Deprivation House

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Interesting. That’s not the way I thought it would go,” Veronica immediately answered through the com. “I’ll make out the check. You go pack up your things.”

  “Rosemary, no!” Mikey exclaimed. “Don’t leave.”

  “He’s right.” Rosemary jerked her head toward the plasma, where Brian was still doing his monologue. “Someone is going to die here. The attempts are coming very close together. Four out of the fourteen of us have already been affected.” She sucked in a deep breath. “That isn’t a good percentage.”

  “Rosemary—,” Wilson began.

  James interrupted him. “She wants to go, she should go. Don’t you understand the concept of competition? Less people, better chance of winning.”

  “Rosemary, at least think about it a little more,” said Wilson.

  “It’s all I have been thinking about,” she answered. “I want to win. I want a million dollars. But I want to stay alive more. And leaving Deprivation House now is the best way to do that.”

  160 Pounds of Rage

  “All right, everyone. Are you ready to hear about your next competition?” Veronica asked. She stood in front of the fountain, dressed in a peach outfit. She had a toy poodle as an accessory. It was dyed to match her suit.

  There were mumbles and grunts in response.

  “Where’s the enthusiasm?” Veronica exclaimed. The poodle yipped. “You’re competing to win a million dollars, and all I see is sluggishness and lack of ambition.”

  “I’m ready! Yeah!” James gave a fist pump. “I’m gonna stomp on the slugs! Yeah!”

  Veronica closed her eyes briefly. “Thank you, James. Now, how many of you have ever had a pet?”

  The majority of hands went up. Rosemary would have had the exact percentage calculated in a second.

  “And how many of you swore that you’d take care of the pet in every way, but ended up letting Mommy or the maid do it?” Veronica asked.

  Less hands, but still quite a few.

  “Well, at Deprivation House, as you’re finding out, you do your own chores,” she said. “Today you’ll be washing the dog. With these.” She nodded to Mitch. He moved from person to person, passing out toothbrushes. “And only these. You’re not allowed to use your fingers to scrub the beasties.”

  “Whew, Mitch, you smell foul, my man,” Kit said as she got her toothbrush. “It’s a preview of what we have to deal with, isn’t it?”

  “’Fraid so,” answered Mitch.

  “What if one of us has a small dog phobia?” Mikey asked. “Not a phobia of small dogs. A small fear of dogs.”

  Veronica smiled at him. “Then one of us won’t have much of a chance of winning.”

  “That’s right,” James said smugly.

  There were times I wished James was the perp, just so I could help put him away. But ATAC agents are trained to keep their emotions out of their missions, so I ignored those wishes.

  “You’ll find the dogs out behind the tennis courts. Each dog’s collar has one of your names on it. Whoever gets his or her dog cleanest in an hour wins.” She made shooing motions with her hands.

  We all raced to the dogs. They were tied with long leashes to hitching posts that had been positioned all over the field. I ran to the closest “empty” pup—a floppy-eared hound dog. A stinky, floppy-eared hound dog. I didn’t know what he’d been rolling in and I didn’t want to know. Whatever it was seemed to involve chunks. I checked his collar. “This one’s yours, Wilson,” I called.

  Maybe that wasn’t the best strategy. I was helping the competition. But Frank won’t let me keep the money anyway. . . .

  “Joe, this guy’s yours!” I heard Ripley yell. She pointed to an extremely large—I was thinking 160 pounds large—extremely hairy Newfoundland. Oh, well. At least Newfies were known for their great temperament.

  “You won’t mind getting scrubbed with a toothbrush, will you, boy?” I asked when I reached him. I was glad to see that a hose, shampoo, and towel were sitting in a bucket next to the dog.

  I studied Hairy—I had to call him something, and I thought Putrid might get us off on the wrong foot. What was the best way to approach this? I wondered if I should use the towel to get off at least the top layer of . . . I really didn’t want to look too close.

  No, I decided. There was only one towel. I’d have to burn it if I touched Hairy with it right now, and then I wouldn’t have anything to dry him off with later. “Here’s the plan,” I told him. “First we rinse.”

  I turned on the hose and started spraying Hairy down. Some of the chunks ran off his fur. A lot stayed stuck to him.

  Hairy turned his head toward me and gave a low growl.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked him, still spraying him. “You guys are supposed to love water. Pull drowning sailors out of the ocean and all that. Are you telling me this is bothering you?”

  Hairy gave me a don’t-play-me stare. When his fur was saturated with water, which took awhile, because probably twenty of those 160 pounds had to be hair, I turned off the hose. “Okay, we’re done with that. Now I’m going to give you a nice toothbrush massage. All the better dogs are having them. Look around, you’ll see.”

  I pointed to Ripley and an Afghan hound. Hairy didn’t seem impressed. “Okay, it was a stupid thing to say,” I told him as I crouched down next to him. I popped the top of the soap and put dabs of it all the way down his back.

  His hackles came up in rough ridges, and he growled again. This time his upper lip curled high, showing me a mouthful of serious teeth.

  “This is an unfair thing to do to you dogs,” I said calmly and softly, holding my body still. “We agreed to come here. We might win a million, not that we can keep it, because of our brother. But you guys, what are you getting? I’d be mad too.”

  Hairy’s hackles didn’t go down. His lip stayed pulled back. He had a continuous growl going now, barely audible, from deep in his throat. This dog wasn’t just a dog who didn’t want a bath. This wasn’t a dog who was a little annoyed.

  This was a dog who was thinking about attacking. “I’m going to stand up very slowly and go away now,” I told Hairy. I straightened up from my crouch, careful not to look directly at the dog. Eye contact is considered an act of aggression to canines, and I definitely didn’t want Hairy to think I was getting aggressive.

  As I started to back away, Hairy started to bark. Loud and fast.

  I took another step. Hairy lunged. And he had just enough leash to reach me. He brought me down. Hard.

  Go fetal, I told myself. I covered my head with my arms and curled my legs to my chest. Hairy stood over me, barking. Half my body was under his.

  I heard footsteps running toward me. Hairy’s barking turned frantic.

  “Stay back,” I heard Frank call out. “We’re making him more aggressive.”

  I could feel Hairy’s hot breath on my head. He was really panting hard. They’re going to figure out what to do, I told myself. Just stay still.

  “Joe,” Ripley called. “I’m moving toward you on the left. I’m not going to get too close. I don’t want to freak out your friend. I’m only going to get close enough to roll some pepper spray into your left hand.”

  I slid one arm away from my head, feeling like a turtle without the protection of its shell. Slowly I stretched my hand out.

  Hairy switched into that low, low growl again. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t want to risk eye contact. But I figured he was giving Ripley a warning.

  “I can’t risk getting any nearer. I’m going to roll it now. One, two, three,” Ripley said.

  I flexed my fingers, and a second later I felt a small, cool canister hit them. I cracked my eyes open, adjusted the pepper spray so it was aimed at Hairy—then pushed the button.

  The dog scrambled away with a whimper. I leaped to my feet and got myself well out of the range of Hairy’s long leash. I realized I had Ripley’s pepper spray in a death grip. “Thanks.” I walked over and handed it back. “So, do you routinely car
ry this stuff?”

  “I use it when the paparazzi get in my face,” she answered as Frank, Brynn, and Mikey joined us. Ripley shook her head. “No, I used to use it when the paparazzi got in my face. Now I’ll let them take pictures whenever. I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m nice twenty-four/seven. Almost.”

  “At least you’ll have more clips than I do now,” Frank told her. “You’re a hero again.”

  We both watched for her reaction. “Hey, I guess I am,” she said. “We’ll have to check me out on TV.”

  “You didn’t get bitten or anything, did you?” Brynn asked.

  Ripley slapped her forehead. “I should have asked that.”

  “My long-lost brother should have asked that,” I said.

  “I didn’t see any blood,” Frank told me.

  Suddenly I realized everyone else was back to working on their dogs. “The contest is still on. Veronica didn’t call a time out or anything,” I told them. “Come on. I want to see those toothbrushes flying. You still have a chance to win.”

  “You’re sure?” Mikey asked.

  “Go!” I ordered. He and Ripley took off. Brynn and Frank didn’t move. “I’m fine,” I told them. “Go.” They went.

  I looked over at Hairy. Poor guy. He had his tail down and was vomiting into the grass.

  A woman with a long gray braid hurried over to him. “Wait,” I called. “He’s not stable.”

  She veered away from Hairy and walked over to me. “Are you the boy who was working with Captain?” The woman gestured toward Hairy.

  “Yeah, I was,” I answered.

  “I’m his trainer. I should have been here today. I let a handler bring him. It sounded like a basic job, and I had to—” She stopped. “That’s not important. What happened exactly? Captain’s never been aggressive with anyone. I let my two-year-old grand-daughter ride him around like a pony.”

  I took another look at Hairy—Captain. He was lying down with his head resting on his front paws. Right now he didn’t look like he could hurt a squeaky toy.

  “I don’t know what they did to the dogs before they got here to get them so dirty,” I answered. “But what I did to Captain was start to give him a bath. I got him wet with the hose, and—”

  “He loves that. He loves getting wet,” Captain’s trainer interrupted. “If he can’t find anything better, he’ll stick his paws in his water dish.”

  “I put a little shampoo on his back. Not near his eyes or anything,” I explained. “Then he was growling and snarling and barking, so I decided to back away slowly. I only got a few steps, and he was on me.”

  “I don’t understand,” Captain’s trainer said. “I really don’t. My poor baby.”

  “Sorry I had to pepper spray him.” I really was. He sounded like a great dog.

  “A dog as big and strong as Captain would have been impossible for you to fight off. It’s okay,” she answered. “I’m going to take him home now. I’ll get him all fixed up.”

  I watched her walk Captain off the field. He stuck right to her heel. He didn’t bark once, not at a single person or dog. Weird.

  I decided to do a little investigation. I headed over to the scene of the crime. Towel. Shampoo. Hitching post. Toothbrush. Chunks of whatever. Puke.

  Actually, puke can be a good source of info. It can help you determine time of death, for example. Of course, it’s not a fun source of info to examine.

  I picked up the towel and used one end to spread the vomit out. One weird thing I noticed was a couple of seeds. They were kind of kidney shaped. Unless Captain ate some super-crunchy-granola dog chow, I didn’t think seeds would be in his puke.

  “You’re studying vomit? You always get to do the fun stuff,” Frank said as he crouched down next to me.

  “Don’t you have to wash a dog?” I asked.

  “I got a dachshund. I’m done,” he said.

  “What do you think of those seeds?” I pointed one out to him.

  Frank picked it up and crushed it between his fingers. Then he raised his hand to his nose and took a deep breath. “Smell,” he told me. I leaned away from him. “Just do it.”

  I took a sniff. “Foul,” I muttered.

  “Right. Remember the day we went over poisons at ATAC training?” Frank said. “Foul odor was one of the main characteristics of jimsonweed.”

  I automatically began reciting parts of the rhyme our instructor had taught us to help us learn the effects of the plant. “Mad as a hatter, dry as a bone, red as a beet.”

  “It would be hard to tell if a dog was red as a beet.” Frank threw the crushed seed onto the grass. “But mad as a hatter?”

  “I talked to his trainer, and she said he’d never acted that way before,” I said. “And the dry as a bone—I noticed Captain wasn’t slobbering. I thought it was strange, because I think of Newfies as big, slobbery dogs. Dogs who should practically wear bibs.”

  “I’m glad he vomited this up. He should be okay with it out of his system,” Frank said. “We should have his trainer get him checked out by a vet to be sure.”

  I nodded. “So since I’ve had two attempts on my life, how does that change the percentages?” I asked. “It’s still four out of fourteen of us who have done the near-death thing. But I don’t think that really reflects the situation.”

  “All I know is, things worked out well for two of our suspects this afternoon,” Frank told me.

  “Ripley got to be a hero again. She’s already expecting TV time. Who else?” I asked.

  “I’m sure Bobby T will find a way to make your near death almost as exciting for his readers as one of his own,” Frank answered.

  “Joe, you’ve got to check your e-mail,” Bobby T said. He gave me a shake.

  “What? Do I have fan mail from your bloggers?” I sat up and realized I’d fallen asleep on one of the couches in the great room. “You didn’t give out my e-mail address, did you?” I looked around. “What time is it?”

  “It’s three. Come on, check your mail,” Bobby T urged. “I didn’t wake everybody else up yet.”

  Yet?

  Bobby T thrust his laptop into my hands. “Why are you awake now?” I asked softly.

  “I was up working on my blog. I was about to go to bed, but I figured I’d check e-mail first. Joe, just do it, okay?” Bobby T’s voice cracked on the last word. He was really upset. I hadn’t realized it faster because I’d been half asleep.

  “Sure.” I logged onto my server and pulled up my new e-mail.

  “That one.” Bobby T tapped the screen. “The one with no ‘from’ address.”

  I clicked it.

  A video launched, even though I hadn’t clicked on a file. A skeletal hand holding a shovel began to dig a grave. The hand and the shovel and the ground were all made of construction paper. They didn’t look real or anything. But the shoop, shoop, shoop sound of the shovel tearing up the earth still gave me the creeps.

  The hand and shovel disappeared. Then the hand reappeared holding a little person. The body was construction paper. But the head was a photograph of a real head. My head.

  The hand carefully placed “me” into the grave, then refilled the hole with pieces of brown construction-paper earth.

  “That was seriously twisted,” I said to Bobby T.

  “It’s not over. At least mine had a message,” he answered.

  I looked back at the screen. The bone hand now held a piece of chalk. It began to write.

  WHAT WILL YOU DO WITH A MILLION DOLLARS WHEN YOU’RE SIX FEET UNDER, JOE? NEXT COMPETITION, SOMEONE DIES.

  Pranks

  “Idon’t want to describe mine. I’m trying to block it out,” Brynn said. She took one bite of her cold cereal, then dropped the spoon in the bowl.

  I wouldn’t mind blocking my e-mail out. But I didn’t think I’d be able to. It involved a shark. And my limbs being taken one by one, until I was just a bobbing head all alone in the middle of the ocean. It had ended with the same last line as Joe’s. All of us had gotten that same
last line: NEXT COMPETITION, SOMEONE DIES.

  “I want to know who did it,” James told the group.

  “We all do,” said Joe.

  “No, I want to know now. It has to be one of you,” he said. “Who else cares?”

  “Clearly the e-mails were a prank,” Veronica said, doing one of her sudden appearances. “Don’t any of you have a sense of humor?”

  I was still having trouble getting used to the fact that Veronica knew almost everything that happened in the house.

  “I might think it was a prank. Not a funny one, but a prank,” Kit answered. “Except that people have been in real danger here. Joe almost got mauled by that dog. The sauna almost fried a few people. And Bobby T had to be taken to the hospital.”

  “You seem to be making connections between those events,” Veronica told her. “I see none.”

  “You don’t? I see a big one. I see contestants almost dying over and over again.” Kit’s voice got higher and thinner with every word.

  “Maybe you would like the forty thousand dollars,” Veronica suggested gently.

  “That isn’t what I was saying,” Kit snapped.

  “I merely wanted to remind you—and everyone—of your options. I know going without your luxuries can be very difficult. It can make some people very short-tempered,” Veronica said.

  “You want me to drop it? Fine, I’ll drop it.” Kit took a big bite of her cold piece of bread and butter.

  “I didn’t ask any such thing,” Veronica protested. “You know, maybe it’s something about the house itself that brings out the dark side of human nature. You’re all assuming the events have to do with the contest. But this house has quite an unpleasant history.”

  “What?” I asked. I wanted to know if she was referring to the Katrina Decter murder.

  Veronica sat down at the table and poured herself a glass of water. “I don’t know if it’s true, but they say there was a case of demon possession in this house about eleven years ago.”

  Some of the color drained out of Brynn’s face. Veronica must have been one of those kids who liked pulling wings off flies, I decided. Why else was she telling a horror story now? Like there was such a thing as demonic possession.