I Owe You One (10 page)

“Yeah.”

“Where to?”

“Uh, we just need to find an ice-cream truck,” I said.

Daryl folded his arms. “You guys are just foolin' with me, aren't you?”

You know, I couldn't blame him. It sounded ridiculous, even to me. Blowing up foundations, getting snow in the summer and chasing down runaway ice-cream trucks. Who wouldn't think this was a joke?

“I know it sounds crazy, Daryl,” I said. “But we really need the transmitter that's inside that truck. It's for Mrs. Minton. It's practically a matter of life and death.”

That last bit might have been a bit of a stretch, but I knew there was no way Daryl was going to let himself be responsible for old Mrs. Minton's health. He was in.

We picked up Frank at Lee's and headed down the highway, scanning the horizon for the
Nice'n Icy
truck.

“There it is,” Frank said calmly, pointing up ahead.

“Where? Where?” I asked. I couldn't see anything. The highway curved out of sight.

“See that cloud of black smoke?” Frank asked.

I could just make out a dark gray smudge hanging above the road up ahead.

“That's it. I'd know that smoke anywhere.”

Sure enough, as we sped up and rounded the curve, we saw the
Nice 'n Icy
truck limping along in the slow lane, spouting gray smoke.

“That thing should be put out of its misery,” Daryl muttered. His eyes glinted.

“There's nothing wrong with that truck that can't be fixed with the right parts,” Frank said, a bit of tension in his voice.

It suddenly occurred to me that I was sandwiched in the cab of a pickup between one guy who lived to blow things up and another who lived to fix them. And they were both eyeing the truck. It made me more than a little uneasy. I didn't want to be in the middle of a fight.

A man keeps the peace, Wes.

How was I going to prevent a world war without getting caught in the crossfire?

“Well, it's Mr. Lee's truck,” I said, “so I guess he gets to decide what to do with it.”

“Bah,” said Daryl on my left.

“Hmpfh,” said Frank on my right.

We pulled up beside the truck and waved it over.

It took a lot of explaining and reassurance to convince Mr. Lee's cousin that Mr. Lee had sent us and that we needed to get something out of the back of the truck. It would have been simpler if Mr. Lee had come with us, but he had to stay and sign for a delivery of toilet plungers.

My first impression of the transmitter was disappointing. It was all crated up, and there seemed to be smoke coming off it.

“What's that?” I asked Frank. “Is it supposed to do that?

“Uh, I think it's frozen.”

I couldn't even bring myself to ask if that was going to be a problem.

As we pulled back on the highway to drive back, I saw both Daryl and Frank look at the truck longingly.

We got back in record time, and as we pulled into the driveway, I turned to Frank. “So, you think you can start on this today? The race is Saturday.”

“Yeah,” Frank grunted. “Before anything else happens to it.”

Chapter 17

It was a race against time now. We only had barely a day and a half. Frank worked on the transmitter for hours. I hung around the tower with him. I couldn't really help him. It was more for moral support.

I don't know why, but I had this crazy thought that you could just—you know—set it up and plug it in. Presto, tv channels. But it was more complicated than that. Circuits had to be connected, cables attached, antennae hooked up, stuff tuned, amplified and who knew what else.

It seemed to take forever before we were ready to test it. I stood by while Frank gave it a try.

Nothing happened. Was something supposed to
whir
or
clunk
? I looked at Frank's face, and that old feeling of doom washed over me.

“What's wrong now?” I asked.

“The bloody thing isn't compatible with our system.”

“How can that be? You checked, didn't you?”

Frank flung the screwdriver to the ground so hard that it spun and stuck in. Any other time, it would have been really impressive.

“Of course I checked. But the transmitter and antennae are made by different companies. They're supposed to work together, but they don't.”

“What now?” The words came out of me like the wail of an injured animal.

Frank didn't say anything for a minute while he stared at the transmitter.

“I'm not making any promises, but I think, with a couple of parts, I might be able to make it work.”

I tried hard not to lose my cool. Besides, I had to get up enough courage to go and give an update to Mrs. Minton. I wasn't looking forward to it. The bike ride from Frank's back field to Mrs. Minton's would only have taken me about ten minutes on a good day. I dragged it out to twenty.

“Hello, Wesley,” she said before I was barely in the door. I hadn't even taken my shoes off. “What news?”

I couldn't look her in the eye. “Frank's connecting everything.”

It didn't work. She knew. “You said that earlier, Wesley. What's wrong?”

I sighed. There was no fooling Mrs. Minton.

“Just a small compatibility problem. Frank seems sure he can make it work.”

She didn't answer for so long, I had to look up. She was staring at me.

“That bad, eh, Wesley? Well, if anyone can fix it…” She didn't finish the sentence, but it was obvious that, in her mind, Frank was a miracle worker. I just hoped she was right. The race was the next day.

“What time is Rachel's race?” I asked, trying to make it sound like an innocent question.

“We're cutting it that close, are we?”

I sighed.

“The race is being broadcast starting at two pm, but I don't know exactly when Rachel skis. They draw race order in the morning.”

“We'll get it done, Mrs. Minton. Don't worry.”

She smiled a weak smile and closed her eyes.

I stayed away from Frank the rest of the day. I couldn't do anything anyway.

The next morning, I went straight to the tower.

I could hear him muttering before I saw him.

“For the love of…Who in their right mind…Fit, darn it! Fit! I don't believe this!”

Sure didn't sound good.

“Hiya, Frank. How's it going? Can I get you anything?”

Frank's head popped up. “Oh, it's going just great.” Sarcasm dripped off every word. “Two circuits aren't working at all, the bandwidth is all wrong, one arm of an antenna snapped, the power supply shorted out and I cut my finger.”

He glared at me as if daring me to say something optimistic. Man, was I sorry I asked. I shrugged my shoulders, shook my head and made what I hoped were sympathetic hand gestures. I needed help. I ran for Zach. We only had about two and a half hours until the start of the race. At some point we had to face Mrs. Minton. I say “we” because this stupid life-debt idea was Zach's fault somehow, and he was going to suffer with me.

Zach and I sat on my porch for a while, too terrified to check on how Frank was making out and even more terrified to go to Mrs. Minton with bad news.

“Should we go see Frank?” Zach asked eventually. “There's only about half an hour until the race.”

I wanted to snap back that I knew how to tell time too, but there was that voice.

A man faces the music, Wes.

I guess it was time I did that.

“Come on, Zach. Let's see Frank and get the verdict.”

I can't even repeat the language we heard as we neared the tower. Well, at least we had our answer.

“Uh, Frank? You okay?”

Frank backed out of the housing and stood up. “If this wasn't for Mrs. Minton, I would have gotten Daryl to blow this up too.”

I felt a heavy weight on my chest. How would I tell Mrs. Minton that we had failed?

“How bad is it?” asked the ever practical Zach.

“I've got everything patched up, except there's a break in this wire somewhere, and I'll be darned if I can find it.” He was running the cable through both hands trying to feel for the break. “Now, if I stand on top of the transmitter housing and hold it like this”—he climbed up and held the cable over his head and out to the side a bit—“then I can get the signal. But the minute I let go”—he dropped his hand—“it's gone.” He jumped down. “Why can't I find this break?” He was speaking more to himself now.

“About how long do you think you can stay in that position?” I asked.

Frank looked at me in horror as he realized what I was thinking. “Oh, no. You can't be serious!” He looked from me to Zach and back again. “You really expect me to stand up there with my arms in the air like some demented cheerleader?”

“It would only be for a couple of minutes. Just long enough for Mrs. Minton to see Rachel's run.” Zach sounded so calm and logical that I knew he was reeling Frank in. “If you could only see how much this means to Mrs. Minton…”

Really, Zach was so good at this, I believed he had a future in politics. Maybe foreign affairs. The United Nations, even.

Frank banged his head a couple of times on the side of the transmitter housing like he couldn't believe that he was about to agree to this. “And how will I know when her race is starting, or when it's over?” he asked, resigned to his fate.

“I'll grab the walkie-talkies,” I said, thinking on my feet so fast, even my dad would have been impressed. “If you give us little scans every two minutes or so, we can listen for the race order and let you know when we're getting close.”

“Tell me this is all a bad dream,” Frank said to the sky. I waited a second or two in case he got an answer. He sighed. “Go get the walkie-talkies then, and if there is any good karma owed to me at all, I'll find that break before I have to use them.”

We took off. We had about ten minutes until the start of the race. I hoped Rachel wasn't up too near the beginning.

Zach volunteered to take the one walkie-talkie back to Frank while I raced over to Mrs. Minton's house with the other one.

When I got in the door, Mrs. Minton was just dabbing her eyes. The tv was on, and the screen was nothing but snow. And not the kind you find on a ski hill. The only sounds were static and the fan blowing cool air on Mrs. Minton's face.

“Be sure and thank Frank for trying,” she said. “And you too, Wesley. I know you did everything you could.” She dabbed her eyes again.

“We're not giving up yet,” I told her, switching on the walkie-talkie. “But it is a long shot.”

“Come in, Frank,” I said into the unit. “Over.”

There was a lot of crackling, then, “Frank here. Ready for test? Over.”

“Ready. Over.”

Zach burst through the door as the snow on the tv buzzed, wavered and a grainy picture came and went.

“Weak signal, Frank. I can't get a fix on the race. Over.”

The picture came in again, but only in black and white.

“How's that? Over.”

It flickered to color for a second.

“Zach, move those rabbit ears a bit. I think we can get it.”

Zach fiddled with the antenna arms: up high, down low, in the middle.

“Stop!” I said. The picture had been clear for a second.

“Back around a bit, Zach.”

“There!” Mrs. Minton said, seeing the starting gate and hearing the announcers voice come in. “Who did he say was on course?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Does it look like Rachel?”

Mrs. Minton squinted at the screen. “No. Rachel's suit is yellow with red tiger stripes.”

“Isn't that a yellow and red suit in the warm-up area?” Zach asked.

The walkie-talkie crackled.

“Can I get down now? Over.” Frank sounded a bit stressed.

“Just a minute, Frank. We think Rachel is up soon. Over.”

“How long is soon? Over.”