Hamstersaurus Rex Gets Crushed
Page 10
“Then I’ll go and you stay,” I said. “After all, I have full use of both my ankles. And somebody still needs to keep an eye on the front door.”
Dylan frowned. “Come on, Sam. Just let me prove I can do this. I know I can.”
“You’ve already made up your mind and you’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?” I said.
“Hey, it’s almost like you know me pretty well,” said Dylan, putting a hand on my shoulder.
“All right,” I said. “Just—just be careful in there.”
“You know I will!” she said. Dylan, despite being on crutches, practically bounded off, zigzagging down the block before making a hard turn toward the window on the other side of the building. Soon she was out of sight.
I picked up the sticky binoculars and studied the front entrance to RaddZone. No one came. No one went. Still I watched, as the shadows of the cars in the parking lot slowly grew longer. The RaddZone logo on the door showed Gomer Gopher’s smiling face. It felt like I’d been looking at that grotesque bucktoothed grin for an eternity. The handwritten sign still said “Closed Until Further Notice.”
Left all alone, I couldn’t help but worry: about Dylan, about Hamstersaurus Rex, and about Cartimandua. What did the Mind Mole even want with poor Cartimandua? She hadn’t done anything. From everything I knew about her, it seemed very unlikely that she ever would do anything. Yet still, he had some vile mole-ish plan for her. Thinking about the twisted mutant, with his bulbous, oversized head and weird little cape, gave me a shiver. I kept remembering the words he spoke through Wilbur Weber in that horrible high-pitched voice: . . . when we’re through with you, we think you’ll find that you’re not so special after all!
Just then I saw the front door to RaddZone open. I refocused the binoculars. Sure enough, it was Dylan! She shook her head and slowly walked toward me.
“Cartimandua wasn’t inside,” said Dylan. “Neither was Hammie Rex. The place is empty. Like Una Raddenbach unplugged the popcorn machines, turned the lights off, and left. Wherever the Mind Mole is, he’s not in RaddZone anymore.”
“Are you sure?” I said. “It kind of looked like he was settling in for the long term.”
“I’m sure,” said Dylan. “Sorry, Sam.”
It was heartbreaking news. “So we’re back to square one,” I said. I tossed Beefer’s binoculars into my backpack. “Come on. I guess we don’t need to worry about this place anymore.”
The walk to Martha’s house was a grim one. Neither Dylan nor I spoke.
Martha lived in a two-story house on Primrose Lane. I rang the front doorbell, and instantly the door swung open.
“Greetings, neighborhood children!” said Martha’s mother, a very intense-looking woman in a bright orange turtleneck who I’d seen at school (a lot). “Unfortunately I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong house. Drew McCoy lives next door.”
“Um, we’re not here for Drew McCoy, ma’am,” said Dylan.
“Ah, well, Tina Gomez actually lives on Locust Avenue around the corner,” said Ms. Cherie. “It’s just a hop, skip, and a jump. I can draw you a map if you like.” She pulled a pen and a piece of paper out of her pocket.
“No, no. We’re here to see Martha,” I said.
Ms. Cherie cocked her head. “My daughter Martha?”
We nodded.
“What? Did she somehow miss a practice or recital or lesson or competition or performance or shift?”
We shook our heads.
“So you’re not members of her competitive origami team?”
We shook our heads.
“Or fellow Antique Doll Museum interns?”
We shook her heads.
“Or Model Interplanetary Council delegates?”
“We’re actually her friends,” I said.
Ms. Cherie looked more confused than ever. She counted us. “But . . . there’s two of you.”
“We’re both Martha’s friends,” said Dylan. “She has two friends.”
“Well, isn’t this splendid!” said Ms. Cherie, beaming. She turned to bellow back into the house. “MARTHA, DEAR, YOU HAVE TWO FRIENDS!”
“PLEASE SEND THEM UP, MOTHER,” Martha bellowed back.
The inside of the Cherie residence was like one big shrine to Martha’s achievements. Ribbons, awards, trophies; it was pretty much wall-to-wall accolades, and Ms. Cherie seemed determine to show us all of them.
“This is the Second-Grade Long Division Prize,” she said. “Martha won it when she was in kindergarten. And this is a medal for ‘Exceptional Enunciation.’ Our Martha never mumbles. Oh, and of course this is an award for ‘Most Awards.’”
“Wow,” I said, feigning interest in the Martha Hall of Fame. “And to think she’s only twelve. What are you going to do with all the trophies she hasn’t won yet?”
Ms. Cherie thought about this. “We’ll probably need a bigger house,” she said matter-of-factly.
Dylan nudged me with her elbow. “None of these are for sports,” she whispered, and she gave a contemptuous shrug.
“And this is Martha’s room,” said Ms. Cherie. She knocked. “Martha, your, ahem, friends are here.”
“Password, please,” said Martha from inside. We didn’t know whether or not a password would thwart a mind-controlled minion of the Mind Mole, but we figured it couldn’t hurt.
“Mesocricetus,” I said.
Ms. Cherie squinted at me.
“It’s the scientific genus for hamsters or something,” I said, with a shrug.
“You kids and your hamsters!” said Ms. Cherie. “From what Martha tells me, they’re all the rage these days.”
“Sure. I guess,” I said.
Martha’s door opened, and Dylan and I stepped inside. As one might expect, it was tidy and full of books (all nonfiction). A Victorian dollhouse stood in the corner, and there were a few dozen dolls on a display shelf nearby. Clearly none of them had ever been played with.
“Hey, kind of like a miniature Antique Doll Museum,” said Dylan, nodding toward the doll shelf.
“Actually, my own personal collection is highly contemporary,” said Martha. “No dolls here older than six months.”
“Well, I tried to make conversation,” said Dylan with a shrug as she plopped down on Martha’s bed.
“RaddZone is empty,” I said. “No Mind Mole. No Cartimandua. No Hammie.”
“Drat and fiddlefluffs!” said Martha. “Pardon my language.”
“Any luck figuring out what PaleoGro is?” I said.
Martha shook her head. “There’s no mention of it in any of my chemistry or biology books, and I haven’t found anything online yet. SmilesCorp used it in trace amounts in a couple of their health products, but they never actually said what it does.”
“Well, good luck getting anything out of those guys,” said Dylan. “They’ll probably deny there’s actually a company called SmilesCorp.”
“Bad news after bad news,” I said. “So, we’re stuck. What are we supposed to do now?”
“We could put these custom patches on our sleeves,” said Martha. She held up a cloth diamond that said “A Hamster Monitor Always Gets Her Hamster” on it. “They’re iron-ons,” she added.
“Wait a second,” said Dylan, leaping to her feet. “I think I finally remembered where I heard of PaleoGro somewhere before. Can I see the label?”
Martha nodded and went toward the dollhouse in the corner. It was actually an electronic safe.
“Normally I only keep my Perfect Attendance pins in here,” said Martha as she punched a four-digit code into an electronic keypad hidden underneath the doormat. I heard the click of a bolt sliding. Martha opened the hinged roof of the house and pulled out the canister. She handed it to Dylan.
“Guys, wait right here,” said Dylan. “I’ll be back in an hour.” She started toward the door.
“Hang on,” I said.
Dylan paused.
“You forgot your crutches.” I pointed to them, leaning against the wall.
“Sam, what are you doing?” screeched Dylan.
“Don’t let her have this!” I yelled as I tossed the canister to Martha.
“Aaaagh!” shrieked Martha as Dylan tackled her, jostling several contemporary dolls right off the shelf.
“Give it to us!” hissed Dylan, clawing for the PaleoGro.
“Sam, help!” screamed Martha as she flicked the PaleoGro back in my general direction. Instead of landing in my outstretched palms, it ricocheted off a Debbie Future doll, shattering her head. I spun and bobbled the canister once, twice, but finally got both hands on it.
“Hand over the PaleoGro!” squealed Dylan in a grating, high-pitched voice. “We require it!”
“Nope,” I said, holding the PaleoGro as high up as I could. “Nuh-uh. No way.”
In an instant, Dylan was up and running toward me.
“Dylan, stop!” I said.
She was building up speed.
“Even though you’ve been hypnotized, I know you’re still in there!” I cried. “I want to speak to my best friend since preschool. Dylan D’Amato, are you—”
Dylan lowered her head like a battering ram and butted me in the stomach, hard, knocking the wind out of my lungs. I wheezed and dropped the PaleoGro, which bounced under Martha’s bed.
“Ours! Ours! Ours!” screeched Dylan as she dove under the bed. Somehow I grabbed her good ankle and managed to drag her back out.
A second later, Martha landed on Dylan’s back. “This is a Hamster Monitor arrest!” she screamed as she tried to hold Dylan down. “You have the right to remain—OWWW!”
Dylan chomped down on Martha’s elbow. “Get off of us!” screeched Dylan as she squirmed and bucked while Martha held on for dear life. Their jostling tipped the doll shelf over.
“Sam, the canister!” screamed Martha.
I dove under the bed and groped around until I found the PaleoGro. Then I scrambled back across the broken doll shrapnel now carpeting the floor to the other side of the room. I plunked the PaleoGro into Martha’s dollhouse safe and slammed the roof closed. The safe locked itself with a beep.
“There, now you can’t get it!” I yelled to Dylan. “You hear me, Mind Mole? You’re out of luck, you creep!”
Dylan stopped struggling. She turned to stare at me with pure malice in her eyes. “You refuse to relinquish the PaleoGro, so we’ll make it a trade: the canister for Cartimandua’s life. Tomorrow at noon. You know where to find us. And bring the ‘Hamster Hero of Horace Hotwater’ with you! He shall bear witness!”
Dylan let out an evil squealing cackle; then she convulsed violently for a few seconds and was perfectly still. Martha and I looked at each other, panting.
“Martha, is she . . . ?”
Martha checked Dylan’s pulse.
“Gaaaaaaaah!” screamed Dylan, sitting bolt upright. She blinked and looked around the room. “Why are we all covered in doll parts?”
There was a knock on the door. “Martha, sweetie,” called Ms. Cherie, “is everything okay in there with your non-extracurricular friends?”
“Yes, Mother!” cried Martha, rubbing the bite marks on her elbow. “Please disregard the noises you heard. We’re just engaging in horseplay. We are children, after all.”
It took a good half hour to convince Dylan she was the latest victim of the Mind Mole. After we finally did, she was furious with herself.
“I can’t believe I was so stupid,” said Dylan, shaking her head. “Ugh. I’m totally useless.”
“Not totally useless,” said Martha.
“Martha!” I said, glaring at her.
“I mean, thanks to Dylan’s mista—er, investigation,” said Martha, “at least we now know that the Mind Mole is definitely inside RaddZone. And that he doesn’t have Hamstersaurus Rex captive.”
“You’re right!” I said. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have told us to bring him!” I was momentarily filled with hope. But just as quickly, my spirits fell. “Except we have less than a day to deliver the PaleoGro with the little guy in tow, or Cartimandua gets it. How are we possibly going to find Hamstersaurus Rex?”
By the looks on Martha’s and Dylan’s faces, they didn’t have an answer.
BRRRRRRING! Martha’s phone startled us all. Martha hesitated, then answered it.
“Cherie residence, Martha Madeline Cherie speaking,” she said. “Oh, uh-huh. No, I don’t have a crush on anyone right now. Yes, I’m positive. Oh? Oh, really? Excelsior!” Martha hung up.
“That was Beefer,” she said. “He found Hamstersaurus Rex.”
CHAPTER 17
I WENT TO THE address Beefer had given me—633 West Ramblewood Street—but Beefer wasn’t there. So I stood in the leafy courtyard of an apartment building called The Ramblewood Arms and waited.
“Pssst!”
I turned around and saw nothing. Just two blue mailboxes on the corner beside a bush. Wait, why were there two? A hand poked out of the one on the left and beckoned me.
“Beefer, are you dressed as a mailbox?” I said.
“Yup,” said Beefer. “Pretty sweet, huh? There was a make-your-own-mailbox-costume tutorial in the June issue of Pustule, the premier special effects magazine for tweens. This baby is professional quality. Just like you might see in a big-budget Hollywood movie!”
“Do a lot of Hollywood movies need mailbox costumes?” I asked.
“Did you ever see The Night the Mailboxes Came to Life and Bit People’s Hands and Feet?”
“Uh, nope,” I said.
“Zero respect for the arts,” muttered Beefer. “You bring my binoculars?”
I pulled them out of my backpack.
“Check the third floor, second window from the right,” he said. “And don’t get your eye grease all over them!”
“Eye grease?!” I said. “These binoculars already feel like the floor of a movie theater! What do you clean them with, maple syrup?”
“Now isn’t the time for insults, dummy,” said Beefer. “Just look!”
I scanned the third floor until I got to the second window from the right. In its corner I noticed a small wire cage. Inside it, jogging away in a hamster wheel, was my favorite mutant in the world!
“It’s Hamstersaurus Rex!” I cried.
“Duh, and also, you’re welcome,” said Beefer. “Using my amazing ninja skills, I got the drop on Purple Hair and followed her back here. This is where she lives. Apartment 3F. Sandoval.”
“Should I buzz?” I said.
“No way, are you crazy?” said Beefer. “She’s evil!”
“Fine. You’re right,” I said. “So what should we do?”
“Don’t worry. As always, yours truly has a plan,” said Beefer. “We’re going to need grappling hooks and a couple dozen smoke bombs. You’re a nerd; do you think you can program a computer virus that would make all the elevators in an apartment building go crazy?”
“Definitely not,” I said.
“Why are you talking to a mailbox?” came a voice from behind me.
I whipped around to see the purple-haired girl staring at me. She had chunky oversized headphones on and a messenger bag slung over her shoulder.
“Don’t tell her!” hissed Beefer.
“I’ll answer your question if you tell me why you kidnapped my hamster,” I said.
“Easy, guy. Don’t have a hamst-eurism,” said Purple Hair. “I didn’t kidnap him. I found him wandering around depressed. To answer your second question, your friend drilled me in the face with a golf disc. Oh, and that other guy tried to ninja me until I kicked him.”
“Wasn’t a fair fight,” said Beefer. “I could crush you if I wanted to!”
“Okay, is he inside that mailbox?” said Purple Hair.
“Please don’t tell her!” squealed Beefer.
“Who do you work for?” I said. “SmilesCorp?”
“No way!” she crie
d. “Well, sort of. But not exactly.”
“What kind of an answer is that?” cried Beefer.
“Let me explain,” she said.
“Just tell me if you’re under the hypnotic power of an evil telepathic mole or not!” I cried.
Her eyes widened. “Do you mean Specimen #4449?”
“Um. Maybe?” I said.
“No, I’m not, Sam. But I think you better come inside,” she said. “Bring your mailbox, too.” She started to walk toward the door of the Ramblewood Arms.
“Who are you?” I said.
“My name’s Serena Sandoval,” said the purple-haired girl.
She lived in a two-bedroom apartment with her dad, who wasn’t home from work yet.
“You guys want anything?” said Serena as she looked in the fridge. “We have water and . . . pickles.”
“Hmm. I’ll take some pickle water,” said Beefer. “Best of both worlds.”
Serena and I both gagged.
“What?” said Beefer. “It’s full of essential pickle nutrients! Eight tall glasses of pickle water a day is how I keep this physique.”
Serena shook her head and poured some of the greenish water from the pickle jar into a plastic cup for Beefer.
“Anything for you, Sam?” she said.
“Just my stolen hamster slash best friend,” I said.
“Wow, guilt trip much?” said Serena. “Fine. This way.”
Her room was nearly as messy as Beefer’s. The walls were covered with posters for bands I’d never heard of (Adversity Dog, Warlock Toddler, Mary and the Feet). She saw me looking at them.
“You’ve probably never heard of these bands,” she said.
“I’ve heard of, uh, some of them,” I lied.
On her cluttered desk was the hamster cage I’d seen from outside, with Hamstersaurus Rex still racing in the wheel. He turned and spotted me. Then the little guy let out a mighty roar. To the untrained ear—and Serena’s neighbors—it probably sounded terrifying. But I knew the little guy was happy to see me. I almost roared myself.
“Okay, Spikehead,” said Serena. “Time to go back to your real owner.”
“Spikehead?!” I said. “His name is Hamstersaurus Rex!”