The image is refreshed every three seconds,” Alf informed us. “So you’re seeing this practically in real time. It’s coming off the satellite surveillance net. I’d ask you to sit, but the sofa’s gone walkabout.”
He gestured vaguely at an area directly in front of the desk. I looked down at the carpet and saw four indentations where the sofa’s feet had once rested. I thought the rectangle formed by the indentations seemed remarkably clean. And free of dust bunnies.
“You’ve hacked into the data streams coming from government surveillance satellites?” Fiona asked, turning into what Freak liked to call Science Girl.
“It isn’t hard to do,” Alf admitted. “It helps me keep track of what’s going on in the neighborhood. Here. Look at how close we can get.”
Alf made some more wizardly gestures over his desk. Hellsboro filled the screen. White concrete buildings and enormous storage tanks were visible in Hellsboro’s center.
“Rodmore Chemical,” I said. I felt a little sick saying it. My parents had both worked for Rodmore. Thinking of the place made me think of them. One of the photographs I had of them showed them at the company picnic. A big Rodmore banner was visible over their heads. Some people in town got angry when they heard the name Rodmore. Whenever I heard it, I just got depressed.
Alf magnified the image even more. It was as if we were seeing things only fifty feet or so below us. The cracks in the pavement around the buildings were clearly visible. Broken glass glistened here and there. Suddenly, a blurred canine-looking shape appeared in the right-hand corner of the picture.
“Is that a coyote?” Freak asked.
“Could be,” Alf said dryly. “An unnaturally large coyote. How much do you know about what caused the Hellsboro fire?”
“It’s never been proven,” I said, “but a lot of people think the factory had been dumping some sort of waste chemicals into the soil, and after a while they somehow caused the coal to ignite.”
“Correct,” Alf said. “Here’s an aerial picture of the area before the fire started,” he went on, changing the picture on the screen to one that was much greener. “That’s Rodmore in the center. To the north is most of the town of Cheshire. To the west is the Sunnyside housing development. You can just make out the Underhill place, where we are now, at the extreme left. This was thirteen years ago.”
Alf massaged the air above the desktop, and a transparent pink blob appeared on the screen, centered on the Rodmore factory. “Rodmore starts dumping some sort of chemical substance into the grounds around the factory, and by the end of the first year the underground plume—that’s the word for a spreading spill beneath the surface—the plume extends about this far. Another year and it’s expanded to this”—the pink blob grew—“and by the third year it’s under half the houses in the Sunnyside development.”
Red dots appeared on five of the houses in the photograph. One of the houses was Freak’s. Freak, who had been pacing and showing signs of boredom, suddenly stood very still.
“Whatever else the plume may have been,” said Alf, “it was definitely toxic. The dots represent five incidences of leukemia, all occurring within the space of eighteen months, all within a half mile of one another. Statistically improbable. The dot on that house—”
“Yeah,” said Freak, rather forcefully. “That’s my sister. And she was more than just a dot on some stupid photograph. Why are we talking about this? What has this got to do with the crayon?”
“The crayon,” Alf said, slowly and deliberately, “as improbable as it may sound, could be the key to bringing to justice one of the people responsible for the Rodmore chemical dumping. And, by extension, bringing to light some of the mischief it caused.”
“Mischief?” said Freak, as if the word didn’t come anywhere near describing it.
“Criminal mischief, yes. Crimes, if you prefer.”
“Who are you?” demanded Freak.
Alf stepped around the desk and faced the three of us, the big screen at his back.
“I am someone who has been living in this house ever since its previous owner passed away. I have been keeping my eye on the allegedly abandoned Rodmore Chemical site, monitoring events in the town, and waiting for an opportunity like this to present itself. I cannot undo the damage that has already been done, but I might possibly be able to prevent worse damage from happening in the future.”
“Who do you work for?” I asked.
“I am self-employed.”
“You put the crayon in the sofa,” stated Freak. “And then you put the sofa out front, knowing we would sit on it.”
“I can’t take credit for that. It was mainly the sofa’s idea.”
“And you deliberately say off-the-wall things.” Freak came as close to yelling as he ever did. “And wear only one sock, and dress like you don’t know what century it is, because you’re trying to come across like Willy Wonka, or the Wizard of Oz, or somebody who hangs around with Muppets, because you figure we’re dumb kids and this will somehow charm us and make you our friend!”
Behind Alf the screen reverted to the real-time satellite image of Rodmore Chemical. The unnaturally large coyote was clearly visible. In three-second increments, it walked up the steps of one of the buildings and disappeared inside.
“I thought a few eccentricities might put you at your ease,” said Alf, oblivious to what was going on behind him. The satellite image started to drift west. It left the chemical plant and started moving slowly over Hellsboro, showing the cinder-covered surface. “I thought you might be afraid of a lone man living in a rambling old house. My sister tells me I come across as somewhat intense. I thought throwing in a few odd mannerisms and the random non sequitur might reassure you.”
“You mean, convince us you were harmless?” asked Freak.
“Yes. Did I overdo it?”
The three of us just stared at him.
“Does your sister live here with you?” I asked. I thought I had heard a faint tch-tch while Alf was explaining toxic plumes. Apparently, I was the only one who had heard it.
“No,” Alf said slowly, as if “no” didn’t fully answer the question. “I live here by myself. There’s just me—and you, my three guests.” Alf stretched out his arms, as if he might hug us. “I was hoping to gain your trust or, at the very least, hold your interest.”
“Is that my house?” said Fiona, craning her neck to see past Alf. He turned and looked.
The image showed an L-shaped house with a tan-shingled roof. A swing set in the backyard cast a skeletal shadow on a wading pool’s greenish water. It was unmistakably Fiona’s house—I could tell by the fake wishing well on the front lawn. The image refreshed, and suddenly two large dogs were standing next to the well.
“Oh, dear,” said Alf.
“What are those?” Fiona walked closer to the screen.
“At a guess,” said Alf, “I’d say they’re supposed to be an Irish setter and a Newfoundland.”
We all moved closer to the screen and squinted at it.
“Supposed to be?” I said.
“What they really are,” Alf explained, “are two men wearing narrow umbrella-like hats, the tops of which have been designed to look like dogs when seen from above. They know that at this hour of the day, in this particular neighborhood, there’s probably nobody around to observe them at street level. But they’re not entirely sure there isn’t someone monitoring the satellite images. So they’re taking the precaution of wearing the hats. This is why I asked you to stay under the trees when you came up to the house. You never know who might be watching.”
During Alf’s speech, the image had refreshed several times. The dogs had moved around each other and progressed to the side of the house.
“That dog just smelled the other dog’s butt!” Fiona declared.
“Yes,” said Alf admiringly. “They’re very professional.”
“What are they doing outside my house?”
“I’m pretty certain they’re about to break in, looking for the zucchini crayon.”
Fiona made a little strangled noise at the back of her throat.
“But the zucchini crayon is here with us,” I said.
“They don’t know that. All they know is the computer that originated the auction is located at the address they’ve come to. It’s perfectly logical for them to assume the crayon is inside the house.”
“We have to call the police!” shouted Fiona. She started rummaging frantically in her bag for her cell phone.
“I’m afraid,” said Alf, loudly and forcefully enough to make her pause, “there will be a considerable delay before you get through to them. This is what comes of accepting gifts of communication equipment from a company like the Disin Corporation. The doghats will have ample time to break in, search the place, and be on their way.”
“What if we call the dogcatcher instead?” suggested Freak, as if he were finding the whole thing a joke.
Fiona let out a little shriek. She pointed at an object leaning against the side of the house. It was partly obscured by the overhang.
“That’s my little brother’s bicycle! He’s home! He’s inside the house, and these wackos are about to break in! He’s by himself!”
“Oh,” said Alf. “That changes things. Will he answer the phone if it rings?”
Fiona tapped her cell once and held the phone to her ear.
“Tell him to turn on the TV as quickly as he can, as loud as it will go,” Alf instructed. “They won’t break in if they think someone is home.”
Fiona glared at her phone, then shook her head. “It’s no good. He’s not answering. He never does when he’s home alone. Especially if he’s on Mom’s computer.”
“They’ve gone under the awning,” Freak reported.
“We have to get over there!” Fiona started for the door. Alf caught her by the sleeve.
“You won’t make it in time! But if your brother is using a computer, we can do something from here.” Alf turned and spoke to his desk. “Can you get a connection?”
Blocky black letters appeared on the screen, superimposed over the image of Fiona’s house.
ONE MOMENT.
“Your brother’s name is Stephen?” Alf asked.
“Stevie. Yes.”
AUDIO CONNECTION ESTABLISHED. YOU MAY SPEAK.
Alf leaned over his desk and addressed the screen.
“Stevie Shuck,” he said, dropping his voice down an octave. “This is the Department of Homeland Security. Do not turn off your computer. We are about to conduct a test of the emergency broadcasting system. The sound coming from your computer will rapidly increase in volume. Please cover your ears.”
Music started playing. It quickly got louder.
“Isn’t that the French national anthem?” Fiona asked.
“Yes,” Alf confirmed. “I’ve always loved that part of the movie Casablanca when the nightclub orchestra plays it to annoy the Nazis.”
The music got louder and louder. Suddenly, two dogs darted out from under Fiona’s awning and raced down the road.
“Notice how it appears their tails are between their legs?” Alf said. “You have to admire the attention to detail.”
The music stopped abruptly. Alf leaned forward and said, “This concludes our test of the emergency broadcast system. Had it been a real emergency, there would have been explosions. Now, in the interest of national security, return to your room and clean it.”
The dogs disappeared beneath some overhanging trees. A few moments later, a car emerged from the same location and sped away.
“They’ve probably already reported back,” said Alf.
“Reported what?” I asked.
“Possibly that the crayon is in the hands of a very patriotic French family. Certainly that the first attempt to find it has failed.”
“You think there will be other attempts?” Fiona sounded on the verge of panic.
“Not if you go home and cancel the auction.”
Before any of us could reply, there was a sound like a metal garbage can full of hubcaps being knocked over. It came from a distant part of the house. The way everybody froze, I knew I wasn’t the only one who had heard something this time.