Null Pointer

Write Stuff 19 Challenge

1. 19 Syllables
2. Mansion
3. Red Trailer
4. Gatehouse
5. Mysterious Visitor
6. Glen Road
7. Arizona
8. Mysterious Code
9. Black Jacket
10. Happy Valley
11. Marshland
12. Bob-White Cave
13. Blinking Eye
14. Cobbett's Island
15. Emeralds
16. Mississippi
17. Missing Heiress
18. Uninvited Guest
19. Grasshopper
20. Unseen Treasure

19 Syllables

Brian looked up from his desk as his brother burst in. He raised an eyebrow. Mart had that look that said he was panicked and thought he was dying, but based on how well he was moving, Brian knew it was all drama.

“I still have the stupid cough,” Mart told him.

“That happens with an upper respiratory infection,” Brian replied calmly, returning his attention to the notes he’d been entering.

“Trixie said I might have pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis.”

Brian raised an eyebrow, stifling a smirk. “And what were you doing to our sister before she came out with that diagnosis?”

Mart ignored the question. “That volcano in Iceland erupted, and the meteorologists said the ash from it could travel as far as Pennsylvania! Who knows what impact that will have on people’s health?”

“Medical researchers have a pretty good idea.”

“Why are you not worried about this?”

“I am. For my patients with pulmonary conditions. But really, the ash from the volcano is going to be so diluted in the air by the time it gets here, I’m far more worried about the air pollution we’ve already got, even for my at risk patients. Of which you are not one.”

“Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis,” Mart repeated. “It’s exactly what I have!”

“Yes, it is,” Brian agreed. “Point one goes to the detective for following the clues to an accurate diagnosis. I may deputize her as a nurse someday yet.”

“You’re not taking this seriously!” Mart complained, stopping to cough again.

“Elbow, Mart. No one else wants to catch your cold,” Brian chided.

“I could die from inhaling volcanic ash and you don’t even care!”

“Mart, if you were actually at risk of dying, I wouldn’t be sitting here typing up patient notes. I’d be talking to your pulmonologist beside your hospital bed. At the levels of ash in our air, you would have to be exposed for more than ten years to develop silicosis. For it to onset this rapidly, you’d have to be exposed to levels that haven’t been measured anywhere residential, including the towns that had to evacuate at the base of that volcano. As for our sister’s crack diagnosis, did you even bother to Google it, or did you just take it on faith because Trixie said so and it was a big fancy word you could flash around?”

“It’s a lung disease resulting from inhalation of airborne volcanic ash,” Mart said, sounding exasperated that his brother thought he was an idiot.

Brian rolled his eyes. “It’s a fictional disease, Mart. The medical term is silicosis. Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis was a term invented primarily to compete as the longest word in the dictionary. Using it to a medical practitioner is going to get you diagnosed with hypochondriasis at best. Fortunately for you, you don’t have a psychological condition. What you do have is a cold. The same one you had last week, before the volcano erupted. Upper respiratory infections linger; your lungs are still forcing out the mucus. The cough is going to stick around until your lungs are clear. That’s normal. So is Trixie getting annoyed at you for badgering her with long words, which, I’m guessing, is what you were doing that prompted her to diagnosis you with the rare volcanic lung ailment. Now go away. I have actually ill patients to see.”

Mart sighed. “So Vitamin C?”

Brian just shook his head, saving the record he’d been working on and getting up to head to his next patient. “It’s good for you, but isn’t going to make difference to the cough at this point. Cough drops and patience, Mart, just like I told you two days ago.”

Mansion

Bobby happily dug for worms in the garden path for a little while, but the dirt was hard packed and didn’t yield easily to his chubby fingers. Plus the sun was beating down on him and it was hot. And Reddy, his treasured best friend, even if he was a dog, was stuck outside the garden gate. Reddy would’ve helped him dig, but Bobby knew Moms and Trixie wouldn’t be very happy with him if he let Reddy in the garden. Reddy wasn’t allowed in the garden. Bobby looked down the garden to where his sister was weeding and doing all the rest of her garden chores. It looked even more boring than digging for worms in the hard packed ground. He wanted her to squirt him with the hose, but she was always telling him to leave her alone. She was a big girl and that meant she had chores and ‘sponsibilities and couldn’t spend all her time playing with him. Well, that was okay. He’d just go play with Reddy, who always had time for him, over in the shade. Bobby climbed to his feet and let himself out of the garden, dutifully closing the gate behind him to keep Reddy out of trouble. The dog whimpered eagerly, bounding around him. “For your own good,” he whispered to the setter. “You don’t want to get in trouble, do you? Come on, Red’, let’s go ‘sploring.”

They set off into the shady woods, Bobby’s bare feet pounding along the worn path. Suddenly, Reddy got in front of Bobby and stopped, his fur up, his teeth bared. He growled in the back of his throat. Bobby looked around the dog and saw a pretty brown and speckled snake. Bobby patted the dog on the head. “It’s okay, Reddy, Trixie tolded me snakes don’t go ‘round biting people.”

Reddy growled again and backed down the trail. He grabbed Bobby’s overalls and tried to pull him away, too, but Bobby shook him off. “I want to play with the snake, Reddy. Let me go. Go home.”

Reddy released him, and with another unhappy noise went where he was told. Bobby looked around and found a perfect forked stick. He crouched down by the snake and gave it an experimental poke. It coiled up, hissing. Bobby smiled, delighted. Finally, something more interesting than carrots and lamb’s quarters! He poked again.

The snake sprang forward and latched onto Bobby’s toe. He started at it, his eyes flooding with tears as the pain shot up from his toe. Trixie had said… she’d lied to him and it hurt! Bobby wailed. The snake let him go and slithered off. He screamed again. It hurt and he wanted Trixie. She always made him feel better, even if she was sometimes mean and lied to him.

Red Trailer

Jim returned to his camp for the night and was just about to light a fire to cook the rabbit his snare trap had caught when he heard a noise. It sounded like a wounded animal. He had food enough, so he’d help it if he could. If he couldn’t, he’d put it out of its misery and wouldn’t have to hunt tomorrow. He couldn’t just leave it. Distress like that would draw larger predators, animals he didn’t want lingering around his camp when he went to sleep. He had enough problems without getting attacked by something as hungry as he was.

Jim listened carefully. His father had taught him to follow a sound to the source. He pushed through some brush and came face to face with the distressed creature. Well, that’s not going to be tomorrow’s dinner, he thought as he took in the scene. The thought brought a wry smile to his lips, one the poor girl caught up in the bramble bush didn’t appreciate.

“Go away,” she snapped. “I don’t need help.”

Jim raised a russet eyebrow. Her hair was thick. Half of it was still braided into what had probably been pigtails, but, if she kept struggling, that wouldn’t last. She’d lost the ties on her pigtails before getting caught in the brambles, by the looks of it. The other half of her hair looked to be well knotted around branches and rife with brambles. He didn’t see her getting out of that pickle without a sharp knife. She didn’t appear to have one, and, even if she did, he wasn’t certain she could get her arm over her head at an angle that would free her without chopping off her ear.

“It sure looks like you do,” he told her. “I have a good knife,” he offered, pulling it out of the case on his belt.

She shrieked, her eyes going wide.

“Woah, woah,” he cautioned, his voice taking on the tone he’d used with that Honey Wheeler’s big black horse. A pang of regret shot through him. He wished he could have stayed in Sleepyside! He shook off the thought and focused on the girl. “Shh. I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t think your hair is getting out of that bramble bush, that’s all. Just hold still,” he told her, kneeling so he could see what he was dealing with.

She sniffled, still crying. She eyed him mistrustfully, but held perfectly still. Jim was glad his father had insisted on proper care for equipment. He’d sharpened the blade just last night. It cut through the knotted hair with much less effort than he’d anticipated.

Jim winced when she pulled free of the bush. She looked a disaster, with half her hair chopped off so raggedly and the other half in a messy pigtail braid. Jim put his knife away, since it still seemed to frighten her, maybe even more now that she’d seen how sharp it was.

“Where are your parents?” She was younger than him, which meant she had no business being out in the woods this late all alone.

“I…I don’t know,” she said with a gulp. “I ran away and I shouldn’t have and I haven’t found them yet.”

“Where do you live?” He asked. He didn’t expect a young girl to know her way around the woods like he did. He could probably get her home, even though he was a stranger in these parts.

“We, um, don’t,” she said cautiously. “We were coming upstate in the red trailer when those girls—” she cut off abruptly, looking faintly angry. “Anyway. We don’t live around here. But my dad’ll be looking for work in the farming district. I’ll find them.”

Not with your wilderness survival skills, he thought, eyeing her. She was wholly unprepared for a night in the woods. “Come on,” he offered. “I’ve got a camp, just through those bushes. You can spend the night and we’ll try to find your folks in the morning.”

“Why would you do that for me?” She demanded suspiciously.

“Because I’m looking for farm work myself, so it’s no trouble,” he said, which was …not all a lie. He was starting to realize he couldn’t get a job at a camp like he’d planned. He was good at farm work, and those jobs were more commonly bed and board arrangements, so he might be able to get work without a lot of questions asked, and he liked farm work better than the idea of a cattle boat, which was his next option.

“Why should I trust you? How do I know you aren’t going to kill me in the middle of the night?”

Jim chuckled and shrugged. “Maybe because I’ve had two weapons in my hands since we met that were capable of doing to job and I didn’t use either one.”

“You’re a runaway, too,” she accused.

“Maybe I am. Are you coming? It’s going to get cold fast once the sun finishes going down. I have a fire.”

The promise of warmth seemed to lure her more than anything else. She flatly refused any of the rabbit, though. Jim supposed, if she’d eaten earlier in the day, she might not be hungry enough to be adventurous. A night with an empty stomach wouldn’t hurt her anyway.

Gatehouse

Brian and Mart looked at each other with resignation. One more meal with the small fry. They could survive this. As they waited for the camp director to open the mess for lunch, they kept a watchful eye on their charges. They ignored the older boy delivering camp mail. They’d gotten a letter from Moms and Dad two days ago. Trixie hadn’t written all summer, but she’d never been much of a letter-writer, so they weren’t hurt. Besides, she’d probably been bored to death all summer, with none of her friends near enough to visit on her own. With Brian and Mart at camp, she’d have had to pick up extra chores and Bobby-watching duty. At least she’d only had one of him, compared to their twelve.

The mail carrier came past their group and handed them a letter. “What’s this?” Brian asked, startled.

“You’re Brian and Mart Belden, right?”

“That’s us,” Mart agreed.

“Then that’s for you. Looks like a joke. Says it’s from a ‘Trix’. Isn’t that the rabbit from the cereal?”

Mart hooted. “I’m going to call her that,” he declared.

Brian glared at his brother. “I wouldn’t,” he advised. To the mail boy, he explained, “Our younger sister’s name is Beatrix, which she hates.”

“Loathes,” Mart agreed.

“Hence, Trixie, or Trix.”

“Ah,” the boy said sagely before moving on.

Brian slit the letter open. His eyebrows went up. “What?” Mart demanded.

“I don’t know yet,” Brian admitted, but he flashed the letter Mart’s direction, giving him a sense of the length. Mart whistled. Trixie’s scribbling handwriting went solidly down the page, and didn’t end in a signature. That alone made it the longest letter they’d ever seen her write.

Mysterious Visitor

Di ran back into the school. A weekend—even a single night!—away from her dearly beloved Uncle Montague was just what she needed! Even Harrison’s prim and proper, “Lynch Estate, how may I direct your call?” didn’t sour her mood.

“Oh, Harrison, it’s Diana. Is Mummy home? May I speak to her, please?”

“Please hold.”

“Diana, dear, is something the matter?”

“No, Mummy, nothing’s the matter, only I’ve been invited to spend the weekend at Manor House with Honey Wheeler. I told you about her. She and her family moved here just this summer, and they live in the big mansion on the hill above the Beldens’. Oh, please, may I?”

“I don’t see why not. You have to do your homework, though, and mind the Wheelers. I’ll send a suitcase over.”

“No, Mummy, please don’t. Honey’s just about my size. I won’t need anything.”

“Nonsense. It’s no trouble. You can’t go calling for two days with nothing but your school clothes. The Wheelers have means. Dinner will be a formal occasion. You’ll need a frock. I’ll pack the one Uncle Monty brought you all the way from Arizona.”

“No, Mummy. Not that one! Really, I don’t need a suitcase.”

“It’s a beautiful dress, Diana. It was very thoughtful of your Uncle to buy it for you.”

“Sure it was,” Diana said dutifully, not meaning it in the least.

“Diana, I thought I raised you with more gratitude,” her mother reprimanded.

“I’m sorry, Mummy. I have to go or I’ll miss the bus, but please don’t send a suitcase.”

“Of course I will. I won’t have the Wheelers thinking I can’t provide for my own daughter!”

Glen Road

“Benjamin Riker, message for you,” the student assigned to handing out the day’s mail called out.

Ben walked over to that corner of the cafeteria to fetch the message without any real enthusiasm. It was bound to be from his parents, a message of obligation, not affection.

Back in his dorm room, Ben flopped lazily on the bed and slit the envelope open, extracting the neatly type-written page with a roll of his eyes.

Dear Mr. Benjamin Riker,

That would be his mother’s secretary. His mother didn’t dictate openings or closings to messages, and her secretary therefore used official standards for those portions of all of his mother’s correspondence.

I am writing to inform you that your father and I must travel out of the country on business at the end of the week. Arrangements have been made for you to spend the days your school is on break in Sleepyside-on-Hudson with your aunt and uncle.

Well, that explains the impromptu family visit to Sleepyside last weekend, Ben thought. His mother loved New York City, but wasn’t much a fan of the small town her sister now called home. Nor was she much a fan of her sister adopting some penniless stray (Nadine’s words, not his, and a lie, considering James Winthrop Frayne II’s inheritance from his great-uncle), which didn’t go over well with said sister or stray.

Our driver will pick you up promptly at half past six on Friday. Your timeliness is appreciated. Your father and I expect you to be on your best behavior and represent the family name appropriately.

Apparently the school had called about one of his pranks again. Ben shrugged that off. He hadn’t done anything to get himself expelled recently, which was the only thing that would really capture his parents’ attention.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Nadine Hart Riker

Ben rolled his eyes. Her full signature. On a message to her son, one that could have been conveyed with a phone call, if she’d had any desire to actually interact with her offspring.

Arizona

Trixie fidgeted as she waited with her parents for the meeting with Mrs. Jones, her guidance counselor.

“Is there something you’d like to tell us before this meeting begins?” Her father asked at last.

“No, Dad. I don’t know what Mrs. Jones wants to discuss with you and Moms.”

“I hope you haven’t been causing any disruption in your classes.”

“No, Dad. I wouldn’t!”

“Good.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Belden, please come in,” the guidance counselor invited, appearing suddenly in the doorway.

Once the necessary pleasantries were handled, Mrs. Jones steepled her hands. “While all of her teachers agree that Ms. Belden is a bright young woman, we need to inform you that she is not performing at grade level in her mathematics and English coursework to date.”

“Not performing at grade level,” Mr. Belden echoed. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“Well, it can mean different things for different students. Most often, failing grades indicate a student is not applying herself to her studies,” Mrs. Jones said with a disapproving look at Trixie. “That is why we like to involve parents in these conversations at this point. If Ms. Belden is not able to master the grade level expectations, come spring, we will need to consider the possibility that she needs to spend more time with this material.”

“Repeating the year, you mean,” Moms clarified, not sounding as horrified by the suggestion as Trixie felt.

“Potentially,” Mrs. Jones agreed, “but, as I said before, most times, the deficiencies can be corrected quiet easily by a student committed to her education.”

“I see,” Mr. Belden said calmly, in his banker’s voice that gave no insight into what he felt about the matter. “Thank you for giving us this information.”

Mysterious Code

“Now that this meeting of the school board has been called to order, the first order of business before us is the recent rash of vandalism and theft,” the chair of the board declared.

“Indeed. Sleepyside Police officers tell us they believe one or more of our students are behind the acts.”

“Kids these days!”

“I’ve heard that, in New York City, they have to have police at the schools. All the time! Because all of the children are involved in gangs,” the final word is delivered at a properly horrified stage whisper.

“Principal Stratton, what are you doing to keep gangs from forming in our schools?”

Mr. Stratton blinked twice, startled by the question. While he was currently short $15 from his desk, and the other thefts and vandalism were troubling, they were not gang activity. Mr. Stratton was in regular contact with his counterparts throughout the state, and he knew exactly what struggles the city schools faced.

Collecting himself, Mr. Stratton began, “While this rash of petty crime is troubling, we have not seen any evidence of gang activity.”

“I’m sure that’s what every district says, right before they’re overrun with gangs fighting with each other.”

“None of the crimes we’ve experienced have been violent, and we’ve had no reports of weapons on school grounds.”

“Weapons! Is that what comes next? Are our children safe?”

Principal Stratton resisted the urge to rub his temples. He was familiar with the board’s tendency to hysterics and paranoia, but gangs? In Sleepyside? Hardly. Bored teenagers who needed more opportunities to constructively express themselves than were readily available in a small town? Certainly.

“My son tells me there are any number of ‘secret’ clubs at the school. He doesn’t even know the names of all of them, but he mentioned the Hawks—”

“Well, that sounds like a gang for sure,” someone muttered. Principal Stratton couldn’t decide if she was being sarcastic or not.

“The Hawks include a number of our student athletes,” he began.

“And one of the groups wears matching red jackets, with their gang’s letters on the back.”

Cross-stitched, Principal Stratton thought with a sigh. He didn’t really know much about the group the Belden kids had formed, but he’d resign if it was a criminal enterprise. “The Belden and Wheeler kids have bonded over being too far out to visit with the rest of their friends readily,” he tried.

“They’ve corrupted even the Beldens?” Another voice demanded, horrified. “Who’s safe?”

“We want you to put a stop to this!”

“Yes, immediately.”

A chorus of voices joined the first two, until the whole room was demanding he put an immediate end to the apparent rise of criminal gangs in the Sleepyside schools.

“And, what exactly, would putting a stop to it entail?” He asked carefully.

“You will disband all non-school-sponsored clubs and club activity that does not demonstrate a clear value to our children’s education and the good of our beloved community.”

Because all the afternoons I spent with the guys on the football team, not doing my homework, and smoking cigarettes and worse, was valuable to my education and the good of my community? We might as well disband all of our extracurricular activities, under those rules. See what that does for our levels of petty crime when our kids don’t have a sense of community with their peers and something to do to occupy their time.

With a sigh, and only because his contract was up at the end of the term and he couldn’t afford to butt heads with the board right now, Principal Stratton vowed to do his best to implement the board’s mandate.

Black Jacket

“Mangan!” One of the guards called out.

Dan stepped forward reluctantly. This might only be juvenile detention and not actual jail, but the guards wanting to pay you any attention usually wasn’t good. The guard escorted him to a visitation room. He walked in to see a perfectly coifed woman already sitting at the table, a briefcase open on the table. Social worker. He’d met her before. She’d never been on the streets. Never been hungry. Never been without a roof overhead when it rained. Never wondered if all of her fingers would survive the night, or if it was too cold. She had no idea what his life was like but still thought she had a right to judge him.

He sat down because he didn’t want the guard to do it for him, not because he wanted to hear what she wanted with him.

“Good morning, Daniel.”

“Morning,” Dan said shortly.

“I came out today to let you know I found him.”

“Who?”

“Your mother’s brother, your uncle William Regan.”

“You’re clearly proud of yourself,” Dan replied, making it abundantly clear he was not.

“Daniel, family that’s willing to take you opens up whole other avenues of sentencing. You could avoid jail time entirely.”

“And if he’s so willing to take me, if he’s so eager to be my ‘family’, where was he when Mama was sick? Where was he when Mama died? Where was he when the landlord kicked me out on the street and wouldn’t even let me take a picture of Mama or Dad’s dog tags? Far as I can figure, he’s deader than they are. At least when they were here, they were here.”

“Your uncle has had his own challenges,” the social worker informed him, as if that was supposed to excuse it. “He lives in Sleepyside-on-Hudson, and works for the Wheeler family as their groom.”

Dan snorted. “And he’s going to bring his thieving nephew to work for the richity-rich? Doing what, shoveling shit?”

“If you’d rather spend your childhood behind bars,” she replied, “you can keep right on going on. Otherwise, I suggest you listen.”

Dan glared, but held his tongue.

“Your uncle lives in a small apartment over the Wheelers’ garage and he was, like you, not certain that would be the best environment for you. A Mr. Maypenny has a cabin in the Wheelers’ preserve. He’s the gamekeeper, and he is getting older and could use some assistance. You would earn a limited salary as an assistant gamekeeper, once you satisfy the community service aspect of your sentence. You would live with Mr. Maypenny in his cabin. Both Mr. Regan and Mr. Maypenny would have joint guardianship, so that either can make any necessary decisions regarding your accommodations, within the limitations of your probation. Assuming you do not have any further trouble with the law, your record will be sealed when you turn eighteen. If this arrangement is not satisfactory to you, your alternative is to serve the sentence the judge deems fitting, given your conviction. Even for a first offense, because you’re fifteen, and therefore considered old enough to understand what you did was wrong, you’re likely looking at five years, minimum. While your peers are graduating high school and starting college, you’ll be staring at steel bars and ironing orange jumpsuits. But it’s up to you.”

“Sure it is,” Dan said sullenly.

Happy Valley

Jim wasn’t sure this was a good idea at all. A gift like this was an opportunity for rejection. What if she didn’t like it? What if she didn’t wear it? What if her parents forbid her wearing it? What if Mr. B and his shotgun… Jim shook his head. Mr. B is not Jonesy. He may not like you looking at his little girl like you do, but he won’t hurt you, at least not so long as you don’t hurt her, Jim reminded himself, and he knew he’d never willingly hurt Trixie. Still, this was a big move, and, at the same time, not nearly big enough. Jim could remember his father telling him about meeting his mother, and how he knew from the day he met her that he’d found his “special girl”, the one he was going to spend the rest of his life with. And Jim knew. He’d known since the day he met her exactly who she was and what his future held, if she’d have him. He wished his father was still around, wished he could ask how one became worthy of a special girl. But then, maybe his father hadn’t had to worry about that. He’d been orphaned, too, but he’d had Uncle James and Aunt Nell. He hadn’t had a Jonesy. He hadn’t had scars disfiguring his back. He hadn’t had scars disfiguring his soul. Jim wasn’t sure he’d ever be whole again, and, if he couldn’t give Trixie everything, would she want anything? He wished he could ask someone for advice, but Matt wasn’t any good for advice on this topic. Talking about the abuse just made him angry, and, though he assured Jim his anger was with Jones, Jim couldn’t curb his anxious response to an angry father figure. He couldn’t talk to Maddie about this; she wasn’t much good for parental advice in general, still too unsure of herself in that role to advise anyone on anything from it. He couldn’t talk to Moms about this; she was Trixie’s mom first. And his parents were gone. So he had no one to ask as he stood in a shop paying for a silver bracelet with his name engraved in the back, hoping his special girl would like it, would wear it, would someday agree to be his forever and ever, as long as they both managed to keep on living.

Marshland

Finally, another dog to chase! Jim hadn’t brought Patch down for a romp in ages, and Reddy missed his playmate. The little white yipping cotton ball darting around his feet reminded him more of Bud, the dog Honey traded for Jim, than polite, well-mannered Patch, although Bud had been easier on the ears. The little ones always had to screech at the top of their lungs!

Reddy led a merry chase off into the woods where he wouldn’t get in trouble for making the little blonde girl shriek even louder than the cotton ball prancing after him. The little dog’s yips fell off and Reddy turned back. He forgot sometimes with the little dogs and little people that he could outrun them. He loped back closer and heard the distinct hiss of a snake. Snakes hurt his people and the brown ones were mean.

Reddy swiftly nosed the yippy cotton ball, who clearly didn’t know that snakes were not to be played with, back and barked a warning at the snake that he was ready for a fight, if the snake wanted his new friend or any of his people.

Bob-White Cave

As soon as they were alone, Jim turned to Brian. “That Slim!”

Brian nodded solemnly.

“Tell me it’s me. Tell me I’m overreacting and being too protective of the girls, who don’t need me to get all bent out of shape over someone we’ll never see again after this week.”

“I’m trying to extend him some courtesy. Maybe it’s regional? Calling everyone ‘dudes’, or calling us that, at the exclusion of the girls? But no, it’s not just you. I don’t like the way he treats Honey and Trixie and Di, either.”

Jim sat heavily, running frustrated hands through his hair. “He reminds me of Jonesy. I wanted to tell myself that he’s clearly not my step-father and therefore it’s me, not Slim. That I should extend him some courtesy, and control my temper.”

“Losing your temper probably won’t help the situation, but what do you mean, about him reminding you of Jones?”

“Just…the manner. Offending people and not seeming to notice or care, the rough-edged demeanor. The…the swagger. The chip on his shoulder. Jonesy didn’t talk about his childhood much, but I gather his own father didn’t think much of him. He could never live up to his father’s expectations, so he always saw himself as a failure, which…I get is frustrating. And I was a handy target for that anger, since I made it clear he didn’t live up to my expectations, either.”

Brian nodded. “You don’t think Slim would…?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how much is me and my issues from the abuse, and how much is real, an instinct—having experienced it before—for the kind of person who could use violence casually.”

“So we stick close to the girls when he’s around, agreed?”

“Agreed,” Jim declared emphatically.

Blinking Eye

Dan’s stomach dropped when Jim identified which scribble in the front of the phone book belonged to Trixie by her funny fours. He knew that address. He’d taken stolen goods there to be fenced, with the rest of the Cowhands. There was not a chance Trixie was safe there. Nor was there a chance she was meeting someone on the right side of the law. Why hadn’t she told anyone where she was going? Why hadn’t she told anyone someone had approached her, called her? She didn’t pull that address out of thin air! The fence took great pains to make sure no one knew about his place of business except those who had occasion to do business with him.

The ride in the squad car was the longest of his life. Sitting in the back of a police car whose sirens were blaring did not bring back the best of memories. Jim squeezed his shoulder in commiseration, and Dan tried to smile, until they turned a corner. Dan had to close his eyes. He knew every inch of this neighborhood. It hadn’t changed one bit. But he had. Enough to hate the person he’d been after his mother died and before social workers found his uncle and sent him away to Sleepyside. He hadn’t been grateful then, but he was now.

And Trixie was square in the middle of it, in the worst possible location, where she’d be surrounded with people who meant her ill. There was no way to know for sure how long she’d been there and exactly how bad the people she was meeting were. Did they plan only to rob her of the apparently valuable idol? Or was a witness too much risk, for the thieves or the fence? The fence had killed before, if street talk was to be believed. Dan saw no reason why he wouldn’t consider Trixie a threat to his business that needed to be eliminated. When she came, all alone and innocent, would they think to kidnap her, take her for ransom or sale? Dan had seen people sold in this neighborhood. He’d been powerless to stop it then. He prayed he wasn’t now.

Cobbett's Island

“Uncle Bill?” Dan called out, letter clasped firmly in his hand, as he entered the stables.

“In the office, Dan!” Dan walked down the aisle of the stable quickly, ignoring Jupiter’s neigh, protesting his confinement to a stall. “What do you need?” Dan’s uncle, William Regan, asked, looking up from an order he was reviewing.

“I don’t need anything, Uncle. I just wanted to share this with you,” he said, unfolding the page.

“And what’s that?” Regan asked as Dan walked around the side of the desk.

“I got a job this summer, at one of the camps. Even with my past! I talked about it in my application. I know you and Mr. Wheeler weren’t too sure about having a former gang member around innocent kids, so I figured parents sending their kids off to camp might not be, either, and I should be up front about it. Look here, the camp director wrote back that he’s proud of me for taking the second chance, when it was offered, and turning my life around!”

Regan smiled at his nephew’s enthusiasm. He probably should have made it clearer how proud he was of his nephew. “I’m proud of you, too, Daniel. Congratulations. Have you talked to Mr. Maypenny about the game-keeping?”

“I, um, I talked to him about it before I applied. I didn’t want to tell anyone, because I thought I might not get accepted, and Honey and Trixie would get all indignant on my behalf because they think I’m a perfectly fine young man.”

“You are.”

“But I have a past that I’ll always have to answer for. I just…I didn’t want to have to defend the camp’s decision to the girls, if the camp just couldn’t have someone like me on staff. And I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it, either, so I just wanted to wait and see how it went, but I knew it might be a problem for Mr. M. He encouraged me to apply. He said we’d figure out the gamekeeping duties once we knew how long I’d be gone, and if Jim and Brian and Mart had summer jobs.”

“Good for you, Daniel. Good for you. Now, go on; I’m sure you’re dying to tell your friends the good news!”

“I am,” Dan agreed with a happy smile, “Except the Wheelers just invited all of us to Cobbett’s Island for ten days. I haven’t been to the beach since before Mama died and now I have to tell the others I can’t go!”

“Responsibility carries a price,” Regan admitted.

Dan nodded. “At least I’m off probation now and don’t have to fill out five different forms every time I want to leave the county with the others.”

“You’ve served your time, Daniel. Now, it’s time to live the life you’ve created for yourself.”

“Thanks, Uncle Bill.”

Emeralds

Jenkins pulled into his third junk trap shop of the day. He had to find some old rusted piece of garbage that would give the impression it might have contained the emeralds since the Civil War. And he had to find it for cheap. It wouldn’t do to sell the department store necklace to gullible Mr. Carver for a quick several hundred if he was out most of that in props for the performance. He wanted some profit from this endeavor! He didn’t need a lot. He could get by on his wits, once he got away from this place. He just needed some startup funds.

Ah ha! An old rusted medicine box from forever ago. It was just the thing. Jenkins pulled the strands of plastic jewels from his coat pocket, checking to make sure they fit comfortably enough that it was believable that Ruth character had secreted her prized gems away in it. She wouldn’t have crammed them into something too small, but neither would she have let them rattle around and risk potential scrapes and scuffs in an oversized container.

Jenkins nodded to himself. The fit was good enough. Now to set up a meeting with Mr. Carver to sell him his precious emeralds.

Mississippi

“Why I continue to work with such incompetent fools,” Diego Martinez, aka Pierre Lontard, aka Frenchy, muttered to himself, bringing his vehicle to a screeching halt and executing a rapid and highly illegal U-turn. Of all the things to misplace, it had to be the briefcase with the map of their relay points in it! If someone found it and turned it over to the police, they could be ruined!

Fortunately, theft was frowned upon in this country full of folks so rich they didn’t have to jump at every opportunity to make a quick buck. Even that expression! We’d jump for nickels, back home! Pennies, after a few days.

The Americans (as if this was the only country in the Americas!) had no idea how good they had it. Guns would continue the unrest in his home country, which was…an unfortunate side effect of the business that was going to make him rich. Some would call his work morally objectionable. Children are dying in the streets, you monster! They’d yell at him. But they didn’t see the streets he’d grown up on. Children already were dying in the streets, lacking food and clean water. And what did anyone do about that? So who was the monster? He who saved himself, or those who had means but did nothing except condemn others for trying to survive?

Anyway, chances were the new tenants of his room hadn’t arrived yet, and he could get in, retrieve the briefcase and get out, with no one the wiser. And if he couldn’t, Juan might have outlived his usefulness. His kind-hearted wife certainly had, except that she kept Juan in line.

He threw the car into park and stormed to the door of the room they’d been staying in, thrusting it open, pleased to find it unlocked. He was not pleased to find two girls—teenagers—grubbing through his papers, including the maps. “Hand that over! It’s mine, young ladies!” He growled, confident he could intimidate them into handing over his rightful property and never speaking a word of it to anyone.

Missing Heiress

She watched the vehicle pull up to the house. “Showtime,” she murmured to herself. “Juliana Maasden, parents drowned in a car accident, raised by the Schimmels—neighbors—then sent to the States to live with the Schimmels’ grown daughter, now Mrs. De Jong for the education. Cousin Jim—James Winthrop Frayne II—inherited the land and fortune of James Winthrop Frayne I and was adopted by the already fabulously wealthy Wheeler empire so they could co-opt money that was never theirs, rather than letting it go to Uncle Jones, who had borne all the costs of raising Cousin Jimmy. Now’s the chance for our family to get our piece!”

She let the glow of entitlement and, perhaps, a bit of vengeance, fade from her eyes before checking that she looked appropriately excited and Netherland-ish, in the mirror before she dashed down the stairs, channeling her excitement at the prospect of the money to be had into apparent excitement to meet her long unknown “Cousin Jim” and his dearest friends.

She hoped she’d learned enough. Fortunately, the old biddy who had taken her in was an easy mark to pump for all the information she might need to know about Dutch culture, her “mother’s” family, and the Frayne and Wheeler families. She just had to pull this off until the inheritance check came through, and then she could quit this town, split the profit with Uncle Jones, and make a life for herself in some city far, far away, where she could find a man who would keep her in the style she clearly deserved.

Uninvited Guest

“Daniel, wait a minute. We need to talk.”

“About?” Dan asked, looking at his uncle over Spartan’s back as he saddled up.

“I saw you with those Cowhands.”

“Mm,” Dan hummed. “And?”

“And?” Regan echoed. “Daniel, do not play games with me. Those boys are trouble. They will drag you down. You have a future ahead of you.”

“And?”

“And what were you doing talking to them? What are they even doing in Sleepyside? You didn’t invite them out here, did you?”

“No! Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know, Daniel. Because you were talking with them two minutes ago? Because why else would they come all the way out here?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Because they have a bone to pick with the kid who left? In a gang, that’s called being a traitor. Because there are rich folks out here and they think a small town PD means a small town reaction, unprepared for grand theft.”

Regan snorted. “Tell that to the arsonists, diamond thieves, imposters, et cetera that Trixie and Honey seem to unmask every other week.”

“So I was trying to explain to them when you saw me. But they aren’t going to take a traitor’s word for it, and, like most criminals, they don’t think a couple of teenage girls pose a sufficient threat to offset the potential gain of robbing places like we’ve got out here.”

“I don’t want you hanging around with them.”

“I have no intention of hanging around with them. I have every intention of getting rid of them, before they cause more trouble than they already have by leaving their cigarette butts all over the preserve and building fires without a proper ring out there in August. It’s not last year’s drought, Mr. M tells me, but that doesn’t mean the whole preserve won’t go up.”

“I think you might be out of your depth. You should leave the Cowhands to the police and the adults.”

“They’re my mess!”

“And if they tangle you in theirs, you will go to jail, Daniel. There will be no third chance. I’m trying to protect you!”

“And I’m trying to protect everyone I care about!”

Phantom Grasshopper

Oh, the wind! It’d blowing as if to take me right off my perch! I’ve heard bits of talk on the wind, about fixing my base, about replating my poor, weathered, body. But talk, talk, talk is all I’ve heard, and now the wind will have its say!

No, not just the wind. There’s someone out here on my perch, too. Hardly anyone ever comes out here. Who would come in such inclement weather? Oh, oh, he’s removing the fastenings that keep me in place. Is he taking me somewhere safe before the wind has its way with me? I hope so, oh, I do hope so!

There, quiet darkness at last. Safe. Perhaps now they really will take care of my body before they put me back on my perch. I do so hope they do it in the daylight. I like to feel the sun warming my metal sides, and a soft day’s breeze turning me to show the world what the wind’s about.

Unseen Treasure

The smell hit his nose and took him back. Not to the first time he’d smelled it, nor to any of the times he’d smoked it, but to memories of Little Ricky. When Dan met him, Ricky was just 10 years old, and not the sort of 10 Dan had been, with a dead father-hero he never knew and an ailing mother. Ricky’s parents were still together, loved each other, and loved him. If he was often left to his own devices, that was Dan’s first lesson in the racial divide that existed in New York City. His mom could almost make ends meet with one job and his father’s Army benefits. Yet Ricky’s parents both worked two jobs and weren’t any more stable financially. Which left Ricky bored and unsupervised long enough to want an in with the “cool” kids.

Dan had protested letting the kid start smoking pot with them, but had let the others silence him and encourage him not to be such a stick in the mud. Dan wondered, looking back, if he should have fought harder then, but that wasn’t the day that made the smell shake him to his core. Not that it was really one day at all.

Ricky had quickly become a gang gopher in exchange for the illegal weed. Luke declared Ricky couldn’t actually join the Cowhands until he turned 13. Some might have thought that was a whisper of conscience, but, even then, Dan knew better. Not being a member didn’t absolve Ricky of duty to the gang, or recrimination, if he crossed Luke, nor did it keep a target off him where rival gangs were concerned. It did absolve Luke and the others of any loyalty to Ricky, though. They would not protect him from police or other gangs, even though he was as good as one of them. Dan knew that’s what Luke meant from the moment he made the declaration, but Ricky had taken it in stride as a promise he’d be welcomed into full membership at thirteen.

On the first of the days that were, in Dan’s mind, the worst thing he’d ever done or witnessed in the gang, Ricky had been good and high on premium cannabis when Luke asked if he wanted to try something stronger. Dan’s response had been immediate. He knew Luke’s new contact, Al Finlay, had some of the Cowhands running heroin. He also knew what that stuff did to people. “No! Luke, no. He’s high; he’s in no shape to be making that decision.”

“Al’s on us to step up distribution. We got to drum up new clients somewhere,” one of the others reminded Dan.

“Ricky’s one of us!”

“No, he’s not,” Luke said coldly. “He’s just a kid we let pal around and smoke with us.”

“He’s just a kid,” Dan echoed.

“Why’s everyone yelling,” Ricky complained.

“Danny boy’s being a stick in the mud,” Lue said with the soothing tone of a snake oil salesman. “Now, you want this or not?”

“Ricky, don’t take it. Not like this,” Dan begged. “Not when you’re too high to know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I like being high,” Ricky reported dreamily.

“This’ll get you higher faster,” Luke promised. “But it’s real good stuff, so I can only give you a little today and then you have to pay for it.”

“I have allowance,” Ricky said, sounding offended at the implication he wasn’t good for the heroin Luke was peddling.

Dan had fought that day, words and fists. One of his permanent scars was from the knife wound that had lost him the battle.

And Ricky had died of an overdose before he made it to the coveted thirteen, because nobody had a damn clue what an “appropriate” dose was for a kid who wasn’t a hundred pounds soaking wet.

Now the girls were fooling around with marijuana? It took him back, made him as furious as he’d been the day Luke gave Ricky his first shot of heroin, as lost inside as the day he’d heard Ricky was gone. Was this his penance for that day, for failing Ricky? He’d have to watch his new best friends walk the same path? Would he be as powerless to stop them as he had been to save Ricky?

The girls were crying; the guys were shouting. Just like last time. Dan didn’t care if they hated him, as long as they never fooled around with pot or anything stronger, as long as they never wound up cold and dead like Ricky.