Wylder couldn’t bring himself to meet Addy’s eyes. He was the one keeping the comic safe, and he’d messed up. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Uncle Vim!” she pleaded. “Think of something!”
But Viminy Crowe was not doing much thinking. He stared at the sky, hands clawing at his face as if he wanted to tear out his eyes. The lammergeyer had grabbed Isadora by her hair and now whipsawed west, its wings flapping in the gale as she struggled to free herself. Uncle Vim watched them disappear behind a church steeple, then plunked himself down on the curb, head in his hands.
And he didn’t even know yet all the trouble they were in.
But Wylder knew. “STUPID COMIC!” He flung it away, shaking with rage.
Addy snatched it back up. “Don’t you dare!” she said. “This is our only link to home!”
“Don’t you see? Our way home is burnt! Stupid Nevins and his firecrackers!”
Workmen hammered and sawed in the city hall plaza. What were they building in the middle of a storm?
“It’s all Uncle Vim’s fault!” Wylder cried. “Why did he have to come and turn the world nuts?”
Thunder rolled for long seconds. A chunk of stone fell to the street, smashing a fruit cart. Orange juice dripped onto the cobbles.
“And it’s your fault, Addy! You going to the bathroom at ComicFest made all this happen!”
Hot, scared fury bubbled up inside Wylder, forcing his mouth open. He screamed until he ran out of breath, and when he stopped screaming, nothing had changed except that Addy’s face was so close she could have bitten off his nose.
“You want to blame somebody?” she said. “Who dunked Flynn in the gator tank? Who grabbed the wrong girl? What good does blaming do? Stop acting like a baby and start thinking how to help!”
She was right. Of course she was right. The screaming had actually calmed Wylder down. He felt better. Stupid, but better.
“What?”
“I said sorry! You’re right.”
Catnip yawned and stretched along Addy’s shoulder. His eyes gleamed. She turned her head and gave him a kiss on the nose. At least he was breathing easier now.
“Things can’t get any worse,” said Wylder.
“Things can always get worse,” said Addy.
And they could.
“Extra! Extra!” A newsboy with a black-toothed grin held up a paper. “Read all about it!”
The headline read: FLYNN GOSTER HANGS TODAY! MAYOR DENIES APPEAL!
The workmen had been building a gallows! There it stood, on the front lawn of the city hall, a familiar shape even if Wylder had never seen a real one. And here came a cage on wheels, rolling toward the gallows. Snap the robot—singed and smudged, but with both hands in place and a bowler hat clamped firmly on its head—pushed from behind. In the cage, a hunched figure twirled his mustache.
Wylder peered closer. Was it?
It was.
Flynn Goster—his Red Rider disguise in smoke-streaked tatters—was on his final ride, about to be executed right here in front of them! That’s what the story had come to: a dead hero. Wylder could only shake his head, and keep on shaking it when he saw that Flynn’s jailer—with the big ring of keys—was Nevins.
“Holy cannoli! So who’s the mayor?” said Addy.
Right on cue, the front doors of City Hall opened. Captain McGurk led an honor guard of Best Western Red Riders who marched out—McGurk hopped—and fanned away from the entrance in a ceremonial V-shape. The officers saluted as a familiar figure strode forward to stand at ease—cigar in his mouth, suit coat and comb-over flapping in the wind, thumbs hooked into his vest and the golden chain of office plainly visible on his chest.
Mayor Lickpenny.
He looked down at his defeated enemy, then transferred his gaze to the ruined city, nodding his head, content to have wrecked everything.
And still the wind rose. The clock tower was rocking. Lightning crackled. Fires burned out of control. Faces pressed against windows, screaming silently. In the distance, Wylder saw a funnel cloud begin to form. The air was full of noise and smoke and terror.
Uncle Vim climbed to his feet, stepped away from Addy and Wylder and raised his arms. “THIS IS NOT WHAT I IMAGINED!”
Silence. As if the whole world held its breath.
The howling gale wrenched a stop sign from its post and hurled it—WHACK!—at the back of Uncle Vim’s head. He fell to the ground, and everything went …
