Thumb and the Bad Guys Read Free

fishermen told us about
swimming in a Florida spring that flows into the St. Johns River. The spring water
was cool and crystal clear and when you were underwater you could see alligators in
the warmer river waters a hundred yards away. The spring water was too cold for
those gators so they just licked their toothy lips and stared longingly at all the
swimmers splashing and yelling and having fun.
    â€œWeren’t you scared?” I asked the guy from Florida who told us about
swimming so close to gators.
    â€œNo,” he said, laughing. “You get used to it. Reptiles can’t swim into
cold water. They just can’t do it.”
    I thought he was so brave but he left the village the next morning,
shaking and staring bug-eyed at the mountains like they were haunted.
    The only mountains in Florida are in amusement parks.
    Sitting in our living room, Dad was calmly telling Big Charlie that
the school board had already hired another teacher and she was coming soon, maybe
even that weekend. We needed another teacher fast. There were only two teachers at
the school, including Dad.
    I wanted Big Charlie to start talking loudly to mask the sound of me
slipping through the window, so I said goodnight and then casually mentioned that
I’d heard on the radio that the federal government might reduce fishing quotas for
salmon. I knew that government decisions about fishing quotas made Big Charlie mad,
and when he was mad his voice could shake the walls of our house.
    It worked, of course. I covered the pillows on my bed with sheets so
they looked like me and was out the window and sneaking toward the fire truck in less
than a minute.

    Susan was late.
    â€œSorry,” she said when she finally arrived.
    â€œWhat took you so long?”
    â€œMom always goes to bed early but Dad only goes to bed early when he
plans on fishing early. Tonight he wanted us all to sit around and talk.”
    â€œSo, how did you escape?”
    â€œIt was easy. Your dad and Big Charlie came over, all upset. Big
Charlie heard that fishing quotas might be reduced. He wants to start a
petition.”
    I laughed.
    â€œShh,” said Susan. “I don’t think we should be laughing on a
stakeout.”
    â€œYou’re right. Let’s hide inside the fire truck.”
    Last year, after a small fire in a shed which we put out with a bucket
brigade, Big Charlie asked the federal government for a saltwater pump. Our federal
Member of Parliament, who was up for re-election, wrote back and said that he could
arrange for the government to send us a used fire truck. We reminded our MP that
there were no roads in New Auckland, but we got a fire truck anyway. We took out the
pump and used the truck as a huge piece of playground equipment.
    The fire truck sat on the sand halfway between the school and the
houses in our village. New Auckland was tucked into a large bay with a narrow
entrance, and we actually faced away from the ocean with a huge mountain behind us.
All of the houses in our village were lined up in two rows that faced the beach.
    Susan climbed behind the steering wheel, and I sat beside her. A light
breeze swept through the cab.
    â€œDad told Big Charlie that we’re getting another teacher soon,” I
whispered. “Maybe even this weekend.”
    â€œGood,” she said. And then she asked, “If there is a bad guy in our
village, do you have any suspects?”
    I liked the word suspect.
    â€œDo you?”
    â€œI asked first.”
    I paused.
    â€œI know that really bad guys can be fake nice and pretend to be your
friend,” I said.
    â€œHow do you know that, Thumb?”
    â€œMovies.”
    â€œSo you don’t know anything, right?”
    â€œLook, it doesn’t make any difference. I have my suspect.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œKirk McKenna,” I said quietly.
    Kirk McKenna was a toothless, bald fisherman who was