The Spanish Kidnapping Disaster Page 8

  Amy shook her head. She didn't know any more about cattle than I did.

  "Moooo," the beast said. From out in the mist, a little chorus of moos answered.

  "If it was Charles, we could at least reason with him," I said. "But what do you say to a bull?"

  "And you have on a red tee-shirt!" Amy glared at me as if I'd planned the whole thing, right down to my clothes.

  "When I put this shirt on in Toledo how could I know I was going to meet a bull?" It was one thing for Amy to blame me for blabbing to Grace, but to accuse me of wearing red on purpose was going too far. Especially when I was beginning to think we might become friends after all.

  "Anyway, it's just a myth about bulls hating red," I said. "They're color blind like all animals. Don't you know anything?"

  "There you go again," Amy said, "acting like a conceited know-it-all!"

  "I can't help being smart," I said.

  "Mooooo," the mystery animal said loudly. Then it shook its horns in a distinctly bull-like fashion.

  "Shut up, Felix!" Amy yelled. "Can't you see you're making it mad?"

  "Moooo!" This time the animal not only shook its horns but pawed the ground daintily with one cloven hoof.

  "Stand absolutely still," I whispered. "Don't move or say anything. Maybe it'll get bored and go away."

  We stood side by side, petrified. I didn't think the bull could wedge himself through the doorway, but I wasn't positive.

  Just as it was beginning to look as if the animal meant to keep us prisoners all day, something distracted him. He gave us one last, long look, mooed or bellowed—whatever bulls do—and slowly withdrew his head. Turning his back on the shed, he suddenly galloped off, and his buddies followed him. From somewhere a dog barked, and there was a big chorus of mooing.

  Cautiously Amy and I crept out of the shed and peered into the mist.

  "Can you see them?" Amy whispered.

  I shook my head. "Let's get back to the road."

  We ran across the grass and scrambled over the wall. Then, breathing hard, we hurried along, listening not only for the bulls but for the Volkswagen bus as well. By sleeping, we'd lost valuable time. And, worse yet, we'd be easier to find in the daylight.

  Rounding a curve in the road, we saw a big stone barn looming out of the mist. The cattle milled around in the road, dozens of them, while a dog nipped at their heels, guiding them inside. An old man waved a stick, helping the dog's efforts by calling the beasts by name.

  "So that's why they left," I said. "It was feeding time."

  We hesitated, not sure we wanted to get any closer. Although I was positive the cattle had come from the pasture we'd just left, I had a feeling they weren't bulls after all. In fact, even from here I could see their udders hanging heavy with milk. Had we been held hostage by a cow after all?

  Then the man spotted us and yelled something in Spanish. It didn't sound friendly, and, when he started toward us, Amy and I turned and ran back the way we'd come.

  Behind us the dog barked and the cattle mooed. From off to the left, a bunch of sheep, invisible in the morning mist, began baaing, and a flock of crows rose from the olive grove ahead of us, adding their voices to the din.

  My leg was so sore that every step was agony, but, once more, I scrambled up a hillside and cowered behind a clump of boulders with Amy.

  "Is he coming?" Amy asked.

  "I don't see him."

  She stared at me. "Do you think he'll tell Orlando where we are?"

  "It's possible." I swallowed hard. "For all we know, everyone around here is related to everyone else. Anybody we go to might grab us and hand us over to Orlando."

  The clouds sagged down lower and wisps of mist blew between us like tiny clouds. Our clothes were damp, and I felt chilled to my bones.

  "You don't have any more crackers, do you?" I asked Amy.

  She shook her head. "I'm starving."

  "Me, too," I said. "Right, now, even Senora Perez's porridge would taste good."

  "Or how about an Egg McMuffin?"

  "Or a dozen pancakes?"

  Both our stomachs growled together, and we laughed at the fierce sound they made.

  A few more minutes passed with no sign of the old man or his dog. "Maybe he's in the barn milking the cows," I said.

  "Cows?" Amy stared at me. "Those were cows?"

  "The ones in the road were," I said.

  "You mean we stayed in that stable because of a dumb cow?"

  "The one in the doorway was a bull," I said. "The others were cows."

  "Are you sure, Felix?"

  I bit my lip and shook my head. "No," I said, "but whatever it was, it was very big and it had long horns and I wasn't about to push it out of the way."

  Amy sighed. "Neither was I."

  I smiled at her just a little and she smiled back. Then we climbed down the hill to the road. When we reached the barn, the cattle were out of sight and so were the old man and his dog. As we ran past, I heard a lot of mooing from inside, but no one dashed out into the road to stop us.

  When the barn was out of sight, we slowed down again. After walking at least a mile, probably more, we came to the top of a hill. The road dropped steeply away into a valley. Wraiths of fog floated below us, but, from where we stood, we could just make out the red tile rooftops of a small village.

  "Let's go," I said, and the two of us, both limping, began to run.

  Then we heard the sound of an engine behind us, laboring from gear to gear as it crested the hill.

  "Quick!" I grabbed Amy's hand and pulled her off the road into a ravine. Of course, I tripped and slid on the gravel, and scraped my arm.

  Lying still, we watched the Volkswagen bus slowly emerge from the fog, its yellow headlights glowing like tiger eyes. Although we couldn't see who was driving, I was sure I saw Phillip peering out the rear window.

  "They've caught your brother," I told Amy.

  "Oh, no." She stared at me, her eyes huge in her dirty face. "What should we do?"

  I shook my head. "Keep trying to get to the police," I said as the bus vanished into a wall of dense fog.

  "Did he look like he was all right?" Amy asked as we crept slowly down the road, fearful of coming upon the bus unexpectedly.

  I nodded. "I hope they put a splint on his ankle."

  "Poor Phillip, I'll never be mean to him again," she sobbed. "All the times I've teased him and picked on him. Oh, why wasn't I nicer to him?"

  I didn't say anything, but I gave Amy a little pat on the shoulder. Since I hadn't been particularly nice to Phillip myself, I was feeling pretty guilty too.

  By the time we reached the village, it was after two o'clock, and all the shops were closed for afternoon siesta. On the little balconies overhead, lines of laundry gave a bit of color to the grayness, but, with the exception of pigeons, a couple of thin dogs, and an even thinner cat, I saw no one on the street.

  Then we heard a car coming. Afraid it was Orlando, we ducked into a narrow alley. Crouching behind a trio of battered garbage cans, we watched an old Citroen, similar to Grace's, pass us and vanish around a corner into the fog. There was no sign of the bus.

  The skinny cat rubbed itself against my legs and purred loudly. While I stroked its bony sides, Amy slumped against a wall. By now she'd lost both sandals. Like me, her clothes were torn and filthy, and her hair was a mass of tangles. We looked like two gypsy beggar girls.

  "Come on, Amy," I said. "We can't give up now. I've still got Phillip's phrase book. Maybe if we use it, we can make somebody understand what's happened."

  Amy frowned. The skin below her eyes had a bruised look, and she was very pale under the dirt on her face. "Just promise me," she said, "not to ask any red-haired citizen of the world for help."

  17

  For a minute I was tempted to make a smart remark, but, instead, I said, "I wish you'd forget about Grace. I'm just as sorry as you about what I did."

  Amy looked at me. "I guess you are," she murmured.

 
The two of us walked down the street while I thumbed through the words and phrases in Phillip's book. The first translations were meant to help you decipher a menu, which shows where most tourists' priorities are. Flipping a few more pages, I came to an "A to Z Summary of Practical Facts and Information."

  After skimming past directions for renting cars, buying cigarettes, mailing letters, and sending telegrams, I found how to say your passport has been stolen. That was helpful.

  "Me han robado el pasaporte," I read out loud to Amy. "Does that sound right?"

  She shrugged. "How do I know? I took French One last year."

  "Well, how about this?" I asked, pausing on another page. "¿Dónde està la embajada americana?"

  "What's that mean?"

  "Where's the American Embassy?" I looked farther down the page. "¡Socorro!" I shouted. "¡Policía!"

  Startled, Amy jumped.

  "That means 'Help, police,'" I told her.

  I flipped a few more pages, pausing at one I thought might interest Amy. "If we want to get our hair done or our clothes washed, I know how to say it," I added.

  "Great," Amy said, obviously unimpressed.

  "Oh, look, here's what we really need!" I stabbed a line of print on [>]. "¿Dónde esta la comisaría más cercana?" I smiled at Amy. "That means 'Where's the nearest police station?'"

  With great exaggeration, Amy gazed around us at the deserted street. "And who do we ask? The cat?"

  "El gato," I told her, "knows everything, but I don't speak his language."

  "You're getting on my nerves, Felix," Amy said. "Whether you want to admit it or not, we're in serious trouble and your dumb jokes aren't helping."

  Disappointed by Amy's lack of humor, I marked the helpful pages and shoved the little book back into my pocket. We'd walked three whole blocks now and still had seen nobody. Maybe I was wasting my time.

  Just then a door opened a few yards up the street and an old lady dressed in black stepped out into the fog. At first I drew back, afraid it was Señora Perez, but, as she drew nearer to Amy and me, I saw she was a stranger.

  "Perdóneme, " I said as politely and carefully as I could, but at the sight of me, the old woman darted right past, shaking her head and muttering something in Spanish that sounded like, "No tengo dinero, no tengo dinero."

  "Dinero—doesn't that mean money?" I asked as the old woman disappeared around a corner. "I bet she thought we were begging."

  "Great," Amy said. "We didn't even have a chance to ask her where the nearest police station is."

  "Will you stop being so sarcastic all the time?" I frowned at Amy. "If you want to know, that really gets on my nerves!"

  "So now we're even!"

  Without saying anything else, we walked side by side down the narrow street, passing closed doors and shuttered windows. Once a little boy rolled past on a skateboard, but he just laughed when I asked him where the nearest police station was. He didn't even look back before he vanished into the fog.

  The street ended in a square containing a cafe, a grocery store, and a farmacia, all closed. On benches around a fountain sat five old men, two playing checkers, the others watching and laughing. At the sight of us, they looked at each other and muttered in rapid Spanish.

  "Gitanas," one said as I approached, phrasebook open to the page about the police station.

  "Socorro," I said, "soy americana."

  "No tengo dinero," one gentleman interrupted me before I even got to the police part. "¡Vamos!"

  "Por favor," I tried again. "¿Habla us ted inglés?"

  "¡Vamos!" Two of the old men got up and started toward Amy and me.

  "¡Policia!" I cried, as Amy tried to pull me away. "¿Dónde està la comisaria mas cercaria?"

  But the old men were all shouting now, making no effort to understand me, and they looked very angry. Scared, I ran from the square with Amy.

  "They definitely don't like Americans here," I said as we ran down Calle de los Angeles.

  "They don't understand anything you're saying," Amy said. "You might as well give up and throw that dumb book in the trash."

  Suddenly I stopped and pulled Amy into an alley. "The Volkswagen's coming!"

  We ducked behind a pile of boxes. It was the bus all right, and Grace was driving with Phillip beside her. She was scanning both sides of the street, a frown creasing her forehead. I started to jump up and wave but Amy pulled me down.

  "What's the matter with you?" she hissed as I struggled to get away from her. "Are you crazy?"

  "It's Grace and Phillip," I told her. "They're looking for us!"

  "It's a trick," Amy said. "Orlando and Charles are probably hiding in the back."

  "I never thought of that." I listened to the engine fade away into the fog. With the Volkswagen prowling the streets searching for us, how were Amy and I ever going to get back to Segovia?

  Then we heard another noise. A real bus was lumbering toward us. It was old and dusty and its sides were plastered with advertisements, but the sign on its front said Segovia.

  "Come on, Amy!" Limping out of the alley, we ran after the bus as it vanished around a corner.

  When we caught up with it, the bus was sitting all by itself on the edge of the square. The old men were still playing checkers and kibitzing. They had been joined by three teenage boys on bicycles who seemed to have nothing to do but pedal around the fountain.

  Trying to avoid attracting their attention, Amy and I edged along the side of the square, staying close to the walls, hoping the fog would hide us.

  "Where's the driver?" Amy whispered as I peered through the open door of the bus.

  "I don't see him," I said. "Maybe he went in there."

  I pointed across the square at the cafe. Its doors were open now. From inside, I could heard voices. The delicious aroma of hot rolls and coffee wafted through the cool air, and my stomach rumbled so loudly I thought the old men would hear it.

  "Do you have any money?" Amy asked.

  I felt in my pockets and pulled out some coins. A five-peseta piece, a one-peseta piece, and four twenty-peseta pieces. "Eighty-six pesetas," I said. "That probably won't even buy a cup of coffee."

  Amy held out an even smaller amount of coins, totaling fifty-five pesetas. "We don't have enough money for tickets," she said. "What will we do?"

  We didn't have time to think about it because just then I saw the Volkswagen coming around the corner.

  "Quick!" Grabbing Amy's hand, I yanked her into the bus. Dropping to the floor, we crawled to the back and hid behind the last row of seats.

  "Did they see us?" Amy whispered.

  "I don't think so." Cautiously I raised my head and peeked out the window. To my horror, I saw Charles and Orlando walking across the square. I dove to the floor beside Amy, praying they would keep on going.

  "We'll have to stay here now," I told Amy. "Just hope nobody wants to sit in the back seat."

  At first, I was really scared because I expected Charles and Orlando to get on the bus. But, as time went by and they didn't appear, I started feeling bored and restless. It didn't help to be hungry and thirsty.

  Every now and then I popped up and looked out the window, but I didn't see the bus driver or Charles and Orlando. Just the unfriendly old men playing checkers and the boys doing wheelies around and around the fountain.

  "Suppose this is the end of the line?" Amy whispered. "And the bus is parked here till tomorrow?"

  "Do you have to be so optimistic about everything?" I frowned at Amy, but I couldn't help thinking she might be right.

  I raised my head for another peek and saw something that made my stomach lurch. I hit the floor and grabbed Amy's arm. She was staring at me wide-eyed, but for a moment I couldn't force myself to tell her what I'd just seen.

  "Charles and Orlando," I croaked, "just came out of the cafe with a man who looks like a bus driver."

  After a few seconds of heart-thumping silence, I heard Charles and Orlando talking in Spanish. Without Phillip, I had
no idea what they were saying, but I got the feeling they were standing by the open bus door.

  Then someone else spoke. His voice was warm and friendly as he stepped into the bus. Clink clink—money dropped into the fare box, and Charles and Orlando sat down in the front of the bus, probably right behind the driver judging from the sound of their voices.

  A few more minutes passed, and several other people got on. A couple of women, a few children, a baby, at least one man, and a couple of teenage boys. To Amy's and my unspeakable relief, all the other riders sat near the front.

  As the bus began to move, Amy and I looked at each other. "Why do you think Charles and Orlando are riding this bus?" Amy whispered. "Why aren't they in the Volkswagen with Grace and Phillip?"

  I thought about that and then, feeling sort of sick, I said, "Maybe Grace stole it. First she found Phillip, and then she started looking for us."

  Amy's tears left white tracks on her cheeks. "Then we shouldn't have hidden from them?"

  "I guess not," I mumbled.

  As the bus bounced and jolted up a steep road we left the fog behind, but the sunlight streaming through the dirty windows didn't cheer me up. Why had I listened to Amy? If she hadn't pulled me back into the alley, we'd probably be safely on our way to Segovia with Grace and Phillip instead of hiding on a bus with Charles and Orlando.

  Just as I was about to tell Amy what a dope she was, there was an outburst of yelling and screaming. The bus swayed hard, and I thought we were about to crash until I heard Orlando shouting. Peeking between the seats, I saw him standing in the aisle and pointing his gun at the passengers. Behind him, Charles had shoved the driver aside and taken control of the bus. Ahead of us I caught a glimpse of the Volkswagen.

  Heeding Orlando's orders, the passengers were scrambling over each other in an effort to move to the rear of the bus. In the confusion, two old women tried to slide into the rear seat. They were so busy watching Orlando they didn't notice Amy and me on the floor till they tripped over us.

  "Las niñas," one cried, and I recognized the old lady who had mistaken Amy and me for gypsies earlier.

  "Sh, sh!" I begged, grateful for the noise of the baby who was crying loudly. Pointing my finger at my head like a gun, I said, "Bang, bang— muerto!"