Here Comes Mr. Trouble

Bumps and dips and rocks in the road kept Mr. Trouble in constant motion as he weaved the car through the darkness along the seldom used path. Twice the road forked, and twice he took the route to the right. Then, after a particularly bouncy section, the road suddenly disappeared in front of them.

“Whoa!” Eric yelled, grabbing onto the handle of the door and hoping they weren’t about to drive off the edge of a ravine.

But as the car dipped, the road reappeared, winding down the side of a small valley.

“What’s that?” Maggie asked, staring out the front window.

Eric leaned forward to see what she was talking about.

In the center of the valley were several lights — a series of blue ones, low to the ground and stretching out into the distance in two parallel lines, and a group of bright white ones clustered near one end.

Partially lit up by the white lights was a large airplane that looked like it was about the same size as some of the ones used by the major airlines. Only instead of jets hanging from its wings, there were four large, prop-driven engines, two on each side. Two broad stripes ran down the length of the plane’s silver body — one orange and one yellow — and what looked like a logo was painted on both the tail and the passenger door.

“Is that yours?” Eric asked.

“I hope so,” Mr. Trouble replied. “Otherwise, we’re in the wrong valley.”

“Ha. Ha. Hilarious,” Fiona said, not smiling.

“You have a plane?” Maggie asked.

“It’s much more than just a plane,” Mr. Trouble told her.

“What do you mean?” Eric asked.

“That, my friends, is Trouble Family Services’ mobile headquarters.”

“Mobile headquarters?”

Keeping his eyes on the road as they took the final curve onto the valley floor, Mr. Trouble smiled. “As much as it would be nice to live here in your beautiful town of…of…”

“Tobin,” Fiona said.

“Of Tobin…uh…uh…”

“Colorado.”

“Colorado,” Mr. Trouble repeated, “As much as that would be nice, this is actually our first time here. As you can imagine, our work takes us all over the place. So we need mobile headquarters. Make sense?”

“I guess,” Eric said. Of course, none of it made sense.

“If you came in the plane, then whose car is this?” Maggie asked.

“Well, technically it’s Eric’s,” Mr. Trouble said. “We picked it up for the job, after all.”

“You picked it up. You mean you rented it?”

“No,” Mr. Trouble said, laughing as if it were the craziest thing he’d ever heard. “You think someone would rent a clunker like this? We bought it. See, sometimes our cases can be a little rough on vehicles. We learned long ago it’s better to buy than rent.”

“Bought it?” Eric asked. “Well, what about that truck this afternoon?”

“Bought it, too.” Mr. Trouble pointed through the windshield. “See? It’s parked near the Lady Candice, and it’s also yours.”

Maggie scrunched up her face. “Lady Candice?”

“Name of the plane,” Fiona said. “Grandpa named it after Grandma.”

“Who gives a plane a name?” Maggie said, clearly thinking it was a stupid idea.

“A lot of people,” Fiona told her, clearly thinking Maggie had no clue.

Eric didn’t care if the plane had a name or not. All he could think about were the cars Mr. Trouble said were his. “I can’t afford to pay for these.”

“Who said you had to pay for anything?” Mr. Trouble asked.

“Hello?” Fiona said. “We went over this on the phone, remember? Free of charge? No cost to you? You do know what that means, right?”

“Then how can you afford to pay for them if you don’t charge anything?”

Mr. Trouble shrugged. “We’ve saved a few bucks here and there over the centuries.”

Over the centuries? Sure, Eric thought. “If you don’t want to tell me, then just say so.”

The sedan jerked to a stop and Mr. Trouble killed the engine. He then clapped his hands together and said, “Time to get to work.”

The first thing Eric noticed as he climbed out of the car was smoke billowing up out of the center of the plane. “Hey, your airplane’s on fire.”

No one reacted.

“Hey! Fire!”

“What?” Fiona asked.

“There’s smoke coming out of your plane,” he said.

“Relax. Mom’s just cooking dinner.” She leaned down a little and pointed under the plane.

Eric took a look. On the opposite side of the aircraft was what could only be described as an outdoor kitchen. The smoke he had seen was rising out of a pipe at the rear of a large, black stove.

As he stood up again, he caught sight of two men wearing white lab coats standing near the landing gear, staring at him. They were remarkably similar in appearance — receding hairlines, slightly overweight, large noses, small ears — and looked a few years older than Eric’s dad.

Mr. Trouble put a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “Gentlemen, he’s all yours.”

“Excellent!” one of the men said. Then he and his lookalike began walking rapidly in Eric’s direction.

Mr. Trouble took a step toward the airplane. “Maggie, this way.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m staying with—”

“He’ll be fine,” Mr. Trouble said, taking her arm.

“Really, I shouldn’t leave—”

“I guarantee you he’ll be back with you very, very shortly. Fiona, I need to check something onboard, so why don’t you take Maggie over to the kitchen and see if there’s any ice cream left?”

A small smile grew on Maggie’s face. “Ice cream?”

“Follow me,” Fiona said.

Eric looked at the two men walking his way, then at Fiona and Maggie heading for the kitchen, and finally at Mr. Trouble moving toward the ladder hanging under the plane’s door. “What am I supposed to do?”

Mr. Trouble glanced back. “Just stay where you are. It won’t take long.”

“What won’t take long?”

Mr. Trouble merely waved, hopped onto the ladder, and climbed up into the plane.

“I’m serious! What won’t—”

“Hello, hello,” one of the lab-coated men said. Now that they were close, Eric could see that the talker was slightly taller than his companion. He was also the only one smiling.

The shorter man wasn’t even looking at Eric now. All his attention was focused on a plastic-looking rectangular box in his hand. It was about the size of a paperback book, and every few seconds he would wave it back and forth through the air in front of him.

“I can’t tell you how pleased we are to finally meet you,” the first man said. He spoke with an accent that Eric thought was probably Irish. The man thrust his hand out. “So very pleased.”

Not knowing what else to do, Eric shook it, but when he tried to let go, the man held tight.

“You are Eric, of course. Eric Morrison?”

“Well…yeah.”

“I’m Colin,” the man said, his smile growing even broader. “Though, if you wish, you can call me Uncle Colin. Everyone else here does.”

“Can I have my hand back?”

“What? Oh. Of course, of course.” But instead of letting go, he pulled something out of his pocket with his left hand. It was a rectangular box only a couple of inches long, maybe as wide as a Magic Marker. “Which finger do you prefer?”