Bookweirder (20 page)

Even if the dog had been able to speak, he couldn’t have answered. A mean leather muzzle was strapped to his snout. When he was finished with the ropes, Norman saw to the muzzle, too. The dog licked his hand in gratitude. He was too smart to make any noise unless ordered to.

Norman patted him, feeling for an injury, but Nelson seemed to be okay. The dog pointed his muzzle to a pile of ground beef on the ground and growled.

Norman understood immediately. “He tried to poison you.”

Nelson’s eyes blinked in agreement.

“Come on, boy,” Norman urged, his adrenaline still pumping. “We’ve got to help George.”

They raced down the path to the edge of the woods and dashed for the cover of the greenhouse. The poacher was nearly at the base of the tower, and still there was no movement on the ramparts.

Nelson whimpered, desperate to sound the alarm. Norman spread his arms, holding the pans out wide. He held his breath for just a second, then swung the pans together in front of him three times in quick succession. They made a pure, bell-like sound that rang across the lawn—
gong
,
gong
,
gong
. Nelson barked liked he’d never barked before, then both of them ducked behind the greenhouse again.

Norman took a deep breath and waited for the echoes to subside before sticking his head out again. The poacher had dropped his ladder and stopped in his tracks. The big man ducked low and lifted the sheet of tin up over his head like a shield. Crouched under his shield he turned in a slow circle, trying to locate the source of the din. There was something about his stance, squatting low and wary, ready to pounce, that made him look more animal than human. Norman could see the whites of the poacher’s eyes. He could only bear to look for a moment. They were a killer’s eyes.

With a gasp Norman ducked back behind cover. His chest pounded as if he’d just run a race. But the race hadn’t even started. The next time he banged the pots together, the poacher would know exactly where the sound was coming from. Norman’s plan had been to draw the poacher into the woods and lose him there, but he was losing his nerve. He knew he couldn’t outrun the big man. The poacher knew the paths through the woods better than he did. Norman wasn’t sure it was a race he could win.

He breathed deeply, closed his eyes, raised the pots and counted to three again. He couldn’t do it. His arms trembled in front of him and he could not bring himself to bang them together again. He wasn’t brave enough. It was so quiet out there now. The poacher could be creeping towards him across the lawn. He could be just around the corner of the greenhouse.

Cringing, Norman placed the pots down on the grass, willing them not to make a sound. Slowly he dropped to the ground, lying on his belly in the dirt. With the smallest of movements he crawled to the edge of the greenhouse and peered fearfully around the corner. He fully expected the poacher to be there, looming over him. He expected it to be over in a blink.

But the poacher hadn’t moved. He was still there in the middle of the lawn, huddled under his shield, turning this way and that, trying to figure out where the din had come from. Behind him in the tower there was a stir of motion and colour as the yellow sleeping bag was flung away and George poked his head over the parapet. That part of Norman’s job was done. George had been warned.

Within seconds there was the whistle of missiles in the air—arrows, two of them. Norman saw Malcolm’s tiny head pop up behind the parapet. Behind him the unmistakable bright orange hair of Pippa Cook flashed for a moment in the morning sun, then it too disappeared behind the stone parapet. There was the sound of two arrows
ting-tinging
off the tin shield.

There was nothing Norman could do by himself now. He needed help. “Stay here,” he told Nelson. The dog blinked his understanding. He seemed to know what his job was.

Norman waited another second and then dove behind the low stone wall that led across the lawn. He could do this, he told himself. He could make it across the lawn without being seen, just as he had that first night with George.

Beyond the greenhouse there was enough stone wall, garden hedge and shrubbery to conceal him all the way to the back door of Kelmsworth Hall. He moved as quickly as he could, running bent over, scrambling, almost crawling when he had to. Behind him Nelson started barking again, drawing the poacher’s attention. Norman did not look back, at least not until he heard George shout the command “Pull!”

Above the tower’s parapets, a small red ball about the size of a softball was tossed straight into the air. Behind it George’s body flashed into view, his shirt-tails untucked and his face tightened in
a determined grimace. George wielded a cricket bat, and he swung it in a huge, wide circle in the air. It connected with the ball with a solid
thock
. Norman followed the arcing flight of the cricket ball and watched it strike the poacher’s shield with a clang. The sound of reverberating tin echoed across the lawn. George had brought out his artillery.

Norman burst into a full run now. At the kitchen garden he leapt the low wrought-iron gate and rushed up the path to the back door. Behind him he could hear the ringing of arrows off the poacher’s shield and the shouts of the combatants.

“Be gone with you. It’s no use. We could stay in here for weeks!” George shouted from the tower. His words were brave but his voice was thin and unconvincing.

“Just give him to me and I’m outta here,” the rough American voice growled back. “No one needs to get hurt.”

The tower’s answer was delivered with another shout of “Pull!” and the deep, echoing
thock
of the cricket bat connecting.

Norman clenched his teeth. The poacher wanted Malcolm back. That’s what he was after. Norman was not going to let that happen. The poacher was not getting into that tower. Norman hammered on the back door of the hall and yelled, “Fuchs … Todd! Let me in!”

There was the sound of shuffling feet and the slow scrape of chair legs across the floor inside.

“It’s me, Norman. You have to let me in now. Hurry up!” He banged again on the door.

Norman paused and glanced over his shoulder towards the tower. The poacher peered towards him, squinting. At this distance, and in the dim light of dawn, it would be difficult to recognize him. There was another shout of “Pull!” from the tower. The poacher ducked and raised his shield to protect his head. The cricket ball sailed over its target. He was getting closer; George had lost the angle.

There was the whistling sound of more arrows sent down and then a
ting
as they rebounded off the shield. The Intrepids were
fighting back, but as long as the poacher had his shield, he could creep ever closer.

Norman raised his hand to pound on the door again, but the door swung open. Had he swung to knock he would have landed his fist in the smug, ever-smirking face of the lawyer, Fuchs-Todd.

He greeted Norman breezily. “Good morning,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“Are you kidding?” Norman screamed. “Don’t you notice anything?” He ducked under the man’s arm into the kitchen. “Do you have a gun?” he demanded. “Something to help us?”

“To help you with what?” Todd sounded neither surprised nor especially interested.

Norman threw his hands in the air. “To help us get rid of this guy. Is there a phone? Do they have telephones in this book? How do we get the police?” Norman rushed on, looking around the big kitchen for a telephone.

“Who do you suggest we telephone?” Todd asked, holding his hands out helplessly. “The author, perhaps?”

“Well, the gun, then. They have guns, don’t they?” Norman shouted. “Hurry!”

Todd put his hands in his pockets. “What’s the hurry? You’re in no danger.”

“I’m not, but George is and Malcolm is. He’s got them trapped up in the tower out there.”

“Well, this
will
be interesting.” Todd craned his neck out the open door towards the tower. “A full-blown siege, right here on the lawn. It’s the sort of thing that only happens in books.”

“It’s not interesting. It’s dangerous, and it’s all your fault.”

Todd turned and stared at Norman. Totally unmoved by Norman’s pleas and accusations, he merely raised his eyebrow. “It’s my fault, is it? I’m sorry, but I thought you had a little something to do with this.”

Norman stared back. He seethed with anger, but there was no retort. Todd was right. A lot of this was Norman’s fault.

“Help me fix this. You obviously don’t care about George, but you don’t want anything to happen to Malcolm, do you?”

Todd leaned against the door frame casually. “Oh, I’m sure the little furry warrior can handle himself. You’ve seen him in battle. He can hold his own.”

“Against other animals. People from his world. Not against some New York psycho murderer.”

Todd arched an eyebrow. “That makes it all the more interesting.”

Norman couldn’t believe his indifference. Todd, as Fuchs, had saved him once. He’d pulled him right out of the
Magpie
mystery because it was too dangerous. Why wouldn’t he help now, when the
Magpie
murderer was right here? What had changed? Norman stood with his mouth agape for a moment before speaking.

“You want the map.” He wasn’t sure where the thought came from. It just popped into his head. “You want the map, don’t you?”

“I believe Malcolm is after the map. I really couldn’t care less. I’m going upstairs to watch.” He closed the door, turned his back and started out of the kitchen. Norman followed him out into the grand hall.

“No,
you
want the map,” Norman repeated. He was sure of this now. “You’re willing to let Malcolm die out there in a book that isn’t his own because you want the map.”

Todd had one foot on the bottom stair, but he turned and regarded Norman with an appraising look. He wasn’t angry. If anything he was amused. If he’d been trying to conceal something from Norman he wasn’t troubled.

“If you ever want to see the map,” Norman warned, “you’d better help me now.”

Todd just smiled a thin little smile and continued up the stairs. “Come on, then. I believe there’s something up here that might be of use.”

Norman scrambled up the stairs after him, passing Todd and encouraging him on. “Hurry up.”

Todd led him to a small study on the second floor. It was decorated with hunting trophies and black-and-white photographs of various Kelmsworths in foreign lands—wide African deserts, Indian jungles, the American Rockies. Their moustached
faces stared out sternly as they posed with various dead animals. Norman shrank back as he scanned the rows of mounted animal head—gazelles, buffalo, a mountain lion. A full stuffed bear stood in one corner, its arms raised in pathetic threat. Norman averted his eyes. You looked at animals differently when one of them was your best friend.

“Here we are,” Todd declared, opening a large glass case on the wall. He lifted an insanely large gun down from the case and handed it to Norman.

Norman’s arms sank as they took the weight of the huge rifle. Todd rummaged through a desk drawer for a few moments, then handed Norman a box of cartridges.

“And there you go. That’s an elephant gun, I think. I’d be careful if I were you. It’s probably got quite a kick.”

With a flourish Todd opened the French doors at the end of the study and held them open for Norman, standing back and waving him out like a butler. Norman stepped out onto the balcony beyond.

Below, the siege was coming to a close. The poacher had managed to make it to the foot of the tower. He crouched low, tight to the tower wall, holding the sheet of corrugated tin to protect his head from any shots from above. But the
ting
and
thock
of arrows and cricket balls had stopped. Malcolm and the Intrepids had realized they were wasting their ammo.

The poacher had already propped the ladder up against the side of the tower, its top rung well above the level of the ramparts. Protected by his shield, the poacher waited beneath the ladder, holding it tight with one arm. He only needed to swing around now and start his climb.

Norman felt powerless as he watched. “We have to help them,” he pleaded.

Todd leaned on the carved stone balustrade and watched intently. “Well, help them,” he murmured distractedly.

“I can’t,” Norman whispered hoarsely.

“You’ve got a gun, don’t you?” Fascinated by the siege, he didn’t even bother to turn around.

“I can’t,” Norman repeated insistently. Even in a book, he didn’t think he could actually shoot someone.

“Your choice,” Todd replied, seemingly indifferent. “Be quiet, then. I want to see how this turns out.”

There was a strange silence below as the poacher paused and prepared his final assault. Above him on the battlements, the tiny figure of Malcolm appeared. He braced himself against the stone castellations and drew his bowstring back to fire, just waiting for a clear shot. He would have only one chance. When the poacher came out from beneath the ladder, he would expose himself for just a moment. Malcolm would have to take that moment.

Norman gripped the balcony with one hand and the ridiculous gun with the other. His knuckles were white with tension. He wanted to do something, but he couldn’t bring himself to raise the weapon.

“Please,” he begged Todd. “Can’t you do it?”

Engrossed in the battle unfolding below, Todd didn’t answer.

The sound of rattling tin at the tower turned Norman’s head. The poacher had decided the moment was now. For a quick second he let go of the ladder, switching his shield to his other hand, and swung around from beneath the ladder. Norman caught a brief glimpse of his face. His beard had grown thick and his skin was burnt from the sun and his eyes seemed to glow with anger. Norman had seen faces like this before, the faces of real medieval warriors when he’d faced the Viking hordes at Maldon.

Malcolm saw the face, too, and recognized his opportunity, because the
twang
of a bowstring now resounded across the lawn. Norman never saw the arrow. He only heard the resulting
ting
as the arrow hit the poacher’s tin shield.