The Janitor's Boy

  With a direction established, Jack did not hesitate. He walked.

  As he walked Jack’s mind ran ahead into the darkness. He thought, Let’s say I find somebody. How do I know this person’s going to want to help me? . . . What kind of a person would be hanging out down here, anyway?

  That thought stopped Jack in his tracks. He thought, What if it’s some weirdo? Even a murderer. . . or some Phantom of the Opera-type creep, completely crazy . . . limping around with a knife . . . or an ax?

  Standing still, listening to his heart pound in the silence, Jack decided he had no choice. The light from the flashlight was definitely dimmer. He did not want to be down here in the dark. He had to find a way out.

  Taking a fresh grip on his wooden sword, Jack went forward. He kept up a strong pace, stooping every three or four minutes to test the air current and make sure he was still on course. After about ten minutes at a brisk walk he came to a junction, a crossroads.

  Stranger and stranger.

  As Jack stood in the center of the junction his nose picked up a familiar scent. And he knew he wasn’t imagining. It wasn’t the smell of watermelon gum. Now there was the faint but unmistakable scent of peanut butter.

  But the junction posed a problem. He could either walk straight or go down one of three other tunnels—one to his right, or two to his left. He tried to imagine where he was. Had he walked as far as the library—about four blocks? Or was he farther along, say, at the town hall or the small shopping area? It was impossible to know. And did he really want to try pounding on a door that might be in the basement of the town hall? Or the police station?

  Jack decided to go with his nose again, but when he sniffed at the opening of each tunnel, the peanut scent seemed to be everywhere.

  So starting with the tunnel on his left, and then each tunnel in order, he did the fifty-paces-stoop-and-sniff test. After about fifteen minutes of walking back and forth Jack reached a verdict. The only tunnel that had any scent at all was the one he would have taken just by going straight when he first came to the junction.

  Jack sat down to rest for a few minutes. He was winded, sweating. But sitting was no good. For one thing, he started to get cold quickly, and for another, it was too quiet, too much like a tomb. Jack didn’t like the thoughts that crowded into that silence. And Jack didn’t like sitting on the same floor the rats scurried around on. So he got up and continued moving.

  After another ten minutes Jack didn’t need to stoop to smell the peanut butter. It wasn’t a strong smell, but compared to how faint it had been, it seemed to Jack like he was eating a sandwich. He kept walking, careful not to let his wooden sword tap on the floor of the tunnel. After another hundred steps Jack stopped to listen. Was that a distant car horn? Was he under a street? He heard nothing but the occasional scurry of little feet. He decided to keep still for another few minutes, and he turned off his flashlight to save the batteries.

  The darkness of underground places is different. Underground darkness is complete. No streetlights, no stars, no moon, no light reflected from clouds. Jack knew this. He had seen pictures of animals living in caves. Some of them gradually evolved to have no eyes at all.

  With zero light the pupil of the human eye opens up so wide that the colored iris almost disappears. The eye strains to see, and without the essential ingredient—light—it sees absolutely nothing.

  Jack shut his eyes, leaning against the wall opposite the big pipe. He wanted his eyes to forget the brightness of the flashlight. He wanted to experience that utter darkness, that cave darkness.

  When he opened his eyes, Jack had to blink to be sure they were really open. He held up his hand, touched his nose, and then waved his hand around, just inches from his face. Nothing. He opened his eyes until he imagined they must be as big as oranges. Nothing.

  Pushing away from the wall, standing in the center of the tunnel, Jack put his arms out and turned in a slow circle, eyes open wide. And an odd thing happened. As he turned it was as if there was a small, dark rectangle hanging in midair—dark, but not so dark as everything else—and it seemed to sweep past as he turned.

  Jack rotated until the dark rectangle was directly in front of his eyes, and when he stood still, so did the rectangle.

  It could be only one thing. It was light. The small rectangle was the shape of the tunnel, farther on in the direction he had been walking. Somewhere up ahead there was light. And peanut butter. And what else?

  Jack turned on his flashlight and walked ahead quickly—and quietly.

  Chapter 19

  WALK into the LiGht

  As Jack walked silently forward, every hundred steps or so he turned off his flashlight. The light ahead of him grew brighter.

  Abruptly, he came to a T in the tunnel. And at that moment he learned why it was called the steam tunnel.

  Heat radiated from the large iron pipe, and there was a faint hissing sound. Where the pipe he had been walking beside met the pipe in the new tunnel, there was a valve with a large, round handle. A steady drip of hot water had made a puddle on the floor at the junction.

  There was no guesswork now. The light was coming from the left. There was enough of a glow bouncing from the walls of the tunnel that Jack turned off his flashlight to let his eyes adjust to the dimness.

  The light grew stronger with every twenty paces, and coming around a 45-degree bend to the left, Jack stopped in his tracks.

  It was a place where two tunnels crossed, and the junction was like a tic-tac-toe frame—four corridors meeting at a center square. In the corridor to Jack’s right an old refrigerator stood against the wall below the steam pipe. Some coat hooks had been fastened to the wall beside the refrigerator, and a navy blue wool coat, a gray scarf, and a green backpack were hung up.

  On the left wall of the corridor straight ahead Jack saw a folding army cot with an olive green blanket folded neatly at one end, a pillow on top of the blanket. On the tunnel wall opposite the cot there was a low wooden bookcase. A large black-and-white cat sat on the bookcase and looked at Jack with wide green eyes, a statue with a twitching tail.

  In the center square a card table and one folding metal chair sat on a piece of dark green carpet. On the table lay a pencil and a newspaper turned to a half-finished crossword puzzle. There was a paper plate and a plastic knife—and an open jar of crunchy peanut butter.

  In the corridor to Jack’s left a tall floor lamp with a fringed shade stood beside a worn-out easy chair. The lamp was on, and in the chair sat a young man wearing black jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt. A book lay open on his lap. Pushing a strand of long blond hair out of his eyes, he looked up as if seeing Jack appear was the most natural thing in the world. He looked curiously at Jack’s sword.

  “Nice sword. I’ve been listening to you coming for about half an hour now. Sound travels a long way down here. Was that you did all the yelling?”

  Jack nodded. “Locked myself in . . . I got scared.” Pointing at the peanut butter, Jack said, “Then I followed my nose.” Taking a closer look, Jack guessed the boy was seventeen or eighteen. “Do you live here?”

  The boy shook his head. “Nah, I’m just hanging out for a while.”

  Jack looked around. “Where did all this stuff come from? Did you bring it here?”

  “Nope. I guess it’s been here a long time. There’s a guest list on the wall by the fridge, and it goes way back. Pretty strange.”

  Jack was still trying to take it all in. “But . . . I mean, like the refrigerator, and the electricity, and . . . everything. It’s like a little apartment.”

  The kid grinned, and said with friendly sarcasm, “That’s what it is. It is, in fact, like a little apartment. I think you have now understood. You have now said about all that can be said about it.”

  Jack didn’t pick up on the sarcasm. “And . . . what about the rats?”

  The kid jerked his head toward the cat. “That’s Caesar’s job. He comes with the place.”

  “So, like . . . you’re all
owed to be here?” Jack asked.

  The boy shrugged. “Allowed? I don’t know. And I don’t care. All I know is that until my dad calms down or gets some serious help, I’m spending my nights right here. I mean, it’s a little spooky, and I don’t have my stereo, but it’s a whole lot safer than my house is right now. And John said I could use the place, so, yeah—I guess I’m allowed.”

  Jack knew. Right away he knew.

  But he asked to make sure. “John said you could use the place? John who?”

  “John the janitor. Works at the old high school. He knows my dad, and last year he said if I ever needed help I should tell him. So about a week ago I needed help, and I told him, and here I am.”

  “You talked to John last year?”

  The kid nodded. “Some of my friends said he was a good guy, so I checked him out, you know, just started shootin’ the breeze with him one afternoon when I was in detention. He was working on something in the room, light switch or something. He was just easy to talk to. Like, first I just asked what he was doing, and he didn’t brush me off. Really told me stuff, showed me how the circuits worked, the whole deal. I’m interested in stuff like that, and he could tell, so he just kept showing. Then he asks me my name, and I say, ‘I’m Eddie Wahlson.’ And that’s when he tells me if I ever need help, look him up. Turns out he knows my dad from the VFW.”

  Jack shook his head, not understanding. “The VFW?”

  Eddie said, “That little white house near the diner downtown? Has the sign? Veterans of Foreign Wars?—VFW. It’s like a club for guys that were in the service, fought in wars and stuff. Guys can help each other, talk about problems and stuff. War messes a lot of guys up. Messed up my dad. He was in the National Guard, and his unit got called up for Desert Storm—the Gulf War?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Anyway, that’s how come John knew my dad, and that’s how come I’m here.” Eddie was done being sociable. Standing up, he said, “You want to get out of here, right?”

  Jack nodded. “Yeah. Where are we, anyway?”

  Eddie said, “About a block away from the fire station. How’d you get into the tunnels? Find an open door?”

  Jack said, “Sort of. At my school.”

  “That where you found the sword?”

  Jack nodded.

  Eddie nodded back and said, “Cool.”

  Jack pointed at the wall near the corner by the refrigerator. He took two steps closer and bent down to read. “Did you sign the guest list?”

  “You bet,” said Eddie. “I’m part of Huntington history now.”

  Jack scanned the list. He turned on his flashlight so he could read the names. They had been written on a smooth patch of white concrete with pencils and markers, even a crayon or two. Dozens of names, going all the way back to the 1970s. Then Jack did a double take: The first name on the wall was LOU CARSWELL, 1973.

  Jack wanted to look at every name. But Eddie had run out of patience. “The best place to get out is where I do. John knows this guy at the fire station, and he gave me a key to the door that comes out in the basement hallway there. That’s where the steam comes from—there’s a big boiler at the fire station. Still heats the library and the town hall. Keeps me toasty too. So let’s go.”

  Jack almost had to trot to keep up with Eddie’s longer strides. There were no lights once they left the living area, but Eddie didn’t slow down and he didn’t use a flashlight. Jack thought, Maybe Eddie is evolving. Maybe one day Eddie will have no eyes at all.

  In five minutes they came to an opening in the wall, and Eddie said, “This is it.” He ducked into the opening and flipped a switch by the door. A dim bulb lit the short corridor.

  Eddie listened by the door. There were voices on the other side. They got louder and then began to get fainter. Eddie pulled out a key and put it into the lock, but held up his hand. He whispered, “Wait a minute or so. Anybody sees you out there, just tell ‘em you came in the back door to use the bathroom. It’s right down the hall to the left.”

  After half a minute of silence Eddie asked, “What grade you in?”

  Jack said, “Fifth.”

  “So you’re at the old high school this year, right?”

  Jack nodded.

  “When you see John, tell him Eddie says hi, okay?”

  Jack said, “I’ll tell him.”

  “And listen, John’s a good guy to know, like if you ever get in trouble—I mean, like, real trouble. You ought to get to know him.”

  Jack said, “Yeah. I’m gonna do that.”

  It was quiet in the hallway, so Eddie opened the door a crack.

  Jack said, “Eddie, I think you should keep this sword, okay? I don’t think I better try to carry it through downtown.”

  Eddie took the sword and hefted it appreciatively. He nodded. “Cool.”

  Jack said, “Hey . . . do you have any gum, Eddie?”

  Eddie reached into his pocket. “Yeah.”

  “What flavor?” asked Jack.

  Eddie pulled out an opened pack. “Watermelon—want a piece?”

  Jack smiled and said, “No, thanks.”

  Eddie opened the door and said, “See you, little buddy.”

  Jack stepped out. “So long, Eddie—thanks.”

  And Eddie closed the door.

  Chapter 20

  Two PLuS Two

  Outside the steam tunnel door Jack blinked in the bright bluish light. The corridor in the basement of the firehouse was empty, so he headed for the Exit sign and the stairs to his right.

  Thirty seconds later Jack was standing in steadily falling snow at the corner of Maple and Williams. And then it hit him. Jack realized he must be late. He’d said he would be back at the shop at five. Looking in the window of a convenience store, Jack saw the time. It was five forty-five.

  Instinctively he started running north on Williams toward Main Street. A quick fall on the snowy sidewalk and Jack realized running was not a good idea. Unhurt, he dusted himself off and then walked as quickly as he could.

  Jack knew his dad would be worried. He might have even left. The school might be locked. Should he go into a store and try to call the school, or call home? He hoped his dad wouldn’t be too angry, or even worse, disappointed in him again. Jack tried to pick up his pace as he continued slipping along toward the high school.

  When he got to Main Street and turned east, he had to walk against the wind. It wasn’t really cold, not by Minnesota standards, but the wind cut through his sweatshirt. By bending his head down, the brim of his Vikings cap kept the snow out of his face, and he only had to look up to check for cross traffic when he reached a curb.

  When Jack passed the library, he picked up his pace. The sidewalk in the heart of downtown had already been sanded, so there was less danger of falling. He only had about four blocks to go.

  Lifting his head to look out from under the brim of his cap, Jack saw something through the snow. At the next street, Randall Street.

  A car with its lights on was parked behind the stop sign.

  But it wasn’t a car. It was a pickup. A green pickup.

  John Rankin flashed his headlights, and Jack waved at him. Jack wanted to slow down. Thirty more steps and he would be there. Think fast, think, think! What could he say? No coat, no backpack, walking alone downtown in the snow.

  Jack thought, I can say I left my stuff at the library, got involved in a book, saw the time, ran outside. Jack felt the lie strangling him, and deep down he knew it wouldn’t work, knew he didn’t want to try to make it work.

  Jack could see the truck’s wipers ticking back and forth. Jack stood at the crosswalk, waited for a salt truck to rumble past, and then crossed the street.

  John Rankin rolled his window down halfway.

  Jack smiled as best he could. “Hi, Dad. I—”

  His dad cut him off, a sharp edge to his voice. “Come get in out of the snow, Jack.”

  Jack said, “But my coat and my backpack are—”

  “Just get in
the truck, Jack. I’ve got ‘em.”

  Jack didn’t understand. “My coat? . . . And my backpack?”

  “Just get in.” It was that angry-and-relieved voice, the kind parents only use when they’ve finally located a missing child.

  Jack walked around the back of the truck and got in on the passenger side. As he shut the door his dad reached over and flicked the fan switch to high. In the light from one of the old downtown lampposts Jack saw his coat and backpack on the seat. He said, “You . . . you found them.”

  His dad said, “Yup—no thanks to you. You had me and everybody else worried sick.”

  John Rankin paused, getting control of himself. “I’ve been waiting here for about twenty minutes. About five fifteen I called home just to be sure you didn’t snag a ride with a friend. Lois said you weren’t there, so I started putting two and two together.”

  Very meekly Jack said, “Two and two?”

  His dad nodded. “I checked the supply closet and saw you’d put your stuff away. Then I smelled something funny. Over behind the door. That’s quite a load of gum in that pail.”

  Jack said, “But how—”

  His dad held up his hand and said, “If you’ll just hold your horses, I’ll tell you. I found you because I look up from your bucket full of gum in the closet there and I see the lock on the key safe isn’t latched. That’s when it clicked.”

  John Rankin paused a few seconds, then said, “How’d you like that view from the bell tower?”

  Jack gulped.

  His dad went on. “That was you up there, right? On Tuesday? I thought I heard something. A school gets real quiet once the kids leave.” Another pause. “So, did you like the view?”

  Jack nodded. He could tell his dad wasn’t really mad now, so he said, “I just wanted to see it. I never saw the whole town before.”

  John Rankin allowed himself to smile a little. “What gets me is that from all those keys you pick my two favorites. I’ve been up that tower. . . . I don’t know how many times. I go up there to sit and think sometimes.” Jack remembered the chair on the third landing.