The Clue at Black Creek Farm (Nancy Drew Diaries #9)(20)

I crept through the barn, heading toward the back door to check on the chicken coop. Halfway across, I stumbled and tripped. As I tumbled to the ground, the lantern slipped from my grip, rolling across the barn and extinguishing as it crashed into the wall. I was left in near-total darkness, with only a few bars of dim light filtering through the barn’s slats.

I could make out loud sounds coming from the coop now: banging and scraping. The chickens were going crazy.

I slowly got to my feet, peering around for the lantern, but it was too difficult to make out in the near blackness. Instead I tiptoed toward what I hoped was the barn’s back door, toward the sound of the clucking chickens. I felt the edge of the barn wall and made my way to the door.

I peered around the corner of the door and gasped.

The screen door to the coop opened with a creak, and a dark figure wearing a bulky black hoodie stood silhouetted in the dim light. A black hoodie like Bob’s, I realized. I stared at the figure, squinting to see though the gloom, but the murky darkness made it impossible to identify the person. The chickens screamed as he or she emerged, and I could see that the person was holding two chickens by the neck. A cloud of feathers puffed out of the coop after them. The figure walked a few steps and then stopped short. He or she turned slowly, and my blood chilled.

The figure was looking right at me. The early morning light lit him or her from behind, making it impossible to identify the person.

The figure passed one of the chickens to the other hand and pulled something from his or her waistband.

I felt my breath catch as the item caught the orange light from the sky.

It was a long, curved blade.

The figure turned the chickens clutched in his or her hand slowly, and in the dim light I could see they were stained with blood.

I choked out a gasp. Even though I knew any case could turn deadly, I hadn’t really expected to find someone dangerous on the farm that night. Whoever was sabotaging the farm was just spraying bacteria on a bunch of vegetables. Potentially deadly bacteria, sure. But it wasn’t a violent act in itself.

I had to get away! I closed my fingers around the phone in my pocket, but I was too late. The figure dropped the chickens—the dead chickens, I thought with sickening dread—and ran toward me. I yanked my hand from my pocket and ran.

I lunged away, nearly tripping over my feet in my haste to escape. He has a knife! And he’s coming after me!

I headed back toward the hill and the tent but quickly thought better of it. Bess and George were probably safe where they were. If this person even knew they were there, it would be a while before he or she could get to them. Instead I ran for the house.

The figure was just a few yards behind me, gaining fast. I willed my feet to go faster, my lungs to hold out. Just get me to the house. . . . It was maybe fifty yards away, over a plowed field of eggplant. There was no time to veer around the crops. I ran right through them. I was just a few feet from the narrow backyard when my foot got tangled in a vine and I felt myself yanked down toward the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and I felt the sticky, squelchy ooze of wet mud.

BANG! BANG!

I struggled to my feet, the mud letting me go with a reluctant belch. It couldn’t be. But . . .

BANG!

The sounds were shots. The figure was shooting at me.





CHAPTER EIGHT





Fresh Blood


I RAN LIKE MY LIFE depended on it . . . because it looked like it did. I scrambled out of the mud and into the grassy yard, over the short distance to the porch, up onto the porch.

BANG!

I ducked down instinctively. But nothing sailed past me; in fact, I realized I wasn’t hearing the bullets make contact with anything. Maybe he or she is just trying to scare me off, I thought. But it was cold comfort. I kept running.

When I hit the top step, the bright-yellow porch light went on. It must be motion-activated. I ran to the door and pounded on it, then turned and looked behind me, hoping that I could identify the mysterious figure in the blaze of the porch light.

But when I turned around, there was no one there. Was he or she lingering just outside the yellow beam of light? Or had they given up?

I pounded on the door again. The house was silent. I turned and looked at the yard, which was empty. But is the attacker still out there? My heart thumped in my chest.

I raised my hand to pound on the door again just as it opened, and suddenly Abby stood there, wearing a blue bathrobe and a confused expression. “Nancy?” she asked. “Is everything—?”

I pushed past her through the foyer and into the kitchen. “I have to come inside!”

Abby moved aside to let me in and closed the door. “Are you all right?”

I stood in the middle of the kitchen, leaned on the table, and took a deep breath. In. Out. In. Out. “Did you hear the shots?” I asked.

“Shots?” Abby asked. “What?”

As quickly as I could, I explained what had happened with the noises from the chicken coop and spotting the intruder with the knife—and then being chased and hearing the gunshots. “He or she was wearing a hoodie,” I said. “A black hoodie—like Bob’s.”

Abby looked as stunned as if I had slapped her. “Bob?” she echoed weakly. “But—”

“Oh my God!” I cried as I suddenly realized. “Bess and George are still out there in the tent! If whoever’s out there found them . . .”