Cloneward Bound (17 page)

With shaking hands, he started tearing pieces off the note, one by one, until he had reduced it to a handful of long strips. Then he turned those strips in his hand and kept ripping until it was reduced to tiny squares. He sorted all of the squares into a little stack, and with a final, teeth-gritting twist, turned the note to confetti. He stepped up to the curb and flung it into the street, not caring who was watching or what they thought.

It was only then, in the corner of his peripheral vision, that he realized he
was
being watched. A little ways back, on the other side of the glowing, multicolored Melrose
Avenue, was the black car. He turned to face it, and all four doors started to ease open.

His brain was stuck, unable to process, but his legs took over all by themselves. He bolted along the busy sidewalk, dodging through the crowd, careening around lampposts. Above the noise of the crowd he was just able to make out the sound of quick footsteps not far behind.

Fisher glanced behind him. His black-suited pursuers—three men who were about four times his size, and a woman who was merely three times his size—were having far more trouble dodging through the crowd than he was. People shouted as they were rudely shoved aside. But he knew that they would catch up to him sooner or later.

A thick crowd milled around a doorway to his left, and he wormed his way through it, nearly getting crushed by the sheer pressure of the crowd, his nostrils stinging as a thick blanket of perfume and cologne assaulted them.

He pushed through the crowd, which was packed as tightly as rain forest canopy. Through the muffling wall of people, he felt more than heard a powerful rhythmic thudding and wondered whether he was being pushed toward some kind of construction site. Just like at the Hollywood Bowl, he was so small and the crowd was so bustling and noisy, nobody seemed to notice him. He just slipped through a bunch of legs as quickly as he could, hoping the spies would lose him in the chaos.

All of a sudden, he popped out of the crowd into a strange, dark room lit only with powerful lasers that whirled around in time to the thudding he had heard, which became almost deafening. People were everywhere—mashed up against one another, waving their arms and bobbing back and forth, up and down in time to the skull-bruising pounding.

It was then that Fisher realized where he was: a dance club. For a second, he was hypnotized by the swaying patrons, the shimmering lasers, and the beat that felt like it was being generated inside of his rib cage. But just for a second. Casting a glance behind him, he saw the crowd at the entrance being jostled by his pursuers.

It was only about 9:00
P.M.
, early for a place like this, and there was enough space in the dance crowd to move through quickly. Unfortunately, that would also make him easier to spot.

A broad, open dance floor dominated the main room. The only places to hide were a handful of pillars near the walls and behind the dancers themselves. Fisher wound his way between the gyrating club-goers, sparing a look back just in time to see the four agents push their way fully into the club. They split up and fanned out, sliding between the dancers.

Fisher slunk behind a pillar, his panic rising. Two agents were combing the crowd clustered against the
walls, and two were searching the dance floor. Fisher would be spotted at any second.

He slipped deeper into the room, which was dim with fog from a smoke machine. When he reached the back wall, he started fumbling his way along it, trying to find a back door. He grasped a handle and wrenched a door open, slipping inside.

“Well, if it isn’t Fisher!” said a familiar voice.

Fisher looked up, realizing he was in the DJ’s booth. The small room was mostly filled with a huge control board sitting behind a fish-tank window that looked out onto the dance floor. And sitting in the rolling chair behind that control board was Henry the sound guy.

“Henry??” Fisher said as the young man listened to one ear of a giant pair of headphones, adjusting a few dials.

“Yeah,” he said, “this is my other gig! Not bad, right? Hey, it looks like we’ve got some newcomers on the floor!”

He adjusted some other controls, and several bright green spotlights popped into focus in the center of the dance floor, where the four agents had regrouped. They looked around, confused, as the other dancers backed up and formed a circle around them, clapping in time to the pulsing beat.

The spies were excellent at maintaining their cover, Fisher had to admit. All four of them broke into dance
moves, including spins, synchronized kicks, and
Saturday Night Fever
–style points.

“Man!” said Henry, grooving along in his chair. “These folks have some moves! I wonder who they are?”

“Yeah …” said Fisher, shaking his head. “Me too.”

The spies kept dancing until Henry turned the spots off. After a few whispered words, they then retreated in the direction they had come. Either they’d decided that Fisher had slipped out during the dance or they didn’t want to stick around and draw any more attention to themselves.

“Well,” Fisher said, “I should get going. Thanks, Henry.”

“For what?” Henry said.

“Oh, um,” Fisher wracked his brain for proper terminology, “for, y’know, throwing down, the, uh, freshest, hippest beats?”

“That is what I do, my young friend!” Henry said, turning back to his console. “Rock on!”

Fisher at last found a back way out of the club. For ten minutes, he weaved and twisted along smaller streets and side alleys, just to make sure he’d shaken the spies off his tail.

He was finally beginning to breathe again when he realized he had absolutely no idea where he was. And the more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed
that he would be able to find Two, even if he reached Melrose Place. And then there was FP. When he actually took a calm moment to think about it, he saw the enormity of the task before him. Fisher had absolutely no leads on the location of the little pig. He could literally spend years searching this colossal city and never come close.

And on the chance that FP had just run off with the other animals for fun and was found, Fisher wanted to be back at the hotel to receive the news.

Besides, it was clearly too dangerous for Fisher to be out walking the streets with the agents undoubtedly still combing the area for him. He would find his way back to the hotel, and re-strategize once he got there.

He wandered along down the street, looking for a landmark, or a phone booth, or anyone who might help him, but everyone bustled past him without sparing him a second glance. Then, up ahead, he saw a small diner, its simple
DINER
sign friendly in warm rust-red neon.

He pushed open the glass door, which felt more like it was made of stone, and walked to the counter, taking a seat on a burgundy vinyl-cushioned stool. He had just enough change to buy a Coke. Something sweet might do him some good.

“What’ll it be, sweetheart?” said the waitress behind the counter, walking up to him. She had a pretty, kind
face and bright blue eyes, with light brown hair pulled up into a bun.

“I’ll just have a …” The rest of Fisher’s sentence dried up in his mouth as he looked at her more closely. He
knew
that face. “You …” he said, his eyes expanding out in all directions. “You’re the woman from the Spot-Rite commercials!”

“Get your spots right out,” she said in a tired, sarcastic version of her commercial voice. “Yep, that’s me.
Was
me. I got let go when the company decided to go in another direction with its ad campaign. Luckily, I’ve got another gig lined up that’ll be starting soon, so I can get out of this place. My name’s Jenny.” She tapped the plastic name tag on her worn-looking uniform with her fingernail. “Jenny Nichols.” She extended her hand.

“Fisher Bas,” Fisher said, shaking her hand, awed. Here she was. The woman who Two believed was his mother. And all the while, Two was trying to work his way into the Spot-Rite ads, thinking it would bring him closer to her. But here she was, serving up diner grub for a few dollars in tips.

“So what are you doing here all by yourself?” Jenny said, turning around to use the soda fountain. She set a tall glass of Coke down in front of Fisher. “On the house. You look like you could use it.”

“Wow … thank you,” Fisher said, grabbing the straw
and taking a long sip. The ice-cold soda rushed down his throat, giving him a mild brain-freeze. It was exactly what he needed.

“Are your parents nearby? Haven’t you got homework to do or something?”

“Well, I …” Fisher paused, looked down, and sighed. If nothing else, he could at least tell the truth to
one
person today. At least part of it. “I came here on a school trip. We’re staying at the big King of Hollywood hotel. I wandered away and got lost.”

“Well,” she said, “it just so happens that my shift ends in a few minutes. Stick around, relax, drink up. I’ll give you a ride when I’m done.”

“Thank you,” Fisher said, resting his head on his hand. It had been the most exhausting two days of his life—and given some of his days lately, that was saying something. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to release some of the built-up stress. He took slow, deep breaths, and his sprinting brain gradually slowed to a jog, and then a walk. He would find his way out of this. He just had to keep calm, think, and determine the best course of action. His breathing began to relax even more. The coldness in his head broke apart.… Now he felt warm.…

“Have a good nap?”

Fisher looked up in surprise. Two was sitting on the
stool next to him. Jenny Nichols was gone. Everyone else was gone
.

“Two!” Fisher said. “How did you find me?”

“I have my ways,” Two said, smiling. “Come here, let me show you what I found.” Two grabbed Fisher’s hand and led him to the back of the dining area, to the kitchen door
.

“You found something in the kitchen?” Fisher asked, puzzled
.

“You’ll see,” Two replied, and they walked in
.

Fisher looked around
.

“Wow,” he said. “This looks exactly like our kitchen at home. So what was it that you found?”

“This.” Two frowned and pointed to a dark, circular stain on the counter. “It’s a spot. It’s been driving me crazy. I’m going to have to get it right out.” With that, he pulled a small-sized bottle of Spot-Rite from his pocket, poured it out over the spot, grabbed a cloth, and began scrubbing. The spot didn’t come out immediately, and he scrubbed faster and faster, until his arm was almost a blur. Fisher thought he smelled a faint hint of smoke
.

“Be careful,” Fisher said
.

“I have to get this spot out!” Two said more urgently, working even faster
.

The counter began smoking and crackling
.

“Two, stop! It’s too hot!” Fisher shouted. But it was too late. Sparks flew across the room, and trails of fire began
to spread along the floor, lapping at the walls
.

“Oh, no!” Two said. “I have to call for help!” He ran to a window and started shouting for help. Fisher noticed that the window looked out on a large city street, and they were about ten stories up. But Two’s screams were drowned out by the sound of trumpets and pounding drums
.

“Look!” Two said excitedly as the flames closed in behind him. “There he is!”

“Who?” Fisher said. “Where’s that music coming from??”

With that, Two climbed out the window and jumped
.

Fisher leapt forward with a terrified cry, only to find that Two hadn’t fallen to his death. He was sitting proudly on top of … FP. Only FP was the size of a cart horse, floating in midair, and wearing a red spandex suit with a giant black A on his belly
.

“It’s Ace McSnout!” Two called. “That daring, dashing do-gooder whose delightful deeds deliver the decent from doom! Come on, Fisher! Jump!”

Fisher’s eyes were watering. The flames were practically at his back now. He could hardly breathe
.

“Jump, Fisher! Jump! Fisher!!”

“Fisher.”

Fisher woke up with a start. Jenny was shaking him gently. “Wake up. You nodded off.”

Fisher opened his eyes. The cold counter gently squashed his cheek. He sat up, shaking his head, trying to clear the bizarre dream from his mind. It had felt so real.… He shivered. He could almost feel the heat of the flames on his back.

“Thank you,” Fisher said, rubbing his eyes.

“It’s no problem, Fisher. Let’s get you back to your hotel.”

The image of FP as a giant superhero was lodged in Fisher’s head. He felt a lump swell in his throat. He didn’t know where the little pig had run off to, but he prayed he was safe. And he wished that even now, Ace McSnout was on his way to swoop up Fisher and Two and save the day.

CHAPTER 16