Hunter Moran Saves the Universe Read online

  Linny doesn’t stop with her screaming.

  Zack and I duck behind a half-dead tree and peer out at the cops who are standing on our front step.

  “Are they after you?” Steadman asks.

  I drag him behind the tree with us. “We’ll have to hide until all this blows over,” I say.

  “Or everything blows up,” Zack whispers.

  “What do you think they’ve got us for?” I ask.

  “Pop turned us in because of the laptop.” Zack presses his forehead against the tree trunk. “Or maybe Diglio is having us arrested for trespassing.”

  I shake my head. “No, Diglio knows we’d reveal everything during an interrogation.”

  Zack nods thoughtfully. “Especially about the bomb.”

  “A bomb?” Steadman says.

  “No, don’t worry,” Zack tells him. “It’s a new kind of candy. Bomb—”

  “Bombalusa Nut Bar,” I say.

  Steadman frowns. He looks at us with some suspicion.

  “Really,” I say. “It’s delicious.”

  But Zack is still whispering. “Diglio will have some story. He’s crafty. We’ll end up as the bad guys in prison, drinking out of tin cups and wearing those striped outfits.”

  “At least you won’t have to take cello lessons,” I say, trying for comfort.

  Steadman’s lower lip trembles. “I have to sleep in my own bed, with my own blanket. And my own treasure.” He takes off running, back around the side of the church.

  We can’t follow, not yet. One of the cops is looking in our direction as Linny yells her lungs out.

  At last, the cop turns toward the door. We wait for a second; then, heads down, we go after Steadman, but he’s nowhere in sight.

  “Maybe he circled around the other side of the church,” Zack says. “On his way to Murdock Avenue.”

  Zack and I race after him, narrowly avoiding Old Lady Campbell on the sidewalk, and Fred, who lets out a frothy growl. “Sorry, Old … Mrs. Campbell!” I yell over my shoulder.

  “Practice for the concert, Zack!” she yells back.

  Steadman’s probably ducked into Vinny’s Vegetables and Much More. Zack and I barrel inside, up one aisle and down another. And there’s Steadman, hiding behind a cutout of a sparkly-toothed woman with a tube of toothpaste.

  How nice that toothpaste tube is. Ours is always dented in the middle, with white stuff stuck to the top. But I have more important things to think about. Steadman sits there, the bomb cradled in one arm and his thumb in his mouth.

  I crouch down next to him. “You’re not going to prison. You have to be ten years old.”

  “You’re going to prison, then, right?”

  “I’ll text you all the time.”

  Steadman bursts into tears. “What good is that? I still can’t read.”

  “I’ll draw pictures,” Zack says. “And send them.”

  “Your drawing is horrible.” He begins to wail. “You’re going to prison, too? I’ll be stuck with Linny and William.”

  “Don’t forget Mary,” I say. “You love Mary. We all love Mary.”

  Steadman’s lower lip sticks out a mile. “What good is Mary? All she does is bang spoons around.”

  This is going nowhere. I wrestle the box out of his hands and edge it behind a pile of sardine cans; I kick at the end of the rope so that’s hidden too. “We’re hiding your treasure,” I tell Steadman. “Keeping it safe.”

  The eyes of the sardines that are painted on the cans glare at me. They don’t want to be blown to bits, either.

  Steadman thinks about it. “I guess.” But he isn’t finished. “I’ll probably be captured by Diglio.”

  Zack and I stare at him. “How do you know about that?” I say at last.

  Vinny comes down the aisle. He thinks he’s the king of the supermarket world. “You guys again.” He points with his thumb. “Out!”

  We step around him and head for the door. All the while he’s muttering, “Those Moran kids could drive you crazy.”

  Then we’re out in the sunshine.

  But Zack stops dead. “Where’s the bomb?”

  I slap my head. “Hanging out with the sardines.”

  We sneak back inside and dash down the aisle to the toothpaste display, but the bomb is gone. Vinny with his X-ray eyes probably threw it in his garbage dump out back.

  Too bad for Vinny.

  But now we have to face the police. We head back to the house. Linny stands at the corner, hands on her hips. “Where have you been?” she screams. “I thought you were kidnapped. It’s a good thing Mom wasn’t here. She would have had a heart attack.”

  “Does Linny know how to talk in a normal voice?” I ask Zack, loud enough for her to hear.

  Becca shakes her head. “How do you put up with them?” she asks.

  “Linny’s throat will be ruined with all that screeching,” Zack says. “The swelling may cut off her windpipe.”

  Linny’s mouth snaps shut. Along with kidnappers, she’s afraid of choking to death. From the corner of my eye, I see the flashing lights on the patrol car throw a Christmas-red glow over the trees. The cops are talking to William on our front steps.

  “Do you know what the police want?” I ask.

  “Probably to lock kids like you in jail and throw away the key,” Linny says.

  Steadman opens his mouth so wide you can see his back teeth covered in chocolate. He begins to scream.

  “Now see what you’ve done,” Zack tells Linny.

  She leans over and gives Steadman a hug. “Not you. You’re a great guy.”

  Steadman screams on. “It’s terrifying,” Linny says over Steadman’s head. “William told me before. Pop called. His assistant spent the morning fixing his computer. It was covered with a strange liquid. The assistant said someone probably hacked into it. Maybe a terrorist who’s messing around with making a hydrogen bomb and blowing up the world.”

  A terrorist! The pressure is off. “Yee-ha!”

  Linny looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. But Zack is worried. “Is that why the police are here?” he asks.

  “Don’t be silly.” Linny looks back toward the cops. “They’re talking about Tinwitty Night, how everyone has to help out. Donate money for the big prize, a trip to the Ozark Mountains. They say everyone will be lucky to slurp up some of that winning soup.” She wrinkles her nose. “Gross.”

  It’s probably the first time Linny and I have ever agreed on anything. Last year someone added a possum tail to the mix. It makes me shiver to think of it.

  Zack still looks uneasy. He’s thinking about the Tinwitty concert, I bet. I don’t blame him. I’d be ready to throw myself in the soup pot if I had to compose a cello piece in two days.

  The policemen come down the front path. They don’t bother with us, a bunch of innocent kids, one of them screaming so loud you can’t even hear yourself think.

  But Steadman draws in a mighty breath. When he lets it out, he calls to the cops. “I can help you. I know all about the bomb.”

  Chapter 12

  “Heh, heh.” Zack’s laugh sounds fake, almost like the Joker’s in Batman.

  The cops turn to stare at Steadman.

  “That’s my little brother.” I put my arm around Steadman and shake my head wisely, even though my knees are knocking together. “He can’t even read yet. Not a word.”

  Steadman opens his mouth. I pretend I’m wiping some of the dirt off his mouth.

  But a miracle occurs: a crackling sound. One of the cops raises a hand for quiet. It’s their radio. More important things are going on than someone trying to blow up the world. They take off running and jump into the patrol car. With lights still flashing, they hit the road.

  I stare down at Steadman. He’s clueless about what he’s put us through. He’s actually grinning up at me with those chocolate-covered teeth. I have a terrible realization that he must have stolen a Hershey bar from Vinny’s Vegetables and More.

  My brother, a thief. What will t
his do to Mom?

  Linny opens her mouth. “Another thing. Do you know what I found? Do you know—”

  Zack nudges me. We have no time to listen to her.

  “On the back porch,” she says. “About a hundred concert tickets. All gunked together with hard candy.”

  “They’re just not dependable,” Becca says, her nose twitching like a rabbit’s.

  Zack looks as if he’s going into shock.

  “It’s a wonder the rain didn’t get them.” Linny shakes her head.

  Steadman and I trot around the back after Zack and sink down on the step.

  Zack holds his head. “I was supposed to sell them for the concert.”

  Some concert, with no audience.

  Zack begins to pull the tickets apart and holds one up. A lemon lollipop stick is stuck to the edge.

  “Oh yeah,” Steadman says. “That’s where I left that lollipop.”

  “I can’t stand much more of this,” Zack says. “Danger is one thing, but Steadman—”

  “What’s dangerous?” Steadman asks.

  “Stealing chocolate from Vinny’s Vegetables,” I say.

  “I just opened the candy bar the tiniest bit,” Steadman says. “I bit off an edge and put the rest right back.”

  How gross is that?

  “See what I mean?” Zack says.

  “Listen,” I say. “There’s no time to waste. We’ll find the—” I break off, looking at Steadman. “It’s probably sitting on Vinny’s garbage pile. We’ll bury it, then sell the tickets.” I think about it. “You can say they’re that way on purpose. You’re composing—”

  Zack gives me a high five. “The Sticky Symphony.”

  On the way to Vinny’s, we swing Steadman between us like a flying gorilla. But bad news. We can’t get down Vinny’s alley. The supermarket king has locked the gate.

  “Serves him right,” Zack says. “Blown to kingdom come because he’s too mean to let anyone near his garbage.”

  “We’ll figure it all out,” I say. “Don’t worry.”

  Zack takes a breath. “In the meantime, let’s get these tickets going.”

  We zigzag down the block and bang on the first door. Who answers? Our luck. Sarah Yulefski, with braces and brown teeth. Yulefski, who thinks I’m in love with her.

  Zack moves in front of me. “We’re selling tickets to the concert. How many would you like to buy? Five? Seven?”

  “How about twelve?” Steadman puts in.

  Sarah smiles her terrible smile at me. “Did you forget? I’m in the concert. I’m playing a violin masterpiece I composed myself.” She sighs. “You were supposed to sell those tickets months ago. I sold forty myself.”

  How could that be? Who in his right mind would buy a ticket to hear Zack and Sarah Yulefski? And right now Sarah gives me a Miss American Beauty Queen smile with cornflakes stuck to her braces.

  I step back and nearly fall off her steps. And Steadman is right there with his mouth. “Some set of choppers you have,” he tells her.

  She smirks at him. “Dr. Diglio’s work. I just got back from his office on Murdock Avenue. He had to fit me in. He’s leaving right after Tinwitty Night.”

  It hits me. Diglio will skip town just before the bomb detonates.

  The clock is ticking away.

  “I know,” Steadman says.

  Steadman’s reading my mind? It’s very discouraging.

  “We’d better get over to Diglio’s house right away,” Zack says. “See what’s going on there.”

  And that’s what we do.

  But all is eerily still at Diglio’s. His dinged Acura isn’t in the driveway, and today’s newspaper is still on the front path.

  “What does that tell you?” Zack says.

  “That we’re too late,” I say. “He’s moved on with the original, whatever that is. Right to …” We don’t even know where. How could we possibly follow him?

  “Nah,” Steadman says. “It tells me that he’s still at his office.”

  Zack looks as if he’s going to explode. He makes a zipper with his pointer finger and his thumb and runs it across his mouth. “When I do this, stop talking.”

  Steadman pays no attention. He speeds up the path ahead of us. “Come on,” he calls. “Let’s look in the window.”

  “Let him fend for himself for two minutes,” I say, and we tiptoe into Diglio’s backyard jungle. We look carefully, crawling up and down the yard, but Diglio is too smart to leave any clues in his weeds. Then—

  My heart almost stops. Inside the house, someone is speaking. We dive down into the bushes, landing on sticks that are as sharp as swords. What sacrifices we’re making for the good of the country.

  I raise my head an inch as the back door opens. It actually creaks like the chiller stuff on TV. And there’s Mrs. Diglio in a black outfit with a bunch of lace and dagger-sharp heels. She looks highly dangerous.

  Zack gasps and grabs my wrist.

  Next to Mrs. Diglio, with some kind of pie thing stuffed in his mouth, is Steadman.

  Steadman!

  And he’s pointing right at us.

  Steadman walks down the steps with Diglio’s accomplice. “Hunter,” he calls. “Zack. Good news.”

  There’s no hiding ourselves. Mrs. Diglio peers at us through diamond-studded glasses.

  Steadman goes on. “Mrs. Diglio isn’t a spy.”

  We stand up and wipe the mud off our jeans. “Heh, heh,” Zack says. “Of course not.”

  “We were …” I wave my hand, trying to think. Why would we be hiding in her jungle? And then it comes to me: “… wondering if you’d like to buy a concert ticket.”

  “Come in,” she says.

  There’s danger, staring us right in the face. But Mrs. Diglio has a firm grip on Steadman’s arm. We have no choice. We follow her into her kitchen, the middle of her web.

  It’s very disappointing, just an ordinary kitchen, except for killer-vine wallpaper. What isn’t ordinary is a fish tank filled with greenish water. If there are fish in there, they’re well hidden. I don’t even glimpse a fin or a tail. No, wait, there’s something sliding along on the bottom. A slug? A snail? Strange.

  And another thing. Locks bristle from the inside of the door and iron bars crisscross the windows. It’s a regular Hansel and Gretel prison.

  Will we ever get out of there alive?

  Mrs. Diglio puts a plate of spy cookies in front of us and pours lemonade. She sees me staring at the door. “New locks,” she says. “There are maniacs all over the place. Frightening.”

  “It certainly is,” I say, wishing Pop would fix the lock on our door. He’s very careless about things like that.

  “They climb over the fence.” Mrs. Diglio leans forward. “They’ve cut up my bushes, put them in piles.”

  Zack stares at me. What is he trying to say? And then it comes to me. We’re the maniacs she’s talking about. Imagine. Spies like the Diglios worrying about things like that.

  I glance down at the pad in front of me. Mrs. Diglio has terrible handwriting, even for a spy. There’s a pile of Zs and Xs; she may have added a new letter to the alphabet.

  I try to read without her noticing. Nead, it begins. Then a list. Alarm cluck, big hands to see in dark. Earploogs to miffle sound.

  Miffle? Muffle the sound of a bomb going off as they speed away? And what about that alarm cluck? Don’t they use clocks as timers for bombs? Didn’t I see that on some program? Maybe Death on Planet X, Thursday night, nine o’clock?

  I snap my fingers trying to think. Then I realize everyone is staring at me. I go mmm, mmm with my mouth filled with cookie, as Mrs. Diglio talks about the neighborhood being overrun with noot cases.

  Whatever that means.

  There’s more. All strange things. And at the bottom …

  At the bottom …

  Is Olyushka!

  That’s it. We’re toast.

  Mrs. Diglio moves as fast as an iguana. She scoops up the pad and puts it in a drawer. Then she clear
s her throat, so I look up quickly, innocently. Steadman’s mouth is full and wide open. It’s a cement mixer in there. I give him the zipped-lip signal, and the cement mixer snaps shut.

  He takes that moment to spill his lemonade across the plate of cookies, the plastic tablecloth, the chair, the floor, and himself, of course.

  Zack and I jump out of the way, saying, “Sorry.”

  Then, like a St. Dorothy miracle, I hear Linny’s screechy voice in the background. “Get in the house, Hunter! Zack! It’s time to eat!”

  Perfect.

  “We have to go,” Zack says, his eyes the size of Lester’s soup kettle.

  To our great relief, Mrs. Diglio opens her forty locks and we head out toward freedom.

  “Wait!” she yells, but we don’t stop. Of course not.

  “You forgot,” she goes on. “The concert tickets.”

  “We’ll be back,” Zack shouts.

  But that’s not going to happen, we both know that. It’s a miracle we’ve escaped with our lives.

  HERE WE ARE—DAY THREE OF SUMMER.

  It’s hot, sticky, and time is running out.…

  Chapter 13

  Breakfast may never be over. Pop keeps talking about computer hackers ruining the world.

  Zack and I agree.

  He’s also a little irritable, maybe because drops of water from the ceiling plink and plunk down on his head.

  He leaves for work with his hair plastered to his scalp.

  “So what’s the plan?” I ask Zack.

  He crunches down on a lump of granola. “I have to compose a sonata. A symphony.” He waves his hand. “A something. It’s hard to think about it when Newfield may be coming to an end.”

  I clatter upstairs to sit on the edge of my bed for a while. What can I do to save us all? Then I smell chocolate two inches from my face.

  Steadman, of course.

  “How about I show you some pictures?” he says. “You’ll be so excited.”

  Can I just find one secure place to think of how to dismantle a bomb?

  Steadman dives onto the bed. “I took one of you and Zack on the roof.”

  “Nice.” I back away from him.

  “I have a picture of the bomb, too,” he says.