CHAPTER 10
Robert munched on an onion ring, thought a moment, then said, “Simple . . . I launched a puke grenade in the south stairwell.”
“A puke grenade?” Ben said.
Jill made a face. “I don’t think I want to hear about this after all . . .”
“It wasn’t actual puke,” Robert added quickly.
“Oh . . . that’s lovely,” said Jill. “Because fake puke is ever so much more appealing. Could this maybe wait till after I finish my milkshake?”
It was almost four o’clock, and the Keepers had met up at Buckle’s Diner on Central Street for a secret war council. And once they’d settled into a booth near the back, Jill had asked Robert how he had managed to keep Lyman busy after school.
“Tell me about the grenade part,” Ben said.
Robert shook his head as he took a bite of cheeseburger. He enjoyed being the professor, and he wasn’t about to let lowly pupils direct his lecture. He chewed slowly, took a swig of root beer, wiped his mouth, and began.
“First, with any weapon system, there’s the payload, and there’s the delivery mechanism—you can’t really separate them. And before you begin, you have to have your objective clearly in mind. In this case, the mission was to keep Lyman away from the north staircase and, really, the whole north side of the school, for at least twenty minutes.”
“But you told us we had to get out of there after ten minutes,” said Jill.
Ben smiled to himself. Jill pretended she was all dainty, but only when she thought she should be. She was just as interested in this stuff as he was.
Robert held up his index finger. “Important tactical rule: Always plan for mistakes and malfunctions—it’s called redundancy.”
He took another bite of cheeseburger, and kept talking as he chewed. “When you consider a weapon design, you also have to consider your enemy. In this case, we’ve got Lyman the Spyman—except he can’t just hang around the school spying all day. To maintain his cover, he has to actually be the janitor. So, that’s his weakness—as you already know. And really, in today’s action I was sort of copying what Ben did last Friday, when he created the flood in the art room—an excellent tactical diversion that accomplished a specific objective.”
Ben nodded wisely. It was nice to have his work praised by an expert.
“Okay, okay,” Jill said, then paused to vacuum up the last of her shake. “Let’s hear about this fake puke of yours.”
A pair of elderly women in the next booth swiveled their heads and stared at Jill disapprovingly. Apparently, they did not want to hear about fake puke. They waved at the waitress for their check.
“Well, it’s sort of like making a stew,” Robert began, lowering his voice. “You have to use the right ingredients. First, I checked the school district website and found the cafeteria schedule. Lunch at Captain Oakes today was going to be tacos, fried rice, ham and cheese on a bagel, corn, and then the regular desserts and fruit and stuff. So, to make believable vomit—”
Jill interrupted, “Most people live a whole lifetime and never get to hear the words ‘believable vomit.’”
Again, the women in the next booth glared, then got up and walked to the cash register near the front door.
Robert kept talking. “I used some bits of sliced ham, some frozen corn, some lettuce, a dash of Italian salad dressing, six or seven squashed grapes, some apple juice, a chunk of chocolate cheesecake, a piece of white bread, and then the secret ingredient—milk.”
“Milk?” Jill wrinkled her nose. “Why milk?”
“Ever get a sniff of that metal can in the lunchroom where you dump your trash, especially on Thursday or Friday, and especially if it’s hot and humid at school? That horrible, sour, spit-uppy smell? That’s spoiled milk. Anyway, late Saturday night I sealed all my ingredients into a superstrong plastic zipper bag, mooshed everything around, then put it down in the basement behind the hot-water heater—warm and dark. And nature did the rest. By Tuesday morning, I had myself a bag of first-class, weapons-grade garbage, also known as the puke grenade.”
Jill made a face. “You should file for a patent.”
“And your delivery system?” Ben asked.
Robert shook his head sadly. “Primitive—and dangerous. I had to deploy it by hand. I left the library, got around to the south stairwell without being seen, and ran up five flights. Then I backed down from the landing between the second and third floors, squeezing the payload out of the plastic bag. I slimed six steps plus the wall—a believable pattern.”
“So . . . how did it smell?” Jill whispered, leaning forward. It was like she was watching a horror movie—the part that’s so awful you can’t look away.
“Perfect,” Robert said, then added proudly, “I almost puked myself!”
Ben held up a hand, like a student in class. “But what I don’t get is, why did you tell us to wait eight minutes—exactly?”
“Ah—this is the good part, and also the part that reveals how close I am to being truly crazy. Because I notice things, and I always remember everything I notice. You know how I stay after school to get help and do extra work and stuff? Well, Mrs. Hinman has a daughter in day care, and Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, she leaves school at exactly ten after three. So I knew when she’d be walking down the south stairwell, and I knew that on her way past the office she would tell Mrs. Hendon about the mess, and I knew Mrs. Hendon or the principal would call Lyman and order him to get it cleaned up right away before smelly stuff got tracked around. I timed all that out and calculated that by 3:18, Lyman would be busy for at least twenty minutes—and he’d be on the exact opposite side of the school from where you guys were.”
Ben nodded, and he raised his soda glass in a toast. “Very cool—the Stealth Bomber delivers!”
“Anybody could’ve done it,” Robert said modestly.
Jill laughed. “You don’t believe that for one second, and neither do we. You’re the right kid in the right place at the right time.”
Ben looked at the large neon clock on the wall behind the counter. “Speaking of time, I’ve got to go, so here’s where we are. First of all, Robert, Lyman knows we disarmed that door—which means he’s probably pretty sure we’ve been inside again.”
He explained about the note in his locker and the tape, and that Lyman had probably figured out they had Mr. Keane’s keys.
Robert gave a low whistle. “This guy’s not messing around.”
“You’ve got that right,” said Ben. “From now on, we should assume that he’s got some way of checking every door, and he might try to set up cameras or listening devices too. I think he’s getting desperate to know what we’re doing. Oh, and nobody leaves anything important in any locker at any time, okay? Now, about the new room, we’re going to have to get back in under those stairs again, but I’m not sure when it’ll be safe. Robert, you want to think about that some more?”
“Sure thing.”
“And do you have an e-mail account, some place I can send you the photos I took in there today? It ought to be an e-mail account your family doesn’t use.”
As they exchanged information, Jill said, “Maybe there’s a place at school where we can leave notes for Robert—no, that’s silly. If we’re careful, we can always talk a little in math or social studies or chorus. It’s not like Lyman’s got eyes everywhere.”
“Okay then,” said Ben. “Everybody has to study today’s photos, Robert’s going to think about another diversion plan, and we’re all gonna be super careful where we leave any information. Anything else?”
They spent another few minutes counting out money for their food, and then walked outside. It was clouding up, and Ben could smell rain on the breeze from the east.
“See you tomorrow,” Robert said, then walked west on Oak Street.
Jill and Ben crossed Central and walked downhill on Water Street.
Jill smiled and said, “Robert’s amazing, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, really,” agreed Ben. “I’m glad he’s on our side.”
When they came to where Madison Street split off to the left, Jill said, “Meet you tomorrow at seven thirty, okay? Unless it’s raining hard. I’ve got to take my cello to school for orchestra, so my mom might drive me.”
“I’ll be there, rain or shine. See you.”
Ben walked on, thinking about Wednesday morning . . . and then remembered something—he’d meant to buy some cinnamon rolls to take home for tomorrow’s breakfast. He turned around and started walking back up to Buckle’s.
Glancing to his right down Madison Street, he saw Jill jogging, already half a block away. When he’d walked uphill another twenty feet or so, he reached the point where he could see the diner.
A man wearing a gray hoodie and a Patriots cap came out the door, looked both ways, then went around the corner onto Oak Street and climbed into a pickup. As the truck pulled out and turned left, Ben got a good look at the pickup and a clear view of the driver’s profile.
And that’s when he knew for sure—it was Lyman.
Ben spun around and hurried downhill again, his mind racing.
Had Lyman been there the whole time? But . . . how? He couldn’t have been sitting close to them . . . could he?
Right away, Ben stitched together some possibilities. If Lyman had followed Jill and him when they left school, then he would have seen them meet up with Robert on Central Street and go into the diner. So then . . . Lyman could have just pulled up the hood on his sweatshirt, slouched through the door, slid into a booth near the front, and opened up a newspaper. It had to be something like that . . . very smooth.
His logical appraisal of Lyman’s skills didn’t keep Ben from feeling slightly sick—almost light-headed. This was bad. And if Lyman had overheard even a little of what they’d talked about . . .
And the worst part? This could have been avoided.
Instantly, Ben made that thought more specific: I could have avoided this—and I didn’t.
Instead of going with his first instinct and contacting Robert only by e-mail and phone, it was his bright idea of getting everyone together this afternoon at Buckle’s. It had sounded like fun.
Fun—hah!
Once again, he had underestimated the enemy. And because of his bad leadership, Lyman had just shot down their Stealth Bomber. They’d lost an important tactical advantage, and their control of the high ground was now much less secure.
The marina came into view, and a crowd of seagulls suddenly took flight from the beach, their sharp cries cutting the air. It sounded like they were mocking him, screaming to the world, Pratt’s an idiot! Pratt’s an idiot!
Because that was exactly how he felt.