“Any cameras in there?” I ask.
“A few. ?e image quality isn’t great,” Porter admits.
“?ey’re trying to lose us.”
He thinks about this for a second and swears under his breath. We race to the mouth of the cave, where the boys have jogged down the stone steps and disappeared under the stalactites lit by creepy orange spotlights. Only problem is, the steps go two ways: left and right. ?e main route snakes through the cliffs, crisscrossing in the center like a pretzel where they open up into the center cavern. And the boys have split up.
“You go left,” Porter tells me. “I’ll go right. Whichever one of them you nd, don’t take your eyes off him.”
“Meet you in the center.” I take off down the stairs, cool air drafting up as I jog. It’s dark and creepy down here, and the metal handrail that’s been here since the museum opened has a clammy feel to it that gives me the heebie-jeebies, so I can’t touch it. ?is makes running difficult, because caves are dark and damp, and the low lights around the walkway might be great for setting a mood, but they don’t provide much in the way of illumination when you’re chasing someone. Luckily, there aren’t too many people lingering in the cave—and even fewer racing through it. I spot White Polo Shirt a few yards ahead, on another landing.
?ere isn’t much to see in the cave, especially compared to the rest of the jam-packed museum, just a few info plaques with facts about caves in California and animals that live there, and the occasional bench for hot-blooded people to rest and enjoy the dark and gloomy view. I sail past a woman leaning against one of these benches and head around the pretzel turn toward the red-and-green glow of the main cavern.
Rocky walls lined with organically formed crevices and holes separate the cave into multiple chambers. It’s a great place for hiding, and those little bastards know it. Several people mingle around the main plaque, marking the spot where Jay and Vivian found their pirate gold. A cheesy chest over owing with carnival doubloons sits atop a at rock. It’s ridiculous. I’m embarrassed for everyone who has to gaze upon it, including myself.
But more than that, I’m embarrassed that I’ve lost the stupid kid I’m supposed to be trailing. I nally spot Porter, and he acknowledges me with a chin nod, but I can tell by the angle of his brow that he can’t nd the backpack kid either. How could this be? I glance around one more time, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot something: two white sneakers slipping through one of the larger hole formations in the rocky cave walls. Not Polo, but the backpack kid. Sneaky little monkey is doubling back up the stairs.
Porter’s attention is elsewhere, and I’m not losing this kid again, so I take off after him. Up I go, back the way I came, twice as fast, pounding the stone steps.
?e backpack kid tosses me a glance over his shoulder. He knows I’m chasing him, and he’s not stopping. Too bad. Neither am I.
When he reaches the mouth of the cave, he hesitates long enough to spot his cohort, slamming up the steps on the other side. ?en they’re off, racing together through the lobby.
Porter said not to make a scene, but what about now? Do I just let these jerks get away? I quickly decide: No, I don’t.
I book it as fast as I can go, giving chase. ?ey nearly bowl over an entire family, who startle like ducks on a pond, jumping out of their way.
“Someone stop them!” I yell.
No one does.
I think about Porter surrounded by people that horrible day on the beach years ago, when no one would help him save his dad from the shark. If strangers won’t help when someone is dying, they’re de nitely not going to stop two kids from running out of a museum.
Pulse swishing in my temples, I race around the information booth, pumping my arms, and watch them split up again. Polo is heading for the easy way out: the main exit, where there’s (1) only a set of doors to go through, and (2) Hector, the laziest employee on staff.
But Backpack is headed for the ticketing booth and the connecting turnstiles. Freddy should be there, but no one’s entering the museum, so he’s instead chatting it up with Hector. ?e turnstiles are unmanned.
Like a pro hustler who’s never paid a subway fare, Backpack hurdles over the turnstiles in one leap. Impressive. Or it would have been, had his backpack not slipped off his shoulder and the strap not caught on one of the turnstile arms. While he struggles to free it, I take the easier route and make for the wheelchair access gate.
I unhitch the latch.
He frees the strap.
I slip through the gate, and just as he’s turning to run, I lurch forward and—
I jump on his back.
We hit the ground together. ?e air whooshes out of my lungs and my knee slams into tile. He cries out. I don’t.
I freaking got him.
“Get off me, you crazy bitch!” He squirms below me, elbowing me in the ribs. I clamp my hand over his arm to hold it down. A breathless, evil laugh comes out of me in ts. I can’t even say anything; I’m too winded.
“Oh no you don’t,” a triumphant male voice says nearby.
I twist to the side and spit hair out of my mouth. Porter is dragging Polo by the arm. He doesn’t look half as winded as I feel. Stupid surfer genes. But now Freddy and Hector are coming —to gawk, I guess. And here’s Grace, too; nally, someone with sense.
“What in the world is going on?” she asks.
