The Secret of the Scarab Beetle Page 3

  “I know it’s hard to believe, but that’s what the police report stated,” his dad said.

  “This wasn’t a robbery, Jack,” his mom insisted.

  “You just have to let the police do their job,” his dad replied.

  “There’s more to the farm than anyone realizes.”

  “There’s nothing out in those fields, Liz. Those were just bedtime stories your dad told you when you were kids.”

  Horace pushed his ear against the cold metal of the vent.

  “Why do you think the police can’t find any evidence? A fingerprint, a piece of hair, nothing? I’m telling you, this wasn’t a random robbery, and he didn’t die of a heart attack.”

  “Well, if it wasn’t a heart attack that killed him, then what do you think it was?”

  The sound of running water drowned out his mom’s answer.

  Lilly was brushing her teeth. She always ruined things!

  By the time the faucet had stopped running, the conversation was over. He’d missed it. All he had were bits and pieces.

  A deep chill filled his bones. What was his mom saying? His grandpa hadn’t died from a heart attack? The thought was overwhelming. What could have happened to his grandpa?

  It would take another hour before sleep finally came.

  When he opened his eyes, he was back at his grandparents’ farm. In the distance, he heard a great rumbling sound, almost like the roar of a lion. A storm was coming. Horace could see the wind passing over the fields, and then it hit the tree in the backyard with a blast of fury. The limbs came to life, thrashing back and forth as if fighting against some unseen force.

  He reached down and clutched at the grass to keep from being blown away. But when he finally looked up again, he realized the tree wasn’t there anymore. In its place was a giant pillar. A single slab of towering stone. But it was starting to wobble.

  A voice called out, “Horace. Horace, help me.”

  It was coming from inside the house.

  Horace started to run toward the house as fast as he could. The front door was open.

  “Help me, Horace,” the voice repeated.

  Horace ran through the front room.

  “Horace,” the voice repeated. It was coming from the second floor.

  Horace ran up the stairs and onto the landing. The hallway was much longer than he remembered. And instead of three doors, there were a dozen. But each time Horace opened a door, he found an empty room. He started running down the hall. The slamming of doors drowned out the echoes of his feet on the wood floor.

  “Horace,” the voice continued to call, even more desperate than before.

  Horace’s heart was pounding. Another door, and another. Horace opened each one faster than the last, shutting them harder and harder. Sweat was pouring down his face as he finally reached the last one and swung it open.

  It was his grandfather’s office. But the only thing inside was a clock. A grandfather clock.

  Horace jumped upright in his bed. He could hear the clock on the first floor of his house. It was three in the morning. He had had bad dreams before, but nothing like this, nothing so vivid. He got out of his bed and changed into his flannel pajamas. Then he quietly made his way over to the bathroom to get a drink of water. It was a little trick his dad had taught him to get rid of nightmares. After he finished drinking from the cup, he walked into the hallway. He was starting to feel better, when he heard a clicking sound coming from his room.

  As he walked toward the door, he realized the sound was coming from the window. It was a bird. A falcon—the one from the playground! It was hovering outside, pecking at the glass. Was he still dreaming?

  There was a loud bang as the bird flew hard into the window. It wanted to get inside! Another bang, this time louder.

  “Stop,” he whispered as he rushed toward the window. “You’re going to wake everyone up.” In desperation, he pulled the lower window frame open, hoping to scare the creature away.

  Without hesitation the bird swooped in and circled his head. Feathers were falling everywhere, and the three model planes hanging from the ceiling were swinging violently on their fishing line. Horace ducked under his desk as the bird dive-bombed in repeated circles. He tried meekly to swat at it with a comic book, but this only aggravated it more. It let out a high-pitched screech and snapped at his fingers.

  He turned around to make another last swipe at the bird, but to his amazement it had flown back out the window. As quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. Horace popped up from under the desk and reached to shut the window, when he stopped short. There, beneath the window, wasn’t the bird, but the unmistakable silhouette of a man.

  Horace jumped back in shock.

  He gathered up his courage and peered out the window again. This time the lawn was empty. Did he imagine that, too?

  He didn’t have time to worry about it now. There was the sound of approaching footsteps coming from the hall. He dropped the comic book he’d been holding onto the desk and dove into the safety of his bed, and not a moment too soon.

  His dad stepped into the room and mumbled something under his breath then walked across the room and shut the open window. Horace lay there and held his breath. It seemed like forever before his dad finally closed the door again. Then he was alone.

  Chapter Five

  The next morning Horace awoke to the sound of his alarm. He blinked slowly, head lolling to the side, before slipping back under the sheets and onto his pillow. He actually felt a little better from the night’s sleep. There was nothing to worry about, he told himself. It was all just a bad dream.

  As he rolled over, his sketch pad at the foot of the bed fell, and the sudden thwack startled him. He peered out from under the sheets at the notebook and noticed a handful of feathers scattered across the room. Two of his model airplanes were dangling overhead by a single string, and the third plane was upside down.

  “Breakfast!” a voice called up the stairs.

  Horace popped out of bed. What was he going to do? Should he tell his parents about the bird and the strange man?

  He started scurrying around the messy room, collecting the discarded feathers.

  “Breakfast!” the voice called again.

  Horace threw the feathers into the trash bin, brushing off any remaining ones from his pajamas before walking down the rickety front steps. At the foot of the stairs sat Archimedes, the family cat. More than once, Archimedes had taken a snap at Horace’s fingers when he’d tried to sneak into his sisters’ bedroom to use their computer. The shaggy gray mass stared at Horace and let out a warning hiss as he passed.

  “Horace, are you going to school like that?” Sara asked, looking apprehensively at his hair as he sat down. “And what are those feathers doing in your hair?” She plucked one from behind his ear.

  “Thanks,” he said meekly.

  Lilly pulled the earbuds of her phone out and jabbed them at Horace. “Seriously, you look like you got in a fight with Archimedes last night. Do something with your hair, Horace.”

  He quickly shook his head, trying to free the last of the falcon feathers before his mom noticed. Lucky for Horace, she was preoccupied with getting everyone’s lunches ready for the day. “Can one of you go get some chips for your lunches from the basement?” his mom asked.

  Sara got up and headed down the stairs. Horace let out a quiet sigh of relief and returned to eating his cereal. He hated the dark and especially the basement. Lilly knew it. In fact, it was mostly her fault. When their mom had let her babysit, she used to keep Horace up late at night watching scary movies about blood-sucking vampires and flesh-eating zombies. And all Horace could remember was the fact that every one of them seemed to live in the basement.

  Lilly went back to her music, and the next few minutes were more or less silent, at least by his family’s standards. Horace wondered if this was his chance to tell his mom about the strange events from last night. But before he ever got a chance, the silence of the kitchen was bro
ken by another sound: the ringing of the phone.

  “Hi, honey,” his mom answered.

  Pause.

  “Oh, not again . . .”

  There was another pause, this time much longer than the last.

  “Really . . . All right, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She hung up abruptly.

  Sara emerged from the basement, carrying three bags of chips. “Who was it, Mom?” She seemed to sense a shift in their mom’s demeanor.

  “Your dad.” She scanned the kitchen. “He forgot his briefcase and wants me to drop it off this morning.”

  “But you said you would drive me to school today! I’ve got to carry all my stuff for soccer,” pleaded Lilly.

  His mom paused, and for a moment Horace thought she would stay and he could still tell her, but then she grabbed their dad’s briefcase off the counter. “I can’t. He needs it for a meeting.”

  Horace stared across the table. It looked like Lilly might start crying.

  “Sara will be with you. And you can walk to school.” She turned toward Horace. “Just don’t cut through the neighbor’s lawn.” She forced a smile. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.” She hesitated and then tried to reassure them. “Don’t worry. I’ll take you later in the week. There’s just a lot we have to deal with right now.”

  Before any of them could protest, their mom slipped out the door.

  Suddenly Sara realized she was in charge and started barking out orders.

  “Now, Lilly, get your lunch out of the fridge and put a sandwich in Horace’s bag. Horace, go upstairs and change.” She put her hands on her hips. “I’m not getting in trouble because of you two.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” protested Lilly. “You’re not Mom!”

  “You heard me!” shouted Sara. “Get the sandwiches and let’s go.”

  When he reached his room, Horace slipped out of his pajamas and into his school clothes. He could hear his sisters packing their bags at the front door. It was getting late.

  “Horace! We’re not waiting for you.”

  He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He put down his toothbrush and walked into his room, searching for his backpack, when he heard the loud slam of the screen door. So his sisters really had left.

  While he was reaching for the tattered strap of his backpack, he heard a knock at the front door. Sara and Lilly were starting to drive him crazy.

  Another knock. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  As he reached the bottom step, he looked up. A very large man stood in the doorway, holding a small brown package with a bright-red wax seal.

  “Mr. Edwards.”

  For a minute Horace tried to convince himself the man was a delivery guy and just wanted his dad. “My dad’s not here. He’s at work. You could try coming by later if you want to talk to him. Or you could try his office in town,” Horace added, attempting to be polite.

  “Mr. Horace j. Edwards.”

  Horace stepped back. No one ever called him by his full name. In fact, few people even knew it. He’d once asked his mom what his middle initial stood for, and she gave him some confusing explanation about a nurse and a mistaken pen mark. He didn’t really believe her or bother to ask again, but over the years it had become their secret signal she’d sometimes use when she left him notes.

  Horace gazed at this broad-shouldered man and instantly recognized his shape from the night before. This was no deliveryman! It was the stranger on the lawn!

  Horace reached out to slam the door.

  The wood made a sharp cracking sound as it crunched against the man’s foot. His shoe was already inside the threshold. Horace was about to make a dash for the kitchen phone, when the stranger suddenly reached out and grabbed his wrist. Horace pulled with all his force, but his arm remained locked in the man’s firm grip. Out of the corner of his eye he now noticed the glint of a second object. The small package was on the ground and had been replaced by a knife.

  “Help” was the last word Horace managed to get out, just before everything went black.

  “Horace, Horace, wake up, Horace.”

  He blinked. “Dad.”

  “Horace. Horace, wake up.”

  “Dad, is that you?”

  But the deep voice wasn’t his dad’s. And as Horace blinked again, he made out the broad-shouldered man looming over him.

  His whole body twisted in a violent convulsion as he tried desperately to pull away. But his strength was nothing compared to this grown man’s grip.

  “I’m so sorry,” the man said as he lifted Horace to his feet. “Rules of the Order.”

  Horace started patting his chest and examining his body for blood. The knife had only nicked his index finger. It was no worse than a paper cut. He was alive.

  “What . . . What do you want from me?”

  As if things couldn’t get any stranger, a second shape swooped down from a tree. To Horace’s surprise, the man just stood there as the falcon landed on his outstretched arm.

  “You know this bird?” Horace asked hesitantly.

  “Shadow and I have been trying to get your attention these last couple of days.”

  Horace just stood there in stunned silence.

  “She can sometimes be temperamental, but she really means well.” As if reading his mind, the strange man answered. “I’m so sorry. I know you must have many questions. I guess I didn’t need to get the knife out before I even introduced myself. I’ve always been bad at formalities. Let me start over.” He bowed deeply. “My name is Herman, and this here is Shadow.” The bird squawked. “We’ve been sent to deliver this package to you.”

  Horace bit down on his lip. He still wasn’t sure if he should try to make a break for it. But if this Herman guy had really wanted to hurt him, he could have easily done it by now.

  “It’s for you.” Herman looked over his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, but we don’t have a lot of time.”

  “For me?” Horace asked innocently.

  “Yes”—Herman smiled—“you.”

  Horace walked out into the sunlight and got a much better look at Herman. He wasn’t nearly as big as he had first appeared, nor was he as tough. It could have been the way he stood, his arms by his sides, or how his broad shoulders blocked the morning sun, but Herman looked a lot like his grandpa, just a little wider and younger. He had specks of gray scattered throughout his knotted hair, and even a few wrinkles. If Horace didn’t know better, he’d have said some of the lines on Herman’s face even looked like scars.

  “Horace, I need your hand again,” Herman said contritely. He held Horace’s index finger over the package until a small drop of blood fell onto the seal.

  What followed was even more bizarre. The seal, which resembled a bird’s eye, started to melt, and the brown paper around the package grew dark. It seemed to be burning from the inside out. The package glowed and then hissed. And there, finally, in Herman’s palm, covered in a pile of ash, was what looked like a small, blue stone in the shape of a beetle.

  Chapter Six

  “Grandma! Grandma, I think I found it!” Horace had waited all day to say those words. After the encounter with Herman, he’d considered skipping school entirely to go directly to the farm, but he decided the risks were too great.

  He’d come to the farm with the hopes of showing his grandma the beetle and finding answers to his pressing questions. But now, as Horace stood there, his certainty and excitement were gone. The dangers were very real; Herman had made that clear. And Shadow had flown above him the whole day as his new companion and guardian. She had circled over the playground to all his classmates’ delight and had even scared away the neighbor’s dog as Horace had ridden his bike to the farm.

  “Grandma!”

  No cars were in the driveway, no rockers on the front porch, not a single light in any of the windows. His bike and backpack lay on their sides next to the gravel driveway.

  Without warning, a tear streamed down Horace’s face. There was so much he wanted to sa
y, so much he wanted to know. Not just about the beetle or the secret door. He wanted to ask his grandma about his parents’ conversation the previous night, the Order Herman had mentioned, and, of course, what had really happened to his grandpa. The questions were overwhelming and so was the feeling of loneliness spreading through his whole body. His grandma wasn’t here and neither was his grandpa. Horace began to cry.

  A few minutes passed before Horace was able to gather himself and gain control of his emotions. He wiped his face with his sleeve.

  “Grandma!” he yelled one last time, desperate for a reply.

  If there was more to the farm, he was going to have to find the answers on his own. He rubbed his eyes again before reaching into his pocket. A dirty tissue fell out. He searched a little more, found a handful of quarters, and then, there at the bottom, grasped the beetle. There was something reassuring about having the small stone in his hand.

  He searched under the flowerpot next to the door and found the key his grandparents had hidden. The lock on the front door clicked open with a simple turn and he started walking around the house, exploring the ins and outs of the first floor. Past the bust his grandpa kept in the foyer, through the kitchen with its wooden cupboards and stuffed pantry, and finally around the living room. Twice Horace walked the same path, wondering if there really were any secret latches or hidden panels in the old house. The second floor was even less promising as Horace looked through his grandparents’ room and then the guest bedroom without discovering a single clue or even the smallest hint of a secret door. Finally, as he was starting to lose hope, he walked into his grandfather’s office.

  The afternoon sun shone on the worn floor panels, and there was a pile of papers on the desk by the window. Horace made his way past the bookshelves to the desk. On top was a map of Niles. He flipped through another set of drawings and discovered an even older map. This one was of Detroit. Finally, beneath all the pages was a crumbling image that stretched across the whole desk. It felt brittle to the touch, like a dried leaf that had fallen from a tree. However, unlike the other maps, drawn down the middle wasn’t a street or a railroad line but the unmistakable shape of a river. Next to the river was a single word: Nile. But this wasn’t Niles as in Michigan. This was the Nile, like the Nile in Egypt. Why did his grandfather have an old map of Egypt out on the desk?