Part 32 (1/2)

”Very cool,” I said. ”Why aren't you keeping your eye on Barrymore?”

”Relax,” Rob said. ”He's forty feet in the air in the boom lift. He's not going anywhere.”

As if on cue, we heard the boom lift's engine start again.

”I turned that off,” Rob said, in a puzzled voice.

”And Barrymore's probably turned it back on,” I said, heading for the door.

”How could he?” Rob protested. ”He's up on the platform.”

”There's another set of controls up on the platform,” I heard Dad saying as I ran out. ”So you can maneuver it from up there.”

”There is?” Rob said.

Michael and I sprinted for the gate, but Barrymore had already swung the platform away from the barn and toward the driveway, lowering the boom arm as he went. By the time we cleared the gate, he was already climbing off the platform, and by the time we reached Michael's car, Barrymore's car had disappeared over the crest of the hill. At least I hoped he'd taken his own car. Odds were any car he stole would belong to one of my more easily annoyed relatives.

”We could go after him,” Michael said, running around to the driver's side and trying, in vain, to shoo away the sheep that had curled up next to his door.

”We could let Chief Burke and his men go after him,” I said. ”Where is Chief Burke, anyway?”

”Not answering his phone, last time I tried,” Michael said.

”Sorry about that,” Rob said, strolling up. ”I didn't know about the controls on the platform.”

”What are you doing here anyway,” I asked. ”I thought you were in town, having pizza.”

”I brought Dad his pizza,” Rob said. ”Did you know that Luigi's doesn't deliver this far out of town? You may want to rethink this living out in the wilderness thing.”

”At last!” I exclaimed, seeing a caravan of three police cars speeding toward us.

”What in tarnation is going on out here?” Chief Burke exclaimed, leaping out of his car.

”Barrymore Sprocket attacked Dad, stole the yard sale proceeds, and went thataway,” I said. ”Incidentally, he's probably also Gordon McCoy's killer.”

”Went thataway?” the chief repeated. ”Blue Honda Accord? We'll cite him for reckless driving when one of my officers catches him. He must have been going over a hundred when he pa.s.sed us. Pity we didn't know what he was up to.”

”If you'd gotten here sooner ...” I began.

”We'd have been here fifteen minutes ago if some blasted farmer hadn't let his silly sheep get out and wander all over the road again,” Chief Burke said. ”If I find out who's responsible, I'll throw the book at the lazy rascal.”

”We tried to call your cell phone,” Michael put in. ”But we didn't get an answer.”

”Stupid sheep,” the chief said. ”Where's Dr. Langslow?”

”In the barn,” I said.

The chief stormed off toward the barn.

”What's with him?” I asked Sammy. ”He doesn't usually lose his cool like that.”

”He dropped his cell phone while we were chasing the sheep off the road,” Sammy explained, ”and one of the sheep stepped on it. He's that provoked.”

”So what's with the sheep, then?” I asked. ”I thought people had brought them all back. Were these someone else's sheep?”

”No, they were Mr. Early's sheep,” Sammy said, with a frown. ”Are you sure the gate was closed?”

”Who knows?” Michael said. ”And even if it was, I wonder if maybe our volunteer fence menders didn't fix it as well as they thought they did.”

”A sheep fix?” I suggested. They ignored me.

”Well, maybe it will cheer up the chief if the sheep slow Barrymore Sprocket down,” Michael suggested.

From the direction of the barn, we heard a cras.h.i.+ng noise, followed by a reproachful baa.

”Blast that sheep!” the chief exclaimed.

Chapter 43.

Things were quieting down again. The police were mostly gone, and a couple of neighboring farmers rounded up by Sammy fixed the break in a fence and put the sheep back in their pasture again.

The yard sale was battened down for the night-in fact, for the five days it would have to wait until its continuation next weekend. When my relatives began arriving back from Luigi's, quivering with excitement and curiosity about the night's events, I channeled their energy into rigging up some floodlights, hauling as much of the yard sale stuff as possible into the barn, and covering the rest with tarps.

When we finally finished that, everyone else drifted off to bed, but I was still too wound up to sleep.

”What's wrong?” Michael asked, when he came down to the kitchen to see why I was still up, sitting at my laptop.

”I just remembered that the truck from Goodwill was supposed to get here at eight A.M. tomorrow,” I said. ”To take all the unsold yard sale stuff. I just called and left a voice message apologizing for the short notice, and asking to reschedule for next Monday. I should have called sooner; they may still show up.”

”Then we'll tell them to come back next week,” he said. ”Don't worry; they probably heard the news. They'll figure it out.”

”And I e-mailed an updated version of the ad to the Caerphilly Clarion, asking them to run it again this Friday,” I said, drawing a line through the item in my notebook. ”And also an updated announcement to the college radio station. Can you think of anything else we need to do?”

”Nothing we need to do tonight,” he said. ”Let's worry about it tomorrow.”

”I don't want to worry abut anything tomorrow,” I said. ”I just want to sleep late tomorrow. In fact, never mind late. I just want to sleep.”

”Sounds fine.”

”And then do nothing for the rest of the week.”

”Also fine,” he said. ”Or maybe we could do something fun.”