“Get that harpy away from me!” Shea shouted.
“Are you all right?” Michael asked.
“He punched me in the face,” I said. I was mopping my bloody nose with the bottom of my shirt and blinking back involuntary tears.
“He what?” Michael whirled and took a step toward Shea.
“She started it!” Shea whined, backing slightly. I didn’t blame him. Michael didn’t often lose his temper, but when he did, watch out.
“Never mind that now,” I said. “He was trying to set the hyenas loose. Let's make sure he doesn’t succeed. Someone check to make sure their cage door is securely closed.”
Sammy hurried to do so. Shea backed away, glancing from me to Michael, as if not sure which of us was more likely to strike.
“Wow, a little push and they’d have been loose!” Sammy said. He pushed the latch more securely closed. Then he bent over to retrieve the padlock.
Shea kicked him in the rear, and sprinted for the barn door. Sammy fell against the cage, to the great delight of the hyenas, and then landed on the ground with the padlock still in his hand.
“Damn!” Michael exclaimed. With a visible effort, he turned away from the door through which Shea was fleeing, and restored the padlock to the hyenas’ cage. I raced to the barn door, pulling out my cell phone as I ran.
“Just let him go!” Sammy said.
“I’m not chasing him,” I said. “But I’m checking out which way he's heading, so I can tell the chief when I report that Shea was trespassing and turned the animals loose.”
“Good idea,” Michael said. “I’m sure the chief can think of all sorts of other interesting things to charge him with.”
“Assault and battery, maybe,” Sammy suggested. “Doesn’t look as if the nose is broken, but you’re going to have a really impressive black eye.”
“And maybe the chief should take a close look at what Shea was up to Friday night,” I said. “Because as an animal-rights protest gesture, letting the animals go seems pretty stupid. But it would make a pretty good diversionary tactic, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess,” Michael said. “But I’m not sure I see what he's diverting our attention from.”
“Neither do I,” I said. “That's why I said it was a pretty good diversionary tactic. As soon as we get all the animals back— hello, Debbie Anne? Sorry to bother you again so soon.... “
Chapter 35
It took several hours to round up the fugitive animals.
The wolves were our first priority. Fortunately, none of them seemed to be alpha wolves, or even particularly bloodthirsty— though when they suddenly appeared out on the road, where the protesters were still diligently marching and singing, they made quite an impression. About half of the protesters fled, screaming, while the other half valiantly leaped to the rescue of the sheep that they assumed the wolves were after. Not that the sheep were in immediate danger. Some of them were loitering in our backyard, under the protective eyes of the llamas. The few still in the pasture spotted the wolves within seconds and fled in the direction of their barn. Any ambition the wolves might have had to nibble on the fleeing sheep or the protesters vanished after they’d been whacked a few times with a “Let My Creatures Go” placard. They seemed almost happy to see Dr. Blake when he showed up with crates to ferry them back to their enclosure. Especially the lone wolf who’d been dashing about in the backyard. After escaping from my attack umbrella, he’d spent the rest of his brief spell of freedom dodging kicks from the two largest llamas.
Mrs. Fenniman gathered up most of the meat that had been on the picnic tables during the monkeys’ rampage and slung it into the wolves’ cage.
“They’re on carefully controlled diets!” Dr. Blake protested.
“Time they had some fun, then,” Mrs. Fenniman muttered as she tossed a monkey-gnawed roast of beef into the cage.
Once the wolves were locked up and happily devouring Mrs. Fenniman's bounty, many of the mild-mannered animals appeared almost immediately out of whatever hiding places they’d found, as if eager to return to the safety of captivity. The main exceptions were the monkeys and the llamas. The monkeys retreated from the buffet tables to the trees and led squads of my relatives a merry chase for hours.
Apparently their valiant defense of the sheep had fired up the llamas, and they seemed determined to remain a part of the party. They spat gobs of foul-smelling green stuff on people who tried to lead them to the pasture, until everyone got the message and left them alone.
Through it all, the party continued unabated. The Shiffleys were notably absent—presumably they were all out looking for young Charlie—as were the police, who were pursuing both Charlie and Shea Bailey. And at any given time, several dozen of my relatives would be off in some remote part of the yard coaxing lemurs off roofs, convincing stubborn camels to stand up and walk, recklessly grabbing irritated porcupines, and managing to get bitten and scratched in such large numbers that Dad found himself operating an impromptu field hospital.