4~
"Mom, can I have that XP-28 motherboard?" Jason asked.
"We'll see, honey," Mrs. Wyatt told him. "Right now, though, go look for the those batteries that are on sale, and I'll go get some of those lubrication pumps that we need."
"Okay, Mom."
As they parted ways, Jason took in the space and convenience of the SmartyMart in Crystal Cove and thanked Heaven for it.
He waddled in happy anticipation, pushing his shopping cart from one wide, bountiful aisle to the next. Here, was a big box store he could truly appreciate, the only chain of its kind that catered to scientists and engineers, young and old, amateur and professional.
The selection, alone, made him drool, and although he had never suffered from Mad Scientist Syndrome, he could bet the farm that there was enough parts and supplies in this one store, to build a fair sized army of war robots, with enough left over to build a reasonably large recon force.
A wonderful scenario that carried him through his search for the battery aisle.
"Man, I never get tired of coming here," he said to himself. "This place is so huge, a noob would get lost in here, easy. Good thing greeters give every customer a GPS tracking card before they come inside."
He made a turn and cut through the computer parts section of the store, going through the motherboard and memory chip aisle. It was then that the temptation to stop and look at one motherboard in particular, took hold of him.
"I can't wait to get my hands on that XP-28. It's gonna look so sweet in my new robotics system. Maybe I can get even better performance if I overclocked the sucker. Yeah, that'll do it," Jason fantasized.
A stray thought concerning time made his remember his mother, and the errand he was given. With inner difficulty, Jason tore his attention away from the motherboard and slowly walked until he reached the power supplies section of SmartyMart.
Waddling deeper into the section, he passed various sized and assigned batteries, until he finally reached the aisle that held row upon laden row of double A batteries. The right battery, however, that wasn't the kind he wanted, product-wise.
Below the racks of hanging cardboard and plastic sheltered batteries, were entire packs, sixty batteries deep, stacked on shelves, in rows of four. These were on sale, and he hauled up as many pack as his stamina would allow.
As he bend down to grab another pack, a tiny two-battery pack fell of its rack, and beaned him on the head. He looked up, holding his head, to favor the impact. No one was there.
Returning back to his shopping, Jason bent over again, and again, he was pelted by some more falling mini-packs from racks. Looking up in annoyance, Jason saw no one.
"Okay, whoever is hitting my with batteries. This is not New York. Cut it out!"
No one snickered, or confessed, or said anything. No one was there.
He bent down to continue, and, suddenly, an unearthly wail came from above Jason and the aisle, itself.
Jason straightened up and swept his eyes upward to see the ghost of Dick Dastardly circling overhead, his wrathful, translucent eyes holding fast on the pudgy boy.
"Give me the parts, so I may rest!" the ghost howled. "Give me the parts, or you'll never rest!"
Jason backed away from his shopping cart, and when some patrons overhearing what was happening in a adjacent aisle, looked over at the ghost and fled, he did the same.
Up one chaotic aisle and down the next, the phantom pursued the round boy all over that section of the vast store. From above, it looked like the reenactment of some decades-old arcade game.
Jason made a hard right and charged for the main exit, leaving scattered, terrified people in his panicked wake. If he could make it outside, he figured, he might be able to lose it in the crowded parking lot.
The ghost, however, was faster, and cut him off before Jason could get through the check-out aisle.
Jason backed off and retreated back into the depths of the store, desperate for someplace to hide, the ghost, smartly flying just high enough to keep the butterball in his sights.
The boy ran as fast as he could towards two large, swinging doors in the rear of the store, away from the highway of aisles.
Crashing through them, he found himself in the store's immediate storage area. Stacks and stacks of boxes filled the area, perfect for laying low. He headed for a stack he could hide behind, then gasped when he saw the ghost slip in between the doors when they swung back in.
Jason kept his eyes on the apparition. It was already in the room with him, simply turning and running further inside wouldn't lose it.
Dick's translucent face was a mask of anger and annoyance as he floated closer to the frightened boy. Jason, for his part, backed away in equal measure.
Jason, his escape option diminishing with every foot of the ghost's approach, opened his fear-dried lips in a last-ditch effort to try and reason with Dick, or, at least, talk him out of his attack.
"Wh-What do you want?" Jason asked, nerves jangling.
"Where are the parts to my car?" Dick intoned in a hollow whisper. "Who keeps me from my rest?"
"W-Well, from what I understand, the police t-took the Mean Machine to some lab to be examined," Jason squeaked as he continued to back away.
All that got him was a anguished roar from Dick, who closed the distance even more, hands clenching for an attack.
"No! My car is not complete!" he yelled. "My parts are missing! I cannot rest without them! WHERE ARE THE REST?"
With that, Jason's nerves broke. "Marcie! Marcie Fleach has them!" he cried. "I swear, I don't want to keep you from your rest! I know what it's like to miss bedtime! I didn't want to have anything to do with this! Mama! "
"Where is Marcie Fleach?"the ghost asked with clear menace.
"I-I don't know! She-She said that she had a driver's test to go to tomorrow! T-That's all I know!"
If Dick was satisfied with the information, Jason couldn't tell. The ghost simply straightened up and gave a goosebump-inducing wail, heading directly for the terrified Jason.
Giving a scream that would have rivaled the ghost's, Jason scrambled away from the spirit, backing into the high stack of boxes he wanted to hide behind.
The stack teetered, swayed, and then collapsed, like a badly played game of Jenga. The boxes avalanched around and on top of Jason, burying him, and stealing his sight away into the dark.
Marcie walked up the walkway of the Wyatt residence, awkwardly hefting the box of mysterious parts in her arms, and wishing for the tenth time that she could drive to Jason's house, instead of going by bus and walking.
She put the box down on the welcome mat and rang the doorbell, hoping that Jason would use his mechanical acumen to help put this mystery to bed quickly.
The Red Max wasn't her favorite Racer, she would admit, but the events of the crime didn't sit right with her. They seemed more planned against Max, than by him. And so, by that thinking, he deserved to be proven innocent, or, if worse came to worse, guilty, completely, before the Sheriff's visited his cockeyed brand of justice on him.
She heard the door unlock finally and saw it open a crack. A shivering, bespectacled eye peeked out, saw Marcie, and then the door closed again.
"Jason?" she asked. "Is that you? What's wrong?" This was deeply odd. Why would he want to keep her away from her?
"Oh, nothing, Marcie," he lied through the door. "Nothing's wrong. Nothing, at all."
This was getting dumb fast. She didn't come all this way to play games. She knocked on the door, testily.
"C'mon, Jason, what's wrong? Open the door."
"I can't, Marcie," he said. "I, uh, my mom wants me for something."
"Jason, take the box," said Marcie, weary of this nonsense. "I already finished my analysis on them. They had explosives residue all over them, so they came from Dick Dastardly's car."
"That's what I was afraid of," Jason sighed fearfully.
"What do you mean?" Marcie asked. Was something happening concerning the case already? Things were moving fast.
"Dastardly's ghost caught up with me at SmartyMart, and told me that we disturbed his rest by collecting those parts, " he told her. "He said that he wants them back, so he can rest in peace. Then he buried me under some boxes."
Marcie looked at this news with surprise and skepticism. Surprise that the ghost would appear again, this time because of them. And skepticism, because Marcie had never really believed in spirits, or rather, she never believed in spirits haunting the Earth. Once a person died, the spirit departed into the afterlife. That was it. There shouldn't be any mundane reason for it to stick around.
"Humph," she scoffed pedantically. "Even if the presence of the supernatural is manifesting itself in some way, I would think that we would be doing it a favor by trying to solve his death, while at the same time, trying to prove the Red Max's innocence, which we can't do unless you let me in, you jellyfish!"
On the other side of the door, Jason relented, and it slowly opened once more.
Jason moved aside to let her to enter, looking more than a little cowed. "Okay, you don't have to be so bossy. I'm sorry, Marcie. I just never seen a ghost before."
Marcie stepped into the foyer, carrying the box. "Where do you want this?"
"You can take it to my room," he said in a low voice. "I don't want Mom to know about this. Follow me."
She followed him through the house quietly, then stopped when they reached a closed door. Jason opened his bedroom door and walked in.
Marcie followed him in. It wasn't often that she had the chance to enter a boy's bedroom, so before she put the box down, she gave the room a quick perusal, gauging the room by the occupant.
Well-lit, somewhat orderly, displaying his PC and personal belongings, as well as various electronic devices, both bought and created, showcasing his love of technology.
A rounded object, protectively covered by a sheet, caught her attention.
"Where did you get this? It looks like one of Dick Dastardly's Drones," she asked, looking underneath the sheet.
"I found it in the back of SmartyMart, after I dug my way out from under those boxes. It's probably just a promotional item for the Wacky Races and it fell out of one of them."
She was about to ponder something aloud, but before she could, something else had caught her eye.
The box dropped out of her hands, and hit the floor with a clunk.
"What is that?" she asked suspiciously.
Dominating a wall nearby, were a large collection of photos, haphazardly taken, and displayed, of Velma Dinkley.
Jason approached Marcie from behind. "Oh, you like? This is my shrine to Velma. My little tribute to her awesomeness. Even though she's not here, I'll always have a piece of her, here, in my room," he explained proudly.
Marcie hardened from the inside, but managed to sound cordial. "Looks like you have several pieces of her in your room. Cute. Creepy, but cute."
Jason raised an eyebrow in suspicion, as well. He didn't like this negative review of his work. "What do you mean?
Marcie gave a cold, condescending smile to dismiss the issue. "Nothing, nothing. I just know Velma better than you, and she rarely said anything about you. I just thought it was cute that you thought you had something in common with her, that's all."
"I do!" Jason said, defensively. "We were in the same robotics club in school, and...well, I can't think of anything at the moment, but we're super-tight!"
Marcie scoffed. "Well, lucky for me, my long friendship with Velma is strong enough that I don't need to be a stalker with a crush about it."
"Wh-What do you mean?" Jason asked, his voice defensively climbing in register. "She may be some long-time acquaintance of yours, but Velma is my best friend. What does some socially awkward test-tube jockey like you know of her?"
"Socially..." Marcie thought about doing swift and heinous things to part of his anatomy with her foot, but she needed his expertise with electronics too much to spend any more time in Sheriff Stone's holding cell again. So, she opted for angrily poking a thin finger into his chest.
"Listen to me, you beach ball-shaped electrician," she growled in his round face. "I've known Velma far longer than you! We first met in science camp when we were seven years old, and actually stopped a criminal, masquerading as a councilor, that was using sound to control animals. While other girls gave each other friendship bracelets, V and I gave each other the encryption keys to our E-diaries. We've been thick as thieves ever since. We know everything about each other. We attended the Tri-State Olympiad of Science every chance we could, and when we were old enough, we've became partners in it. And won. Every time."
Jason, shaken by the knowledge of the depth of their friendship, and Marcie's sudden aggressiveness, countered weakly. "So? I could've been her partner...if she ever came around and asked me."
Marcie sneered pityingly. "She wouldn't, of course. My V wouldn't waste her time with someone she may have met in school. She would want to work with, and be with, someone she trusts and knows implicitly. That would be me."
"Oh, yeah?" Jason challenged, puffing up. "Well...when she comes back from her trip, we can ask her who she likes better, you, or her boyfriend?"
Marcie's expression changed as quick as throwing a switch. "Boyfriend? You? Ha!" she laughed derisively. "V's got better taste than to settle for someone like you."
"And how do you know?" he asked hotly.
Marcie answered with equal passion. "I just know, that's all! She's my best friend, and all the creepy shrines in the world won't change that."
Now it was Jason's turn to look condescending. "You think you understand Velma, Marcie, but you don't," he said. "She's a flower, as delicate as the crystalline structure of dihydrogen oxide at its freezing point, and if she had anything to do with you, it had to be out of pity. You shouldn't let the idea of me having a crush on Velma rattle you."
"With a body like yours, "crush" and "rattle" come with the territory," Marcie shot back.
Jason staggered inwardly at that. Fat jokes were where he understandably drew the line. Time to fight fat with unpopularity.
"Err! Y'know, you should stick with Petri dishes and centrifuges, Marcie," Jason advised coolly. "Things that you understand, but can't love you back."
Marcie remained unflappable, but only outwardly. She was no stranger to the torture of loneliness. "And you should stick with things that you understand, you planet. Burgers, fries, and a scale that's set back about eighty pounds."
"Hey!" Jason cried out in surprise. More because what she had said was, incredibly, true, than because of him feeling that she might have hit below the belt.
Marcie turned and walked calmly to the bedroom doorway, certain as he was, that she didn't care if Jason's mother had heard them arguing.
"You're right," she frostily amended. "I should've said two hundred. I'll call you tomorrow to see how you're coming along with assembling those clues. I'll show myself out."
Irritated, she left the bedroom, and then, the house, with a petulant, resentful Jason, standing in her wake.
"C'mon, Dad!" Marcie yelled from the bottom of the stairs, the next day. "It's here! It came!"
Winslow Fleach walked down the stairs to meet his daughter in the foyer, giving her a wry smile. Her first car, he thought. She's growing up so fast.
"Okay, I'm here," he said. "So, Eleanor finally pried her fingers off of a car, for once. I didn't think you had enough money, yet."
Marcie sported a sly smile. "I got her to bring down the price."
"Today's the big day, huh?" said Winslow, thankful that he didn't have to spend any more time in the DMV for his daughter's behalf.
"Yes! My last road test," Marcie beamed. "I pass this, and that driver's license is mine."
"Remember, Marcie," her father told her. "You'll only be getting a provisional driver's license when you pass. It won't be the real thing until you're eighteen."
"Which is just a year away. Don't worry, Dad. Besides, it won't matter to me if it's provisional or not, as long as I can drive," assured Marcie. "Now, are you ready to check out my convertible, at last?"
"Wow, you got a convertible?" Winslow said wistfully. "I remember my first convertible. Ah, what a machine, a real cruiser, she was."
"Well, this time, Dad, I've got me a cruiser of my own," Marcie crowed, as she reached for the doorknob to open the front door.
"Ta-daaa!"
She opened it with a flourish, arm outstretched to present her new car to Winslow. He stood in the threshold, in slight shock.
Parked on the curb in front of their house was, off-white and dinged up in the full light of day, a convertible, just as Marcie said.
"A VW convertible?" Winslow mused to himself, almost letting his personal disappointment in her choice of car come through in his voice.
Not that Marcie had even noticed. She ran over to her car and showcased it, like an ex-model in a game show.
"A Volkswagen Beetle Karmann Convertible," she proudly exclaimed. "Limited Champagne Edition. This baby's got a 1584cc electronic fuel-injected engine and 4-speed manual transmission. This is a very rare Beetle, Dad. Only about 1000 of these were ever produced in 1978. It's a classic! So, what do you think?"
Winslow appraised the car silently, looking up and down its dented, dated, buggy length, then he looked at the proud, happy face of his daughter. This was her car, her very first car. She would love it, and care for it, as he did his very first clunker. He couldn't help but be happy for her.
"It's a beautiful car, Pumpkin," he told her sincerely. "A real cruiser."
The balding instructor looked down at her file on his clipboard. He took out his pen, clicked the button on its end, and prepared to score.
"Okay, Miss Fleach," he said. "You may start the car."
Marcie eased the instructor's car out and away from the precincts of the DMV, and entered the sparse traffic of the late morning, of which the teen was grateful.
Hours invested in Driver's Ed, testing, and driving time logged was paying off for Marcie in spades. Her hands and feet were steady, her eyes, alert. All of her senses were attuned to the environments of this machine, inside and out.
"Good spacing," said the instructor, when Marcie stopped on a red light, and didn't get so close to the car ahead of her that she could see what year sticker was on the license plate.
"Thank you," she said, keeping her eyes on the cars ahead.
"You've had your provisional permit for about six months now?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, " she answered. "And my fifty hours of behind-the-wheel training, as well, sir. Including my ten hours at night."
"Very good. Green."
"Sir?"
"The light's green, Miss Fleach."
"Oh!" She put easy pressure on the accelerator, and the car proceeded again.
"Turn on this corner, coming up," the man told her.
She made the turn, but not before putting on her turn indicator, which the instructor noticed quickly.
"Good," he said. "Now, remember, if you pass and receive your provisional license, you are not allowed to drive between the hours of 11 p.m. and 5 a.m."
"Yes, sir. And I'm not allowed to have anyone under 20 in my car, unless I'm with a licensed driver who's over 25 years old," Marcie finished.
"Correct. It's good to see that you've been studying. Turn here."
She turned into a smaller street and drove on until the instructor ordered her to turn again on a side street that led her back to the main concourse.
She waited until the light was green, checked both directions of traffic, took her opportunity to go, and then cautiously entered the main street flow.
Marcie gave a secret smirk. This was easy. Confidence, coordination, and memorization, that's all it took to drive this smoothly. A mischievous gleam shined from her eyes at the thought of revving the engine, after waiting for the next light to change, just for kicks, to rankle the little bureaucrat sitting beside her.
She looked over at the man, so far, marking positively in his clipboard, and thought better of it, dismissing the prank and wondering, instead, how much of Eleanor's daredevil spirit was rubbing off on her after being invited to some of her illegal street races under her father's nose.
She dismissed that thought, as well, bringing up another that brought a very noticeable smile on her face.
Sooner or later, Velma was going to come home, and Marcie happily swore to welcome her back in grand style. As far as any local was concerned, you couldn't live on the coast of California, and not have a convertible heading towards the beach. It just wasn't done.
And a day with Velma, with the top down, the wind blowing through her cute, short hair, some Hex playing on the stereo, and cruising along the curving highways of Crystal Cove to the beach, would be perfect.
All that was missing was the perfect swimsuit to show off to her, when they got there...
"Miss Fleach!"
Marcie snapped out of her daydream to see the rear of the foremost car coming up with uncomfortable speed.
Her foot flashed over to the brake pedal and the car skidded shortly, and noisily, to a halt.
While her mind screamed at her that she was stupid, with a capital stupid, Marcie glanced worryingly towards the bureaucrat, who quickly marked in the clipboard, and shook his head.
"Sorry, sir. It's a good thing the car's got good brakes," she managed to say, trying badly to lighten the moment.
"Yes, Miss Fleach, it is," the man said dryly. "I would hate to have to explain to the missus why I had a dashboard in place of my face. She likes my rugged good looks, you understand."
"Yes, sir," she said, downcast.
The noise of car horns sounding off in the distance made Marcie try to spy the action from the side view mirror. From what she could make out, some people were getting out of the cars behind her.
The first few people ran past the instructor's car and headed for the side streets on either side of the boulevard.
Marcie twisted in her seat, looking back through the rear window, to see what was going on, or who was chasing these people. She saw nothing but other cars behind her, either trying to turn around and get on the opposite lane to leave, or sitting tight where they were.
"I don't see anything, sir," she reported to the instructor. "Whatever it is, it's happening behind us."
"I'd be more concerned with you passing this road test, Miss Fleach," said the officious teacher. "Whatever's going on back there is not as important as what's going on in this car, at the moment."
The instructor looked down at his clipboard, preparing to write a personal comment concerning Marcie's driving, at present, when an irate ghost rushed up from the rear of the line of cars, on the passenger side.
"Marcie Fleach! Where are my parts?"Dick Dastardly's accusing yell rang in the instructor's ears, making the man throw up his pen in sheer fright, almost striking his eye.
She turned her attention to the ghost, while at the same time, the bureaucrat, having all the ghost he could stand, reached out and grabbed the steering wheel, while stretching his foot out to push it down on the accelerator, not caring if Marcie was prepared for it, or not.
"Hey! What are you doing?" Marcie yelled at him, wrenching control of the wheel again, and swerving the car to avoid hitting the rear of another.
"G-Gh-Ghost...in my...ear. Drive!" the frightened man blubbered in his seat. He turned in his chair to see Dick howl and give chase from above and behind.
Marcie drove up past the cars that waited for the light to change, and merged, like a reckless bull, into the traffic going across, causing a snag of cars in her wake.
"Where are you going?" wailed Marcie's passenger.
"I don't know," she said, cutting past a slow truck. "Let me know if he's still behind us."
The instructor glanced at the side view mirror, and squeaked when Dick banked around the same truck, flying low.
"He's behind us?" she asked, seeing a side street coming up.
"Yes!"
"Hang on!"
With a hasty turn that had them bouncing off the corner, Marcie pulled into the empty residential street, and, despite rules saying otherwise, floored it.
"Does this car have power windows?" asked Marcie.
"Yes," he answered. "Control's are on your door."
Daring to look down for a moment, she saw the group of four buttons set into the door's padded handle. Thankfully, the neighborhood was still clear of other cars or pedestrians.
"He's gaining!" the man reported in a panic.
With one hand steering, Marcie depressed both rear sets of buttons, lowering both rear passenger windows.
"We don't need ventilation!" cried the instructor, at a loss to what her plan was.
"No," she said. "but he might."
Switching hands, Marcie reached into her inside jacket pocket, clutched a handful of capsules, and held them out to the man. He took them.
"What are they?" he asked. "Pills?"
"Crush them in your hand, and then throw them in the back seat, " she ordered him.
He did as he was told. Immediately, thick gray smoke began to flow between clenched fingers. He massaged the smoke capsules in his fist to thoroughly crush their casings, and then dumped the mess in the rear.
The dark smoke expanded, filling the back and flowing out of the immediate rear windows, leaving a cloud of darkness trailing from the vehicle.
Dick flew headlong into the depths of the chemical fog bank, and when he emerged from the other side, they were gone.
He circled in a tight pattern, looking for signs of the car, but only saw half-visible trees and small houses from his high vantage point.
With a growl in frustration, he flew off.
He would have been more frustrated if he knew that he had passed his quarry, three houses back, parked in the driveway and obscuring the house there, in its smoke screen.
Marcie peeked out of the driver's side window, watching him zoom out of the neighborhood.
Marcie breathed relievedly. "Good thing he didn't see me back up," she whispered to herself.
Glancing over at her instructor, she saw that the man was shivering in a ball in his seat, his clipboard wedged tight between his upraised knees and his chest.
"I know that this is probably a bad time to ask," she said, hopefully. "but do you think I passed?"