Home Alone 3 (5 page)

Alex smiled.

Maybe it wasn't too late to save the car.

Alex jammed the remote control forward. The toy car's knobby rubber tires spun against Alice's chest. The car shot upward and cracked her in the chin.

Alice reeled backward.

The toy car fell to the ground. This time on all four wheels! Alex quickly turned it around and aimed it out of the driveway.

The chase was on again!

Through the telescope, Alex watched Unger, the guy wearing the old man's clothes, race down the driveway after the toy car. At the same time, Jernigan jumped back in the blue van. For a second it looked like the toy car was going to lose them, but these burglars were pros. They spread out, blocking the street and the alley.

Well, it was a good thing it was an off-road vehicle. Alex turned the car and headed off across the lawns, through backyards, around trees and under shrubs. The four burglars went right after it, vaulting fences, crashing through hedges, diving over shrubs.

It was fun to watch. Burglars crashing into burglars. Burglars crashing into their own van. Meanwhile, Alex deftly maneuvered the toy car around to his own backyard, under his back porch and into a stairwell where he could open the basement door and grab it unseen.

With the toy car safely in his hands, Alex went back up to his room. Now all he had to do was take out the videotape, and show it to the police. Boy, would Stan and Molly be surprised.

He took the video camera off the car and hit the eject button. The camera opened.But the tape was gone!

The burglars had already gotten it!

Filled with disappointment, Alex stared down at the camera.

Hey, wait a minute!

Disappointment became confusion. If the burglars had the tape, why'd they try so hard to catch the car?

Alex picked up the toy car and studied it. Sure it was nice and everything, but it wasn't that expensive, and those burglars didn't seem like the types who'd want to play with it.

Why would they be so eager to get it?

Alex turned it over.

Plink
. A small square thing fell out of the car and landed on his desk. It was made of dark plastic. Thin strands of green and gold ran through it. Alex looked down at it. It sure looked fancy to be in a toy car. He looked under the toy car, but couldn't find the place where it was supposed to go.

He looked back at the chip again. Maybe
it wasn't
supposed to go in the car at all. Alex slid open his desk drawer and took out a magnifying glass.

He studied the intricate green and gold circuitry of the chip closely. He saw the serial number printed in faint red ink, along with

the words: AXUS DEFENSE TECHNOLOGIES/U.S. AIR FORCE.

That
really
didn't seem like something that should have been in a toy.

Alex sat back in his chair and thought hard. He didn't know exactly what this thing was, but he had a feeling it was the kind of thing a bunch of burglars just might be looking for.

Well, now what?

He sure wasn't about to call the police again. They'd probably just laugh at him. Alex glanced down at the chip. What about the Air Force? After all, it was their chip.

Alex got up and went into his parents' bedroom.

How did you call the Air Force?

He started with information. They gave him a number. A man with a deep voice answered. Alex told him the whole story. When he was finished, he heard the man chuckle.

"Sorry, son. This is a recruiting office," the man said. "We don't handle matters like this. Why don't you put your mom on the phone and I'n refer her to the proper office."

Alex sighed. It was the same old story. Because he was a kid, nobody believed him. But he had to try. This was important.

"She's at work now," he told the man. "Can't you give me the number of someone who could help?"

"Phoney phone calls aren't funny, son," the man said, his tone getting more serious.

"I know that," Alex sputtered. "If you won't give me a number to call, can I at least give you the serial number on this chip? Then you can call the right guys for me."

"Well . . ." The man hesitated. "Okay, what the heck."

Alex picked up the magnifying glass and read the serial number on the chip to him.

"I really hope you're not just giving me lip service," he said when he was finished. "This could be really important."

"I'm sure," the man said.

Alex hung up the phone. There, at least he'd done his job as a responsible citizen. Too bad adults were such jerks!

The burglars sat in the living room of the ranch house tending their wounds. They had scrapes and black-and-blue marks. Unger had chipped a tooth from his collision with the van.

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate you hitting me with the van," he grumbled at Jernigan.

"You should have been paying more attention," Jernigan shot back.

"And
you
should have taken driver's ed," Unger snapped.

"Shut up, both of you," Beaupre growled angrily. This was a tense situation. Everything was going wrong. He looked at Alice. "What do you think?"

"I think we're dealing with a kid," she said. "It has to be a kid."

"You mean, because of how crudely the toy car with the camera was put together?" Beaupre asked.

Alice nodded. "The cops have come twice. Both times the kid tells them what he's seen, but they don't believe him. So what does he do? He takes matters into his own hands."

"It makes sense," Beaupre admitted.

"If that's the case, why take chances?" Unger asked. "I say tomorrow we whack every kid on the block.
Then
we look for the toy car."

The phone rang. Beaupre picked it up.

"Did you find the chip?" a gravelly foreign voice asked.

Beaupre swallowed. He didn't have to ask who it was. It was Mr. Chou.

"We're close," Beaupre replied.

"In other words, you don't have it." Mr. Chou sounded displeased.

"We will," Beaupre tried to assure him.

"Yes, you will," Mr. Chou agreed. "Because if I don't have that chip in twenty-four hours, the mission is terminated. And if the mission is terminated, so are you."

Click!
Mr. Chou hung up.

Peter Beaupre put down the phone.

"Who was that?" Jernigan asked.

"Mr. Chou," Beaupre said. "We have twenty-four hours."

Unger grew pale. "What do we do?"

Beaupre turned to the map of Washington Street and pointed at one of the houses. "We hit this house. It's within the two hundred-yard operating radius of the receiver on the toy car and it's on the sight lines to all the houses we've been in."

"Whose house is it?" Jernigan asked.

Alice checked her computer screen. "It belongs to a family named Pruitt."

That night, Alex was allowed to join the family at dinner. Mrs. Pruitt slapped slices of pizza on paper plates, served the meal to her kids, and sat down.

"Now listen, kids," she said. "Dad will be home tomorrow night. I have my quarterly client meeting from lunch until five o'clock. I want Stan and Molly to come home right after school and stay with Alex."

Molly was the first to protest. "No way! I have gymnastics."

"I have hockey," Stan said.

"Do I have to repeat myself?" Mrs. Pruitt said with an aggravated sigh.

"I thought you were putting the bite on Mrs. Hess to watch Alex," Stan said.

"That makes a lot more sense, Mom," agreed Molly. "She's more responsible than Stan or me.

"She's just our backup," Mrs Pruitt explained. "Unless it's an emergency, I'd rather not have to call her."

"Listen, guys, I'm fine by myself," Alex said.

"There you have it," Stan said with a nod. "It's settled. The twerp stays by himself."

"No, he doesn't," Mrs. Pruitt said in a tone that didn't invite any more argument. "You two work it out. I don't care how. But one of you has to come home after school."

"Great," Molly groaned. "As if this family wasn't fractious enough, now you pit me and Stan against each other for the sake of Blister Buns."

"Work it out," Mrs. Pruitt replied tersely. "End of conversation."

Stan just smirked and turned to his little brother. "Hey, Alex, could you pass the false alarms? Ooops! Sorry, I mean, the peas."

"Very funny," Alex said sourly.

"That subject is also closed, Stan," Mrs. Pruitt informed her oldest son.

"Hold on, Mom," Molly protested. "I respected your wish that we not pour any more salt into Pajama Man's copious wounds, but since Stan has inadvertently exhumed the subject, I respectfully request that I be allowed a last, final, farewell remark about Alex's law enforcement faux pas. I promise this remark will be amusing and warm-hearted."

"All right," Mrs. Pruitt allowed. "One final remark and then we drop it forever."

Molly smiled and turned to Alex. "I just want you to know, dear little brother, that not everyone at school thinks you're an immature, attention-seeking, fraidy-Cat, whiny-butt baby."

Alex narrowed his eyes and braced himself.

"It just so happens," his sister went on, "that the kindergartners think it's extremely cool that you got to meet the chief of police."

Another dig. Alex knew it was coming, even if his mother didn't. The phone rang. Mrs. Pruitt answered it. "Hello?"

Alex took the opportunity to shoot his sister a juicy wet raspberry.

"Alex?" his mom said into the phone. "Yes, he's been home with the chicken pox."

Alex looked over his shoulder at his mom, wondering who she was talking to.

"You live on which street?" his mom asked. She covered the phone with her hand and turned to Alex. "Do you know a Bradley Clovis?"

Bradley Clovis?
The kid was a three-way dork. Alex gave his mom a cautious nod.

"His mother's on the phone," Mrs. Pruitt said. "Did you take a toy car from him?"

Toy car? Bradley Clovis?
The realization of what was going on hit Alex like a slap in the face.

Meanwhile, his mom was talking into the phone again. "Yes, he has one of those remote control cars. . . . No, he got it from the woman across the stree—"

Alex leaped up from the table and lunged for the phone. He slammed his hand down on the hook and disconnected the call. His mother stared at him in shock, then pulled him away from the phone.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked.

"It was a lie," Alex gasped.

"I don't care," Mrs. Pruitt said. "You never disconnect one of my calls."

"I don't know who was on the phone," Alex said anxiously, "but you can't talk to her."

"Why not?" Mrs. Pruitt scowled.

Alex was just about to tell her about the burglars going into the Alcotts' house when out of the corner of his eye he saw his sister and brother watching and grinning. If he brought up the burglars again they'd ridicule him forever. Instead, he turned to the kitchen counter and took the school directory out of one of the drawers.

"Here," he said. "Call her back. I think you'll be surprised."

"Okay, I will," his mother said. But instead of looking up the Clovises' real phone number in the school directory, she punched that automatic callback feature.

Alex's jaw fell open. He started to protest, then remembered Molly and Stan. Meanwhile, his mom got back on the phone with "Mrs. Clovis."

"Oh, no, it wasn't your fault," Mrs. Pruitt said. "We're in the middle of renovating the house, and the phone lines are a mess."

His mom laughed at something "Mrs. Clovis" said. Alex could picture who was on the other end of the line. It had to be Alice, the jogger lady/burglar. Shaking his head wearily, he trudged out of the kitchen. It was too late.

Now the bad guys knew where he lived.

Later that night, Alex knocked on Stan's door and spoke to him. Then he knocked on Molly's door and went in.

Molly looked up from her desk. "Isn't there a law prohibiting a person from wearing the same pajamas for five days straight?"

Alex ignored her. "You don't have to come home tomorrow after school. I'll be fine."

"Gee, thanks," Molly answered with a droll smile. "Frankly, I was planning on sticking Stan with the unsavory task."

"You don't have to," Alex said. "I'll tell Mom you were here. I'll cover for you. I already talked to Stan. He agreed."

"Why?" Molly asked suspiciously. "What's in this for you?"

"For the first time in my life, nothing," Alex replied sadly and trudged out of the room.

Back in his room, Alex took his pet rat, Doris, out of her cage and stroked her gently on the back. It was obvious to him now that the burglars were going to come for him the next day after everyone left for school and work. No one was going to help him because no one believed him. Not his parents, or Molly, or Stan, or the police, or the Air Force.

Alex sighed and looked out into the dark. He was going to have to do it himself. He wasn't going to cry or feel sad or scared. He knew the burglars were grown-ups and criminals and a lot bigger and stronger than he was. But this was his neighborhood and his house.

And he wasn't going to let them beat him.

The renovation of his house had been a big pain, but now Alex was glad about it. Because it gave him all sorts of materials and supplies for the coming battle.

That night from the basement he got reels of wire, balls of yarn, and cans of spray paint. He found cable cutters, a fishing tackle box, jars of nuts and bolts, and a bunch of old weights.

He filled an old steamer trunk with books. He quietly drilled tiny holes in the front door and placed barbells on the roof over the front porch. He loosened bolts on the swimming pool diving board and slid a long, narrow wooden board under the pool cover.

He strung the thin, nearly, invisible fishing line from his house to his neighbor's house, and then into the backyard. He crept into Stan's room while his brother was sleeping and stole his most prized possession—an ammo box filled with M-80s, cherry bombs, smoke bombs, fake vomit, Chinese handcuffs, a hand buzzer, and a pea shooter.