by Marcia Wells
I stand there, staring at the numbers and letters. I know we’re both thinking the same thing: What if the numbers on the bombs are a code of some kind? Maybe Jonah was on the right track with his chemistry symbols. Maybe someone’s trying to send us a coded message!
We sit down and shove our cereal-covered math books to the side. “There are so many types of codes out there,” Jonah says. “I wonder . . .” He pulls out his laptop and starts typing.
I look at the list of bombs and their times and decide to test out the numbers by using the code from the cereal box. I come up with XLYXTOMFRTHEDABDYX. I can kind of pick out some words. TOM FRTHED . . . A guy named Tom? Tom the farthead? I don’t share my findings.
Jonah scratches his head. “There’s Morse code and scrambled-letter codes. Oh, and the ROT1 code. Remember that from second grade?”
I smile. “Yeah.” ROT1 means “rotate one letter forward through the alphabet,” so A is replaced with B, B with C, and so on. If A = B, then the word Dad would be Ebe. Jonah and I used to use this code when we passed notes, but then he made the whole thing so complicated that I didn’t know what he was talking about.
He’s squinting at his screen and mumbling to himself. I stand up and peer over his shoulder. “What about that one?” I say. I point to the words Caesar shift cipher. It’s more advanced than the ROT1 code. You need a key—for example, A = M—and then all the letters shift accordingly. If the times on the bombs are truly a code, then we need a key. A key with numbers and letters.
Jonah’s still muttering, his fingers flying over the computer keys. I pace the kitchen and stare at the blue and white tiles beneath my feet. A key . . . a key . . . I think of the note that was sent with the bombs: 1—Eddie will know what this means. I’ve never understood why there was a one by my name. Does 1 = E? Is it that simple?
I sit down and write it out:
1—Eddie will know what this means
1—E
“Jonah,” I say. I show him my notes.
His face breaks into a huge grin. “Yes,” he says. “Yes! If E equals 1, then F equals 2 . . . Yes!”
We both jot the code down in our notebooks. I assign each letter a number: E = 1, F = 2, G = 3, until I reach Z = 22, then loop back to the beginning: A = 23, B = 24, C = 25, D = 26. Now every letter has a number.
With a burst of adrenaline, I start to scribble out possibilities. The first times on our list are 9:24 and 24:11. I come up with MFH FHEE. Nope. I try every possible combination of numbers, all the way down the list. I blow out a frustrated breath. “Any luck?”
He shakes his head. “Let’s switch the order. Put the time on the bomb first and then the time it was called in.”
“Okay.” I write 24:11 and 9:24 for the first bomb. 24 11 9 24 . . .
24 = B
11 = O
9 = M
24 = B
The room is dead silent. I know Jonah’s just discovered the same thing I did, because his eyes are blinking fast. I move to the next pair of numbers, reversing their order as well: 16:11, 5:16.
16 = T
11 = O
5 = I
16 = T
“Toit?” I say. That doesn’t make any sense.
Jonah’s gone pale and is shaking his head. “Test,” he whispers. “If you divide the numbers up as sixteen, one, fifteen, and sixteen, you get the word ‘test.’” He turns his page so I can see:
16 = T
1 = E
15 = S
16 = T
Now it’s my turn to blink fast. The Fox talked about a test, a test that I passed. What could this all mean? We work and work, decoding the numbers in different combinations, but always with the time on the bomb first, followed by the time it was called in. Just when I feel as if my brain is about to explode, we come up with the following:
BOMBTESTPLAZAMETTOMB
Quickly I separate the letters into five words:
BOMB TEST PLAZA MET TOMB
“It looks like a list,” I say. “Some kind of sinister to-do list.”
Jonah sits back and pops an Oat Crunchie in his mouth. “Agreed. The words bomb and Met are obvious. Test has to be what the Fox was talking about. But plaza? There are thousands of plazas in New York. And what about tomb? Grant’s Tomb?”
“That fits. But what’s going to happen at Grant’s Tomb?” I rub my temples. Or does the word tomb have something to do with the Angel of Death painting?
The front door of our apartment opens. “I’m back!” Mom calls.
What? So soon? Glancing at the clock, I realize more than three hours have passed and the carnival’s going to start in an hour. Once again I haven’t done my homework.
Quickly Jonah and I fold up our notes and stuff the list into his backpack. “This is huge,” he says. “We know that Lars, or the Fox or whoever it is, is going to strike at a plaza and a tomb. And that person is definitely going to rob the Met. I know we’ll get in trouble for hacking into Bovano’s computer, but we have to tell him about this.”
I replay the words over and over again in my mind. Bomb, test, plaza, Met, tomb. I don’t trust any of this. Maybe Jonah’s right: maybe Lars, a.k.a. the Fox, is distracting me with texts about old gold while he sets his sights on the Met. What else could it be?
“We’ll tell Bovano today,” I say. “But let’s do it after the carnival. If we tell him now, he won’t do Frank’s Tank, and Milton’s counting on that as a big moneymaker.” I figure I owe Milton for all his help.
Besides, once we tell Bovano, then it’s all over. He’ll kick me off the case and tell my parents about the hack, and they’ll ground me for life. I need to figure out what plaza and tomb mean before then. I look at my watch. We have five hours to solve the unsolvable.
Chapter 17
Banshee
2:55 P.M., SAME DAY
“Three rings for a dollar,” I call out. I wave a yellow plastic ring in the air. My ring toss booth consists of a table, three rows of five wooden pegs, and three plastic rings. I also have a bag of tiny prizes for the winners, including plastic spiders and pirate tattoos. I’ve made more than forty dollars. Not half bad, considering my sneezes are driving away potential customers.
My shift is almost over. Only two more hours until I tell Bovano about the list. I still haven’t come up with any theories about the plaza or the tomb.
Jonah is two booths down from me at the bottle cap station, a pretty lame game of throwing bottle caps into small cups. Mostly he drums on the cups with pencils.
Paula is helping out at the lemonade stand and Detective Bovano is in Frank’s Tank. When he went down into the water for the first time, I expected him to come up spluttering and angry, but he laughed. I’d never heard him truly laugh. It was a pleasant sound, a deep belly laugh that made people smile.
I see Milton join Jonah at the bottle cap booth. They talk for a moment, and then Jonah grins, gives him a thumbs-up, and heads in my direction.
“I’m done,” he announces. “Ready?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. I can’t leave until Ryan shows up to take the next shift. Knowing him, he’ll be late.” I look around to make sure no one’s listening. “We need to talk,” I say. Then I frown. Those are the exact words Bovano said to me the other day. Maybe Paula’s right—maybe I am turning into Frank Junior.
“Roger that.” Jonah hops back and forth, the curly hair bouncing on his head. He’s wearing a Walter the Flying Cow T-shirt that has suspicious red stains on it. He’ll be wired on fruit punch for hours.
Suddenly he stops moving. His eyes widen at something behind me. “I’ll be by the cotton candy,” he says. “I’m there if you need me.” With a spazzy hop-step, he turns and half walks, half dances away.
I turn to see Ryan James approaching my booth, along with . . . Jenny Miller.
“Hey, Edmund,” Ryan says. “How’s business?”
“Good. Forty-three bucks so far.” I hand him the money, along with the bag full of prizes. “Have fun.”
> Jenny smiles a shy smile at me. Today she’s wearing a dark blue Japanese kimono and chopsticks in her hair. “Want to walk around?” she asks.
“Okay.” I stuff my hands in my pockets, my pulse thrumming in my ears. We wind our way between the booths and I try not to trip over my own feet. Act normal. Make normal conversation. “Do you want something to eat?”
She shakes her head. To our left, Ron Wibbey throws a ball at the dunk tank lever and nails the target with a sharp thwack. Mr. Frank is dunked in the water again. The crowd cheers and Jenny and I laugh. I get a whiff of my breath. Why did I eat a hot dog covered in onions an hour ago? What was I thinking? And I have a cold . . . what if I sneeze on her?
We fall silent again. I spot Jonah over by the cotton candy. He gives me a subtle thumbs-up. There’s a reason he’s been my best friend since we were two: greatest wingman ever.
“Do you want to check out the maze?” Jenny asks. “My mom’s in there dressed as a banshee. She really went all out for it, with a black cape and fake blood.”
This year the parents decided to make a haunted maze with zombies, vampires, and apparently banshees. There’s a wooden entrance that looks like a coffin, and then rows of hay bales and white sheets that block the outside view. It must be pretty funny and scary, because I’ve heard a lot of screams and laughter all afternoon.
“Sure.” I’m not really a huge fan of Halloween stuff, but I don’t want to seem like a party pooper.
We head through the wooden coffin door and past a wall of mirrors. Silly cackling laughter and hoots play on a recording around us. My ears are clogged from my cold, throwing my senses off. Jenny grabs my hand, tugging me around the corner to where the maze begins. She lets go but I can still feel her palm on mine.
We come to an intersection. Left or right? She motions me left. “I think it’s this way,” she says. We step onto a path that’s lined on either side by white sheets. The sheets sway and billow in the wind, making it difficult to see which way we’re supposed to go next.
She speeds up and I follow, but I’m distracted. I need to ask her about the stupid dance, once and for all. I’ll do it as soon as we get out of here. No more wimping out.
Jenny’s gone on ahead without me. I can hear her laugh but can’t see her with all the rows of sheets. My knee bumps into a hay bale. I know this is part of the “maze experience,” but I really don’t like stumbling around disoriented.
The hairs on my neck prickle. Someone’s behind me. There’s a rustle and a flash of black. “Mrs. Miller?” I call out. Jenny said her mom was wearing a black cape. I don’t want her to screech in my face. My hands are out in front of me as I try to push through the wall of sheets.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” a voice murmurs.
I open my mouth to scream but strong arms jerk me off my feet and a damp cloth is shoved over my nose and lips. Sharp chemical vapors sting my eyes. “Night, night,” the voice whispers in my ear.
A voice that has a thick German accent.
Chapter 18
Taking Stock
4:55 P.M., SAME DAY
Thirty minutes ago I woke up in a hotel bedroom. A really, really nice hotel bedroom, complete with silky sheets, super-soft pillows, and expensive artwork on the wall. Judging from the open duffel beside my bed, Lars must have drugged me, stuffed me in a bag, thrown me over his shoulder, and walked right out of the carnival maze and into a waiting car. Apparently my body’s the size of five soccer balls.
My parents must be frantic. Jonah must be flipping out completely, calling everyone he knows to try to mount some kind of attack. I take deep, calming breaths through my nose, promising myself that I will return home to them safely. My hands won’t stop shaking.
As far as I can tell, there are four men holding me captive. Lars, of course, is their leader. I knew he wasn’t stupid enough to get blown up in Germany. Then there are two guys who are clearly the hired muscle. I know them—they’re Snaggle and Rock, the same guys that Bovano showed me a few weeks ago in the surveillance van, the ones I suspected stole the crown.
O’Malley Junior is the fourth in their gang. That’s right, O’Malley the Indian guy from the Met. I knew he and Lars were working together! Why doesn’t Bovano ever listen to me?
My throat is sore and my head hurts. Lars informed me that I was experiencing side effects from the chloroform I breathed in. Then he offered me a glass of orange juice. I thought he was trying to poison me, and he got really mad when I wouldn’t drink it. Finally O’Malley convinced me that the juice was fine after he took a sip.
I examine my room for the millionth time, searching for a way to escape. We’re in the famous Plaza, one of the most expensive hotels in the city. At first I tried to be all clever and look out my window to pinpoint exactly where I was, but then I saw a notepad on the side table that said PLAZA HOTEL, so I guess Lars isn’t trying to keep our whereabouts a secret.
I used the notepad to make HELP ME signs and stuck them in the window, but we’re at least five floors up, and no one can see me down on the street. I also drew pictures of the bad guys and wrote a Help me, I’ve been kidnapped by these men note. My plan is to fold the paper into an airplane and shoot it out into the hotel hallway when one of them opens the outer door. I wanted to send it out the window, but all of the glass panes are sealed shut.
“Dinner’s ready, kitty,” Lars says from the doorway. With his thick accent, I can’t tell if he’s calling me kitty or kiddy. Both nicknames are creepy.
He’s changed his appearance once again. He’s got long black hair pulled into a ponytail, a trimmed black beard, and dark eyebrows plucked into high thin lines. He looks like a weird bearded lady who will most likely haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life.
I admit that when I first woke up and met Lars face-to-face, I kind of freaked out and started hyperventilating. Imagine meeting a famous person who you’ve thought about nonstop for the past year. Now imagine that famous person is very cunning and evil and is holding you prisoner. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but I got myself under control quickly. First rule of combat: Show no weakness.
I get off the bed and follow him into a living room, where two plush striped sofas sit near an enormous television. In the corner there’s a marble bust of a man (probably stolen), wearing the Duchess of Ireland’s emerald and diamond crown (definitely stolen). I make a silent vow to return it safely to her.
Strangest of all are the clocks. They’re everywhere: on tables, hanging from walls, resting on chairs. Some are digital, some the old-fashioned wind-up. They all read different times, even crazy times like 78:21.
We enter a small kitchenette. O’Malley is by himself, eating at the table. He points to the spot beside him and I sit down to a plate of herbed chicken and mashed potatoes swimming in butter. It smells really good. O’Malley takes a quick bite of my potatoes to show me they’re safe, and smiles.
Not only do they want to keep me alive, but they’re actually treating me well. The food looks delicious, they’ve offered me any pay-per-view movie I want, and I even get an iPad to play video games (Internet service disconnected, of course).
It all leads to the biggest question in this whole nightmare. What do they want from me?
I sneeze and Lars recoils. He nervously squirts disinfectant on his hands. Note to self: Lars is a germaphobe. Maybe I can use that to my advantage.
Despite the trauma of being kidnapped, I’m starving. I take a bite of chicken. Chew. Swallow. It’s the best chicken I’ve ever tasted. I can’t help myself—I take another bite.
You would think I’d be crying and completely hysterical about being kidnapped. I am nervous, but I’m also strangely calm. Maybe I’m in shock, but I don’t think so. I’ve outwitted Lars before, and I will do it again. So I watch. I observe. I study every last detail to try to plan my escape.
Lars takes the seat across from mine at the rectangular table. Rock sits to my right. I’m not sure where Snaggle is. The suite we’re in is pretty big. I’ve
counted four bedrooms, a small kitchen, a dining room, and a living room.
“So this is your new Picasso Gang?” I say to Lars, waving my fork at the other men.
“No. There is only one Picasso Gang.” He sits back in his chair and looks me up and down. “I would call this my Eddie Gang. In honor of our most valuable guest.” He strokes his dark beard. “Although you are much shorter up close than I thought you’d be.”
I ignore the comment and take another bite of chicken. Chew, chew, chew, swallow. “Why’d you steal the crown?” I ask. “Was it just to get my attention? I thought you only steal art.”
He smiles, the skin by his mouth pulling tight like Saran Wrap from all the plastic surgery he’s had. “I had to make the police nervous. That was the only way they’d send you to the Met, is it not?”
I nod, although I have no idea what he’s talking about. Why would he need me at the Met?
“And I love jewels,” he adds. “I have quite a large collection at home.” His smile widens as if to say By large collection, I mean Major Stolen Goods.
I’m losing my appetite, but I move on to the mashed potatoes and take a bite. My hand trembles. Usually Jonah’s military tactics march through my brain when I’m in a stressful situation, but it’s Milton’s voice I hear as I plan my survival strategy. Making lists is very soothing, and I wonder if this is why Milton speaks the way he does. I review everything I have going for me in a plan of action:
There are no hotel phones, but each bad guy has a cell. Keep track of all cell phones. Wait until they are asleep, then grab a phone and call the police.
Pay attention to the hotel workers. They will come by to clean or deliver food. Find a way to be in the room when they do.