The Case of the Missing Dinosaur Egg (12 page)

I opened the passenger side door and dropped into the seat beside him.

“Let’s scram,” I said slamming the car door and fastening my seat belt.

The professor turned a blank face toward me.

“I’m Chiana from the riding school. Remember?”

He leaned over and switched off his tape-deck then turned to me with a slight frown. “Of course I remember you, Chiana. But I am sorry, I can’t give you a lift, I am waiting for my grandson.”

“Do you know where the nearest phone box is, Professor? I left my mobile inside the warehouse and we need to ring the police.”

“Police?”

“Please. We have to get out of here. Arty’s in big trouble—”

“
My
Arty?”

“Yes. Gonzo, the cement-boots man, could be after me too. Come on, professor, let’s go!”

The professor, although shaking his head like it was full of cobwebs, turned the key in the ignition.

“The phone box is half a mile away,” he said, doing up his seat-belt. “What’s happened to my Arty? Is he hurt?”

“I don’t know,” I choked, trying to speak around the lump in my throat. “Your Arty saved my life. Made me hide in a cupboard so Fingers and Meathead wouldn’t find me. Then there was a fight and I heard Arty being dragged away to the gym.”

I couldn’t tell the professor about the blood. I didn’t even want to think about the blood.

One hand on the horn to warn a little green hatchback to move itself—
now—
the professor crunched the gears into top and roared fire-engine fast down the street.

“Arty gave me the
Therizinosaur,
Professor,” I said, fingering the foam-packed box in my pocket. “He said to give it to you.”

“What use is the egg to me if Arty gets hurt?” he asked. And then, more to himself, “I shouldn’t have pestered him about the egg. It’s my fault Arty’s in trouble.”

“It’s not your fault, Professor. The boss found out Arty was a cop. Nicking the egg just made him a bit madder.”

Neither of us spoke until we’d screeched to a halt in front of the public phone-box. While the professor emptied his pockets onto the hood of the car looking for coins, I pushed through the glass door and checked to see if the phone was in working order.

“No coins,” bleated the professor, sounding like a lost sheep.

Turning out my pockets I found a fifty cent coin, two twenty cent coins and a half-eaten Mars bar.

“Here, Professor,” I said handing over the money. “Arty said to ask for Detective Inspector John Gilman. That must be his boss.”

While the professor made the call, I jigged up and down on the footpath; all the time watching out for Fingers and Meathead. If the deadly duo did come looking for me where could I hide? Under the car? Up a tree? Inside a rubbish bin?

Suddenly, over the hill, with the weak sunlight shining behind them, four horse riders appeared. Jack, Noah, Sarah and Tayla. Laughter bubbled in my throat as they waved and trotted toward me. My assistants had never looked so beautiful. Even Sarah, who had this sour—
you’re-going-to-cop-it-when-I-tell-Mum—
expression on her face.

“Hey!” yelled Jack, his grin matching mine.

“Hey!” I yelled back.

“You okay?” growled Noah.

“No. They’ve got Arty. And now I think they’re after me.”

“Who’s Arty? Who’s
they
?” It was Tayla, confused, sort of sick looking, but definitely still part of the team.

“Arty’s the professor’s grandson. You know, Tayla, the Greasy-Hair guy from the museum. He’s been working undercover for the police, but the crooks found out and they’re fitting him for cement boots.”

Noah stared down at me. “And now they’re looking for you? But why?”

“I have the dinosaur egg.”

“You’ve got what?” Jack’s eyes shone. “Where?”

“In my—” I frowned. I’d suddenly caught sight of four motorbikes in the distance. Something about the way the riders hunched over their bikes, determined and down-to-business, made me freeze. There’d been four motorbikes outside the warehouse.

“Oh geez!” I gasped. “It’s Fingers and Meathead and they’ve got back-up.”

“Quick! Get on behind me!” Noah leaned over, grabbed my hand and yanked me up onto his horse.

I struggled to find my balance. “What about the professor? We can’t leave him.”

“No way am I getting on a horse,” growled the professor as he let the door of the phone box swing shut behind him. “The police will be here any minute. Get going. I’ll be alright.”

“But—”

“Chiana! Go! These men don’t know who I am. If you gallop across country, you might lose them.” Using his stick to walk more quickly, he hurried to the car, wrenched open the door and slid inside. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping. I said, go!”

The bikes roared closer.

“You heard the man!” yelled Tayla flicking Angel with her reins.

“And Chiana,” said the professor, his voice a squeak. “Try not to break my egg.”

These were the last words I heard before we galloped off. Mega fast. From whoa to go. And if I hadn’t clutched Noah around the waist in a python-grip, I’d have slid right off his horse’s back and landed on the bitumen.

EIGHTEEN

The big chestnut show jumper leapt the stone wall and galloped on. With my arms wrapped around Noah’s waist, I bounced up and down behind the saddle. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t see where we were going. I could barely breathe.

Knowing the countryside around Gawler better than we did, Noah took the lead in our race against the motor bikes.

“Everyone still here?” he yelled over his shoulder.

Grunts and yells greeted his question. I could imagine Tayla shaking in her stirrups behind us. She loved riding Angel but was terrified of jumping—and yet here she was, galloping across country and jumping everything in her path. No wonder I was proud to have her for a best friend.

And what about Sarah? Somehow she’d been different since we arrived at
Treehaven
. Horses must agree with my contrary stepsister because she was friendlier now. Not such a pain in the butt.

And Jack—well, Jack was Jack. Always there. Always reliable. Always happy to be in the middle of a mystery.

“They’re still following us,” Sarah yelled as she galloped up beside Noah’s chestnut. “They must have found an opening in the wall.”

I glanced over my shoulder. The snarl of the bikes hit the air like wet towels on a windy day. Oil and smoke choked my nostrils. Screams and whines, like wild beasts intent on a kill, echoed around the countryside. In fact, the bikers were so close I could see their black helmets and leather jackets painted with strange red symbols on the front.

Yeah. We were in major trouble.

“Okay, here’s the plan!” yelled Noah as the other riders caught up and galloped in a line beside us. “There’s a dam up ahead. It’s surrounded by trees so you can’t see it until you’re almost on top of it. What we’re going to do is lead them into the water. Got it?”

“And what about us?” asked Jack.

“Remember the game we played in Kate’s lesson? Bang and go back?”

“Yeah. So?”

“What we’ll do is gallop in a line toward the water and the moment I yell
Bang,
spin around and gallop in the opposite direction. With any luck they won’t see the water until it’s too late.”

The noise of the bikes ricocheted and boomed around us as shoulder to shoulder the horses hurtled toward the water. Unconsciously, I hung on tighter to Noah.

Closer. Closer.

“Bang!” Noah yelled at last, his voice scratchy.

Every horse spun as though in a ballet production. Sarah and Tayla galloped off to the right. Jack, Noah and I to the left.

And the bikes kept on going.

I grinned and whooped as the sound of four individual splashes were followed by loud yells and colorful swearing. It was better than any music ever downloaded onto my iPod. In fact, when Finger’s bike ploughed into the water, the people in the main streets of Gawler could have heard him cursing.

“Yesss!” cheered Jack, punching the air.

We reined in the horses, turned and gazed back at the dam. The bikes had disappeared under the water and four wet mud-splattered figures were dragging themselves onto the bank.

“You’ll pay for this!” shrilled Meathead in his squeaky little girl voice. “You’ll pay big time!”

Not wanting to hear how he intended to make us pay, we trotted the horses away from the dam.

“Guess that’ll hold them for a while,” said Sarah, her grin as wide as a paddock fence. “They shouldn’t get too far before the police arrive.”

“Hey, look!” I pointed ahead. Down the path, heading toward us, rattling and rumbling in protest, came the professor’s trusty old ute. Such a friendly sight. I felt like hugging the driver.

And there was Arty. Hair matted with blood, a jagged cut on his forehead and one eye almost closed. He hung out the passenger side window and waved to us. “Everyone okay?”

“We are now,” I said grinning at him.

“I think you’ll find who you’re looking for in the dam,” said Noah with a laugh. “They went for an unplanned swim on their bikes.”

“You mean…” A satisfied smile spread slowly across Arty’s battered face.

“He means Meathead, Fingers, and their biker friends won’t be going anywhere in a hurry.”

“Oh yes they will.” The professor smirked. “They will be going to jail. About five minutes after you children took off, the police arrived. They rescued Arty and took Simpson off to headquarters for questioning. And there are two patrol cars directly behind us.”

As if on cue, police sirens could be heard approaching. Fast. Red and blue lights jittered and flashed as they drew nearer. I looked across at the dam and grinned. Four muddy figures were trying to bolt in four different directions.

“Gotta go,” shouted Arty, dangling a pair of handcuffs out the window. “Got a score to settle. Come on, Gramps. Rounding this lot up should be more fun than a ride on the roller-coaster at Dreamworld.”

“Need any help?” asked Noah, his eyes even shinier than Jack’s.

Was this the same boy who’d hidden in the tree and let me take the rap for trespassing?

“Can we? Can we?” gabbled Jack, leaning forward on his horse’s neck. “Please…”

“You’ve done your share,” replied Arty. Then seeing the despondent look on the boys’ faces, he added, “You’ve got the important job of telling the police what happened and directing them to the dam. I wouldn’t want any of those scumbags to get away.”

With that, the professor’s ute backfired, did a couple of bunny-hops, then shot after one of the fleeing criminals.

We sat on our horses and watched. By the time the police cars pulled up beside us, Arty and the professor had already collected two of the runners, handcuffed them to a bar in the tray of the ute and were zeroing in on a third.

“Any left to catch?” asked a young constable leaning from the police car window.

Sarah pointed toward the dam. “One guy circled back and I think he’s hiding up that tree.”

I slipped off Noah’s horse and grinned at Sarah. “Shall we?” Without a word she leant down and pulled me up behind her. With me bumping on her horse’s rump we trotted over to the tree in question and stopped underneath.

“Can you smell something stinky?” I asked Sarah, screwing up my nose and pulling a face. “You know—like sweaty armpits?”

“Smells more like dog’s poop to me.”

I took another sniff. “You know, I reckon it smells like rotten maggoty meat that’s been left hanging in a tree too long.”

At the same time as Meathead let out a string of four-letter words that would curdle cream, the police car screamed up beside us.

“Okay, girls. We’ll take over now.”

The last we heard from Meathead was when the sergeant led him handcuffed to the police car. His squeaky oaths could still be heard as the police car took off, sirens wailing, heading for the police station.

NINETEEN

TREEHAVEN CROSS-COUNTRY—2012—SUPERHEROES.

I paused in the act of polishing the trophy on top of our television and grinned. It was a large silver trophy with a statue of a horse and rider leaping over water.

On Cross-Country day, our team—
The Super-heroes
—had been totally awesome. Jack and Sarah flew around the course like champs and even Tayla and I managed to jump everything without falling off once. Of course, after being chased by Meathead’s bikers, Kate’s Cross-Country course seemed like a baby event.

Six weeks had passed since wrapping up (that’s P.I. talk) the Big Egg mystery. Simpson and his buddies were in jail. Arty received a pat on the back and a promotion from his boss. And I’d finished writing my latest true-crime story,
‘Rebecca Turnbull P.I.: The Mystery of the Stolen Dinosaur Egg.’
It was published in
Kidlit
magazine on the internet.

Rebecca Turnbull, my fictional P.I. character was one cool babe. Instead of hiding in a cupboard like me, she’d kicked butt throughout the mystery. With the help of her lethal Doberman, Fang, she’d overpowered Fingers and Meathead in the time it would take me to brush my teeth. However, Rebecca had one huge advantage over me. She had no mother in her story. No mother to ground her. No mother to wildly chop potatoes under her nose. No mother to send her off to ride wild mustangs instead of solving a mystery.

“Will you take a look at these?” It was Mum, frowning into the oval mirror on our lounge room wall. “Six more grey hairs.” She turned to me. “And who do I have to thank for them?”

Ha. There was no way I was going to answer
that
question. Instead I went back to polishing the trophy.

“I guess it’s Chiana’s fault.” Sarah’s sugary sweet voice didn’t match the cat’s bum face she pulled at me.

Then, after putting her face back in order, she carefully adjusted her boob tube and arranged herself on the edge of the lounge chair. No lolling back and stretching her legs for Sarah—she might disturb the lines of her new leather skirt.