Carla pulled her jacket tight against the cold wind. She'd been shocked to come around the bend and find Mr. DeWheat holding Sira's arm with Sira on the ground as if she'd fallen and DeWheat was trying to help her up. Shocked to see that Sira had left her father's property at all.
The whole exchange with Mr. DeWheat had made little sense, but Carla could tell it had upset Sira.
"What did you do at school?" Sira said. She’d gone back to wearing her overalls, and her fingers were stained with dirt.
"I told Alise that she wouldn't be queen of the school anymore, that I intended to get more friends than her and take over." Carla hadn't been able to get the taste of fear out of her mouth since her pronouncement that morning. In dance she’d felt even clumsier than yesterday. On the bright side, Ms. Liang offered to work with her one-on-one during the lunch hour. That had been far better than sitting alone at a table with Alf.
Carla had spent the rest of the day watching everyone in her classes, noticing who was friends with whom, what they talked about, how they dressed.
It came down to three main groups: the north hills rich kids, the downtown kids, and the farmers. Somehow Carla had to win them all over to her side, and she didn't know how. At the moment, she had only one friend, and that friend wasn't even attending school.
"You told Alise what?" Sira squeaked. "But she's the princess by birthright—I mean she's Mr. DeWheat's daughter, and he owns this whole valley."
Carla kicked at the pebbles in the road indignantly. "He may own a lot of this town, but he doesn't own the school. It's a public place. I can take over if I want. It's just a matter of getting more friends than her."
Sira laughed. "I guess you can team up with my father. He's vowed to fight DeWheat across the whole valley and into the halls of his own mansion if necessary. But Carla . . ." Sira's blue eyes turned serious. "I'd rather we didn't fight. Maybe we can make friends with Alise."
"Are you crazy?" Thunder rumbled overhead in response to Carla's question. Big drops of rain splattered the ground.
"Look. I've got to go," Sira said. "I've got a load of corn to haul in to the root cellar."
"Root cellar?" Carla let the rain run down her hair and dribble down her back, soaking her clothes.
"An underground building that keeps the vegetables fresh."
"Oh." So that's what that building was. A bolt of lighting flashed just up the street, and the thunder pealed in a deafening burst almost at the same moment. "That was close," Carla said.
"Yeah, you better go home," Sira said. "And I've got a lot of work to do."
"I'll stay and help you, if you help me think of how to make more friends." Not that she figured Sira knew how to make friends, but Carla didn't relish the thought of going home yet.
Sira shook her head. "I wish you could. With my father's hands burned, I'm doing all the work myself, but I'll have to get his permission first. Can you come back tomorrow?"
"Sure." Carla shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. "I guess I'll go help my mom chase her stupid chickens around the yard. She got some today. Crazy woman. I guess there was a hole in the coop, and she can't seem to get them back in."
Sira rolled her eyes. "Tell her to stop chasing the chickens. Just lure them back in with the chicken feed."
"Right."
Sira waved and headed up the street toward her home. Carla went back the other way, annoyed at the rain. She'd wanted to stay longer and talk to Sira, maybe convince Sira to let her onto the property. No matter how often she went, it didn't feel haunted to Carla. It felt warm and peaceful and perfect.
The rain pounded harder. Dark clouds swallowed the afternoon sun, covering the fields with an eerie twilight. Up the road she saw a pair of headlights that flashed and bobbed as they made their way toward her. As they grew closer, Carla realized it was a police car. It stopped in front of her house.
Carla broke into a run toward home. Perhaps her mother had broken some law in getting the chickens. But no. That made no sense. Maybe she'd broken her neck and called 911. But there was no ambulance behind the police car.
Carla reached the front gate as two police officers climbed from the vehicle. Their faces were thin and clean-shaven except for matching bushy mustaches. They looked so much alike they could be identical twins. They walked over to her, and a strange tingle went up her spine.
"Are you Carla Greenhall?" the one on the left asked.
"Sure." She thought about the $1000 Mr. DeWheat had given her for shopping. Maybe he wanted it back. Maybe Alise had learned about it and told the police Carla had stolen it.
"You're mother's name is Patricia Greenhall. She owns this farm now. Is that correct?"
"Yes, of course," Carla said, balling her hands into fists. "What do you want? We haven't broken any laws. Maybe my mother isn't so good with chickens, but that's not a crime."
The officer on the left laughed, and the other one elbowed him in the ribs. "We have reason to believe that a dangerous criminal has entered The Valley. He was last seen coming in this direction. Have you seen anyone on the road?" Both officers gave her a penetrating stare, warning her to speak up quickly and tell the truth.
Carla hated when Police officers tried to intimidate innocent people. She'd met too many back in the city who thought the uniform and badge gave them the right to push people around. "Mr. DeWheat was here a minute ago. Do you mean him?" Of course they didn't. Carla figured he ran the police station as well as everything else in town.
"Mr. DeWheat was here?" The one on the left said. Her pronouncement seemed to have ruffled them a bit.
Good, Carla thought. "Yep, came this way just before I did. He must have had a car parked here, though because he's gone now." Carla's skin prickled. The rain continued its pummeling shower, but she hadn't seen any car. Mr. DeWheat had just rounded the bend and vanished.
"Listen," the officer on the right said, stepping closer to Carla. The air turned darker around him. "There is a dangerous criminal out here. We believe he's armed and plans to shoot Mr. DeWheat. There's an old feud between DeWheat and a family over in Grand Junction. We're going to need to search your house and property."
Carla retreated from the policemen into the yard and shut the picket fence. Like a flimsy waist-high fence could protect her. "Do you have a warrant?"
"No," the officer said, grabbing the gate, his face twisted in anger. "But be reasonable. We just want to make sure you're safe."
The other officer laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Is your mother here?" he said in a calm voice.
Carla shrugged.
The more aggressive officer shook his partner off and pulled open the gate. "You do realize he could be in your house right now with your mother? He could use her as a hostage, or kill her just for spite." He stormed past Carla and up the steps to the front porch. He laid into the doorbell until Carla's mom flew out of the house, across the porch, and pushed open the door. She took one look at Carla and two policemen, and her face went bone white.
"What is it? What's wrong? My daughter's a good child. She couldn't have done anything illegal."
"No problem with your daughter, Mrs. Greenhall," The policeman by the porch said. "But there is a dangerous criminal loose, last seen heading this direction. We'd like permission to search your house and property, for your own safety. Then we'd suggest you stay inside with the doors locked for a bit. But don't worry. We'll find him. We just wanted to make sure you and your daughter are safe first."
"Oh no. Does he have a gun?" Mom’s voice peaked in a high screech.
"Possibly," the officer said.
"My chickens! I just went in the house for a moment to call for help getting them back in," Mom cried and raced around the house toward the chicken coop.
"Chickens?" the policeman next to Carla said. "There's a gunman out here who could shoot her or her daughter, and she's worried about the chickens?"
Carla laughed. Her mother had seldom been rational when it came to the idea of farming.
The policeman and his partner sprinted after Carla's mother. Carla followed him. "How do you know this guy is after Mr. DeWheat?"
"He's a Sunblade. He's in The Valley. That’s enough," the officer said.
Carla thought about Mr. Springmorning and his shotgun. He'd shot at Carla, and she wasn't even some old family enemy. And there had been the thugs at the mall. People here were crazy.
Back behind the house, the flock of brown speckled chickens huddled next to the barn. Mom ran toward them, and they scattered, clucking and fluttering their wings.
"I've been trying to get them back into the coop," Mom said. "But I can't."
Carla peered through the rain in search of the dreaded gunman. Nothing moved but the chickens, her mom, and the two policemen who drew their guns and headed into the barn. Carla followed them into the ramshackle building, noting with one look that no one was there and nothing had been disturbed. She grabbed a handful of chicken feed from a bag Mom had thrown in there. Outside, Mom continued to chase the chickens in the rain.
"Mom. Stop."
Her mom ceased the wild chase. Rain drizzled down her soaked hair. Her wet clothes clung to her thin body. "They're freezing out here. It's so cold and wet. They might die."
"Don't worry," Carla said. A blast of wind blew through, and the chickens scurried back up against the barn. Carla tossed a handful of chicken feed on the ground between the chickens and the coop. Clucking, the chickens rushed over and pecked up the kernels.
Keeping her distance, Carla made a trail of the chicken feed into the coop. The chickens followed, pecking them up. Within a few moments, Carla had them safely locked in. "Did you fix the hole?" she asked her mom.
Mom nodded then looked over to the barn where the policemen were still scrabbling around inside, kicking over hay bales and checking the tool cabinets in the back. "Do you really think there's a gunman out here?"
"I didn't see anyone," Carla said. "Except Mr. DeWheat who stopped by to check on the Springmornings. It's so far between houses, I don't see how someone could get here and hide without being seen by me or Mr. DeWheat or the policemen in their car."
"I-I'm going to go ask the policemen to come in and search the house," Mom said, stepping into the barn.
Carla stayed outside. She was too soaked to worry about getting any wetter, and she didn't want to talk to the policemen anymore. A faint chirping sound got her attention. following it, she found one last chicken that hadn't been with the others. This one sat on the root cellar door, letting out miserable little chirps.
Carla got some feed and tossed it out in front of the chicken. It tried to flutter forward, but jerked back, its foot caught in the edge of the door. "Easy now," Carla cooed as she inched toward it.
The chicken gave out a startled cluck and tried to flutter away. Her trapped foot held her in place no matter how hard she flapped and scrabbled.
The barn door creaked shut, and Carla looked up to see her mother and the policemen heading toward the house. Carla let them go inside before turning her attention back to the chicken. She'd have to open the cellar door to free it then lure it into the coop.
Hoping the crazed chicken wouldn't peck her too hard, Carla grabbed the door handle. A hot tingle raced up her arm. She jerked her hand back. The handle hadn't shocked her like that the day before. It must have gathered some kind of static electricity from the storm. She touched it again. This time it didn't shock her, just warmed her hand with a fuzzy tingle, a tingle like she felt when she'd handed the shopping bag over the Springmorning fence. The tingle that she felt every time she saw the garden. A tingle like she'd felt in the mall before everything exploded.
Carla jerked the door open. The chicken clucked and flapped away toward the coop. Rain pelted down into the root cellar. Something moved. Carla could barely make it out in the dim light—a blue shirt, covered in blood, hanging in tatters on a human body.
Carla let go of the door, and it slammed shut with a loud thud.
The policemen raced out of the house, carrying their guns. "What was that?" one of them shouted. The other pointed his gun around the yard as if ready to shoot.
Carla shuddered. Goose bumps rose on her arms, and her heart beat as fast as the falling rain. Someone was in the root cellar, hurt bleeding. Unconscious, or dead. Carla shook herself and met the policemen and her mom halfway between the house and the root cellar.
"It's nothing," Carla said. "I just figured I'd check the root cellar while we were at it. Nothing there except spiders." She grimaced and smoothed her soggy hair out of her face to give the policemen an innocent look.
"Are you crazy?" the policeman shouted. "You shouldn't have gone looking without us."
Carla shrugged. "A kid I know brought a gun to school once back in Denver. I talked him out of shooting everyone. Guns don't scare me that much. Most people just want someone to stop and listen to them for half a second."
She lied about the guns not scaring her. She'd been terrified when she'd talked the gun away from Richard, and even more scared when Mr. Springmorning had shot at her. But she hadn't seen a gun in the root cellar, just a body.
Mom scowled but remained quiet. They’d argued about the thing with Richard too many times already.
"You are not taking this threat serious enough," the policeman said.
Carla shrugged. She’d never seen a policeman look scared before. This one almost did, or maybe she just imagined it.
"All right. I’m sorry," she told the policeman. "Let's go inside and lock the door, Mom. It's getting late, and I have a lot of homework." Carla headed for the house.
Her mom lingered for a moment to thank the policemen for searching the house then hurried in after Carla.