The next morning Logan woke up early again, ate his breakfast, packed his gear, and headed to Sandwiches to resume his surveillance. There was a light drizzle falling, though the sun was shining, a typical occurrence in April in Nelsonport.
A block before Logan reached the store, he spotted a flyer on a telephone pole. On it was a color image of the dog he was sure he’d seen abducted by aliens. Above the picture were the words
LOST DOG
.
Across the street, he saw another copy of the poster tacked to another telephone pole. And another down the street. Logan peeked left and right, then reached up, ripped the flyer from the pole, and stuffed it into his bag.
He removed it later at school, and smoothed it out on the table for his fellow operatives of the Intergalactic Canine Rescue Unit.
“That’s the dog,” he said.
“The one that vanished?” Thatcher asked. “The one you saw from the bus?”
Aggy looked up from her book and said, “Hmm. You sure this is the dog, Logan?”
“That’s the dog,” he answered.
“Maybe she was taken after all,” Aggy said, studying the poster carefully. “Her name is Pickles. Looks like some sort of spaniel mix.”
“Pickles?” Thatcher asked. “A dog called Pickles? Who calls a dog ‘Pickles’?”
“Trudy does,” Aggy said, pointing at the woman’s name.
“Let’s call her and tell her an alien took her dog,” Kian said with a straight face.
“Yeah!” Thatcher said.
Aggy looked up at them. “It wasn’t an alien.”
“Yes, it was,” Logan said. “I have a sense about these things.”
“And how many times has that sense of yours been correct?” Aggy asked.
“Nineteen,” Logan said. “I’ve just never apprehended one, that’s all. They’re not easy to catch. You ever caught an alien, Aggy?”
“Nope.”
“I haven’t, either,” Kian deadpanned.
“That’s because they’re not easy to catch,” Logan said.
“Not easy to throw, either, I bet,” Kian said, and threw his pencil at Thatcher. It bounced off his chest.
“Ow!” Thatcher said, and cocked his fist to reciprocate when Nathan appeared at their table.
“How’s the astronomy project going, guys?” he asked.
“Good, Nathan,” Kian said.
“We’re going to put on a skit,” Thatcher said. “I’m going to be a meteorite.”
“Not a black hole?” Kian asked.
Thatcher kicked him under the table, and said, “Kian’s going to be a dwarf star.”
Kian stared daggers at Thatcher. He didn’t like cracks about his height.
“Sounds good,” Nathan said. “What about you, Logan?”
“I’ll be portraying an organism of superior intelligence from a faraway galaxy hurtling through space in a spacecraft made entirely of ice,” Logan said.
“I come along and smash into him and turn his ship into ice cubes,” Thatcher said.
“Not crushed ice?” Kian said.
“Better!” Thatcher said.
“Actually, no,” Logan said. “The alien destroys the meteorite with a cryogenic torpedo.”
“No way,” Thatcher said. “I dodge that.”
“Okay, some good ideas,” Nathan said. “But get them down on paper, too. You should be making costumes and rehearsing by now.”
“Costumes?” Thatcher asked. “We have to make costumes?”
“Produce!” Nathan said, and walked away.
“Who cares about a stupid skit,” Logan said. “We have more important work to do.”
“I’ll help you find the dognapper,” Aggy said.
“Yes!” Thatcher said, pumping his fist. “The ICRU to the rescue!”
“I don’t like the ‘Intergalactic’ part,” Aggy said. “Can’t we just call it the CRU?”
“I created this task force,” Logan said, “and I say it’s the
Intergalactic
Canine Rescue Unit. The I-Crew, if you like.”
“I won’t be involved, then,” Aggy said, opening her book. “And I’m the only one with a cell phone.”
Logan scowled at her. “Okay,” he said. “The CRU.”
“Yeah!” Thatcher said, doing a little hip-swiveling dance in his chair. “The
Crew
!”
After class, the boys of the CRU huddled in the parking lot around Aggy as she switched the call with Trudy to speakerphone.
“My name is Aggy, and I’m calling about your lost dog.”
“Oh, have you seen her?” the woman asked eagerly. “Did you find her?”
“No,” Aggy said, “but my friend might have been nearby when she disappeared.”
“Vanished,” Logan whispered.
Aggy glared at him.
“In front of Sandwiches?” the woman asked.
“Yes.”
“Did your friend see someone take her? You see, her collar and leash were left behind, which was strange….”
“My friend didn’t see anyone. I’m sorry.”
“Tell her about the hairy man,” Logan said, reaching for the phone. “Let me talk to her.”
Aggy pressed it to her chest. “Shut it or I hang up.”
Logan stepped back, scowling.
“My friend did see a man petting Pickles before she disappeared,” Aggy said into the phone. “A man with a bushy beard.”
“That’s funny,” Trudy said. “I met a man with a beard in the store that day.”
“Ask her if he had an accent,” Logan said loud enough for the lady to hear.
“Yes, he did,” Trudy answered. “Who said that? Is that your friend?”
“Yes,” Aggy said with a sigh. “That’s Logan.”
“Hello, ma’am,” Logan said, moving closer to the phone.
“The man with the beard did have an accent,” Trudy said.
“And then he went into the store, ma’am?” Logan asked.
“Will you knock it off with the ‘ma’am’?” Aggy said.
“I like it,” Trudy said. “It’s polite. Respectful. Not too many young people these days are polite and respectful.”
Logan stuck his tongue out at Aggy.
“Before he spoke to me,” Trudy went on, “the man asked another woman if it was her dog tied up outside. I told him Pickles was mine.”
“So he was looking for the dog’s owner?” Logan asked.
“Yes. I don’t know why. But he said Pickles was adorable and asked me her name.”
“Did you tell him?” Logan asked.
“I did,” Trudy said. “Shouldn’t I have?”
Aggy shot Logan a reproachful look for worrying the woman, then spoke into the phone. “Of course you should have.”
“He said, ‘Pickles? Like the cucumber treat?’ Then he laughed,” Trudy said. “I guess he thought it was a funny name. I don’t think so. My grandmother’s name was Pickles.”
“A woman named Pickles?” Kian whispered to Thatcher.
“Be nice,” Thatcher said, then punched him in the stomach. Kian fired a punch back, but missed.
“I guess it’s not so common anymore,” Trudy said. “My grandmother was born in 1891.”
“Whoa,” Thatcher said. “Trudy must be
old
.”
“If we see Pickles, we’ll let you know,” Aggy said into the phone. “I hope you find her.”
“Oh, I do, too,” said Trudy sadly. “She’s only my best friend in the whole world, especially since my husband died.”
“Aww,” Thatcher said. “Poor old lady.”
“Aww,” Kian mocked, then landed a knuckle thump to Thatcher’s sternum that knocked his breath away.
When he could talk again, Thatcher said, “That was cold, dude!” and struck back.
“Be quiet!” Logan commanded.
“How many children are there with you, Aggy?” Trudy asked.
“There are three little boys here with me, Trudy,” Aggy answered, looking at them in disgust.
She and Trudy then traded good-byes, and Aggy closed her phone.
“You guys are apes,” she said.
“Speaking of which, we must find the hairy guy,” Logan said. “We have to find him now, before he takes any more dogs.”
“You have no evidence at all that he took Pickles,” Aggy said. “Or Chloe.”
“He went inside to find out the dog’s name.”
“That makes him a dognapper? Did you even see him come out?”
Logan sighed. “No.”
“So he was still in the store when you got on the bus?” Aggy asked.
“I guess.”
“So how did he steal Pickles?”
Logan just looked at her, waiting.
“Oh, I get it,” Aggy said. “He was an alien. He could do whatever he wanted.”
Logan answered with a knowing tilt of his head.
“It’s a hairy alien?” Thatcher said. “Can aliens be hairy? Are you thinking of Bigfoot?”
“Aliens are not all little green men,” said Logan. “Or tall green men with big eyes. Most of them can change form. They can be whatever they want to be. They could make themselves look like you, even. To be an alien, you just need to come from another planet. If you went to another planet, you’d be an alien, Thatcher.”
“Really?” Hair flip. “Cool.”
“It should be noted that my mom didn’t see any hairy guy with an accent when Chloe was stolen,” Kian said.
“Exactly,” Logan said. “She didn’t
see
him. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t there.”
“You call that logic?” Aggy asked.
“I call it deducing,” Logan said. “Ever heard of it?”
“Will you guys stop arguing so we can go find this guy?” Thatcher asked. “Where do we look, Logan?”
“We split up. Aggy can stake out the library. Kian, take Ketchoklam Park. Thatcher, downtown. And I’ll take Sandwiches.”
“I can’t hang out downtown,” Thatcher said. “My mom doesn’t let me. Not by myself.”
“I was going to the library anyway,” Aggy said.
“What about you, Kian?” Logan asked.
“Sure, I’ll go to the park to look for the hairy alien,” he said.
“I’ll go with him,” Thatcher said. “I’m allowed to go to the park if I’m with a friend.”
“Logan!” a voice interrupted. “What are you doing?”
Logan turned to see his mom striding toward him. She was dressed up and wearing makeup, which meant she’d been with a client.
“I’ve been waiting in the car for you,” she said, out of breath. “I’ve got to get you to Patrice’s house. I have a client in ten minutes. Sloane and Bubba are in the car. Move it!”
“But, Mom, the Crew has investigating to do.”
“Sorry, guys,” she said to the group, then grabbed Logan’s hand and pulled him away.
He twisted around and yelled, “CRU, find the hairy man with the accent!”
“The Crew is so on it!” Thatcher said, flashing a thumbs-up.
“There goes our fearless leader.” Aggy sighed. “Off to his babysitter’s house.”
“Who are you?” Logan asked the man who answered the door.
“I’m Buck,” the man answered. He was wearing black sweatpants, a pale orange sweatshirt, and green slippers. “Come in,” he said, stepping aside.
Logan was nudged inside by his mom. She followed behind, holding Sloane in one arm.
“I’ll leave Bubba out here on the porch,” she said to Buck. “You’ll be glad I did. She’s flatulent.”
“Oh,” said Buck.
“Where’s Patrice?” Logan asked.
“Logan, this is Patrice’s friend, Buck,” his mom explained. “Remember, I told you Patrice is out of town? Buck is watching her house. I’ve known Buck a long time. He’s going to watch you and Sloane today.” She set Sloane down and kissed him on the head.
“Hi, Sloane and Logan,” Buck said, waving his arm like a windshield wiper.
Logan sneered.
“I have to run,” his mom said, heading out the door. “Be good, guys. Have fun.”
She waved at Logan as she flew down the steps, then climbed into her car and sped away.
“I suppose you know where everything is,” Buck said to Logan.
“I’ve only been coming here since before I can remember,” Logan said.
“I guess that means you know.”
“I know.”
Sloane began to whimper.
“He’s probably upset because you’re not Patrice,” Logan said.
“You might be right, Logan,” Buck said, and crouched down beside Sloane. “You want to go outside and swing?”
Sloane stopped whimpering.
“I’ll push him,” Logan said. “Sloane likes it best when Patrice pushes him, and he likes me to push him second best. He doesn’t even know you.”
“Good point,” Buck said.
Logan led them outside to the tire swing in the backyard. Buck hoisted Sloane up into it.
“Move aside now,” Logan said, and nudged Buck’s hip with his shoulder.
“Uh … sure,” Buck said, backing away.
Logan gave Sloane a hard push.
“Too high! Too high!
Patrice!
” Sloane wailed.
“It’s not too high, and Patrice isn’t here,” Logan said, and pushed him again, just as hard.
“Patrice! Patrice!” Sloane wailed louder.
“Oh, forget it,” Logan said, disgusted. “You can push him, Buck. Only don’t push him too high.”
“I’d be happy to,” Buck said. He caught the high-swinging Sloane, then restarted him with a gentle push.
“Come on, Bubba,” Logan said.
Bubba, who had found a spot she liked near a tree and fallen asleep, rose to her feet, one leg at a time, and followed Logan around to the front of the house. She chose another spot she liked and lay down again with a heavy sigh.
“Unnnh, unnnh, unnnh,”
she said.
Logan wondered whether the other Crew operatives had found the hairy man yet. He wished he had a cell phone so he could check in with them.
“Here I am,” he said aloud to himself, “locked in an interplanetary battle for Earth’s dogs, and with no way of communicating with my cooperatives.”
Then he had an idea. He went into the house and found Patrice’s cordless phone. He dialed Aggy’s number.
“Hello, Logan,” she answered. “How’s the babysitter?”
“Patrice is my caregiver, not my babysitter, and she isn’t here. Her housesitter, Buck, is watching us. Did you find the hairy guy yet?”
“No. It’s only been, like, twenty minutes or something, hasn’t it? And he could be anywhere.”
“He’s not at the library?”
“I’ve seen men with beards. I haven’t heard any bearded man speak with an accent, but this is a library, and people don’t talk very much.”
“Curses!” Logan said. “Call me at this number if you find the guy. If I find him, I’ll call you.” And he hung up.
He started to head back outside, then changed his mind. “I better stay by the phone.”
He sat on the couch under Patrice’s bay window and took out his clipboard. He saw a group of middle-schoolers walking down the street, two boys and a girl. He saw the woman who lived across the street kneeling in her flowers, pulling weeds and tossing them into a wheelbarrow. He noticed a telephone pole papered with flyers. He pulled out his binoculars and focused on them. One said, in big, bold letters,
MISSING DOG
.