Immortal Max (18 page)

“Sam, wake up.” Beth unzips the tent opening.

I follow Max outside, groggy. Birdie is feeding earthworms to three baby birds.

“Look.” I point to the nest. “Another egg hatched last night!”

“You spent the night out here, didn't you?”

“Max wouldn't leave Birdie and . . . well, I thought the tent would help protect the nest.”

“A nylon seawall, huh?” Beth smiles. Max always has been terrified of thunderstorms. “Thought you had to work this morning?”

“Yeah, ten o'clock. But I'll take care of Max and Birdie before I leave—
and
take your tent to the garage.”

“Don't think Max needs any water, or Birdie, for that matter. Dog dish and birdbath are overflowing. And just leave the tent up for a while, it could rain again.” She drags my sleeping bag out of the tent and stretches it over the clothesline to air out. “Think you'll be needing this tonight.”

I stare at the flapping sleeping bag. Army brown. Plaid flannel lining, half of it coated with dog hair. A giant moth, drying its wings. “What do you mean?”

“Left your window open. Mattress is soaked. Floor, too.”

“
Rats
. Mom mad?”

“
Steamed
. Better drag the mattress out to the picnic table to dry out. Probably take days, even as hot as it is.”

“Okay, soon as I take care of Max.”

“I've got time to feed him. You get showered and cleaned
up.” She pauses, smiling again. “Might want to steer clear of Mom, though. She went looking for you when you didn't come down for breakfast. Wasn't expecting to wade into a swimming pool.”

“Great. Just great. I'll never get out of the doghouse for this one.”

“You might just be right.” Her laughter rings across the yard. “Go on, I'll run interference for you. She's on the phone with a customer, so it's a good chance to slip in unnoticed.”

Big sisters are great.

As I walk to the house, it hits me. Soon, Beth won't be here, bossing me around. Or blackmailing me. Or running interference when Mom busts my chops. She'll be gone. Gone for good.

All at once, a big hole opens up in my chest.

I know things have changed as soon as I pull up to the security gate. Bertha doesn't smile when she hands me my pass. Chief Beaumont isn't smiling, either.

“Vandals struck again,” he says.

His mouth is a straight ruler. A rigid strip. His shirt wet under the armpits. The sweet-sour tang of sweat fills my nose, and I wonder if I'm smelling his sweat . . . or mine.

“Solar lights along
certain
driveways destroyed,” he says.

Certain
driveways? I wait, trying to decipher his code.

“Ripped out of the ground and broken in half. Malicious mischief. Someone with an axe to grind.”

Code cracked. He thinks I did it.

“I didn't do it—honest.”

“Don't think you did, Sam, but others . . .”

“Oh. Because I'm an outsider.”

“Explained to everyone affected that you wouldn't jeopardize your job that way. . . .” He pauses. “But the vandalism occurred along the route you take, and . . .” Another pause.

Is he telling me he's firing me?

“Justin's father was so angry when he learned how Justin was acting with you, he's making him walk Bruno every day.”

I crunch his words, searching for the important piece. “So you're saying Justin did it to get even with me?”

“But can't prove it. Dark night. Kid was laughing—that's what woke the people up—but they couldn't identify him.” He
looks away, then settles his face on mine. Eyes narrow, like if he's measuring me.

There's more coming. . . .

“When I questioned some of the kids, they said you bragged on the bus about climbing over the fence.”

I am dead. A corpse. Roadkill.

“But I didn't mean it. I was just joking around. Ask Yee and Anise, they'll tell you.”

“Already did,” he says. “They said the same thing.”

My heart throbs in my temples. “What do I do now, Chief Beaumont?”

“Go about your job as usual. Most times, these things blow over. . . .” He looks me in the eyes. “But be on your best behavior. Word gets around fast here. People will be watching you like a bug under a microscope.”

When I pick up the house key from Mrs. Callahan, I ask if her place was vandalized.

“No.” She stares at me, not smiling. “Nor was Mr. P's or Mr. Muller's.” She hesitates as she places the key in my hand.

I bike toward Mr. P's house, legs stumps that won't bend. People work in their front yards, replacing solar lights, sweeping glass shards and metal strips into piles. They stop to stare when I pass. Their looks say the same thing.
There he is. That outsider who climbed over the fence and did this terrible thing
.

I spot a familiar vehicle in one of the driveways. Mom's van. As I bike past, she yells, “Hi, Sammy! See you at home later today.” The people on the street turn their icy stares on her. My stomach drops.

If they know I'm her son, will they stop having her do work for them?

Mr. P's place wasn't vandalized, but he isn't smiling, either. Worse, he looks at me the same way Mrs. Callahan did. Which doesn't make sense. But I know a person who can explain it.

I tie leashes to the porch post at Professor Muller's house. He sits on the front step with me, bad leg stuck out stiff in front of him, and listens as I tell how Mr. P and Mrs. Callahan are acting.

“It's like they're mad at me 'cause Justin
didn't
vandalize their places. Which doesn't add up—none of it adds up.” I pull fuzzy fiber off my jean cutoffs, flick it in the air, watch it float away. Man-made pollen. “I mean, if Justin was trying to get back at me, wouldn't he hit their places instead of the other ones? And yours, too?”

“
Ahh
 . . . a red herring.” His fingers make a tent. His eyebrows arch like a steeple. “Do you know what that is, Samuel?”

“Well, a herring's a fish, so I guess a red herring would be a
red
fish.”

“A
smelly
red fish. Criminals in olden times would throw a red herring on the ground so bloodhounds couldn't follow them.”

“Um, o-
kay
 . . .”

His lungs turn to air bellows, pumping out a sigh. “The scent would throw the dogs off the trail.”

I stare at him.

Another ragged sigh escapes. “It would have been too obvious to vandalize our places, as we are the ones who hired you,” he says. “So striking at others is intended to mislead the authorities. And because we were spared, our neighbors would think you didn't do damage to our property because we are your . . . benefactors.”

“No . . . Justin wouldn't be that smart. Would he?”

Bony shoulders lift in unison. “You know him better than I do, Samuel. What do
you
think?”

“Well, he's a big gamer. . . .”

His head swivels so he can look at me, yellowed eyes asking questions.

“You know, he likes to play games on his Xbox.”

“Games of strategy?”

“Yes, sir. Games where you beat the socks off the enemy.”

No, kill the enemy. And in this game Justin wants to
kaput
me.

“Should I apologize to everybody whose places were damaged, Professor Muller? Would that make it okay?”

He pauses, blinking rhythmically. “No, just continue as
Chief Beaumont told you to do. These things have a way of quieting down,
but
—” A frown cracks his forehead. “In all likelihood, Justin expected you to be fired and you weren't, so who's to say what he might try? As John Milton said, ‘He that studieth revenge keepeth his own wounds green, which otherwise would heal and do well.
'”

Even though the words are cryptic, the warning is clear.
Watch out
.

My muscles are bricks as I start out with the dogs. My intestines are stringy knots. Although Justin's driving privileges have been taken away, I watch over my shoulder. Rules don't mean anything to him. When we reach the corner lot and nothing has happened, my muscles relax.

I turn the four dogs loose so they can run free, leashes still attached so I can catch them easily. As I watch them play, I hear a noise behind me. Glancing toward the gap between houses, I see a boy and a dog watching us. Not just any dog. The most beautiful sable German shepherd I've ever seen. The dog of my dreams.

A giant, the shepherd must weigh a hundred pounds. His coat is the color of ebony. The silver hair on his back, moonlight. His teeth, long and razor sharp. I can tell because the dog is lunging at his leash. Snarling and snapping.

Bruno the Beast.

Justin stumbles toward me. A pull toy dragged by a mythological warrior dog.

My muscles tighten to bricks again.

“
Come
, Siegfried. Apollo, Buddy, Baby—
come
.” I grab their leashes. Glance at Bruno. He's close enough now that I can see yellow strings of drool.

“Heel, Bruno!” Justin yells. “Heel!” His commands are useless. Straws in a tornado.

My heart pounds in my ears. My breath catches in my throat. My mind fills with images. Bruno snapping Apollo in half like
a snack cracker. Cracking Buddy and Baby like chicken bones. Gobbling Siegfried for dessert. I chance another look.

Justin's face is worse than Bruno's. Twisted. Bloodred. Angry. I wonder what he intends to do. And how to stop him before he can do it.

Stall
, the voice in my head whispers.

“Gee, Bruno's a beautiful dog, Justin.” I hear my voice shaking and hope Justin can't.

“Yeah, thought you'd like to see what a
real
dog looks like.” He lets out a hyena laugh.

What was it Rosie said?

Ignore bullies. . . .

“Heel, Siegfried.” The little Min Pin falls into step. I pick up Apollo, Buddy, and Baby and focus on ignoring Justin and Bruno. Legs trembling, I mumble, “Um, gotta get the dogs home. If I'm late, their owners come looking for me.”

The lie is as thin as my voice. I try to hurry, but my muscles have turned to wet noodles.

Reaching the road, I chance another peek and can't believe my eyes. Justin is on the ground, yelling “Heel!” again and again. Bruno has become a four-legged Determinator, dragging him like a floppy toy. In desperation, Justin loops Bruno's leash around a tree to stop him. A dog hitching post.

That's when I get it. I don't have to ignore Justin the Jerk. The bully can't do anything to me because he has his hands full with another bully. Bruno.

Time for a taste of his own medicine. . . .

“Hey, Justin. I got a book on dog training, you want to borrow it? Even a
pedigreed
dog's not worth anything if it can't be trained.” I throw in a hyena giggle.
A-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh
.

The last words I hear are icing on the cake: “Heel, Bruno.
Please
, heel!”

I deliver Apollo to Mr. P and tell him everything went fine. He gives me five dollars, plus cookies. Buddy and Baby are next. When they're locked safely inside, I jog with Siegfried
to his house, pick up the backyard, and get another five dollars. I turn to leave, but Professor Muller stops me.

“Have you read the book on mythology?”

“Yes, sir, some of it. The days of the week were named for heroes. Like Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday.”

His dark eyes shine. “And I read all about Siegfried.”

He smiles.

“But I couldn't find a hero or a god named Bruno.”

“Bruno?” The pleased look changes to puzzled.

“Justin Wysocki named his German shepherd Bruno. I figure it's for one of the mythological heroes.”

“I'm afraid not, Samuel.
Bruno
is German for brown.”

“Brown. You mean, like the
color
brown?”

He nods.

“So it's like naming a dog Brownie?”

“That would be a fair translation.”

Justin's big expensive dog with a pedigree a yard long is named Brownie.

“You're probably thinking of Fenrir,” he says.

“Who's that?”

“A giant wolf in myth that, it was foretold, would kill Odin. But others prevented it from doing so. It was killed eventually.”

“Yeah?”

“But not before biting off another god's hand.”

“Wow, that sucks. But let me get this straight.
Bruno
means . . .”

“Brown.”

I drop off Mrs. Callahan's key at the office and grin all the way home.

Neither Beth nor Mom is smiling. Their faces are flushed; their eyes throw darts at each other. I can tell they've been arguing, but they clam up as soon as I walk into the kitchen.

After Mom stalks out to the garden shed, I turn to Beth. “What's up?”