Huber Hill and the Dead Man's Treasure (ARC)

257 Pages·2016·4.39 MB·English

by  Bostick B K

H H
U B E R I L L
Advance Reader’s Copy
This advance reading copy consists of unedited and
uncorrected page proofs. Please note that any quotes
for review must be checked against the finished book.
Unfinished elements of this book (such as illustrations
and appended material) are also subject to change.
B. K. Bostick
On-sale date: October 2011
Juvenile Fiction 256 pages 6 x 9
ISBN: 978-1-59955-911-7
Bonneville Books
Springville, Utah
Visit our website at www.cedarfort.com

H H
U B E R I L L
Advance Reader’s Copy
B. K. Bostick
Bonneville Books
Springville, Utah
© 2011 B.K. Bostick
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic,
film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher,
except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.
This is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The opinions
and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions
or views of Cedar Fort, Inc. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the
responsibility of the author.
ISBN 13: 978-1-59955-911-7
Published by Bonneville Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.,
2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663
Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc. www.cedarfort.com
Cover design by Brian Halley
Cover design © 2011 by Lyle Mortimer
Typeset by Melissa J. Caldwell
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed on acid-free paper

Prologue
“Where is it? Tell me now!”
demanded the man in the black.
“I . . . already . . . told you! I . . . don’t . . . know!”
“Wrong answer,” the man in black whispered as he held up his
victim’s oxygen tube and kinked it sharply. A hissing sound filled the
room as the old man flailed about wildly.
“Por favor . . . por favor . . . ,” the old timer gasped, his face the
color of a turnip.
The man in black eased the kink in the tube, allowing oxygen to
flow back into his victim’s lungs. Heaving in and out, peachlike color
returned to his face.
“Te pregunto otra vez! Tell me where it is!”
“It does not matter . . . how . . . many times . . . have I told you?
Doesn’t . . . exist!”
The man in black gritted his teeth and thrust his face toward the
old man.
“You did not look hard enough! You gave up too easily!”
“Maybe . . . but tell me . . . what . . . would you do with
it . . . even if you found it?” the white-haired man choked. “Wouldn’t
matter . . . your cup . . . will never . . . be filled. An evil heart . . . is
never . . . satisfied.”
A wicked grin crept onto the man in black’s face. “Perhaps not,
but I will fill my cup nonetheless.”
The man in black kinked the tube again and watched the old
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man writhe in agony as the terrors of suffocation gripped him. The
old man’s sprawling legs and arms sent objects flying off his night-
stand, shattering onto the floor. Monitors bleeped and rang as bulg-
ing eyes pleaded for mercy. The man in black finally released the
tube. Gulping for air, it took several moments for the old man to
speak.
“Sobrino mio . . . what . . . have . . . you . . . become?”
“A man who will do whatever it takes to get what he wants.”
“Well . . . you . . . will . . . have . . . to . . . do . . . worse.”
The grin returned to the man’s face. “I can. I can do so much
worse. One of your sons or daughters? Perhaps you told one of them
where it is?”
Genuine fear now filled the old man’s eyes.
“No . . . you wouldn’t . . . please . . . ,” he said, panicking.
“You know I would. Now, I will ask you once more. Where is
it?”
The old man hesitated, but then uttered between sobs.
“Eldredge . . . Nicholas . . . . Carbondale . . . Colorado.”
Beyond the beeping of monitors, a distant siren screamed down
the streets of Salamanca, Spain.
“Sounds like médicos are on their way . . . I do not think they’ll
make it on time!” The man in black smiled as he withdrew a long,
sharp blade from his side. With one quick slash, the oxygen tube
was severed from its tank. The connected end fell to the hardwood
floor and helplessly blew about particles of dust. Once again, the
old man’s body thrashed about, his muscles constricting. His mouth
gaped open and shut like a fish out of water. Stars dotted his vision.
Slowly, the old man relaxed as darkness crept in from the corners of
his eyes. Hazily, he stared up at the inky figure looming over him.
Gently, Juan Hernán Salazar bowed toward the old man and lightly
brushed his forehead with his lips. “Buenas noches . . . Tío Carlos.”
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A series of vibrations shook
Huber from his stupor. The sound
reverberated off his orange, plastic chair and echoed throughout the
classroom. Heads turned toward the sound, including that of Mrs.
Collins.
“Mr. Hill, that better not be a cell phone in my class.”
“Sorry, sorry, I’ll turn it off.”
“I hear it again, you know what happens.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m turning it off.”
Huber fumbled through his front pocket, digging out his Nokia.
A manila envelope indicated he’d received a text message. 555-3547.
He knew that number and knew what the message relayed without
reading it. That time of the month already? Huber flipped the phone
open.
“HAPPY H8 PUBER DAY!”
People often wish they could travel back in time to change some
word or action. If Huber Hill could travel back in time, he knew
where he’d go. Fifth grade maturation. On that fateful day, Huber’s
life changed in ways he couldn’t have fathomed at the time.
“So, when do boys start growing pubic hair?” he’d asked the pre-
senter.
Before the doctor could answer, Scott McCormick had conjured
up Huber’s new name. It stuck. Puber.
Huber wished he had been named something more normal like
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