Case File 13 #3

by J. Scott Savage

  Carter crammed half his hot dog and a huge spoonful of chili into his mouth—chewing it all with a loud smack-smack-smack.

  “Disgusting,” Tiffany said, turning away.

  “Hey, I eat when I’m depressed,” Carter said, wolfing down another big spoonful of chili.

  Nick grinned. “And happy, tired, confused, excited, and bored. Not to mention hungry.”

  Angie toyed with the dill pickle spear on her hot dog before looking at each of them. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear. But I think we need to at least consider the possibility that the reason we haven’t found the homunculus may be the most obvious.”

  “What’s that?” Nick asked.

  “Because he went home. And if that’s the case, we’ll never know for sure.”

  The six kids rode home silently, each splitting off toward their homes until only Nick and Carter were left. As they coasted to a stop in front of Nick’s house, Nick punched Carter lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t give up, buddy. Who knows? You might wake up tomorrow and there he’ll be, sitting on your bed eating a candy bar.”

  Carter kicked his bike pedal with the toe of one sneaker, making it spin. “I don’t know. I think Angie might be right. I don’t think we’ll ever know what happened to him for sure. I just hope he didn’t . . . you know . . . get eaten by a dog or a cat or something.”

  “Hey, this is Carter Junior we’re talking about,” Nick said. “Do you really think your namesake could be stopped by something as ordinary as a cat?”

  Carter sniffed. “Probably not. I’ll bet Carter Junior could handle a mountain lion. After all, he lived in the woods.”

  “Right.” Nick watched his friend ride off before wheeling his bike up the driveway. As he walked into the house, Mom was standing in front of the stove. Nick sniffed the air. Despite the fact that he’d eaten less than an hour before, his stomach rumbled at the enticing aroma. “Something smells good.”

  “Chicken Marsala,” Mom said. “It’s your dad’s favorite.”

  Nick frowned. “He’s still bummed out about the camping trip?”

  “Yes. But don’t worry. It’s just a temporary funk. He’ll get over it in no time.”

  Upstairs a door closed and footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Don’t say I told you anything,” Mom said. “Act normal.”

  “Sure.” Nicked dropped into a chair and quickly opened one of his textbooks. But if his dad was still depressed about the camping trip, he didn’t show it. He walked up to Nick with a big grin on his face and ruffled his hair.

  “Hello, son. Pounding the books, huh?”

  Nick glanced at his mom, who gave him an encouraging smile. “Um, yeah. Just catching up on my math.”

  “Good thing.” Dad grinned. “You’re going to need it when you hear the news. I’ve decided it’s time to increase your allowance. I think doubling it seems about right. How does that sound to you?”

  “Sounds great!” Nick said. If this was a funk, his dad could be in one all the time.

  “Double?” Mom asked. “Are you sure that isn’t a little much?”

  “Nothing is too much for my family,” Dad said, a huge grin plastered across his face.

  Nick didn’t think he’d ever seen his father this happy. It was a little creepy.

  “Speaking of family,” Dad said, walking to Mom. “What are you doing slaving over a hot stove on a wonderful night like tonight?”

  Mom gave Dad the kind of uncertain smile you might give a recently released mental patient. “I’m . . . cooking.”

  “Nonsense!” Dad pulled her away from the stove and spun her around. “Didn’t I tell you I’m taking us all out for dinner? I’m thinking that new Italian place that opened up last week.”

  Mom’s mouth dropped open, but she didn’t say a word. Nick didn’t think he’d ever seen her look so flabbergasted.

  “Wait right here,” Dad said. “I just need to grab my keys and put on some cologne.” Before Mom could respond, he turned and raced up the stairs.

  Nick looked at his mother. “Okay, that is just about the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Mom raised a hand as if she was going to say something, then lowered it and shook her head. Slowly she turned off the stove. “Grab your coat. I guess we’re going out.”

  Nick got up from the table, walked to his room, and put on his coat. He was glad his dad was feeling better. And an increase in his allowance would be great. But there was something so strange about the way his dad had been acting.

  Mom was just putting the chicken in the refrigerator when Dad came back into the kitchen. “You know,” she said with a smile, “it’s probably a good idea to go out to dinner. It’s been a while since we went to a nice restaurant.”

  As Mom shut the refrigerator door, Dad walked into the kitchen and looked at Nick, who was zipping up his coat. “Where are you going?”

  “Out to dinner?” Nick said. His father’s former good cheer was gone, replaced by a slightly perturbed expression.

  “Oh,” Dad said. “Going with friends?”

  Nick had no idea how to respond to that. But his dad didn’t seem to notice. He rubbed his forehead.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Mom asked. “You look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine.” Dad looked at the stove. “What’s for dinner? Didn’t I smell something cooking?”

  Mom tilted her head. “I thought we were going out.”

  Dad threw his hands in the air. “Why am I the last one to hear these things?” He sighed and turned to go back up the stairs. “Let me get my keys. I sure hope we’re not going anywhere fancy. The last thing I want to do is dress up and put on cologne.”

  Nick looked at his mom. “Is he losing it?”

  She pressed her lips together. “He’s been under a lot of stress.”

  Nick guessed that was true. But he also had a feeling he might not be getting his allowance increase.

  The next morning, things seemed to be more or less back to normal. Nick’s dad wasn’t manically happy or inexplicably depressed. Carter Junior still hadn’t turned up, but Nick was starting to think that might be for the best.

  “It would have been tough smuggling him up to the mountains on a bus without our parents finding out. He’s probably somewhere in the woods right now,” Nick said as the boys rode their bikes to school, “hanging out with his homunculus buddies, drinking Mountain Dew they stole from people camping nearby, and doing amazing celebrity impressions.”

  Carter smiled sadly. “I guess. I just miss him reading comic books with me and eating my candy.”

  Angelo skidded his bike to a halt, and Nick had to make a sharp left turn to keep from running into him. “Is that Old Man Dashner?”

  “Huh?” Nick turned to see a gray-haired man jogging down the street. Runners weren’t unusual in Pleasant Hill. Every morning the boys passed five or six joggers on their way to school. But as far as he could remember, Old Man Dashner had never been one of them. In fact, the only time Nick ever saw Mr. Dashner leave his house was when he got the mail or chased off kids crossing his lawn. But the jogging wasn’t even the weirdest part.

  Carter burst into surprised laughter. “What’s he wearing?”

  For as long as Nick had known him, Old Man Dashner’s clothing had consisted of khaki pants pulled up halfway to his chest, faded plaid shirts buttoned to the neck, and floppy brown slippers. His idea of a fashion statement was putting on a corduroy jacket when it got cold.

  But now he was running down the middle of the street in what looked like a pink one-piece women’s swimsuit, plaid golf pants rolled up at the ankles, and a Viking helmet, complete with horns.

  “Hello, boys!” Dashner shouted as he trotted past. “Nothing like a morning run to get the old ticker in tick-tock shape.”

  “Did he just make a joke?” Carter asked.

  “Did he actually talk to us without using the words trespassing, police, or nuisance?” Nick said.

  Angelo reached for his monst
er notebook, then seemed to change his mind. “It has to be some kind of episode. Maybe we should call the police to get him some help.”

  “Not me,” Carter said, pedaling his bike away. “Dashner already hates me enough for that time I accidentally knocked out his mailbox with my electric scooter.”

  Nick scratched his head. “Maybe it’s some kind of really, really late midlife crisis. If I was stuck in that house all by myself, I’d probably go Froot Loops too.” He shook his head and watched the old man jog away. “It doesn’t get any weirder than that.”

  After the excitement of the last few days, it was a relief when the boys got to school and discovered Ms. Schoepf was out sick, leaving them with a substitute teacher.

  “Maybe she’s one of those subs who’ll let us watch movies all day,” Carter said.

  Angelo pulled his books out of his backpack. “What would be the point of that? We can watch movies at home. School is for learning.”

  Carter patted him sadly on the shoulder. “Sometimes I wonder why we are even friends. I can only assume it’s so I can keep you from withering away into nothing but a giant brain.”

  Nick didn’t care one way or the other, as long as they didn’t spend another day solving for x, y, and z and trying to change upside-down fractions into integers.

  But just before the bell rang, Ms. Schoepf came bustling through the door, her arms loaded down with a large black case and several bags. “Sorry I’m late.”

  The substitute, a tall, bony woman with frizzy hair, got up from behind Ms. Schoepf’s desk. “I thought you were out sick.”

  “I was,” Ms. Schoepf said. “But I’m feeling fine now.”

  Carter leaned over to Nick and whispered, “What’s that she’s carrying?”

  Nick studied the black case. It looked sort of like a guitar. But as far as he knew, Ms. Schoepf didn’t play any instruments. In fact, she’d once mentioned wishing that she’d been born with even an ounce of musical talent.

  The substitute teacher looked flustered. She straightened her glasses and tugged at her skirt. “I drove all the way across town to get here. Who’s going to pay me for my time?”

  “Talk to the principal,” Ms. Schoepf said. “I’m sure she’ll work it all out. It’s really none of my concern.”

  Nick felt bad for the woman as she gathered up her things and left. It wasn’t like Ms. Schoepf to be so rude. Especially to someone who’d been doing her a favor by filling in.

  As soon as the sub was out the door, Ms. Schoepf whipped open the black case. It was a guitar. “Boys and girls,” she said, sitting on her desk and resting the guitar on her lap, “why do you think you’ve been struggling so much with math?”

  Angelo raised his hand. “Because people haven’t been doing their homework?”

  “I did my homework,” said a boy with red hair. “I do my homework every day.”

  “Whatever,” Nick muttered. Rob Wells was the biggest liar in sixth grade and everyone knew it. Nick raised his hand. “I think it’s the variables. If we could just stick with numbers and leave out the letters, it would be a lot easier.”

  “All good answers,” Ms. Schoepf said. “But I’ve given it a great deal of thought, and I’ve decided that math would be much more interesting if we put it to music.”

  “You mean like scales and time signatures?” Dana asked. “Math and music have a lot more in common than many people realize.”

  “Actually,” Ms. Schoepf said, “I was thinking more of the driving beat of hard rock, with the mind-numbing chords of acoustic guitar.” She shook back her head, ran her fingers through her hair, strummed a series of chords that didn’t go together, and burst into singing that could best be described as excruciating.

  Compound fractions are a total pain.

  I can’t find all the values in the right domain.

  A coefficient matrix sets my heart on fire.

  But a common logarithm sends me higher, higher, higher!

  Domain, double root, conjugated pair.

  Complex number formulas, I see them everywhere.

  Sitting in their desks, the kids stared in shock and a little bit of horror. Nick didn’t think he’d ever heard anything so terrible in his life. Not only could Ms. Schoepf not play at all, but Nick didn’t think the guitar was even in tune.

  Angie put her hands over her ears. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “I once heard a cat get its head get stuck in a rain gutter,” Carter said, raising his voice to be heard over the teacher’s screaming. “It sounded much better than this.”

  Kimber Tidwell raised her hand and shouted, “Can I go to the nurse again?”

  “Button it up, Buttercup!” Ms. Schoepf yelled, still strumming wildly. “I’ve got six more verses.”

  The rest of the day didn’t get any better. During history, Ms. Schoepf did an interpretive dance that she claimed paid homage to Abraham Lincoln’s hair and the woman who sold Benjamin Franklin his false teeth. In science, she nearly lit the curtains on fire with what she called “a display of totally awesome pyrotechnics that will make heavy metal concerts look like tea parties.” And in English she asked the entire class to write an essay on what the world would look like if we all had zucchini slices for eyes.

  By the time they finally stumbled out of class at the end of the day, the kids all felt like they’d been through a war zone.

  “I am not going back to that class,” Kimber sobbed.

  “I’m telling my mom,” Rebel said. “Ms. Schoepf has gone completely crazy.”

  “I kind of liked the interpretive dance,” Carter said. He waved his arms and warbled the words Ms. Schoepf had been repeating. “Abraham Lincoln with his head full of rollers. Thank you for the woman who gave Benjamin his molars.”

  Nick didn’t know what to think. That morning he’d been sure nothing could be weirder than Old Man Dashner’s outfit. But after Ms. Schoepf, Mr. Dashner looked totally normal. It was like the whole city was going crazy.

  On the way home, the boys tried to remember if they’d ever had a more bizarre day.

  “There was that time in second grade when Carter stuck a peanut in his ear and couldn’t get it out,” Nick said. “I still remember how hard everyone laughed when you told the teacher why you had to go to the nurse.”

  Carter huffed. “What? Rob Wells told me that if you didn’t wash the dirt out of your ears you could grow plants in them. I thought it would be totally cool to have peanuts anytime you wanted. Besides, it was a lot weirder when you turned into a zombie,” Carter said.

  “Sure,” Nick agreed. “But at least that made sense when we figured it all out. Today was just totally random.”

  “Or was it?” Angelo pulled his bike to the side of the road.

  Nick skidded to a stop beside him. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s just . . .” Angelo bent over and wrapped his arms around his chest.

  “Are you okay?” Nick asked. Angelo looked a little pale, the way Kimber had after coming back from the nurse.

  Angelo breathed heavily for a minute or two before nodding. “I felt a little dizzy for a minute, but I’m okay now.” He got back on his bike and started pedaling. “Let’s check on Mr. Dashner to make sure he’s all right.”

  “Are you kidding?” Carter squealed. “Let’s just check the dental work on a great white shark while we’re at it. Or offer to let Chuck Norris try out his latest karate moves on us.”

  “He’s got a point,” Nick said. “I mean, Old Man Dashner’s never been exactly thrilled to see us.”

  Angelo pedaled faster, and Carter, who had the shortest legs of the three and the oldest bike, barely kept up despite pedaling nearly twice as fast as the other two. “He threatened to feed me to his pet piranhas if I ever came within fifty feet of his house again. All because I accidentally got stuck to the back window of his car. Well, that and the mailbox thing.”

  “Which makes it twice as strange that he was so friendly this morning,” Angelo
said. “You two can do what you want, but I’m going to check on him. Something isn’t adding up.” He turned his bike into Mr. Dashner’s driveway.

  “We better cover his back,” Nick said. He followed Angelo, even though he thought he’d rather approach a sleeping bear in its cave than Mr. Dashner in his house.

  Carter looked toward the sky and said, “God, if I get killed, make it quick and painless. And make it not by piranha, or crossbow, or acid or—”

  “Are you coming or not?” Nick asked.

  “Amen,” Carter said, hurrying after him.

  “Since when are you religious?” Nick asked as they got off their bikes.

  Carter wiped the sweat off his forehead and grinned nervously. “Since I realized we are going to see the devil.”

  Old Man Dashner watched his yard like an eagle. If a kid looked like he was even thinking about stepping onto the lawn, Dashner was outside shouting threats. So Nick was surprised that they got almost all the way to the door before the door flew open.

  “Who’s out there? What do you want? Is it the milkman?” At least he was back in his khakis and plaid shirt. Nick wasn’t sure he could deal with a cranky old man in a pink swimsuit.

  Angelo glanced back toward Nick with a quizzical look. Nick stepped back, ready to take off at a moment’s notice, but Angelo kept walking. “We just wanted to check on you.”

  “Check on me?” Mr. Dashner barked. He ran his fingers through his wild gray hair with a confused sort of expression. “What do you mean, check on me? More likely coming to throw eggs at my door. Don’t think I didn’t hear you sneaking through my yard the night before last either.”

  Angelo paused a few feet short of the front steps. Nick didn’t blame him. He’d heard that the old man carried a cane with a razor-sharp blade that popped out of the end. The last thing he’d want to do was get within swinging distance. “We’re not going to throw any eggs. It’s just that when we saw you jogging this morning,” Angelo said, “you didn’t seem like yourself.”