by Tor Seidler
Phoenix’s first thought was: How in the world had they gotten that picture of him? Then he remembered the surveillance camera under the substation’s cornice. It had caught him just as he was starting up the flagpole’s support wire.
“What’s it say?” Mrs. P. asked Beckett.
He read out the curious headline—RATS, SCHMATS!—and began the article:
“ ‘The blackout ended shortly before midnight last night with power finally restored to lower Manhattan. The search for the cause may be over as well, thanks to an astonishing piece of surveillance video (see above) provided by a camera placed near the top of the substation. According to the time stamp, it was taken just minutes before the substation was crippled. The quality of the video is poor—it was night—but a zoologist brought in to inspect it claims the saboteur may be a new kind of mountaineering rat, one that has adapted to living among skyscrapers.’ ”
Beckett gave Phoenix a dry smile. Phoenix wasn’t sure how he felt about “mountaineering rat,” but several rats near him slapped him on the shoulder.
“ ‘There is even a growing online movement,’ ” Beckett read on, “ ‘in support of letting these tenacious rats keep their pier. We asked P. J. Weeks, the developer behind the pier renovation, if he thinks a few tennis courts are worth all this disruption to the city. “This story is one-hundred percent media-fabricated,” Mr. Weeks declared. “You journalists should be ashamed of yourselves. As if rodents could be intelligent enough to bargain with us! You want my comment? Well, here it is: rats, schmats!”’ ”
Some rats hooted at this; others bumped paws. But, as at the last reading, Mrs. P. wasn’t so sanguine.
“It sounds to me like the humans mean to resume their demolition,” she said.
Beckett nodded grimly.
“Dear me,” said the eldest elder, wringing his paws. “If they come back, how can we ever stop them?”
Everyone looked at Phoenix.
“Would you be willing to go up there again?” the elder asked.
Phoenix swished his still smarting tail, but seeing the hope in the rats’ eyes, he could only say, “I suppose so.”
Rats cheered. However, the instant Beckett opened his mouth to speak, the cheering stopped. It really was remarkable. Not long ago, Lucy and Mrs. P. were the only ones who’d paid the slightest attention to him.
“The humans won’t be stupid enough to leave that level lying around again,” Beckett predicted. “Or anything else you could use to cause a short.”
“You’re probably right,” Phoenix agreed.
To everyone’s surprise, it was Junior who spoke up next. “I know what we could do,” he said.
Few rats had laid eyes on him since he’d decamped with his father, so there was a good bit of scoffing. But Junior lifted his chin and said, “I mean it. We could blow those coils with their own dynamite.”
It was an excellent idea, except for one thing. “We dumped all the dynamite in the river,” Lucy said, groaning.
Junior turned his eyes on Mrs. P. For a moment she looked a little sheepish, but then she let out a good-natured laugh. “Well, I did stash a couple of sticks,” she admitted. “In case of emergency.”
Everyone agreed that the humans returning to demolish the pier constituted an emergency.
“But would the dynamite really work?” asked the eldest elder.
After mulling this over, Mrs. P. asked Beckett his opinion. Again there was an instantaneous, almost reverential silence.
“I’ve heard worse ideas,” Beckett said.
Junior stood so tall he might have given his father, who was peeking out of the fuel pile, a run for his money.
“Of course, Phoenix would have to get the dynamite up there somehow,” Beckett went on. “And we’d have to put up another message, so they’d know we’re responsible.”
“Phoenix, would you be a dear and get the notice down again?” Mrs. P. asked.
But before Phoenix could make a move, Junior dashed under the door. With his new skills he had little trouble climbing up to the notice. Getting the tacks out was harder, but he managed that, too, dropping only one to the ground. The rats were suitably impressed when he dragged the notice back into the pier and presented it to Beckett.
Lucy got Beckett his pen. Dear humans, Beckett wrote. Consider this your final warning. If you try to steal our pier we will steal your power again.
After he signed it with another rat drawing, Junior took it outside and stuck it back up on the door. Most hoped that it would prove unnecessary, especially Phoenix, who didn’t relish the idea of trying to blow up the coils. But at around midday three pickup trucks and the green van pulled up by the fence. The demolition crew filed through the gate, and Sully followed the crew chief over to the pier door. After reading the notice, the two men looked at each other in disbelief.
“Our ‘final warning,’ ” the crew chief said. “This just gets crazier and crazier.”
“I never thought I’d say this,” Sully said, “but I’m starting to believe in these rats. I’ll be darned if I’m going to set the charges.”
“Not sure I blame you,” the crew chief said, pulling out his phone.
He snapped another photo of the notice and sent it off to his brother-in-law. Then he made a call. It was very brief.
“Weeks doesn’t sound happy,” he reported.
“Not surprised,” Sully said.
“He’s going to honor us with a personal appearance. We can cool our heels till he gets here.”
The rodents watched anxiously from under the door. A couple of the humans went back out through the gate and sat in one of the pickups listening to a ball game. The others leaned on the shady sides of the big machines, popping sunflower seeds into their mouths and competing to see who could spit them farthest.
The contest ended when a black town car pulled up beside Sully’s van. A driver hustled out and opened the back door for a man in a beige summer suit with mirrored sunglasses and slicked-back hair that gleamed in the sun. Though Mr. P. J. Weeks looked quite a bit younger than the crew chief, the crew chief greeted him deferentially and ushered him over to the pier door.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it, sir?” the crew chief said. “I’m thinking—once burned, twice shy.”
“What do you mean by that?” Mr. Weeks snapped.
“Don’t you think it would be taking a big risk to go ahead with the demolition?”
“You want to cave to this . . . this . . . prank?”
Before the crew chief could answer, a sweaty jogger who’d stopped by the fence answered for him, yelling, “Leave the rats alone!”
“Yeah, they need a place to live too!” yelled his running partner.
Mr. Weeks aimed a sneer their way. “Wackos,” he said.
“So you don’t believe the rats are behind this?” said the crew chief. “Even after that surveillance video?”
“Are you nuts? And even if they did mess with that substation, they could never do it again. Now let’s get this show on the road.”
The crew chief hesitated.
“Now! Or I’ll find a crew that can finish the job!”
The crew chief swallowed his misgivings and told Sully to set his charges. As he and Sully slid the pier door open, the rats raced for their crates. Sully stepped inside and sneezed. Then he walked over to the trunk, pulled out his keyring, and used the smallest key on it to unlock the padlock.
Seconds later he stepped back outside, wearing a look of consternation. Mr. Weeks crossed his arms, clucking his tongue impatiently.
“What now?”
“They chewed a hole in the trunk, sir,” Sully said. “All the . . . uh . . . explosives are gone.”
This Mr. Weeks had to see for himself. Sully led him into the pier and showed him the empty trunk.
“How could they . . . ?” Mr. Weeks snatched off his sunglasses and looked around angrily. “Didn’t we poison the vermin?”
“We put out more than the recommen
ded amount,” Sully said.
“Well, you’ll just have to get some more dynamite.”
“We could have it by morning.”
Mr. Weeks cursed. He wasn’t used to being thwarted. He jammed his sunglasses back on, stormed outside, and demanded the keys to the bulldozer.
“I’ll knock the place down myself!” he bellowed.
He started the bulldozer and, after a couple of tries, got it into gear. But when he released the clutch the bulldozer shot forward faster than he’d expected. The shovel rammed into the front of the pier, and Mr. Weeks’s elbow smacked the steering wheel. Yelping and clutching his arm, he jumped off the machine and marched back to his town car so fast his chauffeur barely had time to open the door for him.
“First thing in the morning!” he shouted before throwing himself into the back seat. “I want this place GONE!”
17
M&M’S
AFTER THE TOWN CAR SPED off, the bulldozer operator backed the bulldozer away from the pier while the rest of the crew had a good laugh. Sully and the crew chief consulted about explosives, then they all got into their vehicles and drove away.
But the bulldozer’s crash had rattled the rats badly. As a rule they never left the pier in large groups during daylight hours, but now they all crept outside to inspect the damage, even Mrs. P.—and even Augustus, who stood at the back of the crowd. They stared up bleakly at the new gash in the siding. When the eldest elder asked Beckett if he could understand any of what the humans had said, Beckett shook his head.
“What do you think they’re going to do?” another rat piped up.
That, Beckett could predict. “Nothing good,” he said. “I’d bet my tail they’ll be back with more explosives.”
Many echoed his pessimism. But Lucy pointed out that, if not for Mrs. P., the pier would be blown up already.
“Very true,” agreed the eldest elder. “Emptying that trunk showed remarkable foresight.”
“As did stashing two sticks of dynamite,” said the middle elder.
“We knew your experience would pay off,” said the youngest one.
This was a bitter pill for Augustus. But his spirits lifted when his son volunteered to take the dynamite up to the top of the substation.
“I think maybe Phoenix should be the one to do that,” Mrs. P. said as diplomatically as she could. “Lucy, dearie, would you give me a paw?”
They returned not five minutes later, Mrs. P. with a stick of dynamite, Lucy with the matchbox, and nine or ten rubber bands looped around her tail. When Augustus saw that they intended to load Phoenix up instead of his son, he couldn’t stay hidden any longer. He elbowed his way through the crowd, ignoring the sour looks he got.
“Not so fast,” he said as he reached Mrs. P.
“Back from your little vacation?” she said.
“I went to look for reinforcements,” Augustus said gruffly. “Didn’t have much luck.”
“Ah,” Mrs. P. said, amused. “And now?”
Augustus stretched to his full height, eyeing Phoenix with distaste. “I just can’t see why you’d want to give such an important job to a nonrat.”
“Because it was Phoenix who got all the way up there in the first place,” Mrs. P. said. “Plus, I hardly think of him as a nonrat anymore.”
“Doesn’t look like a rat to me. And how long have we known him? A few weeks? You’ve known my son all his life. Shouldn’t he get preference?”
“It’s not about favoritism, it’s about getting the job done. Phoenix has been up there and knows the layout.”
“Plus, Junior’s a scuttler, not a climber,” someone called out.
There were other protests, but they stopped when Phoenix announced that it was fine by him if Junior went. He meant it too. Who would want to climb up to the steamy substation with explosives strapped to his back?
“Excellent,” Augustus said, rubbing his paws together.
Mrs. P. was sure Phoenix was the one for the mission, but she couldn’t force him to go. As Augustus placed the dynamite on Junior’s back, Emily removed four rubber bands from Lucy’s tail. Augustus used two of the rubber bands to secure the dynamite to Junior, one circling his chest, the other his belly, while Emily used the other two to secure the box of matches to the dynamite.
“Is it too heavy?” she asked.
“Nope,” said Junior, checking to see if Lucy looked impressed.
But Lucy was more concerned about Mrs. P., who was suddenly looking worn out from all the unaccustomed activity. Lucy took one of Mrs. P.’s paws and guided her back into the pier. Beckett and Phoenix followed, collecting the scattered cushions and returning them to Mrs. P.’s parlor. Once Mrs. P. was ensconced on her favorite cushion, Lucy went into the infirmary to warm some broth. But when she brought it out, Mrs. P. wasn’t interested. Lucy looked at her brother in alarm, and Beckett hustled to the fromagerie for a hunk of manchego. This, Mrs. P. accepted. While she was nibbling, the youngest elder appeared at the parlor door.
“Er, they’re waiting for you,” she said.
“I’m afraid I’m not going anywhere,” Mrs. P. said wearily.
“Not you, ma’am.”
Beckett nudged his sister. “Junior wouldn’t want you to miss his derring-do, Luce.”
“You should go along too, Phoenix, as backup,” Mrs. P. suggested.
Lucy and Phoenix traipsed after the elder but made a detour to their crate to grab a snack before the trip. While Lucy gnawed on her Gruyère, Phoenix broke into his new can of nuts. He ate a cashew and then pulled out a pale, round nut that was new to him. As soon as he bit into it, a wonderful aroma filled his nostrils.
“What’s that?” Lucy said, sniffing.
Phoenix had no way of knowing it was a macadamia nut, but this didn’t keep him from digging out another for her. And even if nuts aren’t high on most rats’ lists of favorite foods, Lucy found the macadamia nut enthralling. Phoenix pawed through the contents of the can and found four more, so he and Lucy fortified themselves with two more apiece before heading off on their mission.
Beckett, who’d already dragged himself out that day for the paper, was happy to stay behind with Mrs. P. When he told her that she was finishing the last of the manchego, she sighed.
“I suppose I’ll be out of cheddar, too, before long,” Mrs. P. said wistfully. “Oscar may have been two-faced, but he was a good scrounger. Of course, my larder won’t matter if . . .”
Her voice trailed off, but Beckett knew she meant if the pier gets demolished and me along with it.
“We’ll restock your fromagerie,” he said, to boost her spirits. “And get you whatever else you need.”
This brought a smile to her face. “You know, I had an idea, Beckett—if by some miracle we do avoid disaster.”
Beckett sat on a cushion facing hers. “What’s that?”
“Lucy doesn’t seem to much care for your crate—and here I am with two empty ones. Nothing would make me happier than if you moved in upstairs.”
“Really? Phoenix, too?”
“Of course. If he sticks around. Do you like him?”
“Well . . . he’s pleasantly quiet.”
“I’ve been working on a pilatory for him.”
Here was another word that stumped Beckett.
“Something to promote fur growth,” she explained.
“I suspect he’d like that.”
After finishing her cheese, Mrs. P. dozed off. Beckett tiptoed up the stirring stick. The upstairs was as luxurious as he remembered. Lucy would love it. The prospect of actually living there made him so curious about how things were going at the substation that he hustled back downstairs, tucked a handkerchief around Mrs. P., and took off to find out.
When he got to the substation, sunlight was streaming down the block from the west, turning the windowless facade honey-colored. A policewoman was standing guard on the front steps. The rats were gathered under a couple of parked cars, peering over the curb to watch Junior’s progress up the c
orner of the building. Despite having a cargo, Junior was doing surprisingly well, having already well surpassed his first try.
Lucy and Phoenix were behind the front tire of one of the cars. Before Lucy could scold him for leaving Mrs. P. alone, Beckett explained that she’d had a snack and fallen sound asleep. He also told them about her invitation.
“It’s a palace up there,” he said. “She wants you, too, Phoenix.”
“Doesn’t that sound wonderful, Phoenix?” Lucy exclaimed.
Phoenix smiled at the idea of a couple of those claustrophobic crates being a “palace.”
Beckett squinted up at Junior. “Think he has a chance of pulling it off?”
The climber was halfway to the cornice. But while there was no wind, every time Junior looked to the west, the sun blinded him. And though at first the dynamite and matches hadn’t been particularly burdensome, they seemed to get heavier every time he reached for a new pawhold. He looked up. There was still a dispiritingly long way to go. It seemed bitterly unfair that Phoenix had been able to do the climb unencumbered.
But just as he was getting the sinking feeling that he was going to have to turn back, Junior glanced down and spotted his father on the rear bumper of a red sedan, grinning like crazy and pointing at his chest. Why his chest? Junior peered down at his own chest and noticed two bumps under the nearer rubber band. He flicked out his tongue and snagged something: a green M&M. His father must have slipped it under the rubber band while loading him. The other M&M was yellow, and the two bursts of chocolate gave him a second wind. Upward he climbed.
But not even the combination of his father’s encouragement and the chocolate could keep Junior’s grip from weakening with every new notch in the stonework. He could feel the cargo pulling him down. And he was so high up! As he stretched for a next pawhold, his whole body started trembling. He was going to fall!
He looked down at his chest again—and this time nipped at the rubber band. The cinch snapped. The dynamite fell off him, giving him instant relief as it plummeted to the ground.
When the stick of dynamite and matchbox hit the sidewalk, the policewoman squinted in that direction, using a hand for a visor against the sun. As she headed toward the sound, Lucy vaulted up over the curb and made a dash to reach the dynamite first. After exchanging a quick look, Beckett and Phoenix dashed after her. Beckett grabbed the matchbox while Phoenix helped Lucy with the dynamite stick, each grasping one end. By the time the policewoman reached the corner, the sidewalk was bare except for some dried-up dog poop someone had neglected to clean up.
