FIVE

I gazed at the baggy green canvas thing puddling at my feet. Okay, I knew it was a horse rug. I also knew it belonged to Shakespeare because Kate’s last words before she shut the stable door and walked off were “…and don’t forget to put Shakespeare’s rug on when you’ve finished brushing him.”

Duh…

I’d also worked out that wrapping Shakespeare in this heavy piece of canvas was a good idea because:

(a) With his bony old body he’d probably feel embarrassed without a coat.

(b) It was a good way to get his sticking-up hair to lay down flat.

Determined to succeed in my mission this time, I grabbed the rug firmly in both hands and heaved it in the direction of Shakespeare’s back.

If only I knew which end was up.

Still munching chaff, Shakespeare lifted his nose from the feed bin, twisted his ancient head around and gave me this long-suffering, God-you’re-such-an-idiot eye-roll. Still not sure if he’d got his message across, he let out a deep sigh, then went back to his main purpose in life—eating.

“Do you want a hand with that?”

I stiffened at Noah’s voice behind me.

“No. I’m managing fine, thank you,” I replied, watching the evil piece of green canvas slide off the horse’s back and onto the stable floor for the third time in sixty seconds.

No way was I asking Short Dark and Irritating for help. Okay, I might be close to chopping the dumb rug into sixty thousand pieces and burying the remains in the manure pile, but no way would I ask for his help.

“That’s not how you do it,” Noah growled, opening the stable door and coming inside. “Here, I’ll throw the rug on and you can do up the straps.”

Well—if he put it that way. With a resigned shrug I stood back and watched Noah hoist the stubborn piece of green canvas into the air and flick it over Shakespeare’s back. No fuss. Easy peasy. As simple as eating an ice-cream cone.

As he straightened the rug, he twisted two leather straps through the horse’s back legs and fastened them.

“Can you at least do up the front end?” he snapped, as though talking to someone who needed a ‘Horse-care for Dummies’ book.

“Mmmmggg,” I grunted. Perhaps I could accidentally jump up and down on his foot with the heel of my riding boot—say, six or seven times.

While I fastened Shakespeare’s chest strap, Noah picked up a cardboard box he’d left in the corner of the stable and moved toward me. I scurried backwards. If a ferret or a big hairy spider jumped out of that box, Noah Peterson was deader than dead meat.

“Now,” he said, shaking the box under my nose. “It’s time for you to choose a Double Dare.”

Aaaahhhhhh!

“I’m not choosing one of your pathetic dares, Noah. So, get lost.”

“It’s the rules.”

“So? It used to be a rule for Eskimos to put girl-babies out in the snow to die before they realized they needed women more than they needed men.”

“You’re afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” I bleated. “Playing Double-Dares is kid’s stuff!”

“Admit it, you’re afraid.”

I shook my head and patted Shakespeare’s scrawny neck then tried to push past Noah to get out of the stable.

“So,” he continued cementing himself to the door and making it impossible for me to get past. “Do you want everyone to know you chickened out? That Sarah’s stepsister and my step-cousin is a great big wuss?”

“A wuss?”

No-one called Chiana Ryan, schoolgirl P.I., winner of a real-life crime-writing competition, a wuss…

I dug my hand into the cardboard box so hard my fingers almost went straight through the bottom.

“Here,” I yelled, snatching a screwed up piece of paper from amongst the others and thrusting it into his face. “You’re the one who’s totally freaked out with this double-dare stuff. Me—I played more grown-up games when I was in nappies.”

“So you’ll do it?”

I shrugged.

“Whatever.”

With a smirk that had me digging my nails into the palms of both hands, Noah slowly flattened out the paper and read the message.

“I double-dare you to tie six balloons onto one of Professor Goodenough’s trees.”

My mouth dropped open.

“Tie what? Where?”

Noah repeated the dare.

I gulped. Professor Goodenough? Wasn’t that the mysterious old guy who lived in the property with all the threatening signs out front?

Noah stood away from the stable door and let me through. “And if you chicken out,” he said, “I’ll tell everyone you’re a yellow bellied, weak-kneed wuss.”

* * *

How had I let Noah Peterson talk me into something this dumb?

By calling me a wuss—that’s how.

Noah even said he’d come with me. Said now was a good time to go because most of the kids were out riding. Also said not to tell anyone about what we were doing because his mum would go ballistic if she found out.

Yeah. Thanks heaps, Noah. If Kate found out, she would not make me happy by sending me home—oh no—she’d throw me up on Shakespeare and make me ride till I dropped—or Shakespeare dropped—whichever came first.

After packing away the brushes and hoof-pick and curry comb and other horsy stuff I still hadn’t learned the names of, I watched Noah blow up six red balloons he’d found in a cupboard full of Christmas decorations. While he huffed, I leant against the wall. While he puffed, I carefully inspected the dirt under my finger-nails. Why should I help him blow up the balloons? After all—Noah Peterson was the one who was full of hot air, not me.

Watching the red balloons bobbing and bouncing around on the floor, I shivered. What about the sign that said, ‘Beware Bull–Eats People’?

Geez…what had I let Noah talk me into?

And then I decided the only way to survive the next half hour was to grab a chocolate bar, a warm sweater, and a strong dose of P.I. courage.

So, while Noah snuck a couple of bikes from the shed, I trailed inside the house. From the top drawer of the dresser in the bedroom I was sharing with Tayla and Sarah, I snaffled a Mars bar and my new red sweater—figuring if I got chomped on by the people-eating bull, at least the blood wouldn’t show.

As for P.I. courage—that was a bit harder to find. Okay, my darkest pair of sunnies might help get me in the mood. And perhaps if I stashed my Bratz notebook plus my favorite silver tipped biro in the back pocket of my jodhpurs, they might come in handy.

Five minutes later, Noah and I stood at the little side track leading to the Professor’s fence-line. While Noah dropped his bike on the ground and ran across to the barbwire fence, I hung back, reluctant to go any further.

“Come on, Cha!”

This wasn’t like me to pass up a chance of solving a mystery. Maybe Noah was right. Maybe I was a wuss. I threw a nervous glance over the razor-wire fence. The threatening signs had suddenly developed a life of their own. They were glaring at me—warning me to stay on my side of the fence.

A strange silence settled over the paddock as we lay on our stomachs and prepared to wriggle under the barbed wire. A sinister silence. A silence that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and shiver.

“See anything?”

“Nope. All clear,” whispered Noah standing up on the other side and snatching a quick look over his shoulder.

“Have you been in here before?” I asked passing the balloons over the fence to him.

“Yeah, once. But Mum found out and was so mad she wouldn’t let me ride for a week.”

No riding for a week? In that case perhaps this wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Did you find out what the professor is hiding? Why he’s surrounded by all these signs?”

“Nah. He caught me as soon as I snuck under the fence. Sent me packing and then rang Mum.” Noah screwed up his nose. “He threatened to ring the police next time.”

Now he tells me.

“Don’t worry,” my partner-in-crime added. “This won’t take more than a couple of minutes. Now, hurry up and get under the wire. This isn’t a picnic you know.”

“Why can’t we just tie the balloons to the fence line?”

“’Cos that’s not what the dare said.”

Who cares what the dare said.

As I followed Noah under the fence, the sleeve of my new red sweater caught on the barbed wire. Blast. Even if the Professor, or Kate, or the bull didn’t kill me—Mum would. This sweater cost fifty dollars.

As soon as I stood up on the other side of the fence, Noah handed me the balloons and took off in the direction of the trees.

“Hang on! Wait for me!”

Tightening my fist on the balloon strings I scuttled after him. I guess he’s right, I thought, as I jogged along, this shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes and then we’ll be on our bikes and heading back to the stables.

Feeling more confident, I lengthened my stride and eyed the row of trees growing in front of the professor’s rambling old house. The sooner the balloons were tied on one of their branches the better.

Half way across the paddock, a sudden movement behind the pepper trees caught my eye.

Oh, nooooooooo!

The movement had horns—and angry, red-rimmed eyes.

“Look out!” yelled Noah, his legs pumping faster. “It’s the bull! Head for the nearest tree and start climbing.”

As if I needed telling.

With my heart belting out a drum-roll, I galloped toward the trees at the back of the paddock. One quick glance over my shoulder told me it would be a race to the death. The bull, bellowing in fury, nostrils fanned wide, was zeroing in on my scarlet jumper and the six bright red balloons.

And his four well-muscled legs looked to be galloping a whole lot faster than my two skinny ones.