The Mystery of the Masked Marauder (Nate and Basset, PI: Pet Investigators Book 1)

by Peter Cox

  “I know,” I said. “I get the same feeling. But what are we missing?”

  We kept looking around. The speakers were all different sizes, and they were all caked in mud and leaves.

  “It’s definitely weird,” Sam said. “A surround sound system in the woods, but it doesn’t really explain anything, does it?”

  “I wish weasels could be a little more direct,” I said.

  “We all do,” Basset responded with a sigh.

  Suddenly Sam straightened up, like she had noticed something.

  “They’re new,” she said slowly.

  “What?”

  “The speakers. They’re all new.”

  She ran up to one of the larger speakers and brushed off the mud. Underneath, the plastic was in great shape.

  She ran up to another, and then another. Different sizes and different companies, but they were all brand new.

  Then I remembered something from this morning. Something that I hadn’t really paid attention to, but it was slowly coming back to me. Like someone walking closer through the fog, it was coming clearer.

  “Someone bought thousands of dollars’ worth of sound equipment and dumped them in a muddy clearing?” Sam asked.

  “Just one more thing to add to our ‘weird crap in the woods’ list,” I said, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I kept staring off into the distance, trying to coax that memory out of the fog.

  Speakers. Sound equipment.

  Of course! It was obvious now, but when you’re only half paying attention it’s hard to remember something.

  That’s one thing I learned in school.

  “Sam, have you heard of the Masked Marauder?”

  “Ummm, I think so,” she said slowly. “Some burglar or something? I don’t really pay attention to the newspaper, but I’ve heard people talking.”

  “Me too. But I saw something in the paper my dad was reading this morning. Just glanced at it, but if I’m remembering right, the headline said something about the Masked Marauder robbing an electronics store.”

  “Seriously? So this is all stolen? Jeez, it must have taken a thousand hands to grab all of this stuff.”

  “Yeah, he’s supposed to be good at stealing lots of things at once, I think.”

  “Well now we know who put all this stuff here, but we still don’t know why.”

  “Masked Marauder’s really embarrassed about his musical tastes and needs a private party-spot?”

  Basset was back sniffing around, and he was now near the generator.

  He had picked something interesting up, I could tell.

  “What is it boy?”

  “Gas.” He said. He sniffed up and down the generator. “I think this thing still has some gas in it.”

  “It still has gas in it?” I asked, not sure I got his point.

  “So we can crank it up and see what these speakers were playing!” Sam said, excitedly running over to the generator.

  She yanked the cord, and the generator came to life with a sputter and a cough.

  I went over to the stereo.

  “Okay, so I’m guessing it works just like an iPad,” I said. “There’s a play button. Let’s see what happens.”

  I hit the button, the tape started to go, but no sound came out.

  As soon as I hit the button, Basset went running into the woods. That was nothing unusual; he probably smelled a squirrel. But I thought he had enough self-control to stay and find out what was on the tape.

  We kept listening for a couple of seconds, but there was still no sound.

  I hit the fast-forward and rewind buttons, stopping every few seconds to listen again. It was blank.

  “Weird,” Sam said.

  I finally turned it off.

  Looked like the investigation had come to a close.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Basset returning – slowly, very slowly – and with a scared look on his face.

  He kept looking from one side to the other, like he was worried a bear was about to leap out of the woods at any moment.

  “What is it boy?” I asked, running up to him. I was definitely worried.

  “Is it gone? Is it coming back, you think?”

  “What boy? What did you see?”

  “You mean – you mean you didn’t hear it?”

  “Hear what? What was it boy?”

  “The screaming. That awful, evil, terrible screaming.”

  Sam nodded, and then bent down to pet Basset’s back.

  “It’s okay now boy, the sound isn’t coming back,” she said.

  “How can you know that?” Basset asked.

  “Yeah, how do you know Sam? We didn’t even hear it.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “It was too high pitched for us to hear. Like a dog whistle. Whatever was on that tape could only be heard by certain animals.”

  Basset got that “I got into the trash and I’m so sorry” look on his face again.

  “You mean, it was just on that tape?”

  “I guess so boy,” I said, scratching him behind the ears. “It’s not your fault; you didn’t know it was just a recording.”

  “I’m supposed to protect you,” Basset said, that look getting worse on his face. “I’m supposed to get between you and trouble, not run away from it.”

  “Thanks buddy. I’d do the same for you. But it’s okay, it was just a tape. You didn’t need to protect me from that.”

  “Yeah. This time.”

  I patted him one more time, and then stood up.

  “So it’s a sound only animals can hear,” I said. “It sounds so crazy I almost don’t want to say it, but…” I trailed off.

  Sam picked right up where I had stopped: “…but the Masked Marauder used the tape to scare all the birds out of the woods.”

  I nodded.

  “But why?” I asked. “Why would anyone steal all this equipment and drag it all the way out here and go through all this trouble just to scare off some crows and sparrows?”

  “I don’t know,” Basset said. “But it’s not good.”

  “Not good at all,” I agreed. “Something’s going on here, and it means trouble.”

  Chapter 13

  THE FIRST CLUE

  Before we left, I decided to take one last look around, although I didn’t know what I hoped to find.

  I checked all the speakers, checked inside the stereo, and even checked in the train car to see if there was anything unusual. But there was nothing.

  Finally I went over to the generator to turn it off.

  As I was looking for the switch, something caught my eye.

  There was a little piece of plastic sticking out of a crack in the machine.

  I switched the generator off and grabbed the edge.

  It was tiny, just a half an inch sticking out and very thin, like the very edge of a credit card, but it was wedged in there good.

  I pulled and wiggled, and finally more of it came out.

  It looked like it might have been a credit card, but the heat from the machine had melted it and made it bubble up all over the place.

  It had started off white, and was now marked all over with brown and black burn marks.

  There were no words I could read, just a couple of blurry letters I could make out: “G---- Co--- Lib----”

  I stared harder at it, but couldn’t make out the other letters. They were too blurred from the scorch marks.

  I showed it to Sam, and then to Basset.

  “What do you think it is?” I asked.

  “Looks like an ID, a driver’s license or something,” Sam said.

  “I’m a little out of my element here, buddy,” Basset said. “I can’t read.”

  That’s something most people don’t know about dogs: almost all of them are dyslexic.

  They also don’t have schools.

  Or hands to write with.

  Or to hold books with.

  Reading’s pretty tough for them, is what I’m getting at.

  “It’
s late,” Sam said. “I gotta get back before my old man gets home.”

  “Yeah, we should be heading back too,” I said. “My parents hate it if I’m late for dinner.”

  I put the card in my pocket and we made our way through the woods, but I couldn’t stop pulling the card back out to stare at it.

  Maybe if I squinted hard enough I could read it.

  This had to be the key. An ID would tell us exactly who the Masked Marauder was, and then we could turn him in and find out why he’d gotten rid of the birds. And how to get them back.

  Whatever he was planning we could foil it.

  G---- Co--- Lib----.

  Something kept tickling the back of my brain. Something I didn’t want to recognize for some reason.

  Then it hit me: “Guster Cooper Liberman.”

  He had been bragging all last week that he had gotten a fake ID. It was a good one too, looked just like a real driver’s license.

  He wasn’t too bright though. It said his age was 17. So, sure, it made him look older, but not old enough to do anything. What, he wanted to drive his nonexistent car? I don’t know many 13-year-olds who make enough money from their allowance (or from stealing some middle school lunch money) to buy a car.

  Unless Brussels sprout breath is an acceptable form of payment now.

  So his ID wouldn’t get him any drinking or smoking or gambling.

  He was just showing off his lack of foresight.

  I kept this suspicion to myself. For now at least.

  Was Guster really smart enough to rig up a sound system like that?

  I knew he hated birds. He couldn’t stand their singing and whistling, and liked to fire at them with his slingshot. He loved to torture animals in general, such as burning ants with his trusty magnifying glass.

  But he wasn’t clever enough, was he?

  I needed more evidence before I brought this up to Sam or Basset. I didn’t want them to think that I was just trying to get revenge on my bully.

  I didn’t think I was. Was I? Sure, I was biased, but the card looked exactly like his fake ID, and the letters I could see were an exact match for the letters in his name.

  I was excited. I was almost positive I had figured it out.

  I just needed more evidence.

  Chapter 14

  THE LAST DINNER

  As we were eating dinner that night (Chinese takeout instead of pizza this time), I asked my dad if I could read the paper.

  He looked surprised, but then gave me a proud look.

  “Taking a bit more of an interest in current events, eh? Glad to see it. Look champ, you know I love you, but you fill your head with too many silly books sometimes. It’s frivolous. This,” he tapped the paper, “this is important stuff. Not what some dorky man-witch is up to in his castle fighting bad guys with no name.”

  I didn’t bother telling him that Harry Potter is a wizard, not a witch. He wouldn’t care about something so “frivolous.” Stories about the county zoning board or stories telling everyone that it is currently summertime and outdoor activities exist; that’s important stuff.

  I immediately turned to the front page and the article about the Masked Marauder.

  The more I read, the more I was convinced that he was the one responsible for chasing away the birds. I still had no idea why anyone would want to get rid of birds, but he was clearly involved.

  He stole 57 speakers of different sizes, a stereo, and a generator. Police couldn’t figure out how he loaded a 200-pound generator and all that equipment into his getaway vehicle in the half-hour the security guard was away on his break.

  It was weird.

  Then again, everything else about the Masked Marauder was weird.

  For instance, no one had seen him. Not a security camera, not a random person on the street, no one.

  Which made me wonder why they named him the “Masked” anything if no one had seen a mask. But that was answered a little later in the story.

  It was what he called himself.

  At every crime scene he’d left a note taking responsibility for the burglary. He clearly wanted attention.

  What was even weirder was that the notes were written on some kind of soft, thick paper, almost like a silk napkin.

  I didn’t know Guster had so much class.

  “Hey Mom, what do Mr. and Mrs. Liberman do for work?” I asked casually while reading the story.

  “Why do you want to know sweetie?”

  “Just trying to get to know the neighborhood kids better. Nothing special.”

  My mom sounded happy. “Oh, well in that case, your new friend’s parents own a store downtown. Something to do with house wares.”

  “It’s kitchen and dining room stuff,” my dad corrected. “You know: china, silverware, napkins, that sort of thing.”

  Well that answered that.

  “Kitchen and dining room ‘stuff’ is house wares,” my mom said. “Those rooms are in the house. That’s why they call it house wares.”

  “I was just trying to be more specific. Give the boy the most accurate information. That’s the key.”

  I didn’t want the “definition of house wares” battle to turn into a full-scale war. I could tell what an important topic this was, but I wasn’t sure it warranted a heated debate.

  “So they own a store? That’s interesting,” I said, trying to change the subject.

  “Yes honey,” my mom said, shooting my dad a look and then turning back to me. “Do you want me to invite the Libermans over for dinner sometime next week?”

  I almost choked on my fortune cookie, which would have been UNfortunate.

  Sorry. Bad pun.

  I held my cough in, drank some water, and tried not to show the horror in my eyes.

  “No, that’s okay, Mom. I don’t want you to trouble yourself with having to cook a big meal.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” my dad said.

  “Right,” I said quickly, before my mom could take offense. “Maybe some other time.”

  Like maybe after Guster is dragged to juvenile hall, I thought.

  I went back to reading the paper. There wasn’t a lot more that seemed interesting in the story.

  The Marauder had robbed a lumberyard, a comic book store, a pet store, and the local museum. It seemed awfully random. At the museum he stole some old artifacts from the Native American exhibit (it said it was the Lakota tribe) that weren’t worth a lot of money. In fact, nothing that he stole was worth that much. And it didn’t seem to have any connection.

  Unless he was building a house for a group of comics-loving puppies I couldn’t figure out why he’d rob those first three stores. And that of course made no sense.

  Dogs are colorblind.

  After a while I decided that I couldn’t get any more out of the paper. I pretended to read a few articles (“War in the Middle East” and “Is your bathtub a deathtrap?”) and then said I was heading up to my room early because I wanted to get up at dawn to play with a new friend.

  “Oh, is it that Liberman boy?” my mom asked.

  “No, I don’t think you know her,” I responded. “Anyway, goodnight!”

  The paper definitely pointed to Guster. I didn’t know why he was doing all this weird, illegal stuff, but it had to be him.

  This still wasn’t proof though.

  If only I could find someone who could read that ID card.

  I started to make my way up the stairs to my room when I thought I heard more scuffling noises from behind the crawlspace door. I bent down and put my ear against the rough wood, and listened.

  There was nothing for a while, the seconds dragging by slowly, but then I heard it again: a ticking.

  Not like a clock. It was really fast, like a metronome turned up as high as it will go, or a thousand tiny drummers playing heavy metal.

  I had to see what was behind the door.

  I tried the locks, but even though they were rusty they were solid.

  I took a closer look at them.


  They looked like they all had the same key, but there were no old keys lying around the house when we moved in. I did a full exploration of the house on the first weekend after the move, looking for any cool items the previous owners left behind.

  No such luck.

  The locks looked simple, like they could easily be picked, but I had no idea how to do that.

  In movies they just stick a needle in there, wiggle it around, and the lock magically pops open.

  It’s not that easy in real life.

  Believe me. I’ve tried.

  I tugged on one of the locks and the ticking stopped.

  I tried to look under the door, but it was too close to the floor to see anything.

  There was an old keyhole too, but it had been filled in with plaster.

  Someone really wanted to keep people from looking in.

  Or some thing from looking out.

  I didn’t want to give up. It’s like when I got a bike for Christmas but had to wait three days for my dad to put it together, or when there was a new book at the library but it was already checked out. I wanted to go in there now and find out what was making that noise.

  But I couldn’t.

  So I sucked it up and went up to my room, where Basset was waiting for me on the bed.

  “So what do you think we should do tomorrow?” I asked.

  “I’m still thinking it over. We have to figure out what’s going on here and make sure the birds are okay, but I don’t know where to start. Listen Nate, you don’t think this is dangerous, do you?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Good. Because I don’t want you poking your nose into anything that could get you hurt. Bad things can pop out of holes. I’ve poked MY nose in enough porcupine burrows to know that.”

  “I know you’re worried about me buddy. But I don’t think we’re up against some criminal mastermind here. And we’ve got Sam. No one in their right mind would mess with her.”

  “That’s a good point. She’s incredibly tall.”

  I laughed. “She sure is.”

  I thought for a few seconds. “Do you know anyone in the neighborhood who can help us read the letters on the ID card?”

  “Hmmm…” he thought for a good long while. “I can’t think of anyone. I could take it to Douglas the hound. He’s got a great nose, even better than mine, but I don’t think it would do any good. All you can smell on it is gasoline. And I don’t know anyone with great eyesight. Dogs and cats can’t see as well as humans.”