“We’ll do better,” Ben assured her. And he intended to keep that promise — starting the day after the Global Kennel Society dog show.
If I live that long, he thought to himself.
To Luthor, the Slovaks’ attic was a wonderful place. There was so much to investigate — endless boxes, golf clubs, camping equipment, a baby carriage, a rack of winter coats, antiquated vacuum cleaners, and scores of random objects just begging to be nuzzled and snuffled. Ben laid out an ancient sleeping bag for the Doberman’s bed, but Luthor preferred to tunnel into a large rolled-up remnant of shag carpet.
Mrs. Slovak worked part-time as a real estate agent, so Griffin and Ben had plenty of opportunities to sneak Luthor in and out for exercise and to do his business. The boys had feared that, with Dmitri absent, Luthor’s training would fade, and the old guard dog would return. But there was no sign of that. The big Doberman was acting like he really was a Best in Show winner. Even with Griffin as handler, he was stacking, gaiting, and responding to commands like a pro.
“That Dmitri must be some trainer” was Griffin’s opinion. “He might even be almost as good as he thinks he is.”
“It’s like Luthor’s a totally different animal,” Ben agreed. “I hope Savannah still likes him. He’s not really her ‘sweetie’ anymore.”
“Are you kidding?” Griffin scoffed. “He used to be a wild beast! Today he’s a champion! He’s a million times better.”
“I didn’t say he isn’t better,” Ben argued. “I just said he isn’t Luthor.”
Griffin wasn’t buying it. “Just remember what would have happened if we hadn’t sprung him from the pound. This new Luthor is a miracle — and we owe it all to Operation Doggie Rehab. And Dmitri.”
The big Russian was out of the hospital now, prowling around 2½ Packard Lane, his crutches thumping. The boys had his strict orders: Under no circumstances were they to bring the dog to visit him. His apartment was no longer safe. Their one job was to keep Luthor where he could not be found.
There was no question that their mysterious enemy was still looking to put the dog out of competition. On Thursday, another threatening note arrived at the Bing home.
LuThoR wAs lUcKy — tHis tIMe
wiTHdRaW fRom gLoBaL
nExT tiME i woN’t MiSs
“Maybe now we should go to the police,” Ben said reluctantly. “This proves that the author of the messages is the person who tried to attack Luthor and sprayed Dmitri by mistake.”
“We will,” Griffin promised. “After Global, when Operation Doggie Rehab is complete.”
“It isn’t just creepy messages with cutout letters anymore,” Ben argued. “What happened to Dmitri was assault. This person is a criminal. We could end up dead — or at least bald!”
Griffin nodded slowly. “I see what you mean. This is getting too big for just two guys. I think we’re going to have to expand the plan.”
23
Most of the campers were asleep when the rickety yellow school bus exited the Long Island Expressway and headed north toward Cedarville. In the last row of seats, a heated argument was underway, conducted in whispers to avoid disturbing the other passengers.
“You were almost normal for an entire summer,” accused Antonia Benson, whose nickname was Pitch. “And then you had to go and blow it on the very last night in the camp play.”
“You can’t expect me to do Charlotte’s Web unless my character is believable,” Logan said sulkily.
“You were playing a talking pig!” Pitch hissed. “How believable could it be?”
Logan was stubborn. “Wilbur wouldn’t ask for special treatment just because he has connections with an influential spider. If the other pigs are going to be pork chops, he’d man up — I mean, pig up. He wouldn’t be afraid to look death in the face. Sure, it’s dark, but that’s drama!”
Pitch was disgusted. “You didn’t have to stab yourself on stage. All that blood —”
“It was ketchup.”
“It was gross,” Pitch amended.
The bus pulled over to the curb along Cedarville’s main drag. “Last stop, you guys,” announced the driver. “Everybody off.”
The drowsy passengers began to rouse themselves.
Pitch swung a backpack over her shoulder and shuffled to the front. “It’ll be good to see my folks. We’re going rock climbing this weekend. Camp’s fun, but it’s too flat.” The Bensons were avid mountaineers.
Logan was still on the previous conversation. “You can’t just play a pig by crawling on all fours and saying ‘oink.’ You have to be the pig. When my drama club did Animal Farm, I contracted swine flu on purpose.”
The door hissed open. At the front of the cluster of parents stood Griffin Bing.
Pitch didn’t miss a beat. “Mom, you look different. Younger, somehow.”
“We e-mailed your families that the bus was running late,” Griffin explained. “That’ll give us time to get you up to speed.”
Logan was mystified. “Up to speed on what?”
Griffin smiled at them. “Welcome to Operation Watchdog.”
* * *
PLAN OBJECTIVE: To keep Luthor SAFE at the Global Kennel Society show
THE TEAM:
GRIFFIN BING: Dog handler and Operation Manager.
ASSIGNMENT: Put Luthor through his paces while coordinating team members via walkie-talkie.
BEN SLOVAK: Assistant handler and Luthor’s shadow.
ASSIGNMENT: Stick to Luthor like glue.
PITCH BENSON: Climber. ASSIGNMENT: Aerial surveillance from rafters of Manhattan Coliseum.
LOGAN KELLERMAN: Actor. ASSIGNMENT: Keep an eye on prime suspects by impersonating a dog owner.
LEX LUTHOR SAVANNAH SPRITZ-O-MATIC: Dog.
ASSIGNMENT: Crush the competition and win Best in Show.
DISABLED LIST:
DMITRI TREBEZHOV: Inactive. Recovering from ACL surgery.
PRIME SUSPECTS:
NIGEL DIAMOND — Dmitri’s nemesis
MR. MUSTACHE — Owner of Schroeder, rival Doberman
MRS. DEVLIN — Owner of Xerxes, Luthor’s top competition
EMMA HIGHTOWER —
* * *
“That’s not supposed to be there!” Griffin scratched out the last line, turning furious eyes on Ben. “I told you — Emma’s not a suspect. She’d never hurt a dog!”
The first team meeting of Operation Watchdog was taking place in the Slovaks’ backyard. Since Ben’s parents were both at work, Luthor was with them, enjoying the sunny day after his long confinement in the attic.
“I forgot to tell you guys,” Ben said to Pitch and Logan. “Griffin’s in love now. And guess what — Luthor’s in love with Griffin’s girlfriend’s poodle.”
“She’s not my girlfriend!” Griffin snapped. “She hates me now that Luthor beat Jasmine at Mid-Atlantic.”
Pitch couldn’t take her eyes off the Doberman. “I can’t believe how different he is. I used to be afraid to turn my back on him! Now he’s totally calm. This Dmitri guy must be really something.”
“He’s one of a kind,” Ben agreed.
“I’m anxious to sink my teeth into a new role,” said Logan. “Owner of a champion show dog. What’s my motivation?”
“Just stay away from the ketchup,” Pitch put in sourly.
“What kind of dog would my character own?” Logan persisted. “Big? Small? Maybe a rare breed — wouldn’t that be something?”
“You’re not going to have a dog with you,” Ben explained patiently. “Posing as an owner is just your excuse for nosing around the Coliseum.”
“It makes no dramatic sense,” the young actor warned him.
“It doesn’t have to make dramatic sense,” Griffin insisted. “It has to make sense for the plan.”
“What do you expect to do?” Pitch challenged. “Rent a dog?”
Logan folded his arms in front of him. “I can’t work under these conditions.”
With a sigh, Griffin reached up inside
Ben’s T-shirt from the waist, drew out Ferret Face, and handed the writhing bundle of fur to Logan. “Now you’ve got a dog. It’s a rare breed. Very rare.”
“Wait a minute,” Ben protested. “I need Ferret Face for my narcolepsy! What if I fall asleep in the middle of the show?”
“You’ll have to tough it out,” Griffin decided. “It’s going to be crazy at the Coliseum — thousands of people, thousands of dogs. The noise alone will keep you awake.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Ben insisted. “Narcolepsy can get you any time, any place. And it’s worse at times of stress.”
“There’s no reason to be stressed,” Griffin soothed.
His friend turned an unhealthy shade of purple. “Are you out of your mind? Someone’s out to attack Luthor and maybe us, too! We’ve lost our handler because he was shot with hair remover! My dad is complaining about squirrels in the attic! One of these days he’s going to go up there and find a hundred-and-fifty-pound squirrel! If there was ever a time to be stressed, it’s right now!”
Griffin put an arm around him. “We just have to focus. The only thing that matters is winning. The plan takes care of everything else. I just wish we had a way of catching the low-down skunk who ambushed Dmitri and Luthor.”
They heard the click of the front gate, followed by a soft power hum. Around a hedge came a three-foot-high silver robot on caterpillar treads. Its rounded dome rotated slowly, and a light misting of water sprayed from a system of nozzles.
The group stared in amazement. Even Luthor broke his perfect stack to gawk. Ferret Face wriggled out of Logan’s grasp and sought the shelter of Ben’s shirt.
Melissa followed the robot, smiling with shy pride. “What do you think?”
Griffin almost exploded. “The Spritz-o-matic! You fixed it!”
“That’s what you asked me to do.”
“I asked you to put it back together!” Griffin sputtered. “You’ve got it working! It never worked before!”
“Oh,” she said airily, “that was just because of a little glitch in the electronics. It took a while to figure out, but it’s fine now. It even sprays, see? I filled the tank with water as a test, but it’ll squirt anything.”
Those three words — it’ll squirt anything — brought the plan to perfect completion in Griffin’s mind.
“It’s okay, right?” Melissa added timidly. “You’ve got a weird look on your face.”
“I think,” said The Man With The Plan, “that I’ve figured out how we’re going to catch the person who’s trying to hurt Luthor.”
24
In a small hotel room in Budapest, Mr. Bing shut the lid of his laptop computer. “Well, it’s official. The Bulgarians have just placed an order for thirty Spritz-o-matics.”
His wife switched off the TV, which was showing a rerun of Seinfeld dubbed in Hungarian. “Congratulations, dear.”
“Thanks — I think,” he said listlessly. “I’d be happier if it was for SmartPicks, or Rollo-Bushels, or even the vole traps. At least they work. What am I doing running around Europe when I should be in the garage, getting the bugs out of my prototype?”
“We’ve been over this a hundred times,” Mrs. Bing soothed. “In order to be an inventor, you have to accept that selling is a part of it. The fact that it’s a living is what makes it possible for you to continue to be creative.”
“I want to go home,” he said suddenly. “We only have one more meeting, and Luxembourg isn’t a very big market. I’m calling the airline.” He picked up his cell phone.
His wife sighed. “You’re probably right. Griffin will be thrilled to see us come back early. He and Ben have no plans except a few swimming lessons. They’re probably bored out of their minds. What could be worse than a whole summer with absolutely nothing to do?”
The annual Global Kennel Society competition was the Super Bowl of dog shows. Nearly three thousand animals from all fifty states, nine of ten Canadian provinces, and forty-seven countries around the world gathered in New York City to go snout-to-snout for the coveted top prize — Best in Show at the show of shows.
Every pet-friendly hotel room for fifty miles was full. Ultra-Hold Waterless Coat Spray was selling for sixty dollars per can on Third Avenue, higher inside the venue.
Traffic cops filled the streets around the sold-out Manhattan Coliseum, stopping cars for the parade of primped and coiffed canines and their hopeful owners and handlers. Taxis and limos waited as setters and retrievers marched across the road, tails in the air. The assortment of dogs was dizzying — whippets and Akitas, Weimaraners and borzois, bullmastiffs and bichon frises, Lhasa apsos and wirehaired pointing griffons. Their owners were an even more diverse group — from amateur mom-and-pop teams who had scrimped and saved for the trip to New York, to billionaires arriving in private helicopters and chauffeured Bentleys. Slick professional handlers sized up the competition with narrowed expert eyes. There could be no question that this was the big one. Even the smoggy city air felt electric — charged particles dancing in anticipation.
Floodlights made the Coliseum’s atrium as bright as any Hollywood soundstage. Video cameras and microphones pointed and waved in all directions as reporters interviewed owners, handlers, judges, Global officials, vendors, and security guards. A few even tried to coax a woofed comment from the dogs themselves.
As soon as Griffin led Luthor through the entranceway, a cry went up.
“There they are!”
The stampede toward them seemed almost liquid — eddies and currents in a swirling sea of people. In a heartbeat, Griffin was staring at a dozen lenses. Pencils poised over notepads as the questions came at rapid-fire pace.
“Did the Doberman attack Electra to clear his own path to Global?”
“Is it true that the dog broke Dmitri Trebezhov’s legs?”
“Do you know that Lady Gaga friended Luthor on Facebook?”
“What’s your explanation for Luthor’s extraordinary size?”
“Well — uh —” Griffin felt his head spinning. Which question did you try to answer when they were all coming at the same time? To his dismay, the crush of reporters had stopped his progress and was pushing him up against a mirrored wall. He didn’t mind so much for himself, but Luthor was getting edgy. And that would be bad news all around.
The crutch came out of nowhere. It knocked the microphone clean out of one reporter’s hand and jostled a video camera, brushing back the onslaught of press. Into the open space thumped the towering figure of Dmitri Trebezhov. He looked even more bizarre than usual in his orange DayGlo. Although he had trimmed his hair and beard, it was impossible to hide the damage done by the Nair attack.
“No comment!” he announced, and fixed the press with such a glare that they stepped aside to let Luthor and Griffin through.
Finally, one man worked up the courage to ask, “Dmitri — how did you get injured?”
“Dmitri is not injured,” came the growled reply. “My new hobby is limping.”
“How can Luthor win without you?” asked the woman from the Canine Chronicle.
“Because he is the best dog by many levels of magnitude.”
With Dmitri leading, Griffin and Luthor made their way toward the benching area.
“Thanks,” Griffin told the hobbled handler. He studied his black sneakers. “Ben and I are really sorry you got hurt. We were just trying to help Luthor. In a million years we never thought anything bad would happen to you.”
“Dmitri will forgive you,” the big Russian offered generously, “if you can bring my brother to his destiny.”
Griffin gulped. There was a moment in every plan when somebody had to come up big. Now it would be his turn. Luthor was good enough — he had proven that in New Jersey. But there his leash had rested in the hand of the greatest trainer in history.
When Lex Luthor Savannah Spritz-o-matic got in front of the judges today, the hand on that leash would belong to The Man With The Plan.
The instant her fingers touched th
e steel utility ladder, Pitch Benson knew she was in her element.
Climbing — turning the world vertical. There was nothing quite like it.
It had been simple enough to sneak into the main arena, which was deserted except for a few technicians setting up the TV cameras and control booth. With the huge arc lights off, she had crept through the shadows unnoticed. Now, on the ladder, she was doing her best to look like she belonged. After all, who would scale a hundred-thirty-foot ladder without a very good reason?
Pitch had a reason, but it wasn’t anything Coliseum security would have approved of. How many times had she done crazy things like this for Griffin and his stupid plans? Operation Watchdog! What next? But if Luthor’s life and the Drysdale family’s future really were at stake, then she was all for it.
And anyway, it’s good to be climbing again.
At the top, she swung a leg over the rail and effortlessly hoisted herself onto the platform. The fact that she was twelve stories above the hard floor worried her not at all. Pitch had been in similar positions on mountains, cliffs, and crags all across the continent.
She plugged the earpiece attachment into the walkie-talkie in her jacket pocket. “Griffin, do you read me?”
“Loud and clear,” came the reply. “Are you in position?”
“Yes and no,” Pitch informed him. “I’m about eight feet below the Coliseum ceiling. But I’m up too high for a good look at what’s going on in the ring.”
“Any chance of getting a little lower?” he asked.
“Not unless I can levitate.”
“There must be someplace,” Griffin insisted. “Maybe another spot in the arena?”
Pitch looked around. Her platform was actually a long maintenance catwalk to the very center of the Coliseum. There another ladder led down to the enormous high-tech scoreboard, which was suspended about forty feet below the roof.
“Jackpot,” she said.
As security chief of the Manhattan Coliseum, Marcus Hamlin thought he’d seen it all, from the escaped convict posing as a trapeze artist at the Big Apple Circus to the rock band that smuggled a 750-pound black bear onstage.