Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes (2 page)

She slumps down at my feet. “Hide me. You've got to hide me!”

“Hide you?” I look around and say, “There's no place
to
hide!”

“Is he in?”

I look at the entrance. “He's hanging right outside.”

“He'll be in. He can smell me.”

“
Smell
you?” I hadn't noticed any perfume or anything on her, and the way she said it was weird.

“It's his way.”

“Now he's in. He's … he's going down the first aisle.” I squat down beside her and say, “Why don't you let me get security? Or we could get a bunch of people together and tackle him if he tries to hurt you….”

She gives me a sad little smile, then closes her eyes and
mouths a quick prayer as she makes the sign of the cross on her chest. And that's when I notice these weird sort of slashy scars on the inside of her left arm. Not down by her wrist, up higher. One zigzags side to side and the other overlaps it a little, zigzagging up and down. And I want to ask her if the guy she's so afraid of cut up her arm, but all of a sudden she stops shaking, slides her Sears bag toward me, and says, “I'll meet you back here at … at seven.
Be
here, you hear me? Everything you need's in the elevator—go get it. And don't let nothing happen to him!” She grabs me by the shoulders and says, “Do not, do
not
call the cops. You hear me? Promise me!”

Everything was happening so fast. First she's scared to death of this guy; then she doesn't want anything to happen to him. And what was that about the elevator?

But her eyes were so intense. It was like they hypnotized a nod out of me. And before I could ask her any questions, she said, “If I'm not back right at seven,
wait
for me, you hear me? I
will
be back.” In a flash she's gone, crawling around the corner, then darting out the door.

I look around for the guy who's stalking her, and there he is, coming my way. I do my best to act cool, but let me tell you, this guy's creepy, and the closer he gets, the more I shrink back until I'm practically hugging a video game backward.

When he's right beside me, he sniffs the air. Three times really fast, then slowly three times. And while he's sniffing, I'm noticing the tattoo on the top part of his left arm. It's the head of a cobra with eyes like
dice
. They're
popping out, with the ones facing forward. Real “snake eyes.” And the mouth of the snake is open—like it's in midstrike, coming right at me.

Now, the tattoo's plenty scary, but when the guy turns and looks straight at me, my knees practically buckle. I'd never seen a face like his. He had hatred for eyes. Steel for a mouth. He almost didn't look human.

And while I'm dissolving into the front of a video game, he keeps looking right at me, then sniffs the air again and heads slowly out the door.

I had chills running all through me. Hard as she ran, that girl would never get away from him. He'd hunt her down until he found her. I could just tell.

“God, Marissa, what are we going to do?” I looked over my shoulder. “Marissa?”

“What?” Her finger's just a blur, punching the shoot button.

“Don't tell me you didn't see any of that …?”

“Any of what?” Her finger's flying, fast and furious.

“Marissa!”

She looks at me for a split second. “What?”

“There was a girl in here, scared to death that this creepy guy was going to kill her!”

“Hang on a minute, I've just about …Yeah!” She turns to me. “Okay, what?”

I shake my head at her. “You didn't see
any
of that?”

“Any of what?”

“What I just told you! About the girl and the creepy guy.”

“So where are they now?”

“They
left
.”

“So…?”

“So do you think we should call the police?”

“About
what
?”

“Marissa!”

“Look, I don't know what you're talking about! I was in the middle of a game. It's noisy in here. I didn't even know you were talking to someone.” She points to the Sears bag and says, “What's that?”

“She left it with me. I think she couldn't run with it. It looks kind of heavy. And I'm supposed to get some stuff of hers out of the elevator and meet her back here at seven.”

Marissa squints at me.
“Why?”

I shrug real big and say, “I don't know! That's just what she said!”

“How
do
you get yourself into these things?”

“Hey! I just asked her if she was all right, and it turns out she
wasn't
. She was scared to death!”

“So why come in here? Why not call the police?”

“Marissa, I don't know! She was hiding, okay? And she was real clear about not calling the police.
Real
clear. She seemed, you know,
allergic
to the idea.”

“What did she do? Break out in hives?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Well, I'm not hanging around here until seven….”

“Neither am I! Grams would kill me.” I reach for the Sears bag and say, “I'll just take this home and bring it back after … dinner.”

“What's wrong?”

“It weighs a ton …!”

“What's in it?”

I put it back down and say, “Feels like a bowling ball!” and when I look inside, what do I see?

A brand-new Barbie giving me a bubble-head smile through a bubble pack.

Obviously that didn't weigh much. And neither did the puffy yellow towel underneath it. So I pull back the towel, muttering, “There must be something else….” And that's when I see it. “Marissa,” I gasp. “Look!”

It was bigger than a bomb.

Scarier
than a bomb.

And it wouldn't be long before shrapnel went flying.

I grabbed the bag and charged out of the arcade. In a panic I flew around the whole central courtyard, looking up the escalator, looking down the corridors. It hadn't been
that
long. Where had she gone?

Marissa was right behind me, dragging our backpacks along. “Do you see her?”

“No!”

“What does she look like?”

“Long black hair. Curly. Pulled back in a scrunchie.” I spun around and whimpered, “I can't
believe
this!”

Marissa leaned over to look in the bag. “You don't think it's …
dead
… do you?”

I peeked in, too, and there it was—the scariest thing I'd ever seen.

A baby.

I got in a little closer and said, “It doesn't
look
dead.”

“I can't believe it slept through all that
noise
. Don't you think you should pick it up and find out?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“I'm not touching it! I'm going to find that girl and give it back!”

Marissa looks around and shakes her head. “Sorry to break it to you, but she is long gone.”

“But…I can't believe she'd …” I looked in the bag one more time. “Marissa, it's a
baby
.”

“Exactly. Now make sure it's all right, would you?”

“Why am
I
the one who's always got to investigate? Why am
I
always the one checking pulses and —”

“Because
you're
the one who accepts unidentified packages from strangers, that's why. She could've been handing you a
bomb
, Sammy. Why didn't you look?”

“A bomb I could handle! And it happened so fast! One minute she's shaking and quaking like she's about to
die
, and the next she's shoving this thing at me and running out the door! This is not my fault!”

Marissa gives me a closed little smile, then says, “It never is.”

In a flash she's squatting beside the bag, digging under the towel to check out the baby. “Look,” she says to me. “He's fine! He's moving.”

I looked in at the little head with the wispy black hair. It had such tiny ears. Such a tiny nose. Such a tiny mouth. And sure enough, it was moving. “Great,” I whispered. “So now what?”

She didn't have time to answer. That tiny mouth let out an enormous
“Wwwwwaaaaaaahhhhhh!”

“Marissa! You woke it up!”

“It would've woken up anyway. Now pick it up, would you?”

“Wwwwwaaaaaaahhhhhh!”
went the bag, and you
better believe I picked it up! I grabbed those Sears-bag handles and made a beeline for the elevator.

“Sammy! Where are you going?”

“She said something about leaving stuff in the elevator. I'm gonna go find it!”

“Sammy! Sammy, that is
not
how you carry a baby!”

I held the screaming bag out to her. “Oh, really? Well, here! You hold it!”

She just stood there, her eyes wide open.

I resumed my dash to the elevator with Marissa chasing after me. “Sammy,
I
didn't take the baby —”

“Wwwwwaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!”

“—and
I
didn't —”

“Wwwwwaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!”

“—promise to meet some stranger back here at seven —”

“Wwwwwaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!”

“—and
I
didn't —”

“Wwwwwaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!”

She blocked my path and cried, “Would you just pick up the baby!”

I dodged around her, and believe me, people were staring at us. When I reached the elevator, I punched the button about five hundred times and stood by with a screaming bag on one side and a bossy friend on the other.

Finally Marissa says through her teeth, “I just don't understand why you aren't picking it up!”

I spin around and say, “Because I don't know
how
to, all right? I've never even
touched
one before! I keep ask-
ing
you
to do it, but you're too focused on whose
fault
all of this is to help me out.”

She pulls a little face and says, “Well,
I
don't know anything about it, either!”

“Then why are you acting like you do?”

By now the baby's kicking and punching the sides of the bag. Marissa shouts over the crying, “I
do
know you're not supposed to carry a baby around under towels and a Barbie in a Sears bag, though! And when they cry, you're supposed to pick them up and feed them or change their diaper or rock them or, you know, do
something
. You're not supposed to leave them to punch a hole in the side of a sack!”

Just then the elevator door opens and an elderly couple steps out. They frown at us and our Sears bag as we scoot past them to get on board. And from their whispers and gasps, I can tell it won't be long before they notify security about two teenagers on the loose with a wailing, flailing Sears sack.

So I smile at them as the doors close and call, “It's a Dolly Scream-A-Lot. The switch is stuck!”

Marissa rolls her eyes and says, “A Dolly Scream-ALot?” But then she points and cries, “Look!”

Propped in the corner is a stroller. A collapsible stroller, all folded up so it looks like a double-handled umbrella on wheels. The corners of a blue knitted blanket are peeking out the sides, and there's a rubbery-looking bag wrapped over the handles.

“This must be what she was talking about, don't you think?” Marissa asks me.

The Sears bag is still wailing, and the elevator's cruising up to the second floor. “You know how to work it?” I shouted.

She fumbles with the stroller, then screams,
“Would you take the baby out of the bag!”

“Okay! Okay!”

I started to. Really, I did. But then the elevator came to a stop and the door opened up and a herd of kids shuffled in. So I grabbed the bag and bolted, leaving a screaming
“Wwwaahhhhahhhh”
in my wake.

Marissa struggled out behind me with the stroller, yelling, “Where are you
going
?”

I just marched down the corridor, around a bend, and blasted straight through an Employees Only door.

“Sammy! Sammy, stop!” She knew where I was headed. We'd been there before.

“I can't think, all right? And I don't want to figure this thing out with everyone staring at us!”

Down a maze of back corridors we went, right, left, then right again. Then up some cement steps, through the roof access door, and into the sunlight.

Marissa drags the stroller and plastic bag and our backpacks up with her, yelling, “If you don't pick that baby up
now
, I'm going to…”

She never did say what she would do, but I could tell she was serious. And I wanted the thing to shut up as much as she did, so the minute we were on the roof I reached in, grabbed the baby under the arms, and lifted.

So there I am, holding a baby for the first time in my entire life, and what's it do?

Screams even louder.

Marissa says, “You can't hold it
out
like that, Sammy! You've got to hold it close to you. On your shoulder!”

I put it on my shoulder and look at Marissa like, Well?

“It's not a sack of potatoes!
Hold
it.”

I yank it off my shoulder and give it to Marissa. “
You
hold it!”

She did. One hand under the rump, one hand on the back, the baby's head against her shoulder. And after about a minute of bouncing up and down, the wailing quieted into gasps and hiccups.

I let out a huge breath and said, “Oh,
thank
you. How did you
do
that?”