Max Tilt by Peter Lerangis

Author:Peter Lerangis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-06-22T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

SERGEI DIMITROVICH FORMOZOV

Tour Guide / Parkour Specialist / Outdoorsman

* * *

“Uh, thanks,” Bitsy said, casting a dubious glance at Max.

As he shoved the card into his pocket, he felt his phone vibrate and nearly leaped out of his seat.

“So nervous, you Americans!” Raisa said with a laugh. “Like Sergei.”

Quickly Max pulled out his phone and looked at the screen.

“Is it from Bitsy’s phone?” Alex said.

Max shook his head. “No. I don’t recognize the number.”

He leaned forward. Alex, Bitsy, and Raisa all stared at the screen.

Come out, come out, wherever you are. I’m feeling awfully lonely in Seat Number 2497.

XOXOX,

NH

The three kids jumped from their seats. Raisa gasped in surprise.

“Sorry!” Max said. He nearly fell into the aisle, quickly leaping up and breaking into a run.

As he neared the door between cars, it slid open. A twenty-something guy strode into the car, dressed in a neat red uniform and carrying a tray of food. “Nuts! Sandwiches! Juice—”

“Watch out!” Max shouted.

With a helpless yelp, the guy veered. Max veered in the same direction, barreling into the tray. A plateful of almonds shot upward, whizzing by Max’s ears. Three plastic-wrapped pastries bounced off his face. He slipped to his knees in a rainstorm of small sandwiches, odd-looking snacks, and bottles of juice.

Alex scooped him up by the arm. “Sorry!” she screamed. “We’ll be right back!”

“Where’s Seat 2497?” Bitsy asked.

The guy stared at her in shock. “S-S-Second car?”

Alex, Max, and Bitsy took off, racing from car to car, narrowly avoiding two more food people, a conductor, and a little old man emerging from the restroom.

Max was the first to enter the second car. It was nearly empty, and no one looked anything like—

There.

Max could see a rumpled figure reclined across one of the bench seats. His hat covered his head, and he appeared to be fast asleep. Max had almost missed seeing him, but there was no mistaking the tweed coat and scuffed shoes.

Alex and Bitsy pulled up next to Max. Bitsy was shaking. “Wait a minute. Didn’t he just write to us?” she whispered. “Then why is he . . . ?”

“Careful,” Alex said. “He’s got something up his sleeve.”

“Nigel!” Max called out, tugging on the old man’s pants.

“Rorrgmf,” came the reply.

A folded note fell from the man’s pants pocket onto the floor. But as Max stooped to pick it up, the old man bolted upright.

Bitsy’s jaw dropped.

The cap had fallen from the man’s head. He had a sharp nose, a full head of reddish hair, and a pair of bloodshot blue eyes staring through lopsided eyeglasses. When he spoke, it was in a nasal voice with a Russian accent. “Sorry. I fall asleep.”

“You . . . you’re not . . .” Alex stammered.

“Nigel,” Max blurted.

The man’s face tightened. “Nyet,” he said, shimmying away from the window toward the aisle. “Take seat. Take!”

He stood, pushing Max away, and scurried down the center of the train.

“Should we follow him?” Bitsy asked.

But Max’s eyes were focused on the folded-up note. He lifted it from the floor and opened it:

GREETINGS, CHILDREN.

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