I’m usually groggy when I wake up in the morning. Not today. I opened my eyes, dropped to the floor, reached under the bed, and pulled out my Gray Shadow Crimestoppers kit. I looked at my Gray Shadow hat. Should I wear it? No, I decided. That’s for play. I’m not playing today. I took out the only two things I needed: handcuffs and whistle.
I had to practice. I snuck into Jake’s room. He was still sleeping. His arm was hanging off the bed. Perfect. I knelt by the bed. I opened one cuff. I snapped it over his wrist, clicked it shut. Took maybe three seconds. He squawked. His cuffed arm flew up and caught me in the lip. He stared at the cuff, stared at me, shoved me onto my butt. “Get this off me!”
“I have the key,” I said, all calm. “Say please or you’ll be wearing that thing all day long.”
He started to get out of bed, real slow, the way Mom moves when it’s don’t-even-think-about-it time. Things were instantly obvious:
He wasn’t going to say please.
He was going to kill me.
I pulled the key from my pocket and unlocked him and got outta there. I tasted something. My lip was bleeding. I got a wad of toilet paper and clamped it between my lips.
But I was happy. The practice pinch had gone pretty good. I practiced some more on my old Nerf bat. Each time I snapped the handcuff on the bat, I pictured Bump Stubbins’s wrist.
I was ready.
I was too excited to eat breakfast. I put on my watch, got my bike, and headed off. But I couldn’t go straight to his house. It was too early. He’s a lazy bum, so I knew he wouldn’t be up and out very early. I figured nine a.m. was about right.
I cruised the streets, passing time. Exposure. That was my weapon. Not a stun gun or nightstick. Most criminals are sneaky, my Crimestoppers manual says. They do their dark deeds in the concealing shadows of law-abiding society, the manual says. What many criminals fear most is the blinding beam of justice lighting up their creepy little crannies and showing other people what scumbags they are. Exposure works especially good on criminals with a conscience. I wasn’t sure if Bump Stubbins had a conscience, but I figured it was worth a try. Not to mention that he was bigger than me now, so I couldn’t just beat him up like I did when he smashed my snow fort.
The sun was warm on my bare knees. I checked my watch. 8:55. Time!
I pulled into his driveway. 129 Mulberry.
Across the street I could see kids popping up and down behind a high hedge. Trampoline.
Up the street a lady with a pink sunshade was on her knees in a flower garden.
A teenage boy was looking down at his dog, waiting, pooper-scooper bag ready.
A UPS man was lugging a big box up a driveway.
Good. I wanted people. Witnesses.
I rang the doorbell. I kept ringing it. He was probably still in bed. He probably figured if he didn’t come down and answer it, the bell ringer would go away.
I must have been ringing for five minutes before the door finally opened. He wore sweat shorts. That was all. His toes curled under his feet so he looked toeless. His eyes were sleepy slits. I could see him struggle to bring my face into focus. When he did, the eyes came open and I could practically hear them speak: What the heck is she doing here?
When the moment arrives, don’t delay, the manual says. The best time to pinch a perp is when they’re confused or otherwise distracted.
“Hold out your hand,” I said. I said it like a command, no-nonsense, like he had no choice. Your voice is your authority.
Sure enough, the dummy held out his hand. Snap! I had the cuff on him. Before he could say, “Huh?” I had the other cuff on my own wrist.
“You’re under arrest,” I told him.
He blinked. He stared at his wrist. He was finally waking up. “You can’t arrest me. You’re not a cop.”
“Citizen’s arrest,” I said.
He blinked. “Huh?”
“Vandalizing the playground. Painting GOOBERS on the pipe.”
“What’re you talking about?” He was getting growly now. He was remembering he’s bigger than me. “I didn’t do nuthin.” He yanked his cuffed hand away—which yanked me lurching right into him. My head clipped his chin. For the first time he realized he was handcuffed to me.
I took the plastic Baggie from my pocket. In the Baggie was the chewed-up glob of black licorice. I wagged it in front of his face. Hard evidence wins the case. “This was found at the scene of the crime.” I smiled.
He tugged at the handcuff. He hollered. “Take this off!”
The Crimestopper must remain calm, alert, and in control.
“I will,” I said calmly. “When you fix the damage you did.”
He let out a screech with no particular word attached to it. He threw out his cuffed arm, which made me slap myself in the face. Maybe I should have handcuffed him to my leg. He tried to stomp back inside the house and almost slammed the door on his own arm. His face was raging purple. I hadn’t seen him so mad since the time I struck him out in Pee Wee Baseball. He screamed in my face: “Forget it, girlie!”
I stayed in control. “Forget it?” I shook my head calmly. “I don’t think so.”
The unexpected is your friend.
Without warning I yanked him out of the doorway and onto the porch. I pulled the whistle from my pocket. I looked at him. I smiled. “Forget it?” I pulled him to the top step. I faced the street. “Forget it, girlie?”
I blew the whistle.
Nothing else sounds like a whistle. You expect it on a basketball court or football field—but not on a nice quiet street with flower beds and dog walkers.
Mulberry Street froze. The UPS truck jerked to a stop. The pink sunshade turned. The trampolining kids boggled for two pops above the hedge, then reappeared in full bodies on the sidewalk. Even the dog stopped in its tracks to stare at me.
“HEY, EVERYBODY!” I yelled. “BUMP STUBBINS WRECKS LITTLE KIDS’ PLAYGROUNDS! BUMP STUB—”
A hand mashed my mouth shut. Bump hauled me by my cuffed wrist across the porch and into the house. His eyes were wild. He was panting. Well well, he has a conscience, I thought. “Okay,” he gasped, “okay.”
I took off the cuffs. My mouth and my whistle were all the shackles I needed now.
Exposure.
I let him go upstairs to put on more clothes. He got his bike. We rode to Devon Park.
Along the way I suddenly realized I had given all my attention to pinching the perp. Now what?
Mrs. Addison was a big help. She drove us to the paint store and laid out the plan. Except for feeding us lunch, she stayed behind the scenes for the rest of the day.
One coat of black, and GOOBERS was gone. Then came the new name as big and yellow as before. And better. Turned out the perp could be really neat if he tried. Thanks to quick-dry paint, the job was done way before dinnertime. Now the lettering said:
TUNNEL OF DOOM