Chapter Twenty-Five

Showdown at the (Not OK) Corral

Officer Grady cut short my crazy rambling, promised he’d take care of everything right away, and told us to get back to bed immediately. But his long, weary sigh as he hung up the phone made me uneasy. I pictured him rolling his eyes, fluffing his pillow, and settling right back to sleep. The Festival was tomorrow, after all. The biggest day for the Luna Vista police all year.

The phone beeped as I clicked it off. The three of them stared at me.

“So?” Grace asked.

I took a deep breath. “We’ve got to get over there. Now.”

The Luna Vista Rancho and Stables were at least two miles away. No way we could sprint that far—and even if we walked like wild arm-and-hip swinging pro speed walkers, it’d take us at least a half hour. Right then, even the mansion glowing white above us on the hill seemed far off.

“I came on my bike,” Rod offered uncertainly. “One of you could maybe balance on my handlebars?”

I couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed like he’d looked right at Grace when he asked the question. I felt something fizzle inside as if my heart had sprung a leak.

“Way too dangerous,” Trista snapped, not even realizing she’d saved us from an awkward silence. “And not fast enough to be worth it.”

“I have an idea,” Rod said, straightening suddenly. He hopped onto his tiptoes and looked down the hill, then turned back to us, eyes gleaming. “Which one of you can drive?”

Minutes later Trista was gripping the steering wheel of Barb’s golf cart with both hands, her eyes fixed on the mansion’s side driveway like she was playing the final level of TrigForce Five. She’d only ever driven the hydraulic go-cart she’d made for the science fair that year, she’d admitted. “But I totally owned Formula One Fever, 1, 2, and 3,” she’d said as she slammed her foot on the pedal and jolted us away from the float barn with a whiplashy lurch.

Rod and I clung to the back, side by side, the wind rushing in our ears and drowning out the cart’s electric hum. He’d jumped on last like he was hopping a leaving train, and my heart had leaped a little as his shoulder touched mine.

Rod’s idea had been a stroke of genius. Barb always parked her golf cart by the float barn in front of a big sign with her full name on it, key hanging from the ignition. Not that Trista wouldn’t have been able to hot-wire it. As it was, we had to convince her it was better to quietly roll the cart out of its spot rather than ripping out wires to silence the cart’s annoying beeping when it was in reverse.

“Hold on!” Trista warned as we hit a dip at the end of the driveway and turned sharply onto Luna Vista Drive. Trista didn’t seem to have discovered the brake yet. Still, once we were cruising down the actual street at half the speed of a normal car, it felt like we were moving in slow motion. I was suddenly very aware of how long Mr. Zimball had already been at the overflow barn with Barb Lund. I looked at Rod, his face pinched, clutching the cart’s roof, and knew he was thinking the same thing. I reached out and grabbed his free hand and squeezed it. He looked into my eyes and squeezed it back.

“Left at the light!” Grace called out, and Trista turned, following the route the van had taken us earlier. The Luna Vista Rancho came into view. In the dim light outside the overflow barn I could make out two cars parked in front. One was definitely the Zimballs’ minivan. I picked out one of the stars spread out like a canopy above us and wished on it, praying we were still in time.

Dust kicked up in a murky cloud as Trista skidded to a halt right next to one of the cars. We hopped out and dashed for the building, stopping short just outside. A horrible squeal of tires and rumble of an engine rang out from behind the half-open metal sliding door. We looked at each other in terror. Then Grace outstretched her shaking hand, palm down. I slapped mine on top. Trista added hers. Taking the cue, Rod joined. “Ready?” Grace said. “Break!” We flung our hands into the air and rushed forward.

We only took two steps inside before we froze. The beast of a forklift that Grace and I had seen sleeping in the corner was awake now. It roared toward us, headlight eyes gleaming even in the floodlit barn, two iron teeth pointed at us like daggers. At its wheel, barely visible over the tower of massive boxes piled on the front, was a wild-eyed Barb Lund.

“Go back! Run!” a panicked voice shouted at us. I turned to my right and spotted Mr. Zimball, face twisted in terror, trying to shield himself behind a giant wire frame in the shape of a rhino. The flimsy wire would be no match for the forklift’s steely prongs. Barb cried out, and made a sharp zigzag directly toward him, toppling one of her boxes. Grace shrieked as it crashed to the ground in front of us.

“Stop!” Trista hollered at Ms. Lund. “The police are right behind us!” she lied.

Barb waved her hands and gunned the engine, shouting something we couldn’t hear over its roar. She’d lost her mind entirely. Three witnesses, just kids—one of them her victim’s son—and she still barreled ahead. Or, backward, actually. She threw the forklift into reverse, gearing up to come at Mr. Zimball again.

“Take cover, Dad!” Rod yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Mr. Zimball made a dash for a tall stack of wooden pallets left over from flower deliveries, sawdust flying as his feet pounded across it. Then he stumbled and stopped short. Grace gasped.

“Quick! Go!” Rod screamed again, his voice cracking.

But Mr. Zimball couldn’t go. He’d stepped right through the wooden slats of one of the pallets on the ground with such force that his entire foot up to his ankle was now firmly lodged in it. He stood helplessly, like a man sinking in quicksand, as Barb careened wildly around to come at him again.

Rod leaped forward to rush at the forklift, as if he thought he could wave a red cape at Lund like a bullfighter and distract her. I flung out my arm and pulled him back. “We need a plan of attack,” I cried, furiously trying to map out paths through the maze of floats and frames and piles of rusty scaffolding.

Before I could figure one out, footsteps thundered behind us. Five uniformed officers burst in, their shouts echoing in the rafters and their nightsticks swinging. Behind them in a sweatshirt and jeans, hair rumpled, was Officer Grady.

I nearly fainted in relief.