The Dragons of Ordinary Farm, page 15
“What’s that all about?” Tyler asked.
“She’s trying to learn now to carve wood like Mr. Walkwell,” Carmen said, “so she probably made him a present.”
“She’s getting pretty good,” Steve said. “She made me a T. rex out of soap, but I left it in the shower and now it’s kind of a half rex.”
“You must be very, very careful,” said Grandma Paz.
Tyler and Lucinda put down the dirty dishes they had carried into the kitchen.
“They’re doing fine, Mama,” Silvia Carrillo said.
“I don’t mean that.” The old woman shook her head. “I mean where they stay. That Tinker farm. rdquo; Silvia Carrillo said.
“I don’t mean that.” The old woman shook her head. “I mean where they stay. That Tinker farm. It is a dangerous place—tierra peligrosa.”
“Don’t start with the stories, Mama, please,” begged Mrs. Carrillo.
“Everybody knows! My own abuela, my grandma, she was Yaudanchi—an Indian. She told me the stories. Back then, when the Indians lived here, a man went to find his wife who died. He followed her track all the way to that place, that valley. He found a big hole in the ground that led to the underworld, the Place of the Spirits. When he got there he found all the ghosts of all the people that ever were.”
“Mama, quit trying to scare these poor children.”
“Not scare! Warn!” the old woman said stubbornly. “My abuela, she said that one day the ground would open up and all the world would fall into the Place of the Spirits! That the ghosts would come out, ghosts and monsters!”
“Oh, cool, Grandma’s telling a story,” Steve said, walking into the kitchen with a stack of salad bowls. “Carmen, come on!”
“Monsters?” asked Tyler. Lucinda looked really worried, but whether it was about the story or Tyler’s questions, he couldn’t tell. “What kind of monsters, exactly?”
But before the old lady could answer him, Mr. Carrillo popped his head through the door. “It’s just about dark,” he said. “Anybody want to see some fireworks?”
“You kids go,” said Mrs. Carrillo. “My mother and I are going to finish the dishes—and have a discussion about how to treat guests.”
Mr. Carrillo had a big family-sized box of fireworks—the kind that Lucinda and Tyler had always been told were too dangerous to use. As he and the other men set them up on the wide expanse of dirt in front of the house, Mrs. Carrillo emerged. She uncoiled the garden hose and handed it to Steve. “If any sparks go up, then you put them out,” she told him.
“But I want to do some of the fireworks!”
“Honey, there’s no wind and the things are fifty feet from the house,” protested Mr. Carrillo, but Silvia Carrillo was unmoved.
“Yes, that all sounds good until the house catches on fire,” she said. “Steve, you stand there with that hose.”
It was half an hour after the last True Volcano Blossom had sputtered out. Everyone had run out of things to do except sit around the back patio, stuffed and content, listening to the returning noise of the crickets and Mr. Walkwell blowing quiet tunes on a simple wooden flute—the gift, Tyler realized, that Alma had carved for him. He could tell because of the enraptured way Alma sat at his feet watching the old man play. The tune was so strange and the evening so warmly magical that he didn’t even notice the large approaching shape until Ragnar stepped from the driveway into the soft light of the back porch.
“Sorry I am so late come,” he said. “A lot to do.”
“Do you want anything to eat?” said Mrs. Carrillo. “There’s plenty left.”
“I thank you, but no,” he said, smiling. “I think I will carry this group back. Tomorrow is not a holy day like today, so we will be early to work.”
“Let me send some back with you, then,” she said. “We have plenty of leftovers.”
While she dragged Ragnar into the kitchen to load him down with chicken, potato salad, and black beans, Steve sidled up to Tyler. “Quick, dude,” he whispered. “Just show me how to do the Bubble Cave.”
They hurried into Steve’s room and fired up Deep End, and Tyler gave him a quick tutorial on how to pick out the nonexploding bubble to ride through the cave and onto the next level, then left the other boy struggling with the Grotto of Ghouls and went looking for the bathroom. Through the open bathroom window he could hear Mr. Carrillo and Mr. Walkwell talking. The word trouble caught his attention, and instead of turning on the water to wash his hands he moved closer to the screen.
“…That’s all. I know he likes to keep his business to himself, but he needs to know about this.”
“What kind of men?” Mr. Walkwell asked. “They did not come to the house.”
“Men in suits. They said they were with the agriculture bureau, but Hartman said they were in town the day before and bought gas with a Mission Software credit card. That’s that guy Stillman’s company, you know, the guy who’s in the news all the time. Do you think they’re trying to find a place around here to open a factory or something?”
“Who knows?” Mr. Walkwell was doing his best to sound like he didn’t care, but Tyler could hear something strange in his voice—was he a little drunk? “But if they come spying around the farm, I will teach them a lesson.”
“Don’t get yourself in trouble, Simos,” said Mr. Carrillo. The two of them wandered away from the vicinity of the window still talking. Tyler washed his hands and went out, his head full of confusing information. Men in suits asking about the farm? Old Indian ghost stories? He had thought things were already as strange as they could get. Apparently he had been wrong.
On the way back to the farm, with the stars spread overhead and the horse clop-clopping along, nobody spoke for a long time. At last Lucinda asked, “Ragnar, why do the Carrillos keep talking about ghosts at Ordinary Farm? I don’t think they know about the dragons or anything, but their grandmother was telling this story about…about…”
“The Place of the Spirits,” said Tyler. “She said there were ghosts under the house, or something like that.”
Ragnar nodded, but as if he was thinking rather than agreeing. “I do not think there are ghosts under the house,” he said at last. “I think that is fair to say.”
Lucinda had grown dreamy again. Her voice soft, she said, “When is Uncle Gideon going to tell us what’s really going on at Ordinary Farm?” Tyler was glad she doing the asking for once, but he knew they weren’t going to learn anything that way.
Ragnar shook his head. “I have nothing to do with that, child.”
“I hope it’s not dead people,” Lucinda said drowsily. “I hope Grandma Paz was wrong about that. I don’t want to have to meet any dead people.”
Ragnar breathed in sharply but said nothing. Mr. Walkwell, sitting beside him, made a sound that Tyler at first thought was a laugh. He only realized when he heard it a second time that the old man had quietly begun to snore.
CHAPTER 16
HUMPTY DUMPTY’S HANKY
“It isn’t like you to go into town, young fellow,” said Gideon. “Are you courting someone? The young woman at the Dairy Duchess stand, perhaps?”
Colin tried to smile at the old man’s heavy-handed humor. “No, sir, I just wanted to do some shopping. Look at some computer magazines.”
“Well, well, it’s a pleasure to have you, of course. I won’t be able to spend any time with you—I have a very important meeting—but you’ll find plenty to do, I’m sure, a young fellow like you.” He said it, as most old people did, as though Colin was somehow being unfair just by being young.
“I’ll find things to do, sir.”
“Yes, certainly. I see you’ve got your briefcase with you—very businesslike!” Gideon had brought along a case of his own—or, rather, a large box that Ragnar had stashed in the trunk while Colin watched from an upstairs window. Colin knew what was in the box, too. But he had not, of course, bothered to mention any of this.
“Where should we drop you off?” Ragnar asked. The big man wanted it clear that Colin was getting out first, so that he wouldn’t be seeing where Gideon was having his “important meeting.” They thought they were so crafty! Colin almost laughed. “Just at the store. Where should I meet you—and when?”
“I can’t imagine what I’m doing will take more than an hour,” said Gideon. “Why don’t you meet us at the café and we’ll have a sundae before we head back. Even your mother couldn’t disapprove of that, could she? It’s the day after the Fourth, after all—we deserve a little celebration!”
“Oh, yes, Gideon,” said Colin, carefully suppressing any trace of sarcasm in his voice, “that would be super.”
Colin knew exactly where Gideon was going because the antiques dealer, Jude Modesto, had taken the bait of Colin’s email and told him where they would be meeting—at Gideon’s “secret office.”
Gideon Goldring was not the kind of man to transact his business in front of every curious soul in Standard Valley, and there were obvious reasons he didn’t want to have Modesto (or anyone else) visit Ordinary Farm, so he had taken the precaution of leasing a tiny office in a small, half-built business park several blocks away from Standard Valley’s main street. Luckily for Colin it was still twenty minutes until Gideon’s meeting, so the old man and Ragnar were going to get a cup of coffee first. They invited Colin to join them at the café but he declined politely. When they headed toward Rosie’s, Colin walked into the general store, then straight through and out the back door. Once he was out of sight, he tucked his briefcase under his arm and began to sprint toward the business park.
The building was small, and except for a chiropractor’s office and a secondhand store that was apparently closed today there were no other businesses yet in place: Gideon’s office was on the second floor above one of several empty storefronts. Colin paused at the bottom of the stairs long enough to slow his breathing and wipe the sweat from his forehead, then walked up and pushed the door open.
As Colin had hoped, Jude Modesto had let himself into Gideon’s sparsely furnished office and was waiting. The antiques dealer was plump and pink, his bulk overflowing the inexpensive office chair, and he had a little tuft of a mustache, which did not make him look as young and fashionable as he probably thought it did. Modesto’s glasses slid halfway down his nose as he mopped sweat from his face with a handkerchief. “You kept me waiting long enough,” he said crossly, staring Colin up and down. “Look at you—you’re just a kid! What do you want from me?”
Colin was very conscious that Gideon Goldring would be coming through the door in less than a quarter of an hour, but he did his best not to look hurried. He settled into the big chair that he supposed must usually be Gideon’s, unlatched his briefcase, then paused and gave the antiques dealer his sternest look. “Just one question, Modesto. Are you rich enough?”
“What nonsense is this?” Modesto wiped his forehead furiously, as if to scrub away even the memory of being talked to that way by a mere boy. “I’m a very important man….”
“Yes, I’m sure you are, but we’re not talking about important, we’re talking about rich. I’m asking whether or not you would like to be really, really rich. Are you happy dealing in trinkets, Modesto? Setting things up for the people who have the real money? Or would you like to get in on a truly big score”—Colin hoped he wasn’t overdoing the tough-guy lingo: he’d written the whole speech out and memorized it the night before—“a score that will set you up for life?”
“Are you some kind of crazy person?” Modesto struggled to get up out of the low chair. He looked like Humpty Dumpty about to fall off the wall. “Look, kid, I got your email and I said I’d meet you. Fine. I’ve met you, and now you’d better get going. Just because you live in Tinker’s house doesn’t mean you have anything I’m going to—”
“I have everything,” Colin said harshly. Time was getting short now and he had to hurry. “You’ll never get into Ordinary Farm on your own—Gideon Goldring will never let you. But if you help me you’ll get access to things you’ve never even dreamed of, things that make those antiques you’ve been selling for him—those vases and obsidian knives—look like cheap souvenirs. You’ll be rich beyond your dreams. Are you really that sure you’re not interested?”
Jude Modesto stared at him. Humpty Dumpty’s handkerchief came out, went back and forth across the wide, pink face. The chin, with its little sandy beard, twitched. “What are you offering? To get me onto the property?”
“That’s not going to happen. Now, as for what I do have—do you want to find out? Yes or no?”
Modesto glowered. “You have five minutes, kid,” the fat man said at last. “Start talking.”
“I won’t need that much time,” Colin said. “Now listen. I’m going to give you something today and you’re going to take it with you and get it tested. When you do, you’re going to be desperate to talk to me—you’re going to want to come and camp out by the gates of the farm. But you’re not going to do that. Instead, you’re going to send me an email, and it’s going to say one word—‘Yes.’ And then I’ll let you know where we go from there. Got it?”
Jude Modesto was clearly wrestling with the stillstrong impulse to heave himself up out of the chair and storm out of the room, but he was also impressed by Colin’s certainty. “You know, you’re a very rude young man.”
“No, I just don’t like to waste time. Here.” Colin reached into his briefcase and pulled out a pill bottle. Inside the bottle a small, pale chip sat on a folded piece of dark cloth.
“That little white thing?” Modesto squinted as he took the bottle. “What is it?”
“That’s for you to find out. Remember, you’re not testing me—I’m testing you. I already know what it is. But I’d suggest you give it to someone discreet—someone you really trust. Because you’re not going to want this to be general knowledge.”
For the first time, Jude Modesto looked less than certain of himself, even a bit worried, as though Humpty Dumpty had just heard that all the king’s horses and men might not honor their putting-him-together contract after all. “Tested?”
“Yes. Oh, and I’d recommend you have it done by someone with training in biology.”
Modesto was about to ask another question when they were both distracted by noise outside the office: a car door slamming downstairs in the parking lot. If it was Gideon, he was ten minutes early! Colin felt like he was going to be sick.
“I have to hide,” he said, looking around in terror. Why couldn’t Gideon show up on time like he was supposed to? “Where can I hide?”
“Don’t look at me,” snapped Modesto, although he seemed nervous too. “I didn’t ask you to come.”
Colin wanted to hit the fat man. “But if he finds me here, that’s the end of a multimillion-dollar deal for you.”
Now they could clearly hear footsteps on the concrete steps outside. Colin was thinking of trying to force the window open, despite the air conditioner built into the frame, when Modesto pointed at a couple of fabric partitions with metal frames standing against the wall. “Hide behind those,” he suggested, wiping at his sweating face again. “But you better do it fast, kid.”
Colin set the two screens side by side, close to the wall, leaving room to hide behind them, but then realized that his feet would show at the bottom. He had just dragged a box behind one of the screens when the door of the office began to open. Colin jumped up on the box and held his breath.
“Modesto? Ah, I see you let yourself in.” It was Gideon’s voice, all right.
“Mr. Goldring. A pleasure to see you, sir.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Gideon’s chair squeaked as he sat down. “You know Ragnar, I think.”
“Mr. Lodbrok, nice to see you again,” said Modesto.
Colin inched forward a little, doing his best not to bump the fabric, and put his eye to the crack between the two screens. If he hunched a little he could just make out the area around the desk. Gideon looked wilted by the heat, his rooster comb of white hair a bit bedraggled. His eyes, though, were still bright and fierce. “So, Modesto, I’m sure you’d like to know what we have in the box.”
“Of course,” the dealer said. “Always the highlight of my day—no, my entire month. What have you brought me this time?”
Gideon carefully lifted something out of the box. Colin couldn’t quite see it, but Jude Modesto obviously could. “Goodness!” he said. “I mean…goodness! Is that a red-figured amphora I see? Oh, my, that’s one of the most astonishing Greek vases I’ve ever seen—might even be the Berlin painter!”
“Might indeed,” said Gideon with a tone of deep satisfaction. “But I’ll leave that to the experts. I’ve a couple more pieces for you. Some Phoenician glass and a Mesoamerican obsidian knife. Should be worth a few dollars.” He chuckled.
“Oh, yes, they’re lovely, lovely. Oh, I’ll have no problems selling these, Mr. Goldring. What a treasure trove old Mr. Tinker must have left you! I would dearly love to have a look at it all someday—surely you should have the collection reappraised, just to make sure the insurance is adequate!”
“No, I’m afraid not, Mr. Modesto. I have my ways, as you know, and I don’t hold much with visitors.”
“But you wouldn’t even have to see me!”
“I said no. Now, what do you think these might be worth?”
How much things were worth was a subject that interested Colin very much, and he listened carefully as Jude Modesto made an estimate and wrote out a check as an advance.
It’s still small change compared to what we could get, Colin thought. You think too small, Gideon—too small!
“Thank you, sir,” said Gideon, tucking the check into his wallet. “A pleasure doing business with you. Let me know when you’ve finished the appraisals and are putting the items up for—”
