The sheriff stood and looked off into the darkness for a few seconds.
“All right. You can’t or won’t tell me anything. I don’t see how I can make you. But let me tell you something, Mr. Boone, and this may come as a surprise to you. I don’t give two hoots about my next election. I care about the law and doing what’s right.”
“I think that’s pretty clear, Sheriff,” Boone said.
“Then if you can’t tell me everything, you at least owe me something. You need to tell me these two men I just killed were criminals. Tell me these were bad guys. I need to know that at least.”
“Sheriff Hackett,” Boone said, “they were the worst. Like I said. You’re a hero. You did a good thing tonight. You should sleep easy.”
Boone stuck out his hand. This time the sheriff shook it with a lot more enthusiasm.
Chicago
The concert was almost over, but Mom and Roger had returned to the stage for an encore. They had opened their set with another single from the album, Match, called “What If?” Buddy T. was getting real-time updates that showed the single had already gotten over a quarter of a million downloads from various music sites. It looked like they had another hit on their hands.
Mom and Roger had freaked out a little when they saw our cuts and scrapes, caused by all the glass flying around in the patrol car. Boone took them aside and gave them an explanation that seemed to mollify them. He told them the cuts came from the broken glass of an exploding vegetarian casserole dish we’d overheated in the microwave on the coach. He had taken us to wait there because the hotel was filling up with paparazzi and he wanted us out of there. It was a weak story but Mom and Roger were in full concert mode so they bought it. At least for the time being. I think the fact that it was a vegetarian casserole is what sold Roger.
Heather Hughes was also backstage with us. As usual, she and Buddy T. were arguing over something, which is how they seemed to spend most of their time together. Boone was across the stage, keeping an eye on the roadies. Angela and I were watching our parents sing and listening to the crowd go nuts as their voices harmonized perfectly. It felt incredibly normal. Less than an hour before, I’d thought we were going to die. Instead, here we were. I wondered how long our luck would last.
Boone appeared next to us, asking if we were okay. Once again, it was like he materialized out of thin air. Part of me thought he was doing this on purpose to shake us up. I didn’t get a chance to say anything before Angela cornered him.
X-Ray had replaced her smashed phone and all of her texts, e-mail, and photos had been loaded onto the new iPhone. She pulled up the picture P.K. had sent us of a man in a Nazi general’s uniform standing in some woods with a dog next to him that was the spitting image of Croc.
“So, Boone. You want to tell us about this?” she asked.
“What about it?”
“Is this you? Did you fight in the Second World War? How old are you? You can’t have fought in the Second World War because you’d be in your eighties now. You’re old but you’re not that old. Or are you? What do you have to say about this? Did you fight against the Nazis? Were you in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show in 1902?” she demanded.
“Angela, I’ve fought and been in a lot of places. More than I can remember sometimes,” Boone said, suddenly sounding tired.
“Is this you?” Angela waved the picture on her phone in Boone’s face. “Is your real name Antonio Beroni? Is that an alias?”
Boone straightened up. “Where did you get that name?”
“Never mind where we got it. Is that your real name or not? And is this you in the picture?” Angela was really getting worked up.
“We’re not going to talk about this right now,” he said.
“That’s what you said last time,” she said firmly.
He just shrugged. “Listen. Heather is flying you and your parents and Buddy T. to Chicago. The SOS crew and I are driving the coach and the intellimobile. We’re leaving now so we can get a head start on the traffic. I’ll see you when you get to Chicago. Since we won’t arrive until after you do, don’t get any ideas. Pat Callaghan is already there. He’s going to stick to you like glue. And I mean it. No tricks. No trying to ditch him. You won’t be able to, anyway. But if you go anywhere, he goes with you until I get there. Is that clear?”
We didn’t say anything. Angela still wanted answers. She stood there, arms crossed, chewing on her lower lip. I knew she had a lot more to say to Boone but it wasn’t going to happen now. My needs were much simpler. I just wanted to never have anyone shoot at me ever again.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “C’mon, Croc.”
He turned and left us, heading out to where the coach was parked.
“You owe us answers, Boone!” Angela hollered after him. He just waved his arm and kept walking, Croc trailing alongside.
“He’s making me really angry,” Angela said.
“I know,” I said. “But he and Croc have also saved our bacon a couple of times. Maybe we should cut him some slack.”
“Or not. Why can’t he just tell us who he is, what he’s been doing all these years?”
She shook the phone with the picture at me. “I don’t care what he says. I’m going to find out who—or what—he is. What are you going to do?” When she was mad, Angela liked to issue challenges. Especially to me.
I had been thumbing through the photographs on Miss Ruby’s iPhone. There were dozens of pictures of Chicago buildings and streets. I held the phone up so Angela could see a picture of the Chicago skyline.
“I think we can worry about Boone later. You know how they sent your mom to Chicago? Well, right now, I think we ought to try to figure out why the ghost cell always seems to show up wherever we are.”
Roland Smith
Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Roland Smith was just five years old when his parents gave him an old manual typewriter that weighed more than he did, and he’s been writing ever since. Now he is the award-winning author of eighteen novels for young readers and more than a dozen nonfiction titles and picture books for children.
Raised in the music business, Smith decided to incorporate that experience as a backdrop for the I, Q series.
When he is not at home writing, Roland Smith spends a good part of the year speaking to students at schools around the country. Learn more about the I, Q books at www.iqtheseries.com. Learn more about Roland Smith at www.rolandsmith.com.
Michael P. Spradlin
New York Times best-selling author Michael P. Spradlin has written more than twenty books for children and adults. He is the author of the Killer Species series and the international best-selling The Youngest Templar trilogy. He lives in Michigan and can be visited on the Web at michaelspradlin.com.
www.IQtheSeries.com
Roland Smith, The Alamo
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