Sammy Keyes and the Power of Justice Jack
Wendelin Van Draanen
Also by Wendelin Van Draanen
Sammy Keyes and the Hotel Thief
Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man
Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy
Sammy Keyes and the Runaway Elf
Sammy Keyes and the Curse of Moustache Mary
Sammy Keyes and the Hollywood Mummy
Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes
Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception
Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen
Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway
Sammy Keyes and the Wild Things
Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash
Sammy Keyes and the Wedding Crasher
Sammy Keyes and the Night of Skulls
Shredderman: Secret Identity
Shredderman: Attack of the Tagger
Shredderman: Meet the Gecko
Shredderman: Enemy Spy
The Gecko & Sticky: Villain’s Lair
The Gecko & Sticky: The Greatest Power
The Gecko & Sticky: Sinister Substitute
The Gecko & Sticky: The Power Potion
How I Survived Being a Girl
Flipped
Swear to Howdy
Runaway
Confessions of a Serial Kisser
The Running Dream
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2012 by Wendelin Van Draanen Parsons
Interior illustrations copyright © 2012 by Dan Yaccarino
Cover art copyright © 2012 by Karl Edwards
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/kids
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools,
visit us at randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Van Draanen, Wendelin.
Sammy Keyes and the power of Justice Jack / Wendelin Van Draanen.
p. cm. — (Sammy Keyes)
Summary: When Justice Jack, a self-appointed superhero, begins trying to track down the missing Mrs. Wedgewood and some stolen cash, the older folks in Santa Martina are delighted but Sammy knows it will be up to her to really solve the mystery.
eISBN: 978-0-307-97407-5
[1. Superheroes—Fiction. 2. Missing persons—Fiction. 3. Stealing—Fiction.
4. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.V2857Sags 2012
[Fic]—dc23
2011040345
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1_r1
Dedicated with gratitude and fond memories
to Robin and Ben, who have always taken in strays
and let them stay in their “hot pink” trailer.
Special thanks, as always, to Mark and Nancy—
my very own Justice League
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
PROLOGUE
The city of Santa Martina has some odd ducks swimming in its waters. There’s Madame Nashira, the fortune-teller who lives in the Heavenly Hotel. There’s the Elvis impersonator who works nights at Maynard’s Market. There’s the Psycho Kitty Queen, who used to be a beauty queen but now has a gazillion cats and looks like a ninety-year-old Barbie.
We’ve also got a cockeyed taxidermist, a whole school of pro-wrestling maniacs, Dusty Mike, who hangs out at the graveyard, and a hunched old lady who likes to walk her two-hundred-pound pet pig.
And that’s not even taking into account all the bikers and gang guys and—Oh yeah! How could I forget?
Heather Acosta.
So, really, I thought I’d seen it all. I thought this crazy town couldn’t surprise me with anything new.
And then I met Justice Jack.
ONE
Dot DeVries is Dutch.
Well, at least that’s her heritage. She was born here, but her parents are from Holland and they speak with an accent and say ja a lot.
And even though Dot acts like an everyday ordinary eighth grader most of the time, when the calendar flips over to December, the Dutch girl in her cannot be contained.
“Here!” she said before school on Tuesday, forcing a small chunk of what looked like black rubber into my hand. “Sinterklaas came last night!”
According to Dot, Sinterklaas is the Dutch version of Santa Claus. He’s a big man with a long white beard and he brings gifts to good boys and girls, only instead of using eight reindeer and a sleigh, he rides just one big white horse, and instead of putting lots of presents all at once under a tree, Sinterklaas gives a few little presents spread out over five days, and he puts them in your shoes.
Dot gets way into Sinterklaas, but this was the first time she’d shared anything from him with me. “What is it?” I asked her, staring down at the rubbery black nugget.
“Dutch candy!” she says, popping one in her mouth. “It’s delicious!”
“Really?” I ask, ’cause, honestly, it looks like someone diced up an old tire.
“Really!” she squeaks. “Yesterday was the first of December, so before bed we put our shoes by the fireplace, left apples for the horse, and sang the Sinterklaas song, and this morning we had treats in our shoes!”
I still wasn’t convinced, but she was so excited, I figured, What the heck? and put it in my mouth.
It was rubbery.
And bitter.
And bleeeechhhh.
“You don’t like it?” Dot says, ’cause bleeeechhhh is written all over my face.
I look around for someplace to spit it out.
“Give it a second!” she says. “Really! It’s delicious!”
But I can’t take it another second. It doesn’t just taste like something that’s been inside a shoe, it tastes like a shoe! I hock it like a big black nasty loogie into a bush and wipe my lips on my sweatshirt sleeve. “You seriously like that?”
“Your teeth are black,” she says, zoo
ming in a little on my mouth.
“So are yours!” I tell her, inspecting hers, and we both hurry to the water fountain to swish our mouths out before class.
Then on Wednesday she comes up to me looking kinda sheepish and says, “Mom thinks you’ll like these better.”
I arch an eyebrow at the little paper-wrapped cube in her hand. “What is it?”
“Hopjes,” she says. “It’s coffee candy.”
“Black coffee?” I ask, picturing my teeth turning all icky again.
“No, no. It’s sweet. It’s really delicious.”
I just stare at it, ’cause coffee that’s been in a shoe sounds about as appetizing as tar. “You said that last time.”
But she forces it on me, and when I unwrap it, what I see does look edible.
It’s caramel-colored.
Shiny.
Like a piece of real candy.
So I pop it in my mouth, and after a few seconds Dot says, “Well?”
My eyes bug out a little. “This is the best candy I’ve ever tasted!”
“Told you!” she squealed.
Then on Thursday she brought a package of what looked like little waffle cookies. “They’re stroopwafels!” she said. “My favorite!”
They were also delicious, and since our friends Marissa and Billy and Holly were all there wanting to try them, they went fast.
“So, wait,” Billy says. “You sing a song at night and in the morning you get cookies in your shoes? Do you have to be Dutch to do this?”
Dot grins at him. “You have to be good!”
He laughs. “Well, that eliminates me.”
“And if you’re not good, you don’t just get a lump of coal. You get put in a sack and taken away by Sinterklaas’s helpers!”
“Seriously? They kidnap you?”
“Uh-huh!” she says, and her eyes are all sparkly. “But if you are good, then on the last day, Sinterklaas comes and throws pepernoten through the roof and leaves presents at your door.”
“Pepernoten?” Holly asks. “What are those?”
“Little spice cookies!”
I squint at her. “He throws cookies through the roof? How?”
Dot grins. “He just does! He’s Sinterklaas! You look up and see them falling from the ceiling.”
“Don’t they break?” Holly asks. “Don’t you get crumbs everywhere?”
Dot shakes her head. “They’re little, and they’re hard. They crash through the roof and scatter all over the house and the children race to pick them up. They’re delicious!”
Marissa squints at her. “You eat them off the floor?”
Dot shrugs and smiles. Like, Yeah, that’s what we do. Then she adds, “We keep it going because Anneke and Beppie are still little, and I’m glad—it’s the most fun holiday ever!”
“Who’s Anneke and Beppie?” Billy asks.
“My sisters.”
“A double dose of mischief,” I tell him, because last New Year’s the rest of us spent the night at Dot’s house and they were like a couple of nosy mice, spying on us everywhere we went.
“Wish I could be a fly on your wall,” Holly says. “That’s got to be wild.”
“It is! Especially because Troy and Stan go into combat mode and try to raid my stash of pepernoten.”
“Let me guess,” Billy says. “Brothers?”
Dot nods. “They think they’re so smart, but this year I’ve got a satchel ready and they’re going to have to tackle me for them.”
Marissa shakes her head. “So little hard cookies come through the roof, you guys collect them—”
“We dive for them!”
“—and put them in satchels so your brothers can’t steal them—”
“Well, I steal theirs, too. And they steal them back!”
“—and after they’ve crashed through the roof, scattered all over the floor, and endured an epic battle between you and your brothers, you eat them.”
Dot grins from ear to ear. “It’s tradition!”
Billy laughs. “Can I get a skybox seat?”
The rest of us laugh, “Me too!” and then the warning bell rings so we all scatter off to class.
Then on Friday Dot comes racing up to us before school, all out of breath and rosy-cheeked. “Guess what?” she pants, but this time she doesn’t have Dutch cookies or candy or little tabs of tar.
She’s got an invitation.
“Mom says you guys can come over for Sinterklaas tonight!”
We all look at each other, and finally Billy says, “Really?”
Dot nods like crazy. “No skybox seats, though. You have to get in and be part of it. Wear heavy socks and come ready for battle.” She gives a little grin and shrugs. “At least that’s what Troy and Stan say. Mom says as long as you don’t blow it for Anneke and Beppie, you’re welcome to join us.”
“Well, I’m in!” I cry, and Billy goes, “Me too!” and right away Holly and Marissa say they’ll go, too.
“Invite Casey if you want,” Dot says, looking at me. “The more boys we have to go up against Troy and Stan, the better.”
If I had to choose one word to describe Dot DeVries, it would be nice. Of all the people in our group, she’s the one who’s the bubbliest and sweetest. Sometimes I feel like she gets left out because the things the rest of us get into are a little, uh … rough around the edges? But I actually think it’s more that she has a big, tight family to do stuff with and the rest of us don’t. I live with my grandmother in a seniors-only building—which is top-secret because it’s illegal since I’m only thirteen. Holly lives in an apartment with two women—Vera and Meg—who rescued her from being homeless. Billy covers up his home life with jokes and stuff, but there’s nothing funny about how afraid he is of his dad. And Casey, well, his family’s a mess, and Marissa’s is, too. Which boils down to the fact that all of us except Dot are either trying to patch a family together or in the middle of watching one fall apart.
So not only is it nice of Dot to invite us over to her family’s Sinterklaas party, her thinking to include Casey is really … thoughtful.
“You guys are still together, aren’t you?” she asks me, ’cause I’m just standing there staring at her.
I nod, then turn to Billy and say, “You think you could tell him?” because, to make a long story short, Casey’s mother thinks I’m evil and has forbidden him to see me.
Billy and Casey are best friends and Billy’s used to being our messenger service, so he says, “No problem-o!”
Dot swings off her backpack and produces copies of a map. “Here,” she says. “It’s been a while since you’ve been over, so I thought this might help. Mom says be there by seven.”
“You’re out in Sisquane?” Billy asks. And he’s right—getting out to Sisquane actually is a problem. I don’t have a bike, and Marissa’s was run over by her father, and it’s quite a ways to skateboard … especially at night. I look around at the others. “I bet Hudson will give us a ride.”
“Good ol’ Hudson,” Marissa says, because even though Hudson Graham is seventy-three, he’s so unbelievably cool that his house has become our headquarters.
“Brilliant!” Billy says. “Let’s meet at the old chap’s!”
Everyone laughs and agrees, and then off we go to class, excited for the day to be over so we can invade Dot’s house, where cookies are said to fall through the ceiling.
TWO
Hudson Graham drives a 1960 Cadillac that he’s named Jester. It’s obviously ancient because nobody makes cars with pointy taillights, whitewall tires, and huge steering wheels anymore, but Hudson keeps it sparkling so it looks brand-new, and there’s no missing it when he’s cruising the streets of Santa Martina because it’s lavender.
When Hudson drove it around front, Billy practically peed his pants. “Dude, that is awesome!” And before he can even finish bouncing up and down, he grabs Marissa’s hand and calls, “We got shotgun!”
Now, Marissa and Billy aren’t shy about being “togeth
er.” But when it’s the five of us, I don’t like to make Holly feel awkward, so Casey and I just act, you know, normal. Which is sometimes hard because he’s a freshman at Santa Martina High so I don’t see him during school, and because of his mom and demented sister I’m not allowed to see him after. So it’s not always easy to just be all hey-how’s-it-going when I do get to see him.
Anyway, Marissa and Billy slide in front while Casey, Holly, and I pile in back, and then off we go to Sisquane.
Sisquane used to seem like the boondocks, but it’s not that far outside of Santa Martina, and it’s been built up a lot recently, so people don’t think of it as being shacks in the woods anymore. It even has a golf course and gated communities.
The DeVrieses don’t live in any of the new developments, though. You pass right by those and keep on going until you find a bunch of mailboxes on a post and a dirt road that has a crooked sign that says MEADOW LANE.
“It’s down that way,” I tell Hudson when I spot the sign. “But we can walk from here.”
He turns onto Meadow Lane anyway, but stops. Besides the big potholes ahead of us, the road is kinda overgrown with weeds, and scraggly bushes on both sides are sort of choking it off. Plus, about thirty feet away there’s a big branch sticking out across the road like one of those safety gates at a railroad crossing.
Hudson looks over his shoulder at me. “Are you sure?”
“It’s not far,” I tell him, and we all scoot out.
“Wow! This is the boonies!” Billy cries like he’s just arrived at Disneyland.
Hudson rolls down his window. “You’re sure you have a ride home?”
I nod. “Dot’s dad. Don’t worry. We’re fine.”
“You want me to keep the lights shining?”
I look back at him and smile, ’cause usually he treats us like we’re mature and responsible and smart, but right now he looks like he’s setting loose a litter of kittens.
“We’re fine, Hudson. Really. It’s right around the bend.”
So we all wave and holler, “Thanks!” and he drives away.
And then it’s dark.
Dark dark.
And as we move past the big branch sticking across Meadow Lane, we start hearing noises.
Like rustling.
