“I’ll do Homer’s chores,” Squeak offered.
“I’ll make it up to you when I get back,” Homer told his sister. “I’ll do your chores for a whole extra week.”
Gwendolyn chewed on her lower lip, her eyes narrowed in thought. “You really want to go?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me where you hid my present.”
“Gwendolyn Maybel Pudding,” Mrs. Pudding said. “You will wait until your birthday to open your presents, and that is final.”
“Fine!” Gwendolyn pointed at Homer. “But he’s doing my chores for an entire month.”
“Agreed,” Homer said. He held back a sigh of relief. He’d expected to do his sister’s chores for an entire year.
“I’ll help you pack,” Mrs. Pudding said.
If Homer had packed on his own, he would have reached into one of his drawers, grabbed some random clothes, then stuffed them into a backpack as fast as he could. But Mrs. Pudding didn’t want her son going anywhere without clean underwear and socks. “Wait,” she said as he grabbed the backpack. “You almost forgot your toothbrush.” She slid it into one of the pockets. “You’ll get cavities if you don’t brush.”
Homer didn’t care if moss grew on his teeth. He just wanted to jump into that limo with Ajitabh and get off the farm.
“I had dreams of becoming a cartographer,” Mr. Pudding was telling Ajitabh when Homer hurried back into the kitchen. “Homer gets his love of maps from me.”
“Let’s go,” Homer said, grabbing Dog’s blue leash.
After hugging everyone good-bye, except for Gwendolyn, who’d disappeared, Homer flew down the front porch steps. With a grunt and a heave, he pushed Dog into the limousine. Then he climbed in and settled on the soft leather seat. Ajitabh climbed in next to him. “Drive on,” Ajitabh said. The driver’s outline was blurry through the dark glass panel that separated the front and back seats. The engine started.
“Did you bring your coin?” Ajitabh asked.
Homer reached under his shirt, where a coin hung from a chain. It was his official membership coin with the letters L.O.S.T. engraved on one side and a treasure chest engraved on the other side. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”
The goats watched as the limousine headed down the Pudding driveway and onto Grinning Goat Road. Homer looked back at the house. Mrs. Pudding and Squeak waved from the front porch. Mr. Pudding headed toward the barn. But why was Gwendolyn standing in Homer’s bedroom, staring out the window? She didn’t wave or smile. Was it because he got to go on a little vacation and she didn’t? He’d be sure to bring her back a nice birthday present.
“Hey, Ajitabh,” Homer said as Dog settled at his feet. “Why do I need my membership coin if we’re going to the Map of the Month Club?”
“We aren’t going to the Map of the Month Club, old chap. The invitation is fake. I lied to your parents.”
“You lied?” An eerie tickle crept up Homer’s spine. “Then where are we going?”
Ajitabh frowned. “Homer, I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news.”
The prisoner sat behind a security window made of extra-thick glass. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and her short black hair was slicked back behind her ears. The blue stripes of her prison pajamas matched her serious eyes. When she spoke, her voice slithered through a speaker.
“The map is hidden in a book called Rare Reptiles I Caught and Stuffed,” she said.
The visitor rustled nervously in the chair on the other side of the window. The room’s cold air had awakened goose pimples on the visitor’s arms. “The map?”
“Yes, the map,” the prisoner said. “The only map anyone cares about. Rumpold Smeller’s map, of course. Are you stupid or something?”
“You’re calling me stupid?” The visitor frowned. “I’m not the one in jail.”
A frustrated growl vibrated through the speaker as the prisoner’s face turned red. “I wouldn’t be in here if that overfed Pudding kid and his mangy dog hadn’t interfered with my plans.”
“You wouldn’t be in here, Madame, if you hadn’t stolen all the gemstones from the Museum of Natural History.”
“Well, you do have a point.” The prisoner, whose full name was Madame la Directeur, patted a rebellious lock of hair back into place.
“Some people think you should be convicted of murder,” the visitor said. “Some people think you turned your turtle into a man-eating monster on purpose.”
“Tortoise,” Madame corrected. “Edith is a tortoise, not a turtle.” Her tone turned sad, as if she missed the carnivorous beast.
“Whatever. The fact is, that monster ate Homer’s uncle, and some people think you planned it.”
“Mean-spirited people can say what they like. There’s no proof.”
The visitor’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s stop wasting time. Why did you call me here?”
Madame looked over her shoulder. A guard sat, reading a magazine, in a chair in the far corner of the room. Two other prisoners had finished their conversations and were heading back to their cells. Madame leaned closer to the microphone, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I thought the book was gone. But I’ve had a lot of time in solitary confinement to think about it. Edith did not digest the book.” The visitor leaned closer to the speaker, trying to catch every secret word. “Edith swallowed the book that contains Rumpold’s map. I saw her swallow it, and I thought the map was gone forever. But I’d forgotten that Edith can’t digest paper. She can digest radioactive nuclear waste and people, but paper always disagrees with her. It comes back up. So that means she ate the book, but she didn’t digest it.”
“Two minutes left,” the guard announced.
“So where is it?” the visitor asked. “Hurry. There’s not much time.”
Madame scowled. “The fat kid has it.”
“How do you know he has it?”
“Intuition. I can feel it in my bones.” She clenched her trembling fingers into fists. “He’s a Pudding. The map always finds its way back to a Pudding.”
“Why are you telling me this?” the visitor asked. “What good does it do you? You’re stuck in here. Even if you are correct and Homer has the map, you can’t get it. You can’t search for treasure from a jail cell.”
“I’m telling you this because I don’t want that meddling kid to find Rumpold’s treasure.”
“You’d rather I found it?”
Madame la Directeur pressed her palms against the window. She breathed rapidly, anger seeping from every inch of her being. “Of course I don’t want you to find it,” she snarled. “I’m the one who deserves that treasure. But those Puddings are the bane of my existence. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep another Pudding from outmaneuvering me, even if it means hiring you.”
The guard cleared his throat. “Visiting hours are over.”
Madame removed her hands from the glass and stood. She took a long breath, then smoothed out her crumpled prison pajamas. Before turning to leave, she said one last thing to the visitor. “Do not double-cross me again.”
The visitor shivered, for the look on Madame’s face was as cold as the air-conditioned room.
What kind of bad news?” Homer asked as the limousine turned down Peashoot Lane and crossed the bridge over Milky Creek.
“Bloomin’ bad news,” Ajitabh said.
Homer gripped his membership coin. “Are they going to kick me out of L.O.S.T.?” he asked. “Did they decide I’m too young?”
“No.”
What else could it be? Homer remembered the morning when he’d learned his uncle Drake had died. His chest tightened at the possibility that someone else he loved was gone. “Has someone died?” Ajitabh nodded. “Not Zelda,” Homer whispered. He reached down until he felt Dog’s warm back. “Please not Zelda.”
“Zelda is fine.” Ajitabh folded his hands on his lap and stared out the window as the limo passed through the little village of Milkydale. A group of kids sat on the mercantile porch, eating ice cream bars. Carpenters pounded
nails into the framework of the new Milkydale library. Firefighters washed one of the Milkydale Volunteer Fire Brigade trucks. “Lord Mockingbird has died.”
“Oh.” Homer stopped petting Dog and sank into the depths of the leather seat. It was sad news, definitely, but not totally unexpected. The Honorable Lord Mockingbird XVIII, the president of L.O.S.T., must have been a hundred years old, at least. “He told me he was very sick.”
“Quite right. There’s no reason to suspect foul play. It was his time.”
Homer looked around the limo. The silhouette of a small bird was painted on each window. The letters L. M. XVIII were painted in gold on the ceiling. “Is this his car?” Homer asked.
“Yes.” Ajitabh stroked one side of his mustache. “The thing is, His Lordship’s death leaves us in a bit of a pickle.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lord Mockingbird’s been a steady presence in our organization. He’s upheld the traditions of L.O.S.T. But his death forces us to elect a new president. If the wrong person is elected, I daresay the very fabric of L.O.S.T. could be torn.”
Homer cringed. He knew exactly what Ajitabh meant. The purpose of L.O.S.T. was to share the treasures of the world with the public, rather than using them for private gain. But there were some in the group who, even though they’d taken an oath to follow this rule, yearned to change it so they could become rich.
“There are dark personalities in our organization,” Ajitabh said. “Lord Mockingbird kept them in their places, but I worry they will see this as an opportunity to rise and try to sway the rest. Greed is a condition of being human—we all can suffer from it.”
Homer swallowed. Sometimes he dreamed of bringing jewels home to his mother. Was that greed?
“L.O.S.T., as we know it, could cease to exist,” Ajitabh said.
“Cease to exist?” Homer nearly teared up. Just when he’d become a member? He hadn’t even had the chance to go on a L.O.S.T.-sponsored treasure quest. How could he find Rumpold’s treasure on his own? He needed L.O.S.T.—museums and universities everywhere needed L.O.S.T.
But then he smiled as a brilliant idea popped into his head. He scooted closer to Ajitabh. “You should be the next president. And then everything will stay the same. You’d be a great president. Everyone would vote for you.”
For the first time since their morning reunion, Ajitabh smiled. “By Jove, that’s kind of you, Homer, but I’ve no desire to get caught up in the paperwork and all that administrative rubbish. I’m not an office sort of fellow. Besides, I’m busy inventing a robotic gold detector.”
“Then who will it be?” Homer asked.
“There’s no bloomin’ way to tell. The funeral is tonight. Most of the membership will attend. There will be much to discuss.”
“Is that where we’re going? To His Lordship’s funeral?”
Ajitabh nodded. Then he placed his hand on Homer’s shoulder and squeezed. “I know you want L.O.S.T. to assist you in your quest for Rumpold’s treasure, but that will not happen if the wrong person is elected.”
A knot formed in Homer’s stomach. He’d promised his uncle that he’d continue the search for Rumpold’s treasure. He owned the map. It was his inheritance—his destiny—to find that treasure. No one would take that away from him. “Then we’ll have to make sure the right person is elected,” he said.
Ajitabh stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. “It’s a long trek to The City, Homer. I suggest you take a nap. And your hound, too. We’ve got a devil of a night ahead of us.”
Dog was already snoring.
PART TWO
THE
MOCKINGBIRD
HOTEL
The limousine drove down a wide boulevard, skyscrapers looming on either side. As twilight descended, lampposts flickered, then glowed yellow.
They’d arrived in The City, a place as different from Milkydale as cigar ashes are from goat milk. There were no rolling hills dappled with daisies and clover. The only dappling came from the dark shadows that lurked between buildings. There were no quaint farmhouses. People lived in tall apartment buildings. There were no brooks that bubbled beneath covered bridges. If any bubbling was heard, it came from the sewer grates that sat in the middle of the busy intersections. To Homer, The City was a concrete labyrinth, which is a fancy word for maze. Each street led to another, each crowded with cars, taxis, and buses. Pedestrians, with important places to go, moved in a constant stream along the sidewalks. Even with the day near its end, the hustle and bustle continued.
Dog stood on Homer’s lap, his nose pressed against the limousine window. Does he remember this place? Homer wondered. A few months back, they’d come to The City looking for answers. Did Dog remember meeting the evil Madame la Directeur? Did he remember the nearly deadly ride in the Snootys’ elevator or how he almost got eaten by the same tortoise that had eaten Homer’s uncle?
But as Dog looked out the window, he didn’t tremble or whine. Rather, he wagged his tail. Maybe he was remembering the good stuff that had happened in The City. A bowl of tomato soup served by a girl with pink hair. A tour of The City Public Library. And best of all, the moment when Edith the tortoise upchucked the book that contained Rumpold Smeller’s map.
The limousine pulled up to the front of a stone building. Four flags, each with a white background and the black silhouette of a bird, hung above the building’s entry. A bellhop dressed in a red uniform with a red pillbox hat and white gloves opened the limo door. A black band wound around his forearm. “Welcome to the Mockingbird Hotel,” he said as Ajitabh and Homer got out.
Homer set his backpack on the curb, then reached back in. After he tugged the leash a few times, Dog plopped onto the sidewalk. As Dog peered up at the building, his tail began to wag. “Lord Mockingbird owned this hotel?” Homer asked.
“It’s been in his family for generations,” Ajitabh said.
Lord Mockingbird had been one of Dog’s previous owners. Dog must have lived here, Homer realized.
As the limo drove away, the bellhop took Homer’s backpack and carried it through a revolving glass door and into the hotel.
“We’d best hurry,” Ajitabh said. With precise timing, he stepped into the revolving door and disappeared. Homer grabbed the end of Dog’s leash and started to follow.
“Urrrr.” Dog stiffened his back legs.
“Come on,” Homer urged, tugging on Dog’s leash.
Dog froze. He stared at Homer with sad, red-rimmed eyes, his ears seeming droopier than ever. This was his “I’m-not-budging-and-you-can’t-make-me” stance. Homer was well familiar with this posture. Begging never helped, but he tried anyway. “Come on, please. We need to go inside.”
Dog groaned and lay on his belly, transforming his sausagelike body into something like a bag of cement. So Homer tried a technique that had always worked for his mother. When the Pudding kids acted up in public—arguing in the movie theater about who got to hold the popcorn bucket or riding the cart down the grocery-store aisles—Mrs. Pudding would simply say, “You’re embarrassing me,” and the kids would feel bad and stop acting like primates.
So Homer crouched next to Dog and whispered, “You’re embarrassing me.”
Dog turned his face away.
“Basset hounds don’t like revolving doors,” the bellhop said as he stepped back outside. “I know that because a basset used to live here. He always had to be carried through the door.”
“Homer,” Ajitabh called, “get a move on, old chap. They’re waiting.”
“Why do you have to be so stubborn?” Homer slid his hands under Dog’s belly. Lifting a full-grown basset hound is best left to a muscle-builder or a giant. It’s a tricky maneuver because if you grab the back end, the front end droops. And if you grab the front end, the back end droops. With a groan and a grunt, Homer managed to get Dog’s rump about a foot off the ground. “You need to go on a diet,” he grumbled.
Taking a deep breath, he heaved Dog higher and stumbled toward the door. A few step
s forward, a step back, then forward again. Dog’s ears swayed with Homer’s uneven steps. Homer missed the door’s first opening, then missed the second and third openings. He managed to dart into the fourth opening. Once inside, he hurried to match the door’s rotation but missed the exit into the hotel. Dog moaned as they went around again. And again. “What are you complaining about? You don’t have to carry me.” Just when his arms felt like they might fall off, Homer lunged out of the revolving door and into the hotel lobby.
After they landed in a heap on the floor, Dog wiggled from Homer’s arms and waddled over to a potted plant, where he raised his leg for a little piddle. Fortunately, the lobby was empty, so no one noticed. Homer got to his feet, wiped sweat from his brow, then looked around. A brass bell sat on the check-in counter. Comfy chairs were tucked into the lobby’s corners. A bank of elevators lined the wall. But where was Ajitabh?
Footsteps approached.
Just as Dog raised his leg for a second piddle, a cleaning lady hurried around the corner. An assortment of stains covered her gray dress and white apron. Athletic socks reached to her knees. In one hand she carried a mop, in the other a bucket of sudsy water. She stopped next to the potted plant and glared at Dog.
“Sorry,” Homer said, stepping away from the little puddle.
The cleaning lady made a tsk-tsk sound. She adjusted the plastic shower cap that covered her gray hair, then stuck the mop into the bucket. She glared at Dog again. Dog scratched at a flea.
“I’m really sorry,” Homer said. “He usually doesn’t do that inside.”
After swirling the mop, she pulled it from the bucket and began to clean up Dog’s mess.
The scent of bleach filled the lobby. Homer wasn’t sure what to do. He’d apologized twice. And Ajitabh was waiting. So he took the end of Dog’s leash and began to walk away.
“Not so fast,” the cleaning lady said sternly.