AT FIRST I thought Cassie had gone crazy-loco, babbling about parrots and dogs. But Quentin Jeffers blanched and lowered his gun slightly.
“You’re lying,” he snapped, leaning hard on his cane. “You don’t really have Bluebeard.”
But I could hear the worry in his voice. I guessed Cass could, too, because she actually smiled.
“It’s true, dude. Our mother has him back at your house. Now let him go, or the birdie gets it.” She drew one finger across her throat to illustrate.
Suddenly I caught on. That squawk we’d heard from inside Quentin’s house—it had to be the parrot I’d seen in my visions! And Cassie had seen the butler sweeping up blue feathers in one of her visions. The parrot must belong to Quentin!
“Don’t hurt Bluebeard.” The old man sounded frantic now. “He’s innocent!”
“So’s our dad.” Cassie’s voice was steely. “Let him go, and we’ll give Bluebeard back.”
Quentin frowned, his eyes shooting from us to Dad and back again. “Fine,” he snapped. “But first I want to see that he’s safe.” He waved the gun toward Dad. “We’ll all go together.”
It was a tense walk back to Quentin’s house. At least most of it was downhill. Quentin insisted that Dad walk right ahead of him, and that Cassie and I stay on the other side of the street “so you can’t try anything funny,” he’d explained with a suspicious glare.
“What does he think we’re going to do?” Cassie whispered as we trudged along, doing our best to stay exactly opposite the two men.
“I don’t know,” I replied quietly. “I just wish Mom was here.”
Cassie glanced over at the two men again. Then she stuck her hand in the pocket of her shorts. “Let me know if Quentin looks over here,” she hissed.
“What are you doing?” I shot the old man a nervous look. If he thought we were trying anything funny . . .
“Texting Mom,” Cass whispered so quietly I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right.
Texting her without looking at her phone, or even taking it out of her pocket? I was a little dubious. But if anyone could do that, it was my sister, the texting fool.
I didn’t worry about it for long, anyway. Because we were already almost back to Quentin’s house. He could move pretty fast, even with that cane.
“Stay back, girls,” our father called as we started across the street.
“No, come along, girls,” Quentin said. “You have to tell your mother to release Bluebeard, and then we’ll talk about what happens next.” He stepped closer to Dad, pointing the gun at his head. “Inside—ladies first.”
Cassie and I traded a nervous look. You didn’t have to have a cop for a mother to know that it’s never a good idea to go into a homicidal stranger’s house. But what choice did we have?
We pushed open the big front door and stepped into the spacious marble-floored foyer. Quentin followed, poking Dad along at the muzzle of the gun.
“Sir!” The butler hurried in from another room with a large blue parrot perched on his shoulder.
Quentin gasped. “Bluebeard!” he cried. “You’re safe!” Then he turned and glared at us, realization dawning on his pinched face. He lifted his cane and pointed it at us like a huge, accusing finger. “You kids lied to me. That means the deal’s off!”
“No!” I blurted out. I spun to face the butler, who looked confused. “Help us—please! He’s crazy!”
The butler didn’t meet my eye. “Here you go, sir,” he said softly, stroking the parrot and then passing it over to Quentin. “Bluebeard was eagerly awaiting your return.”
Quentin settled the large bird on his narrow shoulder. “There, there, my love,” he murmured, letting his cane fall against his side so he could reach up and scratch Bluebeard on the chest. “Everything’s going to be all right now.”
“Easy for him to say,” Cassie muttered. Then she cleared her throat. “So why’d you do it, Quen—er, Mr. Jeffers?” she asked. “What made you decide to kidnap our dad, anyway?”
The old man glanced at her, looking amused. “Nice try, young lady,” he said. “This isn’t Scooby-Doo. You meddling kids aren’t going to get me talking so you can concoct some crazy escape plan. This is real life.”
His words hit me hard, because he was right. This was real life. And that was our real father standing there in front of us for the first time in more than ten years. Was this really how our reunion with him was going to end?
“Please,” I blurted out. “Can’t we just hug him?”
“What?” Quentin turned and stared at me.
“Our dad.” I swallowed hard, feeling tears stinging my eyes. “We haven’t seen him practically our whole lives, and if you’re going to—you know . . .” I waved a hand at the gun. “I mean, can’t we just have one hug first?”
I expected him to say no—maybe let out an evil laugh like the villain in a movie. But he actually looked touched.
“Oh—well,” he mumbled. “Now, if you’re talking about absent fathers, I suppose I know what that’s like, so . . .” He cleared his throat. “All right, one hug each. That’s it.” He waved the gun. “And don’t try anything funny, or your father won’t be the only one who gets it!”
He stepped back out of the way. For a second, Dad just stood there gazing at us. Then, suddenly, we were all in motion.
I felt Cassie’s elbow connect with my rib cage, and I’m pretty sure I poked Dad in the ear with my thumb. But nobody minded as we tangled ourselves up in a big, crazy family hug.
“Oh, girls!” Dad’s voice sounded choked up and hoarse. “I hoped I’d see you again one day, but I was starting to think . . .”
“We thought you were dead,” Cassie mumbled. “All this time, we thought you were dead!”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. It was way too overwhelming. Instead, I just hugged my father as tightly as I could, wishing I never had to let go . . .
But Quentin only gave us a few seconds. “All right, that’s enough,” he said. “One hug—that was the deal. Now back off.”
“No!” Cassie moaned.
“Please!” I cried.
But Dad gently disentangled us. “It’s okay, girls.” His voice was steady now as he backed up a few steps. He glanced toward the front door. “They can go now, right, Quentin?”
Quentin frowned. “No,” he said. “They stay.” He smirked. “I’m sure they’d love to hear their daddy’s voice for a few more seconds, even if it’s just you crying and begging for your life.”
Dad shrugged. “I have nothing more to say to you, Quentin.”
Quentin looked surprised. But then he shrugged, too. “Fine. Then prepare to die.”
“I’m ready.” Dad straightened to his full height. “Even death has to be better than spending another second trapped here in this nightmare of a mansion, dealing with your crazy whims and experiments.”
I tensed up and turned my face away, expecting to hear the gun go off. Instead, I heard Quentin let out a loud sniff. “What are you talking about?” he said, sounding insulted. “Of all the ungrateful . . . I’ve done everything I could to make you comfortable here. You had only the best of everything money could buy—food, clothing, this beautiful place to live . . .”
As he turned slightly, waving his gun toward the fancy chandelier or whatever, I saw my chance. The parrot wobbled slightly on the old man’s shoulder, fighting to stay balanced.
I darted forward and grabbed the bird’s long blue tail feathers, giving them a good yank. Bluebeard let out a deafening squawk, scrabbling to regain his balance on his bony perch but quickly giving up and flying off in a rush of wings.
“Bluebeard!” Quentin cried, lunging after the bird.
I grabbed Cassie by the hand. “Dad, run!” I shouted.
We raced for the door—and almost collided with Mom as she ran in, service revolver in hand! Grandmother Lockwood was a few steps behind her.
“Freeze!” Mom shouted in her best cop voice. “Hands where I can see them!”
Quentin, Dad, and the butler all stopped short, sticking their hands in the air. Mom bustled over and plucked the gun out of Quentin’s hand.
Meanwhile Dad’s eyes went wide. “D-Deidre?” he stammered, lowering his hands.
“Hello, John.” Mom’s eyes went soft for a second. But then Quentin started to lower his hands, too, and she spun to face him, instantly back in police mode. “Quentin Jeffers, you’re under arrest,” she barked out. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”
As she recited the Miranda rights, I heard a commotion from the doorway. “What’s going on over here?” a female voice demanded.
Cassie turned and her jaw dropped. “Sakiko?” she squealed. “Oh my gosh, I’m your number-one fan!”
Okay, that was yet another face from a vision I was seeing in real life. Sakiko Star was staring in at us, looking annoyed and confused at the same time. Everyone started talking at once, and out of nowhere about a zillion paparazzi appeared and started snapping photos of us, Sakiko, Dad, Quentin, and even Bluebeard, who was perched on the chandelier as if it was the world’s biggest, fanciest, craziest, most expensive bird swing.
Which was probably the least weird thing that had happened all day.