reach it. Let me stand on your head.”
“Do what?!”
“I’m too short to reach the window. Let me stand on your head.” Again Darryl’s little feet scrambled, and again Scott wound up with tread marks — this time across both ears and his forehead.
Suddenly a voice demanded, “Whad — whad’re you doin’ down here?”
The boys froze. Because of Darryl’s weight on his head, Scott couldn’t turn, but he shifted his eyes as far to the right as they would go. It was Mr. Leery, the town drunk, staggering home after another long night of tipping brews. Mr. Leery continued his stumbling approach until he was staring directly up at Darryl, who was towering a good five feet above him.
“S’not right, you boyz bein’ here.”
Scott’s mind raced. Mr. Leery was right, of course. Standing in a back alley and breaking into a bookstore at midnight was not exactly the role of a model citizen. So what was this old man going to do? Blow the whistle on them? Call the police? And what was Mom going to think when she came home and had to bail her son out of jail?
“Great,” Scott moaned silently, “just great.” Mr. Leery wagged his head from side to side. “S’not at all right.
You — you shudn’t be here,” he repeated as he continued staring up at the giant before him. “The Lakerz are playin’ tonight — you should be with the res’ of yer team, gettin’ thoze rebounds and makin’ them fanzy bazkets … they need you, boy.” Mr. Leery threw a look up to Darryl. The little guy nodded down at the man but said nothing.
Mr. Leery nodded back, pleased that he’d made his point.
“Go — go get sooted up then,” he ordered and held out his hand, waiting for a high five.
Darryl reached out and obliged. Of course Mr. Leery didn’t quite connect with his hand, but it was close enough. The old-timer turned and staggered away, pleased that he’d done his part to help the L.A. Lakers toward another championship.
Scott stared after him. He knew his mouth was hanging open, but he didn’t much care.
As soon as the man staggered out of sight, Darryl burst out laughing.
“Come on,” Scott ordered, “you’re killing my head.” Darryl resumed twisting and turning atop Scott’s skull (grinding in any grease he hadn’t already wiped off on Scott’s face and T-shirt) until he finally pushed open the bathroom window and squirmed inside.
“How long will it take?” Scott whispered up to the window.
“Just long enough to get her computer up and load in the program. Ten minutes max.”
Scott breathed a sigh and threw another cautious glance up the alley. He looked down at his stained T-shirt and began rubbing the top of his head. This revenge business sure could be painful. He glanced at his watch. They still had to run over to Hubert’s and get him to reprogram the astrological charts. But with any luck, they’d have the Ascension Lady making a major fool of herself by morning.
**********
12:54 a.m.
Earthquake!
The thought exploded in Becka’s mind and sent her bolting upright in bed. Having moved to California, she figured she’d eventually experience some rocking and rolling from Mother Nature. She just hadn’t planned on experiencing it quite this soon. But here it was.
Or was it?
Her room was lit by only an outside streetlamp that shone through the window, but even then she could tell that nothing else in the room was moving. Not her bookshelves, not the lamp on her nightstand, not even the water in the fishbowl on her dresser. Only her bed.
She laid her hand on the mattress. It wasn’t her imagination — the bed really was vibrating. Not a lot, but enough.
Next she noticed the cold. Saw it, really. White puffs of breath coming from her mouth … exactly as they had in the mansion.
She threw a look to the window. It was closed. Even if it had been open, it was spring outside. And spring in this part of the coun-try did not mean this type of cold.
The shaking increased. Soon
“Do what?!”
“I’m too short to reach the window. Let me stand on your head.” Again Darryl’s little feet scrambled, and again Scott wound up with tread marks — this time across both ears and his forehead.
Suddenly a voice demanded, “Whad — whad’re you doin’ down here?”
The boys froze. Because of Darryl’s weight on his head, Scott couldn’t turn, but he shifted his eyes as far to the right as they would go. It was Mr. Leery, the town drunk, staggering home after another long night of tipping brews. Mr. Leery continued his stumbling approach until he was staring directly up at Darryl, who was towering a good five feet above him.
“S’not right, you boyz bein’ here.”
Scott’s mind raced. Mr. Leery was right, of course. Standing in a back alley and breaking into a bookstore at midnight was not exactly the role of a model citizen. So what was this old man going to do? Blow the whistle on them? Call the police? And what was Mom going to think when she came home and had to bail her son out of jail?
“Great,” Scott moaned silently, “just great.” Mr. Leery wagged his head from side to side. “S’not at all right.
You — you shudn’t be here,” he repeated as he continued staring up at the giant before him. “The Lakerz are playin’ tonight — you should be with the res’ of yer team, gettin’ thoze rebounds and makin’ them fanzy bazkets … they need you, boy.” Mr. Leery threw a look up to Darryl. The little guy nodded down at the man but said nothing.
Mr. Leery nodded back, pleased that he’d made his point.
“Go — go get sooted up then,” he ordered and held out his hand, waiting for a high five.
Darryl reached out and obliged. Of course Mr. Leery didn’t quite connect with his hand, but it was close enough. The old-timer turned and staggered away, pleased that he’d done his part to help the L.A. Lakers toward another championship.
Scott stared after him. He knew his mouth was hanging open, but he didn’t much care.
As soon as the man staggered out of sight, Darryl burst out laughing.
“Come on,” Scott ordered, “you’re killing my head.” Darryl resumed twisting and turning atop Scott’s skull (grinding in any grease he hadn’t already wiped off on Scott’s face and T-shirt) until he finally pushed open the bathroom window and squirmed inside.
“How long will it take?” Scott whispered up to the window.
“Just long enough to get her computer up and load in the program. Ten minutes max.”
Scott breathed a sigh and threw another cautious glance up the alley. He looked down at his stained T-shirt and began rubbing the top of his head. This revenge business sure could be painful. He glanced at his watch. They still had to run over to Hubert’s and get him to reprogram the astrological charts. But with any luck, they’d have the Ascension Lady making a major fool of herself by morning.
**********
12:54 a.m.
Earthquake!
The thought exploded in Becka’s mind and sent her bolting upright in bed. Having moved to California, she figured she’d eventually experience some rocking and rolling from Mother Nature. She just hadn’t planned on experiencing it quite this soon. But here it was.
Or was it?
Her room was lit by only an outside streetlamp that shone through the window, but even then she could tell that nothing else in the room was moving. Not her bookshelves, not the lamp on her nightstand, not even the water in the fishbowl on her dresser. Only her bed.
She laid her hand on the mattress. It wasn’t her imagination — the bed really was vibrating. Not a lot, but enough.
Next she noticed the cold. Saw it, really. White puffs of breath coming from her mouth … exactly as they had in the mansion.
She threw a look to the window. It was closed. Even if it had been open, it was spring outside. And spring in this part of the coun-try did not mean this type of cold.
The shaking increased. Soon
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