by Bill Myers
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, Sean saw Melissa sitting beside him. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she answered.
“Where’s Slobs?”
“Over there.” Melissa pointed across the room, where the big dog was already investigating things by running around and sniffing like crazy.
“What happened?” Sean asked.
“I guess you hit the right spot on the wall.’ Melissa said.
“I know that,” Sean answered. “But what I mean is, we fell so far, how come we’re not . . .”
“Dead?” Melissa finished his question.
“Yeah, dead,” Sean replied.
“I can answer that question,” someone said.
“Who’s there?” Sean and Melissa asked at the same time.
“I am.”
Suddenly they saw the man they had been following standing and looking down at them.
“You weren’t really falling,” he said. “You were traveling in a sub-supersonic arc of—no, wait a minute. You were traveling in a super subsonic spiral. No, that ain’t it. Shucks, guess I can’t explain it after all. Anyway, I’ve been waiting for you.” He held out his hand to help Melissa to her feet.
“You have?” Melissa asked, taking his hand.
“Yup. Oh, I almost forgot. ‘A wet bird never flies backward,’ “ he said.
“Huh?” Sean asked as he stood and began slapping the dust off of his pants.
“ ‘A wet bird never flies backward,’” he repeated.
Sean frowned, then exchanged looks with Melissa.
The man looked confused. “Aren’t you, uh, 49 and 78?’’ he asked.
“No, sir,” Melissa answered. “I’m thirteen and Sean’ll be fifteen next month.”
“I mean,” the man asked, “you’re not secret agents 49 and 78?’’
“No, sir,” Sean replied, “we’re Bloodhounds, Incorporated.”
“Really?” the man asked. “Well, I’m Agent Double Oh Zero—United States Secret Service.”
“Wow!” Sean exclaimed.
The man smiled. “My friends call me Trip . . . short for Triple Zero. Anyway, I was watching you at the White House because I was supposed to make contact with two new secret agents there. And you kind of fit their description.”
“We do?” Melissa asked.
“Sort of,” Trip said. “Except you’re awfully young.”
Sean shook his head. “I don’t understand. If you thought we were secret agents, why did you run from us?”
“I didn’t run from you!” Trip sounded indignant. “If I hadn’t wanted you to see me, you never would have seen me. I led you back here. With this.”
He reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a pork chop.
Slobs came running.
“I knew that dog of yours could smell this from a mile away,” he said as he tossed her the chop. Slobs grabbed it and ran into the corner to devour it. Then the secret agent dug into his pocket and pulled out a small photograph. “By the way,” he said to Sean, “here’s a great picture of you stuck in the subway door.”
“You saw that?” Sean asked. “Then why didn’t you try to help me?”
“Try?” the man said. “Who do you think opened the door for you?”
“You?” Sean asked.
The secret agent pulled a ball-point pen out of his shirt pocket. “I did it with this,” he said. “You see, all I have to do is press this clicker and . . .” Suddenly a stream of thick blue ink shot from the pen all over his face.
“Pttt . . . pttt . . . pttt. . .” he sputtered. He grabbed a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed the ink from his face. “Well, maybe it wasn’t that clicker,” he said. “Maybe it was this one.” He pulled a tiny micro-cassette tape recorder out of his pants pocket and pressed the Play button.
WHOOOOSHHhhh . . .
Flames shot out from the back of Trip’s shoes, propelling him across the room and . . .
KA-POW!
. . . face-first into the wall.
“Oww. . .” he groaned as he slid down the wall and crumpled onto the floor. “I hate it when that happens.” A blue circle of ink was left on the wall where his nose had smashed into it.
Pulling himself together, he rose and staggered back across the room. “I guess that button starts the little rocket engines in my shoes,” he grinned. “So I guess it must be this—”
“We believe you!” Sean cried.
“Just don’t push any more buttons!” Melissa yelled.
Trip shrugged. “Okee-dokee. By the way,” he motioned to Sean, “you’ve got something in your hair.”
Sean rubbed at his hair, and a small flower fell onto the floor.
“Hmm?” Sean said. “Must be a blossom from a cherry tree. Washington is full of them.”
Melissa looked at him, not so sure. This was the third or fourth time vegetation had appeared in her brother’s hair. What was going on?
MONDAY, 12:19 PST
Back at Doc’s house, the gardener found her in her den, typing away at her computer keyboard. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said.
Because her back was to him, she didn’t know he was there and didn’t answer.
“Ma’am . . .”
He moved closer to tap her on the shoulder. But before he did, he decided to sneak a peek at what she was typing:
FROM: nius.com
To: Bloodhounds, Inc.
Subject: X-ray glasses Priority: Urgent
Sean, Melissa, do not use the X-ray glasses I gave you. Have discovered the subatomic beta frequency is very dangerous when combined with the bleems. Repeated use has adverse effect on plant life. Plants grow like crazy. Don’t know if there are other problems. Let me know that you got this message.
Doc
*
Meanwhile, back in the . . . er, wherever Sean and Melissa were, Agent Double Oh Zero—or Trip, as his friends called him—walked over to a desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small silver gun.
“He’s got a gun!” Melissa shouted.
Trip spun around. “Who’s got a gun?”
“You do!” Melissa shouted, pointing at the pistol in his hand.
Trip looked down at the firearm in his hand and chuckled. “This isn’t a gun. It’s a remote-control device. I was just going to change the channel on one of these monitors so I can see what’s going on at the White House. Watch!”
He pointed the device at one of the monitors and pulled the trigger.
KA-BLAM! CRASH! KA-BLOOEY!
The monitor exploded as a bullet ripped into it.
“Well, what do you know,” Trip said. “I guess this is a gun after all.” He put it back in the drawer, rummaged around, and pulled out an ordinary-looking remote control. “I guess this must be the remote control,” he said. “Funny how I get those two mixed up.”
“Trip,” Sean asked, “are you sure you work for the government?”
“Absolutely,” the secret agent replied. “Hah! Just because I haven’t solved a case in eighteen years, people think I’m washed-up. But I’ve had a run of bad luck, that’s all. Say, have you seen my remote control?”
“You’re holding it,” Sean replied.
“Holding what?” Trip asked.
“Never mind,” Sean sighed. “Listen, we have a detective agency back home in Midvale, and we’d love to help you, if that’s okay.”
“Yeah!” Melissa chimed in. “I don’t mean to brag, but we’re pretty good.”
“Really!” Trip said. “I’d love to have your help! I’ll swear you in as junior agents.”
He looked up at the bank of TV monitors where one was still smoking. “These spies are really clever,” he said. “Besides, with all these Civil War ghosts running around getting in the way . . . Look! There’s one now!”
Sure enough, one of the monitors revealed a ghostly figure moving down one of the hotel’s halls.
“But there’s no such things as ghosts,” Melissa argued.
/> “There isn’t? How can you be so sure?”
“We’ve always found there’s a rational explanation to what’s happening,” Sean said.
Melissa agreed. “Besides, the Bible says when we die we go to face God. We don’t hang around and haunt hotels.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Trip said, staring back at the monitor.
Melissa moved in for a better look. “Hmm. Did they have digital watches during the Civil War?” she asked.
“Of course not,” Trip answered. “Why?”
“Because that ‘ghost’ is wearing one.” She turned to Trip. “Have you ever suspected that these ghosts might have something to do with the spies you’re looking for?”
“Well, I uh . . .”
BRRRR . . . BRRRR
Before he could answer, a phone began ringing somewhere nearby.
Trip lifted his necktie up to his mouth. “Hello,” he said. But the phone kept ringing.
Next, he tried a cuff link. “Hello?” No luck.
Next, he answered his wallet. “Hello?” Nope.
His belt. . . Nope. His eyeglasses . . . Nope.
And still the phone kept ringing.
Finally, he grinned. “Of course, it’s my socks.” He pulled off his shoe, raised his foot, and spoke into it.
Sean and Melissa traded looks as he spoke.
“What’s that?” Trip said. “At the Washington Monument? Yes, sir, I’m right on it.” Lowering his foot, he turned to the kids and shouted, “There’s trouble at the Lincoln Memorial!”
“Washington Monument!” Melissa corrected him.
“Yeah, like I said!” He slipped on his shoe and hurried to a nearby monitor. He clicked a button, and the Washington Monument appeared on a screen. At the moment, some lunatic was hanging out of a window near the top of the monument, waving her arms and screaming. Some lunatic that looked an awful lot like . . .
“Mrs. Tubbs!” Melissa gasped.
“You’re right!” Sean cried. “It is Mrs. Tubbs!”
“Yes, I recognize that woman,” Trip said. “She’s the one who tried to beat up the president. And now she’s . . . she’s . . . er, well, whatever she’s up to, we’ve got to stop her!”
8
Mrs. tubbs falls from power
The monitor showed that a large crowd was gathering at the base of the Washington Monument. And for good reason. Mrs. Tubbs was dangling from a window more than five hundred feet above the ground!
Folks seemed to think she was a daredevil trapeze artist and this was all part of her act.
“Aeeee!” she screamed as she slipped another couple of inches.
“Hurrah!” the crowd screamed below.
“Peanuts! Get your peanuts!” a vendor shouted, pushing his cart.
“They think it’s a party!” Sean exclaimed.
“We’ve got to do something!” Melissa yelled.
“Follow me!” Trip said. “We can be there in five minutes!”
Mrs. Tubbs slipped another couple of inches.
“I’m not sure we’ve got five minutes!” Melissa cried.
MONDAY, 16:11 EST
It took four minutes and twenty-nine seconds to reach the Washington Monument.
Although she’d slipped a couple more inches, Mrs. Tubbs was still dangling from the window when they got there. Beneath her, people had spread blankets on the ground and were enjoying hot dogs and sodas. Some were taking part in a rousing sing-along.
Everyone was having fun.
Everyone except Mrs. Tubbs.
“Help me!” she screamed. “Somebody help me!”
A siren sounded off in the distance.
“Maybe they’re bringing a hook and ladder,” Melissa said hopefully.
Sean shook his head. “Even if they do, there’s no ladder that high.”
“He’s right,” Trip said. “We’ll have to go up and get her ourselves!”
So, with Trip leading the way, Sean, Melissa, and Slobs ran into the monument and raced up the stairs.
It seemed pretty obvious that Double Oh Zero wasn’t the brightest candle on the cake. But he was strong. And fast! He bounded up the stairs, taking two or three at a time.
Sean and Melissa had to stop for a rest every fifty steps or so, but Trip kept on going, with Slobs right on his heels. The kids were about two-thirds of the way to the top when they heard Trip shout, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Tibbs, I’ve got you!”
Then they heard something else . . .
THUNK! CLUNK! BUMBLE!
. . . followed by his voice yelling, “Help! Somebody help me! Help me!”
The young detectives looked at each other.
“Oh no!” Sean said.
“He couldn’t have,” Melissa groaned.
“Come on, let’s go!” Sean shouted.
They raced up the stairs as fast as they could.
When they got to the top, Trip was nowhere to be seen. Slobs had a firm grip on Mrs. Tubbs’ sweater and was attempting to pull the woman to safety. But the dog whined and growled as her toenails slipped and skidded on the floor.
Sean and Melissa ran to the edge of window and looked over to see . . .
Sure enough, Trip was dangling below Mrs. Tubbs, who was hanging upside down with her sweater caught on the ledge. The only thing that kept Trip from falling was her grip on his suspenders.
“Good catch,” Sean said to Mrs. Tubbs.
“Why, thank you,” she gasped.
From down below, Trip looked up to them and sheepishly called, “I guess I slipped.”
“It’s okay,” Sean said. “We’ll save you.”
He and Melissa each grabbed hold of one of Mrs. Tubbs’ legs and began to pull. Slowly . . . very slowly . . . inch by inch . . . Mrs. Tubbs . . . and Trip . . . were dragged back inside to safety.
Down below, the crowd erupted into cheers and applause.
After waving to the crowd, Mrs. Tubbs turned to the kids. “Thank you!” she panted. “Thank you! You saved my life!”
“Mine too!” Trip said.
As soon as Melissa caught her breath, she asked Mrs. Tubbs, “What happened? How did you manage to fall out the window?”
“I was trying to rescue my cat.”
“Precious? In here? But how?” Sean asked.
“Those horrible rats chased him in here,” she said. “Poor thing.”
“And by the way,” Melissa asked, “how did you get out of jail?”
“They had the whole thing on videotape,” Mrs. Tubbs explained. “When they looked at it, they knew I wasn’t trying to hurt President Shrub, so they let me go.”
“And then?”
“Precious and I went back to the White House to apologize to the president. Well, when those horrible animals that had been hiding saw Precious, they just went crazy and . . .”
“Where’s Precious now?” Sean asked.
“I don’t know.” She pointed at a worn spot on the floor. “I slipped right there,” she said. “If my sweater hadn’t caught on the ledge . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Suddenly for the first time she really noticed Trip. She reached up and patted her hair into place. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”
An hour and a half later, Slobs finally found Precious—sound asleep in President Lincoln’s lap at the Lincoln Memorial.
The rats, however, were still at large. (In fact, the next time you’re in Washington, keep an eye open for them. And make sure you don’t bring your cat!)
MONDAY, 18:00 PST
Back in Midvale, Frieda Smedlap slowly shuffled out of her house to pick up the afternoon newspaper. Her slippers made a soft . . .
SFFFT. . . SFFFT. . . SFFFTmg
. . . sound as they padded against the driveway.
By the way, Mrs. Smedlap was vice-president of the Garden Club, and she had never liked Mrs. Tubbs. When she bent over to pick up the paper, she froze in disbelief. Because there, staring back at her, was a huge photograph of Hildegard Tubbs hanging out of th
e Washington Monument.
The headline above the photograph read:
“Garden Club President Runs Amok in Nation’s Capital.”
For a moment, Mrs. Smedlap thought she was going to faint. How could that woman embarrass us like this? she thought.
Then another thought came that made her smile. . . . Why, I do believe the Garden Club is going to need a new president. I’d better start writing my acceptance speech.
9
sean hunter, flower child
TUESDAY, 8:24 EST
When Sean and Melissa reached the command center the next morning, Trip was already there, keeping a close watch on his large bank of TV monitors.
“The spies have struck again,” he said.
“Where?” Sean asked.
“They stole the plans to the government’s new anti-anti-anti-missile-missile-missile system,” he said. “Sneaked into the Pentagon and grabbed them yesterday afternoon while everyone was watching all the excitement at the Washington Monument.”
“And they’re no closer to finding that helicopter?” Sean asked.
“That’s right.”
Sean ran his hand through his hair, and three or four cherry blossoms fell out. “How weird,” he said. “I wonder why that keeps happening.”
Melissa didn’t answer. Her attention was on monitor number six.
“Look!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t that the ghost we were following the other night?”
The monitor showed a close-up of a young businessman dressed in a dark suit and tie.
“Ghost?” Sean asked. “Melissa, that guy doesn’t look anything like—”
“Look closer!” she insisted.
Trip hit a button, bringing the man into a close-up on the monitor.
“Look at his nose,” Melissa said.
Sean nodded. “Yes, his nose is bent a little bit, like that ghost, but that still doesn’t—”
