SEVENTEEN

Fifty one. Fifty two. Fifty three.

Counting in my head stopped me from breathing too loudly. Or screaming. Hand covering my mouth, I stared at the deep scratch marks on the inside of the scarred cupboard door, traced the shape of what looked like a skull and cross-bones with the tip of one finger.

Fifty four. Fifty five. Fifty six.

The smell of disinfectant was making me gag. Any minute now I’d chuck up all over the cleaner’s mops and polishing rags.

Fifty seven. Fifty eight. Fifty nine.

A cold shiver sent goose-bumps galumphing down my arms. Noah was right. I should have waited for back-up. I was twelve years old—scared—close to vomiting. Who did I think I was? Rebecca Turnbull—twenty five, tough, and street-smart? Oh yeah—and a complete fragment of my imagination.

Once again, my heart did a leap-frog inside my chest. What if Meathead and Fingers were waiting on the other side of the cupboard door? What if they were waiting to bat a home run with my head when I poked it out?

Sixty.

Hardly daring to breathe, I inched open the cupboard door a chink and scanned the room with one wary eye.

Empty—except for the faint smell of garlic and what looked like splatters of blood on the grey tiled floor.

Arty’s blood?

I didn’t want to think about it. All I wanted to do was run.

After a quick glance along the passageway, I forced my legs to move slowly, one step at a time, into the main warehouse. The front door seemed a trillion miles away. I wanted to bolt toward it but knew I had to play it cool, not draw attention to myself. At every sudden sound or movement I jumped like a scared rabbit but no-one even glanced up as I walked by. The workers were as busy as ants stocking up for a long cold winter.

Six more steps and I’d be safe. Five…four…

“Hey, kid!”

I almost leapt through the roof. Two strides from the doorway a guy with a foreman-tag on the front of his grey coat put his hand on my shoulder. Was this Gonzo? Was this the guy who measured shoe sizes? Made cement boots for a living?

“You’ve no mind to be in her,” Gonzo/foreman said through his stained yellow teeth. “Didn’t you read the sign on the door? This is for workers only. If you want to place an order for your Dad or pick up brochures for a school project go around to the front office.”

“O-oh, s-sorry, mister,” I stuttered, shaking in relief.

Geez. This P.I. business was way too scary. There was a cop in the gymnasium being fitted with cement boots. I had a mega-million year old dinosaur egg in my pocket that the bad-guys would kill me for. And I’d gone and left my mobile phone in the cleaning-cupboard. I remember taking it out of my pocket, switching it to vibrate and then burying it under some towels in case the sudden noise gave away my hiding place.

Still shaking, I staggered outside, grabbed a gulp of fresh air and looked anxiously up and down the street. Where was the professor? Of course, Arty had told his grandpa to leave if he wasn’t back in fifteen minutes. Although it felt like I’d been inside the warehouse for a year, my watch showed it was only half an hour.

With a nervous glance over my shoulder I pulled the collar of my jacket up and hurried along the street. No professor meant there was no car to make a getaway. No mobile phone meant I couldn’t ring the police as Arty had ordered.

Things were looking black.

As I slipped around the corner of the warehouse, I could hear this totally awful singing. The song was about a dog called Shep and the singer had to shoot the dog because it was getting old. Totally sad and weird. But the good part—the music was coming from the professor’s car. Yay! Never before had I been so pleased to see Professor Goodenough or his beat up old ute. Against his grandson’s orders, he’d stayed close by, just driven around the corner to wait.

I opened the passenger side door and dropped into the seat beside him.

“Let’s scram,” I said slamming the car door and fastening my seat belt.

The professor turned a blank face toward me.

“I’m Chiana from the riding school. Remember?”

He leaned over and switched off his tape-deck then turned to me with a slight frown. “Of course I remember you, Chiana. But I am sorry, I can’t give you a lift, I am waiting for my grandson.”

“Do you know where the nearest phone box is, Professor? I left my mobile inside the warehouse and we need to ring the police.”

“Police?”

“Please. We have to get out of here. Arty’s in big trouble—”

“My Arty?”

“Yes. Gonzo, the cement-boots man, could be after me too. Come on, professor, let’s go!”

The professor, although shaking his head like it was full of cobwebs, turned the key in the ignition.

“The phone box is half a mile away,” he said, doing up his seat-belt. “What’s happened to my Arty? Is he hurt?”

“I don’t know,” I choked, trying to speak around the lump in my throat. “Your Arty saved my life. Made me hide in a cupboard so Fingers and Meathead wouldn’t find me. Then there was a fight and I heard Arty being dragged away to the gym.”

I couldn’t tell the professor about the blood. I didn’t even want to think about the blood.

One hand on the horn to warn a little green hatchback to move itself—now—the professor crunched the gears into top and roared fire-engine fast down the street.

“Arty gave me the Therizinosaur, Professor,” I said, fingering the foam-packed box in my pocket. “He said to give it to you.”

“What use is the egg to me if Arty gets hurt?” he asked. And then, more to himself, “I shouldn’t have pestered him about the egg. It’s my fault Arty’s in trouble.”

“It’s not your fault, Professor. The boss found out Arty was a cop. Nicking the egg just made him a bit madder.”

Neither of us spoke until we’d screeched to a halt in front of the public phone-box. While the professor emptied his pockets onto the hood of the car looking for coins, I pushed through the glass door and checked to see if the phone was in working order.

“No coins,” bleated the professor, sounding like a lost sheep.

Turning out my pockets I found a fifty cent coin, two twenty cent coins and a half-eaten Mars bar.

“Here, Professor,” I said handing over the money. “Arty said to ask for Detective Inspector John Gilman. That must be his boss.”

While the professor made the call, I jigged up and down on the footpath; all the time watching out for Fingers and Meathead. If the deadly duo did come looking for me where could I hide? Under the car? Up a tree? Inside a rubbish bin?

Suddenly, over the hill, with the weak sunlight shining behind them, four horse riders appeared. Jack, Noah, Sarah and Tayla. Laughter bubbled in my throat as they waved and trotted toward me. My assistants had never looked so beautiful. Even Sarah, who had this sour—you’re-going-to-cop-it-when-I-tell-Mum—expression on her face.

“Hey!” yelled Jack, his grin matching mine.

“Hey!” I yelled back.

“You okay?” growled Noah.

“No. They’ve got Arty. And now I think they’re after me.”

“Who’s Arty? Who’s they?” It was Tayla, confused, sort of sick looking, but definitely still part of the team.

“Arty’s the professor’s grandson. You know, Tayla, the Greasy-Hair guy from the museum. He’s been working undercover for the police, but the crooks found out and they’re fitting him for cement boots.”

Noah stared down at me. “And now they’re looking for you? But why?”

“I have the dinosaur egg.”

“You’ve got what?” Jack’s eyes shone. “Where?”

“In my—” I frowned. I’d suddenly caught sight of four motorbikes in the distance. Something about the way the riders hunched over their bikes, determined and down-to-business, made me freeze. There’d been four motorbikes outside the warehouse.

“Oh geez!” I gasped. “It’s Fingers and Meathead and they’ve got back-up.”

“Quick! Get on behind me!” Noah leaned over, grabbed my hand and yanked me up onto his horse.

I struggled to find my balance. “What about the professor? We can’t leave him.”

“No way am I getting on a horse,” growled the professor as he let the door of the phone box swing shut behind him. “The police will be here any minute. Get going. I’ll be alright.”

“But—”

“Chiana! Go! These men don’t know who I am. If you gallop across country, you might lose them.” Using his stick to walk more quickly, he hurried to the car, wrenched open the door and slid inside. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping. I said, go!”

The bikes roared closer.

“You heard the man!” yelled Tayla flicking Angel with her reins.

“And Chiana,” said the professor, his voice a squeak. “Try not to break my egg.”

These were the last words I heard before we galloped off. Mega fast. From whoa to go. And if I hadn’t clutched Noah around the waist in a python-grip, I’d have slid right off his horse’s back and landed on the bitumen.