No one really knows how many people have perished in the attempt to find Rumpold Smeller’s treasure. Treasure hunting, in general, is a dangerous activity. As Homer well knew, treasure hunters often live exciting though abbreviated lives. The book The Worst Ways to End a Treasure Hunt is all about exciting though abbreviated lives. In a future edition, Drake Pudding’s untimely death by carnivorous tortoise would be added. Gertrude Magnum’s death by falling overboard would be added as well. If Madame la Directeur had her way, Homer and Lorelei would follow.
A sick feeling rose in Homer’s gut, and a sour taste filled his mouth. Maybe it was because he’d swallowed a bit of lake water while swimming. Or maybe it was because he’d just overheard his überenemy say she was planning to “get rid” of him.
Homer waited in the murky water, his jaw shivering, his legs itchy. Madame would be leaving soon to join Torch. Then he’d climb into the submarine. Then he’d tell Lorelei that he knew she’d been working for Madame. Then he’d grab Dog and Hercules and forget all about Lorelei, forget all about their L.O.S.T. and FOUND pact. He didn’t need her. He was the one who’d pasted the map back together. Hercules had translated the riddle. Angus MacDoodle had calculated the coordinates. Lorelei hadn’t done anything. Yes, that’s what he’d do. Somehow he’d leave Lorelei behind.
Except for one thing—Lorelei knew the riddle and the coordinates. And she could go straight to Madame and Torch with the information. And if she went straight to Madame and Torch, they’d “get rid” of her. He sighed. As much as he distrusted her, she’d once been his friend. And no matter how many bad things she did, those friendship feelings were as stubborn as a herd of goats in a lettuce patch—there was no way to budge them.
Homer’s thoughts scattered as Madame la Directeur hurried from the back room. She’d changed into professional treasure-hunting clothing, which looked exactly like the clothing Homer owned, so it had probably been made by Mr. Tuffletop. There was a pair of khaki shorts, a forest-green shirt, a khaki vest, knee-length leech-proof socks, brown leather boots, and a leather belt with the initials M.L.D. on the buckle. She stood in front of a mirror and pulled a Panama hat over her black hair. No one would recognize her as the woman plastered on the front page of the newspaper.
“Time to show those amateurs that they’ve met their match,” she said. Then she stomped up the staircase. Her steps echoed long after she’d disappeared through the tortoise exit.
Homer’s hands trembled as he untied the submarine’s mooring line. With a grunt, he climbed onto the deck. The sub was shaped like a biscuit with a thick candle sticking out of the top. The biscuit part was the sub’s body, and it floated just below the water’s surface. The thick candle was actually a wide metal pipe called a conning tower, with a hatch on top. Homer climbed a ladder and opened the hatch. Then he climbed down another ladder into the sub’s body.
As he stepped off the ladder, the first thing he noticed was a gold wall plaque.
The submarine had been named after Madame la Directeur? Homer scowled, reading the plaque again. Uncle Drake had once been in love with Madame, so it made sense that back in those days, Ajitabh would have named the submarine after Drake’s girlfriend. Homer shuddered. No way would he ever call it La Madame. As soon as the quest was finished, he’d get a new plaque and rename it The Drake.
The next thing he noticed was a metal tank built into the back wall. A label affixed to the tank read SEAWEED PROCESSING BIOFUEL UNIT. A switch on the tank read UP FOR ENGINE. DOWN FOR UNDERWATER BATTERY. Homer thought about this for a moment. Ajitabh had created a unit that sucked seaweed from the ocean and turned it into fuel. The fuel powered the engine while the submarine cruised at the surface. Then the battery took over when submerged. How very clever.
A little room off the side was labeled THE HEAD. Homer knew this was a seafarer’s way of saying “bathroom.” Another door read SUPPLY LOCKER and another SEAFLOOR EXIT. Three seats were mounted at the bow, each facing a curved observation window. The middle seat had a steering wheel that looked like it had come off a tugboat.
Homer sat in the pilot’s seat, his gaze scanning the panel of buttons before him. Ajitabh had affixed a tidy label beneath each button, but even so, the idea of driving a submarine was daunting. It would have been much easier to have Ajitabh at the controls, but that was not going to happen. Homer was on his own. So he carefully read each of the labels until he found what he believed was the first step in the process. ENGINE ON. When he pushed the button, it glowed green. The submarine rattled so loudly it sounded like the inside of a kettledrum. But then the noise subsided to a steady hum.
As he pondered the next step, his gaze rested on a throttle that jutted from the console right next to the steering wheel. There was a similar throttle in his dad’s old red truck that made the truck go forward and backward. With a tug, he pulled the throttle down. The engine roared and the submarine shot backward, slamming into the end of the lair’s pool. Homer pushed the throttle up. The engine roared and the submarine shot forward, crashing into the opposite side of the pool. Homer cringed. At this rate, he’d break the thing into pieces before leaving the lair.
It took a bit of practice, but he finally figured out how to ease the throttle into position. Gripping the wheel, he drove down the tunnel, leaving the lair behind. When the gate came into view, Homer pulled the throttle to neutral. Then he climbed up the ladder and stuck his head out of the hatch.
“Hey, Lorelei! Open the gate!” She did, and Homer drove the submarine into City Lake.
When he climbed out of the hatch, warm August air blew across his face. “Hi, Homer,” Hercules called from the paddleboat. Dog barked and wagged his tail.
“You did it!” Lorelei called. She pumped her legs, paddling quickly toward the sub. “You got it. Did you see Madame? Is she in there?”
Homer glared at the pink-haired girl in the pink jumpsuit. He wanted to yell at her, wanted to tell her he knew she’d been working with Madame. But if she knew that he knew, then she’d be ready for the time when he’d double-cross her. He stepped onto the sub’s deck. “Yeah, I saw her. But she’s gone now.”
“Where’d she go?” Lorelei asked.
“I don’t know,” he said with an innocent shrug. “I didn’t talk to her. I was hiding.”
“Did she seem upset?” Lorelei asked as the paddleboat pulled up alongside the submarine. “I changed a bunch of things in her lair. Did she notice?”
“Oh, she noticed,” Homer said.
With a grunt, Dog heaved himself over the side of the paddleboat and landed on the deck next to Homer. Hercules followed and handed Homer his clothing. Then Lorelei stepped onto the deck. She gave the empty paddleboat a shove, sending it toward the far side of the lake, where the rental stand awaited.
Dog peered into the water and growled as the whale shark circled the sub. “Thanks for getting Speckles,” Lorelei said.
“What are you going to do with him?” Homer asked.
“Well, it should be easy. He’ll follow us down the river, and when we reach the ocean, he’ll be free.” She climbed up the ladder and disappeared through the hatch.
“Can you help me get Dog up that ladder?” Homer asked Hercules.
“Yeah, no problem.” Hercules scooped Dog up and started up the ladder. “Do you have life jackets on board?” he asked. “I sure hope so.”
Before climbing back inside the submarine, Homer stood at the top of the ladder and scanned the view. More joggers had appeared on the lake’s distant shore. An ice cream truck drove past crowded benches. The skyscrapers loomed beneath a blue cloudless sky. Homer W. Pudding was about to leave The City behind and head for open ocean. Am I crazy to do this? he wondered.
His uncle’s voice rolled through his mind: “It is a sad truth of human history that those who dare to be different are often judged to be not quite right in the head.”
Homer smiled, suddenly remembering that he was about to embark on a quest while wearing only his boxers. Maybe I am just a tiny bit crazy.
“Hey, where’s Daisy?” Lorelei’s voice boomed from the bottom of the ladder.
Homer glanced down the conning tower. Lorelei was holding out her arms as if the gray rat would jump into them at any moment.
All the anger Homer felt toward Lorelei, that churning pin-prickly sensation that had made his heart race and had made him feel as if he were standing in the eye of a storm, all of that receded like a dream.
“Lorelei,” he said gently after he’d climbed down the ladder and looked into her big eyes, “I have some bad news.”