The Case of the Terrible T. Rex by Michele Torrey

T he light of the full moon shone on the small town of Mossy Lake. It shone on the town’s square, where the clock chimed midnight. It shone on Ted’s Barber Shop, where a mouse nibbled on a crumb. It shone on Barbarella’s Dance Studio, where for just twelve dollars you could learn to waltz or even tango.
    Not least of all, the light of the full moon shone down upon a particular house. And standing at a particular attic window, staring back at the moon through a telescope, was a boy. His name was Drake Doyle, and he was a scientist. Not a mad scientist, mind you, but a most excellent scientist indeed. His cinnamon toast- colored hair stood straight up. He wore a white lab coat with his name on it.
    Drake whipped a pencil out from behind his ear and scribbled in his lab notebook:
    As I suspected.
    Hypothesis correct.
    Green cheese: negative.
    Just then, the phone rang.
    Now, in case you’re wondering who could be calling at midnight, wonder no more. You see, Drake was also a detective. And science detectives are on call 24/7. Drake’s business cards read:
    Doyle and Fossey:
    Science Detectives
    call us. anytime. 555-7822
    Nell Fossey was Drake’s business partner. Whether the case involved ghosts or garbage, penguins or parades, they were on it. No problem was too big or too small for Doyle and Fossey, the best science detectives in the fifth grade.
    “Doyle and Fossey,” Drake answered.
    “Detective Doyle? It’s me, Wiley.”
    “Ah yes, Mr. Wiley Millard.” Wiley was in Drake’s class at school and was a whiz at video games. He could put dozens of dragons to sleep at once. He could parachute into the Congo and rescue lost explorers. He could save little old ladies from armies of vampires—all while sitting on his couch. “What seems to be the trouble?” Drake asked.
    “I’m camping on Waxberry Hill with my dad.”
    “Lovely night for camping,” said Drake.
    “Hardly,” griped Wiley. “You see, my dad made me come camping. He said I spend way too much time playing video games and need to learn how to appreciate nature.”
    “Excellent advice,” said Drake, whose partner, Nell, happened to appreciate nature very much.
    “Not so excellent. I’m in my tent. My dad’s sound asleep, but I can’t sleep a wink. Something’s howling out there. I think—I think it’s a werewolf , and I don’t have my joystick!”
    Drake was so shocked that he dropped his lab notebook. A werewolf! Horrors! One bite from a werewolf, and, well, you became a werewolf yourself. If Wiley was right … if there really was a werewolf on Waxberry Hill … well, the thought was too horrifying to imagine!
    “I understand if you’re too scared,” Wiley was saying. “Not everyone’s a werewolf warrior. I’ll call Frisco … he likes to destroy things.”

    Egads! thought Drake, doubly horrified. Not James Frisco! Frisco was in the science detective business, too. But unlike Drake and Nell, Frisco was a bad scientist … a mad scientist, scientifically speaking. Instead of stirring a solution according to the instructions, Frisco said, “Stirring, schmirring. Waste of time.” Instead of recording everything in his lab notebook, Frisco said, “Notebook, schmotebook. Notebooks are for geeks.” And instead of turning everything off in his laboratory before leaving, Frisco said, “Off, schmoff. Who cares anyway?” His business cards read:
    FRISCO
    bad scientist
    (Better than Doyle and Fossey)
    Call me. Day or night. 555-6190
    Drake could never let Frisco handle this most horrifying case. “You’re in luck, Mr. Millard!” said Drake. “Last week I bought a Detect-O-Werewolf Gizmo Gadget! Guaranteed to detect a werewolf or your money back. We’ll take the case!”
    Immediately, Drake phoned Nell.
    “Doyle and Fossey,” she answered.
    “Werewolf wailing on Waxberry Hill. Wiley waiting for wescue—I—I mean, rescue. No time to lose. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”
    “Check.”
    Click.
    The second Drake and his