Peter sat behind the fire hydrant, waiting. He wasn't sure what for. He didn't think Mike was awake, he didn't want dawn to come, and he wasn't expecting any help from Davy. Regardless, he didn't know what else to do. That was why he had been sitting there with his blanket, watching the pad since three in the morning. That was when he'd heard a strange noise from the window.
He had been asleep for several hours despite Davy's absence—the room always felt a little strange when he wasn't there, and strange didn't let Peter sleep well—but he opened his eyes immediately at the familiar sound knocking on the door of his consciousness. His eyes, well-adjusted to the dark and assisted by moonlight, saw movement outside. Something was being lowered from the window above. The faint clacking sound coincided with each movement down, and then he could see that there were many things tied to the end of a rope... by their tails.
Peter had had a poor experience with toy mice in the past—the sort older brothers can tend to make, not out of maliciousness so much as out of thrill seeking—and try though he might, he hadn't been able to banish his subsequent phobia of those small, relentless, rapid, mechanical rodents.
Which hadn't been a problem until now.
By the time he'd snuck out of the house, Micky had set up shop on the deck, where, despite the distance, Peter had been able to keenly hear the twisting of key after spring-loaded key, along with a quiet, possibly padded, hammer.
And here he had been waiting for nigh on two hours, hoping something—or rather nothing—would happen. When dawn came, he was sure, something dreadful would occur concerning those mice.
Despite his silent pleas, the sun did begin to lighten the sky, but that was when the noises stopped.
He stayed still till he could see the sun begin to touch the tops of the trees in front of him. Weighing his ability to get in past the mice, the possibility that Micky wasn't finished or in bed, and the requirement to explain all of this to Mike if he was awake when Peter came in, he finally drew up enough courage to sneak back inside. He made it all the way to his bed, mouseless. The only indication of the other two were voices upstairs.
~M~
Micky closed the door behind him, sighing in anticipation of some well-earned sleep after a long night of work. He turned around and ran straight into Mike's nose. Micky stepped back in surprise and Mike rubbed his nose.
"Geez, Mike, you scared me! Are you okay?"
"Fine," Mike said, narrowing his eyes.
Micky was suddenly afraid that the astute Southerner would divine exactly what he'd been constructing all night. He jumped to answer the unasked question. "Nothing, Mike. Nothing at all."
"Why are you dressed and very awake?"
"Um." Micky looked down at himself. He had dressed without thinking. He was kind of tired. And anyway, pajamas weren't good for hanging from rigging. Additionally, he'd put together an outfit of particularly bad taste in the dark. "Um, the... raccoon!"
Mike raised his eyebrows. Oh yes, thought Micky. This could work.
"I thought I heard something banging around outside when I got up for..." What was in the icebox? "Milk! A glass of milk. Which I cleaned and put away. And it occurred to me to stake out outside and discover its nighttime habits to see where it's coming in and where I can trap it."
"And...?" Mike queried.
Micky consulted his inner schedule of events. "I think I can get it by tonight. Or tomorrow morning."
"Hm." Mike reached for the door. "Well I hope you do. I'm goin' to make breakfast. Eggs or oatmeal?"
Micky avoided wiping his brow and went to follow Mike out. "Eggs."
"Alright." Mike stretched his arms above him, yawning and curling his fingers to keep from hitting the ceiling, then started down the stairs. "I've got to see a man about a horse first."
Micky, never able to keep straight Mike's many learned sayings, was about to advise Mike against a horse, not least because it would please Davy.
"Is Davy home?" Mike asked first.
He'd better not be, thought Micky. "Um. Haven't checked."
"Okay. Tell me when you see him."
"Sure."
They reached the bottom of the stairs and Mike went for the bathroom. Oh. Right. That was that one.
Micky sat down on the couch and exhaled. Then he twisted behind him to see if anything incriminating was visible from inside the pad. He had checked to make sure nothing was visible from the deck. Everything looked quite normal. He thought about checking the mirror and the status of the fleur-de-lis on his forehead. Then he thought he ought to just double check that Davy was still gone because you never knew. He could be surprisingly quiet when he wanted to. He looked to the door of the downstairs bedroom and saw Peter outside of it, standing stiffly with a disgruntled look on his face. When he saw that Micky was looking at him, he marshalled his countenance into a determined frown and walked straight toward him.
"Hey, Pete. Is Davy home?"
Peter paused to rearrange his thoughts, not expecting the question. "No, but— but, Micky, I have to talk to you." He sounded pretty serious for Peter.
"Okay, shoot."
Peter put his arms straight down by his sides and blinked a few times. "Micky, I-I think you ought to tell me what you're doing with all those t-t-toy... mice." He took a big breath and Micky, surprised, looked behind him toward the bathroom and stood up. "Because I think it isn't right for... for a guy to be scaring his roommate and-and not letting him know why he's doing things in the middle of the nigh—"
"Shh!" Micky grabbed Peter's arm and tugged him across the room, watching the bathroom door. Peter half yelped and said, absolutely nowhere near quietly enough, "Micky! What are you—"
"Be quiet!" He tugged Peter into the closet, closing the door quickly and quietly and throwing them into darkness. Micky was a bit surprised at how tight it had gotten in here.
"Mick—"
He flipped the closet flashlight on, illuminating them from below. "Okay, Peter. I'll tell you what's going on with the mice. Just—" He thrust the flashlight right under Peter's chin. "Don't. Tell. Mike."
Peter's eyes widened, suddenly aware of the gravity of the situation. It was worse than he'd thought. Maybe Davy had been right. Micky was going mad. He looked at the door, wondering if he could somehow make a quick escape despite the tight quarters.
To buy himself some time, and possibly convince Micky that whatever this was was a bad idea, he asked, "Why not?" After all, he'd never known a situation in which you didn't tell Mike.
"You can't. He's not going to understand, but I'll explain to you." He squeezed Peter's arm. "Davy's done something unforgivable. You dig? Mike would be furious. So I'm just being furious for him. Those mice are for Davy."
The last sentence was said with a terrible ominousness. Or it seemed so to Peter. He shivered, imagining what was in store for his friend. "But—" he gulped. "I'm sure he didn't mean—"
"That's not the point!" Micky hissed angrily. "That's why it's called revenge!"
Peter flinched in fear, but remained confused. He never knew a situation where revenge was appropriate. His mother always said revenge hurt you more than it hurt them anyway.
"But revenge is wrong, Micky."
There was a huff of exasperation. "What he did was horrible! I promise."
"What was it?" Peter asked with a small voice.
"Confidential," he snapped, grabbing Peter's collar. "Now we don't have much time, so you better swear to keep quiet about this, okay?"
"Mmm. Okay..."
"Just don't go near the deck."
Peter nodded his head rapidly.
"Okay. Sh."
Micky listened for a moment at the door, and, deeming the outside room still empty, pushed Peter out in front of him. When he emerged, he saw he was mistaken. Mike had his head in the icebox. He took the opportunity to rush to the table and sit down like he'd been there the whole time.
Mike turned around and Micky gave his cheesiest, most distracting smile. He still saw Peter.
"G'mornin', Peter. Say, you feelin' okay?"
Micky glared a quick warning, then returned to his smile. "Um, yeah. Fine." Peter sat down, looking at Micky, then down at his plate. Good. He passed the test. Micky could trust him to keep quiet.
Mike made light conversation while he cooked eggs, which Micky responded to entirely. Peter was pretty quiet, but that was fine. When the eggs were ready, Micky ate his breakfast quickly. He had things to get done today.
He was out the door before anyone could ask where he was going. Purposefully. Someone had a date with destiny.
~M~
Mike was surprised at how quickly Micky left. He hmm'd and lifted his fork to his mouth. What could he be in such a rush for? A knocking and scrabbling sound interrupted his thoughts. He looked toward the window where it seemed to come from. "Did you hear that?"
"No!" Peter looked around jerkily, sounding alarmed.
Well, Mike had certainly heard something if Peter hadn't. He got up and walked to the window. Under the window was merely Micky's pile of trash-picked furniture (which was starting to resemble a barricade), untouched. He hmm'd again. He supposed it was the raccoon, and that that's what Micky was out taking care of, and that's what the noises were last night that he'd only partially slept through. He went back to the table to finish his breakfast, eyeing the pan on the way. He had cooked some for Davy.
"Is Davy back?" he asked Peter, just to be sure.
"Um, uh, no, Mike."
He supposed Davy would be back soon. In the meantime, he'd just have to put those eggs in the icebox. He plated them and put them away, then looked at Peter, who was putting his plate in the sink. He still looked jumpy. Some time with his bass would probably fix that.
"Peter? Wanna play?" Mike headed for the bandstand.
"Yeah, Mike." He sounded relieved. ...And he supposed Peter was still shaken up after yesterday. He pulled out his Gretsch and started tuning. He was supposing too much for his liking.