Hunter Moran Digs Deep Read Free

its roots.
    Ahead of us is the cemetery, and Alfred has left the gate open. We’re in.
    A moment later, we’re looking around to be sure we’re alone, and . . .
    â€œOof!” Zack trips over Johnny Peach Pit’s monument. But looming up in front of us is Lester Tinwitty’s massive stone, almost hidden in the darkness.
    Good old Lester, who traveled around with a giganticiron pot on his wagon, cooking soup. He’d clang the side of the pot with a huge spoon to attract soup lovers, charging the big bucks that we’re about to find.
    Mrs. Tinwitty is buried with him, faithful to the end. Their dog, Soup Bone, who used to follow the wonderful soup smells, should have been tucked in, too. But no. Everyone in town knows the old story: Soup Bone ran off to join the pirates and was never seen again.
    We crouch down at the stone, dragging our equipment behind us. Zack points to the flashlight. “Let’s get some light here. Turn that baby on.”
    Baby doesn’t turn on. The batteries are dead.
    Sheesh.
    And something is breathing down my neck. I spin around, ready to fight off a coyote.
    Yulefski, wouldn’t you know!
    She holds a flashlight under her chin. It’s huge, beaming light up onto her face, showing a gob of pink bubble gum stuck to her braces.
    A nightmare.
    But at least we see the stone clearly. And there they are, laid out on the bumpy old stone, the clues to the big bucks.
    I lean forward, mouth open.
    Nothing.
    Nada.
    No good.
    But Zack gives me a
zip the lip
. He edges closer to thestone, his forehead almost clunking against it. “Interesting.” He draws the word out like
Ivan the Investigator
, Saturday TV special, twelve noon.
    â€œYou see it, too,” Yulefski says.
    â€œHmmm.” Zack glances at me. He can’t see anything, either. I’m not the only blind one here.
    â€œI see it,” a voice says over my shoulder. “Fred would see it, too. Too bad he’s home eating everyone’s stew meat.”
    Steadman, of course. How did he escape Mom and Linny?
    â€œThe arrow,” Yulefski says impatiently. Her hair and teeth are pathetic, but her eyes are X-ray wicked.
    â€œGood for you,” Steadman says, an echo of Sister Appolonia.
    I lean forward, our heads almost clunking against the stone.
    â€œSee,” she says. “See?”
    What I see is a gray cobweb with a huge spider squatting in the middle. It’s probably a black widow waiting to pounce. That doesn’t bother Yulefski. She brushes it away and waves a sticky hand. “There.”
    â€œLots of things to see,” Steadman says. “Shadows all over the place. I just saw someone sneaking around.”
    I look up uneasily. Bradley? Famous for arm twisting, neck squeezing?
    Yulefski picks at her gummy braces. “Yes. Someone tryingto get in on this action.” She stares at Zack and me. “I don’t know why I’m cutting you in anyway.”
    â€œWait a minute,” I say. “Lester’s our relative.”
    Zack gives me a nudge.
    And then I see it. I really do. It’s an arrow etched into the stone.
    Already Yulefski is standing up, squinting, and Steadman—five-year-old Steadman, who should be home in bed—raises one arm straight out. “From the arrow to the treasure,” he mutters.
    We stand up, too. We tilt out heads, narrow our eyes, and the arrow points straight to . . .
    â€œ. . . school?” Zack breathes.
    â€œRight,” Yulefski says.
    It fits. The school is ancient. Even older than Sister Appolonia, our teacher.
    â€œWait a minute,” Yulefski says. “There’s something else here. Something . . . disturbing.”
    Now Yulefski manages to sound like Sister Appolonia.
    â€œUh-oh.” Zack steps back.
    I grab his shoulder. “What? What?”
    â€œA cobra,” he says.
    â€œMaybe a python,” Yulefski chokes out.
    â€œAlive?