The Homemade Stuffing Caper Page 13

  Henry had bent back some of the metal ends so we wouldn’t catch our clothes as we climbed through. I didn’t want to say anything, but at that moment, I sure wished I was lean and mean. There was no way I’d fit through that hole.

  “I’ll go first,” Henry said. And with that, he slithered through. “Who’s next?”

  “Ladies first,” I said to Scarlett.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll go last. I still haven’t decided if I’m doing this or not.”

  A flapping sound overhead caught our attention.

  “What was that?” she said.

  “That was a bat,” Henry announced.

  Scarlett suddenly made her mind up rather quickly. She dropped to all fours and crawled through.

  Now what? I could easily see that the hole wasn’t nearly big enough for me to squeeze through. But I couldn’t just say “I can’t fit.” I smiled nervously at Henry. He returned a friendly grin. I tried to communicate to him with my eyes. Please, friend, help me save face here. I swallowed and took a deep breath. Anything to delay the inevitable. I glanced at Henry one more time. He motioned for me to come through.

  Then all at once, as if someone had magically whispered something into his ear, he reached into his pocket for the wire cutters and bent down.

  “You know, Charlie, I think your jacket is gonna catch on one of these sharp ends. Let me tweak it a little.” He proceeded to cut through several more wires. As he snipped, he looked up at me and winked. He had read my body language—the way only a best friend could. A moment later, I slipped through and joined the others.

  We pointed our flashlights in various directions until they locked onto a farmhouse in the distance.

  “That’s gotta be it,” I said. “Let’s do this thing.”

  The grass was thick and wet. We took large, high steps to maneuver our way through it.

  “Oh great!” Henry yelled. He lifted his foot and shined his flashlight on the bottom of his shoe.

  “What? What is it?” Scarlett said.

  “I stepped on a cow pie,” Henry said disgustedly.

  “A cow pie? What’s that?”

  “Look real close … and smell.”

  Scarlett leaned in. Henry and I laughed at the same time.

  “Oh God, that is so gross,” she said.

  “It’s all about nature,” Henry said. “Cows have urges too, you know.”

  Scarlett lifted her foot and attempted to look at the bottom of her shoe. “Can I borrow a flashlight, please?” she said.

  “Why don’t you use your cell phone?” Henry said, trying to contain his laughter. He was unsuccessful.

  “Very funny.” Scarlett reached into her pocket to retrieve her phone. Then another pocket. It was gone. “My phone! It’s gone! It must have fallen out when we were riding over some of those bumps. I have to find it!”

  “You’ll never find it out here,” Henry said. “It’s a goner.”

  Scarlett shook her head and snarled. “This is a bad idea. This whole thing is a very bad idea.”

  Henry wiped his foot on some tall grass and shook his head. He was still chuckling.

  “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed that,” she said.

  “Let’s just get back to work.” I pointed at the farmhouse. “Come on.”

  We stepped quietly but carefully as we proceeded. From our vantage point, we could see a faint light on the first floor. We moved closer and hid behind a tree about fifty yards away.

  “Why don’t the two of you stay here for a minute. I wanna see something,” I said.

  “Nothing doin’,” Henry said. “We’re a team.”

  “You’re not leaving me here alone,” Scarlett squealed.

  The three of us crouched down and crept toward the back of the house.

  It was an old structure, built in the 1930s, I’d guess. As we got closer we could see that it was in pretty shabby condition. Paint peeled from every surface. The window screens were falling off. We didn’t exactly know what we were looking for. When Henry tripped over an empty pail, we soon found out.

  “Oh man, that hurt,” he said as he climbed to his feet.

  “Wait a minute. Did you hear something?” I said.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Scarlett replied.

  I pointed at a cellar door a few feet away. “It came from over there, I’m sure of it.”

  We tiptoed to the door and immediately knew we had hit the jackpot. The squawking was unmistakable.

  Henry’s eyes lit up. “There’s a bunch of birds down there.”

  “Do you think Socrates is in there?” Scarlett asked. She looked hopeful.

  “Only one way to find out,” I said. “Come on.”

  The cellar door was one of the old types that had to be lifted straight up. We yanked on it but it wouldn’t budge. A metal chain had been snaked through the door handles, and a padlock held it in place.

  “Oh great!” I said. “Now what?”

  “Boy, you’ve got a short memory,” Henry said as he pulled the wire cutters from his back pocket.

  “This chain’s thicker than that fence back there,” I said. “Think you can get through it?”

  “Piece of cake,” Henry answered. He knelt down, clamped the wire cutters onto the chain, and squeezed. A series of grunts and an occasional sigh followed. As he struggled, it seemed for a moment there that Henry had met his match. I held the flashlight directly over his head. Even with the dim lighting, we could see Henry’s face reddening.

  “I’m gettin’ there,” he said.

  And with one last two-handed squeeze, Henry let out a loud, long groan, and … SNAP! He had done it. We pulled the remaining piece of chain out from under the handles and lifted the cellar doors. When we had opened it just a crack, the screeching sounds got noticeably louder.

  “Who’s coming with me?” I asked.

  “I’m in,” Henry said.

  “Me too, I guess,” Scarlett said. “I’m not staying out here alone.”

  We threw open the door and proceeded down a set of stone stairs. The squawking and fluttering was deafening. As soon as we stepped onto the cement floor, and aimed our flashlights forward, we knew we had hit pay dirt. The room was filled with cages from end to end. I spotted an overhead light and flipped it on.

  Henry slapped me on the back. “Eureka!” he said. “Now let’s find that bird and get the heck out of here.”

  “All right. Henry, you stay here by the door and listen. We’ll go look for Socrates.”

  We’d been at it only a few minutes when I noticed Henry waving his arms.

  “I thought I heard something,” he whispered.

  A second later, Scarlett let out a blood-curdling scream that scared me half to death.

  “Look!” she shrieked. She pointed to a tiny window up near the ceiling. There was a large, grotesque face staring back at us. Whoever it was seemed to be smiling.

  “C’mon, let’s get out of here,” I yelled.

  The next sound was the one I was dreading—the sound of the cellar doors being slammed shut.

  “Who was that?” Scarlett cried.

  It had to be Rupert Olsen. Who else could it be? We could hear him trying to pull what was left of the chain through the door handles. He seemed to struggle with it at first—and then we heard a click. He had somehow managed to slip the padlock through the ends of the shortened chain.

  Henry ran up the stairs and pounded on the heavy wooden door. It wouldn’t budge. We quickly searched for another exit. Nothing. Even the windows had been boarded up. We glanced at the window where we had seen the face. It was now covered.

  “We’re trapped!” Scarlett screamed.

  I sprinted up the stairs and threw my body at the cellar doors. All I got for my effort was a bruised shoulder.

  “Let us out of here!” I yelled. I could hear movement outside. “I think he’s still out there,” I told the others. And then my suspicions were confirmed.

  “You’re not goin’ anywhere right now,
” a muffled voice said. “And don’t touch anything. If you do, you’ll be sorry.”

  We could hear laughter and footsteps trailing off.

  “We are trapped,” Henry said.

  Scarlett was now standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was wiping her eyes. “What’s gonna happen to us now?” she whimpered.

  I tried to seem calm. “We’ll just have to wait for somebody to find us,” I said.

  “And if they don’t?” Scarlett said.

  “Well, I don’t know exactly. But we’ll figure something out.”

  “We can’t just wait until some madman comes back,” Scarlett said. “Maybe if we all screamed, someone would hear us.”

  “Are you kidding?!” Henry said. “We couldn’t hear those birds until we were right on top of this place.”

  I knew that the prudent thing to do would be to resolve this problem ourselves—to break out of here. I also knew that I was the one who needed to map out a strategy—an escape plan of some sort. I kept waiting for an idea to pop into my head. The longer I waited, the more my brain fizzled. There was just no way out of this place. Period. My only thought—the window—was far too high up, and even then, much too small—even for Henry to wiggle through. We found a dry spot in the corner and plopped down. I sat and waited for inspiration to hit.

  It was starting to get late. And the worst part of all was that no one would be looking for us. Our folks thought Henry and I were at each other’s house. Even Scarlett had made up a story about a sleepover with a friend. We were on our own. We huddled together to stay warm. No one spoke for several minutes but we all knew what the other was thinking or, rather, dreading. And I also knew that the others would be expecting me to come up with an escape plan. It only made sense. I was the one who prided myself on being able to solve even the most challenging brainteasers.

  So now I had finally gotten my wish—the big score—and a real-life brainteaser to boot. I needed to stop panicking and start brainstorming. I needed to think like Sam Solomon. In nearly every one of his novels, Sam had been held captive at one time or another. Which Sam Solomon story would apply here? I created a mental picture of the bookshelf in my bedroom. I thought carefully about each story—and then it hit me. Of course—Episode #17—The Poultry in Motion Caper. There were birds in that story—just like here. I traced the plot in my head. I kept waiting for something to jump out—something that would assist us in our escape. But all I could think about was Rupert Olsen, and what he had planned for us when he returned. I was scared. I rolled up into a ball. I was ashamed of myself. And then I realized that there was a similarity between this particular Sam Solomon case and our situation. Both stories had chickens in them.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Hits and Mrs. Caper

  A good hour had passed and still nothing. Scarlett had examined all of the cages. Socrates was nowhere in sight. We sat quietly for several minutes. No one spoke. Henry eventually broke the ice.

  “Okay, Charlie, imagine this: There are these two boxers in a boxing match …”

  “A riddle? You expect me to solve a riddle at a time like this? I’m trying to think of a way out of this place if you don’t mind.”

  “I just figured this would get your brain cooking. C’mon, try it. See, there’s these two boxers in a boxing match. It’s scheduled to go twelve rounds, but one boxer knocks out the other one in the sixth round. But no man ever threw a punch. How’s it possible?”

  It seemed crazy to be tackling a brain buster after some psycho had locked us up in this hole, but maybe Henry was right. Maybe I needed to jump-start the old noodle. Let me see now.

  “What are you two talking about?” Scarlett asked.

  “Shhhh,” Henry said. “He’s thinking.”

  “Thinking about some brainteaser? He should be thinking about how we can get out of this place,” she snapped.

  I repeated the details. “Two boxers. Twelve rounds. It ended after six rounds. But no one threw a punch.”

  “That’s right,” Henry said. “No man ever threw a punch.”

  “Say that again,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That last part.”

  “No man ever threw a punch.”

  Of course. I listened to the way that Henry had rephrased what I had said. He went out of his way to replace no one with no man—and there lay the answer.

  “No man ever threw a punch,” I announced, “because they were women boxers.” I tried to make it seem as though I had solved this one thanks to my amazing powers of deduction but I really had to thank Sam Solomon. In Episode #4—The Hits and Mrs. Caper—Sam exposed a crooked fight promoter who was fixing matches—matches fought by none other than female boxers.

  Henry clenched his fists and groaned. “Before I die, Collier, I’m gonna stump you. Just wait.”

  “Well, then give him some more,” Scarlett blurted out, “because we’re probably all gonna be dead soon.” Her patience had run out. “And let me tell you something, Charlie—you really blew it. You couldn’t find Socrates, and now we’re all prisoners because of you.”

  I winced and looked down, ashamed. I wanted to defend myself in the worst way but she was right. I had really screwed this up. I wasn’t quite sure what to say. Should I apologize? Should I tell her everything was going to be all right? Should I remind her that Sam Solomon got into scrapes like these all of the time … and always managed to escape? I considered my options.

  “Listen, Scarlett,” I said. “I know that things look a little bleak—”

  Henry held his hand up. “Wait a second. Did you hear that?”

  There was a sound—a strange, high-pitched voice coming from across the cellar.

  “Scarlett,” the voice said.

  She turned in the direction of the sound. “What was that?”

  “Scarlett. I … love … you,” the voice said.

  And with that, we all ran in the direction of the sound. It appeared to be coming from a room hidden behind one of the large cages.

  “There’s somebody in there,” I said. “Come on, Henry, help me move this out of the way.”

  We slid the cage back and entered the room. I flipped on my flashlight. The space was small and had a damp smell. On the far wall was a shelf with more cages. I moved the light over each one, then stopped abruptly.

  “Socrates!” Scarlett screamed. “It’s you. You’re okay.” She ran over, lifted the cage, and hugged it.

  We were just about to leave when I sensed that we weren’t alone. Something, I feared, was standing directly between my legs. When I moved the flashlight down and saw the fattest rat I had ever seen, I bolted out of the room and into the cellar.

  “Get out of my way!” Henry yelled as he pushed past us.

  “Ahhhhh!” Scarlett screamed and scooted out, but managed to catch her jacket on a hook attached to the door frame. She pulled at it but couldn’t break free. The more she tried to undo it, the more tangled it became. “Charlie, help me!”

  The hook had ripped through the outside of her jacket and was clinging tightly to the inside lining. Scarlett’s repeated attempts to unhook herself weren’t helping any. I needed to bend the hook downward. Maybe then we could slide the jacket off. When I pushed down on the hook, I heard a sound. It was like a motor of some sort. And before our eyes, a wall began to slide open, revealing another room.

  Henry ran back over. Scarlett’s jacket was now free. And the three of us just stared into the room that had been hidden moments before. We glanced at one another. We couldn’t believe what we were seeing. There were more birds—dozens of them. But no squawking this time. And none of them were in cages. Each one was sitting upright on a perch, with its head cocked to one side. The perches were supported by a metal base with a nameplate on the front of each one, and words engraved on it. We crept into the room and began reading some of them.

  “Look at this one,” Scarlett said, as she read aloud, “‘American peregrine falcon.’”

 
; “Why does that sound familiar?” Henry said.

  The name was familiar. But where had I heard it? Had I seen something on TV? Had I read it in a book? No, wait a minute. It was in school, I think. Yeah. It was Mrs. Jansen’s class. Of course, that was it.

  “That bird’s on the endangered species list,” I said. “Remember? About a week ago in science class?”

  “You’re right,” Henry said. “And didn’t she say that one of these falcons was missing from a wildlife sanctuary?”

  “I guess he’s not missing anymore,” I said.

  Henry pointed at another nameplate that read NORTHERN SPOTTED OWL. “This one’s on the list too.”

  The entire room was filled with birds. Dead birds. Stuffed birds. There were parrots, cockatoos, macaws, cockatiels, hawks, pelicans, egrets, buzzards, you name it. And off to the side was a table with what could only be described as … bird parts.

  “What’s going on here?” Scarlett said.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Henry said. “This guy’s a taxidermist.”

  “A what?” she said.

  “If you’re a hunter or a fisherman, a taxidermist is the guy who stuffs the animal for you so you can hang it on your wall. My uncle’s got a bunch of these at his house.”

  “But this guy’s not only a taxidermist,” I said. “He’s a poacher. It’s illegal to kill these birds.” Then I noticed that some of the stuffed birds had a tag hanging off of them. Each one had a price, a name, and a phone number. “And these must be the buyers.”

  “This guy’s a black market taxidermist,” Henry said. “Now, wouldn’t the authorities just love to get their hands on him?”

  I immediately thought about the birds in the cages in the next room. “We can only assume that all the birds out there will eventually end up in here, endangered or not.”

  “Oh no!” Scarlett cried. “They can’t do that to Socrates.”

  “We gotta save ’em, Charlie. All of ’em,” Henry said. “It’s our duty.”

  A scraping sound from outside soon distracted us.

  “What was that?” Henry said.

  We scrambled out of the room.

  “It came from over there,” I said.

  We moved slowly in the direction of the cellar doors. There was someone out there, all right. And they were opening the padlock and sliding off the chain.