“You’re not going to die,” Amy told the goat. “I just need you to move your head a little further.”
The goat jerked its head to the side, pinching Amy’s fingers painfully. It was now Amy’s turn to screech. “Oouuuuchhhh!” Amy pulled her hand back before the goat had an opportunity to smash her fingers again. She could feel little pulses in each finger as if each one had a tiny heart in side it.
“You okay?” Brier asked, looking in sympathy at Amy’s red fingers.
Amy fanned her hand back and forth. “Yeah, I’m fine. They just hurt. Good thing about pain, it goes away after awhile. I’ve had my fingers mashed so much by this goat I should be used to it by now.”
Brier looked serious. “You're lucky it didn’t smash your fingers clear off.”
Amy stared at the goat, thinking destructive thoughts. “Maybe we should just leave her there.”
“Wait,” Brier said. “I want to give it a try.”
“Okay. I just hope you have better luck than me.”
Brier knelt down by the goat's head and looked it in the eye. The goat’s horizontal pupils stared back like black holes in space, or a vortex leading into the nothingness of nothings. The look the goat gave Brier reminded him of an embodied question mark.
The goat seemed to say, “You are so evil. Why did you get my head stuck?”
“Well,” Brier said, “looks like it’s just you and me now Dorothy.”
If Brier had worn a long-sleeved shirt he would have rolled his sleeves up, just so he could look tough. Instead, he just put his hands on the goat’s horns, making sure his muscles were visible to Amy.
“Okay, Dorothy, old gal,” he said, “just pretend I’m your fairy godfather, or whoever, and click your goat hooves together and say, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.” The goat jerked its head back and forth, supremely annoyed.
Brier tried to skillfully maneuver the goat's head through the space in the fence, but the goat twisted its head and managed to pinch Briers fingers in the same manner Amy’s fingers had been pinched, right as its head slipped out of the wire panel. “Ooooooewwwwwwwwoww, holy kaledo!” Brier howled. He waved his hand in the air, trying to wave away some of the pain in hopes it would disperse into the air. “I did it. You’re a free goat now,” Brier said, thoroughly disgusted at the animal. “Amy, aren’t you amazed? Golly, you should have named that goat, the Wicked Witch Of The West, instead of Dorothy.”
“I didn’t name it, ” Amy said. “Mr. Heckler did. But if I had, that would be the first name I would pick. Just think, if she was the Wicked Witch of the West, I could pour water on her whenever she got her head stuck, and then she’d melt into a puddle.”
Brier laughed. “Yeah, then you could scoop the puddle up with a bucket, pour her into her pen, and then she could slowly turn back into a goat when she dried off.”
“A puddle dry off?” Amy asked.
“Yeah.”
“Brier, a puddle doesn’t dry off. It evaporates.”
“Well then, if the goat evaporated, the problem would be solved anyway.”
Amy nodded. “Brier, I think you’re on to something. That wouldn‘t be so bad if this goat suddenly did evaporate.”
“But,” Brier cautioned, “there could be a possible glitch in my calculations. If the goat evaporated, it would eventually turn into a cloud. And then, who knows what a goat rain cloud would do to Mr. Heckler’s house. You’d probably have lightning, and blatting goat thunder, and yellow rain and hail, and your house would be sucked into a twister and you’d be taken to Oz.”
“Stop,” Amy said, laughing. “If you go any further with this story, it might end up making our brains turn to mush.”
“Mush has got to be better than what's in a goat's brain,” Brier laughed.
“Yeah. I suppose. But I don’t want mine mushified by any of your weird stories. Plus, I have to think. We need to get working on this list. I’ve only got a few things crossed off.
“So?” Brier wondered, “What are you wanting to find next?”
“I’m not sure…”
“Here, let me see the list.”
Amy took out the list, and gave it to Brier. “How about number nine,” he said pointing to the paper where it read: “#9. Find my gold thimble, my silver spoon, my old marble, an eagle’s feather, my old pair of boots, my lost wallet my lost glove, my lost hammer, the lost piece to my favorite jigsaw puzzle, and the mate to my favorite pair of socks.”
Amy nodded. “Okay. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to find Mr. Heckler’s lost stuff.” She closed her eyes, and got a mental picture of where the lost gold thimble was located.
“The thimble is in the house, at the bottom of one of Mr. Heckler’s packing boxes.”
A moment later, they found it.
“Gosh, you sure are good at this,” Brier said, putting the golden thimble on his forefinger, and twirling it. “Now what about the silver spoon?”
“It’s in the woodpile.”
“What about the marble?”
“Uhh…it’s lodged under the porch steps.”
“An eagle’s feather?”
Amy closed her eyes, and concentrated hard. “Hmmm. That one is a bit harder. I think there’s one just up the mountain behind the house, in a low tree branch.”
“What about Mr. Hecklers boots?”
“They’re in the back of his truck under some rubbish.”
“The wallet?”
“It’s in the bottom of the laundry basket.”
“The glove?”
“In a pile of straw by the barn.”
“Hammer?”
“Left on top of the roof.”
“Missing puzzle piece?”
“Wow…uh let me think. It’s…stuck between the floorboards in the living room.”
Okay, good. Last one. Socks?”
“They’re with the boots.”
Brier shook his head “You’re something else Amy. Okay, now we know where all this stuff is, let’s go get it.”
A while later, Amy and Brier walked up to Amy’s room and deposited all the lost items they had found, onto Amy’s dresser. That done, Amy got out the list again, and crossed off the words: #9. Find a my lost gold thimble, my lost silver spoon, an old marble I lost, an eagle’s feather, my old pair of boots, my lost wallet, my lost glove, my lost hammer, the lost piece to my favorite jigsaw puzzle, and the mate to my favorite pair of socks.
Chapter Fourteen
---Left Behind---
Tristan waited in the dark, on a street corner, with a brown sack in his hands. Once the coast was clear, he ran across the street and over to a low-burning light that lit up the street just enough to cast everything in a murky glow.
“Where is he?” Tristan wondered, looking down the road apprehensively.
Then as if to answer his question, a black car sped up behind him and stopped, nearly running him over. Tristan stumbled out of the way, and stared at the car. The windows were so darkly tinted that the only thing he could see in them was his own reflection.
The passenger’s side window slowly rolled down and a man with dark greedy eyes stared out at him. “I thought Locksley was going to meet me here,” the man said, glaring at Tristan through narrowed eyes.
Tristan nodded. “Yes, he was. But he changed his plan. Asked me to come for him. He doesn’t want to risk being caught with the goods.”
The man nodded slowly. “Ah, I see…so do you have the package, then?”
“Yes.”
“Then give it to me.”
“Give me the money first.”
“Fine,” the man said, thrusting a black suitcase at Tristan. “It’s all here. Like I told Locksley it would be.”
Tristan took the suitcase and peered into it. Satisfied with what he saw, he handed the man the brown package.
“Give Locksley my regards,” the man said, rolling up the window. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,”
Tristan murmured, taking the suitcase in hand and walking down the street, slowly, trying not to look too eager.
Once the car disappeared, Tristan ran for all he was worth.
Locksley would come looking for him. He was sure of it. It didn’t matter that he had double-crossed his partner. After all the work he had done, the money was partly his. In a few hours he would be out of this town, and far away from Locksley. He paused at a street corner, ran down an alley, and waited by a garbage bin. She was coming for him. Tristan crouched down by the garbage bin, and waited, closing his eyes, drifting into a troubled slumber.
He suddenly awoke to the sound of a car engine idling, and the brilliant glare of headlights. A car door slammed, and a woman stepped into view.
“Tristan! Tristan!” a voice called. “Where, in heaven’s name are you?”
“Mom!” Tristan exclaimed, standing up. “I’ve got the money.”
“Hurry,” his mom said, agitatedly blowing a puff of cigarette smoke into the air, “give me the suitcase.”
“No,” Tristan said, eyeing his frail mother with concern. “I’ll carry it.”
“No, dear, I want to see it.”
“Fine,” Tristan sighed in defeat, and opened the suitcase, so she could see the row of crisp green bills inside.
Her eyes widened at the sight. “Good boy. I knew you would come through with it. You always do.” She pinched Tristan's cheek, drew another long puff on her cigarette, and then started coughing.
“Mom, are you okay?” Tristan looked worried.
“I’m fine I’m fine.” She gasped between coughs.
Tristan looked at the cigarette in her hands. “Mom I don’t think you should smoke anymore.”
“Everyone dies eventually. If I want to kill myself by smoking, let me.”
“I’m sorry. I just thought that…”
“Don’t ever think, okay?”
“I’ll try not to.” Tristan shifted uneasily. “So you are still planning on taking me, right?”
“Yes, hon. I wouldn’t think of leaving you behind in this horrible town.”
Tristan tried not to smile, but his eyes filled with excitement. He was finally leaving town. All the time he had spent searching for his mom had finally paid off. He was never going to live in that awful Boy’s Home again. He got in the car beside his mom and they took off down the street, out of town.
After only a half hour of driving, his mother started yawning, weaving back and forth on the road so much that Tristan took over at the wheel, while his mother snored in the seat next to him.
For a long time he drove in silence, thinking. Tristan tried to sort out a list of questions that he had wanted to ask his mom for a long time. He looked at her peaceful face as she slept. She was not exactly the picture-perfect mother he had imagined. However, she would do. Her cheeks were hollowed, and her face was a sickly, pale yellow. She had a silver nose ring in one nostril, and dry skin. He had found his mother, some months back. When he first made contact with her, she had been angry. Then as Tristan tried to be of use to her, sending her the money earned from the things he stole, she gradually relied on him more and more.
“Tristan?” his mom yawned, sitting up. “Where are we?”
“Just outside of town. Why?”
“Stop.”
“What for?”
“I need a restroom.”
“Oh. Okay.” Tristan turned the car around, and drove to the first gas station he saw.
They both got out of the car and Tristan browsed the store, while his mom used the restroom. He stood in the magazine isle for a long time, waiting. When he heard a car start outside the gas station, he glanced up, and let out a cry of dismay.
His mom had crept out of the store and was driving away without him.
Tristan’s stomach lurched at the thought of being left behind. “Wait!” he cried, running from the store to catch up with the departing car. The car lurched to a stop as he ran in front of the headlights.
“What are you doing?” he cried, pounding on the hood of the car. “I thought you said I was going to come with you this time?”
His mother gazed at him with unfeeling eyes. She shook her head, and pressed the gas pedal. Tristan was thrown over the hood of the car, and onto the pavement.
Chapter Fifteen
---Retribution---
Tristan woke with a terrible headache. The gas station’s light shone down on him, causing his eyes to water and his head to throb even more. Apparently, no one had seen what had happened. What a pity.
He slowly stood up and gazed around him. His mother’s car was nowhere to be seen. She’d left him again.
He should have never trusted the woman. She had his money, and now he had nowhere to go. If he went back to town, there was no telling what Locksley would do to him.
“Thanks for ruining my life, mother,” he murmured, rubbing his bruised head. He should have known better than to trust someone who dumped her unwanted kid in a laundry basket.
He frowned, and took off down a dark road that led opposite the town of Crab Apple. He walked until morning, watching the sunrise over the hills light the sky with fire. Gradually, as the light of morning faded, a truck came zooming up the road. Tristan held out his thumb, trying to get the vehicle to stop. Luckily, the truck slowed and pulled up beside him.
The window rolled down Tristan shrank back, letting out a loud gasp. “Locksley!”
“I ought to kill you!” the man yelled, getting out of the truck and spitting a stream of tobacco juice near Tristan’s foot.
Tristan’s eyes filled with terror. “How did you find me?”
“Oh, you know me. I have eyes and ears everywhere. So. Where’s the money, you stole from me?”
“Don’t have it.”
“You what?”
“The money’s gone.”
Locksley’s face twisted into an ugly scowl. He grabbed Tristan by the shoulders. “You have to have it.”
“I don’t,” Tristan said, as Locksley shook him. “Someone took it from me.”
“Someone? Who? Your no-good-brick-bikini-cactus-leech-squad mother you’ve been stealing for?”
“No. It was someone else.”
“Quit lying, and tell me where she went.”
“I don’t know where she went.”
“How could you not know that? You were going with her, weren’t you? Then she ditched you?”
“No. She didn’t ditch me.”
“Looks more like she did more than ditch you. From that bruise on the side of your face, looks like she tried to run you over.”
“Look,” Tristan said, trying to sound calm. “She didn’t ditch me.”
Locksley stared at Tristan with angry eyes. “Quit trying to defend someone not worth defending. Listen boy, and listen good. The only family you got is right here. And if you don’t get that money back, you ain’t going to have nothing. Not me, not your gang, nobody. See, that money is real important. If we don’t get it back, something terrible is going to happen. Got that?”
Tristan looked stricken. “I can’t get it back. I’m sorry.”
“YOU HAVE TO!” Locksley shouted. “Don’t you understand if we don’t get that money by tomorrow night, I’m going to jail; the sheriff will have old Locksley. And once they have me, they’ll have you and the boys.”
“But why?”
“Because I pay the sheriff once every month to keep him quiet, to look the other way. Once the money stops, he stops covering for us. So you see, that’s why you need to think real hard where your mother would be going, so we can get it back.”
“I already told you. I don’t know where she went.”
“You have to know,” Locksley cried, knocking Tristan against the truck. “Think. Think real hard.”
“Wait,” Tristan cried, just as Locksley raised his hand to cuff him again. “I have an idea.”
Locksley lowered his fist.
“I know this girl. Who…who can find anything you ask he
r to find. I don’t know how she does it, but I’ve followed her, and I’ve seen with my own eyes, that she can find anything.”
“So you’re saying that this girl will know where your mom and the money is?”
“Yes. Not only that, she can find anything. Like ole’ outlaw Leatherspur’s lost treasure, if we wanted her to.”
Locksley looked at Tristan with skeptical eyes. “You’re lying.”
“No,” Tristan said, wiping perspiration off his forehead. “I’m not. It’s true. It’s really true.”
“Fine, then,” Locksley shouted. “Get in the truck, and we’ll see if this girl is fact or fiction. If you’re lying, and you probably are, you are going to pay for it.”
Chapter Sixteen
A Noise In The Night
Amy and Mr. Heckler sat together before a warm fire in Mr. Heckler’s house. They watched the fire devour the wood, while they listened to the wind blow, and the thunder rumble in the distance.
“Have you looked at za list yet?” Mr. Heckler asked, looking up from a newspaper.
“Yeah,” Amy said.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Have you found anyting on it yet?”
“Yeah, I have.”
Mr. Heckler’s eyes lit up. He leaned back in his chair with a contented look on his face. “Good. Zat makes me very happy.”
“It does?”
He nodded. “Yes. It does.”
“I’ve almost found everything on the list. Do you want me to show you what I’ve found? I’m sure you probably need some of the things anyway.”
Mr. Heckler shook his head. “No. Don’t show me until you have found everyting on ze list.”
Amy smirked. “Mr. Heckler, even if I wanted to find everything on that list, I wouldn’t be able to. You want me to find my family. I can’t find things that I have lost---only things other people loose. I’m cursed. Don’t you see that?”
“Cursed. I don’t believe in curses except for the ones we inflict upon ourselves. Who says you vere ze one who lost your family?”
“I do. And I can’t find them, alright?”
“Yes you can.”
“No I can't.”
“Family does not have to mean you’re related.”
“It does in my book.”
Mr. Heckler sighed. “Well, zen I guess you will never finish crossing off ze list. Guess you’ll never get to know my BIG zecret.”