by David Fulk
Martin whirled around and faced him. “How could you sell him? To jerky Ben Fairfield, of all people! Now he’s just gonna be some stupid circus act!”
“What did you think was going to happen, Martin?! Did you think you were just gonna keep that thing down there forever? What kind of parents would that make us, when it got twelve feet tall and decided to make a lunch out of you?”
“He would never do that!”
“You don’t know that, and you know you don’t!”
Martin jumped to his feet, picked up a stick, and threw it out into the lake as far as he could.
As he paced around, his dad watched him with a taut frown. “Tell you what,” he said. “We’ll let you get a pet. A dog or something. You like dogs, right?”
Martin gave a dismissive snort. Now it was his dad who jumped to his feet.
“For crying out loud, Martin, you are almost twelve years old! When are you gonna learn how to take things like a man?”
“I’m not a man!” Martin shot back, facing him square-on. “And if it means being greedy and heartless like you, I’d rather not be one!”
“Hey!” his dad barked, pointing a stiff finger straight at his nose. Martin knew he’d crossed the line with that one, and figured this would be the start of an all-out tongue-lashing. But instead Mr. Tinker slowly lowered his finger, looked away, and softened his tone.
“Look, I’ll do everything I can to see he’s treated well. That’s all I can promise you. We can sit down later and hash it out. Right now we need to get back. It’s getting dark out here. C’mon.”
Martin picked up a stone and tried to skip it across the water, but it just plopped straight in.
“Let’s go, pal,” his dad said.
Martin shuffled around for a few more seconds. Then, without saying a word, he turned around and sprinted back down the path—by himself, not with his dad.
He ran all the way back, went straight into the house, breezed past his mom, and stomped up the stairs to his room.
—
Martin didn’t want to watch as Mr. Tinker backed his truck into the yard, and then he and the sheriff and Mr. Fairfield headed around to the far end of the barn. Minutes later they emerged pushing a large wheelbarrow with Rufus, now limp and rolled up in a tarp, draped across it. With great effort, they wheeled their bulky cargo up the slope and, with a lot of grunting and straining, managed to load it into the truck bed.
As much as Martin hated watching this, he couldn’t not look either, and he stood there in the bedroom window, breathing heavily, as the scene unfolded below. What was even worse was what happened after they finished the deed: Mr. Fairfield pulled something out of his pocket, scribbled something down, tore off a small, rectangular sheet of paper, and handed it to Martin’s dad—a check, sealing the deal.
Martin slammed the window shut, flopped back on the bed, and turned up the clock radio really loud with rap music. He stayed there for a long time, hoping his mind would drift to other things. But he just couldn’t shake the thought of everything that had happened—and he feared that the worst was yet to come.
The rest of the evening came and went, and Martin barely moved, except to go over and sit down next to the window to stare out at the full September moon. The big talk his parents promised never happened, but that was fine with him; right now he just wanted to be left alone. He refused even to go downstairs for dinner. He decided he would simply stay in that room for the rest of his miserable life, until he shriveled up and turned into a dusty skeleton. They’d have to haul what was left of him out of there in a Hefty bag. Yes, he’d show them, all right.
But then his mind went back to poor Rufus. He couldn’t just sit back and do nothing while they treated him like some giant carnival freak. But what could an eleven-year-old kid possibly do?
There had to be something.
Even in its best days, the Trout Palace had never seen crowds like this. A huge circus tent had been put up on the grounds, and people were jammed in by the thousands. They were all buzzing excitedly and jostling for the best view of the big stage set up at one end of the tent.
Ben Fairfield, dressed in a snappy tuxedo, strutted out from behind the curtain to the center of the stage, a bright spotlight following him. He stepped up to a microphone and waited patiently as the hubbub turned to dead silence.
“Folks, you’ve heard about it,” he said dramatically. “You’ve read about it, and now you’ve come from all over the world to see it for yourselves. So I’m not going to make you wait for it one moment longer. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…Tyrannosaurus rex!”
A blast of loud music suddenly struck up over the PA system, and slowly the curtain rose to reveal a huge prehistoric beast, shackled at the neck and feet while chained to a thick metal post. Rufus was now a fully grown tyrannosaur, almost twenty feet tall, and the sight of him drew a huge gasp from the crowd. Their speechless amazement gave way to a chorus of astonished murmurings. Then, when the sight of this fearsome creature had fully registered in their brains, a wave of thunderous applause swept across the sea of people like a tidal wave.
But Rufus was not looking at all fierce or vicious. He twitched and squirmed, blinded by the bright lights and weighed down by the chains. Even worse, every time he tried to pull free, one of three men dressed all in black would jolt him with a long electric cattle prod to keep him in line.
People clapped and whistled. Cameras flashed like a lightning storm. Children pointed in amazement. Babies cried. The music continued to throb, shaking the whole tent.
Way in the back, Martin was trying to push through the crowd toward the stage. But he could hardly move, everybody was packed in so tight. He twisted and squeezed and shoved, trying desperately to get to the stage so he could some way, somehow put an end to the outrageous spectacle.
He could see, just offstage, his parents and Mr. Fairfield exchanging delighted smiles, beaming at the sensation they’d created.
For Rufus, it was all too much. The chains, the prods, the throngs, the noise…it brought him right to the point of panic. Agonized, he reared back and let loose with a long, thunderous ROAR—and the sound triggered something in Martin and he threw his own head back and let out a shrill, deeply pained “NOOOOOOOOO!”
Martin bolted upright in his bed. Darkness engulfed him, and his eyes darted around in confusion. He was panting hard; sweat covered his body. Then, as his head cleared, he felt his muscles gradually loosen a bit. Never had he been so relieved to awaken from a dream.
But his relief didn’t last long. He jumped out of bed and paced furiously back and forth. To just sit and do nothing while they turned Rufus into a cheesy circus act…well, it simply was not an option.
He went to the window and gazed out at the moon, his mind racing. His thoughts quickly started coming together. Fact one: Rufus was imprisoned at the Trout Palace. He would have to be freed. Fact two: Ben Fairfield did not have Rufus’s best interests at heart. Fact three: Mr. Eckhart was still the only hope. Somehow, he would have to be found.
“Don’t worry, Rufus,” he said to the black sky, with a new, steely resolve. “I’ll take care of you.”
He looked over at the dimly lit clock radio next to his bed: 4:45 a.m.
With fierce determination, he threw on some clothes in record time, raced downstairs very quietly, slipped out the side door, and jumped on his bike. He pedaled off into the darkness at top speed, which was probably not the smartest thing to do, since his bike had no light. He hit a couple of bumps and nearly wiped out two different times, but somehow managed to keep it together.
As he rode, a plan started taking shape in his head. He knew where Mr. Fairfield kept the keys in his office, and with luck, he could sneak in there and get them. Then, while Audrey created a distraction for the night guards, he would open up the maintenance shed and free Rufus. Then all three of them would slip out the gate in the chain-link fence at the back of the Trout Palace grounds. From there they could escape into the woods and
make their way to Mr. Eckhart’s house.
Martin knew if he thought about it too much, he would realize what an outlandish plan it was, and he might lose his enthusiasm. So for now, he didn’t think any more about the details.
In just minutes, he made it all the way to the Blanchards’ house.
Martin rode into the front yard, vaulted off his bike like a gymnast dismounting a pommel horse, and ran around the side of the house to where he knew Audrey’s room was. He waded through some low bushes to get to the window, then tapped quietly on the glass. No response. He tapped louder, and finally a surprised and groggy-eyed Audrey opened the window.
“What are you doing?!” she rasped.
“We have to save Rufus. They took him to the Trout Palace and they’re gonna make him into a freak show.”
“Ai-yai-yai…”
—
From behind an evergreen bush on a wooded ridge just beyond the back fence of the Trout Palace grounds, Audrey and Martin scoped out the scene. From there they had a pretty good view of the whole place. It was strange to him how a place that was so bright and loud and full of life during the day could be so dark and eerily quiet at night.
He had told Audrey his plan, and to his surprise, she hadn’t asked a lot of annoying questions or tried to point out all the flaws. He was glad to know she was as committed to freeing Rufus as he was.
“So, which building?” she asked in a hushed voice.
He pointed to a dull gray structure, about the size of a two-car garage, that was right next to the fence, away from the main building. It was used to store tools, lawn equipment, restaurant supplies, and whatever else might need a home from time to time. At the moment, it was also home to a seven-foot-tall tyrannosaur. At least, that was what Martin assumed from having overheard Mr. Fairfield talking to his dad.
“So you can get the key for that, right?” Audrey said. She was referring to the roll-up gate that filled the front wall of the storage shed, secured by what looked like a giant padlock.
“Yeah…but I’m kinda more worried about him.”
Yes, “him” was going to be a problem. The night guard, a pudgy, unshaven guy named Ollie Thwait, was sitting right next to the shed gate underneath a lonely floodlight mounted on the corner of the building, deeply absorbed in some phone app game.
“He doesn’t usually stay in one spot like that. They must’ve told him to stay there.”
“Uch…. So what do we do?”
“We need to get him away from there.”
“Okay…. How?”
Martin chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then stood up and started tiptoeing down the ridge. He motioned to Audrey, and she followed.
They worked their way along the outside of the chain-link fence, well beyond the storage shed, until they reached a gravel driveway that led to a wheeled gate that rolled open to allow service vehicles in and out. It was locked and chained, but that didn’t slow Martin down; he dropped to the ground and slithered through the narrow opening under the gate next to the wheels.
As he emerged on the other side, Audrey looked at him with a blank expression.
“You’re as skinny as me,” he half whispered. “Come on.”
She gave a tiny shrug, then dropped down and slipped underneath the gate as easily as Martin had. They followed the narrow pathway between the fence and the main building until they reached a small window, which Martin pushed open.
Climbing through the window, they found themselves in the kitchen of the Heart o’ the Woods restaurant. As Audrey followed Martin into the dining area, she couldn’t help slowing down to check out the odd sight of a line of fishing poles leaning against the wall. He motioned to her to hurry up, and they made their way into the eerily dark and deserted main hall.
“I can’t see,” she whispered.
“Just follow me.”
He led her to a secluded corner and flipped on a few light switches; enough fixtures went on for them to see their way around a bit better.
“Just go to all those booths and look for the ‘on’ switch,” Martin said. “But don’t flip ’em yet. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” she said nervously as he slipped away. “Wait a minute, how do I— Martin?” Too late. He was well on his way.
He dashed over into a short hallway and stepped inside Mr. Fairfield’s office. Having done some cleaning in there many times before, he knew exactly where to go: a key box on the wall just next to the door.
He threw open the box and gaped at the keys hanging on hooks. He didn’t remember there being quite so many—there were at least fifteen or twenty. Not knowing which one was which, he just grabbed the whole bunch and stuffed them in his pockets.
As he ran back out into the main hall, keys jangling, he spotted Audrey across the way, examining the U-Bag-Em game. He trotted over and pointed out the big red Start button.
“This one.”
“Ah. Right. You got the keys?”
“Yeah. So just start with this one and do the same thing on all these.”
“Okay…”
She looked a little unsure, so he led her over to a ring-toss booth next to a small alcove and showed her the button.
“See? Easy.”
“Okay. Got it.”
“When I go, count to a hundred, then just start flipping as many as you can. But do it fast, and then get out.”
She threw him a wry look. “Really? I was hoping to get caught.”
Suddenly, there was a high-pitched shriek, and they nearly jumped out of their shoes. Rigid and wide-eyed, they looked into the alcove—and saw that they had just awakened the furry inhabitants of the muskrat cages. Breathing easier, they shared an unsteady smile.
“Meet me back at the service gate,” Martin said with back-to-business seriousness.
“Okay,” Audrey said, and swallowed hard.
“See ya.”
“One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…”
As he sprinted back over toward the restaurant, he couldn’t shake the thought that he was in way over his head with this crazy scheme and they’d both end up in juvenile hall. But there was a battlefield general in his head, telling him to keep pushing, pushing, pushing the whole thing forward.
He raced through the dining area, scampered into the kitchen, and climbed back outside through the open window. As he ran along the fence back toward the storage shed, he had to grab onto his pants pockets tightly to keep the keys from making an unholy racket. He knew he must have looked pretty dorky running like that, but right now that was last on his list of concerns.
As he neared the storage shed, he slipped behind a propane tank and peeked out at Ollie, still parked in his chair right next to the rolling gate in the front of the shed. It was pretty clear that it was going to take a lot to move him out of there.
Martin stooped low behind the tank, trying to keep as quiet as possible. Two minutes went by, then three, then four. What was taking so long? Maybe Audrey couldn’t find the switches. Or maybe she had, but it was too far away for Ollie to see or hear. Or maybe—Jasper!
He had completely forgotten about Jasper. He was the other night guard, and if he was anywhere near the Trout Palace building, Audrey could get caught, the whole plan would go down the drain, and the next stop for both of them would be the county lockup.
Martin’s heart was beating a mile a minute. He gripped his key-laden pockets tightly with his sweating palms, his anxiety burning hotter and hotter. He felt like he might faint any second. Then…
Ollie quickly stood up and looked over toward the main building. He picked up a walkie-talkie and put it to his mouth.
“Jasper…. Jasper.”
Martin held his breath as Ollie waited a moment, then pushed the Talk button again.
“Jasper.”
After a long pause, a crackly voice came on. “What’s up, Ollie?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the can. What do you want?”
�
�Did you just turn on some lights in the Palace?”
“I just finished telling you. I’m in the can.”
“You need to get your butt in there right now. Somebody went in.”
“Uhhhh, that’s gonna be a negative.”
“What do you mean, a negative?”
“I’m gonna be in here a while. I think I ate some bad cheese fries.”
Ollie gave a muffled growl and looked for a moment like he might fling the walkie-talkie at the wall. Then he froze, hearing something. It was pretty faint, but Martin and Ollie both recognized it right away—a deep voice delivering a familiar refrain:
“Ho ho ho ho! Welcome to the Trout Palace! Thirty acres of pure Wisconsin fun…”
Martin never thought he would be so happy to hear that ridiculous talking fish. Ollie, though, was not happy at all. He muttered a few curses and kicked a clod of dirt. He obviously wanted to head for the Palace, but the storage shed was holding him there like a magnet. Mr. Fairfield must have given him firm orders not to move from that spot no matter what.
But after a bit, the commotion in the main building was too much to let go. Ollie let out a throaty grumble and darted off to see what was going on.
Martin waited until he couldn’t hear the footsteps, counted to five, then dashed over to Ollie’s post at the rolling shed gate and pulled out a handful of keys to try in the padlock. But when he looked down at the lock, his heart skipped a beat. No keyhole—it was a combination lock!
Exhaling heavily, he started pacing around like an ornery lion in a cage. Now what? If he couldn’t think of a quick way into that shed…
All of a sudden, it dawned on him: there was a back door! He’d seen his dad go in there once but had forgotten all about it.
He raced around to the back of the building and went straight up to the narrow door in the center of the wall. It didn’t surprise him to find it locked, but that didn’t worry him too much, since he was the Master of the Keys.
He pulled out the keys and tried them, one by one. Not that one…Nope, not this one…Most of these don’t even go in.