STARRING
JULIUS CAESAR………………LOGAN KELLERMAN
MARK ANTONY…
Okay, there were other names on the welcome poster that hung in the entrance foyer. Mrs. Arturo insisted that the entire cast had to be on there — right down to the lowliest centurion and set painter.
But Logan only had eyes for himself. Julius Caesar. After mindless kiddie shows and dumb commercials for athlete’s foot cream, here at last was a role meaty enough for him to sink his teeth into. Today was the first day of the rest of his life as an actor. He had to nail this performance. Absolutely nothing could be allowed to interfere with his dramatic focus.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a tiny shadow with a long skinny tail moving quickly across the terrazzo floor, hugging the wall.
A rat! A pack rat? Could Savannah’s wacky theory be true?
He launched himself across the foyer on an intercept course with the fleeing creature.
At that moment, the heavy glass doors opened, and a tall woman rushed into the building. Logan collided with the newcomer and bounced off, dazed.
“What on earth?” she exclaimed in outrage.
“Sorry —” He took in her familiar birdlike features.
Oh, no! Celia White!
“You’re Logan, right?” The reporter skewered him with hawk eyes. “What happened to your face? You look like you’ve been in a knife fight!”
“It’s — uh — makeup,” he stammered. “Caesar was a general before he was an emperor, you know.”
Her expression softened. “I’m proud of you, Logan. I know you’ve been in trouble in the past. To see you starring in the play is wonderful!”
Logan could only stare at her.
“I was right all along,” the reporter went on. “Once that awful Griffin Bing was removed from the mix, the rest of you could start to turn your lives around. Sometimes you have to cut off one bad branch to save the whole tree. I only hope your other friends can find such positive outlets for their energy.” She reached out a claw and shook his hand. “Congratulations. I’ll be in the front row cheering for you.” And she stalked off to reserve a good seat.
Logan was still shaking as she disappeared down the corridor that led to the auditorium. The only “positive outlet” his friends had found was Operation Dirty Rat, which would be starting any minute. And this time, the team was bringing along the worst juvenile delinquent at Jail For Kids. What would Celia White have to say about that?
A quick scan of the foyer revealed no sign of the rodent. Just as well. He mustn’t allow himself to get distracted. Not on opening night.
25
Hail Caesar was a sellout. By 6:45, the parking lot of Cedarville Middle School was jam-packed, and both sides of the street were lined with cars to accommodate the spillover.
The school’s front foyer was a mob scene as student ushers rushed to show the throngs of theatergoers to the auditorium in time for the play to begin on schedule.
One small group, however, kept its distance from the bustling school building. In the darkness of the deserted football field, Savannah, Pitch, Melissa, Ben, and Shank milled around one of the goalposts, waiting for The Man With The Plan to arrive.
Ben was fiddling nervously with the reel of his father’s fishing rod. “It’s not like him to be late. What if the transmitter-thingy messed up? He could be in jail right now.”
“He’s not,” Melissa said quietly. “It worked perfectly when we tested it.”
Shank hefted the canvas bag containing nine of his father’s rodent traps. “He gets five more minutes. Then we start without him.”
Nobody uttered a sound. The only thing worse than being on a plan without Griffin was being anywhere with Sheldon Brickhaus.
In the next moment, Griffin was among them, breathless from running. “Sorry, guys,” he panted. “I had to wait for my folks to leave for the fake meeting.”
He felt guilty about how upbeat Mom and Dad had been. They were so hopeful that his troubles might soon be over. They were going to be devastated when Dalton Davis was a no-show at the diner. His one consolation was the fact that he hadn’t been lying when the e-mail had promised “a break in the case.” If Operation Dirty Rat went well, there’d be no case left to break.
Pitch pointed to the modified cell phone firmly attached to Griffin’s belt. “Is that it?” she asked, adjusting the coil of climbing rope she carried over her shoulder.
Griffin nodded. “And it stays with me no matter what. It’s the same deal as the hub in my basement. If it falls off and I get out of its range, you’ll be visiting me in the slammer.”
The sound of distant applause reached them, along with the majestic opening music of Hail Caesar. That meant everyone was in the auditorium. The coast was clear.
The play was on, and so was Operation Dirty Rat.
The team entered the building cautiously. The foyer and halls were deserted, but no one could rule out the chance of a stray wanderer — including Mr. Clancy, Dr. Egan, or Celia White, who was covering the play for the Herald. Both Darren Vader and Tony Bartholomew had been spotted in the ticket line. All the suspects were on the scene. Including, Griffin hoped, one very guilty pack rat.
Shank led the group down the corridor, stopping at a small alcove between the two bathrooms. From his bag, he produced a cage trap the size of half a shoe box and placed it against the wall in the corner, underneath a porcelain drinking fountain. The bars were bent and stained with age, and holes in the mesh had been repaired with staples and window screening. It was a piece of junk compared with the brand-new, high-tech Vole-B-Gone, but Griffin didn’t dare use his father’s invention. If pack rats found the prototype as easy to avoid as voles did, he’d be out of luck.
Shank reached into his pocket, pulled out a crystal spray bottle of perfume, and squeezed four big blasts into the small enclosure.
Instantly, a powerful, sickly sweet floral odor was all around them.
Ben nearly dropped the rod. “What’s that — Eau de Dead Body?”
Shank grinned. “It’s called Rendezvous in Paris.”
Pitch choked. “I feel like I’m drinking a Shirley Temple inside a sewage treatment plant.”
“My mother used it one morning,” Shank explained. “And when my dad got to work, the animals were all over him. Turns out no nuisance wildlife can resist it.”
As if to prove this point, a tiny nose poked out the bottom of Ben’s shirt, sniffing furiously. A second later, Ferret Face burst into the open in a swan dive onto the cage.
Ben scooped up the ferret and stuffed him back under his collar. “Don’t even think about it, pal. You’re not a nuisance — most of the time.”
Savannah removed a glittery ball of aluminum foil from her backpack and placed it inside the trap. “Because pack rats like shiny things,” she explained.
Shank nodded approvingly. “Let’s set the rest of these traps.”
As the team headed off after Shank, Griffin patted the transmitter on his belt and checked the indicator light on his PEMA anklet. Still green.
So far, so good.
The Bings stepped into the Four Corners diner and looked around. The dining room was crowded, but there was no sign of Dalton Davis.
Mr. Bing sensed his wife’s unease. “He’s probably just stuck in traffic. It’s murder getting out of the city this time of day.” He turned to the hostess. “Table for three, please. We’re meeting someone.”
They sat down, and the waitress brought them two coffees.
“Just what I need,” commented Mrs. Bing with a nervous smile. “Something to make me even more jittery.”
Their eyes never wavered from the front door.
Both cups remained untouched.
The lofty pillars of ancient Rome towered over Logan Kellerman. Well, they weren’t real pillars — just background scenery painted on huge art paper and held up by tall wooden frames.
But for a true actor, that was all it took. He was no
longer a seventh grader; he was Gaius Julius Caesar, Rome’s greatest general, speaking before the Senate. Dressed in a toga and sandals, he projected to the last seat in the last row of the auditorium.
“The victory of our legions in Gaul has brought greater glory and riches to the Republic …!”
As he delivered the speech, his eyes panned the crowd, settling briefly on Darren Vader in the second row. For some reason, Darren was holding up a file card. Logan squinted to make out the message: NICE DRESS.
The insult almost caused Logan to garble the word maximus. But he recovered and concentrated on his proud parents in the front row beside Celia White. The newspaper columnist was beaming up at him. She may have been a dangerous lunatic, but at least she appreciated good theater.
A few rows behind her fidgeted Tony, looking nervous and squirming in his chair. Was that because he was up to something?
His eyes traveled to Dr. Egan, who was not in a seat, but standing at the back of the auditorium. Every now and then, he would open the door a crack and peer out into the hall. Looking for latecomers, Logan reasoned. But he hoped Griffin and the team would be careful.
The team placed all nine traps — three on the second floor, three on the main floor, and three in the basement. Then came the hard part — watching and waiting. They broke into pairs. Savannah and Melissa took the upstairs post; Griffin and Shank stayed on the ground level; and Pitch and Ben were sent down the custodians’ steps to the boiler room.
“How come we get stuck with dungeon duty?” Ben whined over the walkie-talkie. “It’s creepy. There could be rats down here.”
“That’s what we’re hoping for,” Griffin told him nervously. “One, anyway — the one with the ring.”
“All clear up top,” Pitch reported. “I mean, it smells like a funeral parlor, but the traps are still empty.”
“You know,” Melissa’s quiet voice came over the small speaker, “when our house had squirrel problems, it took a few days before the snares caught anything.”
“That’s because her nuisance wildlife guy didn’t know about Rendezvous in Paris,” Shank assured Griffin. “The stuff is the gold standard. Trust me. It won’t be long.”
The time passed nerve-rackingly slowly. Griffin could hear a lot of action coming from the auditorium — a battle scene, maybe. He pictured Logan, in Julius Caesar’s plastic armor, fighting with a toy sword.
Shank found his own way to keep himself entertained. He snatched the transmitter from Griffin’s belt, cocked back his arm, and asked, “Hey, do you think I can chuck this more than two hundred feet?”
Griffin was in full panic. “Are you crazy? If that thing breaks, I’m dead!”
Shank was disgusted. “I don’t know why I hang out with you, Justice,” he said, returning the unit. “Where’s your sense of humor? You’re as much fun as the chicken pox.”
Griffin was about to retort when another sound reached them, different from the play, and closer. Footsteps.
“Radio silence!” he whispered frantically into the walkie-talkie. “Someone’s coming!”
Shank grabbed Griffin and hauled him around the corner into the boys’ room. There they hid, barely daring to breathe, as the rhythmic tapping of leather on terrazzo grew louder and louder. Then they saw him, heading down the main hall to the office.
Mr. Clancy.
His usual work shirt had been replaced by a Colts jersey, matching the colors of his headband. Griffin was turned to stone. Was the custodian all decked out in his team regalia to take his final revenge on the ‘69 Jets? To make some kind of move on the ring, or even get rid of it altogether?
And here we are in the middle of a risky plan to trap the wrong suspect!
The custodian passed by, heading toward the office.
“It’s Clancy,” Griffin breathed into the walkie-talkie.
“I knew it!” hissed Pitch. “Has he got the ring?”
“Not yet,” Griffin whispered.
“What should we do?” quavered Melissa’s voice.
Griffin’s eyes met Shank’s in wordless question.
“Sit tight and be ready to move,” the older boy advised. “If we spot the ring on him, we can’t let the guy out of the building.”
It was only a few minutes, but it seemed like hours, before the footsteps returned.
Trembling, Griffin peered out the doorway of the bathroom.
Something small was cradled in the custodian’s hands. Florescent lighting glinted off a shiny surface.
The words were almost out of Griffin’s mouth: Red alert —
Then he recognized the object — a foil-wrapped candy bar.
He tried to wheeze “False alarm!” into the walkie-talkie, but no sound came out. The enormity of the mistake he’d nearly made threatened to tear him in two. If he hadn’t been leaning against the boys’ room wall, he probably would have collapsed under legs of jelly.
Mr. Clancy walked by once again in the direction of the auditorium. Soon the footsteps faded.
“All clear,” Griffin murmured into the walkie-talkie. He stepped toward the door.
Shank put an iron grip on his shoulder. “Don’t move.”
Heart thumping, Griffin followed Shank’s pointing finger. In the hall outside the bathroom, a small shape was slinking along the baseboard in the direction of the drinking fountain. The light brown creature was small, furry, and round as a baseball.
Behind the body trailed a long rodent tail.
26
The pack rat.
Savannah was right!
Of course she was right. This was the girl who had taken the meanest guard dog on Long Island and turned him into her best friend. When it came to animals, Savannah Drysdale was money in the bank.
Griffin and Shank watched, mesmerized, as the little rodent sniffed his way up to the trap. An inch before the opening, he hesitated, weighing the pros and cons — the irresistible scent of Rendezvous in Paris versus the danger of the unknown. The shiny ball of foil seemed to sway the decision. In a single bound, he raced into the cage, snatched up the prize, and turned to make his exit.
Too late. The door snapped shut, cutting off his escape.
“We’ve got him,” Griffin breathed into the walkie-talkie. “He’s in the trap.”
“Mr. Clancy?” Ben asked in amazement.
“The dirty rat is caught,” said The Man With The Plan.
By eight o’clock, there was still no sign of Dalton Davis at the Four Corners diner, and the Bings were nearly frantic.
Mr. Bing was pacing in the parking lot, talking on his cell phone with the switchboard at Davis, Davis, and Yamamoto. When he returned to his wife, his face was gray.
“Dalton Davis is at the opera.”
Mrs. Bing was devastated. “The opera? Then why on earth would the man tell us to —” Light dawned. “There was never any meeting, was there?”
Her husband shook his head grimly. “We’ve been hoodwinked.”
“But by who?” she demanded.
When the answer came to them, they both blurted it out in near unison. “Griffin!”
Mr. Bing tossed some bills on the table and joined his wife in a mad dash for the van.
The pack rat cowered in the trap, hugging the ball of foil to his belly, peering furtively out at the six team members who now surrounded him.
So this was the guilty party, the lowdown punk who had stolen Art Blankenship’s Super Bowl ring and framed Griffin in the process. Not Mr. Clancy or Dr. Evil or Celia White or Tony. Not even Vader, Griffin’s worst enemy. This tiny, frightened rodent.
Savannah rubbed at moist eyes. “He’s just so small and scared and helpless. We must seem like giants to him. Look — he’s protecting the ball of foil. We outweigh him by a factor of a thousand, yet he’s standing up for what’s his. How honorable is that?”
“You can’t have honor if you go to the bathroom in the same place where you sleep,” Pitch put in. “No offense, Ferret Face,” she added to the head poking out o
f Ben’s collar.
“Assuming he’s the thief, this little monster almost got me thrown in juvie,” Griffin reminded them darkly. “It might still happen if we can’t pull this off.”
“You can’t blame an animal for following its natural instinct,” Savannah insisted.
“You can if it ruins your best friend’s life!” Ben snapped back.
“That’s why it’s called nuisance wildlife,” Shank explained patiently. “If these critters were a party to hang out with, they’d call it something else.”
“We’re wasting time,” Griffin reminded them. “Let’s start Phase Two.”
Shank popped the cage door and reached inside, but the frightened pack rat slipped away from his meaty hand. Several more attempts yielded the same result.
Savannah elbowed him out of the way. “He’s petrified.” From her pocket, she removed a restaurant-sized peanut butter packet, smeared a small streak across her palm, and held it just inside the trap. “All right, cutie-pie. Here’s a treat for you.”
The anxious rodent hesitated, clinging to the ball of foil as if trying to hide behind it.
“It’s okay,” she crooned.
When Savannah resorted to this tone, she was like Dr. Dolittle. No animal could resist. Sure enough, the pack rat abandoned his prize and went for the peanut butter, whiskers twitching.
She drew the little creature up and out, petting him gently as he lapped at the snack. Then, with her free hand, she drew a tiny leather harness from her backpack and slipped it over the head and front paws.
“I’m not even going to ask why you own a thing like that,” Pitch commented.
“I sized it down from a Chihuahua leash so I could exercise my hamsters,” Savannah explained.
“Couldn’t you just put them on one of those wheels?” Ben asked curiously.
“Running on a wheel is pointless,” Savannah replied with contempt, “and they know it. It depresses them.”
Shank took the fishing rod from Ben, tied the end of the line onto the harness, and began to unspool the reel.
Savannah set the pack rat down. “Okay, cutie-pie. Lead us home.”