The Escape Diaries by Juliet Rosetti Page A

were
heading back to their home planet, Milwaukee.
                Moose
changed channels. “Here’s the bit we filmed with the cow herd.”
                Now
I understood why the cops hadn’t sent the dogs chasing after me. The dogs must
have had border collie blood, because instead of obeying their trainers’
commands, they were racing around trying to round up the panicked Holsteins.
    Coming next on
Animal Planet: When Police Dogs Go Wild .
    Peter Polifka,
the station’s main anchor guy, appeared on-screen back in the station’s studio,
his teeth white against his tanned face, his jaw manly, his voice a rich
baritone. “So Mazie Maguire eludes the authorities yet again,” he said,
chuckling. “And as we can see in this footage” —instant replay of
my jump— “she literally slips through the fingers of Federal Marshal
Sylvester Katz.”
                The
camera cut to a young female reporter, standing outside the Lautenbacher
barn.  
    “Umm, I think
that’s Irving Katz?”
    Right.
Sylvester was the cat who was always after Tweety Bird.
    “Well, I’d say
that this jailbird is leading the Katz on a merry chase, wouldn’t you,
Brittany?” He chortled at his own lame pun.
                Brittany
forced a smile. “She certainly is, Peter.”
                “Do
the police have any idea where Mazie Maguire might be headed next?”
                “Authorities
refused to comment, Peter.”
                Camo
Cap punched off the TV and said in a deep, pompous voice, “Any idea where my
brains are stashed, Brittany?”
                Moose
said, “I believe you’re sitting on them, Peter.”
                They
both laughed, then Moose reached into a cooler beneath the front seat, pulled
out two cans of beer and popped them. He handed one to the driver and took one
for himself. Icy driblets ran down the sides of the cans. I could almost taste
the cold wetness sluicing down my own parched throat. My stomach let out a
gurgle nearly audible above the sound of the engine. The van rolled along, the
rhythm of tires on road so lulling my lids drooped and I fell into a waking
doze, too dopey with fatigue to plan what I was going to do next.
                  An hour or so passed. Although I couldn’t
see out, I figured we must be in Milwaukee because of the traffic noise and the
stop-and-go driving. Camo’s cussing becoming more inventive. His actual name,
I’d discovered, was Bob, but I hadn’t heard Manitoba Moose’s real name yet. I
hoped we didn’t have much farther to go. My muscles were cramping and I was so
thirsty I was ready to lick my own sweat.
                The
van slowed, made a sharp turn, and stopped. Bob and Moose got out of the van,
came around to the back and began removing equipment. I scrunched myself into
an even smaller ball, keeping my eyes down because most people possess a sixth
sense that warns them when they’re being watched. At last the rear doors
slammed shut.
    “I’m leaving my
car here and taking the truck,” I heard Moose say. “I’ve got an early-morning
assignment.”
    “Hey, while
you’re at it, stop at a car wash and get them to clean off that stink.”
    Moose grunted a
response, climbed in the van, started it, and drove off. About twenty more
minutes passed before he finally parked and got out.
                Go
away, I silently willed him. Nothing happened. I waited a few beats, then
cautiously raised my head and peeked out through a side window. I knew
immediately where I was—Five Points on the east side of Milwaukee, where
Murray, Farwell, and North all come together to create a traffic nightmare.
Hoolihan’s Bar was off on the left; the Oriental Theater was to the right.
                The
van’s back door opened. There was a silence, then Moose spoke.
                 “You
can come out now.”
     
     
     
     
     

Escape hint