Hamstersaurus Rex Gets Crushed Page 8

“Stop it with that stuff,” I said. “You can hang back. Maintain an element of surprise. If you see anybody suspicious, hit ’em where it hurts. Maybe I won’t even need your help.”

  We turned on to Walnutwood Court, where Wilbur lived. On the opposite side of the street was a pile of leaves that had been raked extra high by one of his neighbors. Dylan decided it was a good place to hide for a surprise attack.

  “All right, buddy,” I said to Hammie Rex. “Look alive.” He didn’t.

  I knocked on the door of Number 186 and waited. My pulse was pounding, my adrenaline pumping.

  “Can I help you?” said a man who looked like an owl in a sport coat, presumably Wilbur’s father.

  “Um, yes,” I said. “I’m here to see Wilbur.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t exist,” said Wilbur’s dad, “at least socially. You see, he’s been grounded for—well, basically forever. In fact, I wish there was a stronger word than ‘grounded’ that could more accurately describe my son’s current status. ‘Buried,’ maybe? Anyway, short answer: no, you can’t see him.”

  “It’s actually important,” I said.

  “Uh-huh,” said Mr. Weber. “Well, he’ll be graduating from the Colonel Aldous Buchan Military Academy for Boys in approximately six years. Hopefully it can wait.” Mr. Weber started to close the door.

  “Is he in trouble because of what happened at RaddZone?” I asked.

  “Why, yes, he is,” said Mr. Weber. “My wife and I thought we raised a kind, responsible young man. I’m afraid we were sorely mistaken. Goodbye . . . um, I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Sam Gibbs,” I said. “I’m actually the kid whose go-kart he sabotaged. And I’m here because—because he offered me an apology.”

  Mr. Weber paused. He nodded. “And so you deserve one. Please come inside,” he said. “Wilbur’s room is upstairs.”

  It wasn’t hard to figure out which door was his. It had a large sign that said “MAKE WAY FOR SNAILS!” in block letters.

  If this was a trap, I wasn’t going to get caught flat-footed. It would be me who made the first move, put Wilbur on the defensive. I took a deep breath. Then I kicked open the door.

  “Hamstersaurus Rex Super Prehistoric Mega-Dino Hurricane Attack!” I yelled as I ran in, waving Hamstersaurus Rex around in front of me like a hand grenade. Hammie Rex sniffled.

  My surprise battle cry was enough to startle Wilbur, though, who shrieked and fell off his bed. Inside, the room was dimly lit. The curtains were pulled and the walls were lined with terrariums containing hundreds, if not thousands, of snails. Wilbur popped up, his eyes wide.

  “Sam, if you’re still mad about RaddZone,” said Wilbur, “I honestly don’t remember what happened there!”

  “Well, you said you’d explain everything,” I said, brandishing an unenthusiastic Hammie in his general direction. “So get to it!”

  “That is everything!” said Wilbur. “In fact, I don’t remember anything for the two whole days before it happened. You see, I was out taking Mr. Football for a walk one morning—”

  “Mr. Football?” I said, looking in the terrariums. “Is that the name of the furry little mutant you had in your backpack?”

  “Furry? Heavens, no!” said Wilbur. “This is Mr. Football.” He held up a glistening snail the size of a bagel.

  “Blech,” I said, involuntarily stepping backward. “That thing’s getting slime all over you.”

  “That’s how I know he loves me,” he said. “Even if he’s the only one.” Wilbur blinked back tears and gave Mr. Football a tender kiss on his head. (Actually, I’m not sure if snails have heads. The part where the eyes come out? Anyway, I repeat: blech.)

  “Look, I don’t have time for snail smooches,” I said. “If this is some sort of ambush or trap, why don’t you just do it already?”

  “It’s not a trap,” said Wilbur, who was now full-on sobbing as he cuddled Mr. Football close. “You keep saying that I had a furry animal in my backpack. But you’ve known me for years. Can you honestly imagine me, Wilbur Weber, having a pet that isn’t snails? Look at my room!”

  Definitely full of snails. There were snail posters on the walls. It smelled like snails. (Blech.)

  “It is kind of hard to imagine,” I admitted. I lowered Hamstersaurus Rex.

  Wilbur dried his eyes. “Sam, my mind is all . . . scrambled. Nothing makes sense.”

  “Just tell me how Gordon Renfro fits into all of this,” I said.

  “Gordon who?”

  “Todd Duderotti! Our old science teacher,” I said. “The ponytail guy!”

  “He seemed cool,” said Wilbur with a shrug. “But I haven’t seen him since he stopped coming to school.”

  “He has a hidey-hole full of stolen stuff in the school basement,” I said. “Strange chemicals! Creepy pictures of Hamstersaurus Rex!”

  Wilbur squinted and rubbed his head like he had a headache. “I kind of remember something like that. Maybe?”

  “What about the PaleoGro?”

  “Yeah, wait . . . that rings a bell,” said Wilbur. “He looked into my eyes and told me he needed a bunch of chemicals from the school science lab. PaleoGro was the most important . . .”

  “Who looked into your eyes?” I said. “Who wanted you to get it? Was it a guy in a dumb cowboy hat and a ridiculous beard? Who?”

  Wilbur had gone pale. He blinked and rubbed his temples. “I—I don’t know. I’m sorry, Sam. Every time I try to think too hard about it, I get a headache. But I know you’ll get to the bottom of this, ’cause you’re an ace detective. And then you can prove to my mom and dad that it wasn’t my fault and they don’t need to send me to the Colonel Aldous Buchan Military Academy for Boys.” His eyes welled with tears again. “They have a strict ‘no snails’ policy.” He burst out crying.

  I sighed. “All right, man. I’ll do my best. Sorry I threatened you with a Hamstersaurus Rex Super Prehistoric Mega-Dino Hurricane Attack. I was obviously bluffing.” I held up a despondent Hamstersaurus Rex, who practically oozed through my fingers. “Anyway, if you remember anything else, please contact me.”

  He nodded and planted another wet one on Mr. Football. Blech. Blech. Blech.

  “And thanks for the note,” I said.

  Wilbur looked at me. “Note? What note?”

  CHAPTER 13

  MY JAW DROPPED. I pulled the note out of my pocket and showed Wilbur.

  “Yeah, that’s not my handwriting,” he said as he stroked Mr. Football. “I always dot my i’s with little snails.”

  “Jared Kopernik!” I cried.

  My mind raced. Jared had intentionally lured me to Wilbur’s house with a fake note? Then Jared must be in on it with Gordon Renfro, too—whatever “it” was! If he wanted me here, that meant he didn’t want me somewhere else.

  Without another word I turned and ran for the front door. Wilbur’s words now echoed in my head: He looked into my eyes and told me he needed a bunch of chemicals from the school science lab.

  I had to get back to Horace Hotwater Middle School as soon as possible—before Gordon Renfro could get his hands on any more of the ingredients he needed for whatever evil he was planning!

  As I burst out of the Webers’ front door and out onto their porch, I nearly smacked right into the girl with the purple hair. I skidded to a halt and we stared at each other for a half second. She opened her mouth and reached into her messenger bag—

  THWANG! A disc-golf disc ricocheted off the side of Purple Hair’s head.

  “Nailed her!” cried Dylan, standing in a pile of leaves from across the street.

  Stunned, the purple-haired girl turned and bolted.

  “Wait!” I cried. “Hammie, don’t let her get away!” I tossed the little guy onto the ground. Hammie let out a long sigh and turned to gaze forlornly at a wilting flower in Wilbur’s yard.

  “Are you kidding me?!” I cried.

  By now, Purple Hair was halfway down the block. Man, she was fast! There was no way I was going to catch he
r, and neither was Dylan, stuck on her crutches. Suddenly a shadowy figure leaped across her path.

  “And so the hunter becomes the hunted,” said Beefer Vanderkoff, clad in full ninja garb. “Wombat style!” He struck a bizarre martial arts pose that, for the sake of argument, I’ll say looked a teensy bit like a wombat.

  “Move!” cried Purple Hair without slowing down.

  “’Fraid not, sister,” said Beefer. “You. Shall. Not. P—”

  Without missing a step, the purple-haired girl kicked him in the gut and kept on running. With a soft murmur, Beefer went down like a sack of laundry. Purple Hair disappeared around the corner.

  By the time I got to Beefer a few seconds later, he could almost talk again.

  “Did . . . she . . . pass?” he wheezed from the ground.

  “And how,” I said. “But this doesn’t feel right. I think she’s trying to distract us from the school lab. I need to get back there, ASAP!”

  “All right, I’ll handle Purple Hair,” said Beefer, pushing himself up off the ground. “And this time I won’t go so easy on her . . . which I did intentionally. That’s what happened.” He jogged after her, clutching his gut.

  I grabbed Hamstersaurus Rex, who was still contemplating that tragic wilted flower, and Dylan and I set off in the direction of school as fast as we could.

  The front door to Horace Hotwater Middle School was ajar when we got back.

  “Not good,” I said. “We might be too late.”

  “Sorry, Sam,” said Dylan. “I wish I could go faster on these stupid crutches. Ugh.” Dylan started to throw them before she realized that would be a terrible idea.

  “We might still have a chance to stop Renfro,” I said. “You ready?”

  “Yeah,” said Dylan. She lowered her voice. “But what about him?”

  Hamstersaurus Rex was still sobbing quietly. It was time for me to make a decision. I took the little guy aside. “All right, Hammie ol’ buddy, maybe it’s best if you hang back for this one, okay? For your own safety. Just until you’re in a better place emotionally.”

  I never thought there would come a day when I would leave Hamstersaurus Rex behind on an adventure. But I did. And he didn’t even seem to care; no reverse psychology this time. I left the little guy in an existential funk by the door, and Dylan and I headed inside.

  The school was dark and quiet. The only sound was the faint hum of the air-conditioning and the squeak of our sneakers on freshly mopped linoleum. As quietly as we could, we made for the science lab.

  When we got there, we found the door closed and locked. There weren’t any obvious signs of a break-in. Dylan and I peered through the window. It was dark, but I didn’t see anyone inside.

  “Nobody here,” said Dylan.

  “So where are they?” I said.

  I felt an eerie, now-familiar sensation come over me. It was the same feeling I’d had before, when the bulletin board had ripped itself off the wall and flown at my head.

  “Sam, what’s happening?” said Dylan. She raised her arm. The hairs on it were standing straight up.

  “Something bad,” I said.

  Suddenly, the trophy case nearby began to rattle and shake. A twenty-year-old district championship diving cup smacked against the glass and made a spiderweb crack. Dylan and I started to run. A potted plant whipped across the floor ahead of us and smashed against the wall in an explosion of dirt and crockery.

  “Sam, how did that—”

  BANG! I nearly hit the ground at the volume of the noise.

  BANG! . . . BANG! . . . BANG! We turned. It was the wall of lockers nearby. Their doors were opening and slamming shut of their own accord.

  Dylan’s face had lost all color now. She was trembling, and her voice was barely a whisper. “It’s him,” she said. “It’s the ghost of Horace Hotwater.”

  Dylan turned and fled as fast as she could. I couldn’t blame her. In fact, following seemed like a pretty nifty idea. But I didn’t. Instead a strange sense of resolve came over me. Scared as I might be, I knew where I had to go. Pencils and loose notebook paper and other bits of garbage swirled through the air around me as I walked toward Mr. Copeland’s classroom.

  Of course, Gordon Renfro was waiting there for me. He stood outside the door, still wearing his ridiculous beard and cowboy hat. If I hadn’t been terrified beyond all reason, I would have laughed.

  “Greetings,” said Renfro in that same awful, high-pitched voice. “We have been expecting you. But where is the ‘Hamster Hero of Horace Hotwater’ that everyone finds soooo delightful?”

  “None of your business, Renfro!” I cried. “He doesn’t belong to SmilesCorp. And whatever you’re up to, it’s not going to work.”

  He giggled. “We are not Renfro,” he said. “But since you mention our plans, they do, in fact, require the PaleoGro you stole from us. Give it back. Now.”

  “Don’t have it,” I said. “Why do you even want it anyway?”

  “Oh, you’ll learn soon enough,” said Renfro, still giggling. “But first I will need you to open Cartimandua’s cage.”

  “. . . Cartimandua?” I said, baffled. “Why bring her into this? She’s just a normal civilian hamster. It’s a free country. Go to a pet store and buy your own, Renfro. Leave Hamstersaurus Rex and Cartimandua alone!”

  “I told you,” said Gordon Renfro, “we are not Renfro.” Slowly his cowboy hat began to float off his head all on its own. “Renfro is but a puppet. We are the Mind Mole!”

  The hat continued to float upward until it was a foot above his scalp. But that wasn’t the weirdest thing.

  On top of Renfro’s bald spot, there was a weird-looking mole with an oversized head, wearing a tiny purple cape—the swatch cut out of Dylan’s jersey. The mole’s beady eyes flashed, and instantly I recognized them.

  Those eyes . . . those strange little eyes . . .

  CHAPTER 14

  “THE MIND MOLE!” I screamed in terror.

  The entire sixth-grade class was staring at me, aghast, including Mr. Copeland.

  “Well, that’s an interesting guess, Sam,” said Mr. Copeland, frowning. “But I’m afraid the correct answer is ‘a rectangle.’ Your response does raise some bigger questions about what I’m doing with my life, when I could, for instance, still be giving ocean kayaking lessons on the big island of Hawaii.”

  My mouth was dry. I was disoriented. Why was I in class? Where was Gordon Renfro? Where was the horrible mole with the giant head? Was it all a dream? If it was all a dream, that would be so lame!

  “Perhaps I’ll contemplate my own life choices while Martha yet again addresses the entire class,” said Mr. Copeland. “I’m going to guess it’s about hamsters.”

  Martha nodded gravely.

  “Take it away, Martha,” said Mr. Copeland, and he quietly put his head on his desk.

  Martha stood and faced the class. “Unfortunately,” she said, “I have no updates on the pending investigation into the disappearance of our beloved class pet.”

  Was Hamstersaurus Rex missing again? I turned to face the back of the classroom. Sure enough, the PETCATRAZ Pro™ was empty, its little door swinging open on its hinges. But wait, it wasn’t Hamstersaurus Rex who lived there anymore. It was Cartimandua now, wasn’t it?

  “I know these last four days have been hard, but please, dear classmates, do not give up hope,” said Martha, her stony expression threatening to crack. “That’s not what Cartimandua would want you to do. I remain confident she will be returned safe and sound.” And with that she gave me the evil eye.

  Huh? What did I do? Wait, did she just say four days? How could that be possible? I wondered. It was only seconds earlier that Gordon Renfro had told me to open her cage. That was who took Cartimandua: Gordon Renfro and the Mind Mole!

  The bell for lunch rang, and we all stood to file out of the classroom.

  “Martha!” I said. “I know exactly who—”

  “Back off, Sam!” snapped Martha. “I’m not giving it to you, okay?
I don’t know what you want it for, but I’m sure it’s nothing good.”

  I was stunned. “Give what to me?”

  Martha looked around to make sure no one was else was listening. “The PaleoGro.”

  “Huh? I gave it to you to figure out what it was,” I said. “I don’t want the PaleoGro!”

  “Oh really?” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “Then why have you been sneaking around my house at night trying to steal it back? Don’t act like you weren’t!”

  I was dumbfounded. I had no idea what to say. Had Martha completely lost it? Or had I?

  “I’m really confused right now,” I said.

  “Well, things are crystal clear to me,” said Martha. She squinted as a group of our classmates approached. “I don’t have time for whatever you’re trying to pull, Sam. Now are you ready to do what we discussed?”

  “What did we . . . discuss?”

  “Returning the, ahem, item you already took,” said Martha, gritting her teeth. “This is your last chance, Sam. Or I really tell Principal Truitt.”

  “But I didn’t steal anything!”

  “Liar!” cried Martha as she stalked off toward the cafeteria.

  I had no idea what to make of any of this. Martha and I should have been working together to get Cartimandua back. We were a Hamster Monitor team! Instead she seemed to think I was another villain in the story.

  To make matters more annoying, Coach Weekes happened to catch the look on my face.

  “Why the scowl, Gibbs?” said Weekes. “Success Coach’s third rule: never frown! Always keep a crazy smile plastered on your face, even when you’re completely miserable. If you appear happy, others will—”

  “Great idea, Coach!” I snapped as I continued down the hall.

  His unwanted success-coaching jogged my memory, though: if I looked bummed out, Hammie must be truly heartbroken that Cartimandua was missing. Wait, where was Hamstersaurus Rex? I’d left him by the door of the school, but then . . .

  I turned and ran for Meeting Club HQ. The little closet was empty, save for the stacks of unwanted books. There were thirty-five hardcover copies of Doorknobs Are Cool! but no Hamstersaurus Rex.