Murder, My Tweet by Bruce Hale

Author:Bruce Hale
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

“Uh, is this fair, three against one?” the massive raccoon asked.

“Get ’im!”

“Oh, okay.” Boomchukka dug in his claws and began climbing.

Yikes!

I leaped onto another limb and scrambled farther up. The flashlight followed me like an annoying little sister.

Leaves slapped my face, branches tore my hide. Then the camera strap snagged.

I tugged. Stuck.

Boomchukka climbed steadily. He stepped onto my limb. It swayed.

I tugged again, and the strap unsnarled. In a flurry, I climbed to the end of the branch. It dipped like a deranged tango dancer.

The raccoon shinnied out, closer and closer.

The limb creaked and bobbed like a fishing rod landing Moby Dick.

I was too far out to reach another branch. Only one thing could save me. “Natalie!” I cried.

Wings flapped in the darkness. “Going my way?” she said.

With legs wrapped around the swaying branch, I reached for her feet, missed, and grabbed again. This time I got my mitts on her.

“Fly!” I shouted.

Natalie flapped her wings madly.

Boomchukka’s outstretched hand grazed my foot. “No faaiiiiir!” he cried, missing me and losing his grip.

A quick glance back showed a dark shape crashing down through branches and flattening two other shapes like a bomb—a Stench Bomb.

Whump!

The flashlight fell. Voices clamored.

Natalie’s wings flailed, trying to carry the extra weight. We plummeted groundward. My stomach tried to climb into my throat, and my throat wasn’t pleased with the company.

“Any chance you’re . . . starting . . . a diet soon?” Natalie panted.

“No, but another dip like this and I’ll ralph.”

The ground zoomed up to meet us.

Luckily for the future of the detective biz, my mockingbird pal pulled out of the dive and set a course toward home.

I took another gander at the Stench Bombs. Their flashlight beam weaved, and shouts reached my ears. But we had a head start on the three goombahs.

Flap, flap, flap. Natalie’s wings thrummed a ragged drumbeat.

As we cleared the bushes on the playground’s far side, a pointy-eared figure reared up out of the gloom.

“Hey!” shouted the creature.

“Look out!” I cried.

Natalie wheeled away. Her breath rasped like a sore-throated Santa croaking his last carol. When she flapped over the school fence, the wire scraped my tail.

“Watch it!” I said.

“This . . . is . . . far . . .”

Natalie dipped, my feet caught a trash can, and we belly flopped—ka-thomp!—onto someone’s lawn.

“Enough?” I said.

I helped my partner stand, and we staggered along the street toward home. Good thing the Stench Bombs didn’t follow us; we had as much pep as two fizzled firecrackers in a toilet bowl.

“Close call,” said Natalie.

“No foolin’,” I said. “We almost bit off more trouble than we could chew.”

I turned up my driveway.

“But the trouble’s not over yet,” said Natalie.

“What do you mean?”

She looked up at the figure of a gecko in my doorway, hands on its hips. “Chet, did you bother to tell your mom you’d be late for dinner?”

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