by Stuart Gibbs
“How’re they doing?” Dad asked.
“Fantastic,” Arthur replied. “In the wild, two would have been lucky to survive, but here, all four are probably going to come through. Even the little runt there.” He tapped the screen, pointing to a cub significantly smaller than the others. His littermates kept shoving him away, but each time, he’d scramble back into the fray.
“Do they have names yet?” I asked.
Arthur shook his head. “Pete Thwacker wants to have a big contest to name them. He’s gonna milk these cubs for as much PR as he can.”
“Can’t really blame him,” Dad said. “This place needs all the good PR it can get.”
“Maybe,” Arthur grumbled, “but it’d be nice to call them something other than Cubs One, Two, Three, and Four.”
Dad grabbed two chairs for us, then pulled a DVD out of his pocket. “My pal in security copied all the footage from the camera feeds outside KoalaVille last night,” he told me. “Turns out, there’s no footage from inside the exhibit. The morons never hooked it up properly.”
I made a show of surprise, not wanting to tell Dad I knew this already. Because then I’d have to tell him how I knew, which was a conversation I didn’t feel like having quite yet. There was too much else to focus on. “Have you watched all this already?”
“No. Only a few minutes of it. But I wanted to examine the rest more closely.” Dad inserted the DVD into the hard drive, then brought up the file. It was quite large—a few hours of footage from multiple cameras—so it took a while to load. When it finally popped up, the computer screen displayed four different squares, each showing video from a different angle outside Kazoo’s exhibit. The time was digitally stamped at the bottom of each. The video quality was surprisingly good; one of the many companies J.J. McCracken owned made high-quality surveillance cameras, so he’d given himself a deal on them.
The video began at four thirty p.m. There were no tourists lined up for the exhibit, as it was supposed to be closed for the night, although lots of people were jamming the bazaar, buying Kazoo merchandise.
Dad fast-forwarded a few minutes, then slowed down the video again. At 4:43 I ran past one of the cameras, then appeared on another, then showed up at the door to the keepers’ office. My backpack dangled over one shoulder, obviously empty. I knocked, then entered Summer’s code in the keypad and slipped into the office.
“Your knowing that code raised a lot of questions in security,” Dad said. “Apparently, no one there knew J.J. McCracken had his own secret access code. Not even Marge.”
“What Marge doesn’t know could fill a library,” I said.
“Marge—and most everyone else—assumes you must have stolen the code somehow,” Dad went on. “Which indicates a lot of premeditation. Like you planned this theft well ahead of time.”
I swallowed hard, concerned. “Why doesn’t Marge just ask J.J. about the code?”
“I doubt he’d admit the truth about it,” Dad said. “Then his secret code wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”
I sighed and nodded agreement.
Dad jumped two minutes ahead in the video. Four forty-five. The last of the tourists begrudgingly filed out of the koala viewing area. Then Kristi emerged and started toward her office, but Large Marge cut her off. There was no audio on the recording, but I knew Marge was demanding to be let into the viewing area and Kristi was telling her it was pointless because I wasn’t inside. Marge grew angrier and angrier, so finally Kristi capitulated and let her in.
Dad jumped forward another few minutes. At 4:50 Marge and Kristi exited the viewing area, circled around to the keepers’ office, and went inside. Two minutes after that, Marge stormed out, looking angry, and stomped off toward the bazaar. After another three minutes, Kristi exited, having tended to Kazoo, and headed home for the night.
Dad fast forwarded again. On the screen, it grew dark as the sun set and the video shifted from full-color to a night-vision green. Dad slowed the video a final time. At 5:31, I peeked out the door and looked around furtively. When I didn’t see any security guards, I bolted for the back gate of the property.
Dad froze the video of me in mid-stride. “This is what grabbed everyone’s attention,” he said, pointing to the monitor.
My backpack was now on both shoulders. I knew it was still empty, but that wasn’t obvious in the image.
“Looks like that backpack is full,” Arthur said.
I turned, surprised to find him watching over my shoulder. “Well, it’s not.”
Arthur shrugged. “I just said it looks that way.”
I was about to tell him to mind his own business when Dad cut me off. “It does,” he said. “And that, combined with your suspicious behavior when you exited the exhibit, has raised a lot of concerns.”
“I wasn’t being suspicious,” I said defensively. “I was looking around for the security guards.”
“That’s not suspicious?” Dad asked.
I suddenly realized why he was on edge. He’d already seen the footage and he knew it made me look bad. “I was looking for them because they’d been chasing me,” I explained. “Not because I’d stolen Kazoo.”
“I know that,” Dad told me. “But we’re talking about how it appears to other people.”
“If Marge and all the other security guards were already chasing me, why would I pick that very moment to go steal Kazoo?” I asked. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“Maybe not,” Dad said. “And yet all the evidence is pointing directly at you. It’s not just that they have this video of you. It’s that there’s no video of anyone else.”
The gravity of my situation suddenly sank in. I felt terrible. It wasn’t merely fear of being framed for a crime I didn’t commit. I was also ashamed. I knew my father didn’t believe I’d taken Kazoo, but one look in his eyes told me he was even more distressed by the situation than I was.
“There’s no one else at all?” I asked.
“It doesn’t look that way,” Dad said sadly. “Security scanned through the rest of the footage and didn’t see anyone else enter or leave the exhibit all night.”
“They only scanned it?” I said. “No one ever watched it in real time?”
“No,” Dad admitted. “Because that would take twelve hours, which probably seemed like a waste of time given that they already had video of you red-handed. That’s why I asked for the footage, though. I figured I could go through it more carefully and see if anything interesting crops up.”
“Now?” Arthur asked. “Sorry, but I can’t let you guys stay for twelve hours. . . .”
“I wasn’t planning on that,” Dad told him. “I’ll watch this myself at home tonight. I just wanted Teddy to see this much so he can understand what we’re up against here.” He turned to me solemnly. “You understand how bad this looks for you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Hopefully, I’ll find something else on the footage,” Dad said. “Chances are, the security guys didn’t pay very close attention to the rest of it—if they paid any attention at all. However, if I don’t find anything else—”
“You have to,” I interrupted. “Someone else took Kazoo. They have to be on the video. Security just didn’t see it.”
“I hope it’s that easy,” Dad said, though he sounded strangely pessimistic. He ejected the DVD and turned to Arthur. “Thanks for letting us use your office.”
“Don’t mention it,” Arthur said. Something struck me as odd about how he said it, though. He didn’t even look up. His eyes were riveted to his computer monitor again.
Dad sensed something was wrong too. “Arthur,” he said worriedly. “What have you done?”
“My duty as a keeper,” Arthur replied.
Dad grabbed me by the arm. “We have to get out of here, Teddy. Now!”
We ran for the exit, but we had only gone a few steps before Marge O’Malley and Bubba Stackhouse entered. The two of them filled the doorway, blocking any chance of escape. Marge dangled a pai
r of handcuffs from one meaty finger and gave me a big toothy grin. “Theodore Roosevelt Fitzroy,” she said proudly, “you’re under arrest.”
CHAOS
Dad shot a look of betrayal at Arthur. “You tipped them off?”
Arthur couldn’t even bring himself to meet my father’s gaze. “Face the facts!” he mewled. “Teddy’s guilty!”
“Mr. Fitzroy, please step away from your son,” Bubba Stackhouse said. It was the first time I was seeing him up close. He was a big man in every way. He was at least six and a half feet tall, and his shoulders seemed four feet across. Muscles bulged under his shirt, but a large belly did too. He had a big nose, big ears, and a huge anvil jaw. Even his voice was big. It boomed and echoed inside the cave like a depth charge. “We’d like to make this as easy as possible for everyone.”
Instead of doing what Bubba asked, Dad stepped in front of me, the way a buffalo would to protect its young from predators. “Teddy hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Bubba’s muscles tensed in anger. “I don’t want to hurt you, sir, but I will have to if that’s what it takes.”
“I’m not worried about me getting hurt,” Dad replied. “I’m worried about Teddy. I don’t think there’s any need to put handcuffs on him. He’s only twelve.”
“I’ll be the judge of what’s necessary.” Marge stepped forward as well, twirling the cuffs on her finger. “Now step away from the boy.”
To my surprise, Dad complied. He suddenly shifted to the side, leaving me out in the open. Marge and Bubba loomed over me. I felt like a shrimp facing a pair of whales.
“Turn around, Theodore,” Marge said. “And put your hands behind your back.”
I looked to my father nervously, expecting him to stand up for me. Instead, to my surprise, he gave me a slight nod.
So I did exactly as Marge had asked. I turned around and put my wrists together at the base of my spine.
“Good boy,” Marge said, like I was a dog. She took a step closer, still twirling the handcuffs.
Dad suddenly sprang into action. He snatched the cuffs off Marge’s finger and, before Marge even knew what was happening, locked one around her left wrist.
“Hey!” Marge shouted.
Bubba spun toward Dad. He reflexively raised his fists . . .
And Dad snapped the other handcuff around his wrist.
Bubba grabbed for him, but as his right arm was now cuffed to Marge’s left, his reach was suddenly cut short.
Dad easily leaped out of range, then yelled, “Teddy! Let’s go!”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I bolted for the exit. Arthur Koenig lunged for me, but I easily dodged the traitor. He slammed face-first into one of the computer monitors, gave a squeal of pain, and crumpled to the floor, clutching his bloodied nose.
Dad and I raced out of the control room. Marge and Bubba charged after us, though the two of them didn’t coordinate their steps right. They crashed into each other and took out a desk full of computer equipment.
Dad led me back the way we’d come in. Behind us we could hear Marge screaming in rage and frustration. She was so angry she couldn’t even form words. Instead she sounded like a wounded animal.
“Where are we going?” I asked Dad.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m making this up as I go.”
We barged through the exit by the otter exhibit and startled a few tourists as we burst out of the landscaping—although Marge’s angry howls echoing through the tunnel scared them even more.
“Sounds like something’s escaped!” one tourist yelled, and everyone fled in fear. A few more park guests near the lion exhibit overheard them and ran as well. (Given that a tiger had escaped at Carnivore Canyon’s grand opening gala, their reactions actually made sense.)
Dad and I reached the entrance to Carnivore Canyon and found several security guards racing toward us from the center of the park. We turned toward the back gate, but guards were blocking that as well. There was only one way for us to go: For the second time in two days, I found myself running toward KoalaVille.
The number of guests fleeing Carnivore Canyon had snowballed, and the approaching phalanx of guards now confirmed everyone’s fears that an animal had escaped. Panic set in. The tourists screamed and scattered across the park, not so much seeking safety as trying to outrun all the other visitors and thus let them get picked off first.
The guards made no attempt to calm the frightened guests. Instead they charged after me and Dad.
Marge and Bubba emerged from Carnivore Canyon and joined in the chase. Bubba was a surprisingly strong man. Marge would have been like an anchor to most people, but the policeman was dragging her right along with him.
Dad and I raced past the crowded Kazoo merchandise bazaar, but then stopped short on the other side, scanning the length of the back fence.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“We shouldn’t have come this way.” Dad sounded upset with himself. “It’s a dead end.”
“So what do we do?”
“Create a diversion.” Then, at the top of his lungs, Dad yelled, “The lion’s out!”
Everyone in the bazaar started in fear, then noticed their fellow tourists panicking over at Carnivore Canyon. They dropped their koala merchandise and scattered. Within a second the entire shopping area became pandemonium. People were screaming and running everywhere. A shelf full of commemorative Kazoo snow globes toppled and shattered.
The security guards lost us in the chaos. Dad and I doubled back, using the racks of sweatshirts as cover, and circled around the koala exhibit. Despite everything, there was still a line of tourists at the door. Either they hadn’t heard the warning about the escaped lion, or they were so determined to see Kazoo that they were willing to risk being mauled to do it.
Dad and I came around the back side, hoping to find a path to freedom. Instead we found trouble.
Bubba Stackhouse was smarter than we’d thought. He’d kept an eye on us and swung around to cut us off, bringing Marge with him. They ambushed us, blocking our escape.
Dad and I had no choice but to veer into the exhibit. We bulldozed in through the exit. The teenager posted there to make sure this didn’t happen tried to chastise us, but Bubba and Marge flattened him before he could.
The exhibit was even more crowded than it had been earlier. Tourists were packed four deep at the glass, staring at the stuffed toy back in the trees. The newlyweds were still there, having spent an hour and a half patiently waiting for the fake koala to move. Kristi had resumed her post on the podium. Pete Thwacker was now with her. Apparently, the PR man had dropped by to see for himself how well his ruse was working. As always, Pete looked impeccable. His hair was perfectly combed, his teeth gleamed blindingly, and he wore a fancy suit that probably cost more than our trailer.
The crowds were too thick for Dad and me to wriggle through. We were trapped. Marge and Bubba cornered me against the glass.
“Everyone stand back!” Marge ordered. “This kid is dangerous!”
Her voice was surprisingly commanding. The crowd obediently cleared away from me, as though I were contagious.
Only Dad remained close. Once again, he placed himself between the authorities and me. “Leave my son alone,” he warned.
“If you obstruct justice again, we’ll arrest you, too,” Bubba growled. “Your son is guilty of a serious crime.”
“What crime?” Dad taunted. “It seems to me that Kazoo’s right here.” He pointed through the glass.
Bubba looked into the exhibit and gaped in surprise at the koala. Evidently, no one had informed him of Pete’s amoral cover-up.
Dad took advantage of the diversion to try and slip by with me in tow, but Bubba instinctively grabbed for us with his free hand. Dad expertly deflected it, grabbing Bubba’s wrist and twisting his arm down. Bubba, being a good old boy who’d probably had his share of fights, responded to the attack by trying to punch Dad in the face.
Unfortunately, Bubba forgot h
e was handcuffed to Marge. Marge had already started toward Dad, and now the force of Bubba’s powerful swing yanked her off balance. Dad darted out of the way as Marge sailed toward him. She slammed into the glass wall.
Most animal exhibits are built with extremely strong shatterproof glass, but KoalaVille had been thrown up so quickly there hadn’t been time to get it specially made. Marge hit the glass hard—and pulled Bubba along with her. The glass didn’t stand a chance against the two of them.
The enormous pane shattered into a million pieces. Marge and Bubba stumbled into the exhibit and slammed into the eucalyptus tree where fake Kazoo sat.
The koala tumbled from its perch and landed on its head.
And then Marge and Bubba fell on it.
The tourists had watched the intrusion into the exhibit in stunned silence. But now, seeing what appeared to be Kazoo’s lifeless limbs sticking out from beneath Marge and Bubba, the screaming began.
Tourists of all ages, men and women alike, completely freaked out.
“They killed Kazoo!” the bride wailed, and several dozen other people echoed her.
I stole a glance at Pete Thwacker. His normally tan skin had completely drained of color. He looked as though he’d swallowed a porcupine.
Beside him, Kristi Sullivan appeared to be laughing at his expense.
“People, please!” Pete yelled over the din. “I assure you, Kazoo is not dead!”
“He’s not moving!” the groom yelled back. “They crushed him! Oh, this is horrible!”
A few adults rushed to Kazoo’s aid and tried to pry Marge and Bubba off the prone koala. However, Marge and Bubba—neither being very spry to begin with—were tangled up together and having a great deal of trouble getting up.