The Bishops
Grace stepped off the plane in Seattle wearing a grey pleated skirt, a starched white blouse and a black blazer with the school's coat of arms proudly sewn on the left breast pocket. Marty had on grey slacks, a wrinkled white shirt, a paint-stained school tie and a black blazer identical to Grace's, except for the tear in the right sleeve at the elbow and a bit of dried yolk on the lapel from the omelette he had just eaten. Dr Beasel had insisted the twins wear their school uni forms so their uncle would recognize them when they arrived.
On the flight, when he wasn't drawing in his sketchbook, Marty had slept. As he walked towards US Customs with his passport in hand, despite his worry about his parents, he was nearly bursting with anticipation for this new adventure. Grace had slept some as well, but she was not nearly as excited. She had spent all her waking moments writing in herdiary and plotting her and Marty's return to the Omega Opportunity Preparatory School, hoping their uncle would listen to reason and was not a homicidal maniac.
As they waited in the customs line, Marty spotted an older couple just beyond the gate holding up a crude sign with O'HARA scribbled on it. He pointed them out to Grace and said, "Uncle Travis must be Mom's older brother."
The grey-haired man was wearing a pair of blue jeans, an old sweatshirt with AIR FORCE written on it in faded letters, and a pair of high-top trainers. The woman was much wider than the man, dressed in what looked like a flowered tent.
"That can't possibly be Uncle Travis," Grace said. "A dollar says it is." "You're on." In the past seven years, Grace had won a total of two hundred and eleven one-dollar bills from him, each carefully tallied in her Moleskines. Marty had not won a single dollar.
Marty walked up to the couple. "Uncle Travis?" "No," the man said. "My name's Phil Bishop, and this is my wife-"
"Bertha," the woman said, throwing her arms around them. "You poor, poor things!" She drew them into her like a famished spider. "We are so sorry about what happened. You're so young". She went on and on. Marty thought that Bertha's to the dress disguised rolls of soft flesh, but what lay beneath was as hard as bricks. It was like being hugged by an oak tree. He thought he might suffocate before she finished, but managed to wiggle free and get a guip of air. Grace was not as lucky. Bertha held her in a headlock from which she could not escape. "So, where's Uncle Travis?" Marty asked.
"He couldn't be-" Phil started to answer. "He and his crew just got back this morning, Bertha interrupted, "or he would have been here to meet you himself. He's been in the field and he had a lot of things to attend to at home. We offered to stand in for him. I hope you're not too disappointed." "What crew?" Marty asked.
"His merry band of pirates," Bertha said with a
laugh. "So you're not relatives?" "No, but I hope you'll consider us family." "Wolfe will explain everything when you see him," Phil said. "Let's get your bags." He tossed the sign into the bin and started down the corridor.
"Grace, you haven't said a word," Bertha said, still clutching her. Grace squirmed out of her grip and glared at Marty. "You owe me a dollar." Marty reached into his pocket and handed her his two hundred and twelfth one-dollar bill.
Marty ignored her. He was used to her being afraid of everything. "Relax," he whispered. "I've flown in dozens of small planes some worse than this." He helped Bertha pick up the bread and meat, and said, "This is a lot of food."
"We have two new stomachs to fill," Bertha said. "I'm your uncle's cook. among other things." "No kidding?" Marty said. "I do a little cooking myself." He was being somewhat modest. At school when he wasn't drawing, painting, sculpting or car tooning, Marty was in the kitchen learning everything he could about the culinary arts. His long-range plan was to support his comic-book business by becoming a world-famous chef. Even Dr Beasel thought this was a reachable goal. Marty's only regret in leaving so quickly was that he had missed his st lesson on making the perfect broccoli soufflé. He prered into the crammed compartment and was delighted to see several items he could work with if Bertha would let him use the kitchen. "No vegetables?"
"We grow our own," Bertha said. "In greenhouses. And they're all organic." "Do you have broccoli?".
"A whole row."
"That's great!"
That's bad, Grace thought. If this keeps up, I won't be able to separate Marty from Uncle Travis with a stick of dynamite, and he hasn't even met him yet.
Phil looked up at the clouds gathering above the lake. "We'd better take off. The weather's turning. If we don't, we'll be stuck on the mainland until the storm passes."
"The mainland?" Marty asked. "Your uncle lives on an island off the Washington coast," Phil said.
"Wow!"
Two sticks of dynamite, Grace thought grimly. With a lot of grunting and groaning, Phil managed to get the twins' suitcases into the storage compart ment. Marty and Grace climbed into the tattered back seats, and Bertha heaved herself into the co-pilot seat next to Phil.
"Buckle up," Phil said.
They took off across the lake, heading west towards the Pacific Ocean.
Unbeknownst to the occupants of the noisy seaplane, they passed right over the top of a large mansion perched on a hill overlooking a beautiful zoological park. Inside the mansion was a man sitting at a desk in a dimly lit room without windows. Lying next to the man was a magnificent, fully grown Caspian tiger, thought to have gone extinct a half century ear lier. The man's name was Noah Blackwood. The tiger's name was Natasha.
The only thing on the desk was a computer screen and a microphone.