Home Alone 3

Peter Beaupre sat in the driver's seat of the parked blue van and watched the white vapor of his breath curl slowly through the open window and out into the frigid air. It was a cold winter night in Chicago, and he was seriously annoyed.

He shouldn't have been in Chicago. He should have been on a plane to Hong Kong with a stolen Axus Defense Technologies microchip in his pocket.

A chip that was worth
ten million dollars.

But due to a stupid mix-up at the San Francisco airport he was now sitting in this van outside a cab depot on a dark, dreary block lined with gloomy factories and warehouses.

In Chicago of all places. There was no place worse to be in the winter. And for Peter Beaupre, there was no place worse to be, period. The FBI had been after him for seven years. His luck couldn't last forever.

"Can't we get a little heat back here?" Earl Unger complained from the backseat.

"Running the engine might draw attention to us, Mr. Unger," Beaupre replied.

"Then how about closing the window at least?" Unger asked.

In the seat next to Beaupre, Alice Ribbons sighed irritably. Earl Unger was a large, solidly built man with thinning hair. When he kept his mouth closed, he was good for grunt work. When he opened his mouth, he was a nonstop pain.

"The windshield will steam up," Alice replied.

"Hey, look at that." Sitting next to Unger in the back, Burton Jernigan pointed out the window as a mangy rat scampered across the street and disappeared under the van.

"Disgusting!" Alice grumbled as a shiver ran through her.

In the back, Earl Unger had an idea. "You really don't like rats, huh?"

"I hate rats," Alice replied through clenched teeth.

"You know what they say about rats," Unger said, silently reaching forward. "They can get through any opening that's big enough for their heads."

Alice glanced nervously at the open window. Just then, Unger slid his fingers down her arm.

"Ahh!" Alice screamed. In a flash a knife appeared in her hand and she twisted around, looking for the rat.

Unger laughed.

"Why you—" Alice angrily pointed the knife at him.

Peter Beaupre had had it. "That's enough!" he shouted. "Don't you idiots understand how serious this is? Not only have we lost a microchip worth ten million dollars, but if we don't find it, Mr. Chou will use us for shark bait."

"Mr. Chou's in Hong Kong," Unger scoffed. "He can't get us."

"Mr. Chou has people everywhere, you jerk," Alice snarled. "If he wants you dead, you're dead."

Unger quieted down. Soon, a dented yellow cab pulled up in front of the depot. Peter Beaupre checked a number on a pad on his lap. "That's the one, boys."

Unger and Jernigan got out of the van and started across the street. In the van, Alice turned to Beaupre.

"Why can't we get rid of those two idiots?" she whispered.

"We will soon enough," Peter Beaupre answered. "But not until we get that toy car and chip back. Until then, we'll need their muscle."

He and Alice watched as Unger and Jernigan cornered the cab driver. The driver looked frightened. The three of them exchanged some words, then Unger and Jernigan returned to the van and got in.

"What'd he say?" Beaupre asked.

"He took the old lady to Washington Street in North Devon Park," Jernigan said.

"House number?" Alice asked.

"He couldn't see it," Unger said. "But he said it's a big, old Tudor house on a short street. Dead end."

Peter Beaupre leveled his gaze at Alice. "You're sure the old lady has that toy car?"

"She has to," Alice answered. "She was the only one with a white bag like ours. She had to be the one we mixed up bags with."

Peter Beaupre looked over the seats at Unger and Jernigan. "What if there's more than one big, old Tudor on that block?"

"We'll know the one," jernigan said. "It's got a Christmas tree at the end of the driveway, and the driveway ain't been plowed."

Alex Pruitt, age eight, slid his snow shovel under one last lump of snow in old Mrs. Hess's driveway and heaved it away. There! He was finished shoveling the old lady's driveway. Finally!

Alex paused and took a deep breath of cold night air. He glanced up and down Washington Street. It was lined on both sides with big, old Tudor houses, and all of them had their Christmas trees out on the street now that the holiday was over.

Alex was exhausted, and hot. Worst of all, under his snow clothes he itched all over. Whoever washed his long underwear last must not have rinsed all the soap out.

Leaving his snow shovel at the foot of the driveway, Alex trudged up the front walk and rang Mrs. Hess's doorbell. The old gray-haired lady pulled open the door instantly, as if she'd been standing there waiting. She was wearing the same old housedress and thin gray sweater she wore every day, summer and winter.

"I'm all done, Mrs. Hess," Alex said, not pulling the wool ski mask off his face because he was too busy reaching into his parka to scratch his chest.

The old witch narrowed her eyes at him. "You were supposed to deal with this snow promptly, young man. Instead I came home from San Francisco and discovered I had the only driveway on the block that wasn't cleared."

"Yes, but—"

"Butts are for ashtrays," Mrs. Hess snapped. "We had an agreement and you broke it."

"I'm sorry." Alex nodded reluctantly and reached down to scratch his leg. She was right. He could have shoveled the driveway sooner. But he'd built a snow fort in his backyard instead. Besides, if she wasn't home, what was the point? Still, he wasn't going to fight over it. "You don't have to pay me if you don't want to."

"Ha!" Mrs. Hess let out a cackle that caught him by surprise. "So you can tell the whole neighborhood I stiffed you?"

"No." Alex shook his head vigorously.

"Here." Mrs. Hess shoved a box at him. It had a picture of a toy car on it. "I left San Francisco with a loaf of sourdough bread in my bag and somehow wound up in Chicago with this. Consider it your pay. I have no use for the silly thing."

Alex winced. A toy car for all that work? He forced a smile to his face and resumed scratching himself. "Thanks, Mrs. Hess."

The old lady nodded sourly. "And have your mother teach you that it's rude to scratch yourself in the presence of a lady."

Bang! She slammed the door closed.

Alex sighed, took his toy car and snow shovel, and trudged back across the street to his own house, a big, old Tudor like all the others on the block.

He hardly took notice of the blue van rolling slowly down the street past him.

As the gray van moved slowly up Washington Street, Peter Beaupre couldn't believe what he was seeing. Neither could Alice Ribbons.

"Look at these houses," she said with a groan. "They're all old. Most of them are Tudor. They all have Christmas trees out, and the driveways have all been Shoveled."

Peter Beaupre looked into the rearview mirror at Earl Unger. "How're we supposed to know which one the old lady lives in?"

"You got me," Unger replied with a shrug.

Peter Beaupre sighed and pulled the van around in a U-turn. "I counted nineteen houses. We're going to have to come back and search every single one of them."

Alex let himself into his house and quickly pulled off his parka and snow pants, leaving them in a damp heap on the floor. He couldn't wait to get out of that itchy long underwear. His stomach was itching like crazy. He pulled up the front of his turtleneck . . . and stared down in frozen shock.

His stomach was covered with red blotches!

They looked like the pimples his older brother, Stan, sometimes got on his face.

What were they doing on his stomach?

Alex pulled out the waistband of his long underwear and took a peek down. Yup, they were on his legs, too. And his arms. He reached around and felt behind.

Uh-oh!

Alex quickly glanced around him. From the kitchen came the sound of his father, simultaneously chopping onions for dinner and talking on the phone.

"You have to see this new wire feed welder. . . . That's right, for a gasless flux-cored wire. . . . Best unit anywhere."

As usual, Alex's father was engrossed in a business call.

In a panic, Alex started to climb the stairs. He had to check out something, and the bathroom was the only safe place to do it. He reached the second floor and passed his sister Molly's room. The room was something of a wreck, as always. Clothes were scattered all over the floor. Molly was sitting at her desk, writing something on the bottom of her shoe. Probably the answers to a test at school the next day.

Next Alex passed his brother Stan's room. The door was closed. Inside a voice squawked, "I'm in

here, you moron! What's that funky smell?"

It was Stan's dumb pet parrot.

As Alex passed the door that led upstairs to the attic, he could hear the sound of his mother's voice. She must have been on the portable phone.

"I told you I can't work weekends. . . . My kids need someone to get them to their activities. . . . I'll do it this week. . . . I'll work during lunch if I have to."

She was talking about business, of course. Like his dad, his mom was always on the phone about business.

But Alex had other things on his mind. Specifically, to check out a very private region of his body that he could only see in a mirror. He went into the upstairs bathroom, then closed the bathroom door and locked it. Then he pulled the stool over and stood on it so he could see himself in the mirror.

Then he pulled down his long underwear and slowly turned around to look.

"Ahhhhhhhhh!" A scream tore out of Alex Pruitt's throat.

Peter Beaupre parked the van a few streets over. For a while, everyone was quiet. Beaupre considered the task ahead. They had to find that microchip. To do it, they were going to have to go through nineteen different houses without being caught.

And they were going to have to go through them fast because Mr. Chou was an impatient man.

"I'm cold," Earl Unger complained.

"You're
always
cold," Alice replied.

"Just so you know, I'm not wearing socks," Unger informed them. "I thought we were going to Hong Kong."

"You can suffer a brief discomfort," Alice said.

"Brief discomfort?" Unger repeated in disbelief. "Who flew coach from San Francisco to Chicago? Me and Jernigan. Who flew first class? You and Beaupre. Who ate poached salmon and caviar? You and Beaupre. Who ate cold lasagna? Jernigan and me."

"We're in a transitional Period," Peter Beaupre said. "Things will get better when we start the next phase."

"When will that be?" asked Burton Jernigan.

"Tomorrow we'll set up a base of operations," Beaupre said. "We start going into the houses the day after tomorrow."

"Wait a minute," Earl Unger said. "You want us to break into houses in broad daylight?"

Alice Ribbons looked over the seat at him. "This is the suburbs, Mr. Unger. People come home at night to sleep. During the day they go to work and school."

"She's right," Peter Beaupre agreed. "Nobody's home around here during the day."

Alex was lying in bed with the covers pulled up to his chin and a thermometer poking out of his mouth. His mom was sitting on the edge of the bed, and his dad was standing beside her. Stan and Molly were hovering in the doorway.

"What's the diagnosis?" his father asked.

"Chicken pox," answered his mom.

"Excuse me," said Stan. "But with all due respect, I think this is just a scam to get out of doing his science project."

"This is none of your business, Stan," Mr. Pruitt replied curtly.

"If infectious disease in my home isn't any of my business, then what is?" Stall asked.

"Can I talk to your father alone, please?" Alex's mom asked irritably, then turned to her husband. "His body's covered with spots."

A nasty smile appeared on Molly's face. "Would that include the buttock region?"

"Shut up!" Alex sputtered, his face growing hot with embarrassment.

"Don't talk with the thermometer in your mouth, dear," Mrs. Pruitt said, then turned to her only daughter. "Stay out of this, Molly."

But now Stan was into it, too. He turned to his sister. "It must include the buttock region, Molly. I mean, would he flip out so bad if his duff
wasn't
plastered with swollen, red carbuncles?"

Alex clenched his fists. He wanted to
kill
his brother!

"Don't you two have anything better to do?" Mr. Pruitt grumbled.

The two oldest Pruitt children ignored their father.

"What could be better then discovering embarrassing facts about your little brother's diseased dumpster?" Molly asked.

Alex shut his eyes. He'd kill
her
, too!