Chapter 14

“Psst!”

“Who’s there?!” I spin around, alarmed.

“Psssstttt!”

I part the bushes and climb over tree stumps, trying to follow the voice, heading deeper into the woods.

“Pssttt!” The voice is insistent now.

“Who is it?” I say.

“Ned!” the voice whispers hoarsely.

What the . . . ! Could it be? “Pops?”

I step into a clearing and, sure enough, there’s Pops sitting on a rock. He’s wearing what looks like some kind of old-guy Boy Scout uniform: beige shorts, a beige button-down shirt, black socks, and white sneakers. He holds a kerosene lantern and squints into the darkness.

“Pops? What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t you get my pigeon?” Pops responds, standing too fast and promptly falling back down onto the rock. “Help me up.”

I rush to grab his arm and pull him to his feet.

“Well?” he demands.

“Well what?” I say. “You mean all those messages tied to Sal’s foot about saving the world?”

“Who’s Sal?”

“That’s what I named your pigeon. After your friend from the army.”

“Well, I guess it’s better than calling him Pigeon,” Pops remarks.

We stand in silence for a few moments.

“Enough of your chatter.” He throws his hands up in exasperation. Next, he makes a creaky three-sixty circle, holding his lamp up high and peering out into the woods.

“We have to be careful so nobody hears us,” he says secretively.

“Pops, what’s going on?”

A tree branch cracks.

“Get down,” Pops hisses, yanking me into a crouch position next to him.

“Pops, your lantern is pretty bright,” I whisper.

“You’re right.” He drags me toward one of the docked canoes, crouches down behind it, and yanks me down with him. “Pretend you’re an owl. Hoot, hoot,” he sings deep and low.

“But—”

“Do it!”

“Hoot, hoot, hoot,” we both hoot.

“Pops, this is dumb,” I interrupt. “We don’t sound like owls. We sound like weird people pretending to be owls.”

“Shh,” he murmurs. “It’s a stealth technique I learned in the Secret Service.”

A familiar voice rings out: “Noah!”

“Over here.” I straighten up.

“Get down, get down!” Pops yanks at the waist of my shorts, pulling them below my hips.

“Hey!” I grab for my waistband.

“Get down,” Pops insists. “Hoot, hoot!”

“Oh, no,” the voice with a clipped British accent says. “It can’t be.”

“Over here!” I try to disentangle myself from Pops’s steely grip. Man, what do they feed him at Shady Pines? “Stop it, Pops.” I struggle. “It’s just Simon. You met him at your birthday party. He’s the kid from London.”

“Is he in on it too?! Drat! Hoot, hoot, hoot.”

“Simon!” I yell.

The beam from Simon’s flashlight bounces toward us.

“Noah? Is that you?”

“Yeah . . . Let go, Pops,” I grunt, trying to wriggle away. “It’s okay. We can get up.”

“Mr. Pops?” Simon gapes. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here,” he says, “to save the world. What else?”