Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen

by Wendelin Van Draanen

“Where are you going?”

  “Around the back of the building.”

  “Why?”

  “To see what I can see!” I looked down at her. “I'll be right back.”

  “Are you nuts? I'm not letting you go alone… !” She hesitated. “What about the skateboards?”

  “Leave them.” I reached out an arm. “But hand me the bat.”

  Holly was quick getting over the fence. And as we hurried along, she didn't complain once. We were real cautious when we got to the end of the building, too. But when we peeked around the corner, what did we see?

  More of the same: Chain-link. A straight shot of block wall. No doors.

  So we ran along, and as we neared the end of the wall, Holly asked, “So what exactly are we looking for?”

  “Evidence that I'm not crazy.”

  Which is exactly what we got the minute we peeked around the next corner. Holly grabbed my arm and whispered, “Tony's van!”

  The van was about thirty feet in front of us, parked close to the building alongside a door. It was the only vehicle inside the fenced yard.

  “Now what?” Holly whispered.

  “Let's check out the van. It's probably locked, but let's try. You take the passenger door, I'll try the other one.”

  So we waited for the guard to turn his back, then we snuck up, tried the doors, and met back behind the van.

  “Locked,” Holly whispered.

  “Mine, too.” I tried the handle to the back doors. It was locked, too.

  I eyed the door to the building, and Holly could tell what I was thinking. She shook her head and whispered, “Not a good idea, Sammy. No one knows where we are. I say we leave.”

  I looked out at the guard. He had his walkie-talkie up to his mouth and was closing and locking the rolling gate. “Yeah,” I whispered. “I've had enough.”

  But then a very scary thing happened. The guard started walking our way. And just as we're starting to panic, thinking that maybe he's spotted us, something bumps inside the van.

  “What was that?” I whisper.

  “I don't know!” Holly whispers back.

  Then it happens again. Thump. Thump-thump.

  So we've got a guard coming toward us and a van thumping at us, and I don't know what to do. I mean, the thumping doesn't sound random like a wagging tail or something. It sounds purposeful.

  Human.

  So I whisper, “Hello?” into the crack between the van's back doors. “Hello, can you hear me?”

  Thump-thump-thump.

  “Thump only once if you need help.”

  Thump.

  My eyes bug out as I look at Holly. Then I whisper into the crack, “We'll try to help you, but don't make any noise! Someone's coming!”

  The thumping stops, but the guard does not.

  “What are we going to do?” Holly mouths.

  “Stay behind the tire. If he comes this way, we'll go around the van that way.”

  She nods, and we can hear the guard's footsteps getting closer and closer.

  And closer.

  Finally we have to scoot around the van to avoid him. We can hear him jingling keys. Unlocking the van. Getting inside the van. Holly and I are stuck between the building and the van, watching the front gate, then the van, worried that any second we'll be spotted. And since it's too far to run back the way we came, I do the only thing I can think to do—I try the doorknob behind me.

  The door to the building is unlocked, so after Holly gives me the nod, we sneak through it. And when we get inside I'm shaking so bad the baseball bat's quivering in my hand. “Do you think he saw us?”

  “I don't know.”

  Then we hear dogs barking in the distance.

  “We've got to hide. At least for a few minutes, until we're sure he didn't see us.”

  We were in some kind of boiler room. There was a big tank and an exhaust fan, and then pipes and ductwork and metal tubing all over the place. There were also spools of electrical wires and, overhead, a bare bulb burning.

  “They've got power,” I whispered.

  “So?”

  “So maybe we can find the circuit breaker and shut the place down.”

  “You want them to find us? Let's just hide!”

  So we moved through the boiler room to a short flight of stairs that went up to another door. Very carefully I peeked into the upstairs room. Nobody was there, so we went inside, and now we could hear the murmur of voices. Lots of voices. They sounded like they were coming from right next door.

  We moved around the room and discovered a window. A window that overlooked the warehouse.

  Holly and I both gasped when we looked down. There were at least a hundred men below. They surrounded a wrestling ring that was like Slammin' Dave's, only old and tattered. Off to one side of the ring was a huge digital clock—like a scoreboard clock. And there was a microphone dangling from a roof joist.

  But the really scary thing about the whole scene was the metal cage right in the middle of the ring. It was probably eight feet long, four feet high, and four feet wide, and had spikes sticking into it from all angles except the floor.

  So Holly and I are just standing there, staring, trying to absorb what we're seeing below, when all of a sudden the Bulldog climbs into the ring. “There he is!” I whisper. “See if you can spot Tony.”

  But then the Bulldog opens the cage, and Holly gasps, “What are they going to do?”

  We watch as another man leads a large dog into the ring. He and the Bulldog unmuzzle the dog and shove it inside the cage. Then the Bulldog grabs the microphone and says, “Bring on the contenders!”

  Two cats get lifted into the ring by two men who have obviously spent a lot of time pumping iron. And while the men hold the cats by the nape of their necks and parade them around the ring, the Bulldog announces, “Gentlemen! Round-three contestants are: On my right—The Destroyer. He's won his bout three weeks running. On my left—The Claw. Crafty, streetwise, and the biggest tomcat we've seen to date.”

  The men with the cats circle the ring twice, then the Bulldog announces, “Gentlemen, place your bets.”

  Some men go over to a windowed booth. Others collect money on the spot. People start shouting numbers. Shouting names.

  “Oh my god” Holly whimpers. “They put the cats in the cage with that dog?”

  I felt like I was witnessing a nightmare come to life. “And let them fight to the death.”

  “So they bet on who dies first?” Holly choked out.

  “Or who lives longer. Now I get why there were only scrawny cats left at the pound.”

  “This is sick.”

  “And this is what would have happened to Dorito,” I whispered.

  Holly was furious. “We've got to find the circuit breaker and stop them!”

  “No,” I said, heading for the door. “We've got to get the police.”

  The one time I decide to do the smart thing, some idiot tries to stop me. We didn't see the guard, but he sure saw us. “Hey!” he shouts when we're halfway down the stairs. “How'd you get in here?”

  Holly and I freeze. “Uh… we're doing errands for Tony.”

  But the guard's not buying it—not for a second. “Get down here. Now!”

  So we turn around and start back up the stairs, but he charges after us. And since I hadn't seen any other way out of the room we'd just been in, it hits me that we're running straight for a trap.

  He's already right behind us, so I stop, turn, and ram him hard in the chest with the bat. He goes, “Oooof,” and staggers backward, but he catches himself, then steadies himself.

  “Uh-oh,” Holly squeaks behind me when she sees the look on his face. And she's right—he looks like he's going to kill me.

  Now, I can't jump. I can't hide. And I can't exactly talk my way out of the situation. This is a big-bucks operation, one they're not going to let a couple of junior high girls mess up. No, after what we'd seen, we'd probably wind up in a river somewhere.

  Or may
be just a Dumpster.

  Anyway, the guy's keeping an eye on the bat, but he's in a bad position and too mad for good judgment. So when he charges me again, I dig in the best I can, keep my eye on his head, and swing.

  Ms. Rothhammer told us once that you can kill someone that way. And I wasn't trying to, but I couldn't _pussyfoot around worrying about it, either. And it's not like his head went flying or his skull caved in or anything. He didn't even go down right away. He staggered back and stumbled, hung on to the guardrail, tumbled a few steps, staggered to his feet, and then finally he collapsed.

  “Wow,” Holly gasped when he'd thudded to the ground. “He's tough.”

  I nodded. “That's definitely one thick skull.”

  We didn't waste any time. We ran down the stairs, and I started digging through his pockets. “You are one smart girl, Holly Janquell.”

  “Me?”

  “Would I have taken a bat along?” I glanced at her. “No.”

  She smiled, but it was a very nervous smile. “What are you looking for?”

  “Keys to the van.”

  “We're driving out of here?”

  I pocketed the keys, grabbed his walkie-talkie, and grinned. “Not a bad idea.”

  “What if he wakes up?”

  “Hmm.” I looked around, then used a spool of electrical wire to bind the guard's hands behind his back. Holly got another spool and did the same thing to his feet. Then we twisted the two spools together tight and dragged him behind the boiler so no one would see him.

  Outside, the coast seemed clear, so I whispered, “I want to unlock the van and help whoever's inside. Then let's go call the police.”

  “Why don't we just go call the police and tell them someone's in the van?”

  “If it was you in there, what would you want?”

  She thought for a second, then said, “You're right. Let's do it.”

  So we zip around the van, and while I'm fumbling through four or five different keys, Holly's whispering into the crack, “Hey, we're back. Can you hear me?”

  For a second there's no answer. Then thump-thump-thump.

  “Okay,” Holly says. “Now, thump once for yes, twice for no. Are you tied up?”

  Thump.

  “Are you Slammin' Dave?”

  I glanced at Holly, surprised. It made sense, of course, but I hadn't thought of it.

  But then came the answer: Thump-thump.

  “Do you promise not to hurt us if we let you go?”

  Thump.

  Finally I find a key that works. So quick as I can, I unlock the door and push down the handle. And when I open the van, who do we find bound and gagged, lying between cleaning supplies and pet carriers?

  The Freaky Feline himself—El Gato.

  Holly and I jump back. And Holly goes to slam the door closed, saying, “I'm not letting him out!”

  But El Gato says, “Rrraaaammmy,” and the funny thing is, I know what he's saying.

  Sammy.

  So I climb in the van and tell Holly, “Have the bat ready,” because I'm not hot to set this creepy cat free, either. I mean, so what if he knows my name? What if it's a trick? Maybe this guy deserves to be tied up.

  Then again, maybe he was on to Tony long before we were.

  Still. I'm not taking any chances. I monkey-walk over to El Gato's head, because the idiot still has his mask on. And since the rag in his mouth is tied over the mask, I have to take the gag off first. So I bend down and untie it, and before he has the chance to say a word, I yank off his mask.

  And there, looking up at me, panting for air, is Officer Borsch.

  “It's Officer Borsch?” Holly cries.

  “Quick! Help me untie him!”

  “It's Officer Borsch?” Holly asks again, climbing into the van.

  My brain was flying around, trying to make sense of things. “Were you working undercover?” I ask him, undoing the knots as fast as I can. “Where's your backup?”

  He moans as the ropes loosen and his arms and legs are freed. One of his wrists looks pretty badly chafed, and his whole body seems stiff as he sits up and mumbles, “I was working alone.”

  “Alone? Are you crazy? There's a hundred bloodthirsty guys inside that warehouse. They're killing cats as we speak!”

  “Did you see?” he asks.

  I nod. “They've got a whole boxing-ring setup—with a torture cage in the middle. They throw cats in with dogs and make them fight! It's sick!”

  “Okay,” he says, and starts untying his wrestling shoe.

  “What are you doing? We've got to get out of here! The guard caught us inside and we knocked him out, but I don't know how long he's going to stay out.”

  Officer Borsch just keeps unlacing his shoe.

  “Officer Borsch! Did you hear me? Follow us around the building—we know how to get out!”

  “You girls have no idea how lucky you are to be alive.” He yanks out the tongue of his shoe, and there, underneath it, is a small cell phone. He flips it open, saying, “Me, I know how lucky I am that you found me.” He gives me a halfhearted grin. “And here I used to think you were nothing but bad luck.”

  Before he can finish punching in numbers, the guard's walkie-talkie crackles, and Tony's voice fills the van. “Mason, we still cool out there?”

  “Pass it here!” Officer Borsch says.

  So Holly scrambles for the walkie-talkie and tosses it to Officer Borsch.

  He holds down a button and says, “Yeah, we're cool.”

  “No trouble from the narc?”

  “Nah. He's a wimp.”

  Tony laughs, “We'll have fun gettin' rid of that one.” Then he says, “What's the stats on the door.”

  Officer Borsch's eyes shift. “Uh…we're locked down tight.”

  “No! What's the numbers?”

  Officer Borsch whispers, “How many people do you think were inside?”

  “A hundred?” I look at Holly and she sort of shrugs and nods.

  Officer Borsch keys the walkie-talkie and says, “Eighty-seven.”

  “That's it? Looks like more than that to me.”

  “Uh… I coulda lost count.”

  “Lost count? It's your job to count.”

  “And I counted eighty-seven.”

  “Look. I'll check in with you later. Keep an eye on the narc.”

  “No problem.”

  Beads of sweat are pouring down the Borschman's brow, but without wasting a second, he punches buttons on his cell phone and goes into total cop mode when someone picks up. “Gil Borsch here. I'm in a double-ought situation inside a white van at Kustom Air on the two-hundred block of North Depot. It's a ten-thirty-one involving animal gaming. We need all units to respond. Possible ten-thirty-four.” He listens a second, then says, “At least a hundred. This is a high-stakes situation….” He listens some more, then says, “Copy that,” and hangs up.

  “They're coming?”

  “I'd give ‘em two minutes.” He takes the keys from me. “Meanwhile, let's see what we can do to trap them inside.”

  The van fires right up, but just as Officer Borsch is putting it in gear, the passenger door flies open. “Hey!” Tony yells, running alongside the van. “What are you doing in my van!” Then he must've noticed Officer Borsch's clothes, because he shouts, “You!”

  Holly and I duck as Officer Borsch tries to peel away from him, but Tony jumps inside, slams the passenger door, and points a handgun at him. “Stop the van!”

  Well, Officer Borsch guns it instead, swerving side to side, trying to keep Tony off balance. “I said stop!” Tony shouts, and I swear the second he can steady himself, he's going to pull the trigger. So I reach back quick and grab the bat, and before he even knows I'm there, I whack down on his hand.

  The gun drops and Officer Borsch spins a U-ie, sending Tony flying against the passenger door while Officer Borsch stretches down and grabs the gun. Then he slams on the brakes, pins Tony's head to the windshield with the gun, and says, “Give me an excuse, creep.
I'll tornado you straight to hell.”

  Sirens are wailing in the distance, and Tony knows it's all over—he just stays put, with his lips drawn tight and his hands up. So since I know Officer Borsch has him covered, and I know that help is on the way, I pull back and whisper, “Let's go” to Holly.

  Officer Borsch is telling Tony, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…,” so I give him a quick wave and whisper, “We were never here,” then hurry out the back of the van.

  Holly follows me around the building the way we'd come, saying, “Why are we doing this now?”

  “You want to be here all night? Answering police questions takes forever! Plus they'll want to call our parents, and besides, the last thing Officer Borsch needs is for it to get out that he was rescued by a couple of junior high girls. I want to make like we had nothing to do with this.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Trust me. I don't know what's going on at the police department, but do you think Officer Borsch would dress as a cat if he wasn't desperate to prove himself?”

  “You've got a point.”

  So we jet around the building and climb the fence quick. Two policemen are already using bolt cutters on the locked gate, but we grab our skateboards and manage to sneak up the street without them seeing us. And by the time we're a safe block away, the Kustom Air place is swarming with cops.

  Holly looks back and says, “So that's it? We're just going home? Don't you want to see them get caught? Can't we cruise around the block and check it out from the brickyard? Or from across the street?”

  “You really want to?”

  “Heck yeah!”

  I grin at her. “Well, come on!”

  It turned out to be a show worth watching.

  I'd never seen so many cops in my life. I didn't even know Santa Martina had that much law enforcement. Every cop in the county must've been tuned into radio traffic and dropped what they were doing to help. There were fire trucks there, too.

  And you should have seen it when the gamblers found out they were caught in a raid. They went wild trying to escape! They didn't get far, though. For one thing, they were surrounded. For another, the firemen hosed them down.