Authors: James van Pelt
Pandora's Gun (12 page)
The nights have gotten too exciting lately, Peter thought. He’d been trying to fall asleep for a couple of hours, but he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the Blue-suit guy’s unblinking stare, or Dante’s anger, or the way the air on the edge of the orange-world rift seemed to burn.
Then, a cat outside his window howled and spit, a truly startling sound. It hissed, and then cut off. The silence disturbed him as much as the fuss. He’d never heard a cat’s hiss through a
closed
window. He never heard cats. When he opened the window, the clouds covered the moon, so shadows enshrouded his yard. He could barely see the privet hedge between his and Christy’s house, but near the middle, maybe on Christy’s side of the hedge, something snapped. Peter froze, head cocked to the side. Had he heard that, really? Another snap confirmed it. Crunching. A wet slurping. Then, a familiar growl. It was the Cyclops dog. A shadow detached itself from the other shadows and moved with its distinctive hop-trot toward the street.
He hoped Mrs. Wagner, the retired lady down the block, had brought her cats in for the night. She owned at least twenty. Practically a smorgasbord, if your tastes turned that way.
He wondered as he started to close the window where the Cyclops dog went during the day, but another sound stopped him, a soft swishing hush with a hint of throb in it, like the open heart of a living humming bird held before a fan. It faded to almost nothing, and then a shift below the clouds caught his eye, like the Cyclops dog, a shadow on a shadow, but this one was big, steady and airborne. He followed its curving path a hundred feet above the ground. It was a dark helicopter, crisscrossing the neighborhood. It reversed direction, came directly for him. He stepped back into the room, out of sight, until it passed over the house. He could still hear it, now that he knew what to listen for, and a minute later, he saw it again, nearly silent. If he hadn’t have been paying attention, he could have mistaken it for the wind.
He texted Christy, “You sleeping?” hoping that she was. At least one of them could be getting rest, but a message popped back immediately.
“No.”
“Helicopter overhead.”
Christy’s window opened. It glinted against the streetlight. Without her light on, Peter couldn’t see her, but he knew she stood there.
“Do you think they know where we are?” she texted.
Peter thought about it. The copter passed by again. “Maybe not specifically. If they knew for sure, they’d be in our houses. Jackboots. Maybe they’re scanning.” The duffle bag hid under a heavy work table under a corrugated tin roof in his dad’s backyard workshop. He didn’t imagine that it would shield a signal very well, although he didn’t think the bag sent a signal, or it would have long ago been found. More likely, the helicopter used radar or some other technique to find the bag. If that was the case, the pile of metal boxes and tools on top of the workbench might be enough to confuse them. Or, it wasn’t trying to find the duffle bag. Maybe it was looking for them.
Peter had no idea.
Christy texted, “How do they know to search here?”
“They might not be searching. This might not have anything to do with us.” But he’d never heard of a helicopter that didn’t make noise. Somebody who could make the amazing gun could surely assemble a silent helicopter.
The flying shadow reversed direction, came their way again. It
looked
like a search pattern.
A resolve arose in Peter. If they were closing in, then he would have to run. If the Blue-suit guy caught him, and if he really, really wanted the gun, he’d use torture, or threaten his father or Christy. The helicopter guys could be exactly the same. Peter knew he’d never be able to keep the gun’s location a secret. The only way to keep it safe might be to flee. He thought about where he could go. It was nearly winter. He couldn’t just grab a tent and camp. Surely they would be watching the bus and train station.
A white leaf fluttered past his window, then another. It settled on the lawn, almost glowing. Another one spiraled to Earth closer to Christy’s house. Peter found a flashlight in his desk and shined it on the leaf. It was a piece of paper. Watching the sky, he quietly went out his backdoor. The paper was between Christy’s and his house, but that was also where the Cyclops dog was. He tiptoed off the porch and to the corner nearest Christy, holding the flashlight stiffly in front of him, ready to flee or throw the flashlight or both. The animal wasn’t big, but it had a lot of teeth and a nasty disposition. Trying to keep as much of himself out of sight as possible, he shined the light across the grass. The Cyclops dog lay on the lawn just this side of the bordering bushes, fifteen yards away. It raised its head off its paw to look his direction. Peter almost retreated, but the dog hopped to its feet, turned around, and then dropped to its haunches. It turned its head to the side and studied Peter. The creature turned in a circle again, then plopped back into the same pose, head cocked to the side. He acted like a lapdog, like one of those little balls of fur that old ladies carried in the crook of their arm, except his mouth looked like a moray eel in need of dental work, and his single eye reflected like an orange mirror.
Peter ran onto the lawn, keeping the light on the dog that watched him the whole way, but never moved, grabbed the paper, then made it back in before the copter returned. He wrapped his feet in a blanket when he got to his room. That will teach me to go barefoot in September at night, he thought.
On one side, the sheet said, WE NEED TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT THE BAG AND ITS CONTENTS. The other side had a web address.
A quick text exchange told him that Christy had noticed the papers too. “They dropped leaflets,” she texted. “Is it propaganda, like in World War II?”
“I don’t know. It’s a website. I’m not checking it from home. They might be able to trace an IP address.”
So they weren’t searching, or they weren’t
only
searching. They were trying to make contact. No one except the people who had found the bag would know what the note meant. Everyone else would be puzzled. Peter thought it was brilliant.
The copter sounds retreated, toward the school, still gliding back and forth in long, sweeping lines. They were cruising the city! He wondered if the other copters were up, for full coverage.
This is stupid, Peter thought as he was about to text Christy again. He climbed under the covers and called her instead.
He said, “I’ve been thinking. They’re either secret government agents, aliens, time travelers, or people from an alternate dimension.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” she said, her voice a whisper in his ear.
“You were up anyway. What do you think of this idea: we didn’t know the gun existed until I found it. Our lives were perfectly okay before then. Whatever the gun did, and whoever owned it, did it and owned it before I wound up with duffle bag, so if I just made sure that they got the gun, then everything would go back to normal.”
“No harm, no foul?” said Christy.
“Exactly. We’re off the hook.”
“You really believe it might be aliens? You’re taking a risk floating something that crazy in front of me. I could decide you were a loon.”
“Do you think I’m a loon?”
“No. The truth is out there.”
Peter sighed happily. She made an
X-Files
reference! There had to be something intrinsically good in a person who could do that.
She continued, keeping her voice low. Her house was dark, her parents asleep, and she was on the phone with him. Peter padded out of bed, shut his bedroom door as she spoke.
“The problem with that plan is that someone died in the woods. Remember they said they found a body? If someone died, then I’ll bet one side or the other will kill again to get the gun. If you offer it to the wrong one, they could kill you after you delivered it. The difference between before you found the gun and after is that before it was a secret, but now
you
know. Not only that, but Dante and I know too. Maybe they wouldn’t think it would be a big deal to off three teenagers to make it a secret again.”
Outside, mysterious helicopters cruised silently over the city. On his lawn, the devil Cyclops dog was eating the neighborhood cats, in his dad’s workshop, a duffle bag containing a gun that could rip open a door into hell waited to be discovered. It was hard for Peter to believe that a week ago his biggest worry was that his sophomore year might be boring.
“You’re right. We’re stuck and on the defensive. I need a better place to hide the gun, too. If someone figures out I have it, I can’t have it on my property.”
“Put it back in the barbecue.”
“You sure? That might make your risk bigger.”
“Only you and Dante were at the dump. You were the only ones who left footprints. No one except your dad and Dante even know that we’ve been talking more. Can you think of a better place, I mean one that would actually be secure?”
He shook his head. She was right. In theory, hiding something should be easy. The problem was that he couldn’t put it somewhere that it might accidentally be found, like in a hollow log or an abandoned building. A burial somewhere could work, if he could get to and from the place with a shovel and not be noticed, but then wondering about if it was safe would prey on him. He could see himself sneaking to the burial spot to see if the dirt had been disturbed, and even if it hadn’t, wanting to dig it up.
“I should call the police. Come clean. Let authorities handle it.”
Christy laughed. “That would work if it isn’t a secret government project. If it is, Blue-suit could just walk in and claim it. He’s already pretended to be FBI, or he actually is FBI.”
Peter turned over onto his back, phone to his ear. The window cast no light, but his computer, his clock, and his printer all shone like little lighthouses, throwing the dimmest of shadows on the walls and ceiling.
“You know, I’ve never talked to a girl late at night on the phone.”
She lowered her voice to a husky, breathy drawl. “Do you want me to talk dirty?”
Peter stuttered, “No . . . I meant . . . god, no.”
“Good,” she said. “I wouldn’t know how to anyways. Your anxiety is cute, though.”
“I’ll see you at school,” he said. “We need to work on a plan.”
“Agreed. Sleep tight.”
Oddly enough, he fell asleep easily after that.
At dawn, he moved the duffle bag back to Christy’s barbecue. The Cyclops dog wasn’t there. He wondered again where it went during the day.
It wasn’t until he finished breakfast that he realized that although he didn’t want Dante to know where the bag was, it didn’t worry him that Christy knew.
When Peter was in 1st period, taking geography notes, an office aide came to class with a call slip for him to report to the assistant principal’s office. Bovine still had not returned to school (blinding headaches was the rumor), and Dr. Hecke, the other A.P., was meeting with someone, so Peter sat on the short couch in the administrative office’s reception area. The secretary had waved him to his seat, but didn’t greet him. On the opposite wall, four glum-looking students also sat. He recognized one as a member of the Church of Perpetual Smokers who hung out at the convenience store next to the campus. Peter guessed they were probably here to serve an in-school suspension, which sucked for them.
Motivational posters covered most of the cinderblock walls. He particularly liked the one of a road painting crew standing over the sign they put on the street that read SHCOOL. The caption underneath said, EDUMACATION, YOU SHOULD GIVE IT A TRY. He also attempted to puzzle out exactly the message on the poster that exhorted students to REPORT DANGEROUS UNDERAGE DRINKING, which implied that some underage drinking was not dangerous. That was news to him.
Dr. Hecke’s door opened. The Assistant Principal, a portly, thin-haired woman in her fifties, motioned him in.
“Sorry to get you out of class, Peter,” she said. “But our FBI friend wanted to talk to everyone who missed his information meeting in the gym yesterday.”
Peter’s heart lurched. Blue-suit, in his black FBI jacket sat at the round conference table, a tiny laptop open next to him. His dark eyes darted to Peter for a second, then turned back to his computer. “According to Mrs. Pickerel’s attendance yesterday, you were in class, but you didn’t make it to the gym.” He had a high-pitched voice, like a child’s, but there was nothing childlike in his expression or posture. “Why did you miss the gym, Peter?” He looked up, his fingers on his keyboard.
“Uh, I went to the bathroom. By the time I finished, the class was coming back. Someone told me you just showed everyone a picture and asked if they’d seen it. Didn’t sound like I could contribute.” He controlled an urge to bolt for the door, and his heart pounded in his ears. Stay casual, he thought.
“National security isn’t something to miss, son. This is what we’re looking for.” He handed Peter a picture of the gun that had the now-familiar hand-made look. Peter thought, again, that it was funny that the grip appeared manufactured, but the gun’s body was lumpy, like a poorly molded fist. Like a one-of-a-kind piece. That might be its value: that there
wasn’t
another one.
“Nope. Haven’t seen it.” He almost asked if he’d checked the lost and found but decided that sounded flippant. “What’s it do?”
“Nothing you need to know. If you see it, though, or hear anyone talking about it, report it to this office. I’ll be checking back while we continue the investigation.”
Peter leveraged himself up from the chair. “Sure. Good luck finding it.” He hoped he didn’t sound sardonic as he headed out of the office.
“Oh, Peter. I need you to stand on this first.” Blue-suit’s voice rose at the end as if he was asking a question. Beside the desk, Blue-suit had set up a black mat on the floor, about eighteen inches to a side. It looked like a miniature version of what Christy had said was inside the door to the gym when all the classes reported, a footprint reader.
Peter panicked, a sick feeling that tore him between fleeing and throwing up. He knows! He knows! thought Peter.
“No problem,” Peter said, surprised at how steady his voice came out. He knows! He knows!
Like a condemned man, Peter stepped onto the mat.
Blue-suit checked his laptop, then said, “You can go.”
Peter walked out, trying to appear casual, but his fists were tight. When he got to the hallway, he unclenched to find he’d drawn blood on his palm from his own fingernail.
Then he checked his shoes. The ones he’d worn on the day he’d found the gun weren’t what he was wearing. They must still be on the back porch, where he’d cleaned them. He laughed, drawing a glance from a teacher passing by.
In the cafeteria, Jenny Pearson held court. “My boyfriend said there are
more
army trucks in Melville Park. They’re not pulling out soon. He also said the police got calls from all over town last night about helicopters, quiet ones, dropping papers. Have you been to the website on that sheet of paper? Nothing on it but a comment box. Pretty stupid stunt if you ask me. Probably an advertisement. And to top it off, people are reporting lost cats, lots of cats. He says we’re living at ground-bizarre-zero.”
Peter poked at his food, not hungry. Blue-suit had said to call him while “we continue the investigation.” Did that “we” mean he had allies in town, or did he say it that way to maintain the illusion that he was FBI? And he still could be FBI. What if he wasn’t Blue-suit, and someone else escaped from Assistant Principal Bovine? What if the assault on Bovine wasn’t connected to anything at all?
Didn’t Bilbo Baggins say once that adventures sucked when you were on them? They were fun to read about, but they were always about the people who made it to the end—those orcs and elves, men and dwarves who were cleaved, stabbed, burned or clubbed to death didn’t think much of adventure—and the heroes always seemed much more confident about their information than he was.
Jenny continued talking, but Peter couldn’t hear her now in the buzz of the busy cafeteria. Another thought occurred to him. If everyone in town got the slips with the web address, then tons of people would type it into their browsers to see what it was, including bunches of kids from school. He could check the web address and not raise suspicion without resorting to his anonymous use of the public library’s computers.
In the computer lab, though, he didn’t even have to log in. Another kid from his English class was checking the site. Over the boy’s shoulder, Peter could see that Jenny was right. The white page’s title read, TALK TO US ABOUT OUR BAG. IT’S VITAL THAT IT BE RETURNED. Underneath that was a comment box. The kid typed in, WAS IT PAPER OR PLASTIC? He turned to Peter, “Paper or plastic? Get it? Like when you’re in the grocery store?” The comment box required an e-mail address to be submitted, so the kid typed [email protected]
The height of wit, thought Peter. He wondered what would have happened if the kid typed I’VE GOT IT.
The computer beeped, and a message popped up: NOT A VALID E-MAIL ADDRESS.
