The Mabel Who Knew Too Much
Chapter 10: A Family Plot
From the Journals of Dipper Pines: We got to the house right around four in the morning. Mabel had slept for most of the hour-long drive, her head on my shoulder, drooling a little. Wendy sat next to me and held my hand. She was mad—they'd taken her axe. But holding her hand was nice.
At least this time they didn't put us in one of those blacked-out vans and we could see where we were going.
Anyway, when I first saw the place, I didn't think it looked like much—a one-story ranch house, kind of little, on an overgrown farm kind of place. But like the depot compound, there was more to it than you could see. We went downhill on a quarter-mile long driveway and around to the back, where there was a barn, and the van and cars parked in that.
When we got out, I could see that the little ranch house was just the top of a three-story house—the hill fell away sharply on both sides, and there were two layers of, what do they call it, daylight basements?
Anyway, we went in through the back and then upstairs. The second floor was nothing but bedrooms, small and each pair of them shared a bathroom. They put me and Mabel in one pair, Wendy across the hall from me, sharing her bath with Abuelita, then Stan and Ford in the next pair down from Wendy, and I guess Soos and Melody were next to Mabel.
I stripped down to my underwear and fell asleep at once. A tap on the door woke me a few minutes later—but it was really nine in the morning, with sunlight streaming in. "Come in," I croaked. My throat was really dry.
The door opened, and—Pacifica came running in! She didn't look quite right—she had her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a hot pink turtleneck and jeans and was barefoot. No makeup, either.
She jumped right onto my bed! "I'm so glad to see somebody from home!" she said, hugging me tight.
"Uh—Pacifica, I'm glad to see you, too, but—I'm not even dressed!"
She pushed up and grinned mischievously. "Oh, really!" She grabbed the corner of the blanket, and I clutched it as she giggled. "I was just teasing, silly. They're doing your laundry for you. You've got fresh clothes over there on the dresser. Get up and shower and change. We're all supposed to meet in an hour, and you'll need breakfast." She leaned down and kissed me on the nose. "Bye for now!"
After she left, I got up, still holding onto the blanket, which I wrapped around myself, and checked the door. It didn't have a lock. That figured. I tapped on the bathroom door, but no one was in it, so I picked up the brand-new underwear, pants, and red turtleneck from the dresser and carried it all into the bathroom.
While I was showering, I heard the bathroom door open. "Brobro?"
"Hey, I'm in here!" I said. The shower had frosted sliding doors, at least.
"I'm declaring a potty emergency," Mabel told me. I heard her tinkle and flush, and the water got really hot for a few seconds.
"Warn me next time!" I yelled from clouds of steam.
"Did they give you new clothes? Ooh, I see." Mabel laughed. "You are gonna feel wo weird in these!"
"Well, get out and let me try them on and see how weird I feel!"
"OK, Broman! I'm next in the shower."
I heard her close the door, so I got out and dressed in the clothes they'd given me. They did feel strange—the turtleneck was soft and comfortable and all, but even so—and the pants were khaki cargo pants with lots of pockets. They even gave me new socks. They were all the right size, at least. When I was dressed, I tapped on the door and said, "Bathroom's free, Mabel."
"Thanks!"
I went back to my room and heard the shower start up. I thought about sneaking back in and flushing, but that goes against the Code of Brothers. I think.
Anyway, I found my stuff, flashlight and pocket notebook and pens and phone, et cetera, on the bedside table and stowed them all away in the pants pockets.
They had left me my vest, so I pulled it on and got my shoes on and then went into the hall. I heard voices from the far end and followed them and found Wendy, Soos, Melody, and Abuelita in a dining room.
"Hey, dude!" Wendy said. She wasn't wearing her fur hat, and she was dressed, like Pacifica, in a turtleneck—hers was black—and jeans. Tight jeans.
"Wow," I said. "You look so—really very—you—I mean—wow."
Wendy laughed. "You're rockin' that turtleneck, Dip. I think they had a sale somewhere."
Then I noticed that EVERYBODY was in a turtleneck—Soos in forest green, Melody in a subdued pink, Abuelita in a pale orange. "Dude," Soos said, "you know, I think this is to make us identifiable if we try to escape or some junk."
"Yeah," I said, "we'd really stand out."
I sat at the table, and a moment later a stern-looking woman came in with a tray and set down a plate of toast, some oat cereal and a banana, a little pitcher of milk, and a glass of orange juice. "Thanks," I said.
She didn't answer me, but left me to my meal. I was hungry, and I dug in. "How'd they know what kind of cereal I like?" I asked.
Wendy went "Oooooo-oooo!" as she wriggled her fingers. "There are like spies everywhere, man!"
Ford and Stan came in just then—Ford in a brown turtleneck and jeans, Stan in a mulberry-colored one and jeans. Soos, Melody, and Abuelita greeted them, and Wendy said, "Lookin' good, Stan dudes!"
"Meh," Stan grumbled. "Reminds me of when we were in first grade an' Ma dressed us just alike so I'd get some of the beatin's my brother was due from the local bullies."
They'd hardly sat down before the same woman brought their breakfasts: scrambled eggs, wheat toast, a grilled tomato for Ford and half a grapefruit for Stan, and coffee for both. They dug in as if they were famished.
Mabel came in last of all, wearing a red turtleneck just a shade off from mine and, like Pacifica and Wendy, jeans. She walked with her arms crossed and sort of hunched over and sat in her chair slumped way down. Even Stan noticed and asked, "What's wrong, sweetheart?"
Mabel made a face. "I miss my sweater!"
Wendy leaned over and said something to her so softly I couldn't hear it, and Mabel turned red and muttered, "Yeah, that's why . . . ."
"It's no big deal, dude," Wendy said. "Hey, here's your breakfast."
The same lady who'd brought my food in served Wendy a stack of pancakes with maple syrup and two sausage links. "Turkey," the woman said, and I suppose she meant the sausages. She set down a tall glass of milk.
Mabel cheered up and straightened up and at that moment I realized something: her—I think the polite word is "bosoms"—were growing. They were very noticeable under the turtleneck. Her heavier sweaters hid them. I remembered then back last winter when Mom came home with new underwear for Mabel, three pairs. Mabel had held one up and asked, "What are these things?"
"Training bras," Mom had told her.
Mabel had gestured to her chest and said, "Mom! I don't want to teach 'em to do TRICKS!"
So now she was embarrassed because she felt kind of exposed, I guess. But she was sensitive, so I just took off my vest and said, "Hey, Mabel, you look kind of chilly. Wear this if you want to."
She gave me a big smile. "Thanks, bro o' mine!" And then she began to shovel her breakfast down as if she hadn't seen food for a month. Through a mouthful of pancakes, Mabel said, "I wonder if Pacifica's here."
"Oh, yeah, she is," I said without thinking. "This morning she jumped in bed with—uh."
"WHAT?" Wendy asked, not sounding pleased.
"I mean she jumped ON the bed," I said. "I was just waking up and she came in—the doors don't lock—and before I knew it, uh, she kind of, you know. Jumped. On the bed. Outside the covers. I was under. Uh."
"I'll have to talk to her," Wendy said, crossing her arms in a way that made me feel strangely warm.
As soon as Mabel finished, the Professor guy showed up and said, "Everyone fed? Excellent. I trust the clothing fits you all? Good, good. We're having your own clothes cleaned and pressed." His thin lips quirked us a little smile. "And the listening devices removed, of course, Mr. Pines. If you'll come with me, I'll take you to the conference room, where, I trust, at least some of your questions will be answered."
So we followed him upstairs, two flights, to the top floor, where we stepped into a big room . . . .
"State of the art!" Stanford said, sounding impressed. "I trust the communications are encrypted?"
"Level 7 special coding," the Professor said.
"But it only goes to level 5!"
"As far as you know, my boy," the Professor told him with a smile. "Ah, here is Miss Northwest."
"Hi," Pacifica said. She had been spinning herself in a swivel chair and stopped when they came in. "Hey, Mabel, I'm really sorry I got you involved in this. It was supposed to be my dad who saw me fall, not you. You came there too soon."
"Wait, what?" Dipper asked. "Why was—"
"Everyone sit at the conference table," the Professor said mildly. "I will explain things in their proper order. There are glasses and ice water on the table already. If anyone wants coffee or another beverage, just speak up."
"Coffee," Stan said at once. "Two sugars and a half-shot of peach brandy."
The Professor nodded. "Did you hear that?"
An artificial computer voice said, "Yes, Professor. It is on the way."
Not twenty seconds later, Agent Trigger brought in a tray with a mug of steaming coffee on it. "Thanks," Stan said, taking it from him. Trigger looked sour, said nothing, and left them. Stan sipped his drink. "I like, I like," he said with a broad grin. "Professor, you're OK in my book!"
"Thank you, Mr. Pines. Lights." The lights dimmed. "Projector." A screen rolled down against the wall at the foot of the table, and a projector built into a ceiling dome flooded it with light. "Show us Mr. Northby Kaplan Northwest."
Dipper saw a handsome young man, maybe eighteen or so. His tousled brown hair looked as if a breeze were ruffling it. The background was out of focus, but looked oddly familiar.
"Taken last spring," the Professor said, "at Magdalen College, Oxford University."
"In England," Stan said decisively.
The Professor raised his bushy gray eyebrows. "Ah—yes."
Mabel had eyes only for the subject, not the background. "Wah-wah-wowie! Pacifica, your cousin is a hunk!"
"A great big hunk of doo-doo!" Pacifica shot back.
That was so unlike her that Dipper couldn't help laughing. "Pacifica!"
"Well, he is," she insisted. "He was plotting to kill us all—me, Dad, and Mom."
"Wait, what?" Wendy asked. "No way!"
"It's true," Pacifica insisted. "The Professor will tell you!"
The Professor had taken a pipe, a Sherlock-Holmes-style crooked one, from his pocket and, though he put no tobacco in it, he clenched it between his teeth and nodded mournfully. "I'm afraid Miss Northwest is correct," he said. "However, let me begin with a recapitulation of Mr. Northby Northwest's activities last spring . . . ."
Monday, March 23, 2013, Glen Docherty, Scotland, UK.
Thursby, an obese young man of twenty, panted as he plodded along in the footsteps of the American exchange student. "I say, Northwest, let's walk a bit more slowly!"
"Thursby, you need to walk off some fat," Northwest called back. Though he was an American, it took a sharp ear to discern that—he was adaptable, and his English was so nearly unaccented that he might have been from Essex or from the Borough, perhaps a well-traveled scion of an educated family.
"I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue. You're my junior, you know!" Thursby snapped with some asperity.
"Then jog along, old man," Northwest returned smoothly.
He was indeed junior to Thursby—who had been at Oxford for nearly three years now. Northwest had come only the previous fall and had finished just two terms of his year of study abroad—Hilary Term had ended the previous Saturday. And it was true that most of the students and some of the professors openly disdained "Yanks."
Yet everyone, including them, knew that the boy who was saturnine and yet oddly almost always smiled was intellectually very sharp. In fact, all his professors commented on it.
"I've half a mind to chuck this whole hiking lark and go back home," Thursby panted.
"Fine with me," Northwest said. "You invited yourself, remember. Aha. I believe that's our goal."
"What, the pile of rocks on top of the hill?"
"The ruins of Castle Claymorgh," corrected Northwest. "Given by James VI to Sir Drummond MacGregor by royal patent in 1595. MacGregor was the descendant of a knight named Griagor who served with the Knights Templar in the Crusades. Hence my interest."
"You're not taking a bloody degree in history!"
"We'll see."
The climb was steep and, despite the nippy air of Scotland in March, warm. They arrived at the ruins about eleven-thirty in the morning. Thursby looked around disdainfully. "Not in good repair," he said.
"It's a fixer-upper," agreed Northwest, taking a folded paper—no, actually, a parchment—from an inner pocket and opening it. He found something, marked his place with his thumb, and with his free hand pulled out a compass. "Now let's see." He turned slowly until the needle locked on N. "Now, this should be the main courtyard. The castle gate would be just behind me. So ahead of us we should find a stairway leading down."
"Couldn't bloody well lead anywhere else, could it?" demanded Thursby. "I mean, there's hardly any walls left!"
"Shepherds probably plundered the stones to build huts," Northwest murmured as he picked his way forward, stepping around and over rubble. "Ah. This is the foundation of the tower. Help me clear away some of these stones."
"Northwest—"
"Come on, Thursby. If we find what I'm looking for, I promise I will treat you to the biggest duck dinner you could ever imagine."
"Well—I am peckish."
"You're always peckish. Help me here. There shouldn't be too much to do."
They levered and rolled and dragged stones for the better part of an hour. Little by little they revealed a dark, arched opening—very low, so they'd have to lie down to slip under the arch—and below that they could see stone steps, cluttered with smaller bits of rubble.
Northwest had already removed his backpack and jacket. He opened the pack and found a flashlight and a hand-pickax. "All right," he said. "I'll go down. You're a bit large for this passageway, and I don't imagine you'd want to risk getting stuck."
"I'll rest," Thursby grumbled, settling onto a rock.
Northwest lay on his back and, feet first, wormed his way through the small doorway and onto the steps. The flashlight showed him that the vaulted roof held. He got to his feet and walked downward.
The old wooden doors had crumbled away completely. He found himself in a maze of store rooms, none very large, and to make sure he could find his way back, he chipped blazes into the stones at eye level at every new door opening. He counted under his breath. When he reached the thirteenth room, he knelt and felt among the fallen stones and dust. "Should be here," he grunted. Then he smiled as his hand closed on a corroded iron ring ten inches in diameter.
He spent minutes clearing the edges of the trap door, and more working the pickax head into the crevice and prying. With a crackle of falling dust, the stone began to shift, and then he stood, seized the ring, took a deep breath, and heaved.
It was almost too heavy—almost. But he got the trap slightly ajar, and then using the pickax as a lever, he pried it further until it fell through the opening and boomed onto a stone floor below. Northwest swung himself down—there had been a ladder, once, but it was long gone. No matter. The low chamber was only about five feet high. He could hoist himself up again.
Now . . . the treasure that old Sir Drummond had inherited from his Templar ancestor, who had stolen it in the Holy Land, should be hidden behind a stone in the back wall. Stooping, holding his flashlight, Northwest counted stones. Five, six, seven stones down. Three, four, five from the left. Yes, that one was smaller than most of the stones. He pried it out and shone his light into the opening.
It lay there waiting, a gemstone that flashed amber in the beam of his flashlight. The Stone of Summoning.
He closed his hand on it and smiled at the smooth, warm feel. The old manuscript had read, "Yt ys sayde yt ye Ston of Sumoning doth feel to the touche wondrous warme even if yt hath layn in snow or ice."
The same ancient Highland wizard who had penned that had also explained that without it, the Ring of Solomon had only half its power.
And since his raid on the Museum of Antiquities the previous summer, Northwest had the Ring of Solomon—or at least the ring that was reputed to have been Solomon's. Now he could activate it.
If the wizard were right, that is.
Northwest wedged the flashlight into the opening he had made. He took the Ring of Solomon from the thong around his neck and put it on the ring finger of his left hand. "Now," he said. He clenched the Stone in his right hand.
And in the flashlight beam, his hands and arms, even his clothing, became transparent and then disappeared. "It works," he said.
Now, if he transferred the stone to his left hand, the same hand that wore the Ring—but that experiment could wait. Northwest retrieved the light and turned it off. Somehow, in the invisible state, he could see, though the colors were—weird.
He followed the blazed stones back to the steps, climbed up them, and crawled through. Thursby still sat on the stone, disconsolately munching on a Galaxy Ripple bar, a candy bar so sweet that it induced instant diabetes in unwary Americans.
Walking carefully, Northwest moved to stand within a couple of feet of the Brit. With his left hand, the ringed hand, he raised the pickax. It would be so easy . . . .
But no. He lowered the tool and slipped the stone back into his pocket. "Nothing there," he said.
To his delight, Thursby jumped a mile, coughing and spraying spittle dyed brown with chocolate. "Where'd you come from?" he demanded, his face pale.
"From down there," Northwest said with a shrug. "You were too busy gorging to notice, I suppose. Let's go."
He got his jacket and pack on again, and they started down the hill.
They started back to the lodge where they were staying—an eight-mile hike, three hours, and Thursby was complaining the sun would be down before they got back to their lodgings—and casually Northwest shifted the stone from his pocket into his left hand. It seemed to pulse, and he began to concentrate. The first time was supposedly the hardest.
They passed the Loch a' Chroisg on their left, a windswept lake between low hills brown with dead heather. Ducks, Northwest thought. Ducks, ducks, ducks.
His heart lifted as he glanced up at the cloudy sky. They came flying in, skeins of six and a dozen, white bodies with black-striped wings, green iridescent heads, long orange beaks. They quacked as they settled onto the water, scores of them, hundreds of them. "Goosanders," Thursby said, sounding short of breath. "They eat salmon. Nuisance birds. Fishermen hate them."
"Hm," Northwest said. "Wonderful plumage. Let's get closer. I'd like to take a picture."
"You Yanks," grumbled Thursby. "I suppose you want to feed the widdle fluffy duckums."
"Perhaps, perhaps. You never can tell," Northwest murmured.
He was thinking, Attack! Attack! Attack!
From the Cookham Gazette, 27 March, 2013:
Strange Death in Scottish Highlands
In a bizarre occurrence, the Hon. Charles Vielle Thursby died Monday last whilst on a hiking holiday in Scotland.
Thursby was attacked by an innumerable flock of ducks. Such an attack has never before been recorded.
At least 1500 Goosanders, which have powerful sawtoothed bills and considerable strength in their bites, attacked the young man. He evidently attempted to flee from them onto the A832 near Loch a' Chroisg, but fell and was pecked and bitten to the point of death. A lorry driver encountered the immense flock of ducks, which flew away as he stopped.
Life was extinct in Thursby when the lorry driver reached him. A friend of Thursby's testified before a coroner that the two of them had been on a hike but were returning to their hostel. Thursby had noticed the flock of ducks and had lagged behind to take photographs. The friend had continued to the lodge and was unaware of Thursby's plight until, an hour after the body was found, he was told of the tragedy.
Biologists have no explanation for this unusual duck behaviour.
The Hon. Charles Vielle Thursby was a student at Magdalen College and the son of . . . .
By the time the news article appeared, Northby Northwest was already in the air on a flight back to the States. He had what he had come for.
And he nursed a grudge against his grandfather, who had raised him and who, as it turned out, really had very little money.
Fortunately, there was a rich cousin somewhere . . . some podunk little town in, where was it?
Oh, yes.
Oregon.