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Authors: Gary Paulsen

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Yeah. A leg. Look at him drool, just sitting watching me drooling. I'm too young to die.

With exactly one minute to go, Dunc heard the sound of an engine and the car returned and stopped by the gate.

The same thin man got out, said something to the dog who sat down, and Amos got out.

The man opened the gate and Amos came out, stood looking up and down the street for a moment, then took his bike from next to the gate and started to ride away, the wig blowing in his face so he had trouble seeing.

The man watched for a moment until he was sure Amos was on his way, then turned the car and drove away.

As soon as he was out of sight Dunc jumped on his bike and pedaled to catch up.

“Well?”

Amos was all over the road. “My wig has moved and the hair is in my eyes—how do they ride with long hair?”

“Take it off.”

They stopped and Amos took the wig off and put it in his back bike bag.

“Well?” Dunc asked.

“Well, nothing,” Amos said. “I looked at so many dolls, I'm cross-eyed. You know what he's got in there?”

“No.” Dunc tried not to scream. “That's what I'm trying to find out.”

“Dolls,” Amos said.

“Well, I figured that.”

“No. I mean
dolls
. He's got dolls from all over the world. He's really a collector. He had a doll that came from some prehistoric cave in Europe. Maybe twenty thousand
years old. He's got another Chinese doll four thousand years old. And he's got a painting of a little girl holding the doll from way back then. I mean, it's incredible.”

Amos pulled off to the side to let a car go past. “Unbelievable.”

Dunc sighed. “Well, that's too bad.”

“What is?”

“He sounds like a legitimate collector. I guess he isn't our man.”

“I didn't say that.”

“What?” Dunc had dropped in back of Amos when the car went by, and now he pulled up close next to him. “What did you say?”

“I said I didn't say he wasn't our man.” Amos shook his head. “Or something. You know what I mean.”

“No. I don't. Why isn't he a legitimate collector?”

Amos sat up. They were starting down a long hill, and he let his bike coast. “Oh, I think he's a collector all right—I just don't know if he's a
legitimate
collector.”

“Why?”

“Well, first you have to decide on that word
legitimate
. Does that mean is he legal? Or is he just a real collector—”

“Amos.”

“Do you know when you get mad, it makes your lips thin and white, the way they pinch like that?”

“Amos.”

“Oh, all right. He took me all over his house, and I pretended to be interested— well, actually I guess I
was
interested. I mean that old doll, the prehistoric one, was something. He had it in a glass case, and you could just imagine a cave man sitting carving it for his kid all those years ago.”

“Why is he our man?”

Amos sighed. “You should let someone tell a story when they want to tell a story. You can back these stories up, and they'll build up pressure and you'll just explode.”

“All right, all right. I'm sorry. Tell it your way.”

“So we're going all over the house and
he's showing me all these dolls, and we come to this one big glass case in a special room and it's covered with a curtain.”

“The whole case?”

Amos nodded. “All around the inside. I asked him what was in the case, and he wouldn't tell me.”

“It could be anything.”

Amos nodded. “That's what I thought. So we'll just skip it, right?”

“You're kidding.”

Amos nodded again. “We're going back, aren't we?”

“You bet.”

“I wonder how hard it is to learn how to speak Rottweilerese?”

•
9

“Do you know the plan—in case we get separated?” Dunc asked.

They were in Dunc's room. It was eleven at night. They were wearing black turtle-necks and jeans and had black ski masks.

“I'm wondering about this,” Amos said. Dunc was rubbing camo-salve on his cheeks to knock out the light, and then he handed the tube to Amos.

“It's simple,” Dunc said. “We take the back roads on our bikes. At the gate we go into Plan 1A.”

“I know, I know.”

“Repeat Plan 1A.”

“Dunc.”

“Repeat it,” Dunc ordered. “It's important.”

“We throw the meat to the dog.”

“The whole thing,” Dunc said. “Do the whole poem.”

“It's hokey.”

“No—it's the way the military does it. I saw it in a movie. You make a poem of the plan, and then it's easier to remember. Now do it.”

Amos took a breath.

“We throw the meat to the dog
   and crawl over the log.

We pepper to the left,
   and pepper to the right.

And take very good care
   to avoid getting a bite.”

“Good.” Dunc nodded. “You've got it.”

“It's dumb.” Amos held up his can of black pepper. “This isn't going to work.”

“I read that escaping slaves used to carry pepper and sprinkle it on their trail to stop the hounds from being able to follow them. It worked for them, and it will work for us.”

“That thing isn't a hound,” Amos said. His face was all streaks, and he looked like a clown. “It's the Devil. And he's just going to think the pepper is seasoning to make us taste better.”

“Think of the reward.” Dunc put his hand on the doorknob and opened it silently. “Think of Melissa,” he whispered. “Now let's go—we've only got six hours before Dad and Mom wake up.”

Amos held back for a moment, then followed. He hissed at Dunc's back.

“Peppered meat

is good to eat.”

It took them nearly an hour to ride through the suburbs. They kept to the alleys until they were outside town, then took the road straight to the front gate. They
passed a few cars, one police car, but they moved off the road in plenty of time to keep from being seen.

When they arrived at the gate, they hid their bikes in the willows across the road and waited, watching.

“He's not there,” Dunc said.

“He is—he's just invisible. And bulletproof.” Amos shivered, remembering. “He dripped drool when he looked at me. Dripped it
down
on my head.”

“Well, I don't see him.”

“Trust me. He's there. Watching us right now. Probably looking right through us. At our internal organs. Counting our organs to make sure they're all there before he— what's that?”

A sudden noise had come from the road, and Dunc sighed. “Just a cricket. Take it easy.”

“I've changed my mind. Let's go home.”

“Amos.”

“I hate it when you say ‘Amos' that way. Like you're talking to a kid.”

“We
are
kids.”

“I mean a real kid. A kid kid. There! What's that?”

Another sound.

“It was another cricket. Come on, let's get closer and see if we can see him.”

They each had a can of pepper, and Dunc had a small pencil flashlight on a loop around his neck. Dunc also carried a plastic bag with three pounds of hamburger in it.

The plan was simple. Dunc had explained it—according to Amos—about a thousand and four times. They would throw the meat over the fence to the dog, and while he was eating it they would run to a different part of the fence, climb over, sprinkle pepper on their tracks, and make their way to the house. Amos had drawn a map of the house from memory as soon as they'd gotten back to Dunc's room. There was a set of windows in the front, and one of them had been open. If it was still open, they would go in there. If not, they would try to
find another way. It was a good plan, as plans went.

Except for the dog.

They couldn't find the dog.

They were close to the gate, standing against the steel grating. “If we don't find the dog,” Dunc said, “we'll have to cancel.”

“No problem,” Amos said quietly. “I found him.”

“Where is he?”

“Holding on to my thumb.”

•
10

“What?”

“My thumb, you doofus,” Amos almost screamed. “He's got my thumb through the gate bars here, and he's holding it.”

Dunc turned, tried to see down in the darkness. “Oh yes, there he is. Why did you give him your thumb?”

“I didn't
give
him my thumb—he took it. I had my hand close to the gate, and he kind of reached through. I didn't see him in the dark. And now he won't give it back.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No. He's just holding it tight. When I tried to pull it back, he grabbed tighter. Man, he's got spit all
over
my hand.”

“Don't move.”

“Get serious. If I leave here, I have to go without my thumb. I like my thumb. But I wish you'd do something.”

“I don't know what to do. Maybe if I tap him on the nose.”

“Don't get him mad!”
Amos yelled.

“Shhh …”

“Give him the meat.”

“The meat?” Dunc said. “We need that for later to distract him.”

“If you don't give him the meat, I'm going to kill you.”

“Wait—I've got a better idea.”

“Do it soon.”

Amos heard a ruffling and then a clicking sound, and suddenly the pungent odor of pepper filled the air.

Dunc sprinkled pepper through the gate bars on the Rottweiler's nose.

“Oh,” Amos said, “I wish you hadn't done that.”

The effect was immediate. The Rottweiler wrinkled its face, wrinkled it some more, took a great breath through its flubbery side lips, and exploded in a spray of spit and snot that covered Amos from the middle of his chest up across his face.

And he let go the thumb.

“Arrrghhh! I'm snotted, I'm snotted!”

“Don't complain.” Dunc grabbed his collar and pulled him away from the gate. “He let you go, didn't he?”

“I'm snotted,” Amos repeated. “He snotted me all over.”

“Come on.” Dunc took the plastic bag of meat and threw it over the gate. “While he's eating this, let's get in down the way.”

He took off running, and Amos followed him, half dragged. Down the fence a short distance, there was a wooden bench where walkers could take a rest. It was close to the wall, and Dunc jumped on it, bounced once, and pulled himself up on top of the wall. He
reached back and helped Amos up, and they dropped inside the property.

Dunc had memorized the map, and he made for the house at a good run, sprinkling pepper in back of them as he ran.

It was a huge stone house with high windows peaked like church windows. There was one yard light on over to the side, but the front and other parts of the house were dark.

“It looks spooky,” Dunc said.

“Yeah. It was bad enough in daylight. It looks worse now.”

“Where was that window again?”

“On the right side of the front. There— it's still open.”

“Well, let's get going before the dog finds us.”

“It's too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's here. He must have swallowed the meat whole.”

“Where is he? I don't see him.”

“In back of me.”

“He's not growling.”

“He can't. His mouth is full.”

“Full—of what?”

“Me. He's got me by the butt.”

•
11
BOOK: The Case of Dunc's Doll
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