Free Hunter Moran Digs Deep by Patricia Reilly Giff

each other. We’re free for the moment.
    We take ourselves out of there and head for home, passing Linny, who has her hands on her hips. “Someday, Steadman,” she says, “I’m going to pay someone to follow you around.”
    She stops. “You have mail, Hunter.”
    I have mail? This is the first time that’s ever happened. No, once I received an invitation to a pie-eating contest. Actually, it was addressed to William.
    â€œI never get anything,” Steadman complains.
    â€œWhere is it?” I ask, going toward her.
    â€œIn my pocket.” Linny brushes past us and heads for home.
    â€œHand it over,” Steadman says. “It’s a crime to take other people’s mail. You could go to jail, maybe for fifty years.” He shakes his head. “Maybe a little less because it’s your brother.”
    Linny rolls her eyes. She digs into her pocket with two fingers and pulls out a crumpled envelope. It’s as filthy as Steadman.
    No stamp. Just H. MORAN printed in huge block letters.
    Linny leans over my shoulder.
    I hold it close to my T-shirt. A little more mud won’t make any difference. “Private.”
    â€œI could have looked, you know,” she says.
    She’s right. I’ll give her that.
    We head for home, the four of us. I’m dying to see what the letter says. So is Zack. But we need to wait. We have to wash first and change. Nana has come for lunch. It takes forever to crunch down all the green lettuce and celery salad stuff Mom has made because Nana loves it.
    But at last, Zack and I sit on the cellar steps by ourselves. I try not to think about the ruined birdhouse in Pop’s man cave. I’m feeling we have to hurry, though. We’re running out of time.
    I tear the envelope across the top. It’s printed out from someone’s computer.
    I bring it up to my nose. It has an odd smell, something familiar. But what?
    â€œNever mind that,” Zack says. “What does it say?”
    I hold it out so we both can see it.
YOU’RE SEARCHING IN THE WRONG PLACE.
YOU’LL NEVER FIND IT ANYWAY.
STOP LOOKING, OR THERE WILL BE TROUBLE.
    â€œHe could be dangerous,” Steadman says over my shoulder.
    We rear back to look at him. “How do you know?”
    â€œYou think I can’t read?”
    We don’t answer. That’s what we think; that’s what we thought. But who knows, when it comes to Steadman? Maybe he’s learned in the last few days.
    Fred leaps up from wherever he was, grabs the note, and tears it to bits.
    And Yulefski appears an hour later, her hair more snarled than usual, her jeans a muddy mess. She raises her shoulder. “No luck at the train station,” she says.
    No luck at all.

Chapter 19
    After school on Friday, I have a quick drum lesson with Sister Ramona. It’s very soothing, with lots of “Yowdie Yo”s, and cymbals bashing.
    But then, before dinner, Zack and I hold an emergency meeting. I slash my throat with one finger. “An anonymous letter writer who wants to do us in. Maybe Bradley the Bully and his miserable brothers.”
    Zack holds his head. “And what about Here’s to Wildlife tomorrow?”
    â€œIf only we could find that treasure.” I’m almost moaning.
    Zack counts on his fingers. “Snake, arrow, and an
S
on the gravestone.”
    â€œTwo steps down. Hear the sound,” I add.
    Impossible. We’ll have to work on that birdhouse. Somehow get it into shape by tomorrow.
    â€œAnd that’s impossible, too,” Zack says, reading my mind.
    We head down to the man cave and Zack fiddles with the doorknob, twisting hard. “It’s locked,” he says.
    We stare at each other, shocked. If Pop did this, we’re toast.
    We haul ourselves upstairs and sink onto a pair of chairs in the kitchen. Steadman is lying under the table, thumbing through a book. Mary is banging spoons in her high chair, and Mom is standing at