Here Comes Mr. Trouble Read online

  Maggie scrunched up her face. “Lady Candice?”

  “Name of the plane,” Fiona said. “Grandpa named it after Grandma.”

  “Who gives a plane a name?” Maggie said, clearly thinking it was a stupid idea.

  “A lot of people,” Fiona told her, clearly thinking Maggie had no clue.

  Eric didn’t care if the plane had a name or not. All he could think about were the cars Mr. Trouble said were his. “I can’t afford to pay for these.”

  “Who said you had to pay for anything?” Mr. Trouble asked.

  “Hello?” Fiona said. “We went over this on the phone, remember? Free of charge? No cost to you? You do know what that means, right?”

  “Then how can you afford to pay for them if you don’t charge anything?”

  Mr. Trouble shrugged. “We’ve saved a few bucks here and there over the centuries.”

  Over the centuries? Sure, Eric thought. “If you don’t want to tell me, then just say so.”

  The sedan jerked to a stop and Mr. Trouble killed the engine. He then clapped his hands together and said, “Time to get to work.”

  The first thing Eric noticed as he climbed out of the car was smoke billowing up out of the center of the plane. “Hey, your airplane’s on fire.”

  No one reacted.

  “Hey! Fire!”

  “What?” Fiona asked.

  “There’s smoke coming out of your plane,” he said.

  “Relax. Mom’s just cooking dinner.” She leaned down a little and pointed under the plane.

  Eric took a look. On the opposite side of the aircraft was what could only be described as an outdoor kitchen. The smoke he had seen was rising out of a pipe at the rear of a large, black stove.

  As he stood up again, he caught sight of two men wearing white lab coats standing near the landing gear, staring at him. They were remarkably similar in appearance—receding hairlines, slightly overweight, large noses, small ears—and looked a few years older than Eric’s dad.

  Mr. Trouble put a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “Gentlemen, he’s all yours.”

  “Excellent!” one of the men said. Then he and his lookalike began walking rapidly in Eric’s direction.

  Mr. Trouble took a step toward the airplane. “Maggie, this way.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I’m staying with—”

  “He’ll be fine,” Mr. Trouble said, taking her arm.

  “Really, I shouldn’t leave—”

  “I guarantee you he’ll be back with you very, very shortly. Fiona, I need to check something onboard, so why don’t you take Maggie over to the kitchen and see if there’s any ice cream left?”

  A small smile grew on Maggie’s face. “Ice cream?”

  “Follow me,” Fiona said.

  Eric looked at the two men walking his way, then at Fiona and Maggie heading for the kitchen, and finally at Mr. Trouble moving toward the ladder hanging under the plane’s door. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Mr. Trouble glanced back. “Just stay where you are. It won’t take long.”

  “What won’t take long?”

  Mr. Trouble merely waved, hopped onto the ladder, and climbed up into the plane.

  “I’m serious! What won’t—”

  “Hello, hello,” one of the lab-coated men said. Now that they were close, Eric could see that the talker was slightly taller than his companion. He was also the only one smiling.

  The shorter man wasn’t even looking at Eric now. All his attention was focused on a plastic-looking rectangular box in his hand. It was about the size of a paperback book, and every few seconds he would wave it back and forth through the air in front of him.

  “I can’t tell you how pleased we are to finally meet you,” the first man said. He spoke with an accent that Eric thought was probably Irish. The man thrust his hand out. “So very pleased.”

  Not knowing what else to do, Eric shook it, but when he tried to let go, the man held tight.

  “You are Eric, of course. Eric Morrison?”

  “Well…yeah.”

  “I’m Colin,” the man said, his smile growing even broader. “Though, if you wish, you can call me Uncle Colin. Everyone else here does.”

  “Can I have my hand back?”

  “What? Oh. Of course, of course.” But instead of letting go, he pulled something out of his pocket with his left hand. It was a rectangular box only a couple of inches long, maybe as wide as a Magic Marker. “Which finger do you prefer?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. Any one of them is fine.”

  He stuck the end of the box over the tip of Eric’s ring finger.

  “What are you doing?” Eric asked. “That’s—ow!”

  The box had pinched him. He tried to pull his hand back but Uncle Colin held tightly on to it. When he removed the box, Eric thought his finger would be bleeding but there was only the tiniest of scrapes.

  “So sorry. Always the most painful part. Everything from this point forward is downhill.”

  He pulled a plastic baggie out of his pocket and sealed the small box in it. He then applied some ointment on the scrape and covered it with a Band-Aid. Surprisingly, as soon as the ointment was applied, the pain went away.

  “Ah, I almost forgot.” He put a hand on the other man’s back. “This is my brother Carl. Uncle Carl. Again, only if you wish.”

  The corners of Uncle Carl’s mouth moved up and down in what Eric guessed was a smile, but his eyes never left the device he was carrying. “Troubling,” he muttered. “Very troubling.”

  He moved the box closer to Eric, then began waving it around like it was one of those security wands Eric had seen used at the airport when he’d flown to visit his grandparents the previous summer.

  “What’s he doing?” Eric asked.

  “Routine. Simply routine,” Uncle Colin said. “Don’t you worry a bit.”

  Eric glanced at the plane, wishing the others were still here.

  “Hold him still,” Uncle Carl insisted. “Can’t get a clean reading if he keeps moving around.”

  “A reading of what?” Eric asked.

  “This is merely an initial assessment,” Uncle Colin explained. “Data gathering, that kind of thing. You understand.” The look on his face turned very earnest. “It will help us. You need to believe that. It will definitely help us.”

  “Help you with what?”

  “Helping you, of course.”

  “Got it!” Uncle Carl announced, raising the device a few inches into the air.

  “Excellent!” Uncle Colin exclaimed.

  Without another word, Uncle Colin and Uncle Carl began walking quickly toward the rear of the plane.

  “Wait. Where are you going?” Eric asked.

  Uncle Colin stopped and looked back. “Thank you,” he said, his hands clasped in front of him. “And…don’t worry! Certainly don’t worry.” He started to turn away then paused. “Best not to try the pickle soup.” He nodded toward the kitchen and, as he shook his head side to side, mouthed, “Not good.”

  Eric was left standing alone.

  Who were these people? How had he ever thought this was going to be a solution to his problems?

  And pickle soup?

  “Hey, are you hungry?”

  Fiona was standing on his side of the plane, holding a bowl of something in one hand and waving him over with the other. He hadn’t been eating much since his mother went missing. Not that his dad wasn’t a good cook. Well…he wasn’t, but he was good at ordering takeout. Eric just didn’t have an appetite anymore. Except now, he actually did feel hungry.

  Maybe just a little something wouldn’t be so bad.

  He trudged across the field and ducked under the plane to the other side.

  The kitchen was amazing. It was raised above the ground on solid wooden platforms and consisted of an oven, a stove, a sink, two large reach-in cabinets, and a small refrigerator. Not too far away a generator hummed, giving power to the fridge and the lights.
r />   On the other side of the kitchen, also on raised platforms, was a long wooden table with benches on either side. Above the table was a dark red canvas tent, held in place by several sturdy wooden poles and taut ropes staked into the ground.

  Maggie was sitting at one end of the table eating a bowl of ice cream, while at the other end sat another girl hunched over something, her back to Eric.

  Fiona was standing near the stove chatting to a woman stirring a large pot of something that smelled…horrible.

  “Want some soup?” Fiona asked. “It’s my favorite. Pickle.”

  “I, um, think I’ll pass.”

  The older woman laughed. “I would pass, too. The only reason I make it is because Ronan and Fiona love it so. The rest of us…” She made a face that conveyed her distaste. Like the two uncles, she, too, had an Irish accent. She seemed about the same age as the men, but that may have only been because she had a few strands of gray in her otherwise brown hair.

  “Hey, it’s not that bad,” Fiona protested.

  The woman shook her head. “Yes, it is.”

  Fiona frowned, then scooped up a spoonful of the soup and stuck it in her mouth.

  The woman smiled at Eric. “There’s something special for you in the oven. Be careful you don’t burn yourself pulling it out.”

  Something special? he thought. “Okay, thanks.”

  He found two potholders on the counter next to the oven and opened the door. Sitting on the top rack was a Hawaiian pizza, his absolute favorite. How had they—

  Oh, right. The questionnaire he’d answered on the phone.

  He pulled the pan out and put a piece on a plate. He waited until it was just cool enough then took a big bite. Absolutely delicious. Perhaps even one of the best Hawaiian pizzas he’d ever had. He quickly finished the slice then took another and woofed it down, too.

  “Don’t your folks ever feed you?” Fiona asked.

  “Sweetie, that’s not really nice,” the woman said. She gestured toward the table. “Eric, perhaps you’d like to sit down.”

  “Thanks, uh…”

  The woman smiled. “My daughter seems to have forgotten to introduce us, hasn’t she? You can call me Mother Trouble.”

  Eric cocked his head. “Trouble? I thought that was just a title or something the other guy called himself. It’s really your last name?”

  “It’s really our last name,” Mother Trouble said.

  Maggie rose from the table, her empty bowl in her hand. “Trouble? Sounds made up to me. Nobody has that as a last name.”

  Fiona’s eyes narrowed defensively. “We do. I’m Fiona Trouble. And Mom’s Deirdre Trouble. You’ve already met my brother, Ronan Trouble.”

  “You mean Mr. Trouble?” Maggie asked, suppressing a laugh.

  Fiona glared. “Only he gets to call himself Mr. Trouble because he’s head of the house now.”

  “You’re serious,” Eric said. “You’re the Trouble family?”

  “I’m afraid that’s right,” Fiona’s mom said. “It is a bit unusual, I’ll admit that.” She looked at Maggie. “But that’s because you’re right, too. It is made up.”

  “Has anyone seen the location report?”

  Everyone turned. Mr. Trouble was sticking his head out a window near the front of the plane.

  “I repeat,” he said. “Has anyone seen the location report?”

  “Dear, isn’t it in the folder?” his mother asked.

  “No. It is not in the folder. That, of course, is the first place I checked.” He looked around then leaned down a little, trying to look under the awning. “Keira, is that you?”

  The girl at the table didn’t move.

  “It’s her,” Fiona said.

  “You did put the report in the folder, didn’t you?”

  With a huff, the girl at the table—Keira—mumbled, “What do you think?”

  “I can’t hear you,” Mr. Trouble said.

  She spun around and stood up. “Yes. Yes. Yes. I put it in the folder.”

  “Well, I can’t find it.”

  “And that’s my fault?”

  “Are you sure you put it in the right folder?”

  Keira glared up at him and said very slowly, “Yes. I’m sure.”

  Without waiting for him to say anything else, she stomped off under the plane and over to the field on the other side.

  As she passed him, Eric noticed she was holding a book. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was from the Noriko’s Revenge series, a Japanese manga adventure. And if he really wasn’t seeing things, he would have sworn the number 11 was on the cover. But that would be impossible. Volume 11 wasn’t supposed to be released for another month, something he was well aware of because he’d been anxiously awaiting it.

  Fiona shook her head. “My sister’s had a rough time since…well, since my brother took over the position of Mr. Trouble. It’s just a phase. Kids are so difficult at her age.”

  Maggie frowned. “Kids? She looks about the same age as you.”

  Eric had actually thought Keira might be older. Though Keira looked a lot like Fiona, only with light brown hair, she was at least two inches taller.

  “Same age?” Fiona said, grimacing. “I’m fifteen. She’s only thirteen, barely even a teenager.”

  “I’m thirteen,” Eric said.

  “It’s different with boys.”

  “I’m thirteen, too,” Maggie told her.

  Fiona nodded. “Yeah. I can tell.” She looked in the direction her sister had gone. “I’d better go make her feel better.” As she jogged off, she yelled, “Keira, wait up!”

  “Found it!” Mr. Trouble called out from above.

  “Oh, good,” his mother said. “Where was it?”

  “Well…funny thing. It seemed to be stuck to another piece of paper.”

  “So it was in the folder,” Mother Trouble said.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “I think you owe your sister an apology.”

  Mr. Trouble frowned as he disappeared back into the plane, but only a second passed before he stuck his head back out the window. “Eric, can you come up here?”

  “Into the plane?” Eric asked.

  But Mr. Trouble had disappeared again.

  Mother Trouble smiled. “Yes. Into the plane.”

  “Can I go with him?” Maggie asked.

  “I think that’s a grand idea,” Mother Trouble said. “It’ll be good for Eric to have someone he trusts know what the plan is.”

  “The plan for what?” Maggie asked. “I still don’t even know why we’re here.”

  “Why, the plan to keep Eric from slipping into the abyss, of course.”

  6

  Eric had no idea what Maggie had been expecting to find inside the plane, but he’d been prepared to see rows of seats with overhead storage compartments.

  He was wrong.

  Just inside and to the right was a door he figured led to the cockpit. That wasn’t unusual. It was a plane, after all. A little less ordinary was the logo painted on the wall beside it, the same logo that was on the outside of the plane. It was simple, really, a big yellow circle surrounding the letters TFS. Just below the bottom of the circle were two lines:

  Troubleshooters

  • You Gotta Problem, We Gotta Help •

  Still, a logo on a wall wasn’t that unusual. The big surprise was to the left.

  Instead of rows of seats and overhead bins, there was a living room.

  A couch, a love seat, three recliners, a coffee table, and a TV and stereo mounted against the wall. If he ignored the fact he was in an airplane with a curved ceiling and tiny windows, the living room could have easily been in a house somewhere. Well, except for the fact that all the chairs had seat belts.

  “Back here,” Mr. Trouble called out from somewhere down the hallway on the other side of the living room.

  Eric and Maggie exchanged looks.

  “If this thing takes off with us on it, I am so going to kill you,” she whispered.

  “
You didn’t have to come.”