“Whoo-hoo!”
When Zack bobbed back up to the surface, he saw Davy in the woods, pulling on his overalls.
“Hey, where you goin’?” In the distance, Zack could hear a bell softly chiming.
“Pops is ringing the bell. Must need me to do some chores.”
“What? It’s Saturday. Nobody works on Saturdays.”
“Farmers do.”
“Oh. But what about the big plan?”
“You know what we need next.”
“Sure, but…”
“You’ll find it just where I said.”
“But…”
“What’s wrong, Zack? Somethin’s troublin’ you, I can tell.”
“Promise you won’t laugh?” Zack climbed out of the pond and pulled his T-shirt off the branch where he had hung it.
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Well, what if…” Zack hesitated.
“What if what?”
“What if Kyle Snertz sees me?”
“That don’t make no nevermind.”
“It doesn’t, hunh?”
“That boy’s all wax and no wick. If he gives you any guff, just give it right back.”
“How?”
“I reckon you could always pants him.”
“Pants him?”
“Yes, sir. Just pull down his trousers and show everybody his underwear! That usually works.”
“Really?” Zack sounded doubtful.
“Or you could give him a wedgie. Tug real hard and pull his underpants up into his butt crack.”
“I see.”
Zack wished Davy had some better ideas on how to defend himself against Kyle Snertz. Ideas that didn’t involve underwear.
“Pants him or pull a wedgie, hunh?”
“Yes, sir. Either one will do the trick.”
The bell tolled louder in the distance.
“Jiminy Christmas, I best run. See you later, pardner!”
Davy scampered up the hillside and disappeared into the forest. That meant Zack would have to face his demons alone.
Especially the one named Kyle Snertz.
Judy sat on the back porch with the newspaper, a yellow legal pad, and a big jug of sun tea.
George was at his office in New York—even though it was Saturday—making final arrangements for his trip to Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia, on Monday night. Zack was off playing with Davy. Judy was ready to start working her puzzle.
On her pad, she had already jotted down some notes from her conversation with Gerda Spratling: June 21, 1958. Clint.
Now she added some items she had circled in the newspaper story about Miracle Mary O’Claire: Greyhound bus accident. June 21, 1958. Thirty-nine dead on bus. Clint Eberhart dead in Thunderbird. Motorcycle cop killed. Intersection of 13 and 31.
She sipped some tea.
Miss Spratling’s Clint had to be this Clint Eberhart. He died after his car collided with the bus in the crossroads.
She remembered something else Miss Spratling had said: “They ran him off the road.”
Probably up the embankment and into the oak tree.
She wanted to go find Bud. The neighbor who had helped fix her flat tire. He worked for Greyhound. Maybe he knew more of the story. She also wanted to go see Mrs. Emerson down at the library, see what she could find in the local history books and old newspapers.
Zack and Zipper came running into the backyard. Zipper’s paws were muddy, his underbelly a collection of matted muck. Zack’s shorts were dripping wet.
Okay. The puzzle may have to wait until after a load of laundry.
“How’d you guys get so soaked?”
“Davy and I found a secret lagoon.”
“Really?”
“Actually, I think it’s a cow pond.”
“I like the sound of ‘lagoon’ better,” said Judy.
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Bet it felt good. On a hot day like this.”
“Yep. Real good.”
“Well, why don’t you clean up Zipper, then run inside and put on something dry.”
“Okay.”
“You want to go down to the library with me later?”
“Maybe. Can I grab something to eat first?”
“Oh. Sure. I can make you a sandwich.”
“That’s okay. I’ll just, you know, fix it myself.”
“I promise I won’t toast, bake, or broil.”
“I’ll just do a PB and J. And then I might take a shower.”
Judy grinned. “You don’t want to go to the library, do you?”
“Not really. Not today. I mean, it’s Saturday and all.”
“You’re right,” Judy said. “Go get cleaned up.”
“Okay.”
Zack ran into the house.
Judy glanced back at her notes.
June 21.
June 21 was the summer solstice. The longest day of the year. The shortest night.
1958.
Fifty years ago this Wednesday.
She wondered if Miss Spratling had anything special planned for the anniversary.
Zack found the dog’s towel hanging in the mudroom and swiped it under Zipper’s belly before he grabbed the dog by the collar.
“Sorry, Zip. You need to wait upstairs.”
Zipper dug his hind legs into the thistle rug and tried to sit down while Zack tried to pull him forward. Finally, Zack scooped Zipper up, cradled him in his arms, and carried the dog upstairs to his bedroom. He didn’t waste time changing into dry shorts or taking a shower. He closed the door and stood in the hall.
“I’ll be right back,” he said through the door. “And remember—no barking!”
Zipper barked.
“Zipper?”
Zack heard whimpering on the other side. But no more barks.
He raced down the steps and went to the front hall to retrieve the hacksaw he had hidden in the closet the night before. Since Judy was still out on the back porch, he slowly opened the front door, careful not to let it make any noise—even when he eased it shut again. Once outside, Zack turned right and ran toward a house being built three doors up the block.
He saw a pile of neatly stacked lumber, but Zack wasn’t interested in free wood today. He scaled the cinder-block foundation and trotted across the decking to find the treasure hidden out back.
There it was, just where Davy had said it would be: a shiny steel toolbox tucked up against the foundation.
Zack jumped down to the cement-splattered clay and examined the lock. Davy had told him its shackle was made with a “cut-resistant alloy” and warned Zack that it might take half an hour to hacksaw through it.
But we need the galdern tool!
That’s why he added a shower and a sandwich to the list of things he supposedly needed to take care of inside the house. Judy wouldn’t start wondering where he was for thirty, maybe forty-five minutes.
Zack started sawing. A thin dust of metal filings hit the dirt near his knees. Five minutes later, his hair was soaking wet from exertion, but the cut was only an eighth of an inch deep. He might be out here for over an hour.
Judy will come into the house looking for you! Saw faster, pal! Faster! Give her some galdern elbow grease!
Zack took in a deep breath and, grunting, put everything he had into his hacksaw thrusts. A drop of bubbly sweat fell on his knee.
It took Zack an instant to realize it wasn’t sweat.
It was spit.
“What you doin’ down there, Barbie?”
Zack looked up.
Kyle Snertz loomed over him. The sneering bully hawked up another slimy wad, juiced his lips, and let loose a thick chunk of spit. The spew smeared across Zack’s glasses.
“I said, what are you doin’, Bar-bie?”
“Nothing” was the best Zack could come up with.
“Hah!”
Snertz leapt down. His three buddies came bounding down after him.
“Well, well, well. Barbie here is trying to bust into a toolbox.”
“No, I’m not.”
“That’s my toolbox. We got first dibs.”