CHAPTER 2
Ben stopped just inside the door. In the dim light he took careful note of the key he’d just used—important information.
He still had one hand on the crash bar. It wasn’t warm in the school, but he was sweating and his mouth was dry. If he pushed the bar and backed up three feet, he’d be outside again. He could be home and in his bed in ten minutes.
No.
He’d sneaked out tonight so he could have the whole school to himself, so he could explore for as long as he wanted to. And here he was.
But . . . maybe I should have brought rubber gloves.
Dumb thought. His fingerprints were already all over the school, along with Jill’s and hundreds of other kids’.
An alarm system . . . maybe the police are on their way right now.
But he hadn’t seen any cameras or sensors around the school, and he had looked very carefully. Ever since he and Jill discovered that Lyman had made a secret visit to his dad’s sailboat, they had both been on the lookout for microphones, webcams—any suspicious-looking electronics.
He was out of excuses. It wasn’t even that dark inside the school—almost brighter than outside. Every door and hallway entrance had a glowing red exit sign.
Ben knew the clue for each safeguard practically by heart, but he pulled a folded index card from his pocket anyway. He clicked on his flashlight, covering most of the beam with his thumb. As he read, he noticed his hands were shaking.
They’d solved the “five bells” clue a couple of days ago, and they’d found the addition to Captain Oakes’s will. That little sheet of vellum might have some real power, but using it would definitely complicate things. It would mean taking the whole war public, and that would mean the Glennley Group would fight with lawyers and money and politics—instead of just relying on Lyman.
So the plan was to keep on hunting—that’s what he and Jill had decided. And the directions about searching for the safeguards were clear: Look for each one in order. So . . .
They’d talked about this next clue. “After four times four”—that was sixteen; then “one more” totaled seventeen—ridiculously simple math.
And the “tread up” part? Also simple . . . possibly. Because that word “tread”? Yes, it could just mean “to walk.” But it could also mean the tread of a staircase, the flat part you stepped on. Which was why Ben turned right at the main corridor by the library and walked toward the north stairwell. There weren’t that many places in the school where you could walk up seventeen treads—if that was what the clue even meant. But he had to start the search somewhere.
Listening to the creaking floor and his echoing footsteps, it felt strange to be alone in the empty school so late at night.
But he wasn’t frightened, not really. Sure, his heart was beating faster than usual, but he was fine . . . just fine. Being alone in the dark had never bothered him much. Unless he started remembering scary movies.
Ben shoved that thought out of his head as he opened the heavy fire door at the bottom of the north stairwell. Six feet straight ahead of him a flight of stairs rose to a landing. Using his flashlight beam as a pointer, he counted the steps . . . ten.
He trotted up to the landing, turned left and left again, then counted the next flight that went to the second floor . . . another ten. Twenty steps, twenty treads.
He walked up six steps from the landing, then went one more and stood on step number seventeen—“After four times four, tread up one more.”
Bouncing on that seventeenth tread with all his weight, he listened—any squeaks or rattles or clanks? Nothing suspicious at all.
He knelt down on step number fifteen, then leaned forward. Using his light, he examined the seventeenth tread, his nose inches from the surface.
It was a solid rectangle of wood, some kind of oak—Ben knew that much. And it was super tough, because after more than two hundred years of heavy foot traffic, it was barely worn—none of the treads were. He checked the rounded edges, tapped on the vertical board rising behind the step, inspected every nail head, every knot and ripple in the texture of the wood.
There was nothing unusual. And tread number seventeen was identical to eighteen, sixteen, and fifteen—they were all the same.
But of course, this was just one staircase. Maybe the clue was linked to the south stairwell. Or . . . maybe he should start from the second floor and work up to the third. Or . . . maybe start at the third floor and count down sixteen steps, then go back up a step—except . . . that wouldn’t be going “up one more” . . . would it?
Hmm.
Tons of possibilities, but he had lots of time. So it probably made the most sense to just . . .
The cell phone in his front pocket made a quick double vibration—a new text. Ben got it out, and then stared at the bluish screen:
My mommy?!
The name and number of the sender was blocked. The phone vibrated again, then again, and again.
Not a text, a regular phone call. And this time the caller ID was crystal clear: EDGEPORT POLICE DEPT.
Ben panicked.
Blasting down the stairs three at a time, he slammed through the fire door, then skidded right and ran. At the causeway into the Annex, he went right again and streaked for the first exit. Bursting outside, he almost ran into Captain Oakes’s large granite tombstone, which was right in the middle of the playground. He adjusted his course and made a beeline for home, running down the middle of the lighted pathway, but ready to take off into the trees if he had to.
He still gripped the phone in his hand—12:05 now.
There was no traffic as he shot across School Street, but a car was coming at him along Walnut Street, still half a block away. He hated to waste even a moment, but what if it was a police car? He ducked into some bushes.
The car sailed past, just a white sedan. Running again, he felt Mr. Keane’s heavy key ring bouncing in the front pocket of his black hoodie. At Central Street he had to hide in the shadow of a big SUV for almost a minute, waiting for some traffic to clear.
Two houses from home, he slowed to a walk. If he didn’t approach softly, Nelson would get spooked and bark his head off.
Just outside the kitchen door, he made a little kissing sound and whispered, “Good boy, Nelson, it’s me.”
He heard a soft whine of recognition through the door, then opened it slowly and moved inside. “Stay, Nelson, stay.”
Ben shed his shoes and clothes, then pulled on the pajamas he’d left in a canvas shopping bag hanging from a hook. Sweaty and shivering, he stuffed the whole ninja outfit back into the bag.
Now for the hardest part—the barefoot trip up to his attic room. This house had been built in the 1820s. Even though it was newer than the school by almost eighty years, it hadn’t been constructed as well, and the floors were a lot creakier.
Staying close to the wall in the hallway from the kitchen, Ben stopped at the closet. He pulled the door open slowly and stuffed the bag with his clothes and the keys back behind the coats. He closed the door, then remembered—his cell phone! He opened the closet and rummaged in the bag till he found it.
Ben had made a careful study of the front stairs over the years—mostly around Christmas. The bottom step had a terrible groaning creak, so he stretched completely over it. The next three steps just chirped a little as long as he stayed close to the wall on the right. The fifth step was another groaner, and the sixth was even worse. He had to stretch over the fifth, and get to the far left on the sixth and put as much weight as possible onto the handrail . . . rwaarrk . . . it always did that, no matter what.
He stopped and held his breath—no sound from his mom’s room.
He took the next three steps close to the left wall, then stretched over the very top step, and he was in the upstairs hall. He turned left, tiptoeing and staying close to the wall.
He was beginning to breathe easier. He glanced at his cell phone—12:09.
Brrnnnngg!
The sound of the house telephone bit him like a wasp. He leaped the last four feet to the attic doorway, sprinted up the narrow stairs, and dove under his covers.
Heart fluttering, he strained to listen—his mom’s voice, then the heavy plastic handset dropping back onto its cradle.
Her bedroom door creaked opened, and when the hall light clicked on, a glow filtered up into his room.
“Ben? . . . Ben?”
“Yeah? Wh-what?” He didn’t have to do much acting to sound tired and worried.
“Oh, it’s nothing, sweetie. Just wanted to check on you. Go on back to sleep.”
“Okay. Love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too. G’night.”
Lying there in his soft bed, his heartbeats slowed. Once his breathing calmed down, he could hear the sea breeze rustling the new maple leaves outside his window. The house was quiet again, and he felt safe. But he had to face some unpleasant questions.
That text? It must have come from Lyman—who else?
But how had he gotten the police to call him—or had he faked that somehow?
He definitely had the number to Ben’s cell phone, which he could have easily copied off the emergency contact card in the nurse’s office at school. . . .
But how had the guy known he was there, at the school?
Had he been outside in the dark on the school grounds somewhere, like a cop on a stakeout? Seemed unlikely . . .
But wherever the man was, somehow he had known Ben was inside the school.
There was one logical answer: Before leaving for the long weekend, Lyman could have rigged up his own private security system—like door alarms . . . maybe he’d set up cameras, too. Which would mean Lyman might have a picture of him sneaking in, maybe even a movie. . . .
And that bit about calling his “mommy,” using his own mother against him like a weapon? That was really low . . . but very effective.
Jill.
Ben groaned silently. Maybe he didn’t really need to mention any of this. . . . No, he’d have to tell her. But she was really going to yell about it.
From the start, Jill had said they should never underestimate Lyman. He was a trained professional, a serious corporate spy with a big budget and access to all kinds of gadgets and equipment.
Well, he thought, we’ve got a budget too.
It was true. Ben had met Tom Benton at Mr. Keane’s funeral. He’d been the janitor at Oakes School before Mr. Keane. Tom was retired, and Ben had helped him to recover a rusty tackle box loaded with rare old coins—enough to buy all the antispying equipment they would ever need. Tom was now the official treasurer for the Keepers of the School.
He smiled as he remembered what Jill had said when he’d called and told her about the coins: “Great—maybe we can hire a spy to spy on Lyman!”
Clearly, the Keepers needed something to help level the battlefield.
A level battlefield.
Ben liked that thought. It was an idea he could get to sleep on.
He stretched and yawned.
Yes, Mr. Lyman, you are clever and experienced, and you won tonight’s battle. But this new phase of our little war? It’s only just beginning.