And nobody had fallen as hard as Sam.
He’d liked Abby. He’d trusted her. He’d felt sorry for her! He’d listened to her telling him that Theo wasn’t trustworthy, that Marty was being brainwashed. And he’d been an idiot all along.
Sam slid another sideways glance at Abby—was that even her real name?—the preteen criminal mastermind he had thought of, half an hour ago, as a friend. She caught his eye and smirked.
Why, why, why, Sam wondered, slumping back in his seat, couldn’t he meet anyone his age who was normal?
It didn’t seem to take any time at all before they were hovering over Caractacus Ranch. The helicopters touched down on a flat patch of ground near the barn, and Sam was shoved out of the door by a grumpy man with a gun and a bandage on the back of his head. This had to be the one Sam had knocked into the wall the last time they’d met. The guy kept a fist clenched in the shoulder of Sam’s jacket, and Sam didn’t have a good feeling about their future acquaintance.
Theo and Marty were pushed out of the helicopter after Sam. “Take them to the dining room,” Gideon Arnold said, stepping down onto the ground with Abby behind him. He stroked the silver Quill tenderly and looked over Sam and Marty with cool interest. “We need to test out a theory that my daughter has mentioned to me.”
Sam stood his ground, even as the man behind him tightened his grip on his jacket. “Where’s Evangeline?” he demanded.
Arnold laughed. “You know perfectly well I have no intention of answering that. I will say that we have a special place for people of distinguished lineage, such as your friend Ms. Temple.” That icy-blue gaze moved to Theo. “It seems that our collection grows every day.” He strode toward the ranch, and Sam, pushed by the thug with the grip on his shoulder, followed. Theo and Marty were shepherded along behind him.
Our collection grows every day? Sam thought, feeling cold inside. Had Arnold been talking about Theo as the latest addition to his “collection”? Or had he meant Theo’s mother?
In a few minutes they were back inside the dining room of Caractacus Ranch. The silver candlesticks lay on the floor where Theo had thrown them; the musket that Marty had threatened their attackers with had been tossed on the table. Those tricks weren’t going to work this time, Sam thought gloomily. Not that they had really worked last time. Flintlock’s goons had let them get to the safe room; they’d only put up enough of a fight to fool Sam, Theo, and Marty into thinking that the whole attack was real.
This time, nothing of the sort was going to happen. Sam’s captor let him go, but stood close behind him with his hand (Sam glanced nervously around to see) on the butt of a gun holstered under his arm. Theo and Marty were similarly closely guarded. The three of them had escaped from Gideon Arnold once before, and apparently he wasn’t about to take the chance of that happening again.
Flintlock walked in with three backpacks—two full ones, belonging to Marty and Sam, and one flat, empty one, which had belonged to Theo’s mother. “Anything in those?” asked Gideon Arnold.
Flintlock pawed through the packs. “Nothing,” he said. “Wilderness supplies. Candy bars.” He snorted. “This one’s empty.” He shook the pack that had belonged to Theo’s mother and tossed all three to the floor. Sam glanced at Theo, only to see his eyes locked on Arnold, his face wiped clean of any expression at all.
“Very well, then.” Gideon Arnold turned his attention to the sideboard under the windows, and the complicated contraption of hinges and levers that stood on it, holding an ancient, tattered quill pen.
“That’s the polygraph, Dad.” Abby sounded like a teacher’s pet, keen to impress. She pointed at Sam. “He said we ought to put the silver quill in there, and it’ll give us the next clue.”
“Let’s try it, then.” With one stride, Arnold reached the polygraph. He took a sheet of clean paper out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, unfolded it, smoothed it, and slid it underneath the quill that was already perched in the machine.
“Ink,” Abby said. Arnold nodded. He plucked the existing quill from the machine, unscrewed the top of the inkpot that sat beside it, dipped the pen into it, and returned it to its place in the polygraph. Then he dipped the silver pen in the ink as well, and carefully set it into place beside the first.
Nothing happened for a moment, and Sam’s stomach twisted into a knot that went all the way up to his esophagus. If his idea worked, Gideon Arnold would know where to find the next Founders’ artifact. That would be bad. If his idea didn’t work, Gideon Arnold would be upset with Sam. That could be worse.
Then both the original quill and the new silver one shivered. With a squeal of old gears and a scratch-scratching noise, they both began to write. Dismayed, Sam stared at the quills, wagging as they shaped letters on the paper beneath. He’d been right—he couldn’t help but be pleased about that. But his correct guess meant that that they were placing another Founders’ artifact into Gideon Arnold’s hands.
The quills stopped writing. Arnold delicately slid the paper out from the machine. Sam found he was holding his breath.
“Honor Below Trinity,” Arnold read out loud slowly. He looked up from the paper and his gaze landed on Marty and Sam.
“The two of you deciphered Benjamin Franklin’s clue and found your way here,” he said. “I suggest you do the same now. Get started.”
Sam looked sideways at Marty. He knew what Theo would say—that there was no way they should tell Gideon Arnold a thing. But if they didn’t cooperate, he was pretty sure they’d be joining Evangeline in Arnold’s “special place”—and that was the best scenario. The worst . . . Sam felt a shudder crawl down his spine.
Besides, he had no idea what “Honor Below Trinity” meant.
“The Trinity?” Marty asked. “Well, it could have a religious meaning, of course. Don’t you think so, Sam?”
Marty, who’d told him back at the church that Theo was right, that the Founders’ artifacts should be kept safe no matter whose lives were in danger? Marty was . . . solving the puzzle?
“Uh . . . Marty . . . I don’t know . . . ,” Sam said awkwardly, trying to catch her eye. But she was craning her neck to see the piece of paper in Gideon Arnold’s hand, and she seemed to be in pure puzzle-solving mode. Sometimes Marty got so wrapped up in being smart she forgot to be anything else—like, say, aware that she was helping out the worst bad guy on the planet.
“But I don’t think it’s a religious reference,” Marty went on, as if she hadn’t noticed Sam’s reluctance. “It could be . . . of course! Trinity College, in Connecticut. That’s it, I’m sure that’s it. It wasn’t around in Revolutionary War times, but it was definitely there by the Civil War, and that’s when all the artifacts were moved. The next artifact must be hidden somewhere in Trinity College!”
“My, aren’t you useful.” Gideon Arnold folded his piece of paper and tucked it back into his pocket. Marty stood with her mouth slightly open, dismay dawning on her face, as if she had just realized what she had done.
“Way to go, Marty,” Sam muttered. She didn’t have to hand the clue to Gideon Arnold on a silver platter, after all. Sheesh. At least the three of them could have endured a little torture before selling out their country.
“It might be beneficial to keep these three around for a while,” Arnold said, eyeing them with a greedy light in his eye. “But for now, put them in the barn with the others. We’ll need a little time to make travel arrangements.”
“The barn” turned out to be an outbuilding stacked with hay, not too far from the stable where Sam had first made the acquaintance of Snickers. He caught a glimpse of the black mare in the corral, chewing moodily on a wisp of hay. Her ears swiveled forward and she whinnied at the sight of Sam as he was hustled past and shoved into the barn. Theo and Marty followed close behind.
“The others” turned out to be Charley and Anita Hodge—the real Charley and Anita Hodge. At least, that’s who Sam assumed the two adults were. They had been tied, back to back, to one of the support b
eams that held up the roof, and securely gagged. Had they been there three days now? Sam thought, appalled. All the time he and the others had spent at the ranch, eating hamburgers and sleeping in comfortable beds—all the time they’d spent searching for clues in the wilderness—these two had been here?
Both were slumped forward against their bonds. The woman turned her head slowly to look at Sam, Theo, and Marty as they were pushed inside, her eyes dull. Her brown hair, streaked with gray, hung loose about her face. The man didn’t stir.
Sam hadn’t needed any more proof that Gideon Arnold was a ruthless man . . . but now he had it. The men who’d brought them here pushed all three kids to the floor. Flintlock followed them in and dumped their packs on the ground. He stood watching as one of his men stood guard with a gun while two more made quick work of tying up two more prisoners. Sam and Theo were tied like the Hodges, sitting back to back against one of the support beams. Painfully tight ropes held their hands to the sides of the beams, and more ropes were fastened around their chests. Marty was lashed to a beam by herself.
Flintlock nodded in approval and jerked his head toward the door. The men left without a word. Sam heard a lock click as the door slammed shut.
Sam squirmed, trying to get a good look at the building. It was small, maybe twelve feet square, and stacked with rectangular bundles of hay. Snickers’s nightmare, he thought to himself. A barn full of hay and no candy in sight.
Pretty soon a barn full of hay was going to be Sam’s nightmare too. He’d bet on it.
Sam twisted to the other side, trying to get a better look at the woman tied up behind him. “Hey, are you Anita? Anita Hodge?” She didn’t answer. Her head had fallen forward once more.
“They’re not in good shape. Dehydration can be very serious,” Marty said, sounding worried.
“So can being tied up by a homicidal maniac.” Sam tried to work his hands free but only succeeded in shredding his wrists. “We have to get out of here!”
“I think we’ve all grasped that, Sam.” Marty was squirming in her bonds too, bending her knees to draw her feet closer to her body. “Theo, can you . . . ?”
Theo lunged forward against the ropes, straining to break free. Unfortunately, all this accomplished was to yank the ropes around Sam’s chest even tighter. “Theo! Stop!” he choked out as his rib cage neared implosion. “I can’t—ouch—breathe!”
“Sorry.” Theo panted, slumping back against the pillar. “That didn’t loosen anything up, did it?”
“No! It really didn’t.” Sam’s ribs throbbed. “Brute strength isn’t going to do it. Marty, don’t you have, you know, anything? A knife? A flare? A secret decoder ring?”
“Sure. In my pack. All except the stupid ring thing.” Marty cast a longing glance at her backpack, sitting near the door, as out of reach as if it were on Mars. “All I’ve got is some matches in my boot. You know, just in case.”
“Matches?” Sam perked up. “Matches are good. Can you get to them?” Any other time a snarky comment might have made its way out of his mouth—only Marty would think to tuck matches inside her boot! But right now it seemed perfectly reasonable to Sam. If they got out of this alive, he was going to start carrying all sorts of things in his shoes.
Marty had her knees drawn up to her chest by now, and was trying, grunting and grimacing, to pull her feet close to her hands, tied behind her. “I can’t . . . I can’t do it,” she gasped.
“Don’t give up,” Sam said.
“I’m not giving up, Sam!” Marty had changed tactics. Using the heel of her right foot, she was energetically trying to shove her left boot off her foot. “It’s—ouch!—tight. I think I can get it off, though.” She pushed, winced, tried again, and the boot popped off. A book of matches fell out onto the straw-covered floor.
“Way to go, Marty!” Sam said, this time for real.
Marty wiggled around and kicked the matches toward Sam and Theo. Her aim was good. The book of matches landed close to Theo’s right hand, tied inches from Sam’s left. “I’m not going to be able to strike one with my hands like this,” she said. “What about you guys? Can you work together?”
Theo, straining to pick up the matches, pulled hard at the ropes again, nearly dislocating Sam’s shoulder blade. “Careful!” he gasped.
“I am . . . being . . . careful!” Theo had his hand on the book of matches now, and leaned back against the beam, giving Sam some relief. “Why are you so short, anyway?”
“Why are you built like a yeti?” Sam asked. He could feel Theo’s right hand, near his own left, working at the book of matches. “Don’t drop it, whatever you do.” Sam groped and felt the smooth cardboard of the matchbook cover. “Okay, I can hold it still. See if you can pull a match off.”
Theo did and promptly dropped the unlit match to the floor.
Sam groaned. “Marty, how many matches are in here?”
“I think three,” Marty said.
Sam groaned again. “Careful, Theo.”
“I heard you the first time you said that, Sam,” Theo said. Sam heard the faintest possible ripping sound. “Got a match. Hold the matchbook still. Still . . .”
“That’s what I’m doing!” Sam tried his best to concentrate on the feel of the matchbook. He could feel the slick, smooth cardboard of the cover and the sandpaper-rough surface where a match was meant to be struck. Then he felt the match’s head rubbing on that surface. “Yeah, Theo, that’s right. Right there. Go!”
“First-degree burns are mainly superficial,” Marty told them helpfully.
Theo pulled the match as quickly across the rough surface as he could manage. Nothing happened.
He did it again.
Nothing happened again—at least, that’s what Sam thought at first. Then he felt heat against his fingers. “Yes! You did it! Theo, you’re the man—ouch! Ouch!”
“Hold your hand still!”
“Burn the rope, not my hand!”
“Even second-degree burns can be treated!” Marty called out. “They very rarely result in permanent scarring or limb amputation!”
“Okay! I think the rope’s burning! Sam, do you think so?” Theo asked.
“I think something’s burning!” Sam couldn’t tell at the moment if the rope or his sleeve was on fire, but he was sure that something was. “Pull! Theo, pull!”
Theo strained against the ropes again, forcing all the air from Sam’s lungs. Sam couldn’t even yell as sharp pain jabbed at his left hand and wrist. Then suddenly the ropes gave way, and Sam’s left hand was free.
It was also on fire. His sleeve was blazing merrily away. Sam slapped his arm against his chest to smother the flames, and twisted and writhed to get free of the rest of the ropes. Theo was doing the same.
Sam yanked his right wrist free and turned to slap Theo on the back. “Theo, you did it! Didn’t I say you were the man!”
Then he yelled and scuttled on hands and knees toward the barn’s door. The burning ropes that had tied Sam and Theo to the beam had fallen into a patch of hay close to where Sam had been sitting, and the fire had already started to spread. A stack of bales along the wall farthest from the door was alight.
Sam stared in horror. Out of the frying pan, into the fire . . .
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hay burns fast, Sam discovered. Really, really fast. The flames swarmed eagerly up the bales of hay and reached into the loft overhead.
“Sam, get the door!” Theo yelled, already coughing. He was untying Marty, while Sam raced to the door, his eyes starting to sting from the smoke, sweat breaking out all over his body. Sam wrenched at the doorknob and kicked at the door. It shook on its hinges but didn’t open. The lock was solid and strong.
Marty joined him, hopping as she shoved her hiking boot back on her foot. She also threw her weight against the door, with no effect. A few seconds later, Theo reached them as well. He had untied the Hodges from their beams. Anita, stumbling and staggering, had roused enough to help him drag her husband’s limp body
across the floor.
“Is there another way out?” Sam demanded.
She shook her head. “Only the hayloft,” she croaked, her voice faint. Four pairs of eyes lifted up to the blazing loft and then back down to the door.
“Theo, get us out of here!” Sam said. Theo slammed his shoulder into the door. It bounced in its frame. He kicked at it. One board splintered.
“Yes!” Blinking hard, his eyes watering, Sam took turns with Theo, kicking at the broken board. They managed to knock the board out of the door, but the gap it left was narrow, about the width of Sam’s arm. No way they could squeeze through it.
Theo attacked the next board, but Sam fell back, coughing. This wasn’t going to work. They wouldn’t break the door down in time. Maybe the hayloft after all? No. One look was enough to convince him of that. The loft was a wall of flames, and the smoke was so thick that Sam could no longer see the ceiling.
There had to be another way out!
But maybe there wasn’t. This wasn’t a computer game or a crossword or a Founders’ puzzle. Those were guaranteed to have an answer, if you could find it. This was a burning building with a locked door. Even if you were smart like Marty, or strong like Theo, or a puzzle master like Sam, there might not be an escape route waiting to be found.
One of the planks from the roof fell with a crash into the hayloft and toppled over the edge, bringing a fresh blaze of heat with it. Sam felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to fry. In a few minutes the floor would be burning. They were trapped. They couldn’t get out.
No. No way. Sam closed his stinging eyes for half a second. When you couldn’t think of an answer—when a puzzle had you stumped—it meant you didn’t have the right approach. You had to change the way you were thinking. You had to come at it a different way.
They couldn’t get out of this barn . . . but maybe somebody could get in?
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