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

system?
“Awh-roohr!”
    Mr. Verity forged a zigzag path among the BLF protesters, but finally he busted free and beelined for the far end of the Reflecting Pool near the World War II Memorial. Jeremy and Malik were on their radios by now, alerting the combined forces of order to Mr. Verity’s location so they could cut him off.
    Tessa, Nate and I, meanwhile, fell farther and farther behind.
    Then Mr. Amaro shouted: “Kids! Over here! I got me some awesome wheels!”
    He was standing beside a green Park Service mini-tractor.
    â€œThanks!” Mr. Amaro told the ranger who had been driving. “I’ll bring it back in no time.”
    The mini-tractor had a seat up front by the driverand a bench seat in back. Nate, Tessa and I settled in, and Mr. Amaro gunned the motor.
    â€œHe lent you his tractor?” Nate had to holler to be heard.
    â€œWhat can I say? He’s a fan!” Mr. Amaro shouted back—and we sped toward the far end of the Reflecting Pool.
    By this time a swarm of officers, tourists and news guys—not to mention one too-energetic dog—had Mr. Verity backed up against the pool’s north rim. Brakes squealing, the mini-tractor jerked to a stop, and we all hopped off.
    Mr. Verity was trapped, and he knew it. He looked right, looked left, looked over his shoulder . . . but there was no way out except to wade in.
    I would have raised my hands in surrender, but not Mr. Verity.
    He had one trick left. With a flourish, he pulled James Madison’s mobile home from Tessa’s backpack, then revealed what he was holding in his other hand—a spray can.
    The crowd gasped. “Bug spray!”
    Mr. Verity, who has probably seen every Clint Eastwood movie ever made, narrowed his eyes and snarled. “Do as I say and no bug gets hurt. Turn your backs, close your eyes, count to ten and then . . . say
adios
to me and the
cucaracha
.”
    â€œMr. Verity?” said Tessa. “May I just say one thing? That can you’re holding? It’s hairspray.”
    Mr. Verity hesitated just long enough to look at thelabel. It wasn’t much time, but it was enough. In a single bound, Hooligan performed a tricky leap-and-bump maneuver that knocked Mr. Verity back into the shallow water while at the same time jolting James Madison’s mobile home free. Straight up into the air it flew, seeming to hang for a moment above the water.
    Oh, no!
    Madagascar hissing cockroaches can’t swim!
    Luckily, Aunt Jen played center field for her high school softball team. She jumped, she stretched, she reached . . . she gathered in the mobile home as if it were a high fly ball.
    â€œYour cockroach, dear.” She handed it to Tessa and made a face.
“Ewww.”

CHAPTER THIRTY
    â€œWait,” said Courtney after lunch that same day, “does this mean my dad’s not going to get his own reality-TV show?”
    â€œSorry,” I said.
    The two of us were in the Solarium with Hooligan. I was catching her up on our morning at the Lincoln Memorial.
    â€œMy dad’s gonna be super-disappointed,” said Courtney. “He was already shopping for houses in Hollywood. And was it really bug spray in the can?”
    â€œIt was,” I said. “When Lily told Mr. Verity that she heard Tessa, Nate and me talking about spies, he knew he might be caught and bought bug spray just in case.”
    â€œI don’t get it, though,” said Courtney. “Why did Tessa say it was hairspray in the can?”
    â€œTo confuse him,” I said. “And it worked, too.”
    Courtney shook her head. “Whoa—your little sister is smarter than she looks. But I still don’t see how you knew Mr. Verity was the spy.”
    â€œIt only came together after we’d eliminated all the other suspects,” I said—leaving out the part where her dad had been one of them. “That’s when I realized Mr. Verity