The Curse of Arkady (14 page)

The bear ignored him. He began pawing at one of the locker doors in determination until the dented locker swung open. Bawling in satisfaction, Stef-bear reached in and pawed out a big package of sweet honeybuns. Wrapper and all, he crunched contentedly.

All Rich could do was watch as the bear ate up the honey and cinnamon pastries grunting happily and spitting out shreds of cellophane here and there. He cleaned up the mess but there was nothing he could do about the sprung locker. It had been kicked shut many a time, and now had passed the point of no return. He closed it and taped it with a few inches of bandaging tape, and began to urge Stef-bear outside with him again.

Having eaten and with the tantalizing flavor of honey inside rather than outside, the bear cub seemed ever so much more willing to go along with Rich. He leaned heavily against Rich's denim legs as they walked around the back of the roaring stadium and the sound of whistles and thuds and heavy grunts of football battle. Rich put his hand down on his friend's furry head. Stef was in there, somewhere, sometimes in charge and sometimes buried under animal instinct. Tomaz had told them both how to keep Stef in charge as much as possible through his crystal; otherwise he'd be a great danger to himself and others. He didn't know how much either of them was in charge right now.

He grabbed one of the cub's round ears. “Stay with me, now,” he said, as they moved into the shadow of their bleachers. A great roar went out as they did, and his friend pressed hard against his knee. The slanted cement structure over them rumbled with stomping and noise. “Just a little farther.”

They might have made it safely, but Rich forgot two critical factors. One . . . restrooms. Two . . . small children who had to use the restroom frequently. Oh . . . and three . . . the restrooms were under the bleachers.

He froze as a harried woman with a youngster in tow came at them. “Momma, look. It's a bear in a shirt!”

Without looking, she tugged on his hand, “No, dear, it's just someone dressed up.” Like a freighter on high tide, she plowed toward them, child in her wake.

“No, it's not! Lookie, lookie! It's real. It's a baby bear!”

“Matthew, of course it's not—” She paused. Her nose wrinkled. She turned even as Rich pulled on the bear cub's ear, hard, to hurry him past the two. Matthew hung on his mother's hand, his own grubby fingers outstretched and reaching. “What
is
that smell?” She frowned at Rich and Stef-bear.

Matthew grabbed a handful of fur and pulled it loose as Rich tried to haul Stef-bear past. The cub let out a bawl of pain and bolted, nearly knocking both mother and son on their backsides. Rich cried out and lunged after as, head down and paws churning, Stef-bear headed straight for the football arena! Rich skidded after in hot pursuit.

The crowd roared. Stef-bear bawled. As he galloped onto the field, players scattered and referees began to blow their whistles like steam engine trains.

“What the heck is that?”

“How cute! It's got a football shirt on!”

A kid leaned over the bleacher rail, waving his arm, trying to grab at them. “Mommy! I want one!”

“Now, honey . . . that's real. We can buy you a stuffed bear at half time.” His mother placidly knotted her hand in his jacket and pulled him back onto the bench next to her.

Stef-bear came to a wary stop, head up and swinging about. Rich stopped, too, and tried to sneak closer. Both coaches turned and stared at Rich.

“Mascot,” Rich said.

“Good lord, that's real.”

The assistant coach shaded his eyes with his clipboard. “That a guy in a suit? Isn't it?”

“No, sir, it's a real bear. A cub. I can only have him here a little while, then the owners are gonna pick him up. He . . . he's an orphan and they're training him for movies and commercials and stuff.” Rich stood uneasily. His friend reared on his haunches, weaving a little, pawing the air, uncertain whether to bolt again or drop to all fours and go to Rich. He held his breath. Both bleachers on both sides were filled completely and he blinked in the sunlight. It suddenly seemed like not such a good idea to have Stefan out here.

The scoreboard turned numbers, and they were behind 13-6.

The crowd roared as the other quarterback fired a long pass. Their coaches groaned, stalking up and down the sideline in frustration. And then, the pass popped out of the receiver's hand as the tackle hit him. The brown ball headed right at Rich and Stef-bear, squibbing across the grass, people diving right and left at it. The bear let out a loud bleating sound and bounded onto the field after the ball.

Darting between players and across the game line, Stef-bear went after the ball as if it were something to eat. Reflecting on it later, Rich decided it did resemble a beehive, a little. Who knew how well bears saw? All he knew was that the bear cub was off and running wild!

He pushed his way through the standing players to see Stef-bear pounce on the rolling football. He shook off two tackles as he took the ball in his jaws and munched. It deflated with a loud pop, but the bear hung on and began a field-long scramble toward the goal posts. Half the players ran from the scampering cub, the other half tried to ward him off.

By the time the whistles stopped blowing, Stef-bear sat happily in the end zone, flattened football hugged to his chest. The jersey was in shreds around him from missed grabs and tackles.

The coach turned around and bellowed at the stunned players, “By George, if the mascot can make a touchdown, so can you!”

Rich caught up with Stef-bear and took the ruined football away from him. It hung limp from his hand as the refs and equipment manager caught up with him. He handed it over, his face warm with the embarrassment of it. The equipment guy just laughed and gave it back. “Maybe he can like chew on it or something.”

Coach Dumbowski waved energetically at him. “Get that critter off the field! This isn't a zoo, Hawkins. Where's Olson? I know he's in on this. Hiding in the locker room won't help!”

“He . . . he'll be out in a few, Coach. He really is sick. He . . . ah . . . he ate a bear snack!” Rich held tightly onto the bear cub's ear and it bawled in protest at his pinching fingers.

“A football field is no place for animals,” the coach bellowed, although they were scant feet away. He was louder than the referees who'd just announced the touchdown was “no good!” “Get him out of here, and next time, get permission from me before pulling a stunt like that! And find me Olson!”

“Yessir. Thank you, sir!” Rich tugged on Stef-bear,
hard.

The buzzer rang for half time and the band came marching out. Whatever nerve the bear cub had left broke as tubas and trumpets blared and drums thundered. He raced out of the stadium and Rich, gear bag in hand, took chase again, puffing and muttering.

There was no sign of the creature. Rich slapped his forehead. He cast around and shook his head.

“Oh, man.” All he could do now was wander about, hoping his friend would stay hidden if he transformed back. Rich grumbled to himself as he crossed the different athletic fields, heading back to the farthest corner practice field. People would think him some kind of pervert wandering around till he found someone leaning from the bushes, going, “Psssst!”

He took out his own crystal and sat down on the ground, leaning into the sagging backstop of this little used soccer/softball field. Cupping it in his hands, he tried as hard as he could to focus on his friend and the creature he turned into. He didn't know what else he could do. Maybe in the quartz's depth, he could possibly see him or something. Feel him.

Like a magnet, the crystal whipped around in his hands, and he lost his grip. It went sailing over the backstop and into the shrubs. A moment later he heard an aggrieved bear cub grunt; it rolled over into a more irritated human grunt.

“Hey, buddy,” Rich said and went to retrieve both. “You made a touchdown! And we've gotta get out of here!”

After long moments, Stefan got hold of himself and emerged, pale and shaking. He sat down and began to pull his clothes out of the gear bag. “Oh, man. Oh, man. My parents are out there, wondering what's going on. What if I turn again?”

“Just keep in control, Stef. Just do it.”

Stefan finally stood, clad head to toe in Milford football splendor, but his face looked as if he could throw up any second, just as Rich had been telling the coach he'd been doing. “I can't do it.”

“It's your choice.” Rich listened. “Sounds like half time is over.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I'm just a trainer, but I think I'm gonna go join the team for the second half. Maybe I can be of some help or something.” He picked up his gear bag.

“You can't just leave me here.”

“Sure I can. Look, Stef, you wanted to be on this team. You gotta know there's gonna be moments when you turn, and you've gotta learn how to handle them, especially if there's something you want. Dumbowski is looking for you, and you're gonna blow it, big time, if you don't show. Not to mention your parents.” Rich turned and started to walk back.

“Rich!”

Stefan's voice sounded high and really frightened. Rich turned back around slowly.

“You'll keep an eye on me?”

“You know it. You just keep focused. I've got your crystal here in my bag. Anytime you're on the sidelines, come by and hold it for a few.”

Stef rolled his eyes, then gave an agreeing grunt and fell into step with him.

The coaches were standing by the sidelines and Dumbowski glared at Stef. “Where have you been?”

“Sick, sir.”

“You look white as a sheet. You up to this?”

Stef gripped his helmet tightly, then pulled it on, to hide the paleness of his fear. “Yessir!”

Coach shook his head, stepping back. “I want no more antics like that last one. Any more and you're cut, got it? No wild animals, no getting sick on game day.”

“Yessir,” the two echoed.

“All right, then. Get in there.” Coach pointed his pencil at the bench. “Next play, you're in the rotation. Rich, I've got one ankle somewhere needs taping. Find him and take care of it.” Both nodded.

“Good.” Dumbowski smiled slightly. “Only thing worse than a sick football player is a disappointed parent.” He tilted his head and looked up into the stands, where Rich saw Stefan's parents stand up and bounce up and down, screaming, as he stepped onto the field's edge and sat on the players' bench.

Rich let out a sound of relief before turning away. Like a first down, they'd missed catastrophe by a bear's breadth.

M
CINTIRE came to Sam's to pick him up after lunch, which had not been planned, but the Dozer had an appointment that drove him past the neighborhood, so Jason rode with him. He liked driving with the Dozer in his business truck. It rode higher than other cars on the road, and it had a kind of solid comfort about it. It didn't matter if he was sweaty and dirty from practice either, as long as he didn't eat or spill something in the cab. Conversation with McIntire was at a minimum except for every now and then when a development he'd built got pointed out, or interesting and helpful tidbits of advice would be offered. Sometimes the advice could be deadly dull, but often it would be something interesting or offbeat. Today McIntire was quiet, and that meant he had a lot on his mind.

Jason had a lot on his mind, too. What was the Curse of Arkady and had it infected his crystal, rendering it nearly useless? If it had, would his crystal ever regain its power, or would he have to search and bond a new one? And if a curse was not the reason his crystal had not protected him in the park . . . what was?

What was it that could make him fail so terribly at something that had become as natural to him as drawing breath? Was this how Henry Squibb had felt? Would it stay? But he wasn't empty, he could feel it inside him, filling him. He just couldn't rely on it. It was like not being able to trust himself.

Jason shivered slightly, and forced his thoughts to other things, such as their destination.

“Where are we going?”

“Place up on the bluffs. An estate, actually. I may be doing some work there.”

Jason thought he knew where, remembering the talk from a few weeks ago and a few mutterings recently. “The McHenry house?”

“Mmmm,” answered the Dozer. “Looks like it. Sudden death in the family leaves it available to sell. There's probate and business for them to deal with, but they want me to look at it in advance.” His big hands tightened on the steering wheel till the knuckles went white, and then he forced his hands to relax. Jason decided that silence might be the way to go, so he looked out the window and enjoyed the drive.

And it was a bit of a drive, past the boundaries of town, off the main freeway onto a side road that wound into the bluffs overlooking the ocean. A little two-lane blacktop took them along a hidden coast. The homes built among the eucalyptus and California oaks were scattered, all custom, with acres between them. He wondered what kind of development someone wanted to build here. Homes? Condos? Apartments? A center of some kind? They'd gone miles without passing a grocery store or fast food stand. He rather liked that, though. This was country, and open, and although the rains hadn't come yet and it was dry, it was pretty. He liked it like this. He got the feeling the Dozer did, too. Some places, he told Jason once, need more buildings. Others don't. Men ought to be smart enough to know the difference.

They took a corner and a sparkling cove dominated by a wide, sweeping bluff came into view. The water drew his eyes naturally, the tide going out in curls of white foam, the wide Pacific beyond pulling it back into its vast steely blue depths. There was a nice spill of beach, looking private and untouched. Then Jason tilted his head to look up the bluff, and his heart nearly stopped.