“How’d you find all this?” said Ben.
“Hometown newspapers, public records search, the usual ways. It’s all out there, and the Internet never forgets. He’s got a pretty unusual name. But I did have to spend about forty dollars to check for criminal history—I used our credit card.”
“Criminal history? He has a record?”
“Arrests, but no convictions. He worked for Engleton Computing after the navy, and got fired for using company server space to host his own website to sell discount patio furniture. Charges were filed with the police, but then dropped. About a year later he was working at a place called Carleton Trucking Company, and he got fired after he used a company warehouse for a huge weekend party. He was charged with criminal trespass and destruction of private property. But after he paid about two thousand dollars for cleaning and repairs, the charges were dropped. And then at a company called East Shore Logistics, he got fired for using a company truck to haul loads of firewood from his dad’s farmland in Virginia to a friend’s garden center in Bethesda, Maryland. He was charged with illegal use of private property, but the charges were dropped. And he was fired. So, basically, what we have with Wally is a smart guy who’s lucky not to be sitting in jail somewhere.”
Robert said, “But with all that stuff in his past, how come he got hired by Glennley? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Not until you look at the yearbook of Lewellton Academy in Chicago, Illinois. Because young Wally was on the football team there, and he played center. And I’ll give you three guesses to figure out who he was hiking the ball to.”
“Really?” said Ben. “Lyman was the quarterback?”
“Yup, and he was pretty good, too. The team got to the state final of the private school league their senior year. But in the last three minutes of the game, Wally slugged a player on the other team and got sent to the locker room. And when the substitute center hiked the ball on a crucial play, he wobbled it, and Lyman fumbled, and the other team recovered. They lost the game and the title. But those two must have stayed friends over the years, because when Lyman needed help here, he called up his old teammate. Oh—and guess what Wally’s nickname was in high school.”
“Really?!” Robert exclaimed. “Stumpy?”
Jill smiled and shook her head. “Nope, but close. They called him the Fireplug.”
Robert grinned. “Nice—that’s even better!”
The three of them sat quietly. It was a lot of new information to process.
Ben had trouble imagining Lyman as a high school kid—a tall, skinny quarterback, calling the plays in a big game. And losing at the last minute after his friend got tossed from the game? It made the guy seem a little more human. Ben caught himself feeling kind of sorry for Lyman—really, for both of them. But he remembered the mission at hand and flipped that feeling on its head. Because this information also made Lyman and Wally more vulnerable, which was what intelligence gathering was all about . . . right? Going for the throat . . . .
I don’t think I’d be a very good soldier . . . but I have to be! I have to!
“Speaking of the devil . . . ,” Robert muttered, nodding toward the door.
Ben turned. It was Wally, still glaring at them, still sweaty.
Again, a kind of pity welled up in Ben’s heart. But he fought it and forced himself to see an enemy standing there, made himself pretend that the long handle of Wally’s dust mop was a rifle—with fixed bayonet.
Because there was no room for softness now, no room for anything but tough, sharp, straight-ahead fighting, with no holds barred. He was right at the tip of the spear in this battle, so he had to think and act that way every second . . . right?
Right!
That’s what Ben’s mind told him.
His heart wasn’t quite so certain.
CHAPTER 11
Twenty-First Century Warriors
It was 7:55, and just as the entry bell clanged, Robert said, “I’ve got something for you guys, and for me, too.”
He glanced toward the doorway—Wally wasn’t in sight. Reaching into his backpack, he pulled out three iPads.
“I know this seems kind of over the top, but I got the cheapest ones available with the least amount of storage. But I did pay a little extra to get cellular connectivity along with the Wi-Fi. Plus, I bought a really fast portable Wi-Fi hotspot device with about six hours of battery life, so we can set up our own private network if we need one. And when you two were taking your sweet time getting back here, I opened a Bluetooth connection to the new camera and uploaded all the pictures I took of the post in the hallway, and all the other photos we’ve got too. So we can each study them. And we all have access to a secure cloud storage space too—touch the app called Notes, and you’ll see some instructions and the password for that. These things also take pretty good pictures and movies. And you can text, and there’s also video conferencing if we need it. I mean, I know these aren’t absolutely necessary, but . . . portable communication matters a lot right now, don’t you think?”
Jill held out her hand right away, and Robert passed her the one with the blue cover. “Great!” she said. “But, of course, when this work’s done, we’ll sell them and put the money back into the trust account.”
“Oh, absolutely!” said Robert.
Ben had to hide a smile. Jill was getting very comfy with the idea of buying whatever they needed. She hadn’t batted an eye last night about spending twenty-two million dollars to shut down the Glennley real estate attack, and neither had Robert. That whole plan was moving ahead, and the lawyer was meeting Tom Benton and Mrs. Keane at the bank this morning to sign some papers.
Robert handed him the iPad with the gray cover. He flipped it open, and the screen lit up. There was a keypad labeled ENTER PASSCODE.
“What’s the code?” he asked.
“Four letters,” Robert whispered, “k, p, r, s.”
“Nice!”
Jill frowned as she tapped in the code. “But . . . what do I tell my mom? ’Cause we can’t leave these at school, and she’s gonna find this thing at home, I know she will.”
Ben had wondered the exact same thing, and he got it. “Just tell her the truth—it’s on loan to you as part of a grant from Edgeport Bank and Trust . . . in support of our Oakes School history project. And if she’s got a problem with that, she can call Mr. Rydens at the bank!”
Robert grinned. “Good one, Pratt!”
Jill smiled too. “And really, we could tell that to anybody here at school who asks where we got them—but . . . is having this at school even allowed?”
“Are you kidding?” said Robert. “You need to read the town newspaper more often. The school department’s gonna give one of these to every single kid in fourth through twelfth grade next year—spending Glennley’s money, I bet. There are rules about when and how they can be used, but it’s already okay for a kid to have an iPad at any school in town.”
Ben had the photo app open, checking out the pictures of the post—the images were so clear, and he knew how to make the screen do what he wanted it to. One afternoon while his mom had shopped at the Burlington Mall, he’d spent almost two hours at a store messing with the display models. But having one of his own to use? It was great, except . . .
“Hey, guys?” he said. “We’re gonna have to watch our time with these things.”
“Right!” Jill said. “This is a tool, not a toy—so, no goofing off, no downloading games or music. Okay?”
They all nodded, but their eyes never left the screens.
Then Robert said, “Except Pratt has permission to download a beginner’s sailing simulator to get ready for our race on Saturday—he’s gonna need all the help he can get!”
“Ha-ha, very funny. You need to put up your own website, Gerritt—How to Flip an Optimist onto Your Head in One Easy Lesson!”
Ten minutes later the clang of the homeroom warning bell pulled them back to reality. Ben was first on his feet.
“Well, I have zero
ideas about what a brass post that looks exactly like wood has to do with us finding a safeguard—and I’ve studied every single picture we’ve got. You guys see anything?”
“Um, I was looking at the iPad instruction manual in the books app,” Jill said. “But I’ll check out the photos during homeroom.”
“Better not,” Robert said. “You pull that out, and there’ll be a crowd, and then you’ll have to start explaining . . . which is just my opinion, of course,” he added quickly. “I’m sure you’ll handle whatever comes up.”
Ben said, “See you guys later. And thanks, Gerritt—this was a good move.”
He could have walked the short way to homeroom, but Ben went out of the library and turned left, walked past the office, and then went along the hall by the janitor’s room—the same route he’d taken yesterday when he was whacking each post.
He didn’t see Lyman or Wally, so he took a good look at the fourth post from the art room. Nothing unusual at all.
Walking on, he counted his steps to the door of the art room—thirteen . . . so at around three feet per stride, that meant the posts were about twelve feet apart—seemed right.
He tried to visualize what was on the other side of that hallway wall, because there wasn’t a classroom there between the janitor’s room and the art room. And he knew that the janitor’s room didn’t extend that far along the hallway. Even though the art room sort of made an L shape, it certainly didn’t extend back twenty or thirty feet . . . .
And then it hit him. He felt stupid not to have realized it sooner. Because in the art room, in the back corner of the L, there was a door.
He’d seen it standing open plenty of times, seen the gray metal racks with the wide rolls of colored paper, seen the stacks of easels, seen all the shelves loaded with twenty different kinds of paper, large plastic canisters of tempera paint, bags of clay, bottles of glue—lots and lots of shelves that ran back toward the janitor’s room wall.
And then another thought! It was so simple it was almost stupid—walls have two sides, and so do thick posts! So it was entirely possible that the other side of post number four would be visible on the other side of the hallway wall!
Walking into homeroom, Ben’s heart was thumping out a double-time march. Some way, somehow, during the next fifty-seven minutes, he was going to visit the art supplies room.
CHAPTER 12
Stowaway
“Have you seen Ben?”
Jill was with Robert on the front steps after school.
He shook his head. “Not since sixth period. All he said was that he wasn’t going to meet us in the library after school. Did he text you or anything?”
“Nope. Maybe he just went home—he could be there by now. You want to give him a call?”
“Not me,” said Robert. Then, with half a smile, he said, “Call him yourself, if you’re so worried.”
“I’m not worried, Gerritt. Everybody keeps saying there’s not a second to waste, so I was thinking we’d try to do something this afternoon, make some progress. That’s all.”
Robert shrugged. “He probably ran off to the marina to sneak a practice session with his new boat—so he doesn’t get completely schooled on Saturday.”
Jill rolled her eyes. “You two and your toy boats—it makes me tired. I’m going home.”
“Yeah, me too.” Robert jerked his thumb toward the front door. “Stumpy needs a break!”
Jill glanced over her shoulder. There in the window of the right hand door she saw Wally, standing watch. She smiled and waved at him, then stuck out her tongue. And immediately wished she hadn’t—not exactly a mature thing to do.
She went straight down the steps, and when she reached the harbor walk, headed south toward home. She looked over her shoulder to be sure Robert couldn’t see her, then pulled out her phone and called Ben.
It went right to message.
• • •
Ben felt his phone vibrate and quickly pushed the reject button. It seemed so loud!
He was sitting alone in the dark, living with the results of decisions and discoveries he had made during the day.
Most importantly, he’d decided not to tell Jill or Robert his ideas about the art supplies room. They were both so much smarter than he was—or at least it felt that way. He wanted to check it out on his own before he said anything. And if there was nothing, then he wouldn’t have to mention it at all.
There was also the risk factor. What he had in mind could backfire, and if there was trouble, why have it knock Jill or Robert out of action? Better if they didn’t even know. They wouldn’t have to lie. Or get kicked out of school before the last week. Or have another scary meeting with the principal.
As he ticked through the possible dangers, twice Ben caught himself thinking mostly about protecting Jill—and he quickly added and Robert too.
He’d checked the supplies room door during homeroom—locked. He had Mr. Keane’s keys in his book bag, but if he tried to mess with the door, people would notice.
So he’d approached the problem in stages, and he started by waiting until homeroom ended and first period art began.
The class was working on decorations for the final chorus concert, and since it was an all-American theme, red, white, and blue tempera paints were in high demand. Fifteen minutes into the class, the red paint pot was half empty, and Ben casually took it and dumped what was left down the drain of the big sink.
Then he’d gone to Ms. Wilton and said, “We need more red paint—should I mix some up?”
“That’d be great, Ben. There’s a container on the shelf over the sink.”
“Nope, no red—I already checked.” Which he had.
Ms. Wilton did just what Ben had hoped she would. She pulled open the file drawer of her desk, found a key, and handed it to him. “Go check the supplies room for me, will you? The tempera is on the wooden shelves near the back. Better bring two. Thanks!”
So that was Ben’s first tour of the room, and even though it had lasted less than two minutes, he accomplished three important things.
The first was simply to confirm what he’d already guessed: Some of the thick wooden hallway posts did extend through the wall into the supplies room—three of them, including the one that sounded like a gong if you whacked it. With a baseball.
The second important thing he did was to take a good close-up picture of the supply room key with his cell phone—a photo he’d be able to compare with the keys on Mr. Keane’s key ring.
The third thing was actually something he didn’t do. As he walked out of the supplies room with two big plastic jars of red tempera powder, he didn’t relock the door.
He’d hoped there would be a way to slip back inside during class, but it hadn’t worked out. Most of the concert decorations were made of large pieces of cardboard, and they were spread out on every table plus all over the floor, including the area near the supplies room.
First period was ending, and just when Ben had started feeling like he would have to ask Jill and Robert for help with this, Ms. Wilton waved a paper in the air and made an announcement.
“Listen, everyone—quiet down! This is a sign-up sheet. I need volunteers to help with decorations in the auditorium after school, so if you can do that, meet here at ten of three, all right? It’ll take half an hour at the most. And there’ll be refreshments!”
A group of kids quickly volunteered, but Ben wasn’t among them. He saw a glimmer of a plan, and by the end of the school day, he’d worked it out . . . except for a few wrinkles.
When he saw Jill and Robert during the rest of Tuesday, he felt bad about not bringing them in on this . . . but not bad enough to risk them watching his idea fizzle. Besides, he knew Robert would try to take over the whole operation—that was what he’d done with the Underground Railroad business last week.
As sixth period had ended, he was ready to put his plan into motion—and to deal with the consequences.
Wally was standing watch in the hall outside
the gym, but Ben had been ready for that. He was the first kid through the doors of the gym and just took off running. He got a quick twenty-yard head start on Wally, and when the hallway filled with kids, the stocky janitor with his wide dust mop fell farther behind.
And Ben had made sure Wally saw him as he took a left at the first hallway intersection by the music room. But Wally had not seen him instantly duck into the auditorium, run all the way across the back of the stage, out the far door, and then turn right. Almost running, he’d sped through the causeway from the Annex and into the old building—unseen by Wally or Lyman.
And at that point, he’d ducked into the boys’ restroom nearest the art room—which was also pretty close the janitor’s workshop. He went into the fourth stall, the one at the end by the wall, but he didn’t close the door. Instead, he got both feet up on the seat of the toilet, a trick he’d seen in a movie. Unless someone walked right down in front of the last stall, it looked unoccupied, with the door hanging open and no feet showing below the metal dividers.
The waiting had been the worst part—almost ten minutes of squatting above that toilet. His feet and legs had ached at first, and then they’d started to go numb.
Ben could tell the buses had left, and the school got a lot quieter. He could hear Ms. Wilton, thirty feet away at the art room doorway.
“Careful, Luke—don’t try to carry everything! Jana, grab that bag—no the one with the staplers and the string. And don’t touch the panels by the windows—they’re not dry yet! Good, let’s go.”
When that noise had faded into the distance, he was ready to climb down—but suddenly he heard Wally in the hall just outside the washroom door. Actually, it was Lyman he heard first, talking through the two-way speaker clipped to Wally’s shirt.
“Seen unit three yet?”
Ben heard the washroom door open, heard Wally shuffle inside.
“No. Securing first floor south.”
Wally’s voice was loud, so close.
Then Lyman’s reply crackled with urgency.