Cragbridge Hall, Volume 2: The Avatar Battle

by Morris, Chad

  Abby felt a hand on her shoulder. This time the scream nearly burst from her lips.

  “Derick?” Carol said much louder than a whisper. “Rafa?”

  “We heard there was some excitement,” Derick said quietly.

  “Yep,” Carol answered. “And with you two here it just got a lot more exciting.”

  Rafa laughed.

  “I hope you weren’t trying to sneak up on whoever it is just yet,” Derick said. “Because I could hear Carol all the way down the hall.”

  Abby looked at Carol, who shrugged.

  “Maybe it was just your heart sensing that I was getting close,” Carol suggested.

  “I’m not sure about Derick’s heart,” Rafa said, “but my ears heard you talking about taekwondo.”

  Carol waved him off.

  “This way.” Abby gestured down the hall.

  The four students quietly scrambled in the direction Abby pointed until they turned a corner and saw two silhouettes in the dim light. Then the taller of the two turned down one hall, and the shorter down another.

  “Let’s split into two groups and follow them,” Carol whispered, and grabbed Derick’s arm.

  “Good idea.” Derick didn’t flinch. “Rafa and I will take the taller one. Message us if you run into any trouble.” He slipped out of Carol’s arm and he and Rafa scampered forward.

  Abby swallowed her laugh. It was a nice change of pace from holding in her screams.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Carol whispered, disappointed.

  Abby shushed her, and the two girls ran along the hallway close to the lockers.

  So much for calling in the boys as backup. The girls were on their own. Abby couldn’t help but wonder if she should be doing this. Was she walking into a trap? Abby drafted a quick message to her grandpa. Though she didn’t send it, she wanted to have something ready. Her heart beat faster. She couldn’t help but think about the images of the figure who had broken into Dr. Mackleprank’s place—and Ms. Entrese on the floor. Abby and Carol passed through the commons, watching the mysterious figure walking along the side of the wall in front of them. He quickly leaned as far up against a wall as he could. Carol and Abby did the same, not knowing if he would look back at them. A second later, a robot passed in the adjoining hall.

  After a few moments, the figure moved quietly again, but with a purpose. He climbed a staircase to the second floor. He waited at the top; Abby and Carol were frozen at the bottom of the stairs. After hearing footsteps and then hearing them fade—probably from a human security guard—the figure moved again. Abby and Carol followed him several more yards before the silhouette jogged up another staircase—the stairs up to the Watchman, the tower at the center of the main building on campus.

  Both Abby and Carol knew those stairs were sealed off at the top. Though there may have been access to the inside of the tower years ago, there wasn’t anymore.

  Gazing up around the steps, Abby could see the figure reach up and press something. A few short seconds later, he disappeared into the ceiling. There had to be some sort of trapdoor, but there hadn’t been one before.

  Why was someone sneaking into the Watchman? It would be a fantastic lookout. You could see most of the campus from there. But it was the middle of the night. What would they be able to see in the dark?

  “Should we follow him up there?” Carol asked.

  “No. If he has blowdarts, he’ll get us for sure. Let’s wait here.”

  They waited for a long time. It felt like a short eternity before feet appeared again and the figure dropped down into view. He was shaking his head, but he was coming back their way.

  Abby looked at Carol, wondering what they should do. Should they run? No. If the figure had blowdarts he could simply shoot them as they ran. Their only hope was to slink as far into the shadows as they could and pray they weren’t noticed. Abby hoped Carol followed her example. The only movement she dared was to double-check to make sure her message to Grandpa was at the ready.

  The closer the figure got, the faster Abby’s heart beat. But also, the closer he got, the more Abby could discover about the person. He was definitely an adult or an older student. Since he was out and about after curfew, he was most likely an adult. And not a he—definitely a she. It had been too dark to notice before.

  Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Please, Carol, don’t say anything.

  That short hair. That walk. That silhouette. All at once it came together—Abby recognized her. But what was she doing crawling into the Watchman in the middle of the night?

  20

  Interrogation

  Derick and Rafa followed quickly and quietly. The figure was on the move. There were so many twists and turns, Derick decided whoever he and Rafa were tailing was taking the long way in case anyone was following. Eventually he ducked into a classroom, only closing the door partially behind him. He probably didn’t want to risk the sound of the door latching shut.

  Derick and Rafa crept closer. Rafa went first, but Derick was only a step behind. They were inches away from the door when it flew open. The figure grabbed Rafa and threw him inside. A second later, Derick felt himself lifted off the floor and then flying toward a row of desks. Umphhh! He slammed down hard on top of one of them.

  Derick caught his breath and turned to find himself looking down the barrel of a gun. It had slid out from underneath the figure’s sleeve and was aligned with his pointer finger. In fact, there was a matching barrel on his other hand pointed at Rafa.

  Derick’s breath felt thick, like it was in no hurry to escape his throat, for it might be his last.

  “Oh, it’s you two,” a deep voice said. Derick looked up into Mr. Trinhouse’s face. “And here I thought I might be stopping that awful sneak.”

  Derick tried to get a few more breaths. Rafa began, “We saw you moving through the halls at night and thought you were up to something.”

  He smiled. “Well, you need to be careful. I have decent reflexes. I’m glad I didn’t shoot you both.” The smile faded away. “Unless I should. You aren’t behind this all somehow, are you?” He pressed the gun barrel further in Derick’s face. “You aren’t rebelling against your own grandfather, are you?”

  Derick shook his head wildly.

  “And you aren’t in on it?” He stepped toward Rafa.

  Rafa shook his head as well, though Derick thought he looked a lot cooler under pressure than Derick had just been. Rafa had beat him again.

  But what if it was Mr. Trinhouse that was up to something? He seemed convincing, very convincing, but wouldn’t that be the way a traitor would play it?

  Mr. Trinhouse eyed them both carefully. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. “All right, you’re coming with me.” Mr. Trinhouse kept both guns on each of them, but then let his eyes dart to a spot on the wall quick enough for him to tap it. A section of tile in the floor rose, revealing a way into the basement below, another entrance down to the original Bridge. The question was why Mr. Trinhouse was going there. “In,” he said, motioning toward Rafa. “Stop once you hit ground.” Rafa looked at Derick then did as he was told. Derick followed.

  They wandered until they arrived at a turn Derick thought looked familiar, but didn’t completely recognize. Two other figures waited in the dimly lit corridor. Derick hoped they weren’t accomplices.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Mr. Trinhouse said. “I had a couple of kids following me.”

  “Derick? Rafa?” Grandpa’s voice called out loud and clear. He looked at Mr. Trinhouse. “Put your guns away.”

  “I won’t apologize for it. They were following me and I don’t know who we can trust,” Mr. Trinhouse said.

  Grandpa and Coach Horne stood together. Derick exhaled with relief and quickly told his and Rafa’s part of the story.

  “I know Rafa’s not a part of the Council,” Mr. Trinhouse said, “but I also knew I couldn’t explain what I was about to do, nor could I simply walk away. He would suspect me of crimes I was no
t committing.”

  “It was probably wise to bring him,” Grandpa said. “Well, Derick and Rafa, because of your vigilance, you get to be in on our interrogation this evening.”

  Interrogation?

  “I asked these two men to assist me. We are bringing the prisoners up to the English class so they can sit in the Chair and we can find out what they know. We couldn’t bring them up during the day, so this is our appointed hour.”

  “And Mr. Trinhouse and his wife are going to sit in the Chair too,” Coach Horne added.

  Mr. Trinhouse nodded. “She will meet us there.”

  Soon, they had hauled the prisoners up through the secret passageways, blindfolded so they couldn’t memorize the route they’d been brought by. Grandpa approached the two robot guards standing sentry outside the English classroom. After the sentries scanned the prisoners, they opened the door and Coach Horne put the first man in the Chair. Grandpa asked Mr. Trinhouse to wait for his wife to arrive outside the room with the two guards. Grandpa then messaged Coach Horne, Derick, and Rafa and invited them to sync to a certain audio line. Derick didn’t know why, but he synced anyway.

  “You know Charles Muns,” Grandpa began, addressing the first man in the Chair. Immediately the image of Muns formed on the screen behind him. “Why did you go back in time?”

  “I won’t tell you,” the man said, but the image of Muns on the screen changed, his clothes slightly different, obviously a different day. He spoke, though Derick only heard it through the audio line he had synced up to. Genius. If the man was blindfolded and the audio from the Chair was patching in somewhere else, he wouldn’t know the significance of where he was sitting.

  The memory of Muns on the screen spoke. “If you do this for me, I will take you back in time to the championship.”

  In a flash, Muns disappeared and Derick saw a younger version of the man playing football. He took a snap from the center and stepped back, scanning the field for an open receiver. His blockers started to give way, and the man raced to one side to avoid the attacking defense. Derick could only imagine what being tackled by one of those giants would feel like. His bones hurt just thinking about it. The quarterback dodged to one side, causing a defender to miss, and then danced away from another. He was good. Then his arm reeled back and launched the football in an arcing spiral.

  It flew through the air fast and directly toward a wide receiver only feet from the end zone. But a defender leapt in front of him, reaching up with one arm. His fingers tipped the ball, knocking it off course. It tumbled high in the air. Both the receiver and defender dove, but the defender caught it. Interception. Derick watched as the quarterback took off his helmet and threw it to the ground, the clock running out of time behind him.

  Another image appeared, the same man telling his mother that he hadn’t gotten the scholarship he’d hoped for. Then refusing to go to college. Then working odd jobs. Then drinking.

  It ruined him. One mistake ruined him.

  No. That wasn’t right. So he didn’t get the scholarships—he could have still gone on to college. Even if he didn’t have the money, he could have applied for loans. Maybe he could have tried out for the college team. He didn’t have to shortchange his dream. He chose to. Unfortunately Muns had convinced him that his one mistake meant everything.

  Grandpa let the man sit in silence until his memories faded. Grandpa didn’t let on what he knew. The door opened and the Trinhouses quietly slid into the room. “Did you know you were going to get caught?” Grandpa resumed his interrogation.

  “That’s absurd. Why would I ever go in if I knew I was going to come here?”

  But the image told a different story. Muns appeared, giving instructions. “Someone will release you, and then your one job is to find keys like this.” Muns held up the one key he had. It was the same kind of key Derick had just earned by surviving a Civil War battle.

  “Did someone manage to release you from your cell last night?” Grandpa asked.

  A crooked smile slowly crept across the man’s face. “Oh, you’ve got a rogue on your hands, because it wasn’t us. We slept all night on our fine accommodations.” The man spit his last words. He pictured a simple mattress in a dark room. He told the truth.

  Someone was supposed to release them, but it wasn’t last night. This was very bad.

  “That is better than you deserve,” Grandpa’s voice rose. “Do you know that you could have changed history? And that change could have set in motion other changes that then might have altered our own reality so much than neither of us would even exist. In fact, that change could have led to greater tragedies, perhaps wars. Perhaps your change may have led the earth and the human race into destruction.”

  The man cowered back. Images of the man imagining wars and a ruined world filled the screen behind him.

  Grandpa continued, his voice growing almost to a shout. Derick wondered if he was trying get the man emotionally off-balance so he would give something else away. Grandpa stepped closer to the man. “Did you ever stop to think that it was too much to risk to go back and play a football game?”

  The man’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t . . . wait. How did you know that?” If he hadn’t been on edge emotionally before, he was now.

  Grandpa grabbed him by the collar. “The side you are fighting for may kill us all. Now tell me, who at Cragbridge Hall is on Muns’s side?” Derick held his breath waiting to see who the traitor was. Would he see the Trinhouses?

  No images appeared.

  “I don’t know,” the man said.

  “I don’t believe you,” Grandpa said.

  “I’m telling the truth. I don’t know.”

  After several more tries, the man still didn’t give any more useful information. The other man gave much the same results.

  To make matter worse, no new information came from asking the Trinhouses questions. Either they could imagine lies as if they were real memories or they had been telling the truth. They had left the briefcase in a locked room and it had been opened the next morning. No images flashed of anyone who had come into their apartment or of any secret plan.

  This was very, very bad.

  21

  The Impossible and Murder

  Mrs. Trinhouse wore fashionable enough clothes, so she was up with the times. Her hair was well done, her makeup simple but pretty. Callouses. She had callouses on her fingers. Maybe she played guitar. She yawned again. Mrs. Trinhouse had begun her lecture, and though tired, she was just as peppy as ever. But Abby wasn’t listening very well. She was trying to be like Joseph Bell or Sherlock Holmes. She wanted any clue that might help her understand why Mrs. Trinhouse had been at the Watchman last night.

  Abby logged onto her rings, selected the Cragbridge Hall homesite, and found Mrs. Trinhouse’s information page. She smiled big in her photo. No surprise there. She was from Ohio. She studied at Princeton. There was a massive list of engineering and math awards. She was married and had taught at Cragbridge Hall for seven years. In her spare time, she loved to play guitar, hike, sing and dance.

  Abby had been right about the guitar. Maybe she could be observant. But there was nothing else there that gave Abby any clues.

  “Though we normally use our virtual booths in math and engineering,” Mrs. Trinhouse said, “today I’m going to begin by using the Bridge in our classroom to show you an episode from history. Watch it closely.” She flicked her fingers and showed a three-dimensional image of someone from the past. A young man, maybe in his late twenties, walked into class. It was probably a college somewhere, and since the teacher was already lecturing, the student was late. Abby watched as he sat down and copied two problems off the blackboard.

  A guy writing down math problems? Not the most interesting of stories.

  The next scene showed the same young man in an apartment that wasn’t very clean. He was working on the problems from the board. He showed all the signs that it wasn’t easy—rubbing his temples, writing, then erasing, writing and erasi
ng again. How boring was this? Watching someone else do homework. Doing her own was boring enough.

  Abby thought about her homework. She probably looked the same way as she struggled to find the right answer. It didn’t come quickly for her either. Was that why Mrs. Trinhouse was showing the story? Was it for her?

  Finally, the man started writing faster and moved his head closer to the paper. Abby saw a smile cross his face. He had done it.

  The image fast-forwarded to the young man entering the same classroom as before and setting his homework on top of a large stack of papers. The professor wouldn’t get through all that for a while.

  The image faded. “Now,” Mrs. Trinhouse narrated, “this is a Sunday morning about six weeks later.”

  The young man lay sleeping in a simple twin bed. Someone pounded on the door. He didn’t move. Abby could relate. She had felt the same way this morning.

  More pounding.

  Eventually the young man stumbled out of bed and made his way toward the door. He didn’t look happy. It was probably one of the few days he could sleep in. He clumsily twisted the knob, opened the door, and stared at his professor.

  “George! George!” the professor shouted, “You solved them!”

  George looked down, blinked a few times, and then realized the professor was holding the pages he’d turned in. “Wasn’t I supposed to?” he asked, trying to suppress a yawn. Just watching him made Abby yawn too.

  The professor looked his student in the eye. “Those weren’t homework problems, George. I put them on the board as examples of problems that leading mathematicians haven’t been able to solve.” George’s eyes grew wide. “And in only a few days you solved them both!” The professor’s arms raised into the air.

  He had solved the unsolvable? He wasn’t that old. And he was still a student.

  The image fast-forwarded. George was grown, no longer a student, but giving a lecture. “This is the same student later as a professor at Stanford,” Mrs. Trinhouse explained.