Project Jackalope (6 page)

“Just tell the truth, Jeremy. We know you’re lying.”

Agatha’s idea to clear our names? Not one of the top ten ideas of all time. Probably would’ve been better if we’d done it when our parents were home. Just to protect our constitutional rights and keep us from getting grilled within an inch of our lives, you know, that kind of thing. Not to mention avoiding the preliminary patdown. That was a joy, believe me. All that was missing was the blinding light shining in my eyes and the rickety folding chair.

“We have evidence that you were involved with Professor Twitchett’s experiments, Jeremy. Or
should I say Igor? You’re an intelligent boy. Tell us where he is.”

I wished I had chosen one of the stiff chairs in the living room instead of the couch. There’s no way to look dignified under questioning when you’ve sunk a good six inches into the cushions. Mr. Jones was obviously pretty experienced—he’d chosen a hard chair that was just perfect for looming over me.

“Look, I don’t know, okay? I told you. I went by the lab, but he wasn’t there. If he’s not there and he’s not home, I don’t know.” I put my head in my hands.

Mr. Jones smiled. “But you know what he was working on. Don’t you? You have it. Or you know where it is.”

“Who are you guys, anyway? CIA? FBI? Homeland Security, something like that?”

Mr. Jones just smiled his creepy smile. So it looked like three strikes for me.

“It’s time to come clean. You’re not fooling anyone.”

I stood up. “Look. Search me again. Search my room again. Call your goons back and search wherever
you want, okay? I don’t have anything, I don’t know anything. I didn’t do any experiment. I got a C- in science last term. Just leave me alone.”

Mr. Jones folded his arms. “All you need to do is answer two questions. What was Professor Twitchett working on, and where did he go? Two little answers and we’ll go away. Then it won’t even matter who we are.”

Taking a deep breath, I looked Mr. Jones straight in the eye. Grown-ups seem to be big on that. “Look, I’m just his gofer. I got him some Preparation H once, okay? For some baboon butt salve he won some big prize for. That’s it—that’s all I know. I didn’t know I was doing anything illegal. But Twitchett, he couldn’t invent his way out of a paper bag.”

“The truth, Jeremy.”

I swallowed hard and looked at my sneakers. We’d gone through the same set of questions over and over, which I guess is some kind of interrogation technique to make you mess up your answers. But that was easy—all I had to do was pretend the past twenty-four hours hadn’t
happened, which, believe me, I really wished they hadn’t. And when you know that one slipup means that a jerkwad like Jones wins, it makes it that much easier to lie.

The hardest part was watching as I don’t know how many agents went through our house, which Mom probably would not have been down with at all. But I wasn’t going to break, and I think Mr. Jones was starting to figure that out. And I was pretty tired of this whole thing. The agents finished rifling through our stuff just as the power went out, which was the icing on the cake, let me tell you. I might not break, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t flip out and totally lose it.

Mr. Jones sat for a minute, looking completely creepy in the shadowy living room, and then stood up and leaned over me. He was one tall guy, I have to give him that. “Trust me on this, Jeremy: If you’re hiding anything from us, we’ll find out. And you’ll wish to God you’d told us everything.”

“Great, good to know,” I said, not quite keeping my voice steady. As long as Agatha and Jack stayed in
Mrs. Simmons’ apartment, we were golden. I just kept repeating that to myself. The Suits would never find out. Besides, I didn’t want to think what would happen if I confessed to lying now.

Mr. Jones stared at me, his face so close that I could smell cigarette smoke on his breath. I ignored him.

“Don’t underestimate us.” He picked up the cheap ballpoint pen he’d been using to take notes during the interrogation and held it in front of my face. “You have no idea what we can do.”

He clicked the pen once. And the power came back on.

“You’ll be seeing me again, son,” Mr. Jones said, tapping me not so lightly on the shoulder.

I just nodded. I think if I’d tried to do anything else I would’ve disintegrated into a puddle of goo on the floor.

I managed to fold my arms and stay upright as Mr. Jones left the apartment. But as soon as the door clicked shut, I shot over to the window and leaned against the
ledge, panting like I’d just run a marathon or something. I was a mess. I didn’t even want to think about how Mr. Jones had managed that trick with the pen. And I really didn’t want to think about what he was going to do to us when he found out we had Jack. Because I didn’t believe for a minute that Agatha’s lamebrain plan might actually work. They might not be FBI or CIA, but they were something, and it was something bad. They’d find out. I was practically hyperventilating when I saw Mr. Jones and Mr. Suit #2 get into the long black car with the other Suits and drive away. Just like Agatha had predicted they would.

I slumped against the wall for a quick, two-second mental breakdown and then took the stairs two at a time back down to Mrs. Simmons’ apartment. I didn’t even knock, I just busted inside.

Just in time, it looked like. Agatha’s hair was done up in what I’d call a bird’s nest style, and the Dora suitcase was thumping angrily across the floor. Mrs. Simmons didn’t seem to notice, though. She was too busy quizzing
Agatha about every tiny detail about Dog in a Box and Professor Twitchett.

“So he’s a night owl, you say? How long do you walk him? Does he like kibble? Not a morning person, right?”

Agatha nodded wearily. I think the bird’s nest symbolized her last line of defense against Mrs. Simmons. “Not a morning person,” she repeated dully.

“Just like Mrs. Garcia. She makes cookies. Interesting. Does he wear a collar? What’s his favorite break-fast food? Is he housebroken? Any secret hiding places? Aliases or secret identities?” Honestly, after a couple of seconds it was tough to figure out which questions were about who. And Mrs. Simmons’ Twitchett fixation seemed a little unhealthy if you asked me. More than just your basic crush. She was more like a homebound stalker. Kind of sad.

Agatha jumped to her feet when she noticed me standing there and scooped up the Dora suitcase, her hair sticking straight out on the left side. “Thanks, Mrs.
Simmons, gotta go!” She shot out of the door so fast I think her hair scratched my cheek. It was pointy and sharp, that’s what I’m saying. I don’t even know what you have to do to hair to make it like that.

“Thanks, Mrs. S,” I said, slamming the door after us. Mrs. Simmons actually looked sorry to see us go.

Agatha was slumped on the couch when I walked in, her head flopped back against the cushions so she was staring up at the ceiling. “Are they gone? Did it work?”

“They’re gone. I hope it worked.”

Agatha didn’t move. “Please. I need a comb. Please.”

I understood. My time with Mrs. Simmons had been traumatic enough, and we hadn’t been playing Beauty Parlor.

I looked around for a comb and found a brush on the coffee table, which I figured was the same thing. I handed it to Agatha (or, really, tossed it onto her lap) just as the Dora suitcase leapt a foot into the air.

“I think we better let him out for a little bit. He’s not happy.”

“I’m not happy.” Agatha still hadn’t moved.

“Comb your hair, Agatha,” I said. Seriously, those Suit guys should hire Mrs. Simmons to do their interrogations—five more minutes with her and Agatha would’ve been handing over her e-mail passwords, locker combination, you name it.

I unzipped the Dora suitcase and the jackalope jumped out, hissing and spitting at me. I stumbled back as he hunched in the middle of the room, baring his teeth, bristling his fur, and slowly turning in a circle. I took another step back, trying to figure out which vital organs I should try to protect. But once he’d finished making the circle, Jack just sat down and started licking himself.

Pretty scary stuff.

Personally, I was pretty much over the whole jackalope thing. Maybe it was the stress of the morning, but compared to Mr. Jones, that jackalope was a marshmallow. By now I was like, sharp antlers, scary teeth, killer instinct, blah, blah, blah. The thing had tufty paws and a button nose and was waggling its soft cottony tail at me. Oh, the nightmares. At this point, I
figured even if he ripped my throat out, at least my killer would look cute on the wanted poster.

Besides, I think the little guy was starting to look up to me. Imprinting on me or whatever. It probably was inevitable, since he knew I was looking out for him.

I flopped down onto the couch next to Agatha and plunked my head back to stare at the ceiling too.

“So that’s it? The problems are over?” Agatha said after a long silence. The only sounds were of jackalope grooming.

“Yeah,” I said. Sure. If you didn’t count the problem of the freaking mutant sitting in the middle of the floor, we were all clear.

“We should probably search Twitchett’s apartment. While they’re gone, I mean. They’ll probably come back for him.”

“Probably.”

Neither of us moved.

Finally, Agatha picked her head up and tentatively touched her hair. “How bad is it?”

I examined her head. I didn’t want to sugarcoat it. All she had to do was look in a mirror to know the truth.

“It’s pretty bad.”

Agatha stuck the brush in near the top of her head and it stuck there. She sighed and dropped her hands like they were lead weights. “What’s the point?”

I couldn’t help it. I cracked up. Then Agatha cracked up and then we were both flopping around like beached fish, snorting and gasping for pretty much no reason.

I sat back up and wiped my eyes. And that’s when I noticed the jackalope was gone.

“Where’d he go?” I squeaked, jumping to my feet.

Agatha scanned the room. No jackalope. “Relax, he couldn’t have gone anywhere. Right?”

But I couldn’t help remembering how quiet Mr. Jones had been on the stairs the first time I saw him. I hadn’t heard anything suspicious just now. But then I hadn’t been listening. Anything could have happened to him.

I was just starting to get that weird tight panicky feeling in my chest when a strange high shrieking noise came from the back of the apartment.

“Oh, no,” Agatha said, racing down the hall. “HORTENSE!”

I was behind her by like two seconds, but close enough that I saw the whole thing.

Hortense was shrieking and slamming against the side of her cage, trying to get to Jack, and Jack was slashing his antlers at the cage sides, trying to get at Hortense. It looked like it was going to be a real bloodbath. Because even without the antler advantage, Hortense is a real bruiser. Saliva was dripping from her long orange teeth. And that thin wire was the only thing keeping them from each other’s throats. Which is why I was surprised when Agatha reached down and opened Hortense’s cage.

Jack and Hortense threw themselves at each other and it was like the biggest mushiest airport reunion you’ve ever seen: hugging, kissing, happy jumping. It was better than them killing each other, I guess, but
not as exciting. Definitely not something I’d watch on pay-per-view.

“See? She knows it’s her kid,” Agatha said, pointing at Hortense, who was carefully grooming the tuft of hair between the jackalope’s antlers. “Take that, Twitchett. Proof of your thievery, you loser.”

Which, for Agatha, was a pretty mild statement.

I watched the jackalope snuggling down and trying hard not to skewer his mom on his killer antlers. It was cute. But something was bugging me.

“Hey, Agatha.”

“Yeah?” She had this goofy grin on her face.

“That voice earlier? Who was that? In the hall?”

Agatha frowned at me and shrugged. “Beats me.”

“But there was nobody upstairs? I mean, Mr. Jones was in my apartment when I got up there. He wasn’t out in the hall.”

“Well, he must’ve been earlier, right? Who cares.” Agatha had squinched her face up completely now, like she was seriously irritated. But I wasn’t going to let it go.

I looked back at the jackalope. “You know, jackalopes are supposed to be able to imitate humans. And throw their voices.”

Agatha scowled at me. “Really? Great. Except he’s not a jackalope. He’s an animal hybrid. Get a grip, Jeremy. Jackalopes aren’t real.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just saying…”

“Yeah, well, I’m just saying you’re an idiot. Hor-tense is his mom, get it? And she’s not a jackalope.

He’s just a bunny whose DNA has been manipulated so he’ll have bony protrusions growing out of his head. That’s all.”

Well, when you put it that way. But it sounded more like a convenient excuse to me. “Yeah, but when you think about it—”

“You know? We’d better go search Twitchett’s place now, if we’re going to. They’ll be back soon.” Agatha reached up and dragged the hairbrush out of her hair. Which had to hurt—a big clump of hair came out with it. But she totally ignored it and started brushing
furiously. She shot a look at the lovefest on the floor. “They’ll be safe here.”

“What if someone comes in? Mr. Suit or someone?”

“Then they’ll kill him.”

That was probably true, actually. I wouldn’t want to try my chances against that pair, pen tricks or no pen tricks.

I followed Agatha upstairs, and let me tell you, it’s a good thing the Suit guys had left. Because one, Aga-tha’s hair would’ve scared the pants off them, and two, she wasn’t even trying to be quiet. I thought her feet were going to go through the stairs, she was stomping so hard.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Jack and his voice throwing, though. I mean, come on, we all knew that’s what had happened. And having a pet with a skill like that? You could get away with pretty much anything. You’d be like a superhero or something, with a cool jackalope sidekick to hang out with. I was beginning to see why everybody wanted the little guy so much. It kind of
sucked to just hand something that awesome over to a crackpot like Twitchett.