Spy Cat

  “Looks to me as if this was written with a twig,” Sheriff Alvored said. He got a camera from the patrol car, took some pictures of the writing in the dirt, then carefully put the twig in a plastic evidence bag.

  While the people all crowded around to see the writing in the dirt and speculated about whether or not Benjie had written it, Pete crawled out from under the laurel bush, limped up the porch steps, and went slowly into the house. He had done all that he could to help Benjie. Now it was up to the humans.

  Pete ached all over, his ear still hurt, and he was too tired even to eat. He went straight to his bed, flopped down, and closed his eyes. Being a spy was hard work.

  17

  What can I do to help?” Rocky asked as soon as the sheriff and all the deputies left.

  “Let’s make a flyer about Benjie,” Alex suggested. “We can put copies on light poles and street-sign posts.”

  “Yes, flyers might help,” Mrs. Kendrill said. “Say that he was wearing jeans, his red-and-white-striped polo shirt, and no shoes.” Her voice shook as she described Benjie’s clothes.

  Mr. Kendrill took a large white envelope from the desk. Inside were Benjie’s school pictures. He handed the five-by-seven picture to Alex.

  “Put his picture on the flyer,” he said, “and have color copies made.” He gave Alex some money for the copies.

  “Mom will drive us to town to make copies,” Rocky said. “We can put them on all the telephone poles and at the school and in front of the post office.”

  “You can post flyers at the school and post office tonight,” Mrs. Kendrill said, “but save the rest. I don’t want you boys going all over town after dark.”

  “You can put the rest up first thing tomorrow morning if we don’t have Benjie back by then,” Mr. Kendrill said.

  Alex nodded. What if Benjie wasn’t found tonight?

  “I think we should drive around the area and look for him,” Mrs. Kendrill said.

  Mr. Kendrill agreed. “We don’t know for sure that he is with the burglars. He may have been frightened and decided to hide somewhere, and now he doesn’t realize it’s safe to come home.”

  Alex didn’t see how Benjie could have missed hearing all the sirens in the last hour. If Benjie was hiding in the neighborhood, he would know the sheriff had come and that it was safe to return home.

  Alex didn’t say that, though. He sensed that his parents would feel better if they did something specific, such as driving around looking for Benjie, rather than waiting passively for the phone to ring.

  “Sheriff Alvored’s card with his cell-phone number is next to the kitchen phone,” Mr. Kendrill said. “We’ll have our cell phone on in the car.”

  As Alex watched his parents drive away, he felt Rocky’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Do you have some colored markers?” Rocky asked.

  Alex got the markers, and the boys set to work on the flyer. When it was done, Rocky called his mom. She drove them to the copy center and then to the school and post office.

  “I’m scared for Benjie,” Alex told Rocky as they tacked a flyer to the community bulletin board outside the post office. “I’m afraid the burglars caught him spying on them and got angry.”

  “He’s a smart kid,” Rocky said. “If he’s been kidnapped, maybe he’ll figure out a way to escape.”

  “I wish I could do more to help find him,” Alex said.

  “When we get back to your house, let’s walk around outside and look for more clues.”

  As the car backed out of the parking spot at the post office, the headlights shone on Benjie’s smiling face and the word MISSING.

  Alex felt as if he were watching a horror movie or having a nightmare. What if Benjie was never found?

  Alex’s parents were still gone when the boys got home. Rocky’s mom invited Alex to have dinner at their house, but the boys wanted to wait at Alex’s house, in case there was any news of Benjie.

  The boys got flashlights and walked all around the outside of the house but found no other clues. Then Alex made popcorn. Rocky filled a bowl and sat at the table, but Alex sat on the floor beside Pete’s bed.

  “Pete saw the writing in the dirt,” he said as he petted the cat. “He stole the picture and took it under the bush so we’d go there and find the writing.”

  Pete purred as Alex stroked his side.

  “I wonder what else he knows,” Rocky said.

  “Plenty.”

  Alex looked closely at Pete’s cut ear and the bare spot on his neck. “How did you get so scraped up? Did you fight with another cat?”

  “I fought with the burglars. I tried to save Benjie from getting kidnapped.”

  Lizzy came out from under the couch and rubbed against Alex’s leg. “Mrowr?” she said.

  “Okay, you guys, quit begging,” Alex said. “I’ll feed you.”

  Lizzy scampered after Alex into the kitchen, but Pete stayed where he was. There had never before in Pete’s life been a time when he didn’t rush toward the sound of the can opener, but he didn’t feel like eating now. Not when Benjie was gone.

  “Come on, Pete,” Alex called. “You deserve kitty num-num tonight.”

  Kitty num-num? Pete’s all-time favorite treat? Pete’s nose twitched as the delicious smell of whitefish and tuna drifted toward him. He got to his feet. Perhaps he could eat a small amount, after all.

  As Pete ate, he saw Alex drop the empty num-num can into the wastebasket under the sink. Then Alex picked up the full wastebasket and headed for the kitchen door.

  Pete remembered the rubbish that the burglar had tossed out of the van and Mrs. Sunburg had picked up. Here’s my chance, Pete thought.

  When Alex opened the kitchen door Pete dashed out, but instead of running off as he usually did, he stayed beside Alex.

  Alex lifted the lid of the garbage can. Before he could empty the wastebasket, Pete jumped into the half-full garbage can and picked up the white paper bag in his teeth.

  “Now what?” Alex said. He took the bag from Pete and shook out the contents. “Rocky!” Alex called.

  Rocky rushed outside.

  Pete jumped down.

  “This bag of trash was in our garbage can,” Alex said. “There are candy wrappers from licorice candy, but no one in my family likes licorice.” He picked up an empty cigarette pack. “Nobody smokes, either.”

  He reached for two crumpled pieces of paper that had been in the bag and opened them. “This is our phone number,” he said, handing one of the papers to Rocky. “The other paper has a street address on it. Who put this in our garbage can?”

  “I don’t think burglars would bother to throw their trash in the garbage can,” Rocky said. “Could it have been one of the deputies?”

  The boys thought back to when the sheriff and the deputies had been there. “None of them carried a bag like this,” Alex said.

  “The sheriff said to report anything unusual,” Rocky said. “I think we should call him.”

  “Yes,” Pete said. “Call the sheriff.”

  Alex dialed Sheriff Alvored’s cell-phone number.

  Pete ate his num-num and went back to bed.

  * * *

  Sheriff Alvored and Deputy Flick sat in their patrol car, drinking cups of coffee. The two men had been partners for more than ten years, and they often brainstormed ideas about what a criminal’s next move might be. More than once their hunches had paid off with an arrest.

  Their method was simple: think like a criminal. Try to figure out what the criminal might do next.

  “This is the fourth burglary in three days in this area,” Sheriff Alvored said. “All of them followed the same pattern, so it’s likely the same burglars. What I’m wondering is, how are they getting rid of so much stolen property, so fast? Where are they taking it?”

  “They can’t be selling it as quickly as they steal it,” Deputy Flick agreed. “The flea markets are only open weekends, and there hasn’t been time for the thieves to run ads in The Little Nickel or some
other paper. Maybe they’re taking it to pawnshops.”

  “Maybe. But some of these items are awfully big and distinctive for the pawnshops. Where are they going to get rid of a grandfather clock?”

  “What’s your guess?” Deputy Flick asked.

  “Jim’s Second Hand Store? He buys from anybody that walks in the door, and the place is big enough to handle large quantities.”

  “I checked there this morning on my way to work. Jim has a new sign, ‘I Buy Junk and Sell Antiques,’ but I looked through the whole store, and he didn’t have anything that was reported stolen in the previous burglaries.”

  “Maybe the thieves live around here. Maybe they’re taking everything to their own place.”

  “It’s possible,” Deputy Flick said, “but you’d think a neighbor would notice and get suspicious. Hilltop isn’t a big city; people in rural areas tend to know who their neighbors are and what vehicle they drive.”

  “We’ve had good media coverage. How could a person carry in load after load without someone wondering about it and putting two and two together?”

  “Maybe he unloads at night.”

  The cell phone rang. Sheriff Alvored answered.

  “This is Alex Kendrill. I found a bag of trash in our garbage can that isn’t ours. There were two pieces of paper in it; one has our phone number on it and the other has an address.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “Six thirty-five West Platt.”

  The sheriff repeated the address while his deputy wrote it down.

  “Thanks, Alex,” Sheriff Alvored said. “We’ll check it out.”

  Deputy Flick called headquarters and asked who lived at that address.

  Sheriff Alvored pulled away from the curb. “We aren’t too far from West Platt now,” he said.

  Soon Deputy Harper’s voice came over the radio: “I have the information you wanted on that address. It’s a big storage complex called Overflow Storage.”

  “It makes sense,” the sheriff said as he drove. “The thieves take all the stolen goods to one of those rental units, and leave it for a couple of months until the owners have quit watching the want ads or searching the pawnshops for their stolen items. Then the thieves take the items out of storage and sell them.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “It always bothers me when there’s a child involved,” Sheriff Alvored said. “Makes me think of my own kids.”

  “Me, too. I wonder why they took the boy, if they did, and what they’ll do with him.”

  Sheriff Alvored did not reply. He didn’t want to say what he thought would happen.

  He didn’t need to.

  “We have to find that boy,” Deputy Flick said, “before it’s too late.”

  18

  Benjie kept counting. He was up to three hundred eighteen when he heard tires approaching on the gravel. Was it the van returning, or was it a different car. Someone who could help him? He wished he could see outside the dryer.

  He heard the tires stop next to his hiding place.

  Maybe it wasn’t the bad guys. Maybe it was the people who owned the washer and dryer. Hope leaped high in Benjie’s chest, but he didn’t push the door open. Not yet. He had to be sure who was out there.

  “What did I tell you? Sitting there waiting for us.”

  Benjie’s hope turned to despair as he recognized Vance’s voice.

  He could tell that the men had left the van’s engine running. Their footsteps crunched on the gravel as they walked toward the dryer.

  Did they know he was inside?

  Why else would they be coming?

  He barely breathed as he listened to the men approach.

  The footsteps stopped.

  “Take the washer first,” Vance said. “Lift on the count of three.”

  They don’t know I’m in here, Benjie thought. If they knew, they would open the door and make me get out.

  “One, two, three!”

  Benjie heard a scraping sound against the outside of the dryer. He heard one of the men grunt, the way men do when they’re lifting something heavy.

  “It’s leaking,” Porker said. “Water came out of the hose and got my shoe all wet.”

  “Lift a little higher,” Vance said. “Slide it in.”

  Benjie realized the men were putting the clothes washer in their van. They hadn’t come back for Benjie; they were stealing the appliances.

  He wished he had pulled the dryer door all the way shut. What if it swung open when they picked up the dryer? What if one of the men looked inside and saw him?

  He didn’t dare close the door now. They might see it move or hear the click as it closed. He would have to sit here like an animal in a cage, and wait.

  “Now the dryer,” Vance said.

  What would happen if the men found him? Scary images rattled in Benjie’s brain like coins in a piggy bank.

  A boot kicked the dryer door from the outside. Startled, Benjie’s hands flew to his mouth, stifling a gasp. The door clicked shut.

  “Lift when I count three,” Vance said. “One, two, three.”

  Benjie felt himself rise, as if he were in an elevator.

  “This dryer is heavy,” Porker complained. “Are you sure it’s empty?”

  Don’t look, Benjie thought. Please, please, don’t open the door and look inside.

  “Quit your bellyaching,” Vance said, “and move it.”

  “We should have brought the truck. It’s easier to load.”

  Benjie pushed his hands against the dryer drum in front of him and braced his back on the inner ridges, trying not to bump against the door as the men tilted the dryer and lifted it into their van.

  He heard the van doors close and felt the van move forward. In only a minute or two the van stopped, the door opened, and Benjie heard the door on the storage unit roll up. Even without being able to see, Benjie knew exactly where he was, and what was going to happen next.

  They took the dryer out first.

  Once again Benjie managed not to bump against the door or make any sound while the two men lifted the dryer from the van and carried it inside the storage unit.

  Instead of setting the dryer down gently, Porker let go of his side when it was a foot from the cement floor.

  Crash!

  A sharp pain jolted up the back of Benjie’s neck when the dryer landed. His head snapped back and hit the metal drum.

  “Ooof!” The sound escaped even though he was trying to be quiet.

  “What was that?” Porker said.

  Tears stung Benjie’s eyes as he waited for the door to be flung open.

  “That was the dryer getting dented, you oaf,” Vance said. “You’re supposed to put it down carefully, not drop it.”

  “I couldn’t hold it any longer. I told you I was too tired to do this.”

  “For someone who calls himself a muscle man, you sure are a wimp.”

  Muscle man? Benjie frowned. The men who had moved the furniture for Mary and Mrs. Sunburg were called Muscle Men Movers. Is that who the burglars were?

  A minute later Benjie heard another sharp clunk on the concrete and knew the washer had been unloaded, too.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Vance said.

  “Finally,” Porker said.

  The overhead door rolled down, and Benjie heard the van drive away.

  The men were gone.

  Benjie went limp with relief. He remained hunched over in the dryer for a few minutes, to be sure they didn’t come back. He thought about how close he had come to being discovered.

  He also thought about the possibility that these two men ran a moving company as a way to see what people owned. Then, after they got paid as movers, they went back and stole the expensive things. They would know exactly what was there.

  Of course that didn’t explain all the burglaries. His family had not hired Muscle Men Movers, and it was three months since Rocky’s family had moved. Still, this was important information for the sheriff.


  Benjie put his shoulder against the dryer door and pushed, in case the door would release from the inside. The door popped open.

  Benjie climbed out. His legs felt wobbly, his neck and shoulders ached, and his hands shook. It was dark inside the storage unit, but Benjie knew the men would have unloaded the washer and dryer right inside the door. He felt in front of him, his hands groping until they hit the metal roll-up door.

  He was sure the men would not come back here tonight. It would be safe now for Benjie to leave the storage unit, walk to the street, and find help. He leaned down, his hands feeling along the bottom of the door, searching for a handle.

  He dropped to his knees and crawled the full width of the door, feeling along every inch of the door from the bottom to the first hinge, about three feet up. There was no handle, nothing to grasp to roll the door up.

  The door only opened from the outside. He was locked in, and nobody knew where he was.

  For an instant, panic rose in Benjie. Still kneeling, he beat his fists against the metal door and yelled, “Help! Help!” even though he knew there was no one who could hear him.

  Then he took a deep breath and tried to think what a brave and well-trained spy would do in this situation.

  Stay calm, he told himself. Listen for a vehicle outside or for people talking, and then yell and pound on the door. He sat on the cold concrete floor and rested his back against the dryer.

  He didn’t know where he was or how long it would be before someone found him, but he was alive. It was far better to be locked alone in a storage unit than to be on his way to a mountain cabin with two thugs who intended to leave him there to freeze to death.

  Benjie’s stomach grumbled. He wondered what Mom was fixing for dinner tonight. Spaghetti, maybe? Or tacos? He wondered if Mrs. Sunburg had baked cookies that afternoon. She had asked him what his favorite kind was, and when he had told her snickerdoodles, she had said those were her favorites, too.

  His mouth watered at the thought of warm-from-the-oven snickerdoodles. Why hadn’t he gone straight to Mrs. Sunburg’s house, as he had been told to do, instead of running home when he saw a strange van in his driveway?