by Peter Cox
NATE AND BASSET, P.I.: PET INVESTIGATORS
The Mystery of the Masked Marauder
by
Peter S. Cox
For Brianna.
You inspire me to be my best and do my best.
Everything I do, I do to glorify God.
Copyright © 2016 by Peter S. Cox
Cover illustration by Jon Winchell, copyright © 2016 Winchell Arts.
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2016
ISBN 978-1514797440
www.peterscox.com
CONTENTS
MY STRANGE NEW LIFE
DECIDING WHAT TO DO
THE MASKED PHANTOM
MEETING THE ANIMALS
GOSSIP
THE DISAPPEARANCE
THE EYES IN THE FOREST
THE FORT
THE INVESTIGATION BEGINS
GENEVIEVE
THE WEASEL’S GAME
THE “CRASHED SPACESHIP”
THE FIRST CLUE
THE LAST DINNER
THE PHANTOM RETURNS
THE RIDDLE
THE LIBRARY
DECIPHERING THE RIDDLE
MEETING THE SQUIRRELS
WALKING INTO THE UNKNOWN
BASKERTONN MANOR
HIDDEN PASSAGES
THE SCREAMING FACE
GHOSTLY WHISPERS
KIDNAPPED
MAKING A PLAN
THE UPSIDE DOWN SUN
INSIDE THE CRAWLSPACE
THOSE WHO AWAKENED
SEARCHING FOR AN OGRE
MEETING AFTER MIDNIGHT
GETTING HELP
SNEAKING IN
THE FINAL CLUES
NIGHTMARE LAKE
TRAPPED
FACE TO FACE WITH THE ENEMY
THE FIGHT BEGINS
DIRE TROUBLE
A SURPRISE APPEARANCE
PUTTING EVERYTHING BACK TOGETHER
Chapter 1
MY STRANGE NEW LIFE
I talk to animals.
Other than that, my life is pretty normal.
Well talking to animals isn’t that impressive; most people talk to animals. What I mean is I talk to animals, and they talk back.
Also, I’m not crazy.
Really.
Let me tell how it all started, and if you don’t believe me by the end of it, that’s fine. No hard feelings. I know what I know is true, and if others don’t believe me then that just makes their world smaller, takes the magic out of their lives, and makes them more ignorant.
No offense.
But I think you’ll believe me by the end of it. The animals helped me solve those crimes you’ve been reading about in the paper, and if it wasn’t for them the Masked Marauder would still be on the loose.
My parents would also be dead. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
When you find out all the things I’ve done, all that I know, you’ll see that talking animals is the only thing that makes sense.
It all started last year, just a few days after my 13th birthday. I was walking home from school on the last day before summer vacation, in a pretty bad mood (I’ll tell you more about that in a minute), and had just entered my fenced-in backyard when my dog Basset came running out of the back door towards me.
That’s nothing unusual.
What was unusual was how he greeted me.
With words.
“Buddy, buddy, hey buddy,” I heard a voice pant out, like someone was way too excited. “You’re finally home and I wasn’t sure if you were coming back or not and there was a neat smell earlier that you should smell and I’m glad you’re home,” the voice said in one long run-on sentence.
I stopped and stared.
The voice was coming from my dog.
Obviously, I thought I was crazy.
In most movies or stories, people pinch themselves to see if they’re dreaming. I didn’t. Because that’s stupid. First off, have you ever, and I mean ever, had a dream that actually felt real? Whenever I’m dreaming, everything seems off, time doesn’t move like it should, and the plot keeps jumping around randomly.
Also, I’m usually in my underwear.
Second, how would pinching yourself tell you that you’re awake? Is pinching the one thing that’s impossible to dream about? Running away from a flying ketchup monster through the halls of my school at night while one of my teachers sings karaoke, that’s possible; but pinching yourself is just too much?
Makes no sense.
So I figured I was either going crazy (and mostly there), or someone was playing a trick on me. When he talked, Basset’s mouth didn’t move like in most talking dog movies (with terrible animation), so I figured it could be a walkie-talkie hidden nearby somewhere.
Either way, I decided to go with it. If it was a joke, it was a good one, and I might as well give everyone a laugh. And if I was going crazy, why not start talking to the dog? That sounds like a fun kind of crazy to me.
“Is that you boy?” I asked, hesitantly. “Are…are you talking to me?” I reached a shaking hand out to pet him as he sat at my feet, panting away.
Basset closed his mouth, stopped panting, and looked up at me with a serious expression on his face. He’s a golden retriever, so he can get that solemn, almost sad look on his face sometimes, like he’s deep in thought, but it’s rare, and never when he’s first greeting me.
“It’s me,” I heard the voice say slowly. “But does that mean…you can hear me?”
“I can hear you…” I said, trailing off myself, not sure what to say next.
Then it hit me: a way to figure out if this was a trick after all.
“Basset, what do I do every night, right before bedtime prayers?”
“You tell me about your day, of course,” he said.
That settled it. None of the other kids in the neighborhood could possibly know about that.
So I was either insane, or this was real.
“But how can you hear me?” Basset asked. “You’ve never been able to hear me before.”
“The real question is how can you talk?”
“I’ve always been able to talk.” He sighed, like he was having trouble explaining something. “We can all talk. All the animals I mean. Well not all…it’s tough to describe. Anyway, we can talk to each other, but humans have never been able to hear us . . . until now.”
I stood still for a second, too stunned to move. Let me tell you, learning that all the animals in the world are thinking, talking creatures and you have a gift no one else on earth has… well, it’s a lot to absorb.
Or I could have been insane. That’s a lot to absorb too.
“But then why were you talking, just now when you were running up to me?”
“Why do you humans talk to us when you think we can’t respond?”
“Fair enough,” I said with a smile. “Fair enough.”
I paused.
“Well this puts a new spin on our friendship.”
“I’d say so,” he panted. “A good spin though, right?”
“Oh, definitely,” I smiled. “Definitely a good spin.”
I led him inside then, slightly dazed. Now it felt kind of like I really was in a dream, my head all foggy like when you have a
bad fever or haven’t slept in days.
My parents weren’t home from work yet and I’m an only child, so we had the house to ourselves like we do most days.
My parents’ house isn’t anything special: a three bedroom Cape Cod-style place on a quiet street with a big, shady backyard for Basset and me. It’s nice having all that room to run around and play fetch, and it’s great having my own room, but my one complaint is that we only have one bathroom. It can get crazy in the mornings when we’re all getting ready at the same time.
Anyway, we went upstairs to my bedroom. It’s a little small and cramped, but it’s perfect for me: it’s cozy, quiet, and a perfect place to read, which is my favorite thing to do besides playing with Basset. On the walls were posters of some of my favorite bands (Muse, mostly), and I had fantasy books scattered everywhere. Of course, if I really did have a talking dog, I figured I’d have a little less interest in fantastical stories.
I plopped down on my bed, and Basset followed me up as he had done thousands of times before, and sat there looking at me with that stupid, openmouthed panting grin golden retrievers love to give.
It seemed so normal I almost started to think that everything had just been a daydream.
Then Basset started talking again.
“What do we do now I mean now that we can talk to each other and do you think it will last or will it stop just as suddenly as it started?”
“Don’t ask ME,” I said with a slight laugh.
“But what are we gonna do now to find out?”
“I guess… maybe just give me a moment. I need a minute to process this; a talking dog is just too weird.”
“Same for me. You think a talking dog is weird? That’s my life every day. But a listening human? Now that’s weird.”
I sat for a minute, trying to figure out exactly how to process something like this. I always heard people say stuff like that in movies, but I didn’t know how they did it.
“Hey,” I said slowly, “why do you talk like that sometimes?”
“Like what?” he asked cautiously.
“Well most of the time you talk normally, or I guess I mean like a normal human, I have no idea what’s normal for a dog, but then sometimes you talk really fast and kind of running on like the words just start flowing out of your head all at once and you can’t even keep up.”
“Oh, that,” he sounded slightly embarrassed. “I try not to do that, but sometimes I just get too excited, and everything comes out all at once. It’s relatively common for dogs, I think.”
I’d soon learn just how right he was.
Dogs are a pretty excitable bunch.
Even if you can’t hear what they’re saying to you, most people probably know that.
Basset was different than most other dogs though. I think it’s because he’s a golden retriever. They seem to have more patience and wisdom than most dogs. But they can still get carried away sometimes.
“Well if we can’t figure out why we can talk to each other, then I guess we can’t figure out how to keep it from going away,” I said. “Assuming you don’t want it to go away.”
“Are you kidding buddy this is awesome just about the best thing ever I mean we can finally talk to each other.”
I laughed. “There you go again.” You can’t see a dog blush of course, but you can sure tell when he is embarrassed. And I swear he was blushing under all that fur.
“Sorry, boy. I was just teasing. It’s fun when you get that excited.”
He slowed down, but he overdid it a little, pausing between each word like when you’re trying to talk to someone who speaks a different language. “Wellllll, you’re riiight. We should juuuust go with it for now, and hope it doesn’t goooo away. I’ve alwaaaays wished I could taaaalk to you, but never thooought it would be possible.”
“Me too. Me too.”
We sat looking at each other for a couple of minutes in silence, both of us just thinking. Then something hit me.
“Hey! Do you think I can talk to other animals too?”
He paused. “Probably. I mean, I have no idea how this works, but tomorrow I can take you around and introduce you to some of my friends and we’ll see what happens.”
“Cool.”
My parents were bound to get home from work soon, and I really wasn’t sure what I should do when they did.
“What do you think, Basset? Should I tell my parents about all this?”
“Hmmmm…” Even though a dog can’t really close his lips and make a humming noise, that’s what I heard from Basset. It made sense: he doesn’t use his lips to talk to me. Like I said, when he talks it doesn’t look like bad animation, I just hear it. Not in my head, either, like if it was telepathy, but with my ears. I don’t know how it works; I’m not an Animal-Human-Telepathic-Communication Expert. Also, I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as an Animal-Human-Telepathic-Communication Expert.
At least I hope not.
“I’m not sure telling your parents is a good idea,” he continued. “I mean, I can try to talk to your parents to see if everyone can suddenly hear animals, but my guess is that won’t work. And if they can’t hear me, you shouldn’t say anything to them about it. They’ll probably think you’re crazy.”
“That’s what I figured,” I said with a sigh. “To be honest, I think I’m probably crazy,” I chuckled.
“Well I can tell you that you aren’t crazy, but I’m not sure that would help. The figment of your imagination telling you it isn’t a figment of your imagination doesn’t really prove anything.”
I really hate keeping secrets from my parents. They’re decent enough, and I try not to lie to them if I can help it. We’re not best friends or anything, but they’re fine. They can be busy at work and sometimes ignore me, but that’s normal.
I did have one secret already, though, something that I only told Basset because it’s not like he could tell anyone. Or at least that’s what I thought until today.
I was having trouble with bullies.
Chapter 2
DECIDING WHAT TO DO
It’s embarrassing, but it’s true. I was kind of short and scrawny for my age, so I guess I was pretty easy to push around.
It’s not like they show in the movies. You know how it is in real life: I didn’t get beat up, or get a swirly in the toilet or anything. Nothing so drastic. But a couple of bigger kids – led by a particularly tall monster of a boy named Guster who had terrible acne and breath like sauerkraut – always threatened to beat me up. I was never sure if they’d really do that, and risk me having physical proof that they were bugging me, but I didn’t want to risk it. They threatened until I gave them my lunch money, which I always did.
I asked my parents to pack me a homemade lunch once, but just that once. Guster took my ham sandwich, dunked it in the toilet, and then gave it back to me. I guess he didn’t want my lunch money to buy lunch. He then smashed my Star Trek lunchbox. I told my parents I dropped it during my walk to school.
I know some states have anti-bully laws, and all the schools have anti-bully programs and anti-bully assemblies and anti-bully everything, but that doesn’t always work. Anti-bully reporting only works if teachers see someone bullying. And anti-bullying assemblies and classes only work if bullies happen to be nice, intelligent people who pay attention in class and will listen to appeals to their better nature, which just happens to be the exact opposite of what a bully is. It’s kind of in the job description.
I wanted to tell my parents or tell a teacher, I really did, but I was too scared. Scared that the bully would get punished, and then he’d punish me for some nice cold revenge. Bullies aren’t the most creative bunch, but I didn’t really want to encourage them to try coming up with a creative punishment.
Honestly, I was most scared of becoming a tattletale. I know that sounds ridiculous, but things weren’t going well for me when it came to making friends, and I didn’t want to make it any worse. That was my biggest fear.
We had moved
to Grant County just a couple weeks ago, coming from across the country. It was an easy move for my parents, one quiet neighborhood to another, one job to a slightly better one, but for me it was hard. Really hard.
I didn’t have any close friends back in my old school, but I had a couple of guys that I would hang out with. We’d play video games or go to the park to play fetch with Basset or something. But here it seemed impossible to find anyone. Everyone seemed to already be in their own little group, and none of them were looking for new members.
It didn’t help that a lot of kids teased me.
It’s never about anything major. I’m small, so some kids call me pipsqueak or other, meaner names about my size. My first day at my new school I didn’t know that sweaters were “wicked uncool,” and I wore a really baggy sweater that my dad had given me from one of my older cousins.
The “grandma sweater” – as the other kids called it – was just the start. My parents never had a lot of money, even though they both worked, so a lot of my clothes were hand-me-downs. Usually really dated, out of style hand-me-downs.
I didn’t have bell bottoms or flowery, frilly shirts, but I had a lot of grungy stuff from the 90s. No one wanted to hang out with the “grunge” kid. Even if I thought Nirvana was a toneless, whiny band with loud guitars, my clothes said I liked grunge.
And that was enough.
I also had a different accent from the other kids, and everything I said seemed to make them laugh.
Like when I called it a “water fountain” instead of a “bubbler” and they all called me an idiot.
I never used to be shy at my old school; I liked to be funny and sarcastic sometimes, and never hesitated to speak up. But after a couple days of everything I said or did being wrong, I just clammed up. I hardly ever spoke in school anymore unless I was called on.
It’s hard to make friends when you don’t talk to anyone.
The only thing that I could rely on, the only constant that stayed the same from my old life, was Basset. He was there for me all the time, no matter what I wore or what I did. Sometimes it seemed lame to have an animal as a best friend because he couldn’t talk back to me, but he still made me feel a lot less lonely at night when I’d see pictures on Facebook of people from school hanging out at the mall or going to concerts.
