Hunter Moran Digs Deep Read online

  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.)

  Chapter 4

  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.

  I’ll be so glad to get Lester’s treasure. We’ll pay Mrs. Wu the rest of it. She’ll be babbling with gratitude.

  We tiptoe away from her desk, mouths closed. That’s another thing. Mrs. Wu doesn’t want to hear us talking. She’s in love with silence.

  “Do we want a book on school?” I whisper.

  Zack shakes his head. “How about a book on Lester?”

  I give him a high
five. What a brain he has!

  The history section is all the way in back. Even Mrs. Wu with her X-ray eyes won’t be able to see us. After all, we don’t want the whole world muscling in on our treasure.

  We get ourselves over there and nearly fall over Steadman, who has a book the size of an encyclopedia in his hand.

  “Why don’t you find a picture book?” Zack asks. “There are some great ones . . .”

  Steadman sighs and holds up his hand. “Fred is great at pictures. He needs words.”

  And here comes Linny.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” Mrs. Wu asks.

  Linny pats her book. “All about skiing lessons.”

  Zack and I look at each other. As if we had more than an inch of snow every winter.

  “Time to go, Steadman,” Linny says as Mrs. Wu scans her book. She sees us and frowns. “You’re supposed to be raking leaves.”

  We ignore her, and as soon as she and Steadman head for the front—Steadman lugging his book in both hands—we sink down under the NEWFIELD sign.

  I rear back. The shelf is empty. Completely bare and a little dusty.

  Someone’s been here before us.

  “I don’t know what we’ll do if we don’t get that treasure,” Zack says.

  “We’ll have to run away before Pop sees all those leaves.”

  Zack shakes his head. “Leaves! What about the birdhouse falling apart in his man cave?”

  I swallow. But then I see something that might save our lives. I lean forward.

  “What’s that girl’s name?” I ask, snapping my fingers. “The one who shelves books for Mrs. Wu?”

  “Emma.” And then he sees what I see. Emma’s not too good at putting books away. Stuck on the shelf marked MEDIEVAL HISTORY is a thin book called Lester and Mabel Tinwitty.

  There’s a great feeling in my chest. We’re on our way to riches.

  “The first thing to do with the money is to buy an iPhone,” I tell Zack. “We’ll have to notify the school that we won’t be back.”

  Zack grins. “Sister Appolonia will have a heart attack on the spot.”

  “But we’ll be gone. On our way to Tahiti. We’ll take the whole family with us,” I say, feeling generous.

  “I’ll send Sister one of those things you put around your neck,” Zack says.

  “A lei,” I say. “But that’s Hawaii.”

  “After we settle Pop’s birdhouse, we’ll go there, too. In our own helicopter.”

  “The main thing,” I tell Zack, “is to do something great for Mom.”

  “Motorcycle lessons, something like that,” Zack agrees. “She needs to relax.”

  We slip the book off the shelf and lean back. Out the window we can see the leaves falling. So what!

  I open the book as Zack leans over my shoulder, and we begin to read.

  First is the story of Lester’s childhood. By the time we get to Lester on his wagon at the town round, yelling “Soup for the hungry!” we’re yawning.

  But here comes pay dirt, as Pop would say. Chapter six: “Lester’s Treasure.”

  But no, not yet. This is about Soup Bone, Lester’s dog, who ran off with the pirates. It’s about Lester crying, as Mabel, his wife, pats his back.

  Zack reads aloud:

  “We won’t live forever, Mabel,” Lester said. “If Soup Bone comes back, will he remember how much we cared for him?”

  Sheesh.

  Mabel tapped her fingers on her forehead. “Josephina.”

  “Our granddaughter with the huge ears?”

  Mabel smiled. “Just like Soup Bone’s. She loves that dog. We’ll leave her clues. If Soup Bone comes back, they can enjoy the treasure together.”

  Lester nodded. “If not, she can keep it for herself.”

  Zack puts on a sad face. “Too bad Soup Bone never came back. And Josephina with the ears must be dead for sixty years.”

  I grin. “Right.”

  And here’s something else. In pencil, scribbled in the margin, is a note: Read The Fascinating History of Newfield, for the poem.

  Zack and I stare at each other. Poem?

  We have to find that book.

  Right away.

  Chapter 5

  We head for the front desk. “We’re looking for a book,” Zack tells Mrs. Wu.

  She takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. “That’s a surprise.”

  Zack barrels on. “It’s called The Fascinating History of Newfield.”

  Mrs. Wu blinks. “Really?”

  But then she stops to think. “Wait. Maybe it’s coming to me.”

  We cross our fingers. Let it come, I think.

  She shakes her head. “Sarah Yulefski, dear Sarah, was in and out a dozen times this weekend, reading books on Newfield.”

  Dear Sarah. Sheesh.

  “But wait,” Mrs. Wu goes on. “The book Sarah wanted . . . the book you want . . . was checked out.” She frowns. “Who was it? The other day? Someone on the way to Dr. Diglio’s office. Or maybe it was Dr. Diglio himself.”

  Dr. Diglio. With the ton of money he’s gotten for the town’s teeth. Now he’s holding up our search for the big bucks!

  Mrs. Wu taps her pencil on the desk. “Sarah left ten minutes ago,” she says, chewing on the stem of her eyeglasses. “She’s on her way to Dr. Diglio’s office right now.”

  “On a Sunday?” Zack asks.

  “Sarah told me he’s opening just for her. Everyone loves Sarah.”

  Sure.

  We pick up our feet and rush over there.

  Two minutes later, we’re under the creaking tooth at Diglio’s dental chamber of horrors.

  We stop for a quick look in Dr. Diglio’s window. It’s closed and locked, probably so his patients won’t change their minds and jump out.

  There he is, four or five hairs pasted over his baldy head.

  He’s whistling a song from the eighteen hundreds in his too-tight white coat. He’s never listened to the word diet in his life. It’s a wonder he has any teeth.

  Yulefski sits in his seat of torture, but even now she doesn’t stop talking.

  We sidle down to the next window, Dr. Diglio’s waiting room. That window isn’t locked; the rickety screen will come out with the push of a finger.

  We could actually do Mrs. Wu a favor. Take a quick look around under Diglio’s couch and behind his antique black-and-white TV. And what about that closet with his knives, his buzzing drills, his skinny pickers?

  Zack reads my mind. His fingers begin working into a couple of holes in the screen. He wiggles it back and forth like a loose tooth that’s on its way out.

  I stand guard, dashing from window to window, watching Yulefski getting fitted for rainbow braces.

  Can you just see that smile? I ask myself. It’ll match the crunched-up Life Savers she’s not supposed to chew.

  I hear a minor crash.

  Diglio jumps.

  So does Yulefski.

  I look over my shoulder at the screen on the ground, and freeze. I see Zack’s two legs as he begins to wiggle into Diglio’s waiting room.

  After a moment, Diglio begins to whistle again, Sarah goes on with whatever story she’s telling, and Zack slithers all the way into the waiting room.

  I take a running jump, grab the windowsill, and slide in myself.

  Zack’s on the floor, like a crab, scrabbling around under the couch, and then under a couple of chairs.

  He comes out with a head filled with dust balls. Diglio is too busy with the town’s teeth to bother cleaning his own office.

  I creak the closet door open. One thing you have to say about Diglio is that he’s in love with his tools. They’re stacked a mile high, box after box. Zack leans in and moves them around a little, trying to see if Diglio’s hidden the book behind something.

  The door to Dr. Diglio’s operating room opens, and the doctor peers out.

  In a split second, Zack folds himself inside the closet.

  It’s too late for me. I stand th
ere, a drill behind my back, which Zack reaches out and takes from me without a sound.

  “Zack Moran,” Dr. Diglio says.

  “Hunter.”

  He shrugs a little. “About time you showed up. I’ve been worried about that back molar of yours for months.”

  Sure.

  He sighs. “No one leaves me alone even on a weekend. That kid Bradley was here for an hour yesterday. He doesn’t even know what a toothbrush is.”

  Bradley?

  Yulefski passes us. Yes, there’s that rainbow smile. She yells, “Thanks, Dr. Diglio, you’re the best.”

  She waves over her shoulder at me, then marches down the hall and out the door.

  “Into my chair,” Diglio tells me, smiling with huge false teeth.

  There’s no help for it. I’m toast. Or at least my back molar is.

  But Zack is safe. While Diglio stares into my mouth, whistling all the while, Zack will be able to take a quick look at the rest of the closet . . .

  . . . and disappear into the sunset. That’s from Saddle Up, Boys, Friday night, eight o’clock. Pop’s favorite. The boringest show you could imagine.

  Mouth open wide, I stare in front of me. And there it is, hanging out under a pile of stuff on the windowsill: The Fascinating History of Newfield, by Mrs. Elsie Mulenberg. Of course. Bradley must have left it there. How bright was that?

  It’s in worse shape even than the ruined book from last summer: pages sticking out, and the back cover is almost ripped off, pen marks all over it. Bradley is going to be in big trouble with Mrs. Wu.

  He’s turning to get something, probably pliers, when I hear this tremendous noise.

  I jump.

  There’s nothing wrong with Diglio’s ears. He jumps, too, drops the pliers, and rushes into the waiting room, muttering something under his breath.

  It’s my chance. Hold on, molar, I tell myself.

  I dart out of the chair, pick up the book, and race after Dr. Diglio.

  I circle around him, looking over my shoulder, as he stands in front of the closet, boxes of this and that cascading onto the floor.

  He holds Zack by the ear. “I’m calling the police!” he yells.

  I dash out the door, into the hall, pages of The Fascinating History of Newfield floating behind me.