Science Fair (28 page)

“What are you looking for?” asked Fawn.

“Just something…just in case,” he said, pul ing out the largest kitchen implement he could find in the drawer. It was a set of barbecue tongs. The Harbingers used them in the summer when they barbecued tofu.

“You’re going to
tong
the burglar?” said Fawn.

“Maybe I am,” said Roger, who at this point was feeling pretty stupid but, stil being a guy, could not see a way to back down. Gripping the tongs, he started toward the basement door. He was relieved when Fawn grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“Please, Roger,” she said. “I real y don’t want you to go down there. I’m going to cal the police and tel them it was total y my idea.” Roger sighed. “Al right,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Fawn. She went to the wal phone and picked up the handset.

Then the lights went out.

For a moment they stood in darkness. Then Roger said, “Maybe it’s a circuit breaker.” He hoped it wasn’t, because the circuit breakers were in the basement.

“I don’t think so,” said Fawn, peering out the window. “The whole neighborhood is dark.”

Roger looked out. The neighborhood was ink black. “Cal the power company,” he said.

“I can’t,” said Fawn. “The phone’s dead.” Al the phones in the Harbinger house were cordless and required electricity to work.

Roger unclipped the cel phone at his waist. He looked at the screen: NO SIGNAL.

“The cel isn’t working, either,” he said. “Weird.”

In the distance, a siren wailed.

“What should we do?” said Fawn.

“I’l get a flashlight,” said Roger. He put the tongs on the counter and began to feel his way through the darkness toward the drawer where they kept things like flashlights, Scotch tape, mystery keys, foreign money, random pieces of string, and half-used tubes of Krazy Glue.

“No,” said Fawn. “I mean what are we going to do about the noise in the basement?”

Roger didn’t answer that. He found the drawer, opened it, and groped around until he found a flashlight. He flicked the switch; nothing. He found a second flashlight; nothing.

“What good is it to have flashlights,” he said, “if the batteries are dead?”

In the distance, another siren wailed.

“I think we should get out of the house,” said Fawn.

“Are you
crazy
?” said Roger. “It’s pitch black out there.”

“It’s also pitch black in here,” Fawn pointed out. “And there might be somebody in the basement.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Roger. He began groping the counter for the barbecue tongs.

“What was that?”
hissed Fawn.

“What was what?” whispered Roger.

“I heard a voice,” said Fawn. “Listen.”

The voice was the Wookiee’s. He was getting antsy waiting in the basement, listening to the footsteps in the kitchen directly above. He also didn’t like hearing sirens.

“I’m leaving,” he said.

“Shh!” said Vaderian, pointing at the ceiling.

“I don’t care,” said the Wookiee. “I’m outta here.”

“But the col ection,” whispered Vaderian, waving his light saber at the Star Wars memorabilia. “We have to—”

“No,” said the Wookiee. “This junk ain’t worth going to jail for.” He started toward the stairs.

“No!” said Vaderian, and as he did, he realized he’d said it much too loudly.

“See?” hissed Fawn. “There
is
someone down there. We’re leaving.” She started toward the door. Roger was right behind her. But then he grabbed her arm.

“Wait,” he said.

“What?”

“The truck,” he said. “Outside, when we got home. Remember?” They’d noticed the U-Drive-It truck when they came home.

“So what?” she said, trying to yank her arm free. “Let go!”

“Toby said they’re after the col ection,” he said, recal ing the strange phone cal . “I didn’t believe him at the time, but what if that’s what the truck is about? What if that’s why there are noises coming from the basement?”

Fawn hesitated, thinking about the memorabilia, al the effort they’d put into col ecting it, maintaining it.…

“We
can’t
let them take the col ection,” Roger whispered. “We
can’t
.”

“But…how can we stop them?” she said. “We can’t cal the police.”

“Maybe we can trap them down there,” said Roger. “Until the power comes back.”

“How?” said Fawn.

“I have an idea,” said Roger, groping his way back to the flashlight drawer.

“A thousand dol ars extra,” said the Wookiee.

“Yes,” said Vaderian.

“Cash,” said the Wookiee.

“Yes, cash,” said Vaderian.

“For one load of stuff,” said the Wookiee.

“As much as you can carry in one load, yes,” said Vaderian. He was already gathering together the items he intended for them to take. His plan, formulated out of desperation, was that he and the Wookiee would load themselves with memorabilia and charge up the stairs. Whoever was up there—the parents of the little weasel, he assumed—might not like it. But whoever they were, they would back off when they saw the Wookiee. Everyone did.

They’d bul y their way out of the house, put the memorabilia in the truck, and be gone. Vaderian deeply regretted that he’d have to leave some items behind. But he’d take what he could get.

In two minutes he’d loaded up the Wookiee. The big man’s arms strained under the weight of four large items, including the stormtrooper uniform, and a half-dozen smal er ones.

Vaderian carried only one item, but it was the ultimate prize: R2-D2 himself. He thrust his glowing light saber into his belt and reverently picked up the robot.

“Let’s go,” he said. With the Wookiee going first, feeling his way with his feet, they started slowly up the stairs.

Fawn was in the ink black hal way, her ear to the basement door.

“Hurry!” she whispered. “They’re coming up!”

She felt Roger behind her, coming from the kitchen.

“How many were there?” she said.

“I found two,” he said. “Here, take this one.” He thrust something into her hand. “I think I got the cap loose. Ready?”

“Ready,” she said.

“Now!” shouted Roger.

He yanked the door open. Fawn screamed at the sight of the two figures on the stairs lit by a ghastly reddish light, one huge and hairy, one black-clad, with that hideous yet familiar helmet.…

“Do it!” said Roger, his voice snapping Fawn out of her shock and into action. As they’d agreed, she took the lower part of the door, and he took the upper. Squeezing the tubes as if their lives depended on it, they squirted two long lines of Krazy Glue along the door frame.

Roger finished first. The figures on the stairs, momentarily stunned by the sudden opening of the door, had started up again.

“Hurry!” Roger shouted.

“Done!” answered Fawn.

Together they slammed the door shut. Roger grabbed the knob and pushed with al his strength, pressing the door against the glue. From the other side, he heard the steps coming closer. In those desperate fearful seconds, he had only one thought in his mind:

Please let this be the quick-drying kind.

T
OBY WAS CROUCHING
under the Wienermobile.

Next to him were Micah and Tamara; Drmtsi and Vrsk were behind them.

Al around was chaos. It had started the instant the lights went out and blackness enveloped the supermarket parking lot. People started shouting; children started crying. The crowd began surging in random directions; people were knocked over, including whoever was in the pig suit. Somebody grabbed a woman’s purse; she screamed. Then there were more screams.

The police switched on their flashlights and waved them around, looking for the escapees and shouting at everyone to “STAY CALM, STAY CALM.” But nobody was calm, and soon the police had a smal riot on their hands.

As the police struggled with the crowd, Toby and the others—already on their knees, as ordered by the approaching police—had crawled under the Wienermobile, mainly to avoid being trampled. They could see little of what was going on around them except for running feet occasional y il uminated by darting flashlight beams.

After a few minutes the police began to get better organized. Peeking out from under the left side of the Wienermobile, Toby saw that the police had formed a rough perimeter, waving their flashlights and shouting at the crowd to “MOVE! MOVE!” They were herding everyone to an open area behind the Wienermobile, where people were being funneled toward a half-dozen officers who were shining their flashlights into each person’s face, one by one.

“They’re stil looking for us,” Toby said. He looked out at the edge of the parking lot.

He crawled to the right-hand side of the Wienermobile, the side next to the supermarket. It was deserted and dark.

“Stay here,” Toby whispered to Micah and Tamara.

“Where are you going?” said Tamara.

“To see how we can get out of here,” said Toby. He crawled out from under the Wienermobile, stood up, and slid forward along the side of the big hot dog. When he got to the front, he saw that the police—there were a lot of them now—had established a perimeter al around the edge of the parking lot, clearly intended to keep anybody from sneaking away.

Toby stood there, drumming his fingers, trying to think of a way past the line of police. Then he looked at what he was drumming on.

The Wienermobile.

He went to the passenger door and, holding the door closed with one hand, pul ed on the latch with the other. It was unlocked. He took a breath; he’d have to do the next part fast and hope that the confusion behind the Wienermobile, and al the flashlights shining around, would keep the police from noticing the cab light go on.

He yanked the door open, jumped inside, and closed the door. The light had been on for maybe three seconds. Toby listened for a few seconds but didn’t hear anyone approaching. In the dark cab, he felt for the steering wheel, then the ignition switch. No key. He felt for the visor, which was where his parents sometimes hid their car keys. Nothing.

He dropped to his knees and felt under the driver’s seat. His hand touched something.

Keys.

Toby reached up and found the dome light switch; he slid it to the off position. Then, clutching the keys—which were attached to a wiener-shaped holder—he got back out of the cab. There was stil a lot of shouting going on in the parking lot behind the Wienermobile. Toby crouched.

“Tamara,” he whispered.

“What?” said Tamara.

“Can you drive this thing?” Tamara’s family spent summers at a cabin in Maine; she’d told Toby that her dad sometimes let her drive their car on the dirt roads up there.

“What?”

“I have the keys.”

“You want to take the
Wienermobile
?” said Micah.

“Yes,” said Toby.

“Cool,” said Micah.

“I can’t drive this!” said Tamara. “It’s huge.”

“Excusing,” said Vrsk.

“What?” snapped Toby.

“I can drive,” said Vrsk.

“You can?”

“Yes,” said Vrsk. Back in Krpshtskan, one of his duties was to be backup driver for the 1961 Checker taxi that served as the presidential limousine. Vrsk figured that qualified him to pilot the giant sausage vehicle.

Toby nodded. “Al right,” he said.

In a minute they were al in the cab of the Wienermobile, with Vrsk in the driver’s seat, Toby next to him, and Micah and Tamara with Drmtsi in an open area behind. The smel of smerk hung heavy in the air. Toby put the key into the ignition.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay,” said Vrsk, none too confidently. He turned the key. The engine started. Vrsk started fiddling with his feet.

“Where is clotch?” he said.

“Where is what?” said Toby.

“Clotch. Is not a clotch here.”

“I think he means the clutch,” said Tamara.

“What’s a clutch?” said Micah.

“It’s a pedal on old cars,” said Tamara. To Vrsk, she said, “There is no clutch.”

“No clotch?” said Vrsk.

“No clotch,” said Tamara.

Micah, peering out a side window, said, “I think somebody’s coming.”

“Forget the clotch,” said Toby. “Just go!”

Vrsk stomped on the gas. The engine roared. Nothing else happened.

“The cops are coming!” said Micah.

“You have to put it in gear!” said Tamara.

“What?” said Vrsk, over the roar of the engine.

“THE GEARSHIFT!” shouted Tamara. She leaned forward, grabbed the shift lever, and yanked it down. With a squeal of tires, the giant frankfurter-shaped vehicle lunged forward, sending Tamara, Micah, and Drmtsi tumbling backward. Toby saw police running outside toward the Wienermobile from al directions, shouting. Vrsk was rigid, gripping the wheel with a look of pure terror on his face. The Wienermobile, gaining speed, was heading straight toward a half-dozen police officers waving flashlights and shouting.

“DON’T HIT THEM!” shouted Toby.

“I AM NOT WANTING TO!” shouted Vrsk.

“THEN TURN THE STEERING WHEEL!” shouted Toby.

Vrsk looked down at the steering wheel, as though realizing for the first time he was holding it. He yanked it hard to the left, sending Toby slamming into the passenger door and the three in the back tumbling sideways. The giant hot dog, now going fifty miles per hour, skidded and squealed into a sharp left turn, leaning so far over that Toby thought it might flip.