Trapped Read online

  That’s why we’re here in the woods, hiding behind a boulder. Maggie and I talked about it at lunch today at school, and we agreed. We have to find the creep who set the trap that caught Chico.

  It was easy to sneak out of the house. Mom’s at work, Dad is in his shop, Jayvee is at soccer, and Sage is at an Animals Always meeting.

  Our boulder is about twenty paces from the apple tree where I found Chico. Maggie and I aren’t talking much. In fact, we’re barely breathing. I feel like a detective on a stakeout, waiting for the criminal to return to the scene of the crime.

  I check my camera to make sure that it’s ready to shoot. The cut chain is still exactly where we left it yesterday, which means the trapper probably hasn’t been by here yet.

  That makes me even more mad. Dr. Mac told me that trappers are supposed to check their traps at least once every twenty-four hours. It’s the law. If they check regularly, at least the animals they catch won’t suffer too long. But Chico’s trapper hasn’t bothered to care about that. He hasn’t bothered to check his traps in much, much longer than twenty-four hours.

  My guess is that he’ll be along soon.

  The skies are gray and dreary, and it’s a little chilly. My legs are stiff from sitting in one position for too long. I shift my feet, trying to get comfortable. “Ouch,” I say out loud as my muscles protest. A few good yoga stretches would sure feet great right about now.

  “Shhh,” Maggie says.

  I pull my jacket closer around me and adjust my fleece hat so that it covers my ears. We’re lucky it wasn’t this cold when Chico was caught in the trap. He might have died of hypothermia. Dr. Mac told me she’s seen that happen to animals who are outside in the cold for too long. Their bodies lose the ability to fight the cold, their temperature drops, and they die.

  I shiver just thinking about it.

  I wonder how Chico is doing. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that Dr. Mac won’t have to amputate. I can hardly stand the thought of Chico losing his leg, even if what Maggie says is true about dogs being able to adapt.

  It’s frustrating to have to sit here quietly, doing nothing, when there’s so much on my mind. I think of what my mom would say. Live in the moment, Brenna. Listen to the world around you and let your mind go quiet.

  I take a deep breath and make myself very still. Instead of paying attention to my thoughts, I start paying attention to what’s around me.

  It works—I feel more relaxed. A blue jay screeches in a nearby tree, and a squirrel chirrups back at the bird, telling it to mind its own business. Three different kinds of moss are growing on the rock near my face, and I spot a snail crawling over a leaf. I point it out to Maggie, and she smiles.

  Her smile freezes. We both hear it at the same time: footsteps.

  Somebody is stomping through the woods. And there’s absolutely no doubt that the somebody is human. A human who is whistling cheerfully and crunching along.

  This person has some nerve!

  We hunker down even smaller and make sure we’re well hidden. Then we peek around our rock, just in time to see the whistler arrive in the clearing.

  It’s a man—no, a teenager, maybe a little older than Sage. He’s dressed in jeans and a red wool jacket, and he’s wearing big black boots. That explains the stomping noises. I can’t see his face too well, but he’s tall and skinny, and his dark blond hair is long enough to peek out from beneath his Yankees baseball cap.

  He’s still whistling as he strides across the clearing and approaches the apple tree. He bends down to look for his trap. It’s not there, of course.

  It’s in the trash, where it belongs.

  He stops whistling. He scratches his head. Then he looks again. He bends over and rustles around in the leaves until he finds the end of the chain that Dad cut. He picks it up and examines it carefully.

  He swears out loud. Then he sits back on his heels and stares down at the ground.

  I’m getting angrier by the minute.

  I flash on the way Chico looked when I first saw him lying there, so exhausted. A dog like Chico should be walking around proudly, his coat gleaming and his tail fluffy. Instead, his coat is matted and the life has gone out of his eyes. He’s tired and thin and nearly starving. And he might lose his foot.

  What makes this guy think it’s OK to kill innocent animals?

  I can’t take it anymore. I jump up from behind the rock and yell, “If you’re wondering where your stupid trap is, I’ll tell you. We had to take it off a dog! And the dog might have to have its foot amputated!” My voice sounds funny—high and pinched. I swallow hard to keep from crying.

  “Brenna!” Maggie grabs my arm, but I jerk it away and walk toward the guy. “Brenna, please,” she says again. “Don’t make him mad.”

  “Don’t make him mad?” I say.

  It takes me only a few seconds to cross the clearing. I stand right in front of the guy, my hands clenched into tight fists at my sides. I’m not sure what to do next. “You, you—” I try to think of a name bad enough to call him.

  “Hold on, there,” he says, holding up his hands. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “I’m Brenna Lake.” Now my voice is shaking. “And you know what? This land is a nature preserve. It’s illegal to trap here. But you shouldn’t trap anywhere, because it’s just plain wrong!”

  “Look,” he says. Now that I’m closer, I can see his face a little better. He has a few hairs on his upper lip, not quite enough to be called a mus tache, and some pimples on his forehead. His eyes are light brown. He looks annoyed. “I grew up around here,” he says. “My dad did, too. And his dad. We Morrisons have always trapped on this land. It’s a family tradition. Don’t you be telling me what to do, you little brat!”

  I take a step back. He’s really angry, and I’m a little scared. Then Maggie yells from behind the rock.

  “Brenna!” she shouts. “He’s got a gun!”

  I glance at his belt, and, sure enough, there’s a pistol hanging there in a brown leather holster.

  “Listen, you don’t understand—” the guy begins.

  But Maggie and I aren’t listening. We’re running as fast as we can, away from the guy with the gun.

  Chapter Five

  We run all the way back to my house, crashing through the underbrush. We follow the same route I took when I found Chico. But this time I’m looking over my shoulder every few seconds, half expecting that Morrison guy to be following us.

  Maggie’s doing the same thing. Out of the corner of my eye I see her stumble and nearly fall, but she manages to catch herself and we run faster. My camera thumps against my chest. I never even took a picture. Doesn’t matter. I won’t ever forget that guy’s face.

  Exhausted, we emerge into my backyard. Home safe. I bend over, hands on knees, and try to catch my breath. Maggie flops down on the ground next to me.

  “Whew! And I thought I was in shape,” she says.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask.

  “What do you mean, what are we going to do?” Maggie stares up at me. “We’re going to stay far, far away from that place, that’s what we’re going to do. And we’re going to hope that guy doesn’t remember your name and decide to come calling.”

  I shudder. Why did I have to lose my temper? When will I learn to keep my mouth shut? “Do you think we should tell my dad?” I ask.

  Maggie looks over at the carpentry shop. We can both hear the whine of a saw. “No, he’s busy. And it’ll only make him worry. We should tell someone, though.” She glances down at her watch. “Oh, man!” she moans. “Look how late it is. Speaking of worrying, Gran will be wondering why we’re not at the clinic.”

  “Let’s bike over there,” I suggest. “Take Sage’s bike. He never uses it anymore.”

  “Good idea,” she says. She jumps to her feet and we head to the garage to grab the bikes.

  I glance once more at my dad’s shop. Maggie’s right. He’s so busy these days—it’s better not to bother him. We push the bi
kes to the end of our dirt driveway and ride off.

  It’s only a few miles to the clinic, but the ride gives me a chance to do some thinking.

  “I’m going to call the cops,” I tell Maggie, as we wheel the bikes into the garage behind the clinic. “That guy shouldn’t be trapping in the nature preserve. Let’s have the authorities deal with it.” I’ve decided to be mature about this, to do the right thing.

  She hesitates, then nods. “OK. Let’s do it right now, before we go into the clinic. We can call in private from my kitchen.” Maggie’s house, where she lives with Dr. Mac and Zoe, is attached to the clinic.

  We head straight to the phone. Maggie opens a drawer and pulls out a phone book. “I think you should try the sheriff,” she says, leafing through the book to find the number. “He’s the one who helped us catch that guy running the puppy mill, remember? And I think that’s who Gran calls if she gets a tip about somebody poaching deer.”

  Poaching deer means hunting deer out of season. You can get in a lot of trouble for that.

  I pick up the phone and dial the number Maggie reads out.

  “Sheriff’s Department,” says the woman on the other end. “How can I help you?”

  “I want to report a crime,” I say.

  “Hold on.” There’s a rustling noise, as if she’s getting a piece of paper. “OK, go ahead.”

  “It’s about somebody trapping illegally.”

  “Trapping?” she asks. “We don’t deal with that, hon. Try over at the Game Commission.” She gives me the number, and I thank her. My palms are sweaty as I dial again.

  “Pennsylvania Game Commission.” This time it’s a male voice.

  “I—I want to report somebody for trapping illegally,” I say.

  “Hold for the game warden,” the guy says and puts me on hold before I can say a word.

  “I’m on hold,” I tell Maggie.

  She rolls her eyes. “This isn’t so easy,” she says. She grabs a box of crackers from a cabinet, opens it, and offers one to me.

  I shake my head. “No, thanks.” I don’t want to have my mouth full of food when it’s time to talk again.

  “Hello? Connor speaking. May I help you?”

  “Are you the warden?” I ask.

  “That’s right.”

  I take a deep breath. Maggie nods encourag ingly at me. “Well, I want to report someone for illegal trapping.”

  “Go on,” he says.

  “I don’t know his full name,” I start. Collect your thoughts, Brenna. Try to sound like you know what you’re talking about. I stop and start over again. “His last name is Morrison and he looks like he’s about eighteen. He’s been trapping in the Gold Hill Nature Preserve. He says he’s from around here.”

  Maggie waves to get my attention, then makes her hand into a pistol shape. “Tell him about the gun,” she mouths.

  I nod. “He had a gun with him. A pistol.”

  There’s a pause. I figure Connor (is that his first name, or his last?) is writing all this stuff down.

  “OK,” he says. “Anything else?”

  “Um, yeah. He didn’t check his traps. A dog got caught in one of them and we took him to the vet. He might have to have his leg amputated.”

  “That’s a shame,” says Connor. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll look into it.”

  “Please do it soon, OK?” I ask. “Before any more animals are hurt.” They’ve got to arrest this guy and put him in jail.

  Connor takes down my name and address.

  I hang up with relief. “Let’s go check on Chico.”

  “You read my mind,” Maggie says. She leads the way into the clinic.

  “Where have you been?” Sunita asks as we walk in. She’s at the reception desk again, still trying to sort out the mess of paperwork.

  “We found the trapper!” I blurt out. “The one who caught Chico. We know who he is. He’s just a kid, but he had a—”

  Maggie pokes me just in time. I know exactly what that poke means, and I shut my mouth fast. It’s probably better not to tell our friends and family about the gun. They’d just freak out.

  “A what?” asks Sunita.

  “A Yankees baseball cap,” Maggie says, covering my mistake smoothly. Then, quickly, before Sunita can get suspicious, Maggie changes the subject. “Is Gran mad? Did she notice we weren’t here?”

  “I don’t think so, but—” Sunita stops and frowns. “I’ll let her tell you. She’s in the operating room.”

  My stomach does a flip. Whatever the news is, it can’t be good. I can tell from Sunita’s face.

  “Where are David and Zoe?” I ask.

  “David’s at the stable today. And I think Zoe’s in the yard, walking a couple of dogs that are boarding here.” Sunita busily shuffles a stack of papers, trying to avoid our eyes.

  I look at Maggie. She looks at me.

  We head into the operating room, where Dr. Mac is tidying up a shelf of supplies.

  “Gran?” Maggie says.

  She glances up at us, a little distracted. “Maggie, Brenna,” she says. I expect her to ask where we’ve been, but she doesn’t. Instead, she comes over to put an arm around me. “I have news.”

  Her voice is quiet and serious. Uh-oh.

  “Is it Chico?” I ask. “Did he—?” I can’t seem to say the word die.

  She shakes her head. “He’s still here,” she says. “But I had to take off that foot.”

  What’s she talking about?

  “I had to amputate,” she explains. “The surgery went well. He’s extremely weak, but I think he’s going to make it. My only worry now is that he’s not eating. I’m still feeding him through an I.V.”

  “But—” I feel like crying. I was sure that Chico’s foot would heal.

  Maggie reaches out and touches my arm. “Can we see him?” she asks her grandmother.

  “Sure,” Dr. Mac replies. “He’s in the recovery room. Be very quiet around him, and keep your distance. As he gets stronger, he’s becoming more aggressive. It’s not surprising that he doesn’t trust people, after all he’s been through.”

  We tiptoe over to Chico’s cage. Chico is very still, curled up on his left side with his tail touching his nose. He opens his eyes when he hears us, but he doesn’t move a muscle. A huge bandage covers his right shoulder. My jaw drops open.

  Chico’s whole right leg is completely gone. Just—gone!

  I whirl around to glare at Dr. Mac. “Why did you take off his whole leg?” I demand. “Only his foot was hurt!”

  “Shhh, keep your voice down, Brenna,” Dr.

  Mac reminds me. “If you take off only the foot, the rest of the leg becomes dead weight to the dog. It’ll be much easier for him to get around without any leg at all.”

  That makes sense, I guess. But still, I can hardly stand to look at the dog. I force myself to step closer to his cage, feeling shaky. “Hey, Chico,” I squeak out. “How’s it going?”

  He can hardly lift his head. But he curls his lip at me and growls.

  Chico is mad at the world, and I don’t blame him. It hurts, though, that he won’t let me get closer. Doesn’t he know I’m the one who saved him?

  The big white bandage stands out against his dark fur. The look in Chico’s eyes makes me want to cry. I think of that Morrison kid. Maybe Sage is right. Maybe jail is too good for this guy.

  Chapter Six

  “What’s the point of trapping, anyway? Is it supposed to be fun or something? I don’t get it.”

  It’s lunchtime at school the next day, and Maggie and I are still talking about Chico and the trapper. I have lots of questions and no answers.

  “Where do you think fur coats come from?” Maggie says. “Trappers, that’s where. It’s all about money.”

  She acts tough, but I know how upset she is. Neither of us can stop thinking about the look in Chico’s eyes. Or about the leg that was amputated.

  David, Sunita, and Zoe are listening in as we finish our lunches. We still haven’t told the
m about the gun, but we told them everything else.

  “I thought they came from mink farms, which is bad enough,” Zoe says. “My mom used to have a mink jacket. Some movie producer gave it to her.”

  Zoe’s mom is an actress. She’s living in L.A., trying to get her career going, which is why Zoe is living with Maggie and Dr. Mac.

  “I made her give it away because it grossed me out. I mean, sure, it was super warm. And the fur was so soft! But touching it was like touching a dead animal.”

  Sunita shudders. “How can people wear something like that?”

  “Did you ever hear about those protesters who throw fake blood on models wearing fur?” David asks. “I think that’s pretty cool.” He points to my apple crisp. “Are you going to eat that?”

  I shake my head. I’m not hungry.

  He takes the dessert off my tray. “That blood-throwing does make people think,” he continues. “I saw a story about it on the news. The protesters got arrested, but I bet it was worth it. I bet they changed some people’s minds.”

  Sage would probably do something like that. He’s so angry these days that he’d probably do something even worse. What if he got arrested? What if he got sent to jail?

  “There must be something we can do to stop this trapping thing,” I say. “Why aren’t there any laws against it?”

  “I bet we can get some information on the Internet,” Sunita suggests. “Want to stay late today and hit the computer lab?”

  Of course. I should have thought of that before! I give her a grateful look. “That would be awesome,” I say. Then I sneak my hand over and grab the last bite of my apple crisp back from David.

  After the last bell rings, we head to the computer lab. “Let’s see,” Sunita says. She’s at the keyboard, and I lean over her shoulder. Maggie, Zoe, and David have all left for the clinic. I’d like to be there, too, but right now this feels important.

  Sunita types in some letters. “OK, let’s try ‘trapping,’” she says, hitting the return button.

  We wait while the search engine races all over the Internet. I picture a tiny train engine zooming everywhere, hauling a line of cars that fill up to the brim with information. The screen changes, and there’s a list of over a thousand matching Web sites. “We have to narrow it down,” Sunita says. “What are those traps called again?”