Unfortunately, she felt even more awake than before, so she turned off the music and climbed out of bed. Tea and biscuits, she thought. Perhaps what worked for an excitable bombastadon would also work for her. She tiptoed to the door and peeked into the hallway.
Her mother’s door was closed, but dim light seeped out around the edges; she was still awake. Leslie would have to be very quiet.
Downstairs, the kitchen was spotless. The surfaces were clean and polished, and all the pots and steamers were stored away on their rightful shelves. The only thing that seemed messy and out of place was Grandpa Freddy himself.
He was slumped in the corner on a metal chair, his eyes closed and his mouth hanging slack. He was snoring like a saw.
One of Grandpa Freddy’s arms was slung out onto the counter, fingers wrapped limply around a bottle of his homemade cooking wine.
Leslie tiptoed over to the bottle. It was still open, the cork lying on the counter. The clear liquid inside had a slight pink tinge, the result of a pickled plum floating down at the bottom. Grandpa Freddy put one of those in every bottle. It gave the alcohol a sweet tang that made it easier to swallow—at least that’s what Grandpa Freddy said.
Leslie leaned over to take a sniff but pulled away quickly. The smell was awful, a bizarre mixture of honey, vinegar, overripe fruit, and Worcestershire sauce.
Wincing a little, Leslie gently pried the bottle out of her grandfather’s hand and jammed it shut with the cork. She took the bottle to a small alcove off the main kitchen, where he kept his ingredients. On one set of shelves, there must have been twenty or thirty bottles of his pinkish cooking wine. Leslie clinked the half-empty bottle in with the rest.
Many times, Leslie’s mother had asked Grandpa Freddy to stop brewing so much of the wine. Grandpa Freddy always responded with a mischievous grin, telling Leslie’s mother it was his secret ingredient. Maybe so, thought Leslie, but ever since she and her mother had moved in above the restaurant, Leslie had never seen Grandpa Freddy actually cook with his secret ingredient.
Leslie threw an herbal tea bag into a cup and put the kettle to boil. She wasn’t sure if there were any biscuits, but it was worth rummaging through a few of the cupboards to find out.
Leslie didn’t find any. She simply leaned on the counter, waiting for the water to boil. As she stood there, something caught her eye. It was out the window, over the building on the other side of the alley. Maybe just a flash of neon in the treetops.
No, something was moving through the branches. A big, loose shape. The neon light flashed and something glinted. Shiny and wet.
An eye.
It was staring right at her—and it was huge.
Leslie ducked down. What was out there? What had an eyeball that big?
She crawled across the room to the light switch and, reaching up with one hand, flicked off the lights. If the kitchen was dark, whatever was out there wouldn’t be able to see in.
“Grandpa!” she whispered. “Grandpa, wake up!”
He didn’t. He just snored. Leslie crawled back to the window.
The trees looked empty. The eye was gone. Leslie squinted into the darkness. A garish rainbow of neon light washed across the building and the trees.
She saw something.
A green that wasn’t the green of leaves. It was the soft, mottled green of skin—but not human skin. Leslie tried to follow the shape of it, but it was impossible to make out where the trees ended and the body of the thing began. All she saw was . . .
The eye!
It blinked at her again, and there was more. An ear. A nose. A huge hand, wrapped all the way round a thick branch. Finally, she saw a mouth, an enormous toothy grin, full of crooked, yellow fangs.
She whispered the only word she could think of. “Huge.”
Her brain screamed that it must be a creature. It must be something from DENKi-3000. And yet, even though she could only see bits and pieces, she knew it looked nothing like anything she had seen in the Creature Department. Nothing she and Elliot had met had been this . . . frightening.
“Grandpa, please!” She backed away from the window and tugged on his arm. “Wake up!”
She shook him harder and he let out a loud belch. His eyes popped open.
“Wha—? What’s going on?!”
“Shh!” Leslie put one finger to her lips. “There’s something outside.” She pointed to the window.
“What something?”
“It’s a creature. I think.”
Grandpa Freddy blinked to gather his bearings. He pulled himself out of the chair and hobbled stiffly toward the window.
“Wait,” said Leslie, “be careful. Whatever it is, it’s really big.”
Her grandfather opened the window and craned his bald head out into the night.
“What was it you saw?”
“In the trees.” Leslie came to join him at the window. “On the other side of the building.”
They both stared into the branches.
“Where?”
“It was there. I just saw it.” Now, however, Leslie saw nothing. “Just wait,” she whispered. “It’ll be back.”
They stood in the darkness of the kitchen and stared. But they saw nothing. Not the eye, not the nose or the ear, not the hand, and definitely not the mouth, with its sinister grin.
What she did see, however, was the skin. A small patch of mottled gray-green flesh, dissolving into the darkness.
“There!” She pointed urgently into the trees, but whatever she had seen had vanished completely. “You saw it, didn’t you?”
Her grandfather didn’t answer.
“Didn’t you?”
Again, he didn’t respond.
“Grandpa, you saw that, right?”
For a second, Leslie thought he might have fallen asleep again, but when she turned and looked at him, she saw he was wide-eyed and awake. It was the wideness of his eyes that surprised her.
“You did see it,” she said.
“See what?” Her grandfather shut the window completely and stood up as straight as he could. “Sorry, my eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”
Leslie sighed. “There was really something there, Grandpa. I saw it.”
“Isn’t it past your bedtime? Maybe you were dreaming.”
Leslie shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep. See?” She pointed to the stove top, where the kettle was trembling, the water inside just beginning to boil. Unfortunately, Leslie knew it wasn’t going to help her sleep. After seeing whatever it was she had just seen, all the tea and biscuits in the world would be no help at all.
CHAPTER 12
In which Chuck gets a call from the Chief
Chuck Brickweather liked the office the people at DENKi-3000 had provided him. It was twice as big as his office at Quazicom, and it was located on the top floor of DENKi-3000’s North Tower.
However, in spite of his cushy chair, his expansive office, and his beautiful view, Chuck Brickweather was stressed out.
He was two minutes away from a telephone meeting with the Quazicom CEO, a man known only as “the Chief.” Unlike Sir William Sniffledon, the kindly old geezer who ran DENKi-3000, the true identity of “the Chief” was a closely guarded secret.
Even on the day Chuck had interviewed for the position, the Chief had only appeared as a gravelly voice on a dull gray intercom in the middle of the table. A tiny digital camera, mounted on an insect-like tripod, had transmitted a live stream of Chuck’s answers to some distant monitor in the Chief’s secret office.
All that secrecy made Chuck nervous. And stressed.
He recalled how he had prepared for the job, going online and ordering every self-improvement book he could find. Interviews for Dummies, Interviews for Idiots, Interviews for People Who Can’t Tell Their Elbow from Their Butt. They all said the same thing: Look your bes
t on the big day! People who were slim, fit, and handsome were more likely to be hired! There were even series of helpful (and depressing) drawings of what the ideal interviewee ought to look like.
Chuck had definitely not looked like the ideal interviewee.
That was why he turned to Dr. Heppleworth’s Knoo-Yoo-Juice. But the more he drank it, the more he hated talking to the Chief. It was all because of the warning. On the side of every bottle it said:
CAUTION: Try not to get too stressed while consuming our products. UNDUE stress can UNDO weeks of Knoo-Yooness!
It seemed to be true. As he sat in his DENKi-3000 office, getting more and more nervous waiting for the call, Chuck could almost feel his stressed-out body swelling beneath his skin.
BRRRRING!
“H-hello? This is Chuck Brickweather speaking.”
“I trust you know who’s calling,” said the Chief in his loose, gravelly voice.
“I do, sir.”
“Good. Now, Chuck, I’m calling to check on what you’ve managed to dig up on the DENKi-3000 issue.”
“Well, the thing is sir. . . .” Chuck hesitated. The peculiar tang of a recently guzzled bottle of Dr. Heppleworth’s Knoo-Yoo-Juice clung to the back of throat. “I haven’t quite—”
“Listen, Chuck, before we can start with the takeover, we’re going to need to know more about the jewels in the DENKi-3000 crown, if you catch my drift.”
“You mean the R&D Department.”
“You see, Chuck? I knew you were the right guy for the job. Now, I want you to get in there and find out where they come up with all those amazing ideas. Like that last one of theirs. What was it again?”
“Wireless breath mints,” said Chuck. They really were amazing. Chuck genuinely wished to meet the people who made those first prototypes. “They call them TransMints.”
“Ha! TransMints. Lemme tell you one thing, Chuck, our people at Quazicom would’ve come up with a much better name.” The Chief paused for a moment. “What about this von Doppler character? He must know something.”
“I think he might be avoiding me. He came to a meeting on the day I arrived, but I haven’t seen him since.”
“Did he call in sick? Take off on a vacation? People don’t just vanish.”
“I’ve asked around and no one’s—”
“Then again . . . ” said the Chief thoughtfully, “if he has vanished, it might be to our advantage.”
“Sir?”
“All I’m saying is if the top dog in R&D has gone AWOL, it might be the perfect time to go down there and bust your way in. Have a poke around.” The Chief lowered his voice. “Make sure you take pictures.”
“When you say bust in, sir? Do you mean break in?”
There was another pause. All Chuck heard was the crackle of static.
“Chuck,” said the Chief at last. “Do you know why I hired you?”
“Because I had good credentials?”
“Credentials! My decisions are based on something far more profound than credentials. Can you guess what it was in your case?”
“I haven’t the foggiest, sir.”
“Your name,” said the Chief. “Chuck. One syllable. Short and sweet. Chuck, I thought, now there’s a man of action. Do you see what I’m getting at? Chuck.”
“I’m not sure I can just—”
WHAM!
Chuck heard a loud thump on the other end of the line. It sounded like the Chief had pounded his desk with a fist.
“Action, Chuck, that’s what I’m after. I need that report!”
“I understand that, sir. I’m extremely curious myself, but you can’t expect me to break into—I mean, bust into—”
“Bust in, break in. Tomayto, tomahto. What’s important here is that you do your job.”
“I’m not sure my job description included—”
“Chuck, Chuck, Chuck, don’t worry. You take a few of those security robots I sent along. They’ll take care of anyone who stands in your way.”
“Is this how Quazicom always does business? It sounds quite unorthodox to me.”
The Chief sighed deeply. It sounded like a hurricane blowing through the phone. “Listen, Chuck. Do I have to come down there myself? Because lemme tell you, if I do, I’ll bring a whole army with me. I’ll bust in there personally. Is that what you want?”
“Uh, sir, is that even legal?”
“Legal, illegal. Tomayto, tomahto. Yadda-yadda-yadda. You get the picture.”
Chuck wondered if the Chief was serious. An army? No, that was impossible. Still, it made Chuck feel even more stressed than before. He could almost feel his gut bulging forward as the stress hormones interfered with Dr. Heppleworth’s diet juice. He was beginning to consider the possibility that his employer was a lunatic. “N-no, it’s okay,” he stammered. “There’s no reason for you to come to Bickleburgh. Honestly, sir, I’ve got everything under control.”
“Do you? Because if you’re all out of leads, I’d be happy to fly down there with some of my best robots and—”
“No! I’m not out of leads.”
“You’re not?” The Chief sounded surprised (and perhaps a little disappointed).
“I’ve got one lead left,” said Chuck.
“Then what’re you doing on the phone to me?”
“You called me, sir. You said you wanted to check up on—”
“Listen, Chuck, I want that report on my desk by . . . when’s our next casual Friday?”
“On Friday, sir?”
“Don’t give me lip, Chuck. I don’t like it.”
“No, sir.”
“Back to work, Chuck. Look forward to reading that report.”
The Chief of Quazicom hung up.
Chuck replaced the receiver and hastily guzzled down the last of his Dr. Heppleworth’s. Doing so only served to intensify the sour taste in his mouth.
Luckily, since he was nowhere near an airplane, he reached into his pocket for his packet of TransMints. He tapped two of the small blue candies into his palm and tossed both into his mouth. In seconds, the miraculous, ever-changing freshness had washed away the medicinal tartness of the diet drink.
One lead, he thought.
He had interviewed nearly every employee at DENKi-3000, from Sir William all the way down to a rather nice security guard named Carl. Chuck was astonished to find that throughout the entire company, no one knew what went on inside Professor von Doppler’s department.
In the course of his interviews, however, Chuck noticed that every now and again, someone mentioned that there was one person (besides the professor) who was allowed inside. Oddly, this person was a chef.
On his desk, Chuck opened the file containing the scant information he had collected about this unusual person. The only thing inside was a restaurant flyer. It said:
CHAPTER 13
In which Jean-Remy opines on the subject of puff pastry and Elliot gives an honest review
Elliot von Doppler, I want you down here in five minutes or, I swear, I’ll . . . I’ll . . . hold on, lemme see if I can find a cookbook.”
Apparently, Elliot’s mother had run out of novel ideas for baking, frying, or parboiling her son.
Upstairs, Elliot could already smell the toast burning. He pulled the covers over his nose and mouth, wishing he could turn himself invisible. Then he could simply wander down to the Creature Department undetected.
Now it was Tuesday morning and his uncle only had until Friday to come up with something amazing that would save the company. Worst of all, thanks to the company vice president, Monica Burkenkrantz, he and Leslie were banned from ever going back to DENKi-3000.
Elliot rolled despondently on his side, trying to think of what to do. He wanted to help his uncle, and he definitely wanted to go back to the Creature Department. But how?
O
ut the window, the air was filled with squabbling seagulls. They screeched and cawed (as seagulls always do), but today they seemed particularly aggressive. There was one bird, in fact, slightly bigger than the rest, who seemed to be having an even worse morning than Elliot. The other birds were clearly picking on him, bumping and jostling his large body through the air. Suddenly, perhaps because he had had enough bullying for one day, the large seagull broke away from the flock, plunging straight for the window.
Elliot gasped. He pulled the covers tighter and watched in horror as this big, sloppy, loose-skinned ball of gray and white feathers came swooping straight for him.
BAM!
The seagull crashed flat into the thick glass of his window. Feathers exploded everywhere and the bird slid down the pane to lie limp on the sill.
Two of the seagulls from the flock dove out of the sky and landed on the larger seagull’s belly.
“OOF!” said the larger seagull.
They pecked at his head, one final insult before the two smaller birds took off to rejoin their flock.
“After all we have invented,” the large seagull muttered (in a distinctly French accent), “I would have hoped zey could have made me a better disguise.”
“Jean-Remy? Is that you?” Elliot climbed out of bed and pushed his window open all the way.
“You see?” the seagull muttered to himself, staring blankly at the clouds. “If I cannot fool ze child, how do you expect me to fool ze actual seagulls?”
The seagull reached up and unzipped his head, removing it like a helmet. The second head underneath, of course, belonged to the fairy-bat, Jean-Remy Chevalier.
“The disguise isn’t that bad,” said Elliot. “You had me fooled until you started talking.”
Jean-Remy sighed heavily and climbed to his feet, dusting himself off. A few loose feathers wafted in through the window. He raised up the disembodied seagull head, holding it sideways to examine the profile. “Patti made zis for me with her, you know . . .” He waved one wing around his head. “It may look good to you, certainly. Patti, she is very talented, but ze seagulls—ugh!” He glanced up at the receding flock. “Zey are very judgmental.”
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