Minerva Clark Goes to the Dogs (14 page)

I had not believed Shark yesterday when he said they didn't need volunteers. At the end of seventh grade, when Ms. Kettle, our religion teacher, told us about the required twenty service hours of community service, she said that if we could not find anywhere else to put in our time, the humane society always needed people to change the kitty litter and play with the dogs, who were always in danger of becoming depressed out of loneliness.

For some reason, Shark had wanted me to leave, and now he wanted me to come back.

Even though it was sunny and warm, I put on my white hoodie with the blue Hawaiian flowers running down one arm, opened Jupiter's cage, scooped him up from where he was sleeping, curled like the letter C in his hammock, and set off.

A grown-up would have told me it was a dumb idea to take my own pet to the humane society, but I had a feeling I was going to need some help.

I stepped off the bus and the doors sighed closed behind me. The bus didn't stop directly in front of the shelter, but near the far end of the parking lot, which wrapped around the side of the building, before becoming the junkyard urban wilderness lot. From where I stood I couldn't see the pigeon coop, nor most of the larger piles of automotive parts, but I could see part of the front of the shed, hidden behind some shrubs.

The bus eased away behind me, leaving me standing alone on the hot sidewalk, no one around, only a few trucks moseying down the highway in the heat. I could glimpse part of the shed, at the back of the lot. I knew from having glimpsed it the day before that it was small, and made of unfinished wood that had turned a silvery gray, as unpainted wood always did in our climate. It didn't look like a cute little barn or chalet, like some of the sheds in the backyards of our neighbors. There were no windows, and even from where I stood I could see that the door didn't hang right on its hinges. It was so plain you could easily get used to it being there and not even see it.

Suddenly, the door of the shed opened. I thrust my hands into my hoodie pocket and around Jupiter's thin furry body, just out of I don't know what.

Shark came out of the shed, turned, said a few words, then closed the door and locked it. He was carrying the same Frisbee I'd seen the day before, only now, balanced in the middle of it, I could see a white coffee cup, a speck of green in the center. It was from Starbucks. And the Frisbee wasn't a Frisbee at all, but a dinner plate.

I waited until I thought Shark went back inside, then quickly walked through the parking lot. Even though I was sweating like a shy boy at a dance, I was glad I wore my hoodie. As I waded through the mini forest of
weeds and homely overgrown shrubs, blackberry canes seemed to leap up out of nowhere and snag my sleeves and pants legs. For those few yards, I could have used a machete.

The shed was old, built on a low foundation. There were two rickety steps up. I knocked on the door softly. “Hello? Anybody home?” Anybody
home?
That was a brilliant thing to say.

I could swear I heard someone breathing, but it could have been my own breath. I was afraid to say anything else, for fear my beating heart would leap out of my mouth, sprout legs, and run off. I knocked again. Nothing. Just as I started to think I was wrong, that no one was in the shed, that maybe this was just Shark's private place where he ate his lunch … no, impossible … no one would come out here to relax … ever … another idea bloomed: What if whoever was in there was bound and gagged?

I looked behind me and far off, across the lot, I could see the emergency exit propped open with a chair, just as it had been the day before. Every once in awhile I could hear a dog bark. Car parts glinted in the sun. Flies and who knows what other stinging creatures buzzed around. Jupiter squirmed in my pocket.

I couldn't stand there forever. As long as the emergency exit was open, anyone—including Shark—could see me.

The door to the shed was locked from the outside with a big rusty slide bolt. I looked again at the crookedly hung door. Along the bottom there was a small gap, maybe two inches? I never knew how people could look at the size of a space and know how big it was; maybe it was the same as how as you got older, you got better at doing arithmetic in your head.

Anyway, all I knew was that it was ferret-sized.

I poured Jupiter out of my pocket, whispered in his tiny ear that this was even better than crawling around inside the kitchen cabinets, and fed him through the gap. I put my ear to the door and heard what I'd expected: muffled struggling and shrieking, i.e., someone freaking out at what they probably thought was a rat or an opossum.

All right.

Now what?

I flipped open my cell phone. I had to call someone, some adult who would know what to do. The obvious choice would be the police, except the police didn't believe me. I thought back on all the stupid calls I'd made about the guy in the knit cap, who went through our trash cans on garbage day looking for bottles to recycle, and about the house next door getting TPed. I felt myself blush with the ridiculousness of it. I was a modern girl who cried wolf. I could just imagine the deep, amused-sounding voice of the 911 operator, the
one who always answered when she recognized my number, the one who thought I was a kick in the pants, telling me I needed to stop pestering them.

But this was a real emergency.

As I stood there wondering whether I should call anyway, the phone began vibrating in my hand. I saw it was Chelsea.

“Guess what I did today?” she sang.

I moved off the steps and crouched down among the blackberries and broken bottles. “Make it quick,” I whispered, “something's going on here, too.”

“Just guess.”

“Just
tell
me,” I practically shouted. Chelsea de Guzman could give you PMS no matter the time of month. Jeez.

“I felt so bad about when we talked yesterday, and was feeling so much better this morning, completely un-jet lagged, I decided to come out to the humane society to check things out. You said something was up out there, so I thought I'd pitch in. My mom is always saying I don't pitch in enough. Plus, I thought we could volunteer together, get our community service hours out of the way.

“So I come in—you're right, it's a very cool place—and who's sitting behind the counter but Frank, our dog nanny. So I go, ‘Frankie! What are you doing here!'”

“Your dog sitter works at the humane society?”

“He volunteers, I guess, when he isn't taking care of Winkin', Blinkin', and Ned.”

Was this possible? That Sylvia's boyfriend Shark
and
the de Guzmans' dog sitter Frank worked here together? “When did you come in?”

“This morning. First thing.” She sounded proud of herself. “Frankie is just the sweetest guy.”

“Was anyone else working with him?”

“Nobody that I saw. It was early.”

“You didn't tell him that the diamond had been stolen, did you?”

“Well, I did! I told him the whole story, about that Sylvia chick buying the ring off of me, and how we went to her apartment and found the ring but not the diamond. He said that he would do everything he could to help us. He said that when you came to the humane society yesterday, you shouldn't have pretended that you didn't know him, that that was dumb because he recognized you right off the bat …”

My stomach felt as if it was about to drop out of my body.

“Chelsea. Why did he say that? I've never met Frank. Where did he say he recognized me from?”

There was a long silence. I had the worst feeling about this.

“He didn't say … oh
no
!” she said. “I just thought of something. Oh, this could be
bad.
”

“What?”

“Frank's last name is Sharkey.”

“So he might also go by Shark?” I said.

“Which would make them the same guy.”

I opened my mouth to tell her that I was at the humane society that very moment, but before I could formulate a sentence I heard hasty footsteps, rustling, swearing, then looked up to see Frank/Shark swoop down on me, yank the cell phone out of my hand, snap it shut, and throw it into the bushes. He reminded me of a cobra, suddenly, with his cold squinty eyes, stooped shoulders, and smile that bordered on a sneer.

He grabbed my upper arm hard enough to break it, dragged me to the door of the shed, unlocked the lock, and hurled me inside. It happened so fast I hardly had time to be scared. Frank/Shark wasn't so nice anymore. His face was red, his green eyes squinty slits. He looked as if he could snap my neck and go straight back to cuddling puppies without missing a beat.

A girl who could only be Sylvia Soto sat on a bench in the corner. The bench was a wide shelf built into the wall. An ancient, dirty sleeping bag with what looked like a red plaid lining was spread beneath her legs. She wore a flowered cotton skirt, dirty pink flip-flops, and an oversized sweatshirt, black or dark blue, I couldn't tell in the gloom. I'd guessed that Frank—Shark, I mean, and what a lame nickname may I just say?—had given her the sweatshirt for when it got cold at night. She had a few pieces of duct tape slapped across the bottom half of her face. She had enormous eyes and that dark hair like a horse tail, which Chelsea had remarked upon.

Frank threw me on a narrow wooden chair and tied my hands behind it with a length of white plastic rope.
On a Scale of Scared between one and ten, I was at a seven. This meant I was afraid, but not totally pants-peeing out of my mind terrified. Part of the reason was that Sylvia didn't look out of her mind terrified, but rather so irritated I wouldn't have been surprised if steam started shooting out of her ears.

While Frank tied me up, and slapped a few lengths of duct tape over my mouth, he hissed at me through his teeth. “If you weren't sticking your nose in other people's business I wouldn't have had to do this, Suzanne. I'm a good guy, ask anybody, but when people get in the way of business, I lose my sense of humor.”

At this, Sylvia rolled her enormous eyes. I was beginning to think Frank/Shark was nuts. People say other people are crazy all the time, and I always wondered what crazy looked like for real and not on television. This was it.

“This is all your fault,” he said, looking at Sylvia. “If you had just let me handle this, you wouldn't be in this position.” Then he heaved a big sigh, as if we were both unruly children it pained him to punish.

He turned to go, then spied Jupiter hissing in the corner. Poor Jupiter was up to ten on the Scale of Scared. I could tell because his tail was puffed out like a bottle brush. I didn't like this. I didn't like this at all. Seeing Jupiter upset and afraid made my throat close up. What if Frank tossed Jupiter into the bushes, the way he had my
cell phone? Jupiter was smart, but he knew nothing about surviving in a junkyard urban wilderness. I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to erase the mental image of Jupiter being carried off by the hungry neighborhood hawk.

“What the … ?” said Frank, frowning.

He leaned closer, peered at Jupiter. Then, his face relaxed; his narrow-eyed lizardy expression vanished. “How'd you get in here, little guy?” He scooped Jupiter up. He was gentle. He balanced Jupiter on his muscular forearm, and began to pet him with great feeling. I noticed Frank had a tattoo encircling his wrist like a bracelet: BORN TO KICK BUTT. Oh, man, what a creepy dude.

Suddenly, it was as if Sylvia and I weren't there at all. Frank left with Jupiter. We heard the rusty bolt slide closed, then the crunch of his footsteps as he stomped back to the shelter.

I pushed the thought of what would happen to Jupiter out of my mind. I had to. It was dark and stuffy in the shed. It smelled damp and rodenty. The only fresh air came from the opening beneath the door, where Jupiter had snuck inside. Thin threads of light streamed through from cracks in the corners and ceiling.

Still, I wasn't too worried. I knew we'd be out of there soon.

You have probably heard of Bad Guy Aim. That's where, in every action movie, the bad guy suddenly
forgets how to shoot and can't hit a thing. There is also such a thing as Bad Guy Knot Tying.

Over the years, my brothers and I have tied each other to chairs, doorknobs, piano legs, handrails, tree trunks, wrought iron fences, flagpoles, you name it. We used string, twine, yarn from our mom's knitting box, nylon rope, a blue and white rope Morgan used for rock climbing. Because I was the youngest, I got tied up the most, had the most opportunity to practice, and became the best Most Awesome Escape Artist in the entire Clark family.

From the feel of it, Frank had Bad Guy Knot Tying skills. He had secured my hands behind my back with a double overhand knot, but it hardly mattered. He was so intent on making sure my wrists were snug and the rope was tight, he forgot to tie me to the chair.

So I stood up, lifting my arms up over the chair back. Then I sat on the dusty floor, pulled my legs as close to my chest as possible, then scooched my arms beneath my rear. Once my hands were in front of me I could pull the tape off my mouth, and untie the rope with my teeth. I was free in a matter of minutes. I peeled the duct tape from my mouth—ouch—then, I untied Sylvia.

The first thing she did was scream,
“Help! Help us!”

“Shhhhhhhhhhh!” I said. “Be quiet! You want him to come back and tie us up so we can't get free?” I sat next to her on her bench/bed. She was beautiful and exotic,
with her coarse straight hair and strange almond-shaped gray eyes. In third grade I did a report on the Aztecs, and Sylvia possessed the same proud, high cheekboned face. She smelled sour, though. She'd probably been in there for days.

“Who in the hell are you anyway?” Sylvia had

“A friend of the girl whose diamond you stole.”

“That stuck-up little rich girl sold me her ring fair and square. Oh God, how are we going to get out of here? You don't want to see Frank when his temper goes. Esta loco.” She stood up, stretched her arms. “Now what? Any more bright ideas, little girl?”