Unleashed

by Gordon Korman

  “Her dad and I are worried,” Mrs. Dukakis continued, her brow furrowed. “She was always quiet. But when she made friends with you kids, she really started coming out of her shell. I’d hate to lose all that progress because of this incident.”

  “Did you call the police?” Griffin asked. “After all, stealing is a crime.”

  “We did,” Melissa’s mother confirmed. “But because it was a school project, they’re treating it as a prank. I don’t think they’re going to be much help.”

  Griffin studied his shoes. “We thought we had an idea who might have taken it, but we turned out to be wrong.”

  That was the most frustrating part of this. If Operation Recover Hover had been a true plan, they would have simply moved on from Darren to the next suspect on the list. But there weren’t any other suspects. Melissa’s only Cedarville competition had been Darren and Griffin. Of course, the Hover Handler had been completely out in the open in the Drysdales’ front yard, so anyone could have taken it. But why? The device was unmarked and no one could possibly have known what its use was. It was too heavy for Cleopatra to move, and so bulky that Luthor could not possibly get his powerful jaws around it.

  “Well, it definitely didn’t walk away on its own,” Pitch pointed out as they took the long way to school the next morning.

  “We can’t give up,” Savannah pleaded. “Luthor trashed our basement last night because he heard the truck backfire. He tore the felt right off our pool table. My dad is beside himself!”

  “You think I’m thrilled about it?” Griffin demanded. “Forget Melissa — if I can’t stop my motor from turning off every light in the house, Vader’s going to win the contest. He keeps revising the speech I have to give. Now he wants me to bring a tub of water and wash his feet in front of the whole school.”

  “So do something about it,” Pitch urged. “You’re The Man With The Plan!”

  Griffin could only shrug. He found himself in a state that was equal parts uncomfortable and unfamiliar: completely out of ideas.

  * * *

  A ceasefire had been called between Savannah Drysdale and Ralph’s Exterminators. The exterminator no longer accused Savannah of siccing her dog on him. In exchange, the girl promised to walk Luthor only during “safe” times when Ralph’s truck was nowhere near Honeybee Street.

  “I swear you must be the only middle school girl who receives text updates from an exterminator,” Mrs. Drysdale said in exasperation.

  “Probably,” Savannah sighed, clipping the leash onto Luthor’s collar. “But I’d rather Ralph was in touch with me than with animal control. The poor Sweetie could end up in the dog pound for chasing cars — even if it’s only one car.”

  Her mother frowned. “I wonder why he’s so fixated on that particular truck. He doesn’t go after anything else. Could it be the backfire that scares him?”

  “If that was true, he’d be running in the opposite direction.”

  “Maybe the solution would be to let him catch it,” Mrs. Drysdale ventured. “You know, to get it out of his system.”

  “I suggested that,” her daughter agreed. “Ralph didn’t go for it. He’s afraid of Luthor, if you can imagine such a ridiculous thing. Like Luthor could hurt a fly.”

  Her mother smiled thinly. “Okay, not a fly. A pool table, maybe, but not a fly.”

  Savannah led her dog out of the house into the brisk air. She knew her mother thought she had a blind spot when it came to Luthor. Everybody felt that way. Well, that was their problem. They just couldn’t see that he was gentle and sensitive and intelligent and kind. They were incapable of looking beyond his physical presence and gigantic teeth. Talk about judging a book by its cover!

  As usual, Luthor led the way. Now that he was spending so much time in the basement, these brief moments of freedom were precious to him, and he leaped and ran, chasing the falling leaves and blasting through painstakingly raked piles, strewing their contents all over the lawns again.

  “Oh, Luthor!” Savannah exclaimed, panting to keep up with him. “Don’t you see the fun you could have if only you’d stop chasing that stupid truck! You’re spoiling everything for yourself! And Dad,” she added, thinking of her father holding up the green shreds of the pool table.

  Luthor glanced back at her, utterly happy and eager to please. He was just about to make one of his bull runs, knocking her over and licking her face, when he stopped still, cropped ears pointing skyward. Then, suddenly, he was up on his hind legs, his front paws churning the air. It was strangely rhythmic, like a dance —

  That was when she realized why all this was so familiar.

  It was the hip-hop dance — the one Luthor always did when he chased the exterminator’s truck and the Hover Handler was bringing him home!

  Only there was no Hover Handler this time. Melissa’s invention was gone.

  She looked around to get her bearings. They were at the end of Honeybee Street where the former shortcut to school now stood behind Mr. Hartman’s fence.

  But if there’s no Hover Handler, what’s making Luthor act this way?

  That was when she heard the high-pitched ringing sound, the Hover Handler’s sonic tone. It was faint, muffled — the source must have been indoors. And there was only one house it could possibly have been coming from.

  The meaning sank in swiftly.

  We should have known! Why didn’t we know?

  Mr. Hartman had the Hover Handler!

  I hate surveillance,” Ben grumbled. “It seems like every time the wind blows, we’re staking somebody out. I just got over my stomach cramps from surveillance on Vader. I think I might be allergic to eggs.”

  “We have to learn Hartman’s habits,” Griffin explained patiently. “We need to know when he goes out and for how long. We’re not going to be able to get our hands on Melissa’s invention if he’s sitting there in the living room watching us break in.”

  Logan was not convinced. “I don’t understand why we can’t just call the police and get them to arrest Heartless for grand theft Hover Handler.”

  Griffin shook his head. “Melissa’s family tried that already. The cops say you can’t steal a school project — that it’s just a prank. In their eyes, it’s like taking somebody’s baking-soda-and-vinegar volcano — not nice, but not criminal.”

  Pitch expertly shinnied down the trunk of the sycamore tree and dropped at their feet. “The webcam’s in place,” she reported.

  “It’s a good thing we had a few left over from the last operation,” Savannah put in. “Melissa’s totally out of commission. She won’t even answer her phone anymore.”

  “She’ll be herself again when we get the Hover Handler back,” Griffin said confidently. “I’ll send around the link so we can all monitor the camera on our computers and phones. With five of us checking, we should have most times covered.”

  “I can’t make that kind of commitment,” Logan informed them solemnly. “My commercial is ready to go into production. I could get a call from the ad agency any day now.”

  “Rehearse in front of the screen,” Griffin advised him. “We need all eyes. We have to know every detail of Hartman’s daily schedule, every move he makes. Like when he goes to the grocery store, how long does it take? Is it enough time for us to find the Hover Handler in his house? The difference between twenty minutes and thirty could be the difference between getting in and getting out, and getting in and getting caught.”

  Over the next few days, the team watched and waited. The live feed from the webcam rarely escaped scrutiny from at least one of the five. Griffin surreptitiously checked his phone during classroom breaks while at school; Ben woke up each morning and fast-forwarded through the overnight footage while serving Ferret Face his breakfast pepperoni; Pitch monitored the feed through a picture-in-picture window on her Xbox; Savannah recruited Cleopatra to keep an eye on the computer for her, and the capuchin monkey became as devoted to the video of the Hartman house as she was to her favorite TV channel, Animal Planet. Loga
n, too, was loyal, his eyes never far from the screen as he prepared for the most challenging role of his young acting career.

  As the days passed, the team was forced to face up to a regrettable truth: They were no closer to learning Mr. Hartman’s schedule because Mr. Hartman had no schedule. He never left the house — not to work, not to shop, not to exercise, not at all.

  Ben was astonished. “I can’t believe it. Coming out to yell at us is his only social life.”

  “And his only exercise,” Pitch added. “He should weigh nine hundred pounds by now.”

  “He should,” Savannah agreed in a hushed voice. “Have you seen the grocery deliveries that arrive at that house? There’s no way one person can eat all that. He must be feeding a herd of elephants out his back door!”

  “Maybe he’s having a big party,” Logan suggested.

  “A party? That guy?” Griffin snorted. “Don’t make me laugh. To have a party, you need at least one friend to invite. Heartless hates everybody, and I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”

  “Besides,” Pitch added, “I’ve been watching those deliveries. They’re not party food. It’s all stuff in cans, like a lifetime supply of Beefaroni. Chef Boyardee must be buying a yacht.”

  Ferret Face’s needle nose poked out of Ben’s collar, sniffing the air. Beefaroni was one of his favorite snacks.

  Ben pushed him back inside the shirt. “At least Beefaroni is edible. What do you think he’s doing with all that wood?”

  Five sets of eyes turned to the large pile of two-by-fours on the lawn of the Hartman home. Every so often, Mr. Hartman himself would appear, pick up an armload of lumber, and disappear into the house again. There was also Sheetrock, bags of cement, and bales of fiberglass insulation.

  “I just figured it’s some kind of Mr. Fixit project,” Logan mused. “You know, home improvement.”

  “Yeah, but look at the home!” Griffin exclaimed. “It’s not improving!”

  “Maybe it is on the inside,” Savannah suggested.

  “No way,” Griffin shot back. “We’ve all been inside Mrs. Martindale’s house. You could knock the place down and rebuild it with the stuff he’s hauled inside. That’s concrete. You don’t use it to fill cracks; you lay down foundations with it. He should at least be putting on an addition, but where is it?”

  “Calm down,” Pitch soothed. “What do we care what he’s doing with those building supplies so long as we get Melissa’s Hover Handler back?”

  “The whole plan is based on surveillance,” Griffin explained, his frustration evident. “When you can’t explain what happened to five thousand pounds of lumber and a dozen cases of Beefaroni right under your nose, it means your surveillance isn’t doing the job!”

  All eyes turned to The Man With The Plan. If Operation Recover Hover wasn’t working, he would know what changes needed to be made.

  “So what do we do?” Ben prompted.

  Griffin looked thoughtful. “If we can’t see what’s going on in there, maybe we can hear it.”

  The Drysdale house was a maximum-security prison.

  Pet gates had been installed in the doorways, and the simple act of getting from room to room had become a major operation of unlatching, opening, closing, and locking up again.

  “It’s for Luthor,” Savannah confessed through tight lips and taut-skinned cheeks. “He knocked the basement door off its hinges, but the vet says the swelling in his nose should go down in another day or two.”

  Ben whistled. “If he busted a wood door, do you really think a few flimsy plastic gates can hold him back?”

  “Not really,” she admitted. “But they might slow him down long enough for Ralph’s van to get out of range. Anyway, you get used to the inconvenience.”

  “Seriously?” called Mrs. Drysdale from the kitchen. “It takes me twenty minutes to carry a load of laundry upstairs. It’s easier to get into Fort Knox than our bedrooms.”

  “It’s only temporary, Mrs. D,” said Griffin encouragingly. “We’re working on it.”

  She frowned. “That doesn’t mean there’s a plan, does it?” She paused. “Don’t answer that. I’ll accept a plan if it means I can have my house back.”

  Savannah sighed. “It’s been stressful on everybody,” she confided once her mother was out of earshot. “The rabbits are getting claustrophobic. They can’t hop high enough to see over the barriers.”

  Pitch looked around impatiently. “Where’s Logan? He’s been in there long enough to take a shower.”

  “I heard that,” came a muffled voice behind the door. A moment later, Logan emerged into the hall and stood before their astonished eyes.

  If it hadn’t been Logan who had disappeared into the bathroom twenty minutes earlier, none of them would have recognized the person who had just stepped out. His short brown hair was now platinum blond and stood up in spikes. His face was ghostly pale, with black brows and dark-rimmed eyes. He wore a leather vest pierced with safety pins and no shirt at all. A temporary tattoo on one bony shoulder depicted a hooded cobra devouring a grinning skull. Loops of chain hung from his boots.

  Savannah stared. “Logan?”

  Ferret Face took one look and retreated back inside Ben’s shirt.

  Logan grinned. “Pretty good, huh? A true actor has to be able to transform himself.” He dropped to the floor and tore off ten quick pushups. “To make my muscles pop,” he explained.

  “Your muscles wouldn’t pop if you put them in the microwave,” Pitch commented drily.

  Savannah leaned forward, squinting. “Is that a nose ring?”

  “If you’re not willing to go all the way, you’ve got no place in show business,” Logan declared in a nasal tone. His face twitched, and he sneezed violently. The nose ring flew across the room and pinged off the radiator.

  “A clip-on,” Pitch diagnosed. “Way to go all the way, Kellerman.”

  Logan went scrambling after it. “I wouldn’t hesitate to pierce my nose for my art, but I’ve got the shoot for my commercial coming up.” He retrieved the gold ring, blew off a fur ball from one or more of Savannah’s many animal friends, and clipped it back to his nostril.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, Logan,” Griffin approved. “There’s no way Heartless is going to recognize you. Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

  “I hope not,” Logan said fervently. “Because she’ll kill me if she sees where I’m sticking her earring.”

  Ben frowned. “I don’t get it. I thought Logan was supposed to be a delivery guy. How come he’s dressed like a punk rocker?”

  “A delivery guy is a person,” Logan explained, “with hopes and dreams and a unique personality and style.”

  “And a clip-on earring hanging out of his nose,” added Pitch in amusement.

  “The point is,” Griffin stepped in, “that when Heartless sees Logan, he’ll be looking at the freaky stuff, not the face, which he might recognize as one of the kids he’s kicked off his lawn.”

  “Actually,” Logan informed him, “that’s just a tiny fraction of my character —”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Pitch cut him off. “Your job is to deliver the groceries, take a look around the house, plant the microphone, and get out.”

  “It’ll be two-dimensional,” Logan warned.

  “That’s fine,” Griffin decided. “You’ll win your Oscar when they turn the Ouch-Free commercial into a movie. Now let’s get this done. Pitch, where are the groceries?”

  “Just outside,” Pitch replied.

  The carton sat on Melissa’s wagon, which had once carried the Hover Handler. Printed on the side was: 24 COUNT — OXTAIL SOUP.

  “Oxtail soup?” Ben repeated. “That’s a real thing?”

  “It was on sale,” Pitch told him. “If you wanted caviar, we should have chipped in more money.”

  “So long as it gets the job done,” Griffin decided. “It’s not like anybody’s going to be eating it — except maybe Heartless, and he deserves it. Okay, Logan, you’re on
your own. The rest of us will be watching on Savannah’s computer.”

  Logan puffed out his chest, jingling the safety pins on his vest. “In theater lingo, you tell me to break a leg.”

  “We’re not going to do that,” said Pitch nervously. “And be careful walking in those boots.”

  * * *

  The carton of soup was heavy, and Logan was breathing hard as he made his way up Honeybee Street. He had abandoned the wagon a few houses back — Mr. Hartman might recognize it. Besides, it wasn’t punk enough to go with the character he was portraying. His arms hurt like crazy, but of course that would make his muscles pop even more.

  As he started up the front walk to the Hartman home he felt his heart pounding with the familiar exhilaration of a great role about to be brought to life. When he rang the bell, he was positively light-headed — although that might have been the exhaustion from carrying the soup so far. He made a mental note to join a gym so he’d be in better shape for these physically demanding roles.

  And then the door opened and Mr. Hartman was scowling out at him. Showtime!

  “Your groceries, man,” muttered Logan in his deepest, sulkiest punk voice.

  The homeowner’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t order any groceries today.”

  Logan had prepared for this possibility. “Must be back-ordered from yesterday.”

  “I think yesterday’s shipment was complete. What is this?” Mr. Hartman leaned forward and read the label. “Oxtail soup? I’d definitely remember ordering that.”

  “This is free, mister,” Logan drawled. “It must be a bonus because you’re such a good customer. I can carry it in for you. It’s heavy.” The last part required no acting at all. In fact, if Logan couldn’t unburden himself of the carton soon, he was afraid his arms might snap off at the shoulder sockets.

  The man continued to block his way. “Nothing is free in this world. Who sent you? The government?”

  Logan gawked. “No, Maxi-Mart.”

  “Don’t give me that! The government’s everywhere!”

  Logan’s mind raced. A real actor had to be prepared for anything. But no one could have expected the conversation to veer in this direction. What did the government have to do with oxtail soup?