The Knick Knack Nightmare Page 8

  Three copper dragons glided above the alley, doing loop-the-loops and corkscrew dives in the moonlight. They didn’t attack. They didn’t set fires. And when they saw me, they didn’t stop. Like captive birds escaped from their cages, they whipped through the clouds lifted by the air under their wings, free of cabinets and cases for the first time in their lives. Lives? Is the knight alive? What’s controlling them? The coin? A person? Anything at all? How can I fix the coin? How could I make everything right? What if I can’t? Too many questions, not a single answer. In the space of a night, the world had flipped upside down. Arvin was right. I should have gotten rid of the coin when I had the chance. I pressed ahead. Each footstep and breath became a new question to answer.

  Passing 42nd and Sage, I heard a dog whimper and yelp. I listened for a slamming door and a long silence, but neither came. The dog’s piercing cry continued until I arrived at the scene. I tiptoed into the backyard of a dirty, white house. Much of its paint and blue trim had peeled away, and the fence had rusted orange, twisted and broken by time and neglect. The grass was shaggy and wild. Dandelions and thistle grew everywhere. All brown. A massive old oak loomed in the center of the yard, taller than the house, bare to the branches, and as dead as everything else.

  An elderly man in muddy, sagging underwear and a t-shirt, hanged upside down by a long, thin rope tied around his ankles. Mr. Thompson? White fabric protruded from his mouth, and his hands were tied behind his back. Sparse tufts of white hair brushed across the dead grass as he swayed back and forth, bumping backs with ‘Satan’ Davis. Between them, a white poodle hung by its tail, wriggling, snarling and snapping at their bound hands as all they swayed like wind chimes in the Autumn breeze.

  Long rows of plush cowboy dolls in chaps and stetsons, tugged on two ropes. Plastic army men pulled on the other. Every heave-hoe on the long, braided ropes inched the all three a little higher off the ground. Sean spotted me entering the yard. His muffled screams and flailing alerted the cowboys. All at once, the knick-knacks dropped their ropes. Sean and Mr. Davis crashed into the ground. The poodle landed on its feet and sank its teeth into Sean’s butt. He yelped louder and longer than the poodle. It ran into the alley, dragging the long rope behind.

  A squad of army men attacked me. They scaled my shoes and climbed up my legs. I pried off a dozen and hurled them across the yard. Cowboys joined in. I crushed two under my shoes and grabbed hold of another. With a single twist, I tore him apart. I tossed the head behind me and flung the torso and legs into the next yard. The remaining few knick-knacks turned and scurried toward the house. They pushed through a doggy door and vanished into the kitchen.

  Sean and Mr. Thompson squirmed on their bellies, mumbling under their gags.

  I removed the dirty gag from Sean’s mouth. He lifted his head and spat on my shoes. “You was too slow, Dobbs. That dog bit me cuz of you. I oughta beat ‘ya, ‘ya dumb—”

  I returned Sean’s gag and helped Mr. Thompson instead. I untied the ropes and cloth from his ankles and hands and removed a bunched baby’s t-shirt from his mouth.

  Mr. Thompson shook my hand so hard, I expected loose change to fall out. “Thank the sweet lord you came when you did. I thought I was a gonner. Any moment I’d walk through the pearly gates and join my Louise in heaven.”

  Sean rolled onto his back. He squirmed in the dirt and cursed me under his gag.

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Thompson. How did you get all the way over here?”

  He sniffed, and clawed at his gaping nostrils. “Damned things dragged me like a bag of beans.” He shoved his thumb and first finger into his nose. “I haven’t been in this yard going on forty years now.”

  What’s so interesting up his nose? “You’ve been here before?”

  “This is my old house.” Mr. Thompson pointed to a second floor window. “That was my daughter’s room right up there. But little girls have to grow up, ‘ey?”

  Geez, he’s going into grandpa story mode. “I guess so, but what about—?”

  “Those cowboys were hers. Oh, she loved to play with them. Isn’t that what toys and knick-knacks want? To be played with? Not locked up in some cabinet.” Had his head hit the ground harder than I thought?

  “If you say so. But, Mr. Thompson. What about—?”

  “I’d be lying if I didn’t say sometimes she’d throw them out that window. I’d give her a good whipp’n for it, though.” Mr. Thompson yanked a long, white hair out of his nostril. The hair flittered in the breeze and landed on the bridge of Sean’s nose. Sean focused on Mr. Thompson’s nose hair resting between his eyes. He thrashed his head, but the hair stuck where it landed. “Knick-knacks aren’t people or animals. They can’t get angry, can they? You think they want an apology?”

  I wanted to tell him no, but after tonight, I had to say, “I’ve seen stranger things.” On the ground, Sean grew angrier by the second. “But what about Sean? Don’t you want me to untie him?”

  “I’ve heard about a Sean Davis. Is he the bully you kids call the devil?”

  “Satan, actually. Who told you?”

  “The little guy you always play with. What’s his name? Allen? Aaron? Albert?”

  “Arvin.” Saying his name was a punch to the chest.

  “Anyhooo, I never cared much for bullies. One made my little girl cry. Why don’t you leave young Mr. Davis with me?” Mr. Thompson leaned over Sean and plucked the nose hair off his face. “He needs to learn the error of his ways, and I want to make sure he listens.”

  Sean wriggled to his side and hollered through his gag, “Om onna ill oo, obbs.”

  “Sure you will.” I shook my head. “What about those cowboys?”

  Mr. Thompson looked around the yard and returned with a rusty, old lawn mower. “If they want drag me down memory lane again, I’ll show them something they’ll never forget.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t think it’s been used in a while.”

  Mr. Thompson yanked on a little plastic T attached to the cord. The motor popped and sputtered as the blades spun. He shouted over the noise, “I’ll manage.”

  Mr. Thompson switched off the lawn mower and sat on the ground. He tugged a gnarly, white hair from his nostril and rolled it between his fingers as he talked. “When I was a young man not much older than you, there was a bully named—”

  Sean snarled and shook his head.

  “Don’t interrupt when someone’s telling a story. It’s not polite. Not in the slightest. Let’s call that lesson number one.” Mr. Thompson paused. “Where was I? Oh, yes. When I was a young man . . .”

  I smiled and walked away. I can’t wait to tell Arvin. He’ll be so envious. But, he wouldn’t be envious. He wouldn’t be anything anymore. I’d never tell him another story, and he’d never tell me another secret. If a magic coin can make a billion knick-knacks come to life, it can do the same for Arvin. I have to capture the knight and fix the coin. I have to do it for Arvin. I have to win. It was more important than ever. I ran faster, pushing myself ahead, fighting the pain growing in my legs and feet. But I wasn’t running away from something anymore. I was running towards it.

  Garden Glen’s lasers pulsed and spun in the clouds far ahead. Those same four words appeared. Then the letters fell apart. Their lines formed colorful shapes that flashed and swirled, grew and merged, separated, and exploded. A plan took shape in my mind. I made a list of supplies, places to go, things to do, ways to escape if I failed, and the aftermath if I succeeded. Either way, I was going to end this nightmare.

  Twenty minutes passed before - tired and hungry - I arrived at Clover Crossing. I wouldn’t call it a mall. Garden Glen redefined that word for me. Rather, it was a haphazard collection of specialty shops and marts lined in five rows moving outward from a large, brick building at the center. Tables and benches sat between each row, ready for the occasional Fiesta Sale or outdoor flower market. If someone in Shelbyville wanted kimchi, exotic spices, comic books and video games, or cheap electronics, this is where they’d go. B
uen Provecho was the closest mart to the alley. My mouth watered at the thought of salsa and cold burritos. But first, I had to cross a six-lane road.

  I stepped into 59th street as a car with a broken headlight flew around the corner. The blue hatchback swerved, tires screeching. It sped past and skidded to a halt a few feet away, leaving two wide, black streaks in the road. The door opened and a rubber troll doll fell out. It got up, fluffed its purple hair, and jumped at the car door as the driver pulled out. The car sped off with the rubber troll hanging from the door seam by its hair. It waved and gave me a thumbs up. I returned the greeting and shouted, “Good luck!” Good luck? I was losing my mind or so hungry, I thought wishing good fortune on a psychotic knick-knack was the right thing to do. Burritos! Burritos will save me.

  I entered through Buen Provecho’s broken double doors. Whoever had smashed them was tidier than me. Inside the mart, a large rock rested on a pile of broken glass swept into a corner by the cash registers. A crumpled dollar bill laid on the counter. The trash can overflowed with beef jerky wrappers and empty bottles of horchata. Some poor, honest thief must’ve been chased outside and was running around, kicking in doors, smashing windows, and eating other people’s food. And it wasn’t me this time. The shop was dark, but what I wanted was close enough. I didn’t have to go far.

  The checkout stand was on my left by the entry and a few feet on my right, past a display of green and brown mole sauce, freezers stood, packed with food. I opened the first freezer. Water dripped off the doors and puddled on the tiled floor. I dug through soggy boxes of tortillas, empanadas, tamales, and found the burritos. I took an XXL from the bottom shelf. It was a squishy mound in my fist. Barely cool. The power had been out for hours. Everything was defrosted. I turned the burrito over in the moonlight and tried to read the crinkling plastic packaging. The mart was too dark and the writing too small. I tore off the wrapper and bit a mushy chunk out of it anyway. Beans, chicken, and cheese. Delicious. Arvin would love it. Never mind. Stupid me. I ate another and sat on the floor, drinking a bottle of horchata.

  Mom’s horchata was much better than the store stuff. It was one of the few things she could make well enough to try twice. Dad loved it. Last time she made it, he was still alive. On movie night, he’d drank three glasses, I’d drank two, and after Arvin’s forth glass, he’d burp and ask for a whole pitcher to take home. I missed those days. I wondered if she’d forgotten how to make it, or perhaps she saw Dad’s pale face in the rice milk, his wavy brown hair in the swirling cinnamon. I never asked. I’ll ask Mom to make it when this is all over. Emilia would love it. But Emilia was leaving. Life was walking me backwards to the weeks after Dad died and Arvin moved to Ireland. I’d be alone again. It scared the bejesus out of me. I dropped the wrappers and bottles in the trash can and picked up the rock on my way out. To find everything I needed, I’d have to break a lot more doors.

  Potted plants, small bare trees, and metal benches lined the triangular courtyard between this row of stores and the next. I crossed the courtyard, zigzagging between large stone planters, and followed the adjacent row of stores toward the center building. Where was the party supply store Mom and Ms. Pewter had bought Arvin’s party supplies? I found two next to each other. I smashed in the first door and rummaged through shelves full of supplies for Quinceaneras and Sweet 16s: plastic plates and champagne glasses, cookies, candy, rhinestone tiaras, and candles numbered 15 and 16. Everything was frilly, pink, and girly enough to frighten Satan away, but it wasn’t what I needed.

  The next store was more interesting: party poppers, sparklers, M80s, smoke bombs, roman candles, and a dozen black boxes labeled ‘BOOM!!’ with a skull and crossbones on the top flap. I filled a plastic shopping bag until the handles stretched out of shape and pulled hard on my hand, cutting painful, throbbing creases into my fingers, purple as Asian eggplants. But I needed more - a lot more. I ran up one row and down another another, breaking into one boutique after another, smashing glass doors, and filling another two bags and an orange bucket with lighters and lighter fluid, marbles, sticky tape, two rolls of kite string, a sling shot, and another bottle of horchata.

  At the end of the third row, I broke into a small shop named The Hobby Hut, looking for model glue - the smelly, fast-drying kind for adhering wings onto model planes in less than a minute.

  ERRR

  The lights flickered. I saw boxes of unassembled models stacked on three low shelves.

  ERRR

  Light again! Model doll houses on the middle shelf.

  ERRR

  Mini tea sets and tiny kitchen appliances on the top shelf.

  ERRR-POP

  The power turned on, filling the shop with blinding light. After several nights of running around in the dark, I had grown accustomed to maneuvering by moonlight. I didn’t want the power on. How could I be a thief in the night if shops were as bright as day? These bright lights were not on my supply list - especially now.

  Model glue, where are you?

  WOOO WOOO

  Alarm sirens blasted loud enough to wake the dead. I squinted at a small beige box on the ceiling. A red LED pulsed on the side. “No, no, no. Not now.”

  SEVEN

  I scrambled around the little hobby shop, knocking over boxes of disassembled models and tossing three-inch refrigerators and stoves onto the floor. Where is it? A clear plastic tub overflowed with little tubes by the cash registers. Super Set and Forget Model Glue. I grabbed the tub and dumped it into the bucket as - DUUM - the power surged, transforming high noon into midnight, forcing my eyes to readjust, and then went out again.

  WOOO WOOO

  A different, wailing siren startled me. I held my breath and looked around. No flickering lights. No store alarms. No power. Lights flashed, alternating between blue and red, bright enough to turn the hobby shop into a disco.

  WOOO WOO-

  The siren stopped. Headlights reflected off pieces of broken glass scattered outside the shop door. A figure stood in the light, casting a shadow in the doorway. Somebody was coming. A flashlight shined on the broken glass and followed the bent door frame. I bumped into the mole display. A hefty jar crashed on the floor, splattering green sauce everywhere.

  Outside, something metal clicked. “You in the store, put your hands on your head, cross your fingers, and slowly come out where I can see you.”

  “Oh, crap!”

  “You can make this a lot easier on yourself if you do what I say.”

  I put the bags and bucket by the cash register and inched to the door. Glass snapped and cracked under my shoes. “I’m coming, Officer. Please don’t shoot!” I put my hands on my head, crossed my fingers, and stepped out of the shop.

  The flashlight blinded me. “So you’re the burglar.”

  The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t see beyond the light. “Officer?”

  Officer Larkin lowered his flashlight, shining it on my chest instead. “I never forget a face.” He studied me for a moment. “Percy Derby? Right?” He slid his gun into its holster and fastened it shut.

  “It’s… yeah, sure. Percy. You’re Officer Lars? Lardom? Larpin?”

  “Larkin.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. How are you tonight, Officer?”

  “Better, now I’ve caught you in the act. Didn’t think I’d catch up, did you?”

  “Catch up?”

  “How many was it? Four? Five?”

  Eight, actually. “How many what?”

  “Don’t play dumb. I know it was you. You’ve robbed every knick-knack shop and convenience store on Riverside, Carter, and Hibner tonight.”

  “What convenience stores?”

  “You know which ones. Now I can add lying to a police officer to your list of charges. I don’t understand what’s gotten into you, kid.” He pulled handcuffs from a small side pocket. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back. You’re going away for a long time.” The handcuffs clicked open.

  His threat sounded like a luxury vacation, bu
t I didn’t have time to rest. “Officer, I can explain.”

  “I said, turn around. We’re going to take a little trip, and you can explain it all to the judge. Beef jerky and green melon soda? Seriously? Don’t even try to explain that one. Disgusting.”

  “Did you say beef jerky and green melon soda?”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t broken into any bathrooms. Or have you?”

  “Officer Larkin, that wasn’t me. You see, there are these things.”

  “Save it for your trial. Now turn around.”

  WOOO WOOO

  The police cruiser’s sirens wailed. Officer Larkin spun around as the car doors locked. Gears shifted, and the car crept backwards toward the street.

  Officer Larkin turned his flashlight on the cruiser. “Who’s in there?”

  No answer.

  The cruiser veered to the left and collided with a stone planter, crushing the rear bumper. Officer Larkin tiptoed toward the crashed car and drew his gun. “Exit the vehicle immediately.”

  The engine revved once, twice, and the cruiser sped straight at us. It swerved and clipped Officer Larkin’s leg before crashing into another planter a few couple hundred feet away. Officer Larkin spun like a top and hit the ground, dropping his gun. It skidded across the courtyard and stopped at the feet of a resin ogre.