Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble (7 page)

“Doesn't matter. We're in.” He gestured with his empty (but beautifully wrapped) box toward the powder room door. “Now go turn into Briana Bloomfield. Quick. I'll guard the door.”

“Riley?”

“Yeah?”

“You're the best!”

She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. The way a granny would.

By 2:05, sweat was dribbling down Tony Peroni's face. By 2:10 it was drizzling. By 2:12 it had dissolved most of the dye in his jet-black hair and was sending inky streaks trickling behind his ears.

Peeking through a crack in the Cranbrook Ballroom doors, Riley watched Peroni dab and blot his moist face with a big white handkerchief.

Now the bride and groom were standing in the middle of the dance floor. So were a bunch of parental-looking people in tuxedos. Several of them were gesturing at their watches. One angry man was jabbing his finger at Tony Peroni's ruffle-shirted chest.

All Tony Peroni could do was mop up more sweat and point at the empty keyboard on the stage, close to where Jake, wearing headphones, fidgeted with the knobs on a soundboard connected to Briana's portable karaoke machine.

Riley went to the powder room and rapped three sharp knuckle taps on the door.

Briana glided out in the beautiful white gown her mother had made for her and had cleaned after Jamal found it in the cafeteria Dumpster under a mountain of beanie-weenie lunch slop. She was carrying a cordless microphone that was linked to her karaoke machine.

“Do I look fabtastic?”

“Totally. Come on. Tony Peroni's dying in there.”

Riley escorted Briana to the ballroom. When he swung open the doors, Jake hit a button on the karaoke machine.

The familiar
boppity-bop-bop-bop
,
boppity-bop-bop-bop
piano intro to “Colour My World” gave Briana time to waft angelically through the crowd and up onto the stage.

The bride and groom beamed when they recognized the opening notes of “their” song.

The parents of the bride and groom relaxed.

Tony Peroni started breathing again.

Briana launched into her number.

“As time goes o-o-on . . .”

Casey and Michele started dancing. A photographer snapped pictures.

The wedding reception was saved.

After Tony and Briana had done a couple of duets (including “Make Me Merry, Mary—Marry Me!”) and Gregory Wu, the piano player, had finally shown up with a bunch of carpet samples stuffed in his sheet music case, the wedding singer gave Briana a big hug.

“Kid, you sing like a bird. The good kind, you know what I mean? Not a crow or nothin'. You're like a songbird when you sing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Peroni. You're pretty awesome, too. It was great jamming with you.”

“Can you stick around, kid? Sing a few more numbers with me and the Wu-ster?”

“Sure! That'd be fabtastic.”

“What grade are you in, Briana?”

“I just finished seventh.”

“So how come you didn't try out for my All-School All-Star Talent Show?”

“It's a long story . . .”

Tony held up his pinky-ringed hand. “Doesn't matter. You free next Saturday night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good—because you, Ms. Briana Bloomfield, are my wild-card pick!”

“Whahoobi!”

A couple of hours later, Riley, Mongo, Briana, Jake, and Jamal were traipsing through the thick forest behind Mongo's house, heading to Schuyler's Pond, because it was time to celebrate.

“Dag,” said Jamal. “Sara Paxton's eyes are gonna pop out of her head when she finds out you're back in the competition!”

“
And
that Mr. Peroni thinks you're the best singer he's heard all year,” added Jake.

“I can't ever thank you guys enough!” said Briana. “All of you. Really. Sincerely. I mean it, baby.”

The air was thick with humidity and bugs. The towering pine trees and weedy underbrush smelled even greener in the sweltering late-afternoon heat.

“You're going to love this place, Jamal,” said Briana. “There's this one rock, it's real slippery.”

“We call it Slippery Rock,” said Mongo.

“Like the college,” added Jake.

“Yeah,” said Briana, walking up the path backward so she could tell her tale with more hand gestures. “And, get this: there's this rope that's tied off to a humongous tree branch so you can swing out over the deepest part and . . .”

“Watch it!” shouted Jake.

Too late.

Briana backed into a chain-link fence.

The aluminum barrier shimmied as Briana bounced off it.

“This wasn't here last year,” said Mongo. “It wasn't even here last week.”

The fencing looked shiny and new. The postholes were freshly filled with concrete. A
PRIVATE PROPERTY
sign hung on a locked gate. Three strands of prickly barbed wire were stretched taut across the top.

Mongo sniffed the air. “This stinks.”

“You can say that again,” said Briana.

“No, I mean it really stinks,” said Mongo.

Mongo was right: the whole forest smelled like something dead had just farted.

“IT SMELLS LIKE WHEN MY
cat brings home a dead mouse,” said Briana.

“Or the Dumpster behind Red Lobster during Lobsterfest,” said Jake.

The rest of the gang stared at him for a second.

“Hang on,” said Jamal. “This lock here is serious, folks. I should've brought my lock-picking tools.”

Riley gripped the chain links. Gave one section of fence a good shake. “It's solid. Won't come down easy.”

“My father has wire cutters back in the garage,” said Mongo.

“We can't cut a hole in the fence, Mongo,” gasped Briana. “That's vandalism. We could go to jail! And, if we did, it would go on our permanent records and none of us would ever be able to go to college except maybe that one they advertise on TV that teaches you how to drive big-rig trucks.”

“Who would put up a fence in the middle of the forest?” wondered Jake.

“Probably whoever owns the property,” said Briana.

“Do you think Schuyler put it up?” said Mongo. “Do you think he wants his pond back?”

“Um, Mongo?” said Jamal.

“Yeah?”

“I did a little research. Schuyler's Pond has been on the maps since 1826.”

Mongo threw up both his arms. “And
now
, all of a sudden, he wants to fence it in?”

While his friends jabbered, Riley peered through the fence.

On the other side, the dirt path curved slightly and continued along the bank of the brook that fed Schuyler's Pond one hundred yards farther downstream

“Uh-oh, hold your noses,” said Briana. “Wind shift.”

“P.U.,” said Mongo.

“Dag,” said Jamal. “That is foul and malodorous.”

“Yeah,” said Mongo. “And it stinks, too.”

“Like the Dumpster behind Bubba Gump Shrimp,” said Jake. “That one's bad, too.”

A sunbeam hit the rippling creek.

“Jake's right,” said Riley.

“What?” said Jamal. “Somebody put a Bubba Gump Shrimp back here?”

“No. But what we're smelling is fish. Check it out.”

The whole crew grabbed hold of the fence and looked where Riley was looking.

“K'nasty!” said Briana. “That is so totally disgusting.”

They could see a dead, bloated fish drifting down the glistening creek on the other side of the fence.

“This is bad,” mumbled Jake.

Because there were at least six more fish, all belly up, floating right behind the first one.

“We need to investigate,” said Riley. “I'll climb over, take a closer look.”

“Um, Riley?” said Briana.

“Yeah?”

“In case you hadn't noticed, there's barbed wire at the top of this fence.”

“So it's a good thing we're here at the gate. See how this panel is about a foot shorter than the adjoining side panel?”

The others looked up to check out what Riley had already observed.

“The difference in heights makes it much easier to maneuver your legs up and over without getting scratched.”

“Riley Mack,” said Jamal, full of admiration, “you are one uncommonly clever individual.”

“Thanks. You guys wait here. If there's a fence to keep us out, it means somebody doesn't want us getting in.”

Briana stomped her feet. “Wait. One. Minute. Why do you need to climb over there? To give the dead fish mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?”

“Well, technically, that would be a waste of time,” said Jamal. “First, they're dead. Second, a fish breathes through a complex process involving water, its mouth, and its gills, whereby it extracts oxygen molecules from H
₂
O . . .”

“Jamal?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Not when I have interesting information to impart.”

Briana spun around to confront Riley. “Seriously. Why are you doing this?”

“I need to gather samples.”

“Of dead fish?”

“Yeah. Anybody have a plastic bag?”

“I do,” said Jamal. “See, I brought a change of dry clothes, which I packed inside a Ziploc freezer bag that I will use for my swimsuit once it gets wet, which, I'm guessing, isn't going to be any time today.”

“I packed a couple sandwiches,” said Mongo. “And a pickle.”

“Give me whatever you guys can spare.”

Riley collected half a dozen empty plastic sacks and stuffed them into the side pockets of his backpack, which he tossed up and over the eight-foot barricade.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, Riley Mack,” said Jamal, “but I assume you intend to run an autopsy on the dead fish to pinpoint the exact cause of this apparent ichthycide.”

“This what?” said Mongo.

“Ichthycide,” said Jamal. “See, an ichthyoid is any fishlike vertebrate. If someone killed a fish, they would be guilty of ichthycide. It's sort of like homicide, but with fish instead of people.”

Briana groaned. “So now you're making up your own words?”

“When I have the time, Briana. When I have the time.”

“You guys?” said Jake. “Why don't we just call a wildlife ranger or the EPA?”

“Ordinarily,” said Riley, “a good idea. The Environmental Protection Agency would be my first choice.”

“So let's let them handle this,” said Briana.

Riley shook his head. “My gut tells me it's the wrong move. This fence? Whoever put it up already knows what's going on down there and they're trying to cover it up.”

Riley grabbed a fistful of chain. Mongo gave him a boost. In three swift moves, Riley was up at the corner where the gate met the taller panel.

“Swing your left leg up and over. Brace your left hand on the other side, like this. Bring your right leg up and over and—ta-dah!”

Riley clambered down to the ground on the other side of the fence.

“Let me know if anybody's coming.”

“You got it,” said Mongo.

Riley scampered off the path and down to the creek.

He almost gagged at what he saw.

Dozens of dead fish floating sideways on the surface of the water.

Jamal was right.

This was a serious case of ichthycide.

RILEY BAGGED A HALF-DOZEN DEAD-FISH
samples and stowed them in his backpack.

He tried to make sure he had at least one of every different kind of fish he could see. A lot of them were trapped in a shallow eddy created by a cove of moss-covered rocks.

His socks were squishing inside his tennis shoes as he made his way back to the narrow path.

He wondered if whatever killed the fish could kill him. Maybe his toes were already turning black. Maybe they'd shrivel up and fall off before he hiked home. Maybe he'd mutate into some kind of alien swamp creature with gills, webbed feet, and googly fish eyes.

Maybe he watched too many monster movies.

Riley needed some grown-up assistance to get to the bottom of what had caused this fish kill. Jake was right: It was time to call in the Feds. The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency. This might be more than he and his crew could handle.

Riley changed his mind when he saw several signs staple-gunned to trees:

NO TRESPASSING

Violators Will Be Prosecuted

By Order of John Brown

Chief of Fairview Township Police

Chief Brown. Riley's old nemesis; a word Jamal had taught him. It means a rival or opponent you cannot defeat.

Chief Brown. The guy whose son, Gavin, used to be the biggest bully in town. If Brown's name was all over the
NO TRESPASSING
signs, that meant he was mixed up in this fish-killing mess. He had to be.

Everything Chief Brown touched usually ended up smelling worse than three-week-old bologna sandwiches stuffed in the bottom of a gym locker.

Riley's dad had once told him, “All the bad guys aren't over here in Afghanistan, son. Keep your eyes open while I'm gone. Protect your mother, defend your friends, and stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves.”

True, his dad had never mentioned brook trout or sunfish, but you can't get much more defenseless than fish swimming around in a crystal-clear stream that suddenly turns into liquid poison.

Riley reached the gate, tossed his backpack up and over.

“Careful—”

Mongo caught it.

“It's got fish gunk all over it.”

“Great,” said Mongo, as slimy fish juice sloshed down the front of his T-shirt. “
Now
you tell me.”

“Sorry.”

Riley scaled the fence and repeated his barbed-wire–clearing moves in reverse order.

“There're No Trespassing signs posted all over the place back there,” he said as he climbed. “Chief Brown posted them.”

“Brown?” said Jamal. “That poor excuse for a public servant? That crook, that pilferer and purloiner, that racketeer, rogue, and reprobate?”