Rocky Road Read online

  And there it was—the Captain Creamy truck! Straight ahead of me, playing its jolly tune. I roared up behind it, waited till it stopped at a traffic light, then got off my bike and ran up to the driver’s door. I yanked it open and dragged the driver out into the street.

  “HEY!! What are you doing?”

  Oops. This driver was a girl. Wrong truck.

  “Sorry,” I said, and let her go.

  Back on my bike, and feeling mighty stupid, I headed for my meet-up with Frank.

  “Any luck?” I asked him.

  “No. How ’bout you?”

  “Nope.” I decided not to tell him about my little mistake. Too embarrassing. But it did teach me something—there was more than one Captain Creamy truck. I mean, I guess I knew that, but now I’d been reminded—in the worst possible way.

  We mapped out another search grid, but an hour later, when we’d finished, there was still no sign of our quarry.

  A quick phone call to Chet told us that he hadn’t had any luck either. Neither had Callie or Iola.

  And now it was getting dark.

  “This isn’t cool,” I said.

  “No, you’re right,” Frank agreed. “And now, all the trucks are probably going back to the ware-house for the night.”

  Wait a minute. . . .

  “The warehouse!” we both said at once.

  We didn’t know where it was, but a quick visit to a pay phone in a nearby restaurant told us that the Captain Creamy Ice Cream Company was located at 1511 Parker Boulevard.

  “If we get over there right away, we might catch him returning his truck for the night,” I said.

  “Great. Ever heard of Parker Boulevard?”

  I hadn’t, but the mechanic over at the Pump’N’Go gas station knew where it was. He gave us directions, and we roared out of there, leaving a cloud of dust behind us.

  There wasn’t a moment to lose. If we missed Captain Creamy, he would have another whole night to wreak havoc on Bayport. More lives might be lost, more damage done.

  We couldn’t let that happen!

  Parker Boulevard was in an industrial zone at the far south end of town. No wonder we’d never heard of it. The buildings here were huge, with no windows. It wasn’t a place where people lived, and at night, the whole neighborhood was plain spooky.

  We spotted the Captain Creamy building easily enough. There were four ice-cream trucks parked right out front, and a gigantic ice-cream cone was mounted on the roof.

  “This must be the place,” Frank said as we pulled over and parked our bikes.

  “Let’s go do this thing,” I said, cracking my knuckles.

  I was ready for action, primed for a fight. I wanted to punch Ernie Bickerstaff’s lights out—for poor old George’s sake.

  The only trouble was, there was nobody around. It seemed like we’d arrived too late. All the trucks had been returned for the night, and no one answered when we rang the buzzer at the gate.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  Frank thought for a minute. “We could wait till morning, and show up here before he comes to get his truck.”

  “If he comes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if he reads the morning paper and finds out that the fire he set killed somebody, he might get spooked and not show up.”

  “Good thinking, Joe. Well, I guess we’d better go in and have a look around—maybe we can find some evidence.”

  I pulled out the microwave flashlight we’d borrowed from Dad, and shone it on the security camera that was focused on the gate. It took about six seconds before the camera started smoking and sparking.

  So much for security. I handed Frank the flashlight and hopped the fence. Frank followed, and we headed for the parked trucks.

  There were six of them in all, once we found the two on the far side of the building. Peering through the windows, we soon found the truck we were looking for—computer gear was scattered all over the passenger seat. It had to be the right one!

  Frank took out his lock pick and jimmied the door, while I kept an eye out for security guards, or anybody else who might be around.

  What we were doing here was technically illegal, and while we might not wind up in jail for it, the folks at ATAC would not be happy if they had to come bail us out and explain what we were doing there.

  We got inside the truck, and Frank started sifting through the computer CDs and drives. I’m not sure what he was looking for, and I don’t think he knew either. He pocketed a few likely-looking disks and then said, “Let’s go inside.”

  “Inside?”

  “Into the warehouse.”

  “You think we’re going to find evidence in there?”

  He shrugged. “We’re already here, Joe. And you never know where a clue might be hidden.”

  True.

  We left the truck and headed for the warehouse door.

  Again the lock pick. Again the microwave flashlight to fry the security system.

  “I sure hope ATAC will pay for the damage we’re causing,” I said.

  “We’ll worry about that later, okay?” he said as he shoved the door open and we entered the pitchdark warehouse.

  16.

  THE BIG CHILL

  It was dark inside the warehouse—dark and silent—but the first thing that hit us was the cold.

  We’d been running around looking for Ernie, working up a sweat on a hot summer night, and now here we were, in our T-shirts, entering the world of frozen treats. I started shivering after about thirty seconds, and I’m sure Joe did too.

  We’d been locked in Bayport High’s freezer just a few hours ago, and I thought when Loretta let us out that that would be the last time in my life I’d be so cold.

  Wrong.

  I felt in the pockets of my cargo pants, just to make sure I had my cell phone, to call the cops once we nailed Captain Creamy.

  Check.

  Swiss Army knife?

  Got it.

  Okay, I was ready for whatever came next.

  Joe was busy playing his flashlight around the dim warehouse. Huge vats, ten feet across, were sunk halfway into the floor. Most were covered with steel lids, but one was open to view.

  Joe shone his beam down into it. The vat was empty. On the bottom was a giant propeller for stirring ice cream as it slowly froze. The propeller was attached to a steel pole in the center of the vat.

  “Whoa,” I said, staring down into it. “I’d hate to get stuck in one of these when it’s making ice cream.”

  Joe shuddered. Maybe it was what I said, or maybe it was just the cold.

  We moved on into the warehouse, past tubs of ingredients and freezers full of finished product in all different flavors.

  One of the tubs had a skull and crossbones on it. “Geez,” Joe said. “What kind of poison do they put in ice cream?” He shone his beam lower on the tub. “Vanillin? What’s that?”

  “Artificial vanilla,” I told him.

  “It’s poison?”

  “If you eat enough of it. I wouldn’t worry about a cone’s worth, but you might want to try the naturally flavored vanilla. I always do.”

  He stared at me, annoyed. “How come you know so much about everything?”

  I smiled back at him. “It’s called paying attention in chemistry class. You should try it some time.”

  Zing!

  “Besides,” I added, “vanilla’s my favorite flavor, remember?”

  “Okay, genius. If you’re so smart, what do we do now?”

  “We search this place high and low.”

  “For what? He’s obviously not here. Are we supposed to hang out in this icebox till morning?”

  He was right. Another hour in here and frostbite would start to set in.

  “We could check the office files. They might have a folder on him with his address and phone number.”

  “Or we could just call Dad and get him to look it up for us,” Joe pointed out.

  I smiled and pulled out my cell
phone. “Now who’s the genius?”

  Except that there was no reception. The ware-house was in a dead zone.

  “Great. Just great,” I said, putting the phone back in my pocket. “Remind me to complain to customer service.”

  “So where’s the office?” Joe asked, getting us back on track. He shone his light all around, and there it was, right next to the door where we’d come in.

  We headed back that way, past the rows of vats. Now I noticed that hanging over them, suspended from a grid, were several huge hoses made of flexible plastic, HOT FUDGE, was written on one, BUTTERSCOTCH on another.

  “This place is so cool!” Joe said.

  “Yeah, in more ways than one,” I said, shivering some more.

  We passed another open vat. Then I stopped in my tracks.

  Something was wrong.

  “Whazzup, dude?” Joe asked.

  I walked back to the open vat. “Rocky Road,” I said, reading the sign on the side of it. “Yuck.”

  “Are you kidding? Rocky Road rules!”

  “I know, I know, it’s your all-time favorite,” I said. “But look, Joe.”

  “Huh?”

  “Point your flashlight into the vat.”

  He did. “It’s got ice cream in it. So?”

  “Why would they leave the vat open if it wasn’t empty? I mean, the ice cream’s liable to spoil.”

  “Probably somebody just forgot.”

  “Maybe.”

  Or maybe not.

  The sudden sound of running footsteps behind us made Joe and me spin around—and just as we did, someone barreled straight into us!

  “OOF!”

  We both fell backward into the vat!

  SPLAT!

  Suddenly, we were drowning in a sea of soft ice cream—Rocky Road, no less!

  17.

  DEAD ZONE

  I fell flat on my back into a vat of Rocky Road. Next thing I knew, I couldn’t breathe.

  Don’t ever try swimming in a vat of ice cream—even soft ice cream. For one thing, it’s freezing cold. For another, it’s as thick as mud, and really hard to move around in.

  Lucky for me and Frank, it was only waist deep. Soon we were able to stand up and wipe the stuff out of our eyes.

  We found ourselves staring up into the laughing face of Ernie Bickerstaff—alias Captain Creamy!

  “HAHAHAHAHA!!” he cackled, clapping his hands. “Two with one shot! Excellent!” He rubbed his hands together in maniacal glee and laughed some more.

  This guy made Peter Nutt and poor George Guthrie look normal. I mean, he was really out of his mind.

  I tried moving toward him, but it wasn’t much use. The ice cream had the consistency of quicksand.

  “So sorry,” Ernie said, putting his palms together. “I didn’t plan to kill anyone—least of all a couple of fellow ATAC agents.”

  “How can you do this?” Frank asked. “You’re supposed to be fighting crime, not committing it!”

  Ernie made a sad clown face. “So sorry,” he repeated. “But you know, if people are so stupid, they deserve what they get.”

  “Ernie,” I said, “let us out of here, and we’ll see that you get a fair trial.”

  “Oh, right . . . let me see . . . that would let me out of prison, with good behavior, in, say . . . ten years?”

  I didn’t answer him. But he was right.

  “The police are on their way here!” Frank said suddenly.

  “Oh, no, they’re not,” Ernie shot back. “I was monitoring police radio in the truck on the way here. And this place has no cell phone reception, so . . .”

  Frank’s face was getting redder by the minute. “You’ll never get away with this!” he shouted.

  “Maybe not, but at least I’ll have a fighting chance. If I let you go, it’s curtains for me.”

  Now it was Frank’s turn to be speechless.

  “It’s nothing personal,” Ernie explained. “I actually like you two guys. Unlike most kids at the high school, you never made fun of me when I was in the chicken suit. I remember little kindnesses like that.”

  “Aw, you’re breakin’ my heart,” I said, annoyed. “So now you’re going to kill us?”

  “You’re on to me,” he replied. “What choice do I have—keeping in mind that prison is not an option?”

  He walked over to a cement pillar. I saw what he was going for: the switchbox.

  I thought of the sharp propeller blades somewhere on the bottom of the vat—blades that would slice us to pieces once they got going.

  Ernie seemed to read my mind. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to slice and dice you. You’ll die a painless death—slowly freezing until you’re numb. . . .”

  He flicked a switch, and the hoses overhead started moving. A large one stopped right over our heads. Ernie flicked another switch, and more Rocky Road started pouring down into the vat.

  “There you go,” said Ernie. “Like I said. Painless. Your body temperatures will just drop until your vital organs stop working and freeze solid.”

  He stood at the edge of the vat. “I really am sorry,” he said. “Sorry for betraying ATAC. Sorry about all the damage I did. Sorry the homeless guy died. Sorriest of all about killing you guys.”

  For a minute there, I thought he was actually going to burst into tears.

  He might as well have.

  “I wish I’d been able to go to college. . . . I wish I could earn a good living legally. . . .”

  Then suddenly, his face seemed to harden into an angry mask. “I wish a lot of things—but it’s all ATAC’s fault! If I hadn’t skipped college to be a crime fighter, I’d have been okay.”

  He got to his feet and stared down at us, taking one last look. “You see, crime does pay,” he said. “It’s crime fighting that doesn’t!”

  And then he burst out laughing again. “HAHAHAHAHA!!!!”

  He bent over double, turning away from us. Taking advantage of the moment, I looked at Frank. I saw that he was motioning to me, pretending to fire a gun.

  Oh! Right! The stun gun—I’d been carrying it in the pockets of my cargo pants all this time!

  I reached down and pulled out the pieces, wiping them off on my arms and fitting them together as I went. Just as I was ready to fire, Captain Creamy saw what I was up to.

  I thought he’d duck, but he just stood there.

  I pulled the trigger—

  Nothing.

  I pulled again. Same story.

  Ernie burst out laughing again.

  “This thing’s useless!” I moaned to Frank.

  “Of course it’s useless!” Ernie said. “I’m the one who gave it to you, remember? HAHAHAHA!!!”

  Okay, that was it. We were going to die. I was sure of it—so sure that I didn’t care anymore what happened.

  “ARRGGHH!”

  I took my useless weapon and flung it at Ernie Bickerstaff as hard as I could. It hit him smack in the forehead, and he went down like a pile of bricks!

  “Now that is nonlethal force!” I said.

  “Ah, yes,” Frank agreed, “the ATAC code: Never kill if you don’t have to.”

  “Stupid weapon,” I said.

  “Well, at least it was good for something.”

  Then it hit me.

  “I am such an idiot!” I smacked myself on the forehead.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Our only hope for getting out of here was talking Captain Creamy into changing his mind. Now we’re doomed for sure!”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  “Huh?”

  Frank gave me a smile and a wink. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out our dad’s tiny microwave flashlight.

  He wiped it off on his sleeve, aimed it at the switchbox, and five seconds later, it exploded.

  Instantly, the hose stopped pouring. The sound of the motor went dead.

  “Great,” I said. “Now what?”

  “Huh?”

  “We’re still gonna
freeze in here.”

  “Not if the battery on this thing holds up.” Frank turned the microwave beam on the ice cream in the vat, and instantly, it started to bubble.

  You wouldn’t believe how fast ice cream melts in a microwave! In less than ten minutes we were able to move again. Another five minutes, and we’d made it to the edge of the vat and hauled ourselves out.

  We stared down at Captain Creamy, who was just starting to stir.

  “Got any cuffs on you?” Frank asked me.

  “I’ve got a belt,” I said.

  “That’ll do.”

  18.

  BACK TO SCHOOL

  For once our whole family was seated around the dinner table. It was a Sunday night in the middle of September. Tomorrow, two weeks late, would be the first day of school.

  Not something we usually celebrate, but this year was different. Everyone in Bayport—even Brian Conrad—was happy things were finally getting back to normal.

  Thanks to lots of publicity, the whole town had shown up at George Guthrie’s funeral. Donations to the homeless had gone through the roof. And Ernie Bickerstaff was safely behind bars.

  “I don’t think they should make anyone dress up in chicken suits anymore,” Aunt Trudy said. “It’s insulting to chickens.”

  “Aaarrkk! Pretty bird! Pretty bird!” Playback squawked, and hopped from Aunt Trudy’s shoulder to the top of her head.

  She ignored him—her very own spoiled brat—and kept on talking. “It’s bad for people’s self-esteem as well. No wonder he turned into a murderer.”

  In the news there had been no mention of Joe’s and my involvement in the case. As usual, ATAC rhymes with anonymous. All Aunt Trudy knew was what everyone in town knew—that a young man had gone crazy and done crazy things.

  It was over now, but people were still buzzing about it—and would be for a long time to come.

  “Time for dessert,” Mom said, getting up and going into the kitchen.

  “Mmmm, I can’t wait!” I said. Whenever we have a celebration, Trudy makes the salad, Dad cooks dinner, and Mom does dessert—and it’s always something spectacular.

  Mom came back in carrying a beautiful cake, iced in chocolate, with two lit candles in it. HAPPY END OF SUMMER was written in white icing.