Crazy Dangerous

  As my eyes went from diagram to diagram, I began to understand they were in a time sequence, one thing happening after another. In the first diagram there was just the stadium with lines of cars coming down the road. In the second diagram the cars were mostly parked and people were moving into the stadium itself, lining up and crowding around the main entrance the way they did.

  The third diagram showed an explosion.

  The explosion was represented by a violent scratchy splotch of ink near the front of the stadium. Underneath the splotch was the neatly written label: “Explosion: 9:15AM.”

  The next diagram showed the result: dead people all around. But more than that, there were also the people who weren’t dead. According to the diagram, they would panic and run away from the explosion back into the woods. The arrows showed the directions they would go, the paths they would take.

  And that’s where Mark and Justin and Nathan planned to wait for them with their guns. The idea, I guess, was that the explosion would make people panic and run away from the stadium down the easiest path to reach: the walkways by the road and through the trees. And Mark and Justin and Nathan would be waiting for them there—waiting perched and hidden in the trees. And they would open fire, killing the people who survived the explosion.

  Staring at the diagrams, I began to feel sick to my stomach. But there was no time for that. I looked at my watch. The explosion was supposed to take place at 9:15. It was already 8:50. The disaster was just twenty-five minutes away.

  I had to call the police. There was no time for anything else. No time to get to the stadium on foot. Somehow I had to call the police and convince them that this was all happening, that it was all real . . . before the bomb went off. Before the shooting started.

  I closed the notebook and stood. My stomach turned over, and for a second I really thought I would throw up. My vision went dark and I was afraid I would faint. I was never going to be able to do this. How could I?

  I steadied myself. I took a deep breath. I remembered the statuette of the archangel Michael on my father’s bookshelf.

  Do right. Fear nothing.

  Well, it was a plan, anyway.

  I stuffed my flashlight and Buster back into the pockets of my jacket. I didn’t bother to lock up the storage box. It didn’t matter if anyone knew I was here. Nothing mattered but alerting the police.

  I stepped to the door. Pushed it open. Stepped out of the shed.

  Detective Sims and two patrolmen were striding toward me across the lawn.

  26

  “Explosion, 9:15”

  I almost bolted. It was my first reaction to seeing the police coming toward me—marching toward me as if they were coming to arrest me for breaking into St. Agnes. Detective Sims was dressed in an overcoat, but it was unbuttoned so you could see the suit and tie beneath. You could also see his round, snowman-like shape. You could also see that little smile of his, as if he found this whole situation very amusing, in a not-very-pleasant kind of way. As for the two patrolmen—one striding along on each side of him—they didn’t look amused at all.

  “Why, if it isn’t Master Sam Hopkins,” said Detective Sims in a sarcastic drawl, “aka the magic friend.”

  I think I actually blushed. But I guess I knew Jennifer would blabber about all that eventually.

  “Funny thing,” Sims went on. “We were at your house this morning, Magic.” The three policemen—Sims and the two patrolmen—had now reached me. They were standing over me—towering over me—where I stood in front of the shed.

  “Listen . . . ,” I said.

  But Sims didn’t listen. “We figured there was a good chance you were home at that hour,” he went on. “Especially because we know you had a kind of late night last night, didn’t you?”

  “Look, I’ll tell you all about that, but . . .”

  “And here’s something odd. Your mom figured you were home too,” said Sims. “But when we looked in your room—what do you know? You weren’t there at all. There was nothing to be seen but an open window—almost as if someone had climbed out and shimmied down the waterspout in order to avoid talking to the police.”

  “Okay, okay, but you have to listen. You have to look at this, read this,” I said, holding the notebook out to him.

  “Luckily this is a small town,” said Sims, ignoring the notebook completely. “One of our dispatchers was having her morning coffee when she looked out her kitchen window and, son of a gun, what should she behold?”

  “Read the notebook. I’m telling you, this is an emergency,” I said. I was practically jumping up and down with the urgency of it.

  “She beholds young Sam Hopkins,” Sims went on, “running through her backyard, heading toward Arthur Street.”

  “Please listen.”

  “Also luckily, as a trained detective,” Sims went on sarcastically, “I was able to guess you’d be heading for Jennifer’s house. After all, you’re her magic friend.”

  “Mark Sales and his friends, Nathan and Justin—they’re going to kill people. Lots of people. In, like”—I looked at my watch—“twenty minutes.”

  That—finally—stopped Detective Sims. He stared at me. The quirk at the corner of his mouth got even quirkier as his smile got wider. “What are you talking about?”

  “Mark and Nathan and Justin . . .”

  “Mark Sales,” he said drily.

  “Yes. He’s got guns. Lots of guns. And a bomb.”

  “The Mark Sales? The track star?”

  “Look at the notebook! They have this whole incredible plan. They’re gonna set off a bomb at the stadium . . . They’re going to hide in the woods . . . They’ve got rifles . . .” I was so desperate to make him understand, I could hardly finish my sentences.

  I kept holding the notebook out to him. For another second, Detective Sims didn’t take it. Then he took it, but he just held it and went on looking at me. Finally, he gave a sort of sniff—as if to say, Oh well, all right, I’ll have a look. He glanced down at the book and started flipping through its pages.

  “You see the diagrams?” I said. “Of the stadium. They’re about today. About the track meet. See where it says, ‘Explosion, 9:15’? That’s just twenty minutes from now. We need to get there!”

  For a second my hopes rose as I saw the detective’s expression grow serious. He could see what horrible stuff was on those pages as clearly as I could.

  But then he looked up, held the notebook up. “Did you write this?”

  “Me? No!” I cried. “No! I found it in there.” I gestured at the shed. “It’s Mark’s. Jennifer saw him with his friends making plans. That’s what she’s been having hallucinations about. That’s why her hallucinations showed the truth.”

  “This is pretty sick stuff, Hopkins,” Sims said sternly. “What, did you come here to plant this on Mark, try to make him look bad?”

  “What?” I practically screamed. “No! Why would I do that?”

  “Maybe to get back at him for getting your friend Jeff Winger in trouble,” said Sims.

  I opened my mouth, about to answer, but nothing came out. I just stood there with my mouth open.

  Because suddenly I understood: It didn’t matter what I said to Sims. Nothing I could tell him was going to make any difference. It’s not that the detective was a bad guy—or even a bad detective. Actually, I think he was a good guy and a good detective. I mean, I think he wanted to protect people and keep his town safe and get the bad guys off the streets and into jail and all that. It’s just that I was trying to tell him something so different from what he already believed that it was going to take time to convince him. And I didn’t have time. Dozens of people were about to be murdered. Hundreds maybe.

  “All right,” said Sims. “I might as well tell you, kid, you are in a super lot of trouble here. Your dad’s not going to get you out of this so easily. You better come down to the department with us and we’ll talk it all over, get to the bottom of it.”

  I could have shouted at him: ??
?There’s no time!” I could’ve shouted, “We have to get to the stadium now, right now!”

  But I knew he wouldn’t believe me. I knew he wouldn’t understand. Not quickly enough. Not before the killing started.

  Sims gestured to the patrolmen, and they both stepped forward to take me into custody. One came at me from the left and one from the right.

  I bolted.

  I dodged left. The patrolman on the left grabbed at me. I swerved and dashed to the right. The cop on the right reached out. I’ve never been so glad to be a little guy in all my life. I ducked and went right under his arm and took off across the backyard.

  I raced to the edge of the house. I felt a little breath of air on my neck and knew that one of the cops was right behind me, reaching for me, his fingers just missing me. I put on a burst of extra speed.

  “Where you gonna go?” I heard Sims yelling after me. “Where do you think you can hide?”

  I didn’t look back. I didn’t want anything to slow me down. I just ran with all my might, with all my speed, down the side of the house, out into the front yard, across the street and down the side of the next house into the next backyard.

  When I finally did glance back, I saw there was no one there. The cops weren’t chasing me—not yet. But I knew Sims was right. There was nowhere to hide. I couldn’t escape them forever.

  But I didn’t have to escape them forever. Just for—I glanced at my watch—just for seventeen minutes. Just long enough to get to the stadium and somehow warn the people there about the bomb, about Mark and the others waiting in the woods.

  I stumbled out from behind the house. Onto the next sidewalk—Buchanan Street. More houses, more cars parked along the curb.

  I stopped. I put my hands on my knees, breathing hard.

  What now? The stadium was all the way across town. I knew I’d never make it in time. I thought of Jennifer’s voice on the phone:

  “So many dead. So many dead.”

  I had to do something to stop it. But what? How?

  Then slowly, I raised my head, looked around me. I had an idea. It was a crazy idea. Dangerous. It would probably get me killed.

  But it was the only thing I could think of.

  27

  Time Runs Out

  Breathing hard, I scanned the cars parked along the curb. I saw the one I wanted right away. A blue Mustang. It looked new. It looked fast.

  I took one furtive glance up and down the street. No one near. I stepped quickly to the car. By the time I reached the driver’s door, I had the Buster in my hand. I pulled the car tool out. Worked it in the window the way Harry Mac had taught me.

  A few seconds later I was inside the car. My heart was hammering in my chest. My eyes were wide—because I was shocked at what I was doing. I was stealing a car! But what else could I do? No one believed me. No one understood. The killing was going to start in minutes. I had to get there. I had to stop it.

  I needed to use a second tool in the Buster to get through the steering column and free up the wheel. That took a little longer than the door. I felt the time ticking away, felt every second go by as I worked. Then the column was broken; the wheel was free.

  I went to work on the ignition. And as I did, I heard the sirens start. The cops. Sims and his patrolmen. Looking for me. Coming after me.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” I told the Mustang as sweat poured down the sides of my face.

  The next second, the engine coughed and the car came to life.

  My heart was going nuts in my chest now. My head was reeling, the world spiraling around me. I tried not to think about what I was doing, what was going to happen next. I just said a prayer and did what I had to do.

  I put the car in gear. I twisted the wheel. I edged out of the parking space onto the street.

  I had my learner’s permit, like I said. I knew how to drive. At least, I’d driven my dad’s Passat a few times. My dad, as you would guess, was a careful driver and was teaching me to be the same. Always under the speed limit. Full stops at every sign. Look both ways. Then start again.

  And so help me, after this, that was how I was going to drive every day for the rest of my life.

  But for now—well, this was going to be different.

  I stomped down on the gas pedal and the Mustang took off like a bullet.

  A lightning bolt of pure fear went through me as the car shot forward, throwing me back against the driver’s seat. I gripped the wheel with white-knuckled hands. The lane of houses rushed by the windows on either side of me, a surrounding blur. I watched openmouthed as the front fender rocketed toward the corner.

  I didn’t stop at the stop sign at all. I didn’t touch the brakes. I just raced right through the intersection—and as I did, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the spinning red lights of a police cruiser charging toward me from the right.

  Then I was through the intersection and gone. And as the Mustang kept hammering its way down the street, I glanced up in my rearview mirror. I saw the cop car come screeching to a halt at the corner behind me. It hesitated there. I think the cops weren’t sure it was me in the speeding car.

  I didn’t wait around for them to come to a decision. I reached the next corner, hit the brakes, and wrenched the wheel to the left. The Mustang’s tires screamed as the car went into a mad, looping turn.

  Then I stomped the gas again and shot down the next street.

  The highway. I had to get to the highway. That was the fastest way to reach the stadium. I knew where the on-ramp was and I headed that way. I was still on residential backroads. I saw one or two people getting their newspapers, walking their dogs, freezing to gape at me as I went flashing past. But I still hadn’t seen another car. Then I did.

  Up ahead . . . a great big lumbering SUV . . . just slowing for a stop sign at the next corner. It was looming in my windshield as I raced toward it at full speed.

  “Get out of the way!” I screamed, my voice breaking.

  I hit the horn with the heel of my palm. The Mustang let out a trumpeting blast. I saw the SUV jolt to a stop, rocking on its back tires. Terror seemed to freeze my brain. I didn’t slow down at all. I just swung the wheel, and the Mustang pulled out into the oncoming traffic lane. I could’ve been hit head-on by anything coming that way—but nothing was there. I shot past the SUV and through the corner—risking a broadside collision now. I got lucky again: no traffic crossed me. And then I was gone, with the SUV’s horn screaming angrily behind me and my mind only just beginning to work again, only just beginning to grasp how close I’d come to a blood-drenched disaster.

  I drove on. Above the roar of the Mustang’s engine, I heard the police sirens again. They were distant now. A small spark of hope lit up in me. Maybe I was getting away from them.

  But still—still—how was I going to get to the stadium in time?

  I turned a corner. Up ahead, I saw the highway ramp. A Volkswagen Beetle was just turning onto it. I cut him off, speeding up the ramp toward the highway as the Beetle beeped behind me.

  “Oh no!” I said aloud.

  Because I saw the traffic—the traffic on the highway. It was moving fast enough, but there sure was an awful lot of it. Of course there was—everyone was heading for the stadium. Everyone was going to the big meet.

  I glanced at the clock on the dashboard: 9:06. Nine minutes to get there. To warn people. To stop the killing.

  I’d never make it. Never.

  But I had to try. I couldn’t slow down.

  My sweaty hands held the wheel. My wide eyes stared through the windshield as I raced through the traffic, dodging this way and that. I saw the rear fender of the car in front of me come slamming toward me like a fist to the face. A scream caught in my throat. At the last minute I saw an opening to my left. I jerked the steering wheel. I dodged through the open space—and instantly, another fender came shooting at the windshield full speed. Now the scream burst out of me. I wrenched the wheel to the right to get around.

  Miraculously, I was
through, still rolling, stitching through the traffic like the needle on a sewing machine—that fast. Horns started screaming all around me. I heard the sirens again, getting louder behind me now. I couldn’t tell how close the police were. I didn’t dare look up at the rearview mirror. I didn’t dare take my eyes off the road ahead even for a second. I just kept dodging through the traffic, so scared I was practically choking on it, practically strangling on my own fear.

  And every second that ticked away made the stranglehold grow tighter.

  Then—there it was—the sign: Sawnee Stadium, Home of the Lions.

  One more time I spun the wheel, cutting in front of a stately Cadillac. I heard the Caddy’s tires screech. My own tires screeched back as the Mustang skidded sideways across the lane to the exit. The car plunged off the freeway without slowing.

  And there in front of me, rushing toward me uncontrollably: a line of cars, stopped cold. The traffic for the stadium had thickened here, stopped by the stop sign at the end of the ramp. No way to get around. And the traffic on the cross street was too thick to get through. The rear end of the pickup at the end of the line was growing larger in the windshield, closer and closer. I had to stop before I smashed into it.

  I hit the brakes as hard as I could.

  The Mustang’s tires let out a humongous screech. I let out a screech myself. Smoke—carrying the stench of burning rubber—went up around the windows. I was thrown forward and felt the rear end of the Mustang fishtail, swinging back and forth, as the car threatened to spin out. My blood seemed to freeze inside. I gripped the wheel for dear life. I saw the pickup grow huge in the windshield.

  Inches from collision, the Mustang lurched to a stop. I gasped. Breathless, I looked at the dashboard clock: 9:10. Five minutes. Five short minutes. I threw the car into park, jumped out the door, and ran like a madman.