The Incredibly Dead Pets of Rex Dexter Read online

  “This is discrimination,” I say. “I’m being oppressed under the thumb of The Man.”

  “What man?” he asks.

  “You!” I explain. “Where were you on the night in question?”

  He rubs the temples of his balloon-shaped head. “Probably here, not making enough money for this nonsense.”

  I make a mental note on this suspicious character: Guard too pudgy to commit murder. But I stand my ground. “My taxes pay for this zoo,” I say. “You work for me, good sir. As such, I will thank you kindly to heed my authority in this matter.”

  He does not heed my authority in this matter. Instead, he escorts me by the arm and returns me to the safety of the snow-cone stand. “I’m pretty sure little kids don’t pay taxes,” he says. “Plus, taxes don’t pay for the zoo. Admission prices do.” He waddles back to his ropes with a huff.

  Curses. This is all Darvish’s fault. If he were here, he could probably jury-rig some sort of explosion to distract the guard. It’s dangerous work, but I’d be willing to sacrifice him to the cause. I could then slip by unnoticed on nimble cat paws. Instead, I’ve been fast-talked and manhandled by the short rotund arm of the law. Which means we can’t get anywhere near the actual scene of the crime.

  And the zoo closes in an hour. Which means we are running out of time.

  Plus, Tater Tot wants another snow cone. “I’m getting a headache,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes.

  “Quit being a baby,” says the gorilla, thumping his chest for emphasis. “I once got hit in the head with forty-seven coconuts! Not regular coconuts, mind you, coconuts from a rare breed of acid-coconut tree! I barely felt a thing!”

  The shark rolls his eyes.

  This gorilla has proved to be just as obnoxious as the rhino in his own special way.

  I take a deep breath. “Okay,” I say. “Tell me again how you got out of the Gorilla House. And how you wound up with a shark nibbling your bottom.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” the gorilla says, furrowing his thick brow. “Somebody opened my cage.”

  “I’m telling you, there are sinister workings afoot,” chimes in Tater Tot. “Somebody’s out to get us.”

  “You said somebody set that fire,” I confirm.

  “Uh, yeah!” she says, tapping her foot. “Somebody sinister! That fire killed me completely dead!”

  I turn to the gorilla. “And you were killed by a shark?”

  He turns around to reveal the shark chewing noisily on his hindquarters. “This? This is nothing! I once had a panther chew off my whole leg! I beat the panther to a pulp, crawled inside his stomach, retrieved my leg, and sewed it back on with nothing but vines!”

  “Thwapptleverrlappenlled!” the shark mumbles.

  “It did too happen!” the gorilla tells the shark. “It happened on several different occasions!”

  I shake my head. “So how did you die?”

  “I drowned,” he says. “Not my fault I can’t swim.”

  “But how…”

  “Not my fault! Somebody opened my cage!”

  “We’ve established that.”

  “Look here, you little—” he starts.

  Tater Tot steps up to the gorilla, towering over him like a small pointy-nosed mountain. “Sheesh! Dial it down a notch! Rexxie is just trying to get the facts straight. There’s no cause to get huffy.”

  “Yeah,” squawks Drumstick. “Don’t be huffy to Rexxie.”

  “Yeah,” I murmur. “Rexxie.”

  The gorilla backs off. “Okay. Sorry. Dying takes a lot out of you.” He blows out his cheeks and presses his knuckles to the ground. “I’ll start at the beginning. I’ve never been outside my enclosure, right? Not since I was first brought to this place from the wild. So when somebody opened up the door, I went out. I’m curious by nature, okay? And when I came to the Oceanarium display, I went inside.”

  “And you fell into the shark tank?” I ask.

  “Thwightlinthwothwiythwankthwankthwoutherythwuch!” gurgles the shark.

  “The water looked refreshing,” says the gorilla. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for refreshing-looking water.”

  “And the shark attacked you and tried to kill you?”

  “He wishes!” snorts the gorilla. “One time I got stampeded by a herd of wildebeests while the wildebeests were being stampeded by a herd of elephants while the elephants were being chased by a pack of wild dogs! Nobody survived except me!”

  “That seems made-up,” I say.

  “Another time, I fell a thousand feet off a cliff while wrestling a crocodile and used the crocodile’s mouth as a parachute to land safely at the bottom. This shark is nothing.” He points at the shark. “See all that bruising around the snout? That’s all me. I gave him a good pummeling, I did!”

  “Thwimmeethwabwake,” says the shark around a snoutful of ape heinie.

  “Fine,” I say. “And while you were pummeling the shark to death, you drowned.”

  The gorilla nods. “Yeah. But it’s not my fault, is it? Somebody opened my cage.”

  This ape is holding out. Time to ask the hard questions. I look him sternly in the eye. “Do you or the shark owe anybody money?”

  He looks confused.

  “My best friend asked you a question,” chimes in Drumstick. His beak has turned raspberry blue.

  The gorilla shrugs. “What’s money?”

  I keep the pressure on. “Does anybody owe you money?”

  Once again, he claims to have no working knowledge of basic currency.

  I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Can either of you think of anybody who would want you out of the way?” I ask.

  “Obviously somebody who hates animals,” says Tater Tot. “What other possible reason could there be to make all this disappear?” She holds her rhino-arms out and twirls in a circle. “Look at me. I’m a rare beauty.”

  “You think you’re rare?” pipes up the gorilla. “I’m so rare, I’m practically extinct! There’s less than one of me left in existence! I know saber-toothed tigers that are more common than I am!”

  I sit down in defeat and finish my snow cone. It tastes like kiwi-lime and failure. I’m astute enough to realize that my clue-hunting trip to the zoo is a bust.

  How could Darvish not answer his phone? Because I really need an explosives expert right about now.

  And a best friend.

  18

  Friday morning dawns, and the school halls are filled with excited chatter about the upcoming Evening of Enchantment Dance. Who’s wearing what. Who’s going with whom. It is a tedious business.

  Judging by their vapid jabber, my classmates have no awareness of the bigger issue at hand: that I have still made no headway ridding myself of the deluge of dead animals following me around.

  With so many supernatural forces conspiring against me, it is a small miracle that I am not more discouraged. But as I sign up for my research report slot, I am not frowning the frown of the discouraged. Instead, I am smiling the smile of the clever and self-assured.

  Because I have come up with a brilliant strategy for tackling my research report.

  It is called the Take-the-Last-Presentation-Slot Strategy. Which is a snazzy name for a strategy, if I do say so myself.

  By picking the last possible presentation slot on the sheet, I have given myself until next Friday to present my report. A full week. This gives me more time than anybody else.

  Some people would call this procrastination. Other people would call this laziness. I call this basic common sense. Does that make me a genius among mere mortals? A higher life-form? A king among men? Who am I to say? History will judge.

  I just wish my mom and dad could see all this common sense in action. They would beg me to own a chocolate Lab.

  Sami Mulpepper has signed up for the first presentation slot. Which means she has to present first thing next week. It is one more example of how book smarts cannot compete with street smarts in the real world.

  Of course, my leisure time
is much more in demand than hers. She doesn’t have three dead animals hounding her. Four, if you count the shark. I’m not sure I do. He is not a sparkling conversationalist and mostly just continues to gnaw on the gorilla’s butt.

  As we enter the classroom, Ms. Yardley reminds us that there’s still time to sign up for the Evening of Enchantment decorating committee. No thank you. I have had enough glitter to last two lifetimes.

  “Where were you last night?” I ask Darvish as we take our seats. “I called you.”

  “At home,” he says. “My phone died.”

  “Well, thanks to you, I had a dreadful night.” I fill him in on the interruption of my shower, the appearance of the gorilla, and our explosionless exploits at the zoo.

  “Oh my gosh… a gorilla?” he says, reaching into his backpack. “Did you see this morning’s newspaper?”

  “Of course not,” I respond. “It is always filled with death and destruction. Which depresses me. Plus, the news is almost never about me.”

  “This story is,” he says, passing the paper to me. “Kind of.”

  I grab the newspaper. The headline reads: EVENING TRAGEDY AT MIDDLING ZOO.

  I yawn. They don’t need to tell me about tragedy. I barely got any beauty sleep because Drumstick, Tater Tot, the gorilla, and the shark are taking up so much room in my bed, there is barely any space left for me. Not only am I the only one who can see or hear them, I seem to be the only one who is affected by the sheer square footage they take up. If that’s not a tragedy, I don’t know what is.

  At least I have something to share for current events. I take the newspaper and saunter to the front.

  Ms. Yardley looks skeptical. “Rex? You have a current event to read?”

  “You betcha,” I answer. “Prepare to dispense some extra credit.”

  “Is it appropriate?” she asks. “It’s not appropriate, is it?” She hesitates, looking unsure. I take advantage of her slow reflexes and clear my throat. Raising my rich tenor tones to the rafters, I read the article aloud to the class.

  EVENING TRAGEDY AT MIDDLING ZOO

  It was discovered early last evening that an adult mountain gorilla had escaped from its enclosure at the Middling Zoo. The remains of the gorilla were found shortly after in the shark tank of the zoo’s Oceanarium enclosure, along with a dead bull shark.

  “We do not suspect foul play,” said zoo consultant Haughtry Vain. “It is likely that the gorilla’s enclosure lock failed. Upon exploring the grounds, it wandered into the shark tank, where an epic shark-gorilla battle ensued.”

  The gorilla’s cause of death is undetermined, but drowning is suspected. The shark’s cause of death appears to be a result of the gorilla encounter.

  “This is the problem with these old-fashioned cages,” said Vain. “Locks fail. Bars rust. My organization is working with the zoo to create newer, safer enclosures.”

  Ms. Vain’s organization is Cageless Enclosure Solutions, which works with animal parks and sanctuaries to create wide-open, cage-free animal enclosures. The Middling Zoo has not yet decided to move forward with the project, but if they do, Ms. Vain and her company will undertake a massive renovation of all zoo enclosures.

  Perhaps the recent tragic events will spur the zoo to action. But not everyone agrees with this solution.

  “This type of thing is to be expected when you cage animals,” said Talon Smithfield, president of a local organization called PUPAE, or People United to Protect Animals Everywhere. “The answer isn’t better cages. The answer is that these rare and majestic beasts should be returned to the wild where they belong.”

  In the meantime, measures are being taken to ensure the safety of the animals and the public.

  “All enclosure locks are being examined for defects,” said Vain. “We do not expect any future problems.”

  This marks the second recent tragedy at the zoo, following this week’s fire that killed a Sumatran rhinoceros.

  “Very good,” says Ms. Yardley, looking pleasantly surprised. “Very appropriate.”

  But was it very good?

  Was it appropriate?

  Because I look up from the article. And I see Holly Creskin.

  Giggling.

  19

  “I brought that article in for current events,” says Darvish, opening his lunch sack. “Me!”

  As often happens, Darvish is fixating on the wrong thing.

  “Then that worked out perfectly,” I say.

  “For myself to read! That was my extra credit you stole.”

  My poor chum. He should know as well as anybody—you cannot steal extra credit. Extra credit is in the public domain. It’s like air, clean tap water, and the pursuit of happiness. It belongs to everybody. It floats in the breeze, available for public consumption by anyone with the chutzpah to take advantage of it.

  “Pay attention, man!” I remind him. “Someone is murdering animals!”

  “But the article said that no foul play is suspected.”

  “Don’t be a rube your whole life, Darvish! That’s subterfuge! Trickery! Propaganda!” I take a bite of my grilled cheese sandwich for emphasis. “Someone is opening cages. Someone is setting fires. Tater Tot and Sea-Monkey said so themselves!”

  “Sea-Monkey?”

  “It just came to me,” I say.

  “Because he fell into the Oceanarium tank. And has a shark on his butt. That’s funny.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Where are they, anyway?” he asks. “Are they here?”

  “No, we had a late and fruitless night, thanks to you. They stayed home to rest.”

  “How can ghosts get tired?” he asks.

  “Focus!” I sputter impatiently. “Somebody is deliberately picking them off. And who would want to kill a gorilla and a rhino? The guard is too pudgy!”

  Darvish shrugs. I slap my hand over my face. This kid is of no use to me. I’m seriously considering promoting Drumstick to role of sidekick and best friend.

  I turn back to Darvish. “A notorious hater of animals, that’s who! Namely… Holly Creskin!”

  “What?” he cries. “That’s crazy. A kid is not breaking into the zoo and killing animals.”

  I have lost all patience with Darvish. “Do you know any torture techniques? Thumbscrews, stretching on the rack, those types of skills?”

  “No,” he says.

  “You will have to learn. We may need them. Come on.” I stand up and head across the cafeteria. The time has come for more chutzpah.

  “Where are we going?” he calls, chasing after me.

  “To interrogate Holly Creskin.”

  20

  We sit down across from the culprit.

  At this close range, I can see the malevolence burning within her. The animal-hating, rhino-burning, gorilla-drowning malevolence.

  “Hi, Darvish! Hi, Rex!” she says, surprised at our presence. That’s the thing about the guilty. They always look surprised. “Hey, are you guys going to the Evening of Enchantment dance next week?”

  I scoff at the thought. “Do not be ludicrous.”

  “That’s too bad,” she chirps. “It’s going to be so fun!”

  I have no time for social niceties. “Your attempts to divert my attention are pointless, Holly Creskin. We do not want to talk about dances.”

  “Oh,” she says. “Okay. What do you want?”

  “Your confession,” I say. “Why did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t play coy with me, sister. I’ve known you were a hater of animals for a long time, but I never thought you would stoop this low.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asks, pushing her tray to the side. “I love animals.”

  “Don’t give me that. I am the only one at this table who has a well-documented love of animals. I’ve wanted a dog for forever.”

  “It’s practically all he ever talks about,” Darvish supplies helpfully.

  “Exactly!” I nod. “Yet every time I bring it up with you,
you wrinkle your nose in a distasteful fashion. And do you know why?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  I level an accusing finger at her. “Because you hate animals!”

  “No,” says Holly Creskin. “It’s because I don’t like dogs.”

  “What?”

  “Cats rule. Dogs drool. And dogs are the only animals you ever talk about.”

  “It’s true, Rex,” says Darvish. “You’re kind of obsessed. Chocolate Lab this. Chocolate Lab that.”

  “Don’t you dare take the name of that majestic creature in vain.” I turn back to Holly Creskin. “So, you haven’t brought about the demise of any zoo animals recently?”

  “What?” she cries. “No! I love animals! I love unicorns and pegasuses and rainbows and unicorns—”

  I interrupt her. “Rainbows are not animals.”

  “And all that other stuff is not real,” chimes in Darvish.

  “I love real animals too! I love kitties and ponies and kitties—”

  “How do you feel about gorillas?” I ask. “Or rhinos?”

  “I love all animals except dogs!” she claims.

  Dang, she’s good.

  “I’m even a member of People United to Protect Animals Everywhere.” She lifts up her purse, which has a large PUPAE button proudly displayed.

  I stand up on the lunch table to make myself appear bigger. I am a Saint Bernard in a cafeteria full of teacup poodles. I can tell the technique is working because Holly Creskin looks terrified of me. As she should.

  “If this cockamamie story is true,” I shout, “and that’s a big IF, then why did you giggle at the end of my current event today?”

  “MY current event,” interjects Darvish. That kid cannot let something go.

  “Let’s stay on topic,” I tell him. I turn back to Holly Creskin. “It wasn’t exactly a funny article. More horribly tragic than funny. Why the giggle?”

  Holly Creskin rolls her eyes and looks embarrassed. “Oh, that!”

  I am prepared to use Holly Creskin’s spork as a thumbscrew. But I sense a confession forthcoming. Perhaps torture will not be needed after all.

  “Because I know Talon Smithfield,” she says. “The guy you mentioned in the article. He’s the president of People United to Protect Animals Everywhere. He’s very tall. And so passionate about the rights of animals! He’s in high school.”