They walked the rest of the way to Jefferson Street in silence.
When they got to the door of her building, Jill said, “If you want to come in for a while, you can. Until your dad gets home.”
Ben put his hands in his pockets, and his right hand closed around the gold coin. “No, I’m okay. It’s not like Lyman’s a maniac or something. Just a skinny industrial spy. And we know more about him than he knows about us.” Ben was quiet a few seconds. “Is there any way he could tap into my e-mail?”
She shook her head. “Not if your firewall’s on.”
“Good. ’Cause I won’t be calling you from the boat—unless we work out something that we want him to hear. But . . . we don’t really know yet if he’s listening—I mean, we really don’t know much of anything right now.” Ben shook his head. “Maybe we’re making way too much out of all this stuff.” Another few moments of silence, and then he spoke more slowly. “But I don’t think so. If there was even a tiny possibility that something could stop this deal, that would be a nightmare for the Glennley company—it’d cost them millions, probably cause huge lawsuits, all kinds of trouble. So if there’s any chance something could wreck it, they’d have to investigate. Even if it’s just a couple of kids poking around.”
“Well, I think we’re onto something big here,” said Jill, a grim smile on her face. “And we’re not just a couple of nosy kids, either. Because we’re not in this thing alone, not by a long shot.”
“Yeah,” Ben said with a smirk, “there’s the two of us, the three dead kids, the dead janitor, and the dead sea captain—quite a team.”
“Be serious, Ben.”
“Oh, I am—really. I’m being very serious. But you have to admit, this is completely strange. And we’re just barely getting started.”
Jill shifted gears, thinking ahead. “So, be sure to e-mail me the text from that copper plate this weekend, okay?”
“Yup. And I expect you to have all five of those clues completely decoded by Monday morning.”
“Very funny.” Jill paused a moment, then looked Ben in the eye. “And we’re not telling anybody about this, right?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “At this moment, there are exactly two Keepers of the School—you and me.”
“That’s right,” said Jill. “‘We the children.’”
CHAPTER 13
Clean Start
It was one fifteen on Saturday afternoon, and Ben was sorry he hadn’t invited Jill to come watch him race. The conditions were perfect—a brisk offshore breeze blowing from the west, a mix of clouds and sun, a light chop to the water, and almost no swell.
Twenty-four kids had signed up to race, but since a lot of them didn’t own their own boats, there would be two races with twelve boats each. Ben was glad to see his name on the list for the first race. But Robert Gerritt was in the first race too, so there was no way to avoid a direct showdown today. Among the intermediate sailors he and Robert had the most experience, and last season’s race tally had ended in a draw—seven first-place finishes for each of them. And seven second-place finishes.
They were racing in Optimists today, which was fine with Ben. Some other local clubs had their intermediate sailors race in 420s, which needed a crew of two. Ben liked the stubby little dinghy because it had a crew of one—him.
The club owned ten Optimists, and like the other the kids who didn’t have boats of their own, Ben pulled a number from a bag for his boat assignment. He drew number nine, one of the newer ones, so its hull still had a smooth factory finish on it—and smoother meant faster. Sweet.
At the gear inspection on the beach, Ben kept busy with his own preparations, and he was glad Robert was about thirty yards away. He had his own boat this year, a brand-new one, and he’d made a point of telling Ben all about it. But as he worked, Ben couldn’t avoid noticing Robert’s boat. It was the only boat on the beach with the big Olympic-size letters and numbers on its sail—USA 222.
Since the water was just forty-three degrees, the race adviser walked around and double-checked each boat and also made sure that each sailor had warm, waterproof clothes. And even if you had aced the swimming test, a bright orange life vest was mandatory.
Ben tied down each of the three air bags in his boat and then tightened the hiking straps, the broad nylon bands he’d have to hook his feet under when he leaned out over the edge of the boat—and by the looks of the whitecaps on the waves out there, there’d be plenty of that today. Even though the wind felt chilly and it was beginning to cloud up, his new dry suit kept him so warm that he had to unzip his jacket. But it would feel a lot different out on open water. Still, he felt like he was ready for anything, especially since his dad had surprised him at breakfast today with some new insulated gloves.
As he pulled on the halyard line to raise the sail, he glanced up the beach toward the clubhouse. He spotted his dad’s red windbreaker right away, up on the deck outside the dining room. And then he saw his mom, too—except she was out near the end of the pier.
He felt a stab of disappointment. Last summer they had watched every race together. He snapped his eyes back to the mast and gave a sharp yank on the halyard, then fastened the line. And as he did the final tuning of the sail, he pushed everything else out of his mind. It was race time.
Today’s course was simple, and Ben fixed it in his mind as the race adviser helped him push his boat off from the beach and fasten his tiller in place.
There were just two markers out there, and they were only about a quarter mile apart. After crossing the start line at the southern buoy, he’d have to sail to the northern marker, turn his boat around into the wind, scoot back and go around the southern marker, make one more run up to the northern buoy, and sail round it a second time to reach the finish line.
The race officers were watching and scoring the race today from two motorboats, one near the start line and the other near the finish. Some of the spectators were out on the water in their own boats, well outside the course, but still a lot closer to the action than the parents and friends watching through binoculars from the shore. Like his parents.
As his little boat slapped and skipped its way toward the starting buoy, Ben felt a sudden surge of happiness. He loved being out on the water. And he also loved that his mom and dad were watching him, both of them. So what if they weren’t standing side by side? This was the first thing they’d done together since they separated. Well, sort of together. Which was tons better than not together at all.
But he couldn’t let himself think anything about that. Or hope anything. He pushed it all out of his mind again, because right now, he had to make a clean start.
He yanked in on the sheet, the rope attached to the boom along the bottom of the sail, pulling in until it almost touched his chin. His boat shot forward into a gap just to the right of the southern buoy. The wind made the boat tip up, so Ben dug his toes down under the hiking straps and leaned way out over the edge. Freezing spray stung his eyes and water ran down his neck, but the hull leveled off and sliced a sharp line through the waves—and that was all that mattered.
Ben was on a port tack, and sure enough, someone screamed, “Starboard!” demanding the right of way. He adjusted his tiller and grazed past the other boat with about a foot to spare. Close call, but it was always like that at the start of a race, especially in a strong breeze.
He took a quick look over his shoulder at the race officer’s motorboat to see which flags were up—the Optimist class flag, plus the Preparatory flag, a white rectangle on a blue field. Which meant there were about four minutes until the start. The next long blast from the air horn would be at the one-minute mark, when the Prep flag was lowered.
Crunch time. Ben knew this race would probably be won or lost right at the starting line. He had to be crossing the line just after the Optimist flag was dropped and the air horn sounded the start. Cross that line one second too soon, and he’d have to take a penalty turn, which meant he’d play catch-up for the rest of t
he race.
As he battled the eleven other kids who were trying to do exactly the same thing on the same small patch of water, Ben felt like he was in a bumper car arena—except flapping sails kept blocking his vision, and a collision would mean a penalty.
Ben gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering, let the sheet run loose, and jammed the tiller stick hard to starboard, which whipped the boat into a quick turn, more than ninety degrees. He scrambled to the other side of the boat, then ducked as the boom went zipping by above his head. He took up the slack on the sheet rope, and now he was on a starboard tack. He eyed the little flag at the top of his mast to check the wind direction again, then looked under the sail to see if Robert was anywhere nearby. Sure enough, boat number 222 was also running on a starboard tack, just to leeward and about three lengths ahead.
Robert must have spotted him, too, because he yelled out across the water. “Hey, Pratt—you might as well head for shore. I own this course!”
Talk like that could have earned Robert a penalty, but Ben ignored it. He watched his trim, watched his course, watched the round red buoy, watched the boats milling around him on all sides. Everybody was trying to be in the right spot at the right moment for that flying start across the line.
He grabbed the scoop bailer and tossed a few quick quarts of water overboard, just as a big wave sloshed another blast across the bow.
His shoes were full of seawater and his feet felt like Popsicles. But if freezing slosh was the price he had to pay for a great wind, bring it on—this was sailing!
Ben let his boat slip a little downwind, then swung it around again and beat toward shore, looped back again toward the starting buoy, and then pulled it around once more, now sailing away from the starting line.
Rheeeeehp! At the long blast from the air horn, Ben punched the waterproof timer strapped to his wrist, then looked astern and got a fix on that beautiful big red buoy. His timer was counting down from sixty, and when it reached thirty seconds, he’d swing the boat around one last time and shoot northward again, reaching the line just as the Optimist flag dropped—at least that was the plan. Gusts and lulls, boats windward and alee, right-of-way conflicts—so many things could mess up his start. Not to mention Robert.
Thirty-two, thirty-one, thirty . . . “Ready about!”
He jammed his tiller, released the sheet, and executed a perfect turn. Now he had a clear shot, straight to the line, and just to leeward of the first mark. He gave the sheet a tug, adjusted the tiller, and zipped toward the start.
“Clear, clear! Number nine, keep clear there!”
Ben ducked his head to see beneath his sail. Number 222—Robert! He had gotten his boat just barely even with Ben’s. And since Robert had the leeward boat, under Rule Eleven, Ben had to give way in order to keep clear. A flash of anger made him wish he could draw a sword from his belt and shout, I’ll see your blood for this, you scurvy cur! But this was civilized sailing, so Ben pushed his tiller away, barely a twitch, knocking his boat a few degrees off its perfect course.
And the moment he did that, Robert edged his boat up close underneath him again and yelled the same thing.
“Clear! Keep clear!”
Again Ben had to give way, steering that much closer toward the marker buoy. He knew exactly what Robert was doing—two more adjustments like that, and Ben would be forced to either come about or sail to the left side of the buoy—a disqualified start.
“Clear! Keep clear!” Robert bellowed, edging his boat up so close underneath him that if Ben had let out his sail, the boom would have whacked Robert on the back—which he was very tempted to do.
Ben gave way again, but this time he pushed his tiller far enough so that a big gulp of wind spilled off his sail, and instantly Robert’s boat slipped ahead by a full length. Then Ben pulled his tiller back the other way, cinched up his sheet, and five seconds later he was the one in the leeward spot, just underneath Robert’s sail.
“Keep clear!” Ben yelled. “Rule Eleven—keep clear!” And now it was Robert who had to angle off his course as their boats plunged and bucked toward the starting line, side by side.
The timer on Ben’s wrist beeped just as the air horn wailed—Rheeeeehp!—and they both squeaked past the buoy, two fair starts, with Robert barely a half length ahead. A blast of spray from the other boat’s bow hit Ben in the face, but he shook it off with a grin. This was a race!
His hands were already stiff and cramped from the cold, and he was glad this first run toward the northern marker was a simple reach. With the wind steady and mostly from behind, he felt it was safe to fasten the rope in a cleat so he could let go and flex his aching fingers. But moments later the wind began gusting, forcing him to make constant adjustments to keep the boat sailing at its best speed. When he wasn’t leaning backward out over the water to keep the boat from heeling over too far, he used one hand to bail out another gallon or so of water, always trying to keep the tiller steady so the sail would stay at the perfect angle to the wind.
Even though Robert was doing all these same things, Ben still kept directly behind him as they neared the northern mark. He was already incredibly alert, but seeing that bobbing red buoy ahead sent a jolt of electricity through him. No cramped fingers, no frozen feet, no slashing spray, nothing mattered now except the tiller, the sail, the wind, and the boat, thumping and skittering ahead. Because this next turn was crucial.
Robert thought he was SuperSailor, but out on the water Ben knew he had one weakness—he acted like the marker buoys were made of kryptonite. Robert had bumped into two marks early last season, and each time the penalty had cost him a victory. Ever since, he had been taking his marker turns extra wide, sometimes by as much as ten feet or more. And now SuperSailor was going to get a surprise.
As they came level with the red buoy, sure enough, Robert shot a good twelve feet past it before starting his turn. Ben gritted his teeth in concentration, and the moment the nose of his boat passed the buoy, he came about, swinging right around the buoy in one smooth motion. Now he was sailing south toward the next marker, and Robert was two full lengths behind him.
Ben grinned into the wind and wanted to yell something like, Hey, Bigmouth, I thought you “owned” this course! But that would have made him a bigmouth. So he just smiled and shivered and sailed for all he was worth. Because he knew Robert too well. The guy wasn’t going to just lay in behind and follow him to the finish line. No, he was going to push himself and his brand-new boat and his Olympic racing sails to the limit, and take every risk he needed to in order to win. So Ben kept glancing back.
And sure enough, Robert had his sheet pulled in very tight and low, and was hanging so far back over the side of his boat that his head was almost brushing the waves. So Ben did the same, but it was tricky business. This northern part of the course was farther from shore, and there was a lot more wind out here, plus the gusts were stronger. One good microburst could smack the sail right into the water and flip the whole boat. But if Robert could manage it, then he could too.
The spray was thick and constant now, and the shallow foot well was filling up fast with water. Rats! Ben let the sail out a little and jammed the sheet into the cleat. The boat instantly slowed down. He grabbed the scoop, leaned forward, and began bailing like crazy. It was cold and risky work, and it was definitely going to cost him some time, but at eight pounds a gallon, water on board was no good. At least he knew that Robert would have to do the same thing at some point, so he could still keep his lead. If he was careful.
As he leaned forward to bail one last big scoop of water, a tremendous gust of wind hit the boat. Ben dropped the bailer, pulled the sheet loose, and tillered into the wind, all at the same time. Even so, his boat heeled so far over that a good ten gallons of seawater rushed in across his feet. But he kept his head, righted the boat, and began bailing again furiously to get his hull up out of the waves. He expected Robert to go flashing past him any second. But he didn’t.
Ben glanced over hi
s shoulder and . . . no sail. Thirty feet behind him he saw a white hull, its center-board up in the air, completely capsized. Hah!
But thoughts of victory vanished instantly. He couldn’t spot an orange life vest . . . He didn’t see Robert.
Reversing course in a flash, Ben reached the turtled boat in fifteen seconds. He let go of his sheet, then yanked the mast ropes loose so his sail dropped to the deck.
“Robert!” he shouted. Nothing—except terrible possibilities. Ben looked around for help. The finish-line motorboat was speeding toward him, but it was still at least a minute away, much too long.
Ben kicked off his shoes, then ripped off his life vest. He took a deep breath and dove into the freezing water next to Robert’s boat. It was like plunging into a silent slow-motion movie, and he saw Robert right away, arms and legs out like a snow angel. Unconscious! And trapped! The buoyant life vest held him pinned up against the hollow underside of the boat.
Even though his lungs were burning for a breath of air, Ben grabbed the front of Robert’s vest with both hands. Using every last bit of strength, he pulled down hard, then quickly to the side. Once clear of the hull, Robert popped to the surface like a cork.
Back up in the noise of the wind and waves, Ben sucked in a gasp of air, and got some seawater, too. Coughing, he managed to flip Robert over so his face was above water. And that’s when he saw the cut on Robert’s forehead, just above one eye. He grabbed the collar of Robert’s life jacket and used his other arm to pull toward his sailboat, which had drifted about fifteen feet away. But before he had taken three strokes, strong hands pulled Robert away from him, up and over the side of the motorboat.
And by the time Ben had been hoisted aboard, someone had already gotten the bulky vest off Robert and a woman was bending over him, starting CPR.
Clear the airway . . .
We the Children Page 7