Locksmith

by Nicholas Maes

  “Uh, well, yes.”

  “You’ve heard of Yellow Swamp in Alberta, Canada?”

  Lewis nodded. Who hadn’t heard of Yellow Swamp? It had suffered a chemical spill the year before and had been damaged beyond all hope of recognition. According to newspaper reports, the region was so strange and unstable that no one dared go anywhere near it. At the same time, a year before the spill had taken place, the Castormans had actually camped in Yellow Swamp. His mother had known about it because she had grown up in Alberta.

  “We lived there,” Todrus said, “before the ‘accident’ happened. We were ordinary wood frogs then, tiny creatures that didn’t speak any English —”

  “Until they came,” Gibiwink broke in.

  Todrus nodded. “That’s right. One morning, without warning, three helicopters landed near Yellow Swamp. A group of big, masked men emerged — one look at them and we knew they meant serious business. An unmasked woman appeared, as well, and following her commands, these figures set to work opening boxes and taking things over.”

  “The noise!” Gibiwink complained. “Before their arrival our swamp was peaceful, but they started digging trenches and laying pipes in the soil.”

  “Days they toiled,” Todrus agreed. “Drilling, digging, cutting, welding, as if the swamp were theirs to treat as they pleased. At one point one of them just about killed us. He was drilling near our log and would have cut us to pieces. Luckily, that woman was watching him closely and saved us in the nick of time.”

  “She fed us after that,” Gibiwink added. “Each morning she’d leave us crumbs from her breakfast.”

  “And she was always singing,” Todrus mused, “from the moment she got up until late in the evening.”

  A car passed and cast its lights in the room. Quick as thought, the frogs hit the floor. They hissed at him to hide, as well, but Lewis approached the window and glanced outside. “It’s the Pangettis. They’re coming home from work.”

  “We’re jumpy since the accident,” Gibiwink explained.

  “The accident,” Todrus groaned, regaining his place on the couch, “happened three weeks after their arrival. The woman had put on a diving suit and was inspecting the pipes that had been laid in the swamp. The masked men took advantage of her absence. While she was swimming beneath the surface, they climbed into the helicopters and abandoned her — the thugs!”

  “One helicopter climbed above the swamp,” Gibiwink continued, his voice low and full of sadness. “A door slid open, and two figures appeared. Without wasting time they shoved a stone overboard — huge it was, about the size I am now, only brilliantly coloured and shaped like an egg. It plunged into the middle of the swamp. The other two helicopters sprayed a bright yellow dust, which hung above the swamp like an old, shabby curtain. That’s when everything started to change.”

  “Change?” Lewis asked.

  Todrus shuddered. “Yes. Just minutes after the dust broke out, the swamp turned orange and started to boil. At the same time a fog rose up — a red-brown gas you could have cut with a knife — and covered the sky as if it were evening. It was the strangest sight I’ve ever seen.”

  “More important,” Gibiwink added, “that’s when we transformed. I mean, one moment we were wood frogs, small and stupid-looking; then a bolt of lightning struck and … everything made sense. I mean, both of us could think and even speak the odd word.”

  “And we were growing,” Todrus said. “We’d tripled in size.”

  The frogs swallowed hard.

  Lewis cleared his throat. “What about the woman?”

  Todrus gulped. “When she surfaced from the swamp and spied the bright orange water and the bank of fog, she was frightened and kept her diving suit on. She also screamed when she saw that the helicopters were gone. At the same time she was standing in this reddish foam — a lot like a bubble bath only it seemed to be breathing. As she tried to make her way onto the shore, these suds grabbed hold of her and … and wouldn’t let go.”

  “We tried to save her,” Gibiwink moaned. “Even though the swamp was boiling, we rowed our log toward her …”

  “But we scared her,” Todrus said. “We were five feet tall and growing still, and how could she know we wanted to help? We understood English, from having heard it spoken, but could barely speak a word just then. Eventually, with signals, we explained ourselves. When she finally grabbed our flippers, it was too late. As hard as we pulled, the suds wouldn’t free her. They were past her shoulders and —”

  The frogs fell silent. They were clearly upset. To allow them time to recover their spirits, Lewis glanced outside and exchanged stares with the moon. He was thinking the world was … precarious. His mother was gone. His dad was in danger. Yellow Swamp had been turned into a wasteland. And now there were talking giant frogs to deal with. What was happening? Why was everything so upside down?

  “Where were we?” Todrus asked.

  “The woman,” Lewis prodded him, “she was trapped in the suds?”

  “She realized it was useless,” Todrus continued, “and urged us to leave before the swamp sucked us under. At the same time she asked for one last favour. She motioned to a locket around her neck and begged us to take it to her son in Mason Springs — in the United States of America, she explained. We were to tell him and her husband how she had died in Yellow Swamp, and that … that she loved them both with all her heart. No sooner had we grabbed the locket than the earth shook violently and the suds —”

  “No!” Gibiwink declared. “Before she vanished she managed to yell, ‘This is Ernst K. Grumpel’s doing! Be careful, or he’ll kill you, too!’ And then she was gone.”

  “After that,” Todrus whispered, “we had various adventures, which I won’t go into. The point is, we left Canada and made our way down here, where we tracked that woman’s family down, disguised as Mr. Todrey and Mrs. Gibson.”

  “Y-you mean …” Lewis stammered, putting two and two together.

  “Yes,” Todrus said, “that woman was none other than your mother.”

  Lewis’s head reeled. So his mother hadn’t simply disappeared. According to these frogs, she had been brutally murdered! All her love and kindness and wisdom — someone had deliberately smashed these to pieces!

  No, not someone. Ernst K. Grumpel.

  Todrus held up a golden locket. “Look!”

  Seizing it, Lewis pried its cover open. Inside was a family portrait. Lewis instantly recalled the occasion: his family had been vacationing in Montreal and had stopped off in a photo booth where this picture had been taken. Blind to the future, the three of them were smiling.

  “When your father heard our story,” Todrus continued, “he invited us to live with you. He knew Grumpel might otherwise hunt us down to keep his antics in Yellow Swamp a secret.”

  Lewis nodded. Studying the picture, he felt hot and cold at once. He was the son of someone who had been ruthlessly killed, and this piece of information changed his place in the world.

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?” he asked in a voice that sounded like paper being crinkled.

  “Who would have believed us?” Todrus asked. “It was our word against Grumpel’s, the world’s most powerful businessman.”

  “We’d have wound up in jail,” Gibiwink added, “if Grumpel hadn’t gotten to us first.”

  Lewis’s head was spinning. He had so many questions. Why hadn’t his father taken action against Grumpel? Why was he working for the man who had killed his wife? What was he supposed to do when Grumpel’s car drove him to the city the next day?

  “That’s enough for now,” Todrus said, understanding Lewis’s confusion. “It’s late and we should eat something. Let’s discuss our plans over a nice hot supper.”

  “Good idea,” Gibiwink said. “There’s nothing like my meat loaf to set a person’s thinking straight!”

  CHAPTER 5

  When Lewis awoke the following morning, he thought he had had an interesting dream. He smiled broadly as he remembered th
e details — a tale about frogs, chemicals, and Yellow Swamp — until he felt something hard poking his side. Reaching out, he found it smooth to the touch, oddly shaped, too, with webbing and —

  He glanced down. The frogs were sleeping on the floor beside him. Gibiwink’s arm was sprawled across the sheets, and his flipper was digging into Lewis. The events from the previous night returned in a flash.

  He checked the clock — a quarter to seven. Retrieving his clothes, he dressed in a hurry, headed downstairs, and wrote a brief note: “Back in ten minutes.” Opening the thermal lock, he ran outside.

  A minute later he was on the Pangettis’ lawn and tossing pebbles at Alfonse’s window. Shortly after, wrestling with a shirt and tie, his friend joined him in the yard below.

  “Grumpel phoned last night,” Lewis told him. “He wants me to visit him in New York City this morning.”

  “Grumpel? New York City? You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “He saw me on TV and wants to speak to me in person. He mentioned, too, that my dad’s been working for him.”

  “That’s great! So there’s no reason to worry?”

  “Wait. There’s more.”

  Hardly believing the details himself, Lewis summarized the frogs’ strange tale. When he ended with the news that his mother had been murdered, and that Grumpel himself had committed the crime, in addition to creating the Yellow Swamp disaster, Alfonse looked … skeptical.

  “In other words,” Lewis concluded as they approached the front door of his house, “Grumpel’s dangerous and probably means trouble. So what do you think? Should I stay or go?”

  “I think,” Alfonse said, “that you could write one heck of a comic.”

  “I’m being serious!”

  “So am I. Your story has everything a good comic needs — a mad scientist, weird experiments, murder, intrigue —”

  “Have it your way!” Lewis shrugged and walked into the house.

  The frogs were up and busy in the kitchen. Because Gibiwink was stirring some oatmeal on the stove, his face was turned away from the boys. And Todrus was reading at the kitchen table, so his features were hidden behind the Mason Springs Gazette.

  “Good morning,” the frogs said without revealing themselves.

  “Good morning,” the boys answered. Alfonse took a seat at the table.

  “Grumpel’s closed another factory,” Todrus told them. “That leaves him only with his New York operation. I’m telling you, there’s something fishy going on.”

  “Mr. Todrey,” Alfonse asked, “can I look at the comics?”

  “In a minute. There’s a story about Yellow Swamp in here, how the Canadians have blocked the area off — not even government officials are allowed inside.”

  “Lewis is working on a comic,” Alfonse said, tossing Lewis a wink. “It’s about frogs that are changed by a chemical cloud —”

  “Here you go,” Todrus said distractedly, handing him the paper and revealing his features.

  At the same time Gibiwink brought the oatmeal to the table, visible in all his frog-like glory. “Some sugar?” he asked Alfonse, as if being addressed by a frog were an everyday occurrence.

  Alfonse dropped the paper and drew back in his chair.

  “We’re confusing the boy,” Todrus whispered. “Maybe we should —”

  “There isn’t time,” Lewis interjected. “The car’s due soon, and we have to reach a decision.”

  “I think it’s risky,” Todrus warned. “Grumpel means business.”

  “We should run away,” Gibiwink agreed. “Before he manages to nab us.”

  “And my father?” Lewis argued. “What if he’s in trouble?”

  There was a pause, and the frogs glanced at each other. Lewis wanted to consult with Alfonse, but his friend looked as if he had been hit by a truck.

  “Well, if you’re going,” Todrus insisted, “we’re coming, too.”

  “We’ll wear our disguises,” Gibiwink added.

  Lewis frowned. “I don’t know. Grumpel might catch on. And from everything you’ve told me, he’ll probably kill you.”

  “It makes no difference,” Todrus insisted. “We owe your father everything, and a frog would rather die than live without honour. And by sticking together, the three of us —”

  “The four of us,” Alfonse croaked. “I’m coming, too.”

  “This isn’t your problem,” Lewis said. “There could be trouble …”

  “If you think you’re going to hog this adventure for yourself, the most exciting thing to happen in Mason Springs in ages, I’ve got news for you, Mr. Lewis Castorman.”

  “All right,” Lewis agreed, happy to have his friends onboard. “I’m glad —”

  “After all,” Alfonse interrupted, “what would The Bombardier say if he found out I’d bolted at the first sniff of danger?”

  “Alfonse, I said you can come!” Lewis cried.

  “Who do you think I am, the Human Glop or something?”

  Alfonse would have rambled on had a horn not sounded — much to Lewis’s relief.

  They glanced outside. Parked before the driveway was a huge limousine, thirty feet long and powerful-looking, with sea-green chrome, black-tinted windows, and a golden figure mounted in front — a miniature statue of Ernst K. Grumpel. The chauffeur, dressed in red livery, his features masked, was leaning on the hood of the car. With a gold gloved hand he gave the horn a second blast.

  “Remember,” Todrus whispered, fitting on his moustache, “you can count on us one hundred percent.”

  “One hundred percent,” Gibiwink echoed, his wig and metal brace in place.

  Lewis and his three companions left the house and approached the car. The driver saluted smartly. “Which wun uv yuhs is Lewis Castorman?” he asked.

  “I am,” Lewis said, “but there’s been a change. My friends are coming, too.”

  “Yeah? Says who?”

  “Says me!” Lewis shot back.

  “I’ll havta check wid de boss,” the chauffeur muttered. “He don’t like surprises.”

  As the chauffeur ducked inside the car and grappled with a phone, Lewis poked Alfonse and motioned down the block — Alfonse’s sister, Adelaide, was heading straight toward them.

  “Oh, no!” Alfonse groaned. “That’s all we need.”

  “What’s going on?” she demanded. “Why’s this limo on our street?”

  “Who wants to know?” Alfonse snapped back.

  “It’s taking us to New York City,” Lewis volunteered.

  “Why?” Adelaide asked.

  “It’s complicated,” Lewis said.

  “What he means,” Alfonse snarled, “is that it’s none of your business!”

  “Can I have a lift?” Adelaide asked. “I have a recital and would like to get to school early.”

  “Uh …” Lewis hesitated.

  “No way!” Alfonse snapped. “We have better things to do.”

  “Okay, he agrees,” the chauffeur spoke, back outside and opening a door. “We’s can leave any time youse guys is ready.”

  “You’re dropping me off,” Adelaide said, despite her brother’s protests.

  The chauffeur smirked, motioning them in with a wave of his finger. “De more de merrier.”

  Although instinct told him something was wrong, Lewis ducked inside and sat by a window. Alfonse slid in beside him and gasped at the fittings: there was a small TV, a fridge at their feet, a neck massager on the back of each seat, and a collapsible tray for taking one’s meals. As he fiddled with the TV set — it seemed to be broken — Lewis studied a pane of glass that kept them separate from the driver’s cab. It was black and fitted with an intercom.

  The frogs were motioning Adelaide forward. Despite their politeness, she was taken aback. She had never spied the pair close up, and their peculiar appearance made her uneasy.

  “Quit stallin’!” the chauffeur yelled. “Yer holdin’ up traffic!”

  Adelaide finally climbed inside the car. Gibiwink and Todrus clam
bered in behind her, and as soon as they were seated, the driver started the engine. Instantly, the locks engaged.

  “Those are Ambassador locks,” Lewis whispered. “They’re used in prison cells, not in limousines.”

  Alfonse sighed. “Relax. How often do you get to ride in such comfort?”

  “And why this glass?” Lewis mused, tapping the divider between them and the driver. The car was gliding forward like a beast of prey.

  “It’s to give us privacy,” Alfonse suggested.

  “It’s made of Ferroplex,” Lewis said, “and is strong enough to resist the blows of a hammer. You don’t find that strange?”

  Alfonse yawned. “Look, this is America, Lewis. If Grumpel pulls a fast one, he’ll get in trouble with the cops, so sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  Lewis wanted to remind his friend that Grumpel had murdered, murdered, his mother, and that his dad had probably been kidnapped or something. Before he could speak, Adelaide rapped the divider.

  “Excuse me!” she shouted. “You missed the street for our school!”

  “Hello!” Lewis said, speaking into the intercom. “We’re dropping off my friend. Could you turn on Grumpel Crescent, please? It’s two blocks down …”

  The car was moving quickly. As it neared Grumpel Crescent, it kept muscling forward.

  “Hey!” Todrus cried. “You’ve missed the turn again!”

  “Can it, fatso!” the driver growled, his masked face appearing on the TV screen

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Yuhs hoid me. I’s ain’t toinin’ fuh no skool. No witnesses, dose are my orders.”

  “Stop the car!” Lewis yelled. “Stop this instant!”

  But the driver only stepped on the gas. They were speeding toward the highway.

  “What’s going on?” Adelaide asked as Gibiwink flicked his tongue in and out.

  “Pick the locks!” Todrus shouted. “If we can open a door, we can signal for help!”

  Lewis pulled two picks from his wallet — a diamond point and a number seven. He stabbed the diamond point into the door’s soft fabric, an inch below the window casing, and sawed a square of the padding away. The hole revealed the lock’s internal workings — eight steel pins attached to a “spinner.” Manoeuvring his second pick, he neutralized the pins one by one.