“I’ll grab John,” Summer said.
“I’m coming,” Nate said.
They got out of the Buick and hurried along Ingrim Place until they reached 2225, a modest home with a basketball hoop out front.
“Think he’s inside?” Summer asked.
“John?” Nate called in a loud whisper. “John?” There was no answer. “Let’s try the door.”
They ran up to the porch, knocked, and waited. Nate was reaching for the doorbell when the door whipped open. John was down on one knee, crossbow ready. “I said to stay in the car,” John said, lowering the weapon.
“We got a call from Pigeon,” Nate said. “He could hardly talk, like his mouth was taped shut. He said Gary has the key. He said we should hurry to his house.”
“Did he give an address?” John said, rushing from the house, running awkwardly, stabbing the ground with his cane to help support his left leg.
“No,” Nate said, chasing John down the street.
“You’d think after eighty years on the job I’d have better instincts,” John grumbled. “Looked like the Lester Haag family was on vacation.”
When they arrived at the car, John tore open the phone book. He leafed through several pages, eyes intense. His finger traced down a column of names. “Gary,” John said. “You two ever hear of Rosario Court?” Nate and Summer shook their heads. John yanked a map from the glove compartment and unfolded it. “Help me look.”
The three of them huddled over the map of Colson, scanning street names. “Here,” Summer said, poking the map.
“Good eyes,” John said, tossing the map into the back and diving into the car. He started the engine before he was situated, grabbing for his seatbelt as they accelerated down the road. He ran a stop sign. Swerving onto a bigger road, he cut off a minivan, earning a prolonged honk. After getting pinned at a red light, he raced around an empty school bus, took a left onto a smaller street, and zoomed through a neighborhood at an irresponsible speed. A few more turns, tires whining, and they found themselves on Rosario Court, a short street bordered by twelve good-sized, two-story houses.
John pulled into a sloped driveway. “That could have been worse,” he said. “Sit tight.” Leaving the keys in the ignition, he got out and dashed toward the front door, using his cane to pole-vault onto the porch. Nate and Summer watched from the car.
Holding his crossbow behind his back, John pounded the door. A skinny woman with short graying hair answered. John spoke. The woman laughed and touched his arm, using her hands expressively as she replied. John said something else, and she said something back. He said a few more words and limped away from the door, keeping the crossbow hidden.
John slid into the driver’s seat. “This is the home of Gary senior,” he said, backing out of the driveway. “His son Gary the custodian is unlisted. He lives at 3488 Winding Way.”
“Near our school,” Summer said.
“My fault,” John growled. “Sloppy . . . slow.”
The engine revved as they ignored another stop sign.
*****
Methodically, persistently, trapped awkwardly on his side, Pigeon tried to wriggle free of the extension cords that trussed him to the chair. He squirmed, bucked, wrenched, and flexed. He was making progress—the cords felt looser than when he had started, but they had not yet relaxed enough for him to free either of his arms.
Pigeon heard conversing women approach the office. He screamed as best he could around the gag.
“Did you hear that?” one of the women said.
Encouraged, he screamed louder.
“Hello?” the voice called.
Pigeon grunted and shouted. “Elm! Elm ee, elm ee!”
The doorknob shook but did not open. It was locked.
“Are you all right?” the woman asked.
“Uh-uh, urry, elm ee!”
“Just a minute, we’ll find somebody, hold on!”
Pigeon relaxed. There was no way he could squirm free of the cords before they found somebody to open the door. After a longer wait than he expected, a key rattled in the doorknob, and Ms. Jesky, the vice-principal, entered, followed by a pair of lunch ladies.
“Oh my goodness!” Ms. Jesky gasped, kneeling by Pigeon and tugging at the cords. When his arms were free, Pigeon yanked the gag from his mouth.
“I have to make an emergency call!” Pigeon insisted.
Ms. Jesky was still picking at the cords around his legs as he crawled forward to plug in the telephone.
*****
The Buick screeched to a stop in front of 3488 Winding Way, an attractive, split-level home with a white porch swing out front. There was no vehicle in the driveway.
“Stay put,” John said, exiting the car with the crossbow hidden behind his back. He limped briskly up the walkway to the front door and rapped on it with his cane.
Nate’s cell phone rang. “Pigeon?”
“Nate, they know about Gary!”
The door to the house swung inward. A column of orange jelly filled the doorway. John launched a pair of quarrels from his crossbow as the gelatinous pillar sloshed forward, heaving him onto his back. His fedora fell off, and his cane clattered down the porch steps. John fought to his knees, wearing orange ooze from the neck down. Swinging his arms jerkily, he shook off globs of jelly and staggered to his feet. Blood fumed up from his shoulder within the translucent gelatin.
“Too late,” Nate yelled, hanging up the phone. “We need Shock Bits!”
Summer was already shaking some into her palm. “I’m almost out.”
As they dashed from the car, Nate put half of the Shock Bits Pigeon had given him into his mouth. Across the yard, the gelatin slurped upwards, engulfing John’s head. Still flailing, he tumbled down the porch steps. The impact splashed apart some of the jelly, but the majority remained fastened to him. The blobs that had been jostled loose flowed across the ground to rejoin the squirmy central mass.
A tall, hideously deflated man stepped through the doorway, hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder. His lips parted as he launched a small jellyball at Summer, which liquefied when it shorted out her charge with a flash. A second jellyball missed Nate, but the third tagged him with a hiss and a crackle.
From inside the pulsing mass of gelatin, John aimed his dart gun at the man in the door, but it did not fire. John exhaled, stationary bubbles clustering in front of his face.
A baritone voice commenced chanting musically. The Fuse, his radiant birthmark slowly spreading, approached from down the street, arms spread wide, fingers splayed. The front lawn of 3488 Winding Way began to flutter and grow. Blades of grass enlarged into ropy green tentacles, snaking around Nate’s legs, pinioning Summer’s arms to her sides, plunging into the gelatin to entangle John.