The Key (The Magnificent 12 3)

“Halk-ma exel azres!”

Risky’s pearly white movie-star teeth turned into the glittering daggers of a shark.

“Excuse me, just a moment, Mack: I have to send a message.”

* * *

Twenty-six

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MEANWHILE, AT RICHARD GERE MIDDLE SCHOOL37

The golem knew of only one person he could trust. He found her in social studies class, where she sat in the back row, lounging in her chair, with her booted feet propped on the shoulders of the kid sitting in front of her.

“Camaro!” the golem cried.

The teacher said, “Young man, do not interrupt this …” And then the teacher realized who she was talking to, and who he was talking to, and decided whatever she had been about to say could wait. Indefinitely.

“T’sup, Mack?” Camaro asked.

“I need you. You’re the only one I can trust.”

Camaro was fourteen. (She was really very bright, smart even, but she had been held back. Mostly because the high school she should have been attending—Shirley MacLaine High—had begged the school not to promote her. In fact, they had given Richard Gere Middle School a much-needed copier and a utility van to keep her.)

In all her fourteen years, Camaro had never, ever, not even once, heard the words I need you aimed in her direction.

The words you’re the only one I can trust brought tears to her eyes.

She took her feet off the shoulders of the boy in front of her.

She stood up.

She straightened her leather jacket.

She adjusted the metal-studded leather strap on her wrist.

And she said, “I’m your girl.”

At that moment the phone buzzed. Slowly the golem pulled out his own phone.

Wrong phone. It was the other one that was buzzing.

His hand moved, as if of its own accord. It touched that terrible phone. Her phone.

“You have to stop me,” the golem pleaded.

He opened the message.

And then, slowly, unstoppably, the golem slid the phone into his mouth.

His last semi-intelligible words were, “Shlop e, uh-maro!”

* * *

Twenty-seven

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