Splat! by Eric Walters

chapter one
    The police car turned down the lane and crept along the dirt road toward us.
    I nudged Keegan.
    â€œYeah, I see it,” he said.
    Keegan turned away to stare out at the lake. I watched the car out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t want the cops to know that I’d even seen them. The car came to a stop on the other side of the fence, across the stretch of beach from where we sat on the picnic bench.
    â€œCould you see who’s in the car?” he asked.
    â€œCouldn’t tell.”
    We knew every cop in town. Just like every cop knew us.
    â€œWhat do you think they’re doing?” I asked.
    â€œProbably just looking for a place to have a donut and catch up on their sleep.”
    â€œI hope that’s all that they want,” I said.
    â€œAlex, you sound guilty.”
    â€œI’m
not
guilty. Besides, we really aren’t doing anything wrong.”
    â€œThe day is young,” Keegan said.
    He turned slightly and gave me that smirky smile of his—the one he often flashed before we started to do something we shouldn’t.
    There was a honking of a car horn, and I almost spun around to look, but didn’t.
    â€œIgnore him,” Keegan said. “He probably isn’t aiming that at us anyway.”
    â€œWho do
you
think he’s honking at?”
    â€œDon’t know. Don’t care. If he wants us he’ll have to do more than just tap on his—”
    The siren of the car screamed for a few seconds, cutting off the end of Keegan’s sentence.
    â€œWell?” I asked.
    â€œProbably wants somebody else.”
    â€œThere’s only us and them,” I said, gesturing toward a woman and her two little kids, wading in the water. The rest of the beach was deserted. It was overcast, and it had been raining or there would have been a lot more people.
    â€œYou know, she does look a bit suspicious,” Keegan said.
    â€œThe woman with the kids?”
    â€œYou think she kidnapped those children?”
    I chuckled. “I guess there’s a possibility,” I admitted. “Not big, but a statistical possibility.”
    â€œAnd if anybody knows the statistics it would be you.”
    I had this strange ability to memorizestatistics and play with numbers— especially when those numbers involved money.
    â€œKeegan and Alex!” the PA system of the police car blared out.
    I recognized the voice. It was Clyde. Keegan looked over at me. “I guess they
do
want us.”
    He went to stand up, and I put my hand on his shoulder to hold him in place.
    â€œMaybe those
kids
are named Keegan and Alex,” I said, pointing down the beach at the toddlers, “and the police want them and not their mother.”
    Keegan burst into laughter and sat down again.
    â€œI know you can hear me!” Clyde’s amplified voice called out. “Get off that picnic table and come here,
now
!”
    Keegan looked over at me. He pointed at the table, then at himself and then at me. I knew what he meant—picnic table, Keegan, Alex—we fit all the pieces.
    â€œWhat would happen if we just kept ignoring him?” Keegan asked.
    â€œThey’d probably come over and get us,” I said. “But they wouldn’t be happy.”
    â€œHow about if we ran?” he questioned.
    â€œEven less happy when they did catch us,” I said.
    â€œThey couldn’t catch us. Clyde would be out of breath just walking over here, so forget the running part. We could out-
walk
the two of them easy.”
    â€œBut since they know where we hang out, go to school and live, I think that even the two of them would eventually catch us.”
    â€œGood point,” said Keegan.
    â€œAren’t you at least a little bit curious to know want they want?” I asked.
    â€œCuriosity killed the cat.”
    We heard the car’s doors slam. They’d gotten out of the car.
    â€œOkay, we’ll go over,” he said.
    Keegan