Free Life on Mars by Jennifer Brown Page B

stepped numbly through the open door and into the smoky gravitational pull of Mr. Death’s living room. I could feel myself getting smaller and smaller. By the time Mom and Dad came home,all that would be left of me would be the chicken-pox scar under my chin.
    â€œShut the front door, the air conditioner’s on,” a voice commanded from beyond.
    My hands shaking, I reached back and pushed the front door closed with a soft click.
    And was enveloped in darkness.

11

Terror: The Alpha Star in the Neighbor Constellation

    I stood for a long time in Mr. Death’s living room, afraid to move, afraid to run away, afraid to do anything. I listened for him, but mostly all I heard was that raspy coughing, which he did a lot. And also the sound of a lighter scratching to life, followed by the smell of cigar smoke, which wafted into the living room in plumes. My fingers sweated and ached from gripping the handle of my duffel so tightly.
    I sorely wished I’d had the time to write a letter to Tripp—something cryptic about how if I went missing, to send the police into the woods behind Mr. Death’s house with cadaver dogs, and instructions to avenge me in some really cool way. And then I got a little lost in a daydream about Tripp going all superhero and hanging Mr. Death upside down from his toenails from the top of Cassi’s swing set.
    Tell me where you’ve buried him or I will unleash my sidekick
, SuperTripp would say, and Comet, wearing a superhero maskover his eyes, would lift his leg perilously close to Mr. Death’s forehead.
    I was so lost in my daydream I forgot where I was for a moment, until I heard movement creaking slowly down the hallway toward me, and the smell of cigar smoke got stronger.
    My heartbeat
kathunk
ed in my chest, and I looked around the room frantically. I changed my mind. I didn’t want to be avenged. Avenged people were pretty much always dead. I didn’t know much about what it took to be the first astronaut to walk on Mars, but I was pretty sure “alive” was going to be a prerequisite.
    Finally, as the footsteps got closer, I made out the shape of a table and scurried underneath it. A few seconds later, Mr. Death’s shadow came into the room, the glowing orange end of his cigar burning in front of him. He coughed, long and loud, like Bigfoot hacking up a bear who was hacking up a Volkswagen. With a bad muffler.
    â€œYou in here?” he growled, sounding out of breath. I said nothing. He waited for a few seconds. “You hungry?” Nothing. He moved down another hall, slowly, slowly. “Kid?” he said, but I remained tight lipped. Just hunkered under the table, shivering and wishing I had stowed away in the Bacteria’s trunk or hidden out at CICM-HQ. And especially wishing that Aunt Sarin’s pushy baby, Castor, hadn’t chosen today to be born.
    Stupid Castor. If I died here, it would be all his fault. I should have put that in a letter to Tripp, too.
Blame Castor
, the note would say.
Let Comet eat one of his shoes
.
    Which reminded me …
    I glanced down at my one shoeless foot. In all the hustle and bustle of everything that had happened, I had forgotten all about Comet eating my shoe. I was hardly an athlete with two shoes on—how would I outrun a murderer half-shoed? I wouldn’t be able to, and I would die wearing only one shoe, which seemed like a very undignified way to go.
    The creaking returned. I gripped my bag handle tighter and swallowed, peeking around the corner.
    â€œI know you’re in here somewhere,” he said. “Too shy to come out, are you? Well, I’ll get you out eventually.”
    The blood in my veins turned into icicles. I could feel it jaggedly bumping and jumping around beneath my skin. He would get me out? How? What was that supposed to mean?
    â€œYou can have the bedroom on the right,” he barked, and then disappeared from where he’d come.
    I waited until