| |
Wham!
I smacked the back of my head on the underside of the table. Lights and stars flashed in my eyes. Maneuvering out, I slowly rose to my feet, rubbing my scalp. “I was—”
A cute girl close to my age and height, with blonde hair braided into pigtails and clinging to the straps of her backpack slung over her shoulder, held the paper between her finger and thumb. Sky blue eyes narrowed on me. “You were what?”
I collected my thoughts. “I was reaching for that.”
“I got to it first.” She strolled away.
“Wait a minute.” I chased after her out the door. “Would you, at least, let me look at it?”
“Why?” She palmed the matchbook and slipped her hand into her front jeans pocket.
I switched to my undeniable Finkleman charms and smiled. “Let’s start over.” I extended my hand. “I’m David Finkleman, and you are?”
“Finkleman? Are you related to Ashir Finkleman?”
“You know my grandfather?”
She met my hand, her skin soft. “I’m Sabrina Stevens, and something tells me we’re after the same thing.”
“Sabrina Stevens as in the daughter of Tom Stevens?”
“Yes.” She bobbed her head, pulling her hand away. “You’re looking for my father, aren’t you?”
“I might be.”
“We need to team up?”
I hesitated.
“It’s the only way you’re going to see what’s on this matchbook.”
I grinned. “So it was a matchbook.” I didn’t want to have someone along slowing me, but at the same time, Sabrina could give me personal information in regards to Tom’s habits, thoughts, where he might go, and what he might do. Plus, I had to admit, I wouldn’t mind her company. “Okay.”
She lifted her hand out of her pocket and uncurled her fingers. I took the matchbook from her and turned it to the cover side. Western Family, a store brand. The matches were ripped out, and 751.4546 was scribbled inside.
“What is it?” Sabrina asked.
With our heads close, I glimpsed at her pink puckered lips. Her light brown brows were crinkled together. I jerked my attention back to the number. “Maybe it’s a number written like a phone number.”
“It’s not a social security number.” Wrinkles formed between her brows.
“Could be a code for something.” I bit my lower lip at a thought. “First, is this your father’s handwriting?”
She studied the print and bobbed her head. “It’s written in pencil, and he uses a mechanical pencil. Typically, he writes using his lime green notepad, but if he didn’t have it with him, he’d have used anything available, even a matchbook cover.”
“Did your father say where he might go after the coffee shop?”
“He called my mother from here. He was meeting your grandfather, but was going to check something out and come back.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“No.” She shook her head, swishing her braids.
I changed the subject. “What made you come here?”
“He hasn’t come home. He was supposed to meet my mother for an appointment with their financial advisor, but he never showed. She tried calling his cell and the agency. The office said he might be at the hospital with your grandfather, but I checked earlier. He wasn’t there.” Red seeped into her smooth, pale cheeks. “Something’s not right. He’s always on time. He never misses an appointment. My Dad’s in trouble. I have to help him.”
“Well, we’ll help him together. Okay?” If this was a magical drug case, chances weren’t good for Tom Stevens because as far as I knew, Tom didn’t have a drop of magic in him.
“Wait! I’ve got an idea.” She reentered the coffee shop and set her backpack on the nearest table. She lifted out a laptop computer and turned it on.
I slid into the chair beside her and focused on the screen.
Her fingers flew over the keys as she entered the number, searching for a phone number or address. Her shoulders slumped when she found nothing.
“Maybe it’s a license plate number?” I suggested. “Although it’s a lot of figures, too many for an issued license plate unless it were custom made.”
Her eyes lit up, and she pointed a finger. “Wait a minute. I know what this is.” She punched in several more keys.
"Are you skipping school?" I was curious.
"No. I'm home schooled."
"Does your mom know you’re here and what you're doing?"
"No. Does yours?"
"No. I promised my grandpa I wouldn't tell anyone. You can't either."
"Why not?" She met my eyes.
"Because it might put your father in danger." I quickly added, "If he’s in danger."
"He is. I know it." She faced the computer. "This is it."
"What?" I squinted at the screen. She had logged into the local library system, which encompassed libraries in five counties.
"The number is a book at the library and it's in." She smiled, reaching her eyes.
It was infectious. I joined her. "Tell you what. I've got a car and the library’s a couple of blocks away."
"Let's go." She closed her laptop, stuffed it in her bag, and headed out.
I pushed through the door and fell into step beside her. We waited for the light to change, spanned the crosswalk and strolled passed the park.
Sabrina’s head jerked toward the gazebo.
A cat slinked into a hole dug beneath the concrete to reach the darker interior of the gnome’s burrow, but it wasn’t any ordinary cat. It was Sekhmet, a lion-headed goddess with a human body that shapeshifted into an average cat. I could spot them instantly because my grandpa lived with one. It was strange a Sekhmet was invading a gnome territory in town. Something was disrupting the magical world, and I had a feeling Tom was in the middle of it.
I led her to my brother's car and opened her door. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I ignited the motor. “Buckle up.”
"Cool car."
"It belongs to my brother. He and my dad restored it." I signaled and pulled onto the street, heading for the stop sign. Driving one block and turning on another, we arrived at the library in minutes. At this time of day, I quickly found a parking spot.
Sabrina jumped out of the car the second I killed the engine. "Come on." She chewed on her fingernail as she waited until a car drove by, and crossed the parking lot.
Gramps jumped to mind. Was he doing better? Should I call him? No. Mom would answer the phone and ask me a million questions. I jogged to catch up and followed Sabrina into the library. I met her in the nonfiction aisle. Her fingers slid lightly over the bindings, her hand thin and delicate, yet I got the impression those words wouldn’t be how she would describe herself. She tapped her finger on a rather thick book. "Here it is." She carried it to an empty table.
I sat beside her while she flipped through the pages. "What's the title?"
“Research the Unexplained.” She closed the book to show me the cover and whipped it open again. She let the pages run through her fingers until the book closed. "This isn't helping. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the number isn't a book. It's got to be something else. "
"Just wait a minute. Let me take a look," I blurted.
“Shhh!” Sabrina pressed her finger to her puckered lips. A librarian scowled at us as she strolled by with a full cart. Sliding the book over to me, Sabrina drummed her fingers on the table in rapid fashion.
I opened to the table of contents and scanned the chapters Unidentified Flying Objects, Bigfoot, The Bermuda Triangle, and Extraterrestrials. So which subject was it? I flipped the pages, starting at the back of the book and moving to the front. A thick, square cardstock marked the middle.
Pulling it out, I flipped it over. My eyes widened. It was a matchbook cover. Western Family. The same brand we had found at the coffee shop. I met Sabrina's gaping stare. "No. I do believe you we’re right in guessing the number belonged to a book at the library."
Her lips parted, and color rose to her cheeks. Adjusting the book so she could read it better, she tilted her head at an angle. Reading the titled out loud, she said, "Chupacabra."
