Zeke Bartholomew Page 4

  When I was reasonably certain they were gone, I stood up. I shivered. The night air was cool, but my soaked clothes only made it worse. I took off my shirt and wrung it out. Then I took off my pants. They were caked in grass and leaves and grime. I washed them off in the river, then tied them around my waist. They would dry while I walked.

  The whole night seemed surreal. Just a short while ago I had been twirling spaghetti around my fork, ready to hunker down and study ancient Rome, and now here I was, rolling around in the dirt, evading a bunch of evil dudes who may or may not be serious in doing me bodily harm.

  I had no idea where I was. We had been driving for between thirty and forty minutes before the, um, spaghetti incident. My best guess was that I was between twenty and thirty miles away from home. I didn’t have a phone on me, or any money or identification. All I had were my wits.

  Which meant I was kind of screwed.

  Come on, Zeke, I thought. You’re not as dumb as you think.

  Okay. I used to love reading about constellations. Stars and their alignment in the sky. I used to peruse maps of the sky, dreaming of becoming Sagittarius, the Archer, and doing battle with the Hydra, the deadly Water Serpent.

  I looked up, trying to use the map of the sky to determine where I was. I scanned the thousands of tiny specks, looking for a clue, something that would allow me to gain my bearing.

  Then I saw it. Auriga, the Charioteer. At ten times the size of the sun, Auriga is one of the brighter constellations. I couldn’t miss it for the world.

  Then, slightly above and to the right of Auriga was Perseus, named after one of Zeus’s children (it also happened to be the name of a character in one of my favorite series of books). In the sky, Perseus was slightly northeast of Auriga. I was getting somewhere. I was gaining my bearings.

  I began to think I was kind of a bright kid, despite what my teachers said.

  Farther past Perseus was Triangulum, the Triangle; Andromeda; and Lacerta, the Lizard. Using those bearings, I knew I had to head eastward. To follow those stars. I wasn’t sure if I could walk the full twenty-plus miles to my home in the middle of the night, freezing my butt off, but at least I’d be heading in the right direction.

  I climbed up the riverbank, gripping trees and finding footholds among the mud. By the time I got to the bridge I was a sopping, cold, dirty mess, like a pale swamp monster that had just climbed out of the murk in desperate need of a suntan. I began to walk down the road.

  My knees were shaking. From time to time cars would pass—but none of them stopped. I held my thumb out like I’d seen in so many movies, but let’s be honest. If I saw a dirty kid asking for a ride by the side of the road, I’d probably think he was some sort of hermit waiting to steal my car and then all of my gold.

  I kept my mind occupied by replaying some of my favorite spy movies in my head. I wondered what James Bond would do in my situation. I laughed to myself. Bond would have never found himself in this situation. He would have beaten the goons to a pulp, made them compliment his natty suit and impeccable hair, then had a torrid affair with a beautiful bikini model who also happened to be a nuclear physicist.

  But I wasn’t James Bond. I wasn’t a cool kid spy like Alex Rider. I wasn’t a spy. I was a twelve-year-old kid with bad hair and occasional acne outbreaks.

  Eventually there were no more cars on the road. The moon hung high in the night sky like a brilliant orb. The wind chill grew worse. My teeth were chattering. My hands were shaking. My bones felt tired. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could walk.

  Then, up in the distance, I saw a warm glow. It was a house, with the downstairs lights on. My eyes grew wide. Somebody was home. Somebody could help me. Surely they’d have a phone I could use, a glass of water to hydrate my aching muscles.

  I trudged toward the house, my efforts redoubled. In just a few short steps I would be greeted by an energetic family with warm blankets and soup and a dog to sleep at my feet.

  Okay, I could still dream despite everything.

  I braced myself on the railing and heaved myself up the front steps. It was an old house with wood that smelled faintly of mildew. A porch swing creaked gently in the wind, its moldy seat and rusty chains looking like its last inhabitants had lived there sometime around the time the last of the dinosaurs died off. The house would have looked desolate and deserted (not to mention really creepy) if the lights hadn’t been on.

  I knocked on the door, then resumed rubbing my hands together either in the hopes of staying warm or somehow miraculously starting a fire. I waited a few minutes. Nobody answered.

  I peeked in the window. I couldn’t see anyone, but there was a light orange couch and a throw rug and some other furniture and decorations. A mug rested on a glass coffee table, thin wisps of smoke wafting from its lip. Somebody was drinking coffee or tea. Somebody was home.

  I knocked again. Harder this time.

  “Just a minute!” a female voice said from inside. I took a step back and put on my best pouty face to make her feel bad for me. A moment later the door opened. Standing there was an old woman, likely in her late seventies or eighties—or maybe nineties. I think at some point it’s hard to tell the difference.

  She was wearing a dark brown shawl, and her gray hair cascaded around her face in smoky ringlets. Her arms and hands were dotted with liver spots. When she saw me, her eyes widened and she beckoned me to step inside.

  “Oh, my goodness, child! What on earth are you doing here in the middle of nowhere at such an ungodly hour? And why are you so filthy?” She squinted her eyes slightly. “And why aren’t you wearing any pants?”

  I looked down and immediately felt my face flush. I’d completely forgotten that I’d tied my now-crusty sweatpants around my waist.

  “I…I’m sorry. I fell into the river and—”

  “Say no more.” She hustled over to a closet and swung it open. She rummaged around and came out with a pair of trousers. “Here. The bathroom is down the hall. Put these on. I’ll start a kettle.”

  I followed her directions and went to the bathroom. It was full of ornately decorated soaps and candles, and the bathtub was one of those old-fashioned types that rested on porcelain feet. I stripped off my nasty sweatpants, hung them on the shower rod, and pulled on the beige trousers. They were a little stiff and a little too roomy, but they were clean and that’s all that mattered.

  I washed my face and hands with a bar of soap, then wrung myself dry, afraid to dirty one of the clean towels. When I was finished I stepped out. The woman was waiting for me with a hot mug. She handed it to me.

  “Chamomile, with a touch of lemon and honey.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “My name is Zeke. You have a beautiful home.”

  “Gertie Zimmerman,” the woman said. “And you don’t have to lie about my home.”

  “I’m not lying. It’s very nice.”

  “Oh, stop. It smells like old people and marmalade.”

  “I was going to say freshly cut grass covered in cheddar cheese, but I see where you’re coming from.”

  “I can’t stand this place,” Gertie sighed, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead in a dramatic gesture that signified either exhaustion or worry that her brain might leak out through her head pores. “But I’m too old to move and don’t have the money to buy anything better. Sometimes I wish the Lord would just burn it to the ground so I could collect the insurance and move elsewhere.”

  Come to think of it, the house did smell a bit like marmalade. And I was reasonably sure there was no actual marmalade in the house. I shuddered thinking of what the smell might actually be.

  “Thanks again, Gertie. I’m lost. I was kidnapped—okay, not really kidnapped. Just, um, taken where I didn’t want to go. See, I wanted to go with them at first, but then there were codes and goons and spaghetti and—”

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nbsp; “Sounds like you’ve had quite an adventure. Sit down. Get comfortable.” She waved me over to a plush sofa. I sat down gingerly, knowing I wasn’t fully clean.

  “Thank you for the pants,” I said. “Your husband won’t mind?”

  “Oh, Howard has been dead for twenty years. This is him.”

  Gertie picked up a photograph and held it out. It was a handsome man with a big, bushy mustache. “My dear Howard Zimmerman. I miss combing his mustache every day of the week.”

  “Wait…you’re saying I’m wearing…your dead husband’s pants?”

  “Oh, yes. Howard refused to get rid of anything while he was alive, and our son, Harron, refused to take them. Howard always said that as long as there was room in the closet, why waste good clothes? It seemed silly to go against his wishes after he passed on. And now they’ve come in handy, haven’t they, Zeke?”

  “Howard didn’t…um…die in these pants, did he?”

  Gertie laughed so hard she held her sides. “Oh, heavens, no! Those particular pants are still hanging in the closet. Would you prefer them? They’re corduroy. Nice and warm.”

  “Um, that’s really okay. These are just fine. Gertie, would you mind if I use your phone? I need to call my dad and the police.”

  “Absolutely. It’s right over there.”

  Gertie pointed at an antique rotary phone hanging on the wall. I picked up the receiver, grimacing when I thought of Howard possibly holding it at some point while wearing these pants. It took a few tries to figure out how to dial, but I finally got through to 911.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “Hi, yeah, my name is Zeke Bartholomew and some guys just tried to kill me.”

  “Okay, calm down, Zeke.”

  “I am calm.”

  “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to remain calm.”

  “I am calm. Please, just listen.”

  “Sir, if this is not a real emergency, I’m going to have to report you.”

  “Whatever, please report me and then come get me. Look, three goons in suits tried to kill me. They’re working for some guy, and I think they’re planning something terrible.”

  “Sir, would you like to report the threat of a terrorist attack?”

  “Uh, I don’t know what it is. But it’s bad. They wouldn’t tell me. They thought I was someone else.”

  “You lied about your identity?”

  “Well, um, technically yes, but why should that matter? They tried to kill me!”

  “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to calm down.”

  “I am calm!”

  “Sir, I’m going to report you to our supervisors. Where are you located?”

  “Hold on. Gertie, what’s the address here?”

  “Forty-two Mulberry Lane in Thistlehaven,” she replied. “Everything all right, Zack?

  “It’s Zeke,” I said to Gertie, and then to the 911 operator I repeated,“Forty-two Mulberry Lane in Thistlehaven. Hurry. They’re looking for me right now.”

  “And you said your name was Zack?”

  “Zeke.”

  “As in Ezekiel?”

  “Does it matter? Zeke Bartholomew. Forty-two Mulberry Lane.”

  “It says here that Forty-Two Mulberry Lane is registered to a Mr. and Mrs. Howard Zimmerman. Is Mr. Zimmerman there?”

  “No, he’s dead.”

  “Are you calling to report a murder?”

  “No! No murders! Not yet, though, but if you keep me on the line, that might change if those goons show up.”

  “Sir, please calm down.”

  “I don’t think you’re very good at your job.”

  “Don’t take that tone of voice with me. We’ll be sending a car right away, Mr. Berthieume.”

  “Right. Whatever. Send it quick.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Berthieume.”

  The operator hung up. It took all my willpower not to rip the phone out of the wall and stomp on it. I took a deep breath. But it was Gertie’s phone. Besides, I had one more call to make.

  I dialed the number. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Dad. It’s me.”

  “Oh, thank god, Zeke. Are you all right? I’ve been calling everybody.”

  “I’m okay, Dad. I’m safe. I’m in Thistlehaven.”

  “Thistlehaven? How did you end up all the way out there?”

  “It’s a long story. Listen, Dad, the cops are on their way.”

  “Cops? Zeke, what happened?”

  “Please, just listen, Dad. If anyone calls or comes to the door, if you don’t recognize them, don’t let them in. Especially if they’re wearing nice suits.”

  “Zeke, you’re scaring me. Let me come and pick you up. What’s your address?”

  “I’m at Forty-Two Mulberry Lane. Okay?”

  There was no response.

  “Hello? Dad?”

  There was nobody on the other end. The phone had gone dead.

  I put the receiver down and picked it back up. There was no dial tone. My heart began to race.

  “Gertie? The phone just went dead.”

  “Is it plugged in?”

  I checked the cord. Yup. All plugged in.

  “That’s odd,” she said. She took the phone from me and held it to her ear. “That’s never happened before.”

  “Did you pay your phone bill?”

  “Of course. All my billing is done online through autopay.”

  I decided against asking Gertie how someone her age knew how to set up autopay considering my dad couldn’t even figure out how to set his TiVo, but there was a more pressing issue. Had my dad heard me? He knew I was in Thistlehaven, but it’s a pretty big town, and he’d never find me going house to house. Everything was way, way too quiet.

  “Just relax,” Gertie said. “Sit down. Drink your tea.”

  I sipped the tea. It tasted like bathwater.

  “There, now. Doesn’t that help?”

  “No,” I said. “There’s a band of goons out to kill me because they think I have some stupid secret codes. Sorry if your Earl Grey doesn’t soothe that.”

  “Loons? There are loons out to get you? Aren’t they extinct?”

  “GOONS,” I shouted. “Ugh, never mind. Do you have a cell phone?”

  “No. Those things will microwave your brain.”

  “Yeah, well, if the microwave had a way to get in touch with my dad or the cops…”

  “I do have my laptop. Grandkids got it for me for my birthday. Darned if I use it for anything other than solitaire.”

  “A laptop? Where is it?”

  “Here. I’ll show you.”

  Gertie led me up a rickety flight of stairs to a guest room. It was swathed in beige fabrics, and the air was so stale I could probably levitate on it. There was a fairly new Apple laptop sitting on an antique makeup table and plugged into the wall.

  “This is perfect. Thanks, Gertie.”

  I pushed the power button on the laptop and it began to boot up. I figured even if the phones didn’t work, I could email my dad with the address.

  Then, just as the friendly little Apple logo appeared on the screen, a massive reverberation shook the house. Every light went out. And the computer went dead.

  “What…what was that?” Gertie asked, her voice disembodied in the dark.

  “Oh…that’s not good,” I whispered. The reverberation. I knew what it was. The same thing had happened in a spy movie I’d seen. The good spy was infiltrating the enemy camp, and set off something called an EMP. EMP stood for electromagnetic pulse. The EMP was a burst of radiation that caused a fluctuating electric and magnetic field, damaging or simply knocking out any circuitry within a given ar
ea. When the spy set off the EMP pulse, it blew out any and all communications devices and sent a barely perceptible surge through the enemy camp.

  I know it was just a movie…but I could swear this felt exactly like that.

  First the phone dying. Now all the electronic devices were dead. The laptop ran on a battery, so even if there was a downed power line the battery should have still powered it. But, no—the battery was dead.

  We were in the dark. Cut off. And I was pretty sure we weren’t alone.

  “I need to get out of here,” I said, bolting up from the table.

  Slivers of light streamed in through the windows, allowing just enough light to illuminate the stairway. I cautiously made my way down, Gertie following me.

  “What…where are you going, Zeke?”

  “They found me,” I said, slowly walking through the foyer toward the barely visible front door. I squinted. It was a silhouette in the darkness. My heart hammered. I was sweating through Gertie’s dead husband’s pants. The only way I could have possibly felt ickier is if I were wearing Gertie’s dead husband’s underwear under his pants.

  “Where are you going to go?” Gertie said, concerned. “It’s pitch black outside.”

  “The longer I stay here, the more trouble you’re in.” I should have felt brave saying that. After all, I was offering to leave Gertie’s house to protect her. Naturally she would beg me to stay, but I would heroically shrug off her offer and march out into the darkness, alone and unafraid.

  “Okay, then. Try not to get lost.”

  “Wait, that…that’s it? You don’t want me to stay?”

  “Why in the blue heavens would I want that?” Gertie asked. “If you’re telling the truth, and loons are after you, why would I want them near my bedroom? So get on with you. But do let me know that you got home safely.”

  “Yeah. Right. Thanks, Gertie. I’ll be sure to call first thing.” I wasn’t very good at sarcasm, but I felt I had laid it on nice and thick.

  I clutched the front door knob and looked back to see if Gertie had changed her mind. It might have been the darkness, but she just stood there.

  “Whatcha waiting for? Doors don’t open themselves.”