I, Superhero by David Atchison

Author:David Atchison [Atchison, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-03-23T22:00:00+00:00

Twenty Eight

Fergus sits on his hands, trying to warm them.

For the past several hours, he’s been searching and scrolling—page upon page about the Boston Terrier’s habits, about breeders in the area, and about shelters that take in stray dogs. Now, while waiting for the latest pictures to emerge from the printer, he notices how damn cold his hands are. The capillaries in his fingers have emptied, apparently, and a few minutes pinned between thigh and chair is just the remedy.

Fergus swivels and studies the crinkled piece of paper he retrieved from the Smith kitchen table a few days before. Had Dad brought this home as an insult? To mock him for wanting to be a detective?

Was it to challenge him? Was this his father’s version of a test? Some rite of passage? Solve this crime without aid, without prompting, and then, just possibly, Fergus will be handed the keys to the crime-fighting kingdom?

Or was it just some scrap of trash Dad forgot to throw away?

Doesn’t matter anymore. Fergus took the notice to his own personal Batcave, turned on his computer, and rolled up his sleeves. Once he started chewing on the case of Patches and the Missing Boston Terrier, Fergus discovered he liked the taste. Whether test or insult or oversight, Fergus is now determined to return a missing dog to a grateful family.

His hands are now warmer, and the printout is finished, so Fergus gets up. On one of the few remaining plots of corkboard, he attaches the new pic.

As pin crunches into cork, a knock sounds at the door.

Isn’t it odd, Fergus muses, how you can know who’s on the other side of a door just by the resonance of the knock? ‘Go away.’

Flynn Smith opens the door and enters the room.

‘If I invited you in, would you scram?’ Fergus asks.

‘Get over yourself, dickwad.’ Flynn walks over to the corkboard. The pictures, the missing dog flyer, the map of the neighborhood. Meanwhile, the printer is churning out yet another picture of yet another Boston Terrier with flashy markings.

Flynn intercepts the print job. Looks it over. Frowns. The dog is adorable: sad, expressive eyes on a face that looks like it belongs to an animal that would chase squirrels all day if only in an attempt to find a playmate.

‘Meticulous,’ Flynn says. ‘But what on God’s earth is all that other—’

‘Information. I’m sorting through clues. Stuff you wouldn’t understand because it’s not in a comic book.’

‘Says the dork at his bat-computer.’

Fergus turns, wishing he had laser beam eyesight. He swears he wouldn’t injure her permanently.

Flynn ignores his expression and examines the printout more carefully. She takes a step closer to the cork board, looking from map, to flyer, and back to map again.

‘This is the dog you’re looking for?’

‘Yes. A Boston Terrier. And also a dog named Patches. If I find Patches, I’ll crack the case.’

‘How do you know its name is Patches?’ Flynn asks.

‘Because, idiot sister, I’m investigating the crime. And because unlike you, I tend to do my homework.

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