The Man with the Red Bag (10 page)

“B
ring your warmest duds,” Declan had drawled.

We were warmly dressed; we had our pillows and blankets. Prepared all the way.

I sat with Grandma, since Midge hadn't come. “I'm not sure about this anymore,” Grandma said. “When I went with your grandpa, I thought the horses weren't being hurt.”

“It's okay,” I told her. “Remember what Declan said? This rodeo has been going on for a gazillion years. If it was really cruel, it would have been stopped long ago.”

We walked from the bus, past the horses—the broncos—milling around in their pens waiting for the show. Past the humongous bulls, humpbacked, steamy-eyed, standing motionless as if ready to charge.

“You think they're going to ride those?” Grandma asked, and one of the Texans said, “They surely are, ma'am. And it will be something to see.”

The air was rich with the smell of manure. I breathed it in. This was fresh, much nicer than the stale stuff we spread on our grass and flower beds at home.

Charles Stavros, complete with red bag, white bandage, and white pillow under his arm, walked in front of us. The shovel was still in the bus, in the rack where Scotty had put it. Why hadn't he left it at the hotel? I was getting creeped out again. Was he going to use it tonight, sometime, somewhere after the rodeo? I'd heard him ask Scotty twice if the coach would definitely be locked while we were watching the show and if Scotty would always be with it. Mr. Dove had been anxious, too, about his painting,
which he wanted to leave in the bus till the end of the tour. That made sense. He didn't want to lug his painting in and out of the different hotels. But a shovel? Maybe it was like the bag: Stavros wanted it with him at all times in case an opportunity arose. Or until
the
opportunity arose. This thought put me on edge even more.

Scotty had assured Stavros and Mr. Dove and everybody else that their belongings would be safe. If Stavros didn't take that shovel out of the bus when we got back to the dude ranch, I'd feel a whole lot better. And safer. Maybe I'd even sleep. Let him leave it locked up so he couldn't get at it.

Stavros sat two rows in front of Grandma and me.

Geneva and her dad were right behind us on those hard bleacher seats. She was wearing her rodeo cap and her butterfly necklace. I heard her father ask her if she was warm enough and heard her answer, “Yes, thank you,” in a voice that was nice and friendly for once.

Okay, I thought. Things seemed to be on the way to being possible for them.

I looked for Millie. She and Beth sat way at the other end of the row of seats in front of us. Once they got up and squeezed along the row in back of Stavros. Millie was smoking, and as she passed him she leaned forward, till her face was almost up against his, and blew a cloud of cigarette smoke in a blue haze around his head.

“So sorry,” she piped sweetly, and then she turned all the way around and winked at me.

I didn't wink back. What a jerk she was!

The stands were crowded and there was so much excitement in the air you got excited yourself, just being a part of it. I'd never seen this many cowboys in one place, cowgirls, too, all dressed up to watch the rodeo in their fringed jackets and boots and spurs. I'd never seen so many junior cowboys, either, miniature versions of their dads and moms. Old country-style music blasted from loudspeakers. High above us the Wyoming night sparkled with stars that I could see even past the floodlights. Below us I could see the pens that each held a single fiery-looking, steam-breathing, gigantic bull. The chosen ones. Sometimes
one threw itself at the rails of its wooden corral or stood up like some enormous wild beast, hooves thundering on the wood. Oh, man. What if one of them escaped?

Grandma said, “This is all so interesting,” in the weakest voice imaginable.

And then a loud “HOWDY, FOLKS” came through the loudspeakers. “Welcome to Cody Night Rodeo, where the best compete with the best.”

We'd started.

Stavros was looking intently down at the arena or ring or whatever. I promised myself that however exciting the show was, I wouldn't let him out of my sight or out of my mind.

It wasn't easy to keep remembering him. There was so much going on. There were cowgirls barrel racing, bent over their saddles, the flying hooves of the horses kicking up streams of dirt.

“Give a big hand now to Miss Annie Oakley,” the announcer boomed. “I kid you not, folks, that's her name.”

There was steer wrestling and team roping,
bareback riders and saddle bronc riders. There were clowns and calf wrestling. Each time one of the small calves thudded to the ground, bawling and screaming, Grandma would squeeze my hand and close her eyes.

I'd close mine, too.

“Do you want to go back and sit in the bus?” I asked her. “I'll go with you. Scotty will let us on.”

But she shook her head and said faintly, “I keep reminding myself of what you said. If this was really cruel, it would have been stopped a long time ago.”

“Right,” I said, and squeezed her arm.

The horses came one by one out of the chute, which was a passageway from the holding pen, the rider already on, clinging with knees and feet, an arm waving for balance.

“Big show-off,” Buffo hollered.

The horse would begin bucking and leaping, its only aim in life to get that rider off its back. Were they trained to do that? Or was there really something sharp under those saddles? I didn't know. But no rider lasted long. A few seconds and he'd be thrown, the horse
tossing its head in triumph or relief.

When they brought out the first bull and its rider there were gasps of fear from the audience, even though probably most of them had seen this before. We hadn't. The bulls were massive, dangerous now as uncaged bears, shrugging the riders off, looking as if they'd pick them up on their long sharp horns. But the clowns with their red scarves tempted them away, the men and bulls racing together across the dirt, the second clown coming in to rescue the first, the stands erupting in applause.

Behind me, Geneva punched on my shoulders. “This is so great,” she screamed in my ear. “I want to do this when I'm older.”

“I just bet you could,” I said.

Charles Stavros never left the stands. He never left my sideways vision.

Not even when we walked back to the bus, everyone chattering and prattling about what we'd seen.

Lugging our blankets and pillows we climbed aboard. I checked. The shovel was still in the rack.

Geneva and I sat together. She leaned toward me
and said, “213-555-3257,” and I didn't need to ask what she meant.

I wrote her dad's cell number in my mystery notebook.

That was as ready as we could be for whatever might happen.

 

That night, when I figured everyone was asleep, I went down to the parlor of the cabin and lay on the hard settle, the marshmallow comforter over me and under me, Grandma's cell tight in my hand, 213-555-3257 transferred from my book into my brain. I'd brought my pillow but not my blankey square, because the comfort of it might drift me into sleep and that could be fatal.

There was a piano in one corner. Before we turned in, our group had joined in a singalong, led by the Texans. Stavros had mumbled the words to go with the tunes. I was interested that he knew them. They were all traditional American songs—like “She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain” and “Camptown Races.” He didn't sing much, but he
knew the words, all right. Sometimes he'd say a word or two off-key. The room was still warm and smoky from the fire we'd had while we were singing. High up, the ceiling beams were blackened from old heat; around the stove, the floor was pitted and scarred.

Light from an outdoor lamp on a tall pole shone through the window.

In front of me were the stairs that led to the bedrooms. I'd pulled a piece of black thread from the sewing kit in my room and tied it banister to banister across the bottom of the stairs. It was invisible but it would break if anyone crossed it. I hoped no innocent person would come down and trip. This thread trick had been in
One Thief at a Time
. The detective had put powder on the thread and the next day he'd seen a white line on the sweater of the man he'd suspected all along. But I only had one suspect, so I passed on the powder. And besides, either Geneva or I would be on watch. The thread was only a precaution so we'd know if—awful thought—we'd missed him. After tonight we'd have only two nights left.

I eyed the big metal poker that leaned against the
bench by the stove and fantasized about Stavros creeping down the stairs like a panther, me racing at him, brandishing the weapon, shouting, “It's over! We've got you!” When I imagined him he was slinking along in his socks, the red bag cradled against him, his flashlight in his hand, the shovel ready, and I'd rush at him out of nowhere and…But he didn't have the shovel. It was in the bus. And he must need it for whatever he was planning, because he'd bought it.

My alarm clock was under the comforter; it was set for 2:30, when Geneva was supposed to come and relieve me. She'd argued for 3:30 but I'd held firm.

I was swaying into sleep and I must have dozed because Geneva wakened me by poking me with an unfriendly finger.

“Oh, this is great!” she said, grumpy as could be. “He could have bombed us all and you would have slept through it.”

I untangled myself from the comforter. “Give me a break. I was wide awake.”

She plonked down beside me. “I'm sick of this. I was having a dream and I was in a circus and I was bareback riding on a pony—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I yawned. “Be out of here by five. Ranchers rise early, and you don't want to be caught.”

“All I can say is, he'd better be going to blow something up after all of this,” she said.

I scowled. “Oh brother. You're something else!”

I have to say, Geneva didn't look too great. I almost wished the outside light wasn't so bright. Of course, it was 2:30 in the morning and she probably wasn't really with it yet. She was wrapped in a patchwork quilt. Her feet stuck out, red and cold, underneath. Her toes were really knobby and gross and her hair was like a dandelion with half the petals missing. I saw a glint of silver round her neck. The butterfly necklace.

“I'm off to bed,” I said. “Be sure to stay on your guard.”

“Hey, Kevin. Don't go yet. Let's talk for a while.”

“That would be so not smart—”

“Please!”

She curled herself up on the settle, those totally gross feet tucked out of sight.

“Okay. Just for a minute,” I said. “I'm supersleepy.” Which wasn't exactly true. Since she'd poked me with that jabbing finger I was wide awake. I cocooned myself in the marshmallow comforter beside her.

“Suppose, just suppose, he doesn't have a bomb in that bag?” she asked, staring at me. Her eyes were that depthless dark, dark blue.

“Are you kidding? What else could he have? It's a bomb, all right.” I couldn't believe she was saying this now.

“But he did say it was something precious and private. That's what confuses me. Would you call a bomb precious and private?”

“No. But I'm not a terrorist and he is.”

We sat in silence. I wondered if the cows we'd seen in the pastures outside were asleep in their cozy barn. The horses. The chickens.

“Do
you
have something private and precious?” Geneva asked.

“Naw,” I said, lying.

“I bet you do. I bet everybody does. I do. And if you tell me, I'll tell you.”

I considered, semi-intrigued. “You first, then.”

“No, you. I had the idea. I get dibs.”

“It definitely has to be you first,” I said, telling myself that I'd pull out if hers was something stupid. She'd probably think mine was stupid anyway.

“Okay, then. But you'd better not weasel out.” She bent her head.

“So, what is this private, precious thing?”

“These.” She lifted her cupped hands and in them I saw something shining and silvery.

“What are they?”

“My contact lenses. They're what make my eyes so pretty. I never tell anyone because my eyes are the only pretty things about me.” She looked straight at me and I couldn't believe it. The dark blue color had disappeared and I was looking into a pair of pale, washed-out, ordinary, anybody eyes.

“Oh my gosh!” I said, remembering how many people had complimented her, even Grandma.

“I'm really ugly,” she said.

I sat up straight. “No, you're not. Except for your feet. I bet some guys would even think you're okay-looking.” I struggled to find something else good to say. “You've got great hair. It's like…like a rock star's.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean it.”

She bent forward and I guessed she was putting her contacts back in. “Okay,” she said. When she straightened, her eyes were dark and beautiful and mysterious again. “Your turn.”

“I was thinking maybe you don't want to know what—”

“I do. And you promised.”

“Okay.” I pulled the marshmallow comforter up around my face as much as I could without actually burrowing into it. My voice was muffled.

“I have a blankey square.”

“A what?”

I let the words come in a rush so maybe she wouldn't hear them right. “It's a corner of the baby
blanket that I used to have, and I take it with me places where I have to sleep, and I put it on my pillow and I know it's seriously stupid and babyish and nobody knows except my mom and maybe my dad and…” I finished, “And now you.”

I could feel her considering. “That's not so bad. I definitely expected worse. But I can see why it's private. Your friends would for sure think you were a bozo.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Well, I don't think that. When my dad was away, I sometimes slept in one of his T-shirts. Even though it was clean it smelled of him, you know? That was before I stopped liking him, of course.”