Fiendish Deeds (10 page)

M
rs. Wells called up from the dining room. “Dinner!”

Joy was in the library, doing her homework, but had passed out in the stuffed armchair by the glow of the light-up globe. Outside, branches scraped against the leaded windows as she’d sunk into a deep slumber, black and dreamless, not even stirring when her math book slipped off her lap and landed on the carpet with a thump.

It had been a very trying Monday.

“Dinner’s on the table!”

Joy woke with a start. The wafting aroma of onions and garlic was making her stomach growl. She pulled her wooly cardigan tightly around herself and headed downstairs.

“There you are,” said Mrs. Wells as Joy shuffled into the dining room yawning. The rest of her family was already seated before steaming bowls of stew. “Did you fall asleep, sweetie? You looked so tired when you came home.”

“School felt really long,” Joy explained without elaborating. It had been a terrible day, and the last thing she wanted was to crown it off with a half-hour lecture on coping strategies from her mother. Tyler and his friends, emboldened by their leaf attack, had decided to devote their limited attention spans to bombarding Joy with paper balls all day.

“Joy Wells,” Miss Keener had finally shouted, “does this classroom look like a garbage can to you?”

“Pardon, Miss Keener?” Joy had replied, startled.

“The paper all around your desk—pick it up and put it in the wastepaper basket right away!”

Joy had begun to protest but quickly cut herself off. Why argue? Having to spell it out was only going to make everyone laugh even harder. And she could already hear Miss Keener’s kittenlike purr as she gently scolded her little golden boys.

So, without a further word, Joy had collected up the balls as ordered. She then sat down again, chewing the end of her pen as if she couldn’t care less. It had felt like a small victory—until thirty seconds later, that is, when another paper ball bounced off her back.

“Well, have a hot bath and get to bed nice and early then,” said Mrs. Wells.

It was her mother’s cure-all, passed down through generations. The sniffles? Bath and bed. The flu? Bath and bed. The plague? Bath and bed.

“You look exhausted too, Edward,” said Mrs. Wells. “How was work?”

“Awful,” he replied. “I spent the whole day arguing with a client who’s refusing to pay his bill.”

“How come?”

“Because he lost his case! He was appealing a rather staggering fine he’d received from FISPA for cutting down a tree on his property. It was his own fault—you can’t just take a chainsaw to everything that happens to drip goop all over your sports car! There are regulations! The tree was a protected species!”

“Oh my,” said Mrs. Wells. “You should have a nice hot bath and just get in bed, as well.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Mr. Wells, even though he only ever took showers. “Honestly, if I could do it all again, I think I would have gone into advertising.”

Joy swallowed a mouthful of hot turnip.

“Dad, what’s FISPA?”

“It’s short for Federal Imperiled Species Protection Agency. They protect the environment from bozos like my client, and do a very good job of it.”

“Do they protect creatures as well?” she asked.

“I would imagine so,” answered Mr. Wells. “As long as the animals are part of the natural history of the area, that is. They don’t take in stray pets or anything.”

“Oh,” said Joy, turning her attention back to her plate. With her parents always on the alert, it was important never to give away when she was seizing on an idea—especially when it was as red-hot as the piece of sweet potato she’d just inhaled.

One thing was for sure—the bog fiend wasn’t anybody’s pet.

Miss Keener was off sick the next day. The substitute teacher was a stout little man with thick glasses and a blazing temper. “I have zero appetite for nonsense!” he warned before handing out a stack of worksheets—and having meted out an incredible seven detentions the last time they’d met, the class didn’t doubt him. The atmosphere remained about as lively as a morgue for the rest of the day.

Joy drummed impatiently on the seat in front of her as the bus made its way up the hill to Spooking. It was Tuesday, she reminded herself, and Tuesdays her mother taught a late class and her father usually had appointments. Sure enough, the driveway was empty as Joy and Byron were once again forced to leap from the moving bus.

“Byron, go up to the library and get started on your homework,” ordered Joy as she unlocked the front door. “I’ll make us a snack and be up in a minute.” Byron kicked off his shoes and headed upstairs, dragging his school bag behind him. As soon as Joy heard the creak of the library door, she slipped into her father’s office.

There, she picked up the phone and dialed 411.

She had been psyching herself up all day to speak to an operator but was instead surprised to hear a recorded voice asking her to listen carefully to the following options as they had recently changed. She waited and waited as each was carefully explained, glancing at the time on her father’s desk clock. Finally, after enduring all seven options, she pressed number 1.

A robotic voice asked her to clearly speak the name of the person or business whose number she was seeking.

“The Federal Imperiled Species Protection Agency,” she said in a deep voice like she imagined Melody Huxley might have had. She heard clicking noises.

“To call this number, say ‘call this number,’” the robotic voice said.

“Call this number.”

There were more clicking noises, and then it began ringing. Joy swallowed hard as someone answered.

“FISPAHOWMAYIHELPYOU?”

“Um, is that the Federal Imperiled Species Protection Agency?” asked Joy, unsure if she was talking to a human or a machine this time.

“YESITISHOWMAYIHELPYOU?”

Joy put on her Melody Huxley voice again. “I would like to report a new species of animal that might need protecting.”

“WHATDISTRICTDOESTHISINQUIRYCONCERN?”

“Pardon?”

“WHEREISTHEANIMAL’SHABITATLOCATED?”

“Excuse me?”

“WHERE-ARE-YOU-CALLING-FROM?”

“Oh, sorry. Spooking.”

“DISTRICTOFDARLINGTON. PLEASEHOLD.”

Joy found herself unexpectedly listening to music. She looked at the clock nervously.

“Field Agent Wagner speaking,” said a man, answering.

“Hello,” Joy said.

“Hello. What can I do for you?”

“It’s about Spooking Bog,” she began to explain before realizing she’d forgotten to use her Melody Huxley voice. “I don’t know if you are aware, but it’s an amazing natural habitat,” she continued huskily. “But now people are going to build some idiotic water park over it, with mermaids. And I was wondering if you could stop them.”

“Ah yes, um, madame,” said Field Agent Wagner. “I was unhappy to hear we are losing another precious wetland, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. The agency has already reviewed the application. We raised a few considerations with the Darlington City Council and they agreed to accommodate them. So, other than that, there is nothing I can do, because the site is not an officially protected conservation area. But I do sympathize. Why not write a letter to City Hall? That’s what I would do.”

“What do you mean it is not officially protected?” asked Joy, dropping her Melody voice again. “But what about all the rare specimens? They’ll be lost!”

“I’m afraid no protected species are under threat from the development—otherwise we would have put a stop to it. Is there something specific you are concerned about?”

“How about Ernesto?” asked Joy. “I mean, the huge snapping turtles that live there.”

“Actually, that was one of our considerations,” answered Field Agent Wagner. “And the City of Darlington has agreed to hire a reptile wrangler to capture the turtles and relocate the community. So that should put your mind at ease. Was there anything else? I’m afraid I’m terribly busy today….”

Joy thought quickly. “Okay, but what about the plants?” she asked. “Like S
arrencia illuminus
?”

The man coughed. “A lovely carnivore, which is a protected species—elsewhere, that is. The truth is that the electric pitcher plant is not native to the area. It was transplanted here about a hundred years ago to curb the populations of biting insects. Of course, it failed, and only succeeded in endangering a rather beautiful species of beetle.

“As a result, about ten years ago, FISPA started a campaign to wipe the plant out—we burned entire fields of them. So, if you say there are
Sarrencia illuminus
repopulating in Spooking Bog, I am a little cheered to think that some small good may come of this project.”

Joy bit her lip. She was so angry with herself! Instead of helping to save the bog, she was actually making it worse! What did she know about this stuff? If only she knew as much as Madame Portia, or even better, Madame Portia’s poor husband. He could have come up with a few endangered species in a second!

Which gave her an idea.

“Okay, maybe those aren’t great examples. Have you heard of…” Joy paused, trying to remember the name Madame Portia had only dropped like thirty times during their visit. “Dr. Zweek?”

“Zweig? Dr. Ludwig Zweig?”

“Yes!” she cried.

“The name is somehow familiar,” said Field Agent Wagner. There was the sound of rifling papers. “Could you refresh my memory?”

“He is an expert on Spooking Bog!” said Joy. “I mean, he was, before he died.” Joy cleared her throat. “Anyway, Dr. Zweig said that he discovered something very important in the bog. A totally
new
species that no one knew about. And he was about to reveal everything to, er, scientific people, like you guys. But then he died, as I mentioned, which was bad timing.”

“And what was it?”

“What was what?” asked Joy.

“The new species he found?”

There was silence on Joy’s end.

“Hello?” asked the field agent.

“A flesh-eating fiend of incredible size!”
declared Joy suddenly, quoting a line directly from E. A. Peugeot.
“Slumbering among the sphagnum since the dawn of time!”
That had come out better than she’d expected. Even her Melody Huxley voice was right on the money. Joy smiled smugly to herself, then became aware of the complete silence on the other end of the phone.

“Hello?”

The man took a deep breath. “Umm, miss, madame, I’m not sure if this is some kind of…”

Joy looked up with fright—there was a figure looming in the doorway. It was Mr. Wells, holding plastic bags full of groceries.

“Joy, what on earth are you doing on the phone in my office?”

Striking with the blinding speed of a rattlesnake, she pressed the mute button. “No, I will
not
pass you to my parents!” said Joy sternly into the phone. “As I keep telling you, our family has a policy against telephone sales!” She hung up, sighing dramatically. “Oh, hi Daddy, you’re home!”

“Will those people ever leave us alone?” asked Mr. Wells. “Good job, sweetheart.”

After Joy finished her homework, she played with Fizz for a while, who had been jumping at the sides of the terrarium desperately. He rolled over and over as Joy tickled his smooth stomach. Before long, he fell asleep on her lap with a giant grin.

That had been a close call in her father’s office. But even if she was found out and punished later, it would still be worth it, she thought. The bog was part of Spooking’s history, and she couldn’t live with herself if she let it get swallowed up without a fight. How could her parents be mad at her for that? Still, it was probably a long-distance call and she’d been on for a while.

At dinner Joy was in a cheery mood. She was feeling triumphant. The Federal Imperiled Species Protection Agency didn’t fool around, if her father’s dealings with them were anything to go by. If there was something in the bog, they’d unearth it—and even get its face on a postage stamp in all likelihood.

Whether or not it would take kindly to either was another question, however.

“Joy?” asked Mrs. Wells, spotting the look of horror crossing her daughter’s face. “Are you all right?”

“Huh?” asked Joy, snapping out of it. “Oh, I bit my tongue,” she lied.

After helping out with the dishes, Joy went back up to her room. She got out
The Compleat and Collected Works
and opened the book to where it was marked in red silk ribbon.

She chomped the ends of her hair, reading. It was the climax of “The Bawl of the Bog Fiend,” when the bad-tempered bacon baron leads a torch-wielding posse into the bog, hoping to flush out the unholy demon standing in the way of his piggish ambitions. And as expected, it didn’t turn out happily, especially for the Prince of Pork, who wound up butchered like one of his hogs, his body parts raining down in a shower of chops on the fleeing survivors.

And though she’d previously tittered to herself over it, she now felt a less welcome sort of horror. Maybe calling in FISPA hadn’t been such a great idea, she fretted. Wasn’t Field Agent Wagner likely to meet a similar fate?