— 12 —
BUTTERBEAN AND WALT HAD THEIR distraction techniques all planned out. Butterbean was going with her signature move of running in circles and, in case of emergency, the old standby, begging to go out. Walt was planning to employ the sitting-on-Mrs.-Food-so-she-couldn’t-move technique, with her routine of coughing up a hairball as a last resort.
But as it turned out, it wasn’t Mrs. Food they needed to worry about. It was Madison.
“I’m HOME!” Madison yelled as she threw her book bag into the apartment and kicked it across the floor.
“What?” Mrs. Food’s surprised voice came from the office.
“WHAT?” Butterbean yelped. She’d been dozing in the hallway, planning to cut Mrs. Food off at the pass at any sign of movement.
“WHAT?” Walt said, accidentally falling off the coffee table.
Madison wasn’t supposed to be home for hours.
This was a disaster.
Walt stood up and shook herself off. Maybe things weren’t that bad. Maybe it wasn’t obvious that Oscar wasn’t in his cage. Maybe no one would notice.
She looked back at Oscar’s cage. The door was standing wide open, and it was perfectly obvious that a semi-large black bird wasn’t sitting anywhere inside. Nope, definitely a disaster.
Mrs. Food opened her door and hurried down the hallway. “Madison? Why are you home so early?”
Madison kicked her book bag into its spot in the corner as she took off her jacket. “I told them I was sick and took the bus home.” Mrs. Food looked shocked. “WHAT? I couldn’t just SIT THERE with Bob thinking I’m some kind of criminal. I need to defend myself! I need to clear my name. I thought I’d go downstairs and do some investigating. Come on, Butterbean. Want to come?”
Butterbean wagged her tail. She absolutely wanted to come. Especially if it would get Madison out of the house again.
Mrs. Food took Madison by the shoulders and steered her away from the front door. “That storage unit is the one place you are absolutely not going. You will stay as far away from there as possible until this is all cleared up. I’m working on it, but you need to leave this to me.”
“But they think I’m a criminal!” Madison said.
“And we know you’re not. And we’ll prove it,” Mrs. Food said, sitting Madison down on the couch.
“What do we do?” Butterbean moaned. She was standing in the middle of the living room, swaying back and forth. She didn’t know if she should run, bark, or try to get outside. All of her distraction ideas were ruined.
“I don’t know!” Walt said, hovering at the edge of the couch. “They haven’t looked at the cage. Maybe they won’t? I’m sitting on one of them—I don’t care which one.”
“Now, you’re supposed to be sick? So be sick. Spend the afternoon watching bad TV. I’ll make you some soup. Things will look better soon,” Mrs. Food said, patting Madison on the shoulder and heading to the kitchen.
She didn’t look at Oscar’s cage.
“Madison it is,” Walt said, pouncing onto Madison’s lap and kneading Madison’s stomach before settling down for a long nap. “She won’t move for hours.”
Madison rubbed Walt on the head. “I didn’t even say goodbye to you this morning,” she said softly. “So I’ll say hello now. Hello, cat!”
Walt purred in satisfaction. Madison wasn’t going anywhere, not for a long time.
“Hello, Butterbean!” Madison called over to Butterbean, who was drooling uncontrollably. Anxiety made her spitty.
“Hi, rats,” Madison called over to the aquarium.
“Oh no,” Butterbean said. The rats weren’t there. THE RATS WEREN’T THERE. She looked over at the rat cage. Marco and Polo had piled their cedar chips in one corner of the cage, so it looked kind of like they were sleeping. But only kind of.
Wallace peeked out from behind the couch. “Hey, guys! What’s—”
“WALLACE!” Butterbean yelped. “Quick—GET IN THE RAT CAGE!”
“GO!” Walt said, leaning up and aggressively licking Madison’s face. “She’s not looking!”
Wallace didn’t hesitate. He raced for the rat cage, climbed up the table leg, and leaped into the cage in record time. “I’m here!” he called, doing his best to look like two rats.
Butterbean sighed in relief. Disaster averted.
Walt stopped licking and curled back up, making herself as heavy as possible. Madison scratched Walt’s neck again and then craned her neck around to look at Oscar.
“Hello, Oscar!” Madison called. Then she frowned. “Oscar?”
“Oh no,” Walt said, twisting around and batting wildly at Madison’s hair. Madison didn’t pay any attention.
“WALT!” Butterbean barked. She started spinning in circles for a distraction, but Madison didn’t even look at her.
Walt bumped Madison’s chin with her head, but it was too little too late.
Madison sat up straight. “Oscar? OH NO!” She stood up, dumping Walt in a heap on the floor. “Mrs. Fudeker? Oscar’s GONE!”
“So he’s been doing this all day?” Polo said, pressing her face up to the grate. She was watching Bob clean up the storage area. He had the door to the basement elevator area propped open and was sweeping up what looked like confetti.
“Yup,” Dunkin said, leaning against the wall. “There’s a lady that comes in every so often and yells at him. I think a lot of it’s her stuff.”
“The raccoons did all this?” Marco couldn’t help but be impressed. They’d done some serious work in a short amount of time.
“Yeah, but don’t forget, Madison’s the one who’s taking the blame.” Polo’s eyes narrowed. “As if Madison would go through people’s storage units and throw their stuff around. Besides, she’s just one kid! This took some time!”
“It’s a lot easier when you’ve got a whole passel of raccoon friends to help out,” Dunkin said. “Now, us rats, we would never do that. We’re discreet. We never even use the storage area, except for our annual bottle-cap shuffleboard tournament. Which I guess is off this year. Thanks a lot, raccoons,” he finished bitterly.
“That stinks,” Marco said. He wasn’t sure what shuffleboard was exactly, but it had to be exciting if there was a whole rat tournament.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Dunkin said. “I just feel bad for Ken. He’s been champion four years running. This year was his chance to break the world record.”
“Um. Sorry,” Polo said, watching Bob drag a garbage bin across the storage room and open the loading dock door. “Well, I guess that’s it, then? We should report back, Marco.”
“Yeah, we should find out what Oscar—HOLY COW!” Marco pressed his face hard against the grate. “Did you see that? What was that?”
Just a few seconds after Bob opened the door to the loading dock, something large and black had flown at him, attacking his face and then flying across the storage room and into the basement.
“Was that—” Marco’s mouth hung open as he stared wide-eyed at Polo.
“We have to go,” Polo gasped. “WE HAVE TO GO NOW.”
Oscar’s life flashed before his eyes. “ACK!” he squawked, shaking his foot desperately. The hand tightened its grip.
“Oscar, isn’t it?” a low voice growled. “So we meet again.”
“Let go! Let go of my foot!” Oscar tugged against the hand holding on to his leg, but the grip was like steel.
“I don’t know if you noticed, but I was asleep.” The big raccoon poked his head out from underneath the folds of the coat. “I was asleep, and you kicked me. I don’t like that, Oscar.”
Oscar stopped shaking his leg and glared at the raccoon. (He wasn’t going to get free anyway. He realized that now.) “You need to leave. You and the other raccoons, you’re not welcome. I’ve warned you before. This is your last chance.”
The raccoon laughed a cold laugh. “Leave? Or you’ll do what? Who’s the one who’s trapped, bird? Not me.”
“You’re causing problems.” Oscar tried to stand firm, but his other leg was shaking. “You don’t want to make me angry,” he said. He’d heard someone say something like that on the Television once, and it had been very effective.
Unfortunately it was less effective in real life.
“No, bird. You’re the one who doesn’t want to make ME angry. You’re the one who needs to leave.”
The raccoon loosened his grip on Oscar’s leg and splayed his fingers wide in front of him. “I’m letting you go. But know this. If you or your friends ever bother us again, there will be serious consequences. Do not test me. You won’t survive the test.”
The raccoon disappeared back into the folds of the coat, leaving Oscar standing awkwardly a few paces away. Oscar took a deep breath. “You can’t threaten—” he started.
And then the raccoon erupted out of the coat. “GO!” The raccoon snarled, teeth bared.
Oscar hopped backward, stumbling over a piece of gravel and leaping into the air. The loading dock door opened, and Oscar saw his chance. He flew at top speed through the door, smacking into something in his way, and then streaked through the storage area and into the basement.
Oscar heard a commotion behind him, but he ignored it, pecking frantically at the elevator button.
The elevator dinged. Oscar flew inside, hovering near the ceiling as the elevator started moving. He just hoped he would be able to press the fourth-floor button before anyone else got on.
He wasn’t that lucky.
“Lobby,” the elevator voice said as the doors opened. An elderly woman stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the seventh floor. And as the doors shut, she turned and looked up at the ceiling. Right at Oscar. He’d been seen.
She smiled at him. Oscar gasped in recognition.
It was Mrs. Power Walker.
Maintaining eye contact, she hovered her finger over the elevator button. “Three?” she said softly. “No? Eight? No. Four?”
Oscar squawked once. “Four it is!” Mrs. Power Walker said, smiling. Then she turned back to face the elevator doors.
Oscar landed on the railing inside the elevator wall with a thump. His wings just weren’t up to hovering anymore. Mrs. Power Walker didn’t even seem to notice. She didn’t say another word until the elevator opened on the fourth floor.
“Have a good day!” she called after Oscar as he flew out into the hallway.
Oscar didn’t think that was possible anymore.
“OH NO!” Madison ran around the apartment, looking at the tops of all of the bookcases and cabinets. “He’s not anywhere. How could he get out?”
Mrs. Food was in the living room, looking behind couch cushions. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably just hiding.”
“Oh, this is bad,” Butterbean said as she tailed Madison around the apartment. “We messed up distracting, Walt!”
“I should’ve gone for the hairball,” Walt said. “It never fails.”
“I should’ve peed on the rug! Why didn’t I pee on the rug?” Butterbean wailed.
“Maybe he’s in one of the bedrooms?” Mrs. Food said, putting back the last couch pillow.
“Good idea!” Madison ran down the hallway, with Mrs. Food close behind her.
“Holy cow, you guys! You are not going to believe—” Marco yelled as he and Polo came streaking out from behind the couch. Marco held up one finger as he bent over panting. It was a lot farther from the basement to the fourth floor than he’d thought. “You are not going to BELIEVE—” he started again.
“Get in the cage! GET IN THE CAGE!” Walt said, running over and nudging Marco toward the rat cage. “You too, Polo. RUN!”
“Emergency situation!” Butterbean explained as she raced by. (She was doing her circles again. It might not have worked as a distraction, but it worked as a freak-out technique.)
Marco and Polo scrambled up the table legs and belly flopped into their cage just as Madison came back into the room. She looked around aimlessly and then gasped.
“OH NO!” Madison said, pointing at the open window. She turned to Mrs. Food, her eyes wide. “Do you think he got outside?”
“Oh no, no, he wouldn’t do that,” Mrs. Food said. But she had gone pale.
“But he’s not ANYWHERE,” Madison said, on the verge of tears. “We’ll never find him! It’s all my fault!”
“How is it HER fault?” Butterbean asked.
“Beats me,” Walt said. “It’s obviously my fault.”
“It’s the raccoons’ fault,” Butterbean said.
Madison peered out of the window. “I don’t see him. If he got out, he’s just GONE.”
“Have you checked the hallway? Maybe he got out there somehow?” Mrs. Food said, trying to sound hopeful. But she couldn’t take her eyes off of the open window.
“Good idea, maybe he’s there,” Madison said, her voice thick. She wiped her eyes and then hurried to the front door.
“Oscar?” she called as she threw the door open wide. And was immediately hit in the face by a large mynah bird streaking into the room.
“OOF!” Madison said. “Oscar?”
“Why do I keep doing that?” Oscar wailed. “Excuse me! Apologies!” he called over his shoulder as he flew over to his cage. He crash-landed inside, collapsing on the floor with his wings stretched out. They were quivering with exertion. Oscar hoped they’d recover. “I’m back,” he croaked.
“He’s back!” Madison cheered. “How did he get out?”
“I must’ve forgotten to close the door to his cage,” Mrs. Food said, hurrying over to the cage and closing the door. “I am so sorry, Oscar.” She turned to Madison. “He looks traumatized, poor guy. I wonder how long he was out there?”
“Too long,” Oscar said softly.
“Thank goodness he’s back,” Madison said, sinking down on the couch. “We found him.”
“Thank goodness you were here,” Mrs. Food said, sitting down next to her. “See? It turned out all right in the end.”
Madison nodded.
Oscar looked down at Walt and Butterbean. “I failed. This isn’t going to turn out all right. The raccoons aren’t leaving.”
Butterbean nodded. “It’s okay,” she said. “We failed too.”
Walt sat down, her face grim. “You didn’t fail, Oscar. None of us did. We just haven’t succeeded.” She curled her tail around her feet. “Yet.”