The Janitor's Boy

by Andrew Clements

  Mr. Ackerby said, “Hello, Jack. I wanted you to know that I’ve been checking up on you. I got a good report from Mrs. Stokely. She says you’re a hard worker, and I’m glad to hear it.”

  Jack nodded and tried to look pleasant. Mr. Ackerby’s compliment was sort of like having the jailer praise you for being a wonderful little prisoner.

  Mr. Ackerby went on. “I also came down here to find John. I feel pretty stupid not realizing right away that you were his son. I worked with him on our move all summer long. We’d come up against a problem, and he’d figure out a way to solve it, every time. He certainly has this building in great shape. A big place this old doesn’t keep working all by itself, that’s for sure.”

  Jack didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded and said, “Yeah.”

  Mr. Ackerby was used to having kids feel uncomfortable when he talked to them—it was usually what he wanted. But he’d snooped around, and he had learned that Jack Rankin was a pretty good kid. Good student, honest, and rarely in trouble. Every teacher Mr. Ackerby had approached seemed quite surprised about the incident in music class.

  So Mr. Ackerby was trying to give their relationship a friendlier tone. He asked, “Where are you working today?”

  Jack said, “I have to start in the auditorium,” and to himself Jack added, —thanks to you and your slave labor program.

  Mr. Ackerby nodded, his eyebrows lifting. “Another big job. Well, I won’t keep you. I’m going to wait here another few minutes to see if I can catch your dad. And, Jack . . . what with the three-day weekend coming up and all, if you want to cut out at three today instead of three thirty, that’ll be okay.”

  “Um . . . yeah. Thanks.” Pretty chintzy gift, but it was better than nothing.

  Jack left the workshop with a new impression of Mr. Ackerby.

  The guy seemed almost human.

  Mr. Ackerby was the second person who had said that cleaning gum in the auditorium would be a big job. When Jack told Lou where he would be working, Lou whistled and then said, “Well, nobody’s going to accuse your daddy of giving you special treatment, that’s for sure.”

  So it would be a big job. So what? The bigger the better. He was Jack, the Fearless One, the Climber of Towers, the Keeper of the Keys.

  Ready to do battle, Jack pulled open the center door at the back of the auditorium.

  His heart sank.

  He stood there, one medium-size boy armed with a red bucket and a putty knife.

  Eight hundred seventy-five folding seats stared at him in silent defiance.

  The place was vast. The floor sloped sharply downward toward a wide stage. The dusty gold curtain was two-thirds open, and the area backstage was completely dark.

  The pale green walls needed fresh paint. High windows along the east wall let in the gloomy afternoon light. It looked to Jack like more snow was on the way.

  The theater-style seats swung in a graceful arc, with an aisle on the east and west, and one up the center. The backs and seat bottoms were covered with fake brown leather fastened on by brass upholstery tacks. And the wooden underside of almost every seat was pockmarked with wads of gum.

  With a deep sigh Jack set down his bucket and began removing gum from the bottom of seat number 1 in row W. The scraping and rubbing sounds that had seemed so loud in the library were lost in the huge room, as if they floated off into outer space.

  Jack got into the rhythm of the work. Seat by seat he moved across the wide back row, turned the corner, and headed back. He would work on a seat until it was done, straighten up, push the bucket forward with his foot, then bend down and start the next one. He scraped carefully, trying not to scratch the dark plywood, and he wasn’t satisfied until a seat bottom was completely clean.

  By the time he had cleaned two rows, it was getting so dark that sometimes Jack couldn’t tell if he had got all the gum off by scraping, or if he should use the OFFIT to finish the job. He put his putty knife in the bucket, went to the center aisle, and walked downhill toward the stage. Time to turn on some lights.

  Vaulting easily up onto the front of the stage, Jack walked behind the curtain toward the right, his footsteps hollow on the wooden floor. He had worked on the lighting crew for a play at his old school, and he knew what to look for. Somewhere there had to be a switch labeled HOUSE LIGHTS. He headed for the right-hand wall.

  Backstage was a mess. Music stands and folding chairs were scattered about, and a set of dented kettledrums was half covered by large cardboard panels. They were pieces of scenery that had been painted to look like big blocks of stone along the top of a castle wall. A rack that used to hold costumes had tipped over, and wire coat hangers lay in a tangled heap.

  Jack’s eyes adjusted to the darkness of the stage, and he could see there was no light panel near the right-hand door. He did an about-face and headed left, walking along the back wall of the stage area.

  Near the middle of the stage Jack tripped on something and went sprawling onto the floor. Rubbing his elbow, he stood up and looked back to see what had caused the fall. It was the silver blade of a long sword, half hidden by a black curtain covering the rear wall of the stage. He bent over, pulled the whole thing out from behind the curtain, and straightened up to get a good look at it.

  It was just a stage prop, made of wood. But it had been well made and carefully painted. It was a knight’s broadsword, with a wide hilt and a long handle, made to be swung using both hands. It was almost four feet long.

  Jack swung it, and it made a pleasant whirring sound as he carved the air. It felt good in his hands. Holding it out in front of him at eye level, he lunged toward the curtain, pretending to jab the Evil Knight.

  A clank came from behind the curtain—maybe armor or something. There was a break in the curtain about six feet to his left, so Jack walked over, grabbed it, and held on as he stepped about ten paces back toward the right.

  Just as Jack suspected, more stuff lay hidden behind the curtain. He saw a long jousting lance made from a bamboo pole, and a shield that had once been a metal trash can lid. It had been spray-painted white and then decorated with a red lion wearing a gold crown.

  But that wasn’t the best thing. The best thing had nothing to do with knights and armor and swordplay. The best thing was very simple.

  It was a door.

  On the door there was just one word.

  ACCESS.

  Jack put down his wooden sword and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a key. The light was too dim to see the number, but he could feel there were only two numerals stamped on it. It had to be key 73.

  He pushed the key into the jagged keyhole, held his breath, and turned.

  Bingo.

  The door hinged on the left, and Jack pulled it open wide. Peering into the shadows, he saw a short landing just inside the door, and a set of metal stairs—nine steps down, maybe more. It was very dark in there.

  There was a light switch on the wall to the right of the landing, but when Jack flipped it, nothing happened.

  Suddenly aware of how his heart was pounding, Jack let himself off the hook. There was no hurry.

  Now that the door was found, he could take his time, gather some equipment, do a proper exploration. No need to go rushing down into . . . into that place.

  So he started to shut the door.

  And when he had the door almost shut, Jack noticed something strange.

  When a door is almost shut, there’s usually a flow of air—either in or out. The flow of air hitting Jack in the face was coming out of the tunnel.

  Nothing strange about that.

  It wasn’t the air itself that was odd. It was what the air was carrying.

  The air was carrying a smell.

  It was faint, so faint that Jack thought he must be imagining it—but it was a smell Jack knew very well. . . . Too well.

  It was the smell of watermelon bubble gum.

  Chapter 17

  One-WAy TicKet

  Jack sniffed the air coming out
of the steam tunnel again, carefully. Nothing now. But there really had been the barest hint before, in that first rush of upward air. Watermelon bubble gum. Jack was sure. Well, he was pretty sure.

  Gently, Jack closed the door. He pulled the black curtain to cover it again, tucking the wooden sword out of sight.

  Abandoning his search for the auditorium lights, he hurried across the stage, jumped down to the floor, and trotted up to where he had left his bucket. Jack looked up at the clock and saw it was already three forty-five. He had missed out on Mr. Ackerby’s offer to quit early. Maybe the offer would carry over to Tuesday?

  He ran silently through the halls. When he reached the door at the top of the workshop stairs, Jack paused to listen. If possible, he wanted to get in, borrow a few important items, and then get back to the auditorium without meeting anyone.

  He didn’t hear anything, so he opened the door and scooted down the stairs. He put his supplies away and then went over to his dad’s desk. He was betting there would be a flashlight in it somewhere, and he was right. In the top right drawer there was a small black Mag-Lite with the name of a plumbing supply company printed on its side in gold letters. Jack twisted the end and the light came on, bright and steady. Perfect.

  He tucked the light in his back pocket and went over to the workbench, trying to imagine what else he might need. He couldn’t really think of anything else, not for a quick first look. But when he saw a spool of nylon string, his mind flashed to the story in Huckleberry Finn, the part where Huck and Tom get lost in the caves. Jack grabbed the spool and stuffed it into the outer pocket of his backpack. Then he pulled out his old white Minnesota Vikings cap and put it on.

  He was all set to leave, was actually on the stairs, and then stopped. He needed to leave a note for his dad. It was Friday, and Jack was sure his dad would want to leave right at five.

  Rushing back to the desk, he scribbled the message and dashed back up to the landing, where he almost collided with Lou.

  Lou flattened up against the wall, exaggerating his close call. “Whoa, there. Where you off to in such a big hurry? Late bus already left. You about ran me down.”

  Jack said, “Sorry, Lou. I’m going to go and study for a while, maybe walk over to the library or something. Then I’m going to ride home with my dad. I left him a note.”

  Lou hurried down the stairs and grabbed the gray toolbox off the cluttered bench. “Your dad sent me to get the toolbox, and he said if you were still here, would you mind cleaning up the bench for him while you’re waiting? We’ve got a busted door he wants to get fixed before quittin’ time.” Lou was already back at the landing. “So I’ll just tell him I gave you the message, okay? If I don’t see you again, you have a good weekend, Jackie.”

  Jack stood on the landing. Looking down, he could see that the workbench was a wreck after a busy week. He used to love putting it all back in order when he came to visit his dad at work. Yeah, Jack thought, back when I was about six. First I’ve got to scrape junk off of ten thousand seats, and then I have to clean up his messes, too? No way.

  Jack stomped back down the steps, crumpled the first note he’d left, and tossed it into the trash. On a new piece of paper he scrawled,

  Dad—

  Couldn’t clean up the bench.

  I have some other stuff I’ve got to do.

  See you at five.

  Jack

  Jack made sure that no one saw him go back into the auditorium.

  Walking directly to the back of the stage, he left the wall curtain in place. No sense advertising that someone was here. He took out the spool of string, set his backpack and jacket on the floor beside the door, and turned on the flashlight. Pulling both keys from his pocket, he chose the right one and opened the door, just a crack.

  He wanted to check himself. Had he just imagined that watermelon smell?

  Jack sniffed the airflow. He shook his head and sniffed again.

  Nothing, at least nothing he could recognize. Mostly it smelled like his basement at home, but not as damp.

  Stepping inside the doorway onto the metal landing, Jack shone the light down the steps. Five steps ran down to a short corridor maybe fifteen feet long and only about three feet wide. The floor of the corridor was concrete, and the walls were terra-cotta building bricks, the hollow kind. The ceiling was also concrete, a little less than six feet high. At the end of the corridor there was an opening, no door, just an opening, rectangular and dark.

  Jack wanted to leave the access door open, but it swung outward too far on its own. He tried putting his backpack against it, but then his backpack made a bulge in the velvet curtain that hid the door. Shining the flashlight around to see if there was something else to prop it with, he saw the wooden sword. He bent down and picked it up. Smiling, he decided to take it with him. After all, most of the really great explorers had swords, didn’t they?

  Sword in hand, he stepped back inside onto the landing and bravely pulled the door shut behind him.

  Instantly he wished he hadn’t, and he reached for the knob on the inside of the door. It wouldn’t turn. Shining the light, Jack saw why. It was a double-keyed door. It needed a key to open it from the inside, too.

  Reaching into his pocket, Jack froze. He only had one key. He didn’t even bother getting it out to shine the light on it. He knew it was the wrong one, the tower key.

  He needed the other key.

  It was close, only about six inches away.

  But Jack couldn’t reach it.

  Key number 73 was sticking from the lock on the outside of the door.

  Chapter 18

  UnDeRGRounD

  Jack had known panic before.

  When he was four, he had wandered away from his mom at a big department store in Minneapolis, lost for half an hour.

  That was panic.

  There was the time just last summer in the deep end of the municipal swimming pool. He had come up for a big gulp of air and got water instead.

  That was panic too.

  But this, this was different.

  It was as if Jack had discovered a new land.

  Off in the distance there were sheer mountains of panic poking into a dark and twisted sky. Frantic waterfalls and desperate rivers of liquid panic swept toward him with a churning noise that blotted out all thought. Standing there on the landing, flashlight in one hand, wooden sword in the other, Jack saw before him an entire unexplored continent of pure, numbing terror.

  His heart pounded.

  His hands shook.

  And his mind raced.

  It was Friday afternoon before a three-day weekend.

  The school was emptying fast.

  He was trapped.

  He was cold.

  And no one knew where he was. But Jack could change that. He could kick on the door. He could scream and pound and yell for help.

  And Jack did, for two full minutes.

  Then he stopped, his ears ringing, his hands hurting, breathing hard.

  And he listened. Nothing.

  The sound had been muffled by soft velvet curtains. And the little noise that made it across the stage had been swallowed whole by the yawning auditorium.

  Jack felt completely alone—but only for about twenty seconds.

  Small scritching sounds came from the darkness behind him.

  Wheeling around, the beam of his flashlight caught the flick of a long pink tail as it disappeared through the low doorway.

  Rats.

  An involuntary shiver shook him. All of a sudden the wooden sword Jack gripped in his hand didn’t seem silly at all.

  Did the beam of light flicker? Hard to say how long the flashlight had been lying in his dad’s desk. Batteries don’t last forever.

  Then Jack remembered.

  Maybe there was someone else in the tunnels, someone other than him and the rats. Someone who liked watermelon gum.

  And that someone must know how to get in and out.

  Maybe there would even be a way to g
et out without being caught, without having to deal with Mr. Ackerby again.

  Jack’s Vikings cap had fallen off while he was pounding on the door. He picked it up, put it on. Then he walked down the steps, along the short corridor, and ducked through the opening into the main tunnel.

  The tunnel was about five feet wide, its ceiling as high as the one in the access corridor. It ran off in both directions farther than his light would shine. A large pipe ran along the roof near the right-hand wall, suspended by steel rods embedded in the ceiling. It looked like cantaloupes could have rolled through the iron cylinder with ease. Every twenty feet or so there was a joint, like a round steel collar, studded with six large nuts and bolts.

  An electrical line ran along the center of the ceiling, with lightbulb sockets at intervals. Some were broken, some were missing, but others looked fine. Scanning the area, Jack saw no switch.

  There were some other bundles of wire running the length of the tunnel on the side opposite the pipeline. Some looked like electrical wires, some looked like telephone cables.

  The floor of the tunnel was level and smooth, and to Jack’s relief there were no rats in sight. An old paper cup and a dusty soda can lay on the floor near the opening, evidence of some workman’s lunch or coffee break. A thick layer of dust coated the floor. There were footprints—rats’ and humans’. But with no weather to disturb them, the human footprints could have been decades old.

  Decision time: Walk right or left?

  Jack sniffed, and smelled nothing. There was no airflow, which made sense—no open door. Then he crouched down and leaned over so his nose was only about six inches from the floor. The air was cooler close to the floor, and there seemed to be a flow coming from the right.

  Jack’s instinct was to walk toward where the air was coming from. But what if there were a lot of little flows? So Jack ran a test.

  Turning to his left, Jack walked fifty paces, stopped, stooped, and got his face down near the floor again. The flow of air was weaker, but it was still coming from the same direction. Turning back to his right, he walked the fifty paces back to the access opening. By going to the right, Jack was pretty sure he would be walking in a westerly direction, basically parallel with Main Street, headed toward the public library, the police station, and downtown Huntington. At least that’s the way it seemed. Jack decided to go right.