Take Your Last Breath Read online

  “Mine!” called Ruby as she disappeared around the corner.

  THE NEXT DAY WAS A SCORCHER. It came out of nowhere, and the whole of Twinford seemed to have unfolded their lounge chairs and lit their barbeques.

  Ruby Redfort and Clancy Crew were sitting on the roof, reading comics. It was late afternoon, but the sun was still warm and Clancy was sporting a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses; they were his sister Lulu’s. Nothing wrong with a thirteen-year-old boy wearing heart-shaped sunglasses, nothing at all; plenty of hip boys his age might want to express their sense of style and individuality by wearing heart-shaped sunglasses. But Clancy wasn’t wearing them as a style statement: he didn’t know what a style statement was; they were simply the first thing in the form of eyewear that came to hand. No one could accuse Clancy Crew of vanity — he always wore exactly what he felt like wearing. Didn’t matter how ridiculous he looked. It was one of the things that Ruby liked most about him.

  “Hey, Rube,” he said. Ruby was concentrating hard on the RM Swainston thriller she was reading and didn’t respond.

  “Rube! Can you hear me?” He prodded her with a stick.

  “Huh?” She peered up at him. The large red floppy sunhat obscured most of her face, and she managed to appear at the same time comical and stylish — neither look, however, was intentional. Like Clancy, she wore what she liked; unlike Clancy, she had an innate sense of style. Style was just something she had. She even managed to lend a certain chic to her T-shirt, which bore the less-than-elegant words shut your piehole. Most of Ruby’s T-shirts were emblazoned with upfront messages of this kind; her mother, in particular, loathed them.

  “So?” said Clancy.

  “Huh, what?” said Ruby.

  “You were gonna tell me about your training in Hawaii, remember?”

  “Oh, that,” said Ruby. “It’s kinda confidential. I’m sure you understand.”

  Clancy started flapping his arms. “What are you saying, confidential? You promised me you were gonna tell me — you promised, Ruby, you weasel.”

  “I’m just kidding with you. Don’t get your underwear in a bunch,” said Ruby.

  She put the book, The Strangled Stranger, under her chair, took a breath, and paused; she did this not only for the sake of drama, but also because, well, everything she was about to tell Clancy was strictly confidential. Classified information. Spectrum had forbidden her to tell anyone anything about the code breaking and undercover work she was doing for them, but then Clancy Crew was not anyone. Clancy Crew knew how to keep his mouth shut. Clancy Crew would rather die a painful death than betray a secret.

  Ruby sucked the last dregs of her banana milk up the clear curly straw sticking out of her glass, swallowed, and said, “OK, the training basically involved scuba diving.”

  “Really?” said Clancy. “That’s kinda cool. So you actually went in the ocean?”

  “Yeah, Clance, I went in the ocean. Where’d ya think I went, a kiddie pool?”

  Clancy had a deep fear of the ocean: it wasn’t just the sharks, it was everything.

  Though it was mainly the sharks. He had once read a book when he was younger, a novel, that had given him cause for many sleepless nights. Admittedly, the book had been one his mother was reading and not recommended for fourth graders. He had spotted it on her nightstand and was lured in by the image of the huge shark’s head shown on the front cover, its dead eyes staring up at a lone swimmer. It had made quite an impression. Clancy had found it to be unputdownable and read all six hundred and forty-nine pages in four sittings while locked in the bathroom. He had paid for this every night of his life for the next 1,366 days — his dreams invaded by this great white monster.

  Ruby always did her best to reason with him.

  “Clance,” she said. “Sharks are not interested in human flesh — most attacks happen by accident. The shark spots a swimmer, mistakes it for a seal, and goes over to investigate. The problem comes because sharks explore with their teeth. More often than not they take a bite and think better of it.”

  “That’s very reassuring, Rube — I feel a whole lot better. Just wait while I go dive into the ocean.”

  “What you gotta do,” continued Ruby, ignoring her friend’s sarcasm, “is try not to pee — they take this as a sign of vulnerability. Failing that, if he’s got you in his jaws, bop him on the nose with your fist. The nose is very sensitive on a shark. He’ll soon let go — on the whole sharks can’t be bothered to fight. They’re not used to it.”

  “Well,” said Clancy, “that must be the only thing that sharks and I have in common.”

  “In any case, it’s very rare. I mean, you probably have the same likelihood of being trampled to death by a rhinoceros.”

  “Yeah, well, the difference is I would see the rhinoceros coming. At least I could run for it.”

  “Well, you say that, Clance, but rhinoceroses are awful fast runners. Personally, I’d rather take my chances with the shark.”

  Perhaps because of his terror, Clancy also had a deep fascination for anything to do with the sea. He liked to read about all those things that kept him awake at night sweating with fear. Killer jellyfish, killer whales, poisonous coral, giant squid, killer squid, killer-giant-squid, tuna fish, anything aquatic. He was a bit of an expert.

  So he listened eagerly as Ruby told him about the stuff she had learned, the dives she had been on, the depths she had swum to, and the things she had seen.

  “So did you — you know — come face-to-face with any of our toothy friends?” said Clancy, his eyes all wide with anticipation.

  “Yeah, but they were only small ones — just little reef sharks — nothing to write home about,” said Ruby.

  “You wanted to see them?” said Clancy, flapping his arms again.

  “Sure I did. It’s all part of the experience of the ocean.”

  “Prehistoric things with razor-sharp teeth swimming toward you — yeah, I can see how you wouldn’t wanna miss that experience.”

  “Anyway,” said Ruby, “I’m not a bad scuba diver now. I’ve done my advanced training, and I’m all set for nearly any underwater mission Spectrum chooses to send me on.”

  “So your next mission will be underwater?” Clancy shuddered.

  “Well, I would hope so,” said Ruby. “I’m gonna look pretty dumb in scuba gear anyplace else.”

  “So you aren’t trained for anything other than diving?” said Clancy.

  “Give me a break, Clance. I’ve only been in training a month — I guess I’ll be covering other things soon. I mean, I’m not sure when they’re gonna teach me skydiving, but I imagine jumping out of a plane is off limits until they have.”

  Clancy fanned his face with the comic he had been reading. “Boy! Am I burning up.”

  Ruby looked at him sitting under the giant parasol, his feet in a bucket of cold water, a glass of iced lemonade to one side of his lounge chair.

  Just about her whole life Ruby had had to put up with her friend’s complaints about being too hot, being too cold, not being just right; Clancy was a regular Goldilocks. He seemed to have been born without a thermostat.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Can we please go indoors?” he whined.

  Ruby rolled her eyes heavenward and struggled up from her very comfortable deck chair.

  “OK, OK, let’s go watch some TV before you evaporate,” she said. “At least it might take your mind off your ocean fears for five minutes.”

  But, as Ruby would be the first to point out: RULE 1: YOU CAN NEVER BE COMPLETELY SURE WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN NEXT. As it happened, Clancy’s ocean fears were about to get a lot bigger.

  RUBY LIFTED THE HATCH ON THE ROOF and, barefoot, the two of them made their way down the open-tread staircase to Ruby’s room. It was perfectly cool in the house. Bug, the Redfort husky, was sleeping on the large beanbag that sat in the center of Ruby’s bedroom. He pricked up his ears when he heard Ruby and Clancy’s footsteps and decided to follow them to the kitchen. T
here was a good chance someone might drop a cookie on the floor, and Bug was quick. There was no chance of Mrs. Digby sweeping it up before he had gotten to it.

  Ruby and Clancy padded into the kitchen, drunk from the sun and exhausted from doing nothing. The transistor radio on the counter was tuned to Twinford Talk Radio and was blaring out some news story about Twinford City Square. Mrs. Digby always had the set turned up too loud because she was a little hard of hearing — though she claimed it was “’cause those radio folk always mumble.”

  “SO, KELLY, HAVE YOU SEEN THOSE GULLS IN TWINFORD SQUARE? CREATING QUITE A RUMPUS I BELIEVE.” “YOU’RE NOT WRONG THERE, BOBBY. I CAN’T SAY I’VE SEEN THEM, BUT I’VE CERTAINLY HEARD THEM! NO ONE CAN FIGURE OUT JUST WHAT HAS BROUGHT SO MANY SEAGULLS INTO THE CITY CENTER. PERHAPS IT’S THE UNUSUALLY SCORCHING WEATHER. BACK TO YOU, BOBBY.” “THANKS FOR THAT INSIGHT, KELLY. MOVING ON TO ANOTHER ANIMAL-RELATED STORY, SEVEN DOLPHINS WERE DISCOVERED IN TWINFORD HARBOR THIS MORNING, AND DESPITE ALL BEST EFFORTS FROM THE AQUATIC RESCUE TEAM, THEY SEEM TO BE REFUSING TO MOVE ON.”

  Clancy grimaced.

  “What’s with the face?” said Ruby.

  “Dolphins,” said Clancy.

  “What have you got against dolphins? Everyone likes dolphins. What makes you such an individual?”

  “Just don’t trust them,” said Clancy.

  “Oh, Clance, don’t tell me you’re scared of them — no one’s scared of dolphins.”

  “I am,” said Clancy firmly.

  “Why?” said Ruby. “What possible reason could you have for being scared of a dolphin?”

  “For the following reason: I could be out swimming one day and spot what I think is a dolphin, and get lulled into a false sense of security only to find out it’s actually a shark.” Just a month ago Clancy had been waiting at the dentist’s office, killing time leafing through the old magazines, when he had stumbled across a story about a man who had unfortunately mistaken a shark for a dolphin. The consequences didn’t bear thinking about, but Clancy couldn’t stop thinking about them.

  “And how is that the dolphin’s fault?” asked Ruby.

  “It’s got a fin,” said Clancy, folding his arms. “They make themselves look like sharks.”

  “The fin shape is totally different,” said Ruby. “Look in any encyclopedia and you’ll see.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’ll remember to do that next time I’m swimming along.”

  “Well, you know what, Clance? It’s never gonna be a mistake you get to make because you’re never gonna be swimming along; you never go anywhere near what might or might not be a shark. You never even dip your toes in!”

  Mrs. Digby emerged from the pantry, where she had been lining up canned food in alphabetical order. The Redfort housekeeper liked to run a tight ship (as she put it) and keep an A–Z larder.

  “Hi, Mrs. Digby,” said Clancy.

  Mrs. Digby put her hands on her hips. “Well, howdy. And what can I do for you? Since I don’t imagine either of you have come in here to volunteer for potato peeling. Am I right or am I right?”

  “Just wondering if you might have some kinda snacky type of a thing up your sleeve?” said Ruby, her eyes all big and innocent.

  The old lady clucked her tongue, pretending to disapprove, but actually loving nothing better than preparing food for Ruby and her friends — they were always so appreciative.

  Mrs. Digby had known Ruby since Ruby was a minute old, and there was nothing she wouldn’t do for her. Not that she was any kind of pushover — she was most definitely not. One tough old bird, in fact. Only a month ago she had been accidentally kidnapped during a robbery, but it was like water off a duck’s back to Mrs. Digby.

  “Been through a whole lot worse during my long and mainly miserable life,” was all she had said about the incident. Mrs. Digby always described her life as miserable, though in fact this was not the case, certainly not for the past fifty years anyway.

  The housekeeper set about making what she called a “Digby Club,” which was actually just a regular club sandwich, but with her own homemade mustard mayonnaise, and topped off with a gherkin. For some reason it tasted a whole lot better than any other club sandwich that you might ever have tasted, and anybody who ate one never forgot it.

  “By the way,” she said, pulling something from her apron pocket, “I found that watch of yours on the front stoop; you oughta be more careful with your possessions, child, or you’ll have nothing left to call your own.”

  “Darn it!” said Ruby. “The clasp is all bent, so it keeps coming loose. I told them to fix it.”

  “Told who?” asked the housekeeper.

  “Um . . . the fixers,” said Ruby. She was being cagey because this watch was no ordinary watch; it was a Spectrum-issue Escape Watch (also known to agents as the “rescue watch”) and had once belonged to the wonder kid Bradley Baker. It was a clever piece of equipment; it looked like nothing more than a child’s watch, but this timepiece, though old and not the latest in terms of spy gear, was still a gadget to be reckoned with. It had saved more than a few lives in its time. It had a brightly striped strap and an interesting clasp. The second hand was a fly and the watch face was colored enamel with cartoon eyes. The eyes followed the hands as they ticked tirelessly around. Spectrum had repaired the malfunctioning rescue features, but had neglected to fix the faulty clasp, so it was always coming loose.

  Ruby took the watch and fastened it around her wrist, making sure that the clasp clicked home.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Digby, “mind you fix it or you’ll be sorry. A stitch in time saves nine, is what I always say.”

  The housekeeper popped the sandwiches on plates and slid them across the countertop like she was a short-order chef.

  Ruby and Clancy were sitting at high stools still chatting about dolphins and sharks. They paused their conversation only to convey their appreciation, picked up their plates, and made their way to the living room. Mrs. Digby nodded and started chopping up vegetables for the evening meal.

  Both kids flopped down on the floor and, propping themselves on their elbows, tackled their snacks. Ruby reached for the remote and flicked on the TV. Clancy gave directions through mouthfuls of Digby Club.

  “Try channel three,” he urged. “No, wait a minute, seven. Nah, maybe try nine.”

  Ruby looked at him. “You wanna stop barking orders and do it yourself?”

  “Nah, you’re doing great. What’s on eleven?”

  They finally settled on some lame show about a seal who solved crimes with his seal’s sixth sense. The seal narrated at the beginning and the end of each episode, which made it all the more unbelievable. It was pretty bad, but Clancy and Ruby didn’t mind that. They kind of liked bad shows, almost as much as they relished good ones — there was nothing as enjoyable as ripping a truly terrible show to shreds.

  “Oh, like that would ever happen!” Clancy would say whenever anything super stupid occurred in the plot.

  And Ruby was very fond of exclaiming, “Yeah, right, I totally would go out in the dark alone if there was a psychopath on the loose.”

  Watching this seal show was providing them with ample opportunity to make a whole lot of wise remarks. Splasher — the seal of the show’s title — was busy listening to a conversation that some villainous-looking types were having on the harbor wall, and he was getting pretty distressed by what he heard.

  Clancy was killing himself laughing. “Can you believe this show?” he squealed.

  Bug, hearing the commotion, bounded into the room, stepping on the remote and changing the channel to the local news station.

  The words BREAKING NEWS flashed up on the screen, and a windblown reporter was standing on Twinford Bay Beach talking into the camera.

  “IT HAS JUST COME TO LIGHT THAT THE BODY OF A DIVER HAS WASHED UP ON TWINFORD BAY BEACH.”

  Ruby and Clancy sat up.

  “IT IS NOT YET KNOWN HOW THE VICTIM DIED, BUT IT WOULD APPEAR THAT HE WAS JUST AN UNFORTUNATE CASUALTY OF THE SEA�
�S UNPREDICTABILITY. ALL WE CAN TELL YOU IS THAT THE DECEASED IS MALE AND OF AVERAGE BUILD.”

  “Like I was saying,” said Clancy, letting out a long breath, “the ocean is a dan-ger-ous place.”

  It was a glittering day, and it seemed that most of Twinford’s glitteringly wealthy were on board Freddie and Marjorie Humbert’s sixty-foot yacht, the Golden Albatross.

  “Isn’t this just one hundred percent perfect?” said Sabina Redfort, smiling.

  “More than that,” said Brant Redfort. “It’s at least two hundred percent perfect!”

  “Perfect is perfect,” said Ambassador Crew. “No more, no less.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Sabina. “It’s double perfect.”

  Ambassador Crew rolled his eyes. He found the Redforts very agreeable company, but frustratingly dim. Just how Brant Redfort had ever gotten into Stanton University he could not imagine.

  It was the invitation of the season: a mini cruise along the Twinford coast, sailing the passengers as far as the Sibling Islands, taking in sights most Twinfordites rarely, if ever, got to see. It had been set up by the Twinford Historical Society, which for the first time in twenty years had had to turn away applicants — its membership having swelled threefold as soon as it was discovered that the trip involved ten days on board the Humberts’ luxury vessel.

  “Isn’t it wonderful to see just how many people are actually interested in history?” said Sabina.

  “Might have something to do with this million-dollar yacht we’re on,” replied Ambassador Crew. He was a very cynical person.

  “Why, is it old?” asked Brant. “Gee, I didn’t know it was of historical interest.”

  “Give me strength,” muttered the ambassador.

  Dora Shoering was giving a series of lectures on the facts, myths, and legends relating to smuggling, piracy, and long-lost treasure. The facts, it had to be admitted, were few and far between, but no one much minded as it was naturally a glamorous affair and everyone was having an elegant time.

  Along with Brant and Sabina Redfort, the guest list included Barbara and Ed Bartholomew, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Gruemeister and their bothersome dog, Pookie. However, Mrs. Crew had declined the invitation due to a horrible problem with seasickness; the Sibling waters were notorious for their restless currents.