to be sure Bradley's gone. “It's to muffle the noise of the digging. Don't forget, Sister Ramona's Music Room is almost next to that cellar. She doesn't need to hear the shovels scraping all over the place.”

Hard to believe. Yulefski even knows where the coal cellar is, and where Sister Ramona hangs out.

“Yes,” Yulefski answers. “My mind is made for important details.”

Quickly, we move on to Zack's list. His job is to procure a shovel.
Procure
, that's the way she writes.

“And not that broken-down old one of your father's,” she says.

Zack holds up one hand, cutting her off. “Hunter and I don't have five cents between us. And if you think we're buying a shovel and paying for it . . .”

She waggles her ring finger. “Don't forget the buck-fifty for drum lessons.”

The bell rings and our open mouths clamp shut. We snake up to our classroom.

The morning wears on. Sister Appolonia has everyone doing some kind of math. Sister sees our fingers flying and frowns. “We don't count on her fingers,” she says. Her hands go to her hips. A sure sign of trouble. “See me after school,” she tells the two of us. “We'll do a little math review.”

Yulefski waves her hand in the air. Waves it wildly. “I'll help them,” she tells Sister. She hesitates. “Next weekend.”

I blink. Zack blinks. Even Sister Appolonia blinks.

“Hunter is taking drum lessons from Sister Ramona after school.”

Sister Appolonia's hands retreat from her hips. “Admirable,” she says.

The bell rings and we escape to the cafeteria to eat our tuna fish and marmalade sandwiches.

Drum lessons. I can't believe it.

The bell rings and we head downstairs to the Music Room. “Wait,” Yulefski says. “Don't move.” She darts away and out the door.

Moments later, she's back, dragging a pair of shovels. “I figured I'd bring my father's. I couldn't count on you guys.”

They're as rusty and dirty as Pop's.

She taps our shoulders with both hands. “That reminds me. We're getting close to the money. I have to discuss something with you.”

I brace myself. What next?

“Half is for me,” she says. “Half for you guys.”

“Wait a minute,” I say. “Thirds. T-h-i-r-d-s.”

“Well . . .” She thinks about it, dislodging a Rice Krispie from her braces with one blue-painted fingernail. “It's almost all in the family.”

If I had drumsticks I might bop her over the head. But now we've arrived at the Music Room and step over a pile of junk. We lean the shovels against the wall, out of sight, and move forward, our ears to the door.

Boom. Crash. Boom
.

Is someone being killed in there?

“YOUDY YO!” a voice screams.

Yulefski has no fear. She pounds on the door with both fists.

The
boom, crash, boom
stops.

The screaming stops.

We hear the sounds of locks opening. Four or five of them. Sister Ramona pokes her head out the door. She looks like a turtle coming out of its shell. A scared turtle.

“Whew,” she says when she sees it's only us, and not Fred, the killer. She grabs Yulefski's arm, and my shoulder. She jerks her head at Zack. “Come right in,” she says, and locks the door behind us. “I was just getting myself into a music mood.”

Yulefski speaks right up. “Hunter wants to take drum lessons.”

Sure.

But Sister Ramona looks thrilled.

“I'll have to owe you,” I say.

She thinks about it for half a second, then nods. She unlocks the door again and motions for the other two to leave.

Something comes to me. I can see that it comes to Zack and Yulefski as well.

A glitch in our plans.

A fatal flaw.

How are they going to get past Sister in the Music Room, down that old hall in back, and into the coal cellar?

Zack's a fast thinker. “Wait a minute,” he tells Sister Ramona.

“We can't wait,” Sister says. “Hunter and I are dying to begin.”

“I thought I heard Sister Appolonia calling you.” Zack crosses his fingers behind his back.

“Didn't Sister Appolonia say it was urgent?” Yulefski chimes in.

Sister Ramona's shoulders slump. “All right. I'll be back in no time.”

She hesitates in the hall, staring at the rusty shovels covered with mud. “Hard to believe,” she mutters to herself.

We wait as she patters up the stairs. Then Zack grabs the shovel. The two of them dive through the Music Room and disappear into the darkness.