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Authors: Carter Roy
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parts heaped against the walls. An engine was suspended in a harness of chains, a black puddle of gunk beneath it. An enormous rusty orange Cadillac sat right in the entryway, the rear end propped up on a rickety pair of tire jacks. It didn’t have any back wheels, just rusty metal discs where the tires should have been, lug nut screws sticking out. A panda bear key chain dangled from the ignition.
“Nice ride,” Dawkins commented. “Keep an eye out, Ronan. We need something we can use as a weapon.”
A friendly looking old man in a spectacularly dirty gray jumpsuit walked up, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “May I help you two young gentlemen?” he asked. Sewn onto his chest was a name patch that read ALBIE .
“Why, hello!” Dawkins said brightly. “We’re here to pick up our 1985 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. Brought it in to have the head gasket replaced.”
I didn’t even have to look to know that Dawkins had turned on that smile of his: Albie grinned in response. “I don’t recall an Olds with a blown gasket, but let me go find the paperwork in the office. May take me a minute; it’s a mess in there.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Dawkins said. “We’re in no rush.”
But we wer e — B londie and her goons would be here any minute. I jiggled my leg and tried not to look anxious.
After Albie disappeared, Dawkins picked up a tire iron and smacked it against his palm, then sighed. “It’s no use. The problem is, they’ve parked out there in the center of that enormous concrete lot, so that guy will see us coming from a mile away.”
“Right,” I said. “My mo m — s he ran really fast. Can you maybe do the same thing? Magic?”
“Can I do magic ?” Dawkins said, disbelieving. “You mean like flap my wings and fly out there? Or turn invisible?”
“That sounds kind of dumb, doesn’t it?”
He replaced the tire iron. “The Guard can’t fly or turn invisible, Ronan. I suppose the speed thing is magic of a sort,” Dawkins said, “but it’s a talent that would be useless here. He’d still see me coming, and even if I dodged the shot from his weapon, he might harm Greta.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “Greta.”
“We need to be sneaky but get to her fast.”
“How about that thing over there?” I pointed to what looked like a short ambulance stretcher on wheels. It had a cushion for someone’s head, and a four-foot-long platfor m — a creeper that mechanics lie down on to go underneath cars.
He put a foot on the creeper, rolling it back and forth. “Good idea,” he said, clapping me on my shoulder. “This looks like it should work.”
“You’re going to skateboard out there?”
“No, no,” Dawkins said, bending down and picking it up. “I’m going to scoot out there on my belly. He’ll never see me coming.” He walked to the front of the garage, hugging the creeper to his chest. “But just to be sure, we’ll need a distraction so big that Blondie and her goons won’t see me, either.”
We looked out at the SUV. Between it and us were a few hundred yards of pavement, empty save for the occasional car or truck rumbling past.
“Where are you going to find a distraction that big?” I asked, feeling a bit uneasy. I had an idea where this was going.
“It’s going to have to be completely bonkers, Rona n — s omething loud and maybe a little dangerous and just a whole lot insane.” Dawkins smiled at me and threw an arm around my shoulders. “Which is to say, you’re the perfect man for the job.”
C H A PT E R 8 :
WHEELS OF MISFORTUNE
I ’d never driven a car before, but Dawkins assured me it was easy. “A car like this one,” he said, pointing to the orange Cadillac, “practically drives itself!”
“It doesn’t have any back wheels,” I pointed out.
He waved his hands as though this were no big deal and yanked open the Cadillac’s door. “It’s a front-wheel drive.”
I thought of Greta out there, handcuffed and alone. “Okay,” I said,
“Nice ride,” Dawkins commented. “Keep an eye out, Ronan. We need something we can use as a weapon.”
A friendly looking old man in a spectacularly dirty gray jumpsuit walked up, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “May I help you two young gentlemen?” he asked. Sewn onto his chest was a name patch that read ALBIE .
“Why, hello!” Dawkins said brightly. “We’re here to pick up our 1985 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. Brought it in to have the head gasket replaced.”
I didn’t even have to look to know that Dawkins had turned on that smile of his: Albie grinned in response. “I don’t recall an Olds with a blown gasket, but let me go find the paperwork in the office. May take me a minute; it’s a mess in there.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Dawkins said. “We’re in no rush.”
But we wer e — B londie and her goons would be here any minute. I jiggled my leg and tried not to look anxious.
After Albie disappeared, Dawkins picked up a tire iron and smacked it against his palm, then sighed. “It’s no use. The problem is, they’ve parked out there in the center of that enormous concrete lot, so that guy will see us coming from a mile away.”
“Right,” I said. “My mo m — s he ran really fast. Can you maybe do the same thing? Magic?”
“Can I do magic ?” Dawkins said, disbelieving. “You mean like flap my wings and fly out there? Or turn invisible?”
“That sounds kind of dumb, doesn’t it?”
He replaced the tire iron. “The Guard can’t fly or turn invisible, Ronan. I suppose the speed thing is magic of a sort,” Dawkins said, “but it’s a talent that would be useless here. He’d still see me coming, and even if I dodged the shot from his weapon, he might harm Greta.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “Greta.”
“We need to be sneaky but get to her fast.”
“How about that thing over there?” I pointed to what looked like a short ambulance stretcher on wheels. It had a cushion for someone’s head, and a four-foot-long platfor m — a creeper that mechanics lie down on to go underneath cars.
He put a foot on the creeper, rolling it back and forth. “Good idea,” he said, clapping me on my shoulder. “This looks like it should work.”
“You’re going to skateboard out there?”
“No, no,” Dawkins said, bending down and picking it up. “I’m going to scoot out there on my belly. He’ll never see me coming.” He walked to the front of the garage, hugging the creeper to his chest. “But just to be sure, we’ll need a distraction so big that Blondie and her goons won’t see me, either.”
We looked out at the SUV. Between it and us were a few hundred yards of pavement, empty save for the occasional car or truck rumbling past.
“Where are you going to find a distraction that big?” I asked, feeling a bit uneasy. I had an idea where this was going.
“It’s going to have to be completely bonkers, Rona n — s omething loud and maybe a little dangerous and just a whole lot insane.” Dawkins smiled at me and threw an arm around my shoulders. “Which is to say, you’re the perfect man for the job.”
C H A PT E R 8 :
WHEELS OF MISFORTUNE
I ’d never driven a car before, but Dawkins assured me it was easy. “A car like this one,” he said, pointing to the orange Cadillac, “practically drives itself!”
“It doesn’t have any back wheels,” I pointed out.
He waved his hands as though this were no big deal and yanked open the Cadillac’s door. “It’s a front-wheel drive.”
I thought of Greta out there, handcuffed and alone. “Okay,” I said,
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