Trouble & Treasure by Dave Moyer (robert munsch read aloud .txt) 📕

wrists and my feet: they were covered in scratches, bruises, and gouge marks. Nightmares, no matter how harsh and frightening, stayed in your mind.

I winced as I walked down the long stairs that led to the bottom floor and the kitchen below. Only the smell of freshly-cooked pancakes kept me going.

If you'd asked me several weeks ago, before heavily-armed men had kicked down my door and chased me through the woods, I would have told you I was an independent, emotionally stable, tough woman. I was used to mucking out the horse stables, I was used to changing the tires on my car when I got a flat, I was even used to fixing appliances when they broke. My great-uncle, for all his mad eccentricities, had taught me a lot. Still, no matter how much he’d taught me, last night had taught me something new: all it took was a couple of pairs of scuffed army boots, a couple of uncocked machine guns, and a smattering of balaclava-wearing bad guys, and I could and would be reduced to tears.

The thought of my old great-uncle, and the stories he'd told me as I sat by his knee in his library, bolstered me, and I didn’t fall down the stairs in a sobbing mess. Instead I heaved my way to the kitchen, nose still sniffing the air appreciatively, stomach gently rumbling, heart calming for the first time since I’d woken.

Elizabeth nodded at me as I walked into the kitchen, a weird apron tied loosely over her even weirder pajamas. “I have made pancakes,” she announced as she shepherded me to the kitchen bench and placed a titanic stack of pancakes before me, a dark purple sauce oozing over them. One whiff of it was enough to give me cavities, but I helped myself to a stack of four nonetheless.

“I called my lawyer, dear,” she nodded earnestly, “He’s going to be here any moment. We’re going to get this sorted; we’re going to get this sorted today,” she said with an almost military nod. Despite Elizabeth's colorful, erratic personality, when she wanted something done she would jolly well do it.

Now I had something to smile about: I had someone by my side, somebody formidable, and somebody endearingly floral.

“I'm in my pajamas,” I said through a massive bite, sauce dripping down my chin, “Shouldn't I change?”

Elizabeth shook her head vehemently. “You have been attacked in your house by bad men carrying guns; you can jolly well stay in your pajamas as long as you like. Plus, my lawyer is a good chap.”

I nodded. I couldn't be bothered changing, plus, I didn't have anything to change into; all my clothes, though ostensibly not that far away, were still in a house full of criminals. In a situation like this, god dammit, anyone could understand that a girl had to stay in her pajamas.

Shortly after, as I sucked down a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice, Elizabeth disappeared from the room as the doorbell rang.

A kick of fear and uncertainty muddled around my stomach as I sat waiting for the lawyer to arrive. This was getting real again. As I’d downed my mountain of pancakes, I’d managed to gain distance from the situation. That distance rapidly reduced as I heard even but strong footfall coming down the corridor.

I turned to the kitchen door. Chapter Five

Sebastian Shaw

I’d sure had one hell of a night, and I sure had the bruises to prove it. God, I had a bruised ego as well.

When it had come to shrugging into my suit that morning and getting back to my real job, it had been murder. There were tracks of mangled skin around my wrists where the cable ties had dug into them and a stupendous bruise between my shoulders from where I’d been pistol whipped. But with a great suit, cuff links, and an expensive watch, I’d managed to hide it all.

That I’d been set free last night wasn't a surprise. The Special Forces needed me. In their eyes it was all a painful lesson. Maratova, the titanic and idiotic bastard that he was, was trying to show me who wore the man pants in this partnership. As soon as Maratova and his team had gotten back to the manor, empty-handed, with no babbling Amanda, they’d let me go. Maratova had leaned down, fetid breath breaking against my face, that scar on his top lip stretching as he sneered at me, then he’d told me that from now on I played by his rules and I didn't break them. Break them, and I’d be tied up like a pig on a spit.

I hadn't cared at that moment; Maratova could have pulled a knife and carved his name into my arm along with the line “don't fuck with me,” and I wouldn't have cared. I was far more interested in where Amanda Stanton had run off to. She still had my gun and keys.

Maratova made it clear that I was to have nothing more to do with this. Amanda would be tracked down without me. Lawyer boy, as they often called me, was to get back to his day job and leave the real work to the real men.

So here I was back at my day job, but I sure as hell wasn't going to stop there. I was going to find Amanda Stanton myself, not because she had my keys, but because I had spent my whole life looking for those globes, and I didn't give a fuck that I’d been called off this one.

I shrugged, trying to ease my posture into a more comfortable stance and away from the stabbing pain in the middle of my back. I composed myself as I knocked on the door. I usually didn't make house calls to my clients, but this wasn’t an ordinary client. Plus, I was already in the area, and I couldn't pass up the chance of trying to find Amanda again.

“Sebastian.” Elizabeth whipped the door open, leaning on the frame and cocking her eyebrow, a sideways smile on her lips. “You know, you are my favorite lawyer.”

“That means nothing, Elizabeth, as you hate lawyers,” I said with a smile, ignoring the wincing pain between my shoulders and the grating sensation as my watch snagged against the raw skin of my wrist.

“I don't hate you, and it is lovely of you to come at such short notice.”

I nodded at her. To be honest, I had no idea what the old dear wanted; Elizabeth Brown was about as mad as they came. She was the kind of mad that saw her painting smiley faces and happy flowers on the side of her Rolls-Royce in liquid chalk to brighten the days of others. She also had a hell of a lot of money, as did most of my clients. But at least Elizabeth didn't act like she did. She was kind, and once you got past the chalky smiles, decent. So when she called late last night, not long after I returned home from my ridiculously unsuccessful venture, I’d told her I’d see her in the morning.

“I didn't think we should call the police until we knew what we were dealing with,” Elizabeth waved me in through the front door, the two antique ruby rings on her fingers glinting under the morning sun.

I narrowed my eyes. I was aware of Elizabeth's eccentricities, as I was aware that my well-off clients tended to be more suspicious of the police than those from the lower echelons of the socioeconomic strata. They always thought the police would take their money off them, Robin Hood style, just for being rich. While I wouldn't necessarily disagree with the police if they did, the economic stability of the modern age was built on the riches of the few being drawn from the livelihoods of the rest. Still, when you need to call the police, you need to call the police, and even the most stuffy rich boy judge would uphold that law.

I played with the corner of my watch trying to push it up and off the raw skin of my wrist.

“Elizabeth, what’s this about?”

“She is in the kitchen.” Elizabeth nodded down the hall, her wild, never-kempt white hair bunching over her shoulders.

My stomach gave a kick, a full on kick. I narrowed my eyes. “Who’s in the kitchen?” I tried to keep my voice even.

“She is,” Elizabeth said, explaining nothing.

My heart beat faster as I followed Elizabeth, and I kept playing with my watch. It couldn't be her, could it? She would have gone straight to the police, right? Wouldn't Maratova have found her hiding underneath a rose bush? Or perhaps speeding around in my car? She wouldn't have run over to the neighbors, would she? I had my misgivings about Maratova, but as far as I knew he was a capable soldier. How in the hell would he have let jelly-legs Amanda get away from him?

The thought swilled around my mind as I followed Elizabeth down the long hall. The scent of tantalizing freshly-made pancakes seduced the air, with a hint of sweet apples and blueberries.

I entered the kitchen.

She looked up at me, Amanda Stanton, still in pajamas, even if they appeared to be new ones.

Chapter Six

Amanda Stanton

I looked up. I had loaded up another forkful of pancake ready to finish off the delicious remnants of my breakfast. I dropped it, the fork clattering against the Wedgwood plate, the forkful of pancake tumbling onto the floor.

I lurched up, the high stool behind me clattering to the floor. I turned, on adrenal autopilot as I ran to the kitchen door.

I tried to yank it open, but it was locked.

“Don't worry, Amanda,” Elizabeth said, voice peaking with amusement, “He’s just a lawyer.”

I turned from the door, pressed my back into it, and stared at him wildly. He had the strangest expression on his face. The moment he'd walked into the room, a half smile had been playing on his lips, a distant look in his eye. Now that smile had stiffened, those handsome eyes widening and fixing right on me, his hands dead straight by his sides. “You don't have to do that,” he put his hands up. “I'm here to help you.”

“You're her lawyer?” I asked, my voice cracking as it leveled at a pitch that could crack glass.

Elizabeth looked interested and kept turning from me to Sebastian Shaw. “Oh no, don't tell me that this is the lawyer on your lawn last night? While the mercenaries were in