“I got something . . . ,” I gasp, dangling the watch where he can see it. “It’s worth a hundred dollars! At least!”
With a mechanical hum, Mr. Wells’s window descends. The look of misery on his face stops me cold. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Hoko is gone.”
“Huh?” I step back. “How?”
Mr. Wells exchanges a look with Dr. Sakata and then, staring straight ahead, says, “Someone left the backyard gate open.”
“Seriously?” I cry out. “Who would have . . . ?” But before the words leave my lips, I know the answer.
“Oh, no,” I groan. “No, no, no.”
“There’s a park he likes on the other side of town.” Mr. Wells’s voice is flat and cold. “We’re going to look for him. I suggest you go home and get out of this weather.”
I start to speak, but the window is already gliding shut. Dr. Sakata guns the engine and turns onto Sherwood Avenue. I stand in the street, shocked, until a truck honks, and I stumble back onto the sidewalk.
In the alley outside Mr. Wells’s backyard, I turn in circles, trying to piece together what must have happened. Hours earlier, I ran from the house, so upset that I didn’t stop to watch the gate close. Something—a twig, a rock—had probably gotten stuck in the gate, and it didn’t properly latch. A little while later, Dr. Sakata must have let Hoko out into the yard to run around before the snowfall got any heavier, and the next time he looked out, Hoko was gone.
I study the ground, hoping that paw prints might show which way Hoko went, but enough cars and trucks have passed by that the snow has been churned into a cold, gray soup.
I sag against a fence, devastated as I realize the damage I’ve done and how badly I’ve hurt Mr. Wells. All in one day.
Hanging my head, I find a discarded Christmas tree at my feet. Within its snow-covered foliage, I notice something glowing. Reaching through the dried branches, I pull out and sniff at the still-smoldering stub of one of Crummer Sikes’s herbal cigarettes. With a gasp, I flash back to the van that I collided with earlier as I ran, sobbing, down the alley.
And suddenly, with the force of a hammer to the base of my skull, the realization hits me, and I know where I’m going to find Hoko.
THE KEY AND THE CAGE
By now, snow is falling in thick clumps and the skies are getting greyer every minute. I zigzag through the slushy backstreets and cut across the seven burned-out blocks of what used to be the Nickel Bay Furniture Works until I reach the warehouse district.
When I see, from a half block away, Crummer Sikes pacing in the alley behind the Nickel Bay Animal Control Headquarters, I skid to a halt and hide. Crummer’s van is parked beside him, and even from that distance, I can hear the yapping and meowing from the unhappy strays that he’s got locked up in there. I can’t pick out Hoko’s bark, so I’m not totally sure my suspicion is correct. Until I am, I’m not going to autodial Mr. Wells. Crouching behind a Dumpster in the afternoon gloom, I watch and wait.
For a very long time.
Crummer stomps back and forth, puffing on cigarette after cigarette and slapping at his arms to keep warm. He’s clearly growing more and more impatient with every passing minute. Finally a pair of headlights shines down his alley, and Crummer springs into action. Tossing his herbal cigarette aside, he signals—Come on, come on—and guides a large black truck up to the back of his van. From the cab of the truck jumps a stocky man dressed in blue jeans and a brown leather jacket. He’s got a wool cap pulled down over his forehead and a scarf wrapped up to his chin, so, from my hiding place, I have no idea what the guy looks like. But I can tell you this—he’s wearing an eye patch.
The men move quickly. Crummer unlocks one of the nine steel compartments on the back of his van and shines a flashlight through the bars of a cage hardly bigger than a gym locker.
My heart jumps.
Behind the bars I can see Hoko snarling, his dark eyes blinking in fury and fear. Mr. Eye Patch nods as if to say, Yup, that’s the one.
As much as I want to run to Hoko’s rescue, I realize I don’t stand a chance against those two guys. I jam my scarf into my mouth to keep from crying out.
Out of his jacket, Mr. Eye Patch pulls what appears to be a thick roll of cash. He peels off one, two, three, four, five bills and hands them to Crummer, who snatches them and shoves them into a back pocket. I didn’t believe Jaxon when he told me that Crummer was stealing rare pets and selling them. Now I’m seeing it for myself.
Mr. Eye Patch rolls up the massive back gate of his truck and pulls a big wire crate out onto the pavement. Crummer slips on thick leather gloves and, from the side of his van, he unclips a long pole with a rope loop at one end. He yanks open Hoko’s cage door, and as Hoko leaps to the ground, Crummer slips the noose over his neck and tightens it. Poor Hoko yelps and thrashes at the end of the pole. Mr. Eye Patch swings opens the kennel, and Crummer, with the experience that comes from years of handling angry animals, backs Hoko into it. He slips off the noose and, with one foot, kicks the kennel door shut.
Hoko’s pitiful whimpers rip at my heart, but I don’t dare break cover. I suddenly remember I should call Mr. Wells, but in the time it takes me to pull out my phone, the men have lifted the cage into the back of the black truck.
Wait! I want to scream. Don’t go anywhere! But things are happening too fast. Rolling the tailgate shut, Mr. Eye Patch jumps up into his seat, shifts into gear and backs out of the alley as Crummer speeds off in the opposite direction.
I sprint down to Mermaid Street and emerge just as the black truck lumbers past. Mr. Eye Patch steers cautiously as he bumps along the snow-filled, potholed street, so he doesn’t notice the jolt I cause when I grab the tailgate handle, swing up and crouch on the rear truck step.
Hanging on for dear life, I quickly devise a plan. Once the truck stops at a red light, I decide, I’ll slide the back gate open and pull Hoko’s cage out onto the street. I’ll be sure to do this somewhere with lots of pedestrians, and when I yell, “Call the police! This man is a dognapper!” I’m confident that dozens of concerned citizens will do just that.
But then I notice the padlock.
When did Mr. Eye Patch snap a padlock on the roll-up gate? My plan doesn’t include having to pick a lock! On the back door of a moving truck! And when Mr. Eye Patch takes the on-ramp to the interstate, I realize I’m going to need a whole new plan.
The sun has almost set, and darkness is coming on fast. If not for the heavy snow, passing motorists might notice a small, shivering figure in dark clothing clinging to the back door of a truck, but nobody honks or flashes their lights. The freeway whizzes by under me as I scrunch into a tight ball, and my freezing hands begin to lose sensation. What keeps me hanging on is the fact that, even through the steel door between us, I can hear Hoko barking. Just when I’m sure my fingers will snap like icicles, I catch a break.
Somewhere on the outskirts of Nickel Bay, Mr. Eye Patch exits the freeway and pulls into a neon-lit truck stop. I don’t move a muscle until I hear the door slam, and then I drop to the ground and peer around a rear tire. As Mr. Eye Patch strides toward the 7-Eleven, he unzips his leather jacket and snaps a key ring to his belt.
• • •
Mr. Eye Patch is at the front counter when I step up next to him. “Gimme a jumbo grape Slurpee,” I tell the round-faced salesgirl. “Please.”
“A Slurpee in this weather?” she jokes. “Isn’t it cold enough for you already?” She looks to Mr. Eye Patch, expecting a laugh, but he doesn’t look up from stirring six packets of sugar into his large coffee. When she sets the Slurpee down in front of me and says, “That’ll be three fifty,” I take a deep breath and make my move.
“My dad’ll pay. He’s here somewhere.” As I turn to shout, “Hey, Dad!” I grab the Slurpee and sweep it across the counter, right into Mr. Eye Patch’s chest. A geyser of purple slush flies as high
as the overhead fluorescent lights and comes down all over his leather jacket, wool cap and eye patch.
“You stupid idiot!” he shouts.
“Whoops!” I gasp. With a fistful of napkins, I blot at his jacket and sweater as he swears and slaps my hands away.
“Get offa me! Stop that!” he keeps yelling.
But I just keep wiping and hollering, “I’m sorry! I’m really sorry!”
“What a mess! What a mess!” the counter girl wails between shouts of “CLEANUP AT CHECKOUT!”
Suddenly I spin around to her. “Hey, lady! Where’s your bathroom?” Frazzled, she points down a hallway behind the coffee machine, and when Mr. Eye Patch and I both make a move in that direction, I sweep an arm in front of me. “Please!” I tell him. “You go first.”
“You’re darn right I go first!” he growls as he strides past me and into the men’s room.
The second the latch clicks, I block the door with a rack of potato chips and dash out into the parking lot. As I race to the black truck, out of my jacket pocket I pull . . .
Mr. Eye Patch’s key ring, which I’d slipped off his belt as I patted him down with napkins.
If only Mr. Wells and Dr. Sakata could see me now! I think as I celebrate with a jubilant fist pump into the cold night air.
With trembling fingers I find the key to the padlock, open it and roll up the back door enough that I can crawl into the truck. Hoko is barking wildly, but when I hiss, “Hoko, it’s me!” he stops and blinks through his prison bars. Tilting his head in recognition, he starts to whimper and twitch with such emotion that I almost start whimpering, too.
There’s no lock on his cage, I’m relieved to see, but I know better than to open it right away. I’ve got to be ready for this big dog when I set him free, so I pull off my belt and brace myself. I flick the latch, and the door swings wide.
Hoko knocks me flat onto the floor of the truck, stands on my chest and almost licks off my eyebrows before I can yelp, “Hoko! KO-ra!” Obediently, he sits, trembling all over. I slip one end of my belt through his collar and pull it through the buckle.
Then we make our break.
With the do-it-yourself leash wrapped down my arm and around my wrist, we jump to the asphalt and start to run. Blowing snow covers our footprints as quickly as we make them. A steady stream of trucks pulling into the parking lot provides cover as we race toward the freeway, and once we get there, I look around frantically for somewhere we can hide from Mr. Eye Patch.
Across the freeway, over a bridge spanning eight lanes of traffic, I can faintly see the skeleton of what was once a roadside tavern. Now boarded up and dark, it sits just outside the halo of light spilling from the road sign that announces NICKEL BAY—NEXT THREE EXITS.
My teeth chatter like a tap dancer, so “C’mon, Hoko!” sounds more like “Kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuhm on, Hoko!” As soon as the words leave my lips, Hoko takes off like a shot, dragging me onto the freeway overpass. I try slowing him down, but I’d have more luck stopping a speeding train with a shoelace.
Then the belt starts slipping. The coils wrapped around my arm peel off, until only a single loop remains, straining against the watchband on my wrist. Halfway across the bridge, two stories above all those headlights and taillights, Hoko yanks off that final loop of belt, pulling my Rolex along with it and flinging it high up over the bridge railing. In that split second I have to decide—do I rescue the Rolex or do I grab for Hoko’s leash?
My body makes the decision for me.
Lunging, I snatch the leash midair, and I get yanked along, stumbling and tripping. I glance back in time to see my treasured watch sail over the guardrail and drop into the crushing stampede of traffic below.
Heartbroken, I hardly notice that Hoko is hauling me behind the shuttered tavern. With one hand, I struggle to drag him back toward the shelter of the decaying building as, with the other, I try to pull out my cell phone. At that moment, Hoko unexpectedly reverses direction, twisting my arms across my body and spinning my feet under me. Off balance, I teeter for an instant, and then, like a tree toppling in the forest, I start to fall.
For one terrible second I’m aware of the wind howling in my ears and the snow swirling past my eyes as I drop. I can’t even tell you what my head hits on the way down.
THE END OF THE LINE
I peel one eye open and see a blurry figure in a wheelchair across an unfamiliar room. A hollow, faraway voice assures me, “You’re okay, Sam.”
I look around, trying to make sense of my surroundings as my head swims. “Where am I?”
Mr. Wells rolls up to my bedside. “You’re in a guest room on the second floor of my house.”
“How’d I get here?” I croak.
“With the help of this.” He raises the lid of an aluminum case in his lap to reveal a radar screen. “Hoko is implanted with a microchip that I would normally use to locate him if he were to wander off. The signal won’t be detected, however, if he’s—for instance—in a solid metal enclosure.”
“They took him away in a truck,” I explain through parched lips.
“From your location out on the interstate, I assumed as much. But that story can wait.” He closes the case and reaches up to adjust the ice bag that’s pressing against the side of my head. “Got yourself quite a bump,” he says.
Once he mentions it, I’m aware of a throbbing on my scalp. My fingers find an egg-shaped lump above my left ear. “How’d that get there?” I wonder aloud.
“When we found you, it appeared that you had tripped and fallen against a set of concrete steps,” he explains. “Hoko was curled up at your side, keeping you warm.”
“Where is he now?” I ask. “Is he all right?”
“Yes. Muddy but safe.” Mr. Wells nods. “Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me?” I cry. “But it’s all my fault!”
Mr. Wells raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I’m the reason he got out in the first place! I ran out the gate and didn’t wait to see that it shut, and then Crummer Sikes came along and kidnapped Hoko and sold him to the guy with the eye patch in the big black truck, and—”
“Sam, Sam, Sam,” Mr. Wells shushes me. “Don’t get worked up.” From the bedside table, he lifts a steaming cup of Dr. Sakata’s stinky tea. “Here,” he says, “drink this. Then you’ll eat a little something and tell me the whole story.”
Sitting up, I suddenly feel a cold draft across my body. I raise the covers and am horrified to discover that, except for my underwear, I’m naked!
“What happened to my clothes?” I yelp, pulling the sheets up around my chin to hide the long scar on my chest.
“You were covered with mud and gravel, and soaked to the skin,” Mr. Wells says. “We couldn’t very well send you home looking like that, could we?”
“So who took off my . . . my . . . ?” I stutter.
“Dr. Sakata helped you out of your wet clothes,” Mr. Wells says, and then he holds up a calming hand. “And before you freak out, remember . . . he is a doctor.”
The warm teacup feels good in my hands. Before he wheels out of the room, Mr. Wells turns in the doorway. “Oh. And your father called while you were, uh . . . resting.”
“Is it seven thirty already?” I reflexively look to my watch, but my empty wrist reminds me what happened, and my heart squeezes.
“It’s eight thirty-seven,” he says, checking his own watch. “I told Dwight you were in the bathroom. Then I apologized for working you so late and assured him that I’d feed you a healthy dinner before I send you home.” He holds up the little plastic bag that contains my seven-thirty pill. “Dr. Sakata pulled this out before he tossed your pants in the wash. You can take it with your food.”
As usual Dr. Sakata’s tea makes me gag, but it does seem to give me a jolt of energy, and the pounding in my skull subsides. After Dr. Sakata brings in my clean c
lothes, still warm from the dryer, I dress and join Mr. Wells downstairs in the kitchen. Hoko greets me excitedly, yapping and running in happy circles.
“He’s super-dirty,” I say as I pet him.
“One trip to the groomer, and he’ll be good as new,” Mr. Wells says.
I eat a few bites of a meatloaf sandwich and hardly touch the bowl of pumpkin soup that Dr. Sakata sets before me.
“Is something wrong, Sam?” Mr. Wells asks.
I set down my spoon. “I lost my watch.”
“The one your mother gave you?”
I nod sadly.
“I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” Mr. Wells says gently. “I know how much it meant to you.”
“I thought it might be worth a hundred dollars,” I say quietly.
“Oh, I would certainly think so.”
“That’s why I wanted you to have it.”
“You wanted me to have your Rolex?” Mr. Wells asks.
“So you could sell it. To make up for the money I left at my dad’s bakery. Don’t you get it?” I lean forward and speak in a rush. “You’d have your hundred dollars back, and things could be like they were, and we could do the White Mission, and I could be Nickel Bay Nick one last time.”
Mr. Wells starts to shake his head, but before he can speak, I plunge ahead. “Mr. Wells, I’m really, really sorry, and I want to start over. I want . . .” I choke back a sob. “I want you to trust me again.”
Mr. Wells looks at me for a long moment before he asks, “And why is that so important to you, Sam?”
The answer that pops out of my mouth surprises me: “Because nobody else does.”
• • •
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