We took off, running hard.
I led the way toward the front of the temple. Glancing back, I could see the men still struggling over the boiling cauldron.
We ran along the side of the temple to the back. No one followed us.
We stopped and stared into the distance. Nothing but sand. Behind the temple, the desert seemed to stretch on forever.
Peter put his hands on his knees and struggled to catch his breath. “Wow! Was that a close call!” he said. His voice was muffled by the mummy mask.
He raised a foot. “Look. I have tar stuck to the bottom of my shoe.”
I shuddered. “I don’t want to think about it. What are we going to do now? How are we going to get home?”
The sky darkened. The wind grew colder. The sand shifted and moved like ocean waves.
A hard gust of wind sent a burst of sand into my eyes. I cried out. It felt sharp, like cut glass.
The wind howled. Sand seemed to rise up from the ground, wave after wave.
Peter and I covered our heads. The sand swept over us. Pounded us. It felt as if my skin was erupting in a thousand cuts.
I struggled to breathe.
Another high wave of sand crashed into me. I toppled into the temple wall.
I couldn’t see. All I could hear was the roar of the wind and the crash of the sand.
And then … silence.
The sandstorm stopped as suddenly as it had started.
I took one deep breath after another. I brushed sand off my costume with both hands.
Peter turned to me, dazed. He shook his head, and sand flew out of the mask in all directions.
“Scary,” he muttered.
I glanced at the temple wall. Whoa. Wait a minute.
Was that door there before?
I stared at the door. And a row of windows next to the door. A sign read: SERVICE ENTRANCE. ALL DELIVERIES HERE.
I stepped away from the wall. “Peter — look!” I cried.
I recognized where we were.
“Peter,” I said. “We’re at the back of the History Museum.”
We heard a horn honk. Two cars rolled along Museum Drive.
We stood there for a long moment, catching our breath.
“We’re back — and we have two masks,” Peter said finally.
I sighed. “It wasn’t exactly easy,” I said. “My eyes still sting from that sandstorm. And I can still smell the boiling tar.”
Peter pulled out the list of masks. “We have to keep going,” he said. “It must be getting late.”
He read the list. “The Himalayan snow wolf mask is next.”
I stared at him. “Himalayan snow wolf? We talked about them in school. They live in the Himalayan Mountains.”
“Is that far?” Peter asked.
I think he was joking.
“The snow wolves live on snowy mountain peaks,” I said. “We don’t have any snowy mountain peaks. We don’t have any mountains in Hillcrest.”
“So … where would Screem hide a snow wolf mask?” Peter asked. “A wolf preserve?”
“Our town doesn’t have a wolf preserve,” I said.
Peter banged his head with both fists. “Think. Think,” he urged himself. “Where would Screem hide a snow wolf mask?”
Suddenly, I had an idea.