The Case of the Bug on the Run by Martha Freeman Page A

Address, which begins, “Four score and seven years ago . . .”
    Besides telling us about the building and the Civil War times when Lincoln was president, the ranger also told us a story about the statue. Some people think Lincoln’s hands, resting on the arms of his chair, are forming his initials—“A” and “L”—in sign language. This could be because the sculptor had a deaf son, and Lincoln started a college for deaf people.
    Or it could be that some people have too-energetic imaginations.
    Our tour of the Lincoln Memorial took about half an hour.
    When it was done, Mr. Verity, Nate, Tessa and I ended up standing next to each other on the stepsoverlooking the Reflecting Pool, and beyond it the Washington Monument; that’s the tall skinny white one. A few feet away from us was a plaque marking the place where Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., made his “I Have a Dream” speech about civil rights to thousands of people.
    Because it was still pretty early, the only people we could see by the Reflecting Pool were Mr. Bryant and Hooligan, a park ranger on a mini-tractor, and the BLF protesters, with their signs and a tambourine.
    Mr. Verity patted my shoulder. “Hey, Cammie, baby. Why the long face? Wassamatta U? Get it?”
    â€œThe boss means what’s the matter with you?” said Max’s voice from the phone clipped to Mr. Verity’s belt. “The boss thinks he’s hilarious.”
    â€œBecause I
am
hilarious, buddy boy!” Mr. Verity said.
    I tried to fix my face. “I’m okay.”
    But it wasn’t true. I felt like an idiot. All through breakfast, the drive to the memorial and even the tour, I had been trying to think of a good trick question. But nothing sounded right. And if the spy figured out why I was asking, he’d lie and avoid my trap.
    Not to be a drama queen like some people I could name (Tessa), but I was afraid that if that happened, we would never catch him, and James Madison would never be safe.
    Standing on the steps, I was ready to give up.
    Then Tessa asked me a question. “Did you feed James Madison this morning?”
    And just like that, my problem was solved.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
    I spoke carefully. “I, uh . . . didn’t feed him, dear sister. But don’t you have some spicy taco chips in your bag? James Madison really likes those.”
    The phone on Mr. Verity’s belt lit up. “Not the spicy ones!” said Max. “They’ll upset his tummy!”
    I turned toward Mr. Verity and saw his suntanned face turn almost as white as his teeth. Sounding exactly normal, I said, “Max, how do you know that?”
    And Max said, “Uh . . . oops?”
    And before he could say more, Mr. Verity grabbed the straps of Tessa’s pink Barbie backpack, yanked it from her shoulders and ran.
    Tessa was so surprised she didn’t move for a moment. Then she slapped the place where her backpack used to be and shrieked, “Hey! You give that back!”
    But by this time Mr. Verity was halfway down the memorial’s marble steps.
    â€œCome on!” I grabbed Nate with one hand andTessa with the other. “We’ve got to catch a bad guy . . . and save a cockroach!”
    Together, the three of us gave chase, but Mr. Verity had longer legs and a head start. In a few more steps, he’d be on level ground, and then he’d have the whole National Mall ahead of him. Could I run two miles to save a cockroach? On a July day in Washington, I didn’t want to have to find out.
    Luckily, the Secret Service agents Malik and Jeremy were loping in our direction. And so were the BLF protesters, marching in time to their tambourine. That sound plus approaching sirens, Park Service loudspeakers and screaming tourists added up to a whole lot of noise.
    Did I mention that Mr. Verity’s run for it had also tripped the Hooligan alarm