The Thing At Black Hole Lake Page 7

  “Go after it,” Murl ordered.

  Slipping on slime, Dum and Dummer chased the tuxedo tom, crunching through the grove pathway, just two yards away from Lucy’s hiding spot. Murl shook his head with disgust, then entered the dome and shut the door behind him with a CLANG.

  Lucy stashed her binoculars in her backpack and wrote furiously in her notebook about the events she’d just witnessed. Questions whirled in her head. What was in the dome? What was Nu Co. doing in there? Why did they need so much sap? And what was producing the pink smoke?

  Only one way to find out.

  She considered using the door code to sneak inside, but with Murl around it seemed too risky. Perhaps she could find some clues in the factory? Tossing her pack round her shoulders, and neglecting to check if the coast was clear, she hurried out on to the dirt road, straight into the bright beams of a car’s headlights.

  A silver sedan screeched to a stop, inches away from Lucy’s quaking kneecaps.

  “Watch where you’re going!” shouted a razor-sharp voice. “Does everything in this town have a death wish?” A tall, broad-shouldered man exited the vehicle, looking extraordinarily cross.

  Aw, crud.

  “Lucy Sladan.” Mr Fisher slammed the door to his car. “Once again, I find you trespassing on my property.” Anger flashed across his face. “You wouldn’t be here to sabotage company equipment by any chance?”

  Lucy’s mouth felt dry. Fumblingly, she fished something out of her back pocket and held it out. It was a small card, on which she had written “PRESS PASS” in black Sharpie. “I’m with the school paper,” she asserted. “I’ve got Journalistic Immunity.”

  “That’s not a thing,” Fisher replied. He grabbed Lucy’s backpack and roughly prised it off her shoulders.

  “Give that back!” she cried.

  He sifted through the bag’s contents, tossing aside a print-casting kit, a wooden letter opener and a homemade grappling hook. He unzipped the front pouch and retrieved the unicorn notebook.

  “I need that!” Lucy glowered. If he reads it, he’ll see everything I’ve learned about the Pretenders. Everything!

  Fisher tossed the empty bag at her feet, holding the notebook out of reach. “You’ll get this back when I’m done with it.”

  This is just great. Lucy gathered up her belongings, feeling flames of anger rise at her temples. She was in big trouble this time. Would he call her parents? Skunk-faced dingus. She’d be grounded for a decade at least.

  “Come with me.” Fisher’s tone left no room for argument. He pointed into the thicket. “This way.”

  He was taking her to the geodesic dome. Lucy’s toes went cold. “What’s in there?”

  “Your father,” said Fisher. “I’ll take you to him.”

  He was lying. Lucy had watched Silas drive away almost an hour ago. What’s Fisher’s game? Still, she did want to know what was inside the dome. And she couldn’t leave without her notebook. She looked around the empty, moonlit orchard. What choice did she have, anyway?

  Resigned, she turned to follow the sharply dressed businessman. Just then, the back door of Fisher’s car opened and a middle-aged slip of a woman stepped out on to the road. The newcomer was clad in a floral sweatshirt, shorts and Birkenstock sandals, in flagrant defiance of the season.

  “Mrs Stricks!” Lucy exclaimed.

  Before Fisher could protest, the diminutive English teacher snatched the notebook out of his startled hands, then positioned herself protectively in front of her student. “That devil on your shoulder giving you ideas again, Richard?”

  “How did you get in my car?” demanded Fisher.

  There was more than a little mischief in Mrs Stricks’s smile.

  “I’m calling security.” Mr Fisher took out his smartphone.

  “How about this?” Mrs Stricks challenged Fisher, who was at least a head taller. “You let us leave quietly, and we can all forget the fact that you just kidnapped a minor and tried to take her into that little laboratory of yours.”

  Laboratory? Was it possible that Fisher still thought Lucy was a Pretender? What was he going to do to me?

  “What’s with the pink smoke, Richard?” asked Mrs Stricks. “We both know you’re not making candy down there.”

  Fisher narrowed his eyes. “Get off my property,” he intoned.

  “All you had to do was ask.” Mrs Stricks winked.

  Fuming, Fisher stormed off towards the dome.

  Her short salt-and-pepper hair bouncing, Mrs Stricks hurried Lucy through the orchard to the long driveway. Surveillance drones hovered menacingly overhead as they made their way up towards the main road.

  When they reached the far edge of Nu Co.’s property, they exited through the front gate. Lucy’s bike was propped up on its kickstand on the other side, waiting for her. Whoa. How did it get all the way over here?

  She scanned the woodland surrounding the moonlit road. She figured that the Other Mrs Stricks must be lurking somewhere nearby, but she saw no one.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” warned Mrs Stricks. “Mr Fisher’s got that ‘gold fever’ look in his eye. A man in that state can’t be trusted.”

  “What are they making in that secret laboratory?” asked Lucy.

  “Nothing you should concern yourself with.”

  “But I am concerned.” Lucy gripped her bike’s handlebar. “What could possibly produce pink smoke?”

  Mrs Stricks gently patted Lucy’s cat beanie. “Just focus on getting yourself home in one piece. Can you do that for me?”

  “But—”

  “Goodnight, Lucita.” The teacher crouched down low, then flung her arms up and leapt into the air. In an instant her body quivered and liquefied as she transformed into a barred owl, splattering Lucy from head to toe with a surge of transparent slime.

  The impish owl hooted what might’ve been an apology and disappeared over the forest canopy. Lucy scraped the goop off her glasses and shook it on to the asphalt.

  Seriously, Mrs Stricks? Ew.

  Heart-to-Heart

  Milo sat on a stool in the kitchen in his blue-striped pyjamas, waiting for his father to come home. He sipped from a mug of warm oat milk with a dash of turmeric and black pepper, then checked the clock again. It was well past midnight. He set the mug down. Where is he?

  It had been two hours since Milo had returned home. Nobody had greeted him when he walked through the door, teeth chattering, still clad in his kayaking gear. There was a note on the fridge from Kaitlyn saying that she had an early spin class, and that dinner was in the fridge ready for reheating. Milo didn’t feel hungry. He wasn’t sleepy, either. He was nervous, because he was finally ready to tell his father about the incredible things he’d seen over the last week.

  He drained his mug and slid it into the sink where it landed with a CLANK, the solitary sound reverberating off the high ceiling. He was just about to head up to bed when he heard the rumble of the garage door. A moment later, his father entered the kitchen, red-eyed, his tie loosened around his neck.

  Spotting Milo, Mr Fisher straightened his shoulders. “You’re up late,” he said, making an effort to sound cheery. He tossed his suit jacket on a stool and set his high-tech briefcase on the marble floor.

  “Dinner’s in the fridge.” Milo pointed to Kaitlyn’s note. He fidgeted as his father rummaged through the refrigerator. “How was your day?”

  Fisher set a bowl of steamed broccoli, Wagyu steak and quinoa on the counter and unwrapped the cellophane. “Long.” He pulled up a stool at the kitchen island. His phone buzzed and he typed a response to a text.

  Dad’s not even going to ask me what I was doing today, is he? It had been like this for the past month, his father seeming more distracted, coming home later and later. The only thing they’d talked about in the last few weeks was how funny it was that birds kept mistaking Nu Co.’s drones for dinner. That, and Milo’s dubious explanations for his perpetually missing shoes.

  “Who are you talking to?”
asked Milo.

  Fisher put his smartphone away. “Sorry, pal,” he said. “It’s work stuff. You know how consuming it can be.” He tapped his fingers on the counter. Milo hadn’t seen him so agitated in a while. “I saw your little friend this evening.” He gave Milo a pointed look, his fork poised over his food.

  My friend? Milo nearly choked. Did he track me down after all?

  “That girl broke in to the factory grounds. Again.” Fisher took a bite of broccoli.

  Milo realised who he was talking about. “Oh, you mean Lucy. She broke into Nu Co.?” That’s odd, but so is she. “Why did she do that?”

  “I was hoping you could fill me in.”

  “I have no idea what she’s up to these days.”

  “I certainly hope not.”

  Okay, then. Moving on… Milo took a deep breath. He’d been preparing for this moment all evening. “Dad. There’s something I need to discuss with you. Something very important.”

  Fisher exhaled, long and low. “I know,” he said ruefully.

  “You do?” Milo was fairly certain that he didn’t.

  “I’m still not making enough time for you.” Fisher reached across the granite countertop and took Milo’s hand. “The work we’re doing at Nu Co. is so revolutionary it’s hard to focus on anything else. But I want you to know that I think about you every single day.”

  He set his briefcase on the counter, checked the code on his high-security “watch”, then input the number into the case’s locking interface.

  So that’s what the code is for. Mr Fisher had been carrying that briefcase with him everywhere lately. Clearly, it contained something extraordinarily important.

  Milo heard the rustling of papers as his father pulled something out of the briefcase then snapped it shut.

  He handed over a picture of the two of them together from when Milo was a baby. Mr Fisher was dressed more casually than Milo had ever seen him, wearing a Hawaiian shirt with a tuft of chest hair showing. He held Milo in his arms on some tropical terrace surrounded by greenery, smiling as his pinky finger was munched upon by his fat-cheeked baby boy.

  Mom must’ve taken this picture. Milo’s mother had died of cancer when he was just six years old. She didn’t often come up in conversation at the Fisher household, but Milo thought of her often. He wondered if his father did the same. Milo’s throat momentarily felt too tight for him to speak.

  “Son, I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”

  Milo’s ears perked up.

  “Sticky Pines has become more than a simple business venture. There are resources here you couldn’t begin to imagine, and if I’m successful, Nu Co. will be the only company in the world with access to them.” He caught Milo’s gaze. “I’m building us an empire, kid, mark my words. And once all the kinks are worked out of the operation, which will be soon –” he said it as a solemn vow – “you and I will take a nice vacation. Someplace warm, where it never rains.” He tapped Milo under the chin with his knuckle.

  “Thanks, Dad,” said Milo. It all sounded great, but he had more pressing things to discuss. “Speaking of Nu Co.…” He set down the family photo. “You know how, that day at the factory, your Nucralose formula caused some people to … to –” Come on, just spit it out – “transform into big hairy monsters? Basically?”

  Mr Fisher froze, his fork laden with quinoa. “Allegedly,” he said. “What about it?”

  “Well,” said Milo. “That proves that it’s possible for a biological being to physically transform into something else, right?” He was pleased that he was sounding relatively coherent. “And if it can happen in one instance, it could happen in another. And maybe it could even happen without Nucralose.” Milo noticed that his father had turned ashen. “Dad? Are you all right?”

  “Have you been talking to the Sladan girl?”

  “Huh? Lucy?” Milo scratched his head. Why is he so obsessed with her? “What do you mean?” This conversation is not going the way I planned…

  “Stay away from her,” Fisher demanded.

  Milo was taken aback. His dad only used that tone when Milo was in trouble, which was rare, and he certainly hadn’t done anything to deserve it now. My dad seems physically incapable of listening to me tonight. I guess the Truth will have to wait.

  “Sure,” said Milo, deflated. “No Lucy. No problem.”

  “Good.” Fisher relaxed. His mind seemed to be very far away. “I have everything under control, don’t you worry. Nu Co. is close to solving this Sticky Pines problem once and for all.” He took a bite of steak and chewed.

  Milo frowned. He had no idea what his father was talking about, but he didn’t like the sound of it.

  “Was there something else you wanted to discuss?” asked Fisher.

  Milo feigned a yawn. “I think I’ll head up to bed. It’s been a long day.” He gave his father a squeeze.

  “‘Night, kiddo,” said Fisher, patting Milo’s hand.

  Heading into the hallway, Milo glanced back to see his dad staring wistfully at the old photograph before returning it to his briefcase.

  Milo made his way across the spacious living room, nowhere nearer to feeling sleepy than he had been an hour ago, and ascended a wooden staircase that looked like it was floating in space.

  Serious Business

  “Hello?” Lucy croaked into the cordless phone her sister had shoved in her face.

  Willow yanked open the blinds and Lucy flinched as bright sunshine streamed into her small A-frame bedroom.

  “Where’s my article, Sladan?” Gertie Lee was on the other line, gratingly business-like for a Saturday morning.

  Wh–huh? Lucy blearily read the time on the alarm clock, which she had not set. “It’s eight a.m.” she groused.

  Willow jumped on to the bed and started bouncing around her big sister, her pink hooded poncho mushrooming around her.

  Lucy waved her away. Bleary-eyed, she propped herself up on an elbow and retrieved her glasses from the nightstand.

  “You don’t come to club meetings and you don’t have a mobile,” said Gertie. “How am I supposed to yell at you for missing your deadline?”

  Lucy caught her sister by the foot mid-bounce. The smaller Sladan landed on the mattress in a fit of giggles.

  Somebody upped the sugar dosage at breakfast this morning. Lucy sniffed the air. Cinnamon rolls. Hallelujah!

  “I’m still investigating.” Lucy rummaged through her laundry basket and pulled out a pair of jeans. “This story is hot as pop tarts. I’m gonna need some time.”

  “You’ve had a whole week already,” Gertie sniped.

  “This ain’t about spoiled milk in the cafeteria.” Lucy tugged a green jumper over her head. “There’s some seriously mega shenanigans going on at Nu Co.”

  “What kind of shenanigans?”

  Lucy tripped over Willow, who was crawling on the floor like a cat. “Knock it off, Will!” she barked. “Look, Gertie, when people read about what I saw last night, it will BLOW THEIR MINDS. We’re talking secret labs. Sabotage. Pink smoke.” Shapeshifting. “This piece is gonna be stratospheric, I guarantee it.”

  “Pink smoke?” said Gertie.

  Lucy caught her reflection in the full-length mirror, grimaced and patted down her bedhead.

  “I need this juice ASAP,” Gertie insisted. “Nothing happens in November, outside of parent-teacher conferences and the inevitable controversy over Native American representation in the Thanksgiving pageant.”

  Lucy grabbed her backpack and jumped over Willow on her way out to the landing. “At least give me till Monday.”

  “Fine, but this better be front-page material, Sladan,” said Gertie. “I’m using this year’s Sentinel for my Stanford application, and I need AT LEAST six years of extreme extracurriculars.”

  “You won’t be disappointed, Gertie. This one’s for the ages!” Lucy hung up without saying goodbye, like she’d seen reporters do in movies. She sidled into the kitchen, inhaling the sweet smell of cinnamon an
d butter.

  Her mother looked up from her newspaper. “You’re up early.”

  Silas checked the ceramic sun-shaped clock over the sink where he was doing dishes. “Whoa, it’s not even ten yet.”

  Lucy grabbed a cinnamon roll from the baking tray, poured herself a pulpy glass of fresh orange juice and downed it in one gulp.

  “Going somewhere?” Miranda eyed Lucy’s backpack.

  “I’m on assignment for the Sentinel.” Lucy scarfed down her roll.

  “How is the paper going?” asked Silas, drying his hands. “Did your editor like our interview with Alastair?”

  “I’m still writing it up, but I know everyone’s gonna go mad for it,” Lucy winked. She kissed her mother on the cheek, grabbed her hat and parka from the hook by the door, and hurried into the garage.

  Right. Now to answer the eternal question: is this plan gonna work? Going over the checklist in her notebook, she rummaged through a stack of cardboard boxes and pulled out two deflated inner tubes and a bicycle pump. Next, she located a coiled length of rope in the cupboard above the washing machine. Lastly, she folded up an empty cardboard box, then stuffed it all into her backpack, which, try as she might, wouldn’t zip all the way.

  Lucy hopped on her bike and headed out to the road, keeping her fingers crossed for good luck. She was going to need it.

  The Thing

  The cold nipped at Milo’s toes as he crunched across the island shore in his water shoes. He’d arrived at the Siren’s Lair bright and early in his quest to track down the Thing. Today it was proving more elusive than ever. Once more, Milo whistled, hoping for a response. “PHEW-EEEE-OOO.” None came.

  A few days before, Milo had managed to get within an arm’s breadth of the creature by hiding in a fir tree at the far side of the island. He’d spent three uncomfortable hours waiting, reading Sticky Secrets to pass the time. This town’s history is truly insane. At last, the white stag emerged through the foliage and nibbled on the sweets Milo had scattered on the ground below. Milo had moved to get a closer look, but he lost his footing and dropped the heavy book. Immediately, the deer spooked and bounded off. Milo slid down as quickly as he could and gave chase, but the creature had vanished faster than the spectre of fiscal responsibility at the Federal Reserve.