CHAPTER 15
Getting out of Robert’s house had been as simple as waking up, pulling on black sweatshirts, grabbing their backpacks, and tiptoeing right down the steps from the sunroom.
There were no traffic sounds—not on Central Street, not even on Salem Street. Ben could tell it was low tide by the smell of the onshore breeze—sort of a rich, muddy taste in the air.
“This way,” Robert said, and Ben followed. Behind his house an alleyway cut through to Oak Street.
Instead of taking Robert’s normal route to school, they crossed Central onto Church Street, which took them past the Congregational Church.
Ben wondered about Robert’s parents buried there in the graveyard. What was it like for him, to know his mom and dad were right there . . . and did he remember them clearly, from back when he was so little? Ben pushed all that out of his head and concentrated on staying in the shadows.
Four minutes later they were in the trees on the school grounds, coming at the building from the south. Robert whispered, “Let’s take this really slow, check the place out before we try to get in. You have an idea which door we should use?”
Ben had thought about that. “I think the northeast door is still the best.”
“No way,” Robert said. “Lyman knows you’ve used that door. If he had any spare sensors, he’d rearm that one for sure. That’s only logical.”
“Yeah,” Ben said, “but it’s also logical that he’s guessed I’m thinking like that, so he won’t bother arming that door. He’d put any spare sensors somewhere else.”
“Yeah . . . ,” Robert said slowly, “but if he thinks you can figure that out, then he’s just as likely to put one there anyway.”
“Exactly,” Ben said, “which means it’s still pretty much a fifty-fifty chance. But I know which key works in that door, and it’s the entrance closest to the north staircase. So it’s still the best choice.”
They worked their way around to the north side of the school. There was no one on the harbor path at five minutes before three in the morning, so they ran across the last twenty yards of open ground, opened the door, and ducked inside. Ben went in after Robert and held the door open two seconds, just long enough to use his light and check for a sensor on the jamb . . . all clear.
As planned, once inside the door, they stood there in the red glow of the exit sign for a full three minutes, ready to blast back outside and take off in different directions at any hint of danger.
Ben strained, listening for even the suggestion of a threat. Nothing—only the muffled sound of waves against the seawall.
“Let’s go,” Robert whispered.
Ben nodded and followed him down the hallway, then left toward the north stairwell. Ben hadn’t gone fifteen steps when the phone in his pocket made two sharp vibrations, an incoming text. He jerked to a stop, and so did Robert—he’d heard it too.
“Is it Lyman?” he whispered. It was the first time Ben had ever seen Robert look really scared.
Ben took a hurried look at the screen, then breathed out slowly. “It’s okay—wait here.” He went back to the door and opened it for Jill.
“I didn’t think you were coming!” he whispered, then immediately felt like he’d put too much emotion in his voice.
Jill smiled slightly. “I’ve been watching for the junior burglar brigade since two thirty.”
As they walked, he asked, “How’d you get out?”
“The door in our kitchen opens into the back stairs, and there’s a door to the alley from the basement utilities room. Pretty simple. Then it was just keeping clear of cop cars and homeless people.”
When Robert saw Jill, he grinned. “Hey, glad you came . . . and I’m sorry I was a jerk earlier, but—”
“I know, I know,” said Jill, “you really, really, really want to see that space again. So let’s get to it.”
Two minutes later they were under the north stairwell stairs, and Robert was walking around with his flashlight, moving from item to item, glancing at a small notebook he’d pulled from his back pocket. “Listen,” he said, writing something with his pencil, “don’t touch anything, okay? The integrity of the site is really important.”
Ben was fine with standing by the doorway, and Jill was more than happy to stay close to the exit. There was the same smell of rats, and there were fresh droppings underfoot. Shining his light, Ben saw that the spiders had been busy too, but there were far fewer cobwebs than the first time he and Jill had walked through.
When Robert went into the small adjoining room, he called out in an excited whisper, “Hey—you gotta see this!”
They went in, and Robert was crouched down beside the pile of iron scraps Ben had spotted during their first visit. “See?” he said, moving a piece of iron with the tip of his pen. “See how this piece looks pinched here, and sharp along the edge? It was cut using that hammer and some kind of iron or steel chisel. These all came off of slaves!” Pointing, he said, “That’s an ankle shackle, and these were like handcuffs. I’m sure of it. That iron bed in the next room? I looked on the Internet, and beds like that weren’t made until about 1820. And those tally marks by the door? Those stand for people! Pretty amazing, huh? This was a hideout, part of the Underground Railroad! I’m sure about this!”
“Sixty-seven,” Jill whispered. “That’s how many marks are by the door! This is . . . this is . . . historic!”
“And it would have been the perfect cover,” said Ben, “a school! No one would have ever guessed! And right by the water? A runaway slave could just drop into a rowboat, and be on a ship for Canada in no time.”
“You know what this means, don’t you?” said Robert, his eyes bright and wide. “This means the school stays—instant national landmark, guaranteed! No kidding, this is huge! Here, Ben, get some close-up pictures of these.” He pulled a wooden ruler from his backpack. “And get this in the pictures to show the scale, okay?”
Ben took out his camera and snapped half a dozen shots.
“And get the iron block, too,” Robert said. “That was the—”
“Shhh!” Jill hissed, holding up her hand. “Did you hear that?”
Everyone stopped breathing.
And then everyone heard a door slam . . . and then the sound of footsteps . . . heavy steps with half a second between each one . . . the kind of footsteps a grown man would take . . . a tall man.
Jill and Ben had the same exact thought. Both of them dashed back to the heavy triangular door—they’d left it standing open a couple of feet. Jill pulled the door shut gently, and Ben latched the iron hook. Robert stood frozen in the middle of the space below the landing, his face the same color it had been when Ben pulled him to safety two weeks ago. “This is nuts!” he whispered. “Janitors don’t come to school at three in the morning!”
“No,” Ben hissed, “but industrial spies do! Lights off!”
They heard the heavy footsteps on the wooden floor. Ben could tell that Lyman wasn’t hurrying. He was working his way along the first-floor hallway. Trying to estimate the man’s location was hard, but it sounded like he might be walking in the front hall, going past the office . . . yes. And now past room 12, headed for the library. The footsteps stopped every so often . . . right—Lyman was turning doorknobs, probably shining a flashlight into every room, making sure things were locked up tight.
Ben realized that this was proof that Lyman did not have an alarm system in place. He was doing old-fashioned surveillance, low-tech, boots-on-the-ground legwork. Which meant that he wasn’t searching for them, he was just making his rounds, like a cop walking around the block.