Glory Alley and the Star Riders (The Glory Alley Series) (2 page)

The last trip had dangled the hope of success ever closer
.
She and Clash
had pushed deeper than they
ha
d ever dared before
. They were
reward
ed
with
a virgin cavern untouched by human hands.
Creamy stalactites had icicled the ceiling. Sh
allow water lingered over a rocky bed
sprinkled with
glittering crystals
.
Wouldn’t you know it, t
heir
batteries r
a
n low
. They had
barely arrived when they had to leave
.
The place existed beyond
their
comfort zone
.
S
teep drop
-
offs and tight tunnels
push
ed
their
spelunking skills to the limit
, but
the urge to return grew stronger every day
.
Dare they press their luck?

“We should make the pool our goal for tomorrow,”
Clash suggested
.

“Definitely.”

The two of them
shared
a zeal for Queen’s Mesa, but for different reasons
.
Someday
they’d travel
beyond the mesa,
to exotic places
across the globe. As she dug
for
rare rocky specimens, Clash
would
ca
tch
all the excitement on video.

Queen’s Mesa was pra
ctically in their own backyard, the very place where they had started their future together. Just as friends, of course. Clash had spunk, but it didn’t make up for him being the shortest boy in the
ir
grade. She felt like a big cow around the skinny little booger.

“Lighting’s always an issue,” Clash said, folding h
is
hand-held computer once, then twice, until its rubbery
blue
case returned to the shape of a paperback. “I wonder if I can sneak the tripod lights out of the garage without anybody noticing.”
H
e
drummed
h
is
chin with
an
index finger
.
“Too bad there’s no reception below ground. A
live feed would be good practice for when we have our own reality show.
”

“And who’s going to carry the extra equipment all that way?” Glory’s brow furrowed, knowing the answer already. Numerous trips had proved Clash to be quick on h
is
feet—whereas feats of strength were Glory’s domain. Her sturdy figure was used to heavy farm work. “I’m not a pack mule, you know.”

“Admit it
—
you
’re scared to go back
because
of
the skeleton we found.”

Glory’s back stiffened at the insinuation
.
“
Scared? I don’t know the meaning of that word.”

“Puh-leez.”

“I just think we ought to start in the left tunnel for a change
.
We’re never going to get the mesa mapped out if we keep exploring the same old places
.
Besides, those bones weren’t human
.
It was just an animal.”

“
An animal with a femur this honkin’ big
!
” Clash spread h
is
arms
.
“What if your
g
randpa knows what he’s talking about?
”
H
e nudged Glory with an elbow, teasing.
“Maybe the red-eyed
Hoogula
is for real.”

“If such a creature roamed the tunnels we’d have met it by now.”

“Some say the tunnels go on into forever, so I wouldn’t be so sure.” Clash said. “We can’t deny something big died down there, which means something bigger killed it.”
H
e spread h
is bony
arms
even wider
.
“This honkin’ big!
”

“I think it’s more likely it got lost down there and died of natural causes.”

“
Hoogula
or not, those bones need to see the daylight
.
Up top
,
we can charge people to look at ‘em.”

“I like that idea,” Glory said. “But it’s probably just a dead bear
.
I do want to return to that pool though
, but o
n a day we can take our time.”

The screech of brakes signaled the bus was about to stop in front of
the
long gravel lane
in front of Glory’s house
.
Her family’s
old farmhouse with
the
crooked front porch
waited at the end looking gray and forlorn
.

Glory gathered her backpack and stood. “See ya tomorrow.”

“Thirteen hundred hours
—
sharp.”   

Glory
stepped off the bus
. Gravel crunched under her feet as she walked
.
A huge red barn stood
off in the distance from
a
two
-
story farmhouse
.
The property
had been in her mother’s side of the family for five generations
…and it showed.

Curled and torn shingles barely clung to the
home’s
sagging roof. Peeling white paint exposed gray wood.
She hop scotched across the front porch over missing floor boards, stopping in front of the screen
door, which
hung crooked on only one hinge.

Mom’s dream had been to restore the house to
its former glory.
Dad had never been able to refuse her anything
, but
when Mom left the world Dad stopped caring
,
and the home improvements stopped too.

Now everything was slowly dying for lack of her.
Sometimes Glory missed her so much it made her stomach hurt. When Mom was alive
,
everything smelled of bread and ginger. Now the house reeked of booze and urine
.
.
.
but wait, d
o I smell
popcorn
?

Glory peered into the living room where Dad slept in a pair of holey jeans and a stained T-shirt. His mood could shift from day to night without explanation
.

She
took off her hikers at the door and tiptoed in
her
socks toward the kitchen.

The
place
was unusually quiet.

Nana and Grandpa Kracker had moved in with the Alleys two years ago, but they’d left this morning to celebrate the holiday
weekend
with Aunt Martha in the city
.
So
where was everybody else?

Mom’s presence was strongest here. The simple decor reminded Glory of the way
home
used
to be—nothing fancy, but orderly and reliable.
She sig
h
ed
. Those
days were gone forever.

Faint holiday music drifted down the hallway getting louder when she entered the kitchen.
Patrice must have come home from school early to work on the Harvest Day feast. In her batter-splattered flannel shirt, frizzled yellow hair standing every which way, she looked small standing behind the counter where Mom was supposed to be, peeling apples.

An old Father Winter’s Day song drifted from the streamer
.
On this night, on this most wonderful of nights, children’s wishes all come true
.
Glory hummed along with the words.
On this night, on this most wonderful of nights, hearts and spirits are renewed.
Three-year-old George perched on a stool, trying to string white puffs of popcorn. Face streaked with jam, he sat there in a diaper and nothing else
. Glory knew from experience that her little brother def
ied all clothing
. He had a stubborn streak, but she liked that about him.
His messy hair was in need of a trim and looked like delicate threads of gold when it caught the light. Glory paused in the doorway quietly singing his name.

“Georg-eee.”

He jerked to attention. “Gwo-wee?” A smile of recognition spread across his face until he forgot the task at hand and stabbed his finger with the needle.
“
Ow!” He held out his injury for her to see.
“
Gwo-wee!”

Glory carried him to the sink, washing the dot of blood under the faucet.
He
cried, offering his wounded finger. “Kiss.
”

Glory kissed it. “Better?”

“Uh-huh.” He nodded, giving thanks with a runny-nosed peck on the cheek. Glory let him go and scowled at Patrice.

“What’s the matter with you
—
giving a little kid a needle?”

“I told him a thousand times to leave it be,
”
Patrice replied.
“
Serves the brat right.” She slapped a dirty little hand digging into a bowl of cookie dough. “Quit that, George.
”

More tears formed in George
’
s eyes and he clung to Glory.
“
Gwo-wee
. Love.”
he said as if the words were soothing ointment
.