Invasion of the Dognappers (2 page)

“An alien abducted a dog today outside Sandwiches,” Logan told his mom after he got in the car.

“Uh-huh,” his mom said, putting the car into reverse.

“Or probably aliens, plural. I doubt one would travel across the universe by itself. What if it got sick or something, or had to go to the bathroom during a meteor shower? Who would steer? Autopilot probably wouldn’t work in a meteor shower….”

“Logan, I have a lot on my mind right now,” his mom said. “Patrice can’t babysit this week. She had to leave town unexpectedly.”

“But, Mom. I saw a dog abducted by—”

“Aliens. I heard you, Logan. I’m listening to you. I’m just asking if it can wait till we get home.”

“I’ve waited to talk to you about it all day. If you would get me a cell phone, I could have called you. Or texted you. But you won’t.”

“You’re ten, Logan.”

“Ten and a sixth. And I don’t see what difference that makes. You know I’m very mature for my age.”

“Yes, sweetheart, you are very mature,” his mom said, then smiled at him over her shoulder. Logan sat in the backseat beside his little brother, Sloane, who was strapped into his car seat.

“I agree it wouldn’t make good sense to get Sloane a cell,” Logan said. “He doesn’t even talk good.”

Sloane looked at him. “Goga,” he said.

“See?” Logan said. “He still calls me Goga. Even after all the years he’s known me.”

“Less than two years, Logan,” his mom said with a smile.

“A year and seven-twelfths. I wouldn’t support getting Sloane a cell phone. But I’m mature enough to have one. I sure could have used one today. When I informed Roberta that a dog had been abducted, she wouldn’t even stop the bus. If I had a cell, I could have called nine-one-one. Or the FBI.”

“Roberta has a lot of responsibility, Logan. Maybe an abducted dog isn’t as important as getting a busload of kids to school on time. I bet she reported the incident when she got back to the bus barn.”

“Doubtful,” Logan said. “She’s never reported any of the abductions and sightings I’ve witnessed. In my opinion, she doesn’t take alien presence on Earth seriously enough. Don’t they ask her about such things during the bus-driver interview process?”

“I’m not sure, Logan.”

“You need to go over her head, Mom. Contact the president, maybe, or the head of the FBI. Though I bet they already know about it. I’ve heard the FBI knows there are aliens on Earth, but they don’t tell us because they think we’ll panic. I wouldn’t panic.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

“I didn’t panic today. If the FBI knows there are aliens and they’re monitoring them, fine. But I don’t think they should allow aliens to steal people’s dogs. I sure don’t want one to steal Bubba.”

The family’s aged pet bloodhound was resting behind the backseat in the cargo area.

“
Unnnh, unnnh, unnnh
,” whined Sloane.

“That’s right, Sloanie,” Logan’s mom said. “That’s what Bubba says.”

“Bubba fart!” Sloane said, slapping his chubby palms on the plastic tray in from of him.

“Yup,” his mom said. “Bubba farts all right.”

“It’s not her fault, Sloane,” Logan said. “She’s old. You’ll probably fart, too, when you’re as old as Bubba.”

“Sloanie farts now,” his mom said, peering at Sloane in her rearview mirror.

“Sloanie fart!” Sloane said, and, again, pounded his tray.

“Yeah, you fart, Sloane,” Logan said, “but not as much as Bubba.”

“Which is why we never have to worry about aliens taking her.”

“I hope you’re right, Mom.” Logan turned and stared vaguely out the window. “I hope you’re right.”

Logan woke up an hour earlier than usual the next morning.

“Aliens,” he reminded himself.

He flung back the covers and leaped into his slippers.

“Must thwart the aliens.”

He tugged off his pajamas and pulled on the T-shirt, jeans, and socks he had taken off the night before.

Bubba climbed down slowly from Logan’s bed, stretched, yawned, then farted.

“Oh, man, Bubba,” Logan said, waving the air away from his nose with his hand. “That’s brutal.”

His mom was in the kitchen, in her robe and slippers, holding a steaming mug up under her nose.

“What are you doing up so early?” she asked.

“What do you think?” he said. “I’m going on alien patrol.”

“At six thirty in the morning?”

“I’m going to stake out Sandwiches. I have a hunch the alien will come back for more dogs.”

His mom nodded her sleepy head. “Okay. But don’t go anywhere but Sandwiches. And don’t talk to anyone you don’t know.”

“Yeah, I know, Mom,” Logan said as he stuffed binoculars, his digital camera, and a clipboard into his backpack.

“You must eat breakfast first, Logan. And I haven’t packed your lunch yet. I haven’t even gotten a
hug
yet.”

Logan walked over and gave her one. He didn’t put his all into it.

“That was sad,” his mom said.

“Sorry, Mom. Real hugs will have to wait till the extraterrestrials are apprehended.”

“Sit, son,” his mom said, standing. “I’m making you some eggs and toast.”

Logan dropped into the chair. “You don’t get how important this is, obviously.”

“Eating is important. You’re growing. And you can’t fight aliens on an empty stomach.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true. I happen to know that all FBI agents eat a substantial, nutritious breakfast every morning before going out to hunt down extraterrestrials.”

Logan glared at her, his pale brown eyes narrowing, his freckles gathering around his nose.

His mom glared back with the same pale brown eyes. She had the freckles, too, though hers were fainter. She didn’t get outside as often as her son.

“Do any of your clients work for the FBI?” Logan asked.

“You know I can’t breach client confidentiality,” his mom answered as she flicked on a burner. “But yes.”

“FBI agents need life coaches?”

“More than anybody,” his mom said, opening the fridge and removing a gray carton of eggs. “And don’t forget about the guy I dated in college who worked for the FBI’s special ET task force. The ETTF.”

“How did you know he worked for the ETTF? Don’t FBI agents take vows of confidentiality, too?”

“I have ways of finding things out,” his mom said with a grin. “Over easy?”

“Over fast. I’m in a hurry.”

“Okay, but the yolk might break, and you don’t like it when the yolk runs.”

“I’ll risk it,” Logan said.

“If you want speedy, why don’t you help by getting out the bread and start making your sandwich?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“That does it. Hit the floor! Fifty push-ups!”

Logan knew she was joking, but he fell onto his palms on the floor anyway.

“Get up, nut job, and make your sandwich,” his mom said.

Logan walked the few blocks to Sandwiches Market, which had been in the neighborhood for more than a hundred years. He stopped across the street, hid behind the dogwood on the library’s lawn, and prepared for his surveillance. This meant removing from his backpack his binoculars and camera and hanging them around his neck, taking out a pair of black sunglasses with black lenses and putting them on, and unpacking a mechanical pencil and a clipboard. He glanced at his watch and, as he couldn’t read the LED display, lifted the dark glasses to his forehead.

“Seven thirty-four,” he said softly, then pulled the glasses back down over his eyes and recorded the time on the clipboard. Beside it he wrote “Sandwiches” and the weather conditions: “Gray.

Breezy.” He did some quick figuring in his head, then muttered, “Fifty-one minutes before the bus comes.”

He raised the binoculars to his eyes. They clinked on his sunglasses.

“Dumb glasses,” he muttered, taking them off, folding them, and balancing them on a low branch of the tree. He then peered through the binoculars at the scene in front of Sandwiches.

People came and went on foot, by bicycle, in cars and trucks. The customers entered the store empty-handed and emerged with groceries, newspapers, and, especially, white paper coffee cups with black plastic tops that had a small sipping hole through which steam escaped. Some of the customers also held muffins, croissants, or bagels with cream cheese and alternated between biting and sipping.

People left their dogs outside on the sidewalk, tied to a pole or a sign or the bike rack; some trusted their dogs and left them untied. Some of the dogs sat on the sidewalk and calmly waited. Some squirmed and whined. Some wagged their tails when people stopped to say hello.

(These people usually spoke to the dogs in high-pitched baby talk.) Some of the dogs licked hands with their long, wet tongues. Some licked themselves, right there on one of Nelsonport’s busiest corners.

Logan recorded it all. Every person, every dog, every bagel, every detail. He put the time beside each observation.

He was hoping to observe the man he’d seen the day before, the man who had petted the dog just before it vanished. Logan had noticed some distinctive traits in the man: he had spoken to the dog with an unfamiliar accent; he carried dog treats; and he was hairy. Very hairy. Hairy face. Hairy neck. Hairy hands.

To his disappointment, Logan did not see a hairy, accented man carrying dog treats in the fifty-one minutes he cased Sandwiches.

When his bus eventually pulled to the curb, it took Logan a few seconds before he realized he was not standing where he should be.

“Wait! Roberta, wait!” he yelled, and bolted for the bus without bothering to stow his gear. His camera and binoculars bounced on his belly; his unzipped backpack banged against his back. He clutched his clipboard and mechanical pencil in his hands.

It wasn’t until he was on the bus and blocks away from Sandwiches that he realized what he’d left behind.

“Stop the bus!” he yelled. “Stop the bus! I left my sunglasses on the branch!”

“Sit down, Logan,” Roberta said, eyeing him in her big mirror.

Logan’s friends were clustered together outside their classroom, excitedly talking.

“What’s going on?” Logan asked, penetrating the group. “What happened?”

Everyone immediately stopped talking and stared at him.

“You guys talking about me or something?” Logan asked.

They continued to stare, which caused Logan to lose his patience.

“Tell me what’s going on right now,” he demanded. “Right now. Tell me.”

“Kian’s mom’s dog’s disappeared.” Thatcher said, and patted Kian on the back sympathetically.

“It’s just Chloe,” Kian said.

They all knew Chloe, the pint-size, yapping Yorkie Kian’s mom toted around like a teddy bear. She was not the group’s favorite pooch.

Logan pulled his clipboard out of his bag, and asked Kian, “When was she last seen?”

“I don’t know,” Kian said. “Last night? I was at my dad’s house. My mom called my dad about it and he told me.”

“Any suspicious characters seen lingering about?” Logan asked after writing “Chloe” and the previous day’s date on his chart.

“You mean aliens?” Kian asked. “Were there any aliens about?”

“Precisely,” Logan said, not catching Kian’s mocking tone.

“I forgot to ask my mom about it,” Kian said, continuing to pretend he was taking Logan seriously.

Thatcher wasn’t fooled. He and Kian had been best friends a long time.

“Come on, Kian, you got to admit that it’s weird your mom’s dog disappeared.”

“There’s no proof the dog at Sandwiches was stolen,” Aggy interrupted. “Or even missing. And we don’t know whose dog it was, so we can’t find out.”

“I didn’t see the owner,” Logan grumbled. “But I did see the dog disappear, Aggy.”

“Just because it wasn’t there anymore when you looked out the bus window doesn’t mean it disappeared.”

“What about the collar and leash?” Logan asked.

“Yeah!” Thatcher said.

“How do we know they belonged to that dog?” Aggy asked. “Maybe they’d been lying there all along.”

“Yeah,” Kian said. “Probably from some other dog that got beamed up.”

“Dude, you are wicked!” Thatcher laughed, and lunged at Kian.

Because Kian was shorter, he ducked Thatcher easily. He then tried to scoot away, but Thatcher twisted and caught Kian in a headlock. Kian bent at the waist, catching Thatcher off balance and lifting him off his feet. He wasn’t strong enough to hold the much bigger boy, however, and they both crashed to the ground.

“It was the same collar and leash,” Logan said, oblivious to them. “The dog was dognapped, and so was Chloe.”

“How do you know that?” Aggy asked.

“I know aliens,” Logan said.

Everybody groaned, even Kian and Thatcher, who were wrestling in the grass.

“I’m going to investigate Chloe’s abduction,” Logan said, slipping his clipboard back into his bag. “If anyone wants to assist me, let me know before the end of class.” Then he walked away.

“Did you see anyone peculiar hanging around your house?” Logan asked Kian’s mom.

She looked at her son, who, with Thatcher and Aggy, had come along on Logan’s investigation.

“Peculiar?” she asked Logan. She glanced at the binoculars and camera that hung around his neck, his clipboard and pen, and, perched atop his head, his dark glasses, which he had retrieved from the dogwood tree. “No,” she said. “I didn’t see anyone peculiar.”

“No one new to the neighborhood?” Logan went on. “No strange men? No hairy ones?”

“Hairy?” Aggy asked, looking up from her book.

“No, Logan,” Kian’s mom said, eyeing Logan skeptically. “I didn’t see any hairy men.”

Logan scribbled a note. “When was the last time you saw Chloe, ma’am?”

“‘Ma’am?’” Aggy asked.

“Please stop interrupting my investigation, Aggy,” Logan said, casting her a sharp look. He turned back to Kian’s mom. “Ma’am?”

“I guess it was before dinner last night,” she said. “I always put her out before we eat.”

“You put her in the yard, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“Is the yard fenced, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“Is it secure, ma’am?”

“I guess.”

“You guess, ma’am? You’re not sure? It’s possible Chloe could have gotten out on her own?”

“I suppose….”

“Do you mind if we inspect the yard, ma’am?”

“We don’t need permission to go into my own backyard, Logan,” Kian said.

He led them through the kitchen and out the back door.

“Fan out and look for possible escape routes,” Logan said.

“Sure thing, captain,” Kian said.

They fanned out, but before long Kian and Thatcher were tussling in the grass again.

“This fence is pretty low, ma’am,” Logan said to Kian’s mom.

“Chloe’s pretty low,” she replied.

“What I mean, ma’am, is somebody could have easily reached over this fence and abducted your pet.”

“I suppose they could have. But she’s pretty noisy, especially when strangers go by the house.”

“That’s true,” Thatcher piped in from across the yard, where he was sitting on Kian’s back. “She always barks like crazy at me.”

“What are you trying to do?” Kian grunted. “Hatch me?”

“Yeah! I’m Hatcher! Get it? Not Thatcher.
Hatcher!
”

“That’s very funny,” Kian said, without meaning it. “Can you please get off me, large boy?”

Logan ignored them. “Did you happen to hear any barking last night during dinner, ma’am?” he asked Kian’s mom.

She glanced upward, trying to recall. “I don’t remember her barking. But she barks so much, I don’t know if I’d have noticed.”

“How about you, Kian?” Logan asked.

“I don’t know,” Kian grunted. “I forgot to keep a record of her barking habits last night, Logan. Sorry.”

Logan wrote more notes on his chart.

“Will you boys stop that roughhousing before someone gets hurt?” Kian’s mom asked.

“We’re outside, Mom,” Kian said. “We’re roughyarding.” He twisted and Thatcher toppled onto the grass.

“There aren’t any escape routes back here, ma’am,” Logan said to Kian’s mom with a grim expression. “I’m sorry to inform you of this, but Chloe has been abducted by aliens. Don’t worry, though. The Intergalactic Canine Rescue Unit is on the case.”

“The what?” Kian’s mom asked.

“The Intergalactic Canine Rescue Unit, ma’am. The ICRU. We’ll get Chloe back.”

Thatcher heard this and jumped to his feet. He flipped his hair out of his eyes and said, “Oh, yeah! The ICRU. That’s us. We are so on the job!”