The Crims #2 Page 9

  But then her thoughts were interrupted by an incredibly loud ripping noise from upstairs—followed by a scream.

  “Auuuuuuuugh!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IMOGEN CHARGED UPSTAIRS to find—there was no upstairs.

  “Wait!” Imogen called to Big Nana and Delia, who were running up the stairs behind her. She clung to the banister, which was now . . . outside. She stared down at the rest of Blandington, which was horribly visible considering she should have been indoors.

  The incredibly loud ripping noise had been the sound of a Boeing 747 being torn from the top of a house. By what looked like a military-grade helicopter. Which was now whirring away from the house, dragging the plane behind it, like a cat with an extremely heavy, dead mouse. A figure was dangling from the tail fin, making rude gestures at them with his free hand—Gunther Kruk.

  And then she heard a polite cough coming from somewhere around her ankles. “TERRIBLY SORRY!” shouted Uncle Knuckles. “BUT DO YOU MIND GIVING ME A HAND UP? I THINK I’LL FALL TO A PAINFUL DEATH OTHERWISE, WHICH WOULD BE A SHAME, BECAUSE IT’S A LOVELY, SUNNY DAY, CONSIDERING IT’S SEPTEMBER.”

  She looked down and saw Uncle Knuckles hanging from the jagged edge of the house by his extremely large fingertips.

  Suddenly, Imogen realized she had a fear of heights, which was terrible timing, all things considered. She couldn’t seem to let go of the banister. Luckily, Big Nana and Delia reached down and hauled Uncle Knuckles back onto the staircase.

  “What happened, Knuckles, you overpriced tin of spam?!” said Big Nana, when he was safely back “inside” the house.

  “Could we maybe have this conversation downstairs?” said Imogen, who could no longer feel her legs.

  They descended shakily back to the safety of the living room and huddled together on the sofa with cups of tea.

  “IT ALL HAPPENED SO QUICKLY,” said Uncle Knuckles. “WE JUST TOOK A LITTLE BREAK FROM THE INTERROGATION, SO THAT GUNTHER COULD USE THE LOO—”

  “Uncle Knuckles!” groaned Delia.

  “WHAT?” said Uncle Knuckles. “I’M NOT A MONSTER, NO MATTER WHAT THE LOCAL CHILDREN THINK WHEN THEY SEE ME! ANYWAY, WE TOOK A BREAK, AND THAT’S WHEN I HEARD THAT LOUD STRETCHING NOISE, AND I SCREAMED.”

  “And didn’t you notice that two entire wings were being ripped off the house?” said Delia.

  “THERE WASN’T MUCH I COULD DO ABOUT IT BY THAT POINT!”

  “To lose one wing might be regarded as a misfortune,” said Big Nana, sipping her tea. “To lose both looks like carelessness. Anyway, what’s done is done.” She turned to Imogen, a grim smile on her face. “Well, my dear. It’s official now. You can’t deny it any longer. We are at war with the Kruks.”

  Imogen couldn’t bring herself to meet Big Nana’s eye. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” she said. “I feel terrible.”

  “You’re not terrible,” said Big Nana, reaching over to pat her hand. “You’re just an idiot. A very intelligent one.”

  Not that intelligent, Imogen thought. Not intelligent enough to realize that a cigar-smoking, boat-loving imposter had taken the place of her father. How could she not have noticed? Probably because she hadn’t wanted to notice.

  Well, now she knew the truth. And she was going to find her dad. Somehow. Even if that meant being second best to Ava Gud.

  “Imogen! Guess what!” Penelope and Hannah cornered Imogen outside the dining hall the next day, just before the charity committee meeting was about to start.

  “I’m not in the mood for guessing,” Imogen said.

  “This is good, though.” Penelope smiled. She didn’t smile very often, because it made her look like a vampire bat, so when she did, it was a bit unnerving.

  Hannah nodded. “Get this. We’re catching up to Ava in the charity drive,” she said. “My dad owns a Bentley dealership—I forgot.”

  Imogen stared at her. “You forgot your father is a luxury car salesman?”

  “Yeah, well,” said Hannah, shrugging, “he’s always changing jobs. He was an insurance salesman for a while, and then he worked at Blandington Zoo, but they fired him for trying to sell life insurance to orangutans. The point is, he’s donating a Bentley. Much more useful than a stupid pair of glasses a celebrity doesn’t even want anymore. And I told Ava that you got the donation, obviously. . . .” She smiled at Imogen expectantly.

  “That’s great,” Imogen said, and she did feel touched by the way Penelope and Hannah were still working to help her—even if she wasn’t giving them much in return. But she was too worried about her father to really care, and acting had never been her strong point. It was one of the things Big Nana had asked her to work on for her next crime homework assignment.

  Hannah looked at her, concerned. “What’s wrong? Do you want me to try to convince him to donate two?”

  “Or three?” Penelope suggested, and Hannah glared at her. “Three is a very pleasing number, visually.”

  Imogen shook her head. “I don’t care about this whole queen bee thing anymore,” she said. “You managed to get the Bentley, you should take credit for it. And Penelope, I’m sorry I took your cousin’s lunch money. You guys keep being really nice to me, and I keep being a brat.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out some bills. “Here,” she said. “Tell Emily I’m sorry. I mean, if she hasn’t disappeared.”

  Penelope looked down at the money. “But this is way more than you took from her.”

  “It’s compensation for how horrible I was to her.” Imogen shook her head again. “I’m sorry I’ve been so awful.”

  Penelope looked confused now. Apologizing wasn’t something Imogen usually did. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  But Imogen had already turned away and pushed open the door to the dining hall.

  Ava was already there, laughing and joking with the rest of the committee. “Imogen!” she said, looking up. “Well done on the Bentley! Such a lovely little car!”

  “Hannah donated it, actually,” Imogen said, hovering in the doorway.

  “Oh!” said Ava. “Well—well done, Hannah! Come and sit down, guys, the meeting has started already.”

  “I’m not here for the meeting,” Imogen said. “I’m not going to be able to help with the charity drive anymore. I quit.”

  Everyone stared at her in silence for a moment. And then Ava said, “Ha! That’s a good one!” and started laughing.

  “I’m not kidding,” Imogen said. “I’m too busy. I need to focus on my schoolwork.” Which was a lie. She was going to focus on finding her father and beating the Kruks, preferably with something large and deadly, like an ax.

  “But you’re the most important person in the committee!” said Ava. “Apart from me.” A look of panic flashed across Ava’s face. Why was Ava upset about this? Surely it was what she wanted?

  “I’m sorry,” said Imogen. She turned to leave, waving at her friends, who looked as though they couldn’t believe what was happening.

  “Just stay for this one meeting,” Ava said. “We need to catalog all the auction donations before we go home. And everyone knows you’ve got the neatest handwriting.”

  “I’m sure you’ll manage without me.” Imogen turned away.

  “Wait! What would you call this?” Ava ran to Imogen, spun her around, and held up an incredibly valuable-looking piece of diamond jewelry. “Should I put ‘diamond choker’? Or ‘diamond necklace’?”

  “‘Choker,’” Imogen said, squinting. “Looks like around eight carats of diamonds. Probably Tiffany, circa 1988. But really, I have to go.” She turned and walked out the dining hall without looking back.

  Ava chased down the corridor after her, her feet tap-tap-tapping across the parquet flooring until she caught up. “Don’t go!” she said. “We have something that looks like a ruby bracelet. Can you tell us if it’s real?”

  “Scratch it with a knife,” Imogen said, still walking. “If the knife makes a mark, it’s a fake.”

  “What about this?” Ava held up
an old violin. “It might be a Stradivarius.”

  Imogen turned and looked at it. “It’s not,” she said. “Wood’s too dark. I’m really leaving now.”

  But Ava had her phone out. “Wait! Google Maps says your road has been blocked off. Apparently a truck overturned on Unusual Crescent. They’re not even letting pedestrians in! So you might as well stay.”

  “I bet one of my cousins was driving that truck,” said Imogen with a fond smile. “The two-year-old, probably. She’s still working on her braking. They’ll need my help.” She walked out into the gray courtyard.

  She noticed her shoelaces were undone and bent down to fasten them when something heavy and gold came flying through the air behind her, narrowly missing her head, and landed with a thunk on the floor. Imogen bent down to pick it up. It was a solid-gold paperweight.

  She turned, confused, to see where it had come from. Ava was standing right behind her, eyes wide with apparent innocence.

  “Oops!” Ava said, holding her hands up. “So sorry! Must have just slipped out of my hand!”

  But there was something cold in her eyes that Imogen hadn’t seen before.

  Imogen turned and began walking faster now. She looked over her shoulder to see Ava disappearing into the school.

  Imogen walked through Blandington, past the laundromat, the doughnut shop, and the police station, where a big blurry photo of a figure in a robber’s mask was displayed beneath the words “Wanted: The Banana Bandit. Reward: Some Bananas.” She turned on to Unusual Crescent, where she’d lived all her life (apart from those two blissful years at Lilyworth). The street hadn’t always had that name—it had been called Nothing to See Here Crescent until Crim House was built.

  Why did she feel so uneasy?

  And then she realized: I’ve never told Ava where I live.

  So how did Ava know?

  Imogen felt sick with dread as she walked along Unusual Crescent to Crim House. There was no overturned truck. Nothing was blocking the road, unless you counted Isabella, who was practicing being a highwayman, crawling out in front of cars and lisping “Your money or your life!”

  Imogen had thought that Ava was just an annoyingly perfect, competitive, disgustingly capable rival for queen bee.

  But Ava had lied to get Imogen to stay at school. And when Imogen had left, Ava had tried to kill her. With a weapon made of solid gold.

  A very Kruk sort of weapon, in other words.

  Could she be . . . ? It seemed impossible.

  But Gunther Kruk was living in my house. Stranger things have happened. . . .

  Imogen whisked her little cousin out of the street and walked toward the house, but before she could open the front door, Big Nana came running out, looking shocked and horrified and scared all at the same time.

  “Get inside now, both of you,” she said. “Nick and Nate have gone missing. And so has Delia.”

  Delia and Nick and Nate were at the bowling alley. They’d stolen some coins from a little old lady using the pinball machine—their first successful crime since the Crime Directive had been put in place—and were playing Guitar Zero, which is like Guitar Hero, but the idea is not to get any of the notes right. Delia had just beaten the twins for the second time when a strange boy walked up to them. He had piercing blue eyes and black curly hair, and they knew he was strange right away because his jacket had “strange” written on the pocket. Plus, he kept winking at them for no apparent reason.

  “Hey,” he said. He had an accent of some kind . . . French, maybe? Or Austrian? “Do you want to play Skee-Ball? Best of five?”

  “What do we get if we win?” asked Nate.

  “My soccer shirt,” said the strange boy, opening his jacket to reveal the latest home jersey for Blandington Football Club, which looked exactly the same as every other home jersey Blandington FC had ever produced—gray, with the word “Blandin” written on the front because the designer had got so bored making it that he’d fallen asleep halfway through. “And if I win, I get your hat,” he said, pointing to Nick’s “Can I Get Fries with That?” cap.

  Nick held on to his hat protectively. He loved it, and there was only one of them in the whole world—Sam had moved on to making caps with the slogan “A Cup of Tea Would Be Lovely.”

  “What’s the matter?” asked the strange boy. “Scared you’re going to lose?”

  “No,” said Nick. “I’m just feeling sorry for you already because of how badly you’re going to get beaten.”

  And they shook on it.

  So they played Skee-Ball. There’s no need to describe the game to you—you really had to be there. All you need to know is that the strange boy won, and Nick was very upset.

  “Hand over the hat,” said the strange boy.

  Nick shook his head. “Can’t you take something else? I’ll give you anything you want.”

  “Yeah,” said Delia. “Don’t take the hat, please. It’s the only way I can tell these guys apart.”

  “I’ve got a couple of rabbits at home that know how to sing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,’” said Nick. “They were Irish, originally. Want them instead?”

  “No. I want the hat,” said the boy, hands on his hips. “Tell you what—come back to my house, and we can play a different game, double or nothing. SimPin3000. Have you heard of it?”

  Nick and Nate looked at each other. They prided themselves on being up on the latest games—they planned to be cybercriminals when they were older, kidnapping characters from computer games and holding them ransom in virtual dungeons. But they’d never heard of SimPin3000.

  “It’s really cool,” said the boy. “It’s like pinball, but you go inside it—like you are the pinball. I’ve got two controllers, if you want to come over.”

  Nick and Nate looked at each other again and agreed silently, the way twins do.

  “Sounds good,” said Nick.

  “Sehr gut!” said the boy. “I only live a couple of blocks from here.” He started leading them through the arcade to the exit.

  “Funny that we haven’t seen you around before,” said Delia. “Do you go to Blandington Secondary School?” There was something strangely appealing about the boy. She wondered how old he was, and whether he was single, and whether he’d consider dating someone with a sizable criminal record.

  “I’m homeschooled—” And then he paused. “To tell you the truth, I’ve just gotten out of jail. Juvie, I mean.”

  “Ooh!” said Delia, eyes wide. “What did you do?”

  “I killed my kindergarten teacher with one of those little wooden blocks.”

  “OOH!” said Delia, touching his arm. “You must be, like, really strong. . . .”

  “I guess.” The boy shrugged. “They reinforced the bars on my cell because I kept bending them with my amazing muscles.”

  The boy had led them to the fire exit. “I always go out the back door. That way you don’t have to give back your bowling shoes.” He winked at them again and pushed the door open.

  The door opened onto an alley. It was getting dark now, and there was no one else around.

  “My house is just around the corner,” said the boy, motioning for the others to follow him.

  “So,” said Delia. “Did you join any prison gangs?”

  But she never got to hear the answer. Because that was when she heard the footsteps approaching.

  Before she could scream, a bag was shoved over her head, and everything went black.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IMOGEN DIDN’T FEEL like doing her crime homework that weekend—she was too aware of how quiet the house was without Delia—but she forced herself through it. It wasn’t an essay this time; it was a practical test in welding. “You never know when you’ll need to forge something out of metal,” Big Nana had told her, “like a gun or some money or a statue of Lenin.” At least the heat and the smell of molten metal and the flash of the sparks took Imogen’s mind off her missing cousins for a few hours.

  But once the homework was done, i
t all came crashing back. Apparently, Nick, Nate, and Delia had gone to the bowling alley and never come home. Imogen and Big Nana had searched all over town for them, with no luck. Imogen was sure Ava had lied to her. She had definitely tried to kill her with that golden paperweight. Or at least knock her out. She had been so desperate for Imogen to stay for the charity committee meeting because she wanted to keep Imogen occupied while her cousins were kidnapped.

  Which meant she was either a Kruk, or she was working for them.

  As soon as she and Big Nana had realized Delia and the twins had gone missing, Imogen had told her grandmother about Ava.

  “No wonder she’s been irritating you so much,” Big Nana had said thoughtfully. “I thought you were just getting distracted at school, but really, your criminal instincts were honing in on another felon.”

  Imogen had considered that. She had to admit she liked the theory. It made her feel less guilty for getting so tied up in the charity drive. “It’s possible,” she’d said. “But what do we do now?”

  Big Nana had frowned. “I’m afraid we don’t have enough evidence to go after her yet, my rising loaf of pumpernickel. But keep an eye on her,” she had said. “Actually, keep several eyes on her.”

  “I only have two eyes,” Imogen had pointed out.

  “Then that will have to do.”

  Imogen walked to school alone on Monday, crunching through the fall leaves as she marched up to the gates, feeling angrier and angrier with every step. The more she thought about it, the more “keeping an eye on” Ava didn’t seem like enough. She was going to confront her. Which, considering Ava was probably a Kruk, would be a very dangerous thing to do indeed. So she was going to do it in public.

  Ava was in the courtyard, laughing and joking with an eclectic group of people: the school caretaker, the captain of the soccer team, and a girl everyone called “Dribble Face” because she always had dribble on her face. Ava brought people together. Even people who should never be brought together.

  Imogen marched up to Ava. “I need a word. Now,” she said.