Stay in character, he reminded himself. Nothing could go wrong if he played his part to the best of his ability.
Lowering his dark brows over his mascara-rimmed eyes, he growled, “Mister, do I look like the president sent me?”
Mr. Hartman surveyed Logan over, from the platinum-blond spiked hair to the chains on his boots. “Make it quick,” he barked finally.
To Logan, this was the equivalent of a standing ovation. He stumbled into the house on stiff legs — by this time, the strain of carrying the weight for so long had spread to his entire body.
His first thought was to search for the Hover Handler. It was nowhere in sight. The small house hadn’t changed much since Mrs. Martindale had lived there. The walls were bare of her gallery of family pictures, leaving dark rectangles on the faded paint job. In the living room, her many decorative trinkets had been replaced by a clutter of boxes. Obviously, Mr. Hartman had been too busy hassling kids and fencing off their shortcut to unpack. Where that lumber and cement had disappeared to in this tiny place was anybody’s guess.
Logan craned his neck to peer down the basement stairs. No sign of the Hover Handler there — and, strangely, no building materials, either. They’d seen Mr. Hartman carry a ton of the stuff into the house. Was he eating it? Obviously not, but then where was it?
Mr. Hartman stormed over to block his view. “Put the soup on the kitchen counter and scram.”
Logan shuffled into the kitchen, eyes darting around desperately. Where could he plant the microphone? He heaved the carton up onto the counter with a groan of relief. Delivered! Now one more delivery: the mic. But how could he even take it out of his pocket with Mr. Hartman watching him like a hawk?
All at once, a new voice sounded from the open front door. “Delivery for Hartman.”
Logan froze. Another delivery!
Mr. Hartman wheeled. “Not more oxtail soup!”
“No, sir. Cedarville Hardware.”
“Oh, of course.” As the homeowner turned to the door, Logan saw his chance. He jammed his hand in his pocket, pulled the miniature microphone out, and flicked the on switch, searching frantically for a place to hide it. In his haste, his half-numb fingers fumbled the tiny device, and it rolled off the counter and hit the tile floor with a rat-a-tat.
Mr. Hartman turned, startled. “What was that?”
Almost involuntarily, Logan reached out a toe and kicked the microphone under the stove. “Nothing, man,” Logan grunted, getting back into his punk persona. “I’m done here. Thanks for shopping at Maxi-Mart.” Satisfied that the performance was a success, Logan headed for the door just as the other delivery man came in, several boxes of nails balanced on his considerable paunch. Logan’s painted eyebrows knit. Why was this new guy staring at him so intently? Could there be something in Logan’s performance that didn’t quite ring true? Was this the equivalent of a bad review?
Finally, the newcomer blurted, “How can you stand to look at yourself in the mirror every morning?” Logan was so startled that the hardware man added, “No offense, kid, but I honestly want to know. My boy went punk like you: the clothes, the hair, the makeup, the piercings — the whole Dracula thing. It broke up our family. His mother and I haven’t talked to him in six years. So I have to ask: Why do you do it? Do you honestly think ghoul is cool?”
It took every ounce of Logan’s acting ability not to look thrilled. Punks were never thrilled. But the thrill of having created a perfect character — that was a rare accomplishment for any actor.
Aloud, he replied, “Listen, man, this may seem weird to you, but it’s my style, just like it’s your kid’s style, or those samurai guys who shaved the tops of their heads. It’s a look; it’s not the real person.” Then, on impulse, he took an artistic risk. He removed the clip-on earring from his nose and held it out. “See? Underneath it all, I’m just the same as you.”
The man set down his hardware and enfolded Logan in a giant bear hug. “I’m calling my son tonight,” he declared emotionally. “Don’t you think I won’t.”
“Great,” said Logan, jamming the nose ring back in place before Mr. Hartman could see it was removable.
If I can come up with a performance like this in the Ouch-Free commercial, my career will be set!
* * *
“Can you hear anything?” asked Griffin urgently. “Did Logan plant the microphone?”
Savannah turned up the speakers on her computer. “I think so. There was a big crash and then some talking, but it’s quiet now. I can’t be sure. Melissa’s so much better at this than I am.”
“I hope Logan’s okay,” Ben worried. “What if that other delivery guy is from Maxi-Mart, too?”
“That would blow Logan’s cover,” Griffin agreed. He pointed to the screen, which showed their webcam view of the Hartman house. “Look — someone’s coming out.”
They watched as Logan and the hardware man started down the front walk.
“Wait,” said Savannah with a sharp intake of breath. “Why is that man hugging Logan?”
Pitch shrugged. “It’s the last thing I’d ever do.”
The hardware truck drove off, and Logan disappeared from the webcam’s range as he made his way down Honeybee Street. Griffin, Ben, Pitch, and Savannah rushed down to the porch to meet him.
“What happened?” Griffin hissed.
“My character,” the young actor told him with satisfaction, “was spot-on.”
“Who cares about your character?” Pitch snapped. “Did you see the Hover Handler?”
Logan shook his head. “No sign of it.”
“What about the microphone?” Ben persisted. “Did you stash it?”
“Of course,” Logan replied. “Well, technically, I dropped it and kicked it under the stove. But that’s as good a place as any.”
The group went back to Savannah’s room to listen in. There seemed to be nothing to hear — no sound at all.
Griffin was worried. “Maybe the mic broke when it hit the floor.”
“Or when he kicked it,” Pitch added darkly.
They had the speakers cranked up so high that when the hammering started, it nearly shattered their eardrums. Savannah twisted the dial and turned down the volume.
“Savannah, what’s all that banging?” came Mrs. Drysdale’s voice from downstairs.
“Just a YouTube video, Mom.” To the others, she whispered, “What’s he doing over there?”
“He just got a new shipment of nails,” Logan supplied.
“He’s building something, but what?” Griffin wracked his brain. “What did you see?”
“Nothing. And how’s this for weird — he thought I was from the government.”
They stared at their friend with his spiked hair, eyeliner, nose ring, leather, and chains. How could anybody in his right mind believe that a middle schooler posing as a punk delivery boy might be from the government?
Griffin broke the stunned silence. “We’ll keep watching and listening. Surveillance may be slow, but it always works. Sooner or later he’ll let slip what he’s doing with the Hover Handler.”
For Melissa, the happiest time of every day was always the first eight seconds after opening her eyes in the morning. Second number nine was usually when she’d remember her invention, and the fact that it had been stolen, and nothing was right with the world.
True, she could have built another one — Savannah certainly wanted her to do that for Luthor’s sake. But Savannah didn’t understand. Nobody did.
Something that you invent with your own imagination, design with your own intelligence, and create with your own hands — that was more than just a thing. It was a part of you. No, more than that. It was you, indivisible from your very self. When the thief made off with the Hover Handler, what he’d actually stolen was a piece of what made Melissa uniquely Melissa. She could build a new machine, but that would not serve to make her whole again.
With a sigh, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Power,” she s
aid aloud. Instantly, her room came alive with blinking lights and the whirr of computers, printers, and other components, humming their start-up songs. By the time she’d returned from the bathroom next door, face washed and teeth brushed, her favorite laptop was already downloading last night’s messages:
GBingPlanner:
Operation Recover Hover in progress. Won’t be long now.
NotSoBigBen:
Ferret Face misses you and so do I.
AnimalsRUs:
Please, Melissa. We need you. Luthor needs you.
GBingPlanner:
Did you just reply? SH-4 shut down power. Please resend message if there was one.
StageLogan:
You should have seen me @ Hartman’s. #readyformycloseup
MountainGirl:
Come back come back come back come back come back.
GBingPlanner:
Please re-resend. More SH-4 electrical problems. Also could use your help designing SH-5.
Without changing expression, Melissa deleted all the messages, replying to none. Nor was she tempted to call any of her friends. These were the first people other than her family that she’d been close to. And where had that gotten her? Not that she blamed Griffin and the team. They certainly hadn’t stolen anything. Still, she couldn’t deny that life had been so much simpler when it had been just her and her computers. It made sense to go back to that simplicity.
She didn’t want to be rude to anybody, and she wasn’t. When her friends approached her in the cafeteria and asked if she wanted to join them for lunch, she replied honestly: “No, thanks.” She thought she’d do better alone, as she always had before.
It was amazing how easy it was to get back into the old ways. Very few words were required, if any at all. A simple shrug or headshake was enough to decline most invitations — like being Savannah’s lab partner in science, or hanging out after school. She didn’t even have to deal with the others’ disappointment. She just stayed behind her curtain of hair until whoever it was went away.
Of course, that hadn’t stopped the e-mails or the phone calls or the text messages. And she was still greeted by dozens of Post-its on her locker every morning. But surely that would die out eventually. Not even The Man With The Plan could be that stubborn.
Her days weren’t more fun this way, but they were safe and predictable. Already, when she saw Griffin and the others at their table across the cafeteria, it seemed like another life when she’d been a part of their group.
And yet they continued to leave her spot empty on the bench, an odd gap between Ben and Savannah. She could almost picture herself in it, with Ferret Face eyeing her jam sandwich enviously.
Well, maybe she missed that part just a little.
* * *
There was no question about it. Mr. Hartman definitely had the Hover Handler. Occasionally, the microphone Logan had kicked under the stove picked up the high-pitched whine of Melissa’s invention and broadcast it over Savannah’s computer. When that happened, the effect on the Drysdales’ menagerie was nothing short of electrifying. Cleopatra would swing from the light fixtures. The cats, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, would hide under blankets. The rabbits would try to cover their ears, which was no easy task. The turtles would splash muddy water all over their habitat. And down in the basement, Luthor would go into his hip-hop dance, laying waste to what was left of Mr. Drysdale’s billiard room.
Mostly, though, the sounds that came from the Hartman house were construction noises — hammering, sawing, and sanding.
The frustration was beginning to get to Savannah. “I thought you said surveillance works on everybody,” she accused Griffin. “We’ve been watching this guy for more than a week, and listening in, too. We’ve got nothing.”
“Surveillance works on everybody normal,” Griffin explained. “Heartless isn’t normal. He has no visitors, so there’s nobody to talk to about the Hover Handler, or what he’s building, or why he’s stockpiling groceries. He never even uses the phone except to order more stuff. We might as well have thrown that microphone down the sewer.”
Logan shook his head. “It wouldn’t have worked. Dramatically, I mean.”
There was a knock at the front door of the Drysdale house. Savannah opened it to admit a barely recognizable Pitch and Ben. They were covered from head to toe with a layer of fine dust. A powerful odor entered the foyer with them.
“Not so fast.” Savannah backed them out onto the porch. “You can’t come into the house all filthy and smelly. My mom’ll kill us.”
Ben was insulted. “That’s the thanks we get for taking on a dirty job. Next time, you can go through Hartman’s trash.”
Griffin stepped forward on the porch. “What happened to you guys?”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Pitch replied, her voice rising. “We opened the first bag and boom — it exploded!”
“He booby-traps his garbage?” asked Logan, stunned.
“No, he pulverizes it! All the paper was shredded and everything else was ground into mulch! First puff of wind and it’s a blizzard!”
“Were there any clues in there about what he might be up to?” Griffin persisted.
“You must be kidding,” Ben growled. “You see what’s all over me? That’s his trash! Ferret Face is coughing!”
“Seriously, Griffin,” Pitch told him, “the only way to analyze this garbage is molecule by molecule. It’s another dead end.”
Logan was mystified. “Why would anybody bother to grind up their trash?”
“Who knows?” Griffin threw up his hands. “It’s Heartless — the guy’s certifiable! I’ve always said you can accomplish anything with a good plan, but Hartman is practically plan-proof!”
A collective gasp greeted this exclamation. It was a rare thing for Griffin Bing to admit that a problem might be beyond his powers of planning.
“Poor Melissa,” Pitch lamented.
“Poor Luthor,” Savannah added. “How could it be worse?”
* * *
By the end of the day, the battery in the wireless webcam in the tree opposite the Hartman house had wound down. The video feed went dark.
“I can climb up there and plant a new one,” Pitch offered, her mood somewhat improved after a shower and a change of clothes.
Griffin sighed. “Don’t bother. We’re never going to see anything watching the place from a distance. We need to get a good look inside.”
“But that will never happen,” Ben protested in a strident voice. “You said yourself that Heartless never goes anywhere. And we can’t very well break in while he’s home.”
A needle nose poked out of Ben’s collar and began sniffing experimentally.
Griffin looked suddenly thoughtful. “Maybe there’s a way that we can get a look around in there and he won’t notice.”
“Heartless may be weird, but he’s not blind!” Pitch exclaimed. “You’re dreaming if you think one of us can get inside that tiny house without getting caught!”
“I can’t,” Griffin agreed. “And you can’t.” He smiled as the details of the plan began to come together in his mind. “But I know somebody who can.”
Hold still, Ferret Face,” Ben ordered. “Now put your left paw through here….”
The harness was tiny. Savannah had first created it out of a Chihuahua leash so she could exercise her hamsters, but it had come in handy over the years. Now it was a perfect fit for Ferret Face, the wireless webcam fixed to his back.
Ben withdrew his hand to reveal an angry scratch along the back of it. He turned furious eyes on the little creature in his lap. “Do that again and you’ve tasted your last bite of beef jerky.”
Savannah frowned at him. “We’re asking a lot of Ferret Face today. You really should consider his feelings.”
“He doesn’t have feelings; he has claws,” Ben shot back. “And they’re sharp.”
“A ferret is a carnivore, not a rodent,” she reminded him. “It’s not natural for him to be as passive as a h
amster.”
“He’s a field agent,” Griffin amended. “And without him, the plan is dead in the water. Get him suited up and let’s do this.”
“How come it has to be my ferret?” Ben complained. “He’s not a pet, you know. He’s a service animal, just like a Seeing Eye dog. Why not one of Savannah’s hamsters or the mice or even Arthur?”
“Arthur’s a pack rat,” Savannah explained. “He’ll go off looking for something shiny and never come back. The same goes for the rodents. They’ll find what they consider a safe hiding place in the walls and stay there forever.”
Ben was alarmed. “What if Ferret Face does that?”
“He’s a hunter,” she replied. “We can lure him out with meat.”
Ben was forced to agree. “I guess you’re right. He once chewed through a pizza box to reach the pepperoni.”
“Let’s just get this over with,” Pitch urged.
Even from the front walk of 94 Honeybee Street they could hear the hammering going on inside the house. It wasn’t loud exactly, but each blow carried its own vibration. For once, the noise brought them comfort instead of aggravation. As long as Mr. Hartman was working, they knew he wasn’t watching his front door.
Griffin gingerly lifted the brass flap that covered the mail slot. Ben bent down, holding the ferret, camera and all, toward the opening.
Ferret Face turned to give his owner an uncertain look.
“It’s called a plan,” Ben informed him. “I wish I could tell you it’s nothing to worry about. If you see a total jerk in there, give him a scratch from me. And be careful, little buddy.” He dropped the furry creature through the slot.
Pitch was up next. As Griffin held the slot open, she squatted down, and, using a rubber band as a slingshot, fired a small piece of meat loaf deep into the house. Ferret Face was after it in a heartbeat.
They retreated across the street and ducked behind a hedge. Griffin produced his phone, and the team gathered around to peer over his shoulder. The screen was just a blur at first as the camera — mounted on the ferret’s harness — whizzed through the house after the meat loaf projectile. That was followed by a moment of inactivity as the food was wolfed down. The webcam was pitched forward, so what they saw was practically a ferret’s-eye view between two roundish ears.
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