Here Comes Mr. Trouble Page 3
He glanced at the ad. It was right near the bottom
In fact, you won’t pay a cent for anything.
EVER.
“Oh,” he said. “Right. I forgot.”
“All right, then. Just hang tight and we’ll get this straightened out in no time.”
“You…really can fix things?”
“I promise,” the girl said.
CONTACT REPORT
Case #3114
Client: Eric Morrison, Case #3114
Point of Contact Representative: Fiona
Report Written by: Keira (with considerable help from Fiona). [Note from Keira: Despite what my sister thinks, she provided very little help with this.] [Note from Fiona: SO not true.]
A. Per standard procedure, the client—Eric—was questioned using the New Client Profile worksheet.
B. Personal information
Age—13 (turns 14 on November 21st)
Hair—Brown, client describes style as a bit wavy, not long
Height—Last measurement one month earlier, client says he thinks he was 5 feet 4 inches at the time
Weight—110 pounds
Eyes—blue/gray (says they change depending on what he is wearing; need independent confirmation), no glasses
Home: Tobin, Colorado; lives with parents; only child
C. Client was also questioned about the initial contact moment. Detailed description has been added to the file. [Fiona: Written by me, of course. And very well, I might add.] [Keira: Whatever.]
D. Initial contact is categorized as a PC 17C.
From TFS Point of Contact Catalog:
PC 17C—A PC 17C is the sudden appearance of a phone book. As of the last catalog update, a PC 17C has been the instrument of contact 21 times, most recently in cases 3098, 3105, and 3111. [Fiona: We ALL remember 3111!] For full list of cases using this method, please refer to index at end of catalog.
The appearance of the phone book has occurred by various methods. Clients have describe some of the following:
falling from the ceiling
squeezing out of a faucet (bathtub and sink)
appearing with a flash in a microwave.
E. As in the previous cases, as soon as client removed the phone number from the book, the book disappeared. In this case, removal was achieved by tearing out the page. [Note from Ronan: If he still has it, we need to make sure we get that page before we leave.]
F. Phase 2 of contact—calling us—occurred approximately five minutes later via pay phone at the Tobin City Library on Wednesday, September 28.
G. Detailed description of the call is attached to this report. [Fiona: Again, written by me.] [Keira: Like anyone cares.]
H. END OF REPORT
copies to: file, Ronan, Mom
Excerpt from the TPS Encyclopedia
POINT of CONTACT
Term describing how clients receive information allowing them to contact TFS for help.
There has been much speculation, and more than a few wild guesses, concerning the Point of Contact. Here are the facts:
The Point of Contact event started with the very first TFS client (long before it was actually called TFS), and has continued on every case for two hundred and fifty years.
Some of the events are more spectacular than others, ranging from near hurricanes to the information quietly appearing at the client’s bedside. Extensive research has been done to try and correlate the intensity of the contact with the results of the case that followed, but no trends have been detected.
TFS has never controlled the Point of Contact event. In that, we are as in the dark as to when a new client will contact us as they are to our existence prior to the event.
The source of the Point of Contact event remains unknown, but it is not a stretch to say that it must be connected with whatever it was that picked our family for this job.
3
Eric Morrison didn’t sleep very well that night. Over and over he dreamt about the air expanding in front of him and spitting out an object. Sometimes it was the book. Sometimes it was his missing house key. Sometimes it was his mom, who was still gone when he came home from the library.
The worst time, though, had woken him up screaming. In the dream, the bubble had grown impossibly large, knocking over bookcases, and causing Mrs. Kim to say, “Mr. Morrison, if you will not be quiet, your library card will be revoked!” Then the air ripped open and out jumped Peter Garr.
Eric woke with a mixture of relief and dread Thursday morning. He was happy to get away from his dreams but not looking forward to what the new day may bring.
After he dressed, he found his father sitting in the kitchen. On the table was the same box of bland cereal they’d been eating every morning since Eric’s mom had disappeared.
“Morning, Dad.”
“Good morning. Sleep okay?”
“I guess.” Eric got a bowl out of the cabinet and filled it with cereal and a splash of milk. He glanced over at his dad, knowing he should just keep his mouth shut, but not able to stop himself. “Have you heard from Mom?”
His father looked surprised by the question. “She’s fine.”
“So you did talk to her?”
For half a second his father’s expression seemed frozen. It was the same thing that happened every time Eric brought up his mom. It was like his dad drifted off to another planet.
When his father finally turned his head and looked at Eric, he said, “What day are they mailing out report cards?”
Report cards? “Dad, it’s only September,” Eric said.
“I don’t care what month it is. I would like to know when we should be expecting it. Please check with the office and report back to me tonight.”
His father worked at an accounting firm and was always saying things like “report back” or “give me a summary.”
“They might not even know yet.”
“Eric, of course they know. Check.”
“Yes, Dad,” Eric said.
The trip to school proved to be equally wonderful. He’d decided to ride his bike that day. So far that hadn’t stopped him from being picked on when he went home, but maybe if he rode the long way back, he could avoid trouble entirely. If he did, that would be two days in a row. Peter had apparently been too busy sniffing around the library to bother with him the previous afternoon.
The plan was a good one and would have worked fine if his bike chain hadn’t snapped in two just as he passed the halfway point to school. Of course it happened as he was coming down a small hill and was going pretty fast. And, of course, his bike only had a pedal brake, meaning he had no way to stop.
He turned toward the curb, hoping he could rub his front tire against the concrete and slow down. Instead, he hit a rock, spinning his handlebars to the right. The next thing he knew, he was sprawled across the hood of an old Ford Mustang parked at the side of the road while his bike lay in the gutter.
With what felt like a slightly sprained thumb and a sore knee, he walked the bike the rest of the way to school, getting there just after the tardy bell rang.
He quickly locked it to the rack, knowing he probably didn’t need to—who was going to steal a bike with no chain?—then sprinted to the lockers to grab the book he needed for first-period math. But when he got there, he found that someone had stuck used bubble gum all over the dial of his lock.
“Great,” he groaned.
“Mr. Morrison, you are already three minutes late for class.” Mrs. Trenton, the girls’ P.E. teacher and morning campus monitor, was standing at the end of the row of lockers, one eyebrow raised.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Trenton,” he said. “My bike broke on the way here and now somebody put gum all over this.” He moved the lock so she could see what he was talking about.
“This is the third tardy in the last six school days. I let you go on the last two but I’m afraid I’m going to have to send you to the office this time.”
“No, please. Just let me go to class. I promise this will be the l
ast time.”
She shook her head knowingly from side to side. “I’ve heard that story a million times so I know it’s a promise you won’t keep.”
“But I will. I promise.”
“You promise to keep your promise? Oh, Mr. Morrison.” She wrote something on a pad of paper, pulled off the top slip, and handed it to him. “Off you go.”
Eric spent fifteen minutes waiting for Vice Principal Rose, then one minute being lectured about how important arriving on time was to his future. As he was leaving, he thought about asking Mrs. Cameron, the office secretary, about report cards, but then decided he would rather not know and headed to class.
The rest of the school day didn’t go much better. Cranky teachers, missing homework again—how did that happen? he could have sworn he’d done it all and packed everything in his backpack—and his absolutely least favorite lunch in the cafeteria: breaded fish and spinach.
So it was more than understandable that he was in a bad mood as he walked his bike home after school. He almost hoped some kid would try to pick a fight with him. The way he was feeling, he thought he might even be able to win.
“Excuse me.”
The voice came from somewhere off to his left, but he didn’t look. If it was one of his new after-school punching pals, he’d know soon enough.
“Hey, kid. Excuse me. I need your help.”
That was a new one. “I’m busy,” he muttered as he pushed his bike down the sidewalk.
“I just need some directions. I’m looking for the…Morrison house. Do you know where that is?”
Eric stopped, sighed, and looked over. Instead of one of the jerks from school, the guy doing the talking was sitting in the cab of a small white pickup, driving slowly down the road. He had light brown hair, a friendly smile, and looked old enough to be out of college already.
“Morrison?” Eric said. “My last name’s Morrison.”
“You’re kidding me,” the driver said.
Eric shook his head.
The driver looked down at something on the seat. “Are you one of the Morrisons who live at 239 N. Lime Street?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Awesome. Then you can tell me exactly where I need to take this.”
Eric cautiously approached the truck. A sign on the door read:
TFS Package Delivery Service
Shipping Troubles?
Not with us.
“So which way do I go?” the driver asked.
“Um…up two more blocks, then turn right. At the next block, turn right again then left on Lime Street. You can follow the numbers from there.”
“Excellent. Thanks!”
If Eric had been in a better mood, he might have been more curious about the package. Instead, he just said, “No problem,” and started walking away.
“Hey, Eric. One more thing.”
Eric turned back, but as he took a step toward the truck he realized he’d never given the driver his first name. He pulled up abruptly.
“How do you know my name?”
The driver’s smile disappeared. In a voice just loud enough for Eric to hear, he said, “We need to discuss your situation. Any chance you can sneak out for a little while tonight? We could meet right in front of your house.”
Eric took a step backward, almost tripping over the curb. “What do you mean discuss my situation?”
“What do you mean what do I mean? You called us.”
“I called you?” Eric asked. Then it clicked. “You’re the people I talked to yesterday?”
“Yeah. Well, no. I mean, not me directly. You talked to my sister, Fiona,” he said. “I don’t look like a girl, do I?”
Eric shook his head. “No. Of course not.”
“You had me worried there for a moment. So, later? Meeting? Possible?”
Eric thought for a moment. He guessed it wouldn’t be a problem if they were going to just talk in his front yard. And, well, he had called them, after all.
Getting out of the house wouldn’t be a problem. He was supposed to go over to Maggie’s at seven to finish their China report and she only lived a block away. In fact, he realized, maybe it would be even smarter to meet in front of her house.
“I could probably talk just before seven? But not at my house, at my friend Maggie’s.”
The driver winced. “Seven’s going to be tight. Can we make it seven-thirty?”
Eric would have to figure out how to sneak away from Maggie for a few minutes but he thought that wouldn’t be too hard. “Okay,” he said, nodding, then gave the man Maggie’s address.
“I’ll meet you out front.” The driver sat back up, looking like he was about to drive away. “Oh,” he said. “I almost forgot.” He grabbed a rectangular box off the seat and held it toward the window. “The package is for you.”
Eric hesitated, then took the box.
“Don’t open it until after we meet tonight,” the driver said.
This time it really did look like he was going to drive away.
“Wait,” Eric called out. “I don’t know your name.”
“My name?” the driver said, surprised. “Sorry. Thought you would’ve figured that out already. I’m Mr. Trouble.”
4
“Eric, what’s wrong?” Maggie asked.
They were sitting at her dining room table, books and printouts about China spread out before them.
“Nothing,” Eric said, then glanced at his watch.
“You did it again.”
“Did what again?”
“Checked the time.”
“I…I was…just…wondering…”
“Something’s up. I can see it in your eyes. Why are you hiding it from me? You’ve always told me when something’s bothered you before.”
“Nothing’s bothering me.” He looked at his watch.
“See. Again!”
“I just wanted to know what time it was, okay?”
She groaned. “Fine. If you don’t want to tell me, then don’t tell me.” She pulled her dark hair into a ponytail and wrapped a band around it. “I don’t want to spend all night finishing this report so let’s concentrate and get this done.”
She started typing on her father’s laptop again, while Eric returned his attention to the sack of travel magazines he was supposed to be looking through for pictures they could scan and use in the report.
As he finished thumbing through an old travel magazine, he sneaked another peek at his watch. Seven twenty-eight.
“I, uh, need to go check on my bike.”
Maggie looked over at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You walked here.”
“I mean, get some air. I just need to get some air.” He stood up.
“What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
Wanting to avoid any more questions, he made a beeline for the front door.
It was 7:29 by the time he stepped onto Maggie’s front lawn and 7:30 on the dot when a beat-up black sedan pulled to the curb.
Mr. Trouble jumped out of the car and hustled over to the sidewalk. He was taller than Eric had assumed earlier, at least six feet, and looked like he was in pretty good shape. The only thing a little odd about him was his hair. Though it was cut short and neat on the sides, it was longer on top and flopped down over his forehead, stopping just short of his eyes.
“Good, you made it,” Mr. Trouble said. “Any problems?”
Eric glanced at the house, then shook his head. “No.”
A small dimple appeared on Mr. Trouble’s right cheek as he smiled. “Excellent. Excellent.”
“So…you said you could help me?”
“That we can.”
“I don’t understand how.”
Mr. Trouble shot a look down Maggie’s street. “Right. Okay. Here’s the deal. Slight change of plans. Hop in. I’ll drive.” He turned back to the car.