Nathaniel has not been answering his cell or responding to emails. Mason thinks Nathaniel’s dad has probably confiscated his phone.
So we make a point of passing Nathaniel’s house. There are pink rose petals all over the front stairs. The living-room curtains stir, and we see Nathaniel’s grandmother peering out the window as if she is expecting to see Willy. She waves when we pass. There is no sign of Nathaniel.
The front door opens and Fred steps out, holding a broom. When he starts sweeping up the rose petals, he spots Roxie. “That’s a beautiful dog,” he calls out. Then he recognizes Mason and me. “You’re the kids from forensics camp, aren’t you? Nathaniel’s friends?”
“Yup,” Mason says. “Hey, if you don’t mind us asking, how is Nathaniel? We were supposed to hang out with him tonight, so when we didn’t hear from him, we figured he was still in trouble.”
Fred sets the broom down. “You had plans, did you? Well, his father has confined him to his room. I tried to reason with André—Nathaniel adores that dog, and he would never do anything to hurt his grandmother—but André told me it wasn’t my place.” He sighs. “I suppose Nathaniel isn’t the only one in this family who needs time to get used to me.”
Fred comes down the stairs so he can pet Roxie. “You look after this beautiful dog, okay?”
We promise that we will. After Fred shuts the door behind him, Mason turns to me. “I wonder what Nathaniel would say if he knew Fred was sticking up for him.”
Stacey, Muriel and Nico are waiting at the corner of Lansdowne Avenue and Sherbrooke Street. “Nice to meet you, Roxie,” Nico says, squatting down to shake Roxie’s paw. “For the record, I’m a good guy, not a bad guy. So don’t eat me.”
The others have not heard from Nathaniel either. It feels strange not to have him with us—partly because we have gotten used to being six, but also because Nathaniel was so involved in the plans for tonight.
Nico and Muriel will meet our contact person. I am trying to stop calling him the dognapper—in case he isn’t. Mason will hide out by the utility shed near the park entrance. From there, he will be able to see Nico and Muriel. Stacey and I will be stationed at opposite sides of the park. She will wait behind a giant recycling bin (why am I not surprised she chose that spot?). I will be crouched underneath the slide in the kids’ play area.
The plan is that Mason will text Stacey and me to let us know what is going on. We have even come up with a code in case of emergency.
1=Things are fine.
2=Make a run for it.
3=Call the police.
“What about Roxie?” Mason asks. Roxie’s one stand-up ear perks up when she hears her name. I think she likes it when people talk about her. “If we’re going to use her for bait like Nathaniel said, she should be with me—in plain view near the entrance to the park.”
I take a deep breath. “She can go with you, but only if you promise not to let her out of your sight. Not even for a millisecond,” I say.
“Of course I promise.”
There is a bike rack by the utility shed. “Stay,” I tell Roxie as I loop her leash over the bike rack. “I’ll come back for you.” She looks at me with her soft dark eyes. I give her a quick scratch behind the ears. “I’m glad you understand me,” I say.
It is twenty to eight—time for me to get to the play area. There is not much grass underneath the slide, just dried-up earth. I thought of this spot because when I was little I used to hide here when we played hide-and-seek. I squeeze in under the slide. It’s a good thing I’m not taller, or this could get uncomfortable.
Maybe it’s because I’ve got nothing to do or because I’m thinking about criminals that my mind takes me back again to the day of the break-in. This time I try to let the memories come without fighting them.
I see a little girl blocking her ears, then unblocking them. Then I hear a woman’s voice calling for help. For a moment I think someone in the park is in trouble, but then I realize the sound is in my memory. And now I remember wondering whether there was a woman calling out on TV—or if it was Mom. The little girl blocks her ears again, like that monkey who will hear no evil. She does not want to hear. She is too afraid.
Another feeling washes over me, one I have never been aware of before when I remembered the break-in. Guilt. I didn’t do anything to help my mom.
And then, for some reason I don’t quite understand, I think of Larry’s dog Pixie, the one he has to muzzle. Didn’t Larry say some people were fear biters too? I think of how I sometimes snap at my parents, and how nasty I can be to Mason. Could I be one of those fear biters Larry was talking about? Have I been afraid all these years?
A squeegee kid walks by, drawing me back to the present. He is wearing a ratty-looking gray wool cap and carrying a backpack. He whistles, and there is something familiar about the tune, but I can’t place it. What is that song? I don’t think he is the contact person—he’s just some kid walking through the park—but even so, I do not breathe or move a muscle. I figure it is an opportunity to practice being invisible, and it seems to be working because the squeegee kid walks right past me, still whistling.
I check the time on my cell phone. Seven fifty-five. I can feel my heart speeding up even though nothing has happened yet.
I text Mason. Any news?
No, he texts me back. Just some squeegee kid walking through the park. He said “Hi pooch” when he passed Roxie.
That is when I place the song. It’s “Who Let the Dogs Out?”
TWENTY-TWO
In a big city like Montreal, I am used to seeing squeegee kids. Some have long, unwashed dreadlocks, and others’ heads are shaven. Their arms are tattooed, their lips and eyebrows are pierced, and their faces are sunburned and craggy from living on the streets. They hang out at busy intersections, often at entrances or exits to the highway, and when the traffic light turns red, they rush the cars, using their squeegees to clean the windshields—even when they are perfectly clean. I have seen drivers try to wave squeegee kids away, but most drivers lower their windows just enough to hand over a buck or two.
“It’s extortion,” my dad says.
Mom is more sympathetic. The company she works for raises funds to help street kids, so Mom has visited some of the local homeless shelters. “I just hope those poor kids have some place to sleep tonight,” my mom will say. “And what about their parents? Imagine having a child who lives on the street.” Then she’ll lower her window and give them some money and the address of the closest shelter.
Something else I have noticed about squeegee kids is that many of them have dogs. Dad says it is one more ploy to shake people down for money (“You feel sorry for the poor mutt who ended up with that kid.”). Mom disagrees. I’ve heard her say the dogs are probably the squeegee kids’ only real friends.
“Who Let the Dogs Out?”
Maybe it was pure coincidence that the squeegee kid was whistling that song. But maybe it wasn’t. Could the squeegee kid be our contact person? All he would need is Internet access, which he could get at any library or coffee shop.
I text Mason. Maybe the squeegee kid is our man.
This time, Mason does not text back right away. All I can do is wait. I am terrible at waiting. If only I could see the bike rack from here. I imagine Roxie sitting, one ear pricked—watching and listening.
Mason texts me back. You might be right. He’s talking to Muriel and Nico now. Over and out.
Then nothing. No more texts from Mason. My legs are getting crampy.
Except for some crickets singing and the sound of my own breathing, the park is perfectly still. I cannot stand not knowing what is going on.
So? I write to Mason.
Still no answer.
Is Roxie ok?
No answer.
A black b
ird—or is it a bat?—startles me when it swoops overhead. Even though the air is warm, I cannot help shivering.
And then I hear something. Words echoing in the darkness.
First a stranger’s voice. Rough and angry. “You’re just a kid. You should’ve told me. And that you were bringing a friend. I don’t do business with kids.”
Now Muriel’s voice. Higher-pitched than usual. “So what if I’m a kid? I’ve got the money.”
I know she does not have the money.
“Where’s the dog?” That’s Nico. Serious for once. Afraid. I can hear it in his voice.
“Like I said, I don’t do business with kids.”
And then, in the distance, a short, sharp bark. But definitely a bark—and not Roxie’s, which is lower and longer. Roxie must hear the barking too, but she doesn’t respond.
“Show us the Chihuahua before we give you the money.” Nico’s voice again. Why do they keep mentioning the money?
“Show me the money first.”
The conversation stops. Now I hear the sound of a scuffle and people running. More barking. Roxie is barking now too. Someone—I can’t tell who—is shouting, “Oh, crap!”
What is going on? I don’t know where to look.
I jump—nearly bumping my head on the bottom of the slide—when my cell phone vibrates in my hand.
It’s a message from Mason: 2
Make a run for it.
My legs are shaking. Before I do anything else, I need to get Roxie. When I reach the bike rack, Mason is waiting for me. But where is Roxie?
I want to scream. But we agreed that no matter what, we would not draw any attention to ourselves. Besides, when I open my mouth, no sound comes out.
TWENTY-THREE
“Where is Roxie?” I hiss when my voice comes back.
“Tabitha, I don’t know how to tell you—” Mason sounds like he’s about to hyperventilate.
“Where is she, Mason?”
“I’m really sorry. What I’m trying to tell you is…Roxie’s gone. And it’s my fault.”
I had been starting to appreciate things about Mason I had not noticed before, warming up to him—but not anymore. I have no sympathy for him now. “You promised, you…you…stupid jerk…” Insulting Mason does not make me feel any better. So I punch him in the stomach. But he is too pudgy to feel it. And now my knuckles hurt.
“I said I’m sorry,” Mason is saying. “I messed up. I was watching the squeegee kid and Nico and Muriel. And then I had to pee—really bad. And I didn’t want anyone to see me—or hear me. So I went behind that tree over there. I know I shouldn’t have done it. And I swear I was only gone for a couple of minutes. Roxie was tied up, and she didn’t bark or anything, so I didn’t even realize until I got back.”
We had a plan for what to do if things went wrong. But right now my mind can’t focus on a plan. Mason follows me to the bike rack. I take my flashlight out of my pocket. In the dim light, I can see Roxie’s paw prints on the dusty ground. And shoe prints too. Why would Roxie have gone with someone else anyway? Could the person have had something Roxie wanted—like a toy or a bone? I kneel down to get a closer look at the prints. It looks like whoever took her was wearing runners—old ones.
It feels like my heart is beating inside my throat. I close my eyes. Maybe that will help me think.
It is Mason who notices something glimmering on the ground: a foil candy wrapper. Could the dognapper have dropped it? Mason is about to pick up the wrapper when I stop him. “Don’t tamper with the evidence,” I tell him.
Then I remember I am still wearing the pink plaid shorts I wore to camp today. When I took off my rubber gloves earlier, Stacey was standing near me, and because I did not want to get a lecture about not reusing them, I stuffed them into my front pocket. I pull the gloves out now and show them to Mason. Then I slip them on, grab the candy wrapper and turn the gloves inside out so the evidence is safely stashed inside.
I am shoving the wrapper and the gloves back into my pocket when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Lay off!” I yell.
“It’s only me.”
I recognize the T-shirt—the skull and bones glow yellow in the dark—before the voice. “Nathaniel? What are you doing here?” I don’t wait for an answer. “Someone took Roxie.”
“Crap!” he says.
Mason shakes his head. “It’s my fault. I should’ve been watching her.”
Stacey runs over from the other side of the park. “Nathaniel? I thought you were grounded,” she says.
“We heard you were locked in your room,” Mason says.
Nathaniel does not bother to explain what he is doing here or how he got out of his house. “Did you see which way Nico and Muriel went?” he asks Stacey.
“Did you see Roxie?” I ask her at the same time.
“Nico and Muriel followed the squeegee kid. That way.” She points north on Lansdowne Avenue to the steep part where the fancy houses are. Then Stacey looks at me. “Where’s Roxie?”
“Roxie’s gone. The squeegee kid must have taken her when Mason went to pee.”
Stacey groans. “You went to pee?”
I am trying not to cry. “Roxie’s been dognapped,” I manage to say.
“I can’t believe it,” Stacey says. “But the weird thing is, I didn’t see her. The squeegee kid had the Chihuahua in his backpack. But he didn’t have Roxie.”
“Roxie! Roxie!” I call out. I am half expecting her to bark or to come loping out of the bushes, wanting to nuzzle me, but she doesn’t. The only answer I get is the rustle of the wind.
“C’mon,” Mason urges us, “let’s go. We need to stick together. If we catch the dognapper, he’ll take us to Roxie.”
“How do you know?” I ask him.
“I just know.”
I decide to believe Mason, mostly because I don’t have a choice. I take one last look around before I follow the others. No sign of movement except for some rustling in the treetops. Where in the world is Roxie? My whole body hurts from worry.
We do not wait for the light on de Maisonneuve Boulevard to turn green. We are getting to the steep section of Lansdowne when Mason whispers, “Shoot.”
“What’s wrong?” Nathaniel asks him.
Mason’s shoulders droop. “My cell phone. I left it at the park. I put it down on the bench while I went to pee.”
“Do you ever not forget something?” I ask him.
“We’ll wait here, Mason,” Nathaniel says, “but you better hurry.”
“The words Mason and hurry should not be used in the same sentence,” I mutter, but he gets back faster than I expect, although he’s out of breath. How is he going to make it up the hill?
“I found it,” he says. “And this too.”
He shows us a folded-up piece of paper. When he unfolds it and holds it up to the light, we see it is a copy of the email correspondence between Muriel and the person who was trying to sell her the Chihuahua.
“Now look at this,” Mason says, turning the sheet over. On the other side is another email.
“He can’t be such a bad guy if he cares enough about the environment to print on both sides of a sheet,” Stacey says.
The second email message is about a white standard poodle.
“I think we saw the dognapper walking through the park before,” Mason says. “He’s one of those squeegee kids.”
Nathaniel looks up the hill. We cannot see all the way to the top of Lansdowne from here. “I just hope we haven’t lost him,” he says.
“What about Muriel and Nico?” Stacey asks. “Do you see any sign of them?”
“Nope. Could be they’re so high up the hill we can’t see them from here.” The way Nathaniel says i
t makes me think he is trying to convince himself that there is nothing to worry about.
“I hope you realize you got your fingerprints all over that sheet,” I say to Mason as we trudge up the street. But he is not listening. Neither are the others. That is because, midway up the street, someone behind a white picket fence is waving us over. Muriel.
“Where’s Nico and the—?” Stacey starts to ask when we get to where Muriel is.
“Shhh!” Muriel presses her finger to her lips. “The squeegee kid went into the backyard here. Nico followed him. I said I’d wait for you guys. What took you so long?”
I want to blame Mason and tell her it’s also his fault that Roxie is missing, only there isn’t time. We have to find the dogs. “Let’s go,” I say.
“D’you think this is where he lives?” Mason asks.
“Squeegee kids don’t usually live in mansions,” I point out.
The lights are out and all the curtains are drawn in the house the squeegee kid has led us to. I’ll bet the owners are away for the summer holidays. A long driveway leads to a three-car garage. There is another fence, a higher one, to the right of the garage. Nathaniel tries unlatching the fence from the outside, but it is locked. “They must’ve jumped over it,” he says, stepping back so he can do the same.
Mason backs away from the fence. “Jumped over that thing? Maybe I should wait here. I could be the lookout.”
“You can do it,” Nathaniel says. “You jumped over a wall in the obstacle course. Besides, we’ll help you.”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t be such a girl,” Nathaniel says.
“Excuse me,” I say, “but did you just say what I think you said?”
Muriel and Stacey are shaking their heads too.
“That was such a sexist remark,” Stacey says.
“Extremely sexist,” Muriel adds. “You should know better, Nathaniel.”
“I—I didn’t mean it that way,” Nathaniel stammers. “I just meant…look, it was a dumb thing to say.”
Forensics Squad Unleashed Page 12
