It was apparent Mr. Trouble didn’t want to wait, but he nodded and pulled his hand back, leaving the drawer unopened.
The second he was out of the way, Uncle Carl lifted the flap of his jacket. On the inside there were over a dozen different pockets. He unzipped one and removed a long black-handled tool. Attached to the handle was a thin piece of metal about half an inch wide and six inches long. He pushed a red button on the base then held his free hand near the metal strip, waiting.
As soon as the metal started giving off a slight glow, he pulled his hand away then slid the metal end into the wax, melting it. Working quickly, he cut a line along the top of the box and down both sides — there was no wax along the bottom. Once finished, he pulled his wax cutter out and hit the button again. The glow began to fade right away.
“Here,” he said, handing the tool to Keira. “Careful. It’s still hot.”
Freed up now, he put a hand to either side of the box but hesitated before actually touching it.
“You want me to do it?” Mr. Trouble asked.
“No,” Uncle Carl said quickly. “I’ve got it. It’s just…” He looked back at everyone. “I never thought we’d actually find one.”
“Maybe someone should take a picture,” Maggie joked.
The whole Trouble family turned and looked at her.
“She’s right,” Fiona said. She pulled a cell phone out of her pocket. “Smile, Uncle Carl.”
Uncle Carl looked at the camera, unsmiling, and she took the shot.
“Perfect,” she said.
This time, when Uncle Carl reached for the box, he grabbed it by the sides and pulled.
There was an odd whiny-creaky sound.
Mr. Trouble leaned over his uncle’s shoulder and looked into the growing gap between the box and the wall.
“Stop!” he yelled.
Uncle Carl froze, the box suspended in the air, four inches from the wall.
Mr. Trouble held his hand out to Fiona. “Camera.”
She gave him her cell phone. He moved it so that the lens was pointed into the gap then snapped off a shot. He looked at the display, unsatisfied.
“Does this thing have a flash?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
Mr. Trouble scanned the room and then nodded toward one of the nightstands. “Eric, grab that lamp for me and bring it over here, would you?”
The lamp was made of brushed steel, and looked like it would cost Eric every cent of his allowance from now until the end of high school to replace if he broke it.
“Please hurry,” Uncle Carl said. “Not sure how much longer I can hold it like this.”
Eric unplugged the lamp from the wall then carefully carried it over to Mr. Trouble.
“I’ll plug it in,” Fiona offered.
She grabbed the end of the cord and stuck it into a socket a couple of feet away. Eric then clicked the switch on the base and the bulb lit up.
“Hold it next to the camera so the light gets in behind the box,” Mr. Trouble said. “Be careful, though, don’t touch the box itself. Don’t know what a little electricity might do to it.”
Eric did as he was told, with Fiona helping out by holding the cord so it wouldn’t droop down.
Mr. Trouble took another shot, this time smiling at the results. “That’ll work.”
“Can I move now?” Uncle Carl asked.
“It’s all yours.”
While Uncle Carl pulled the box from the wall, Eric returned the lamp to the nightstand. When he walked back over, Fiona and Keira were looking at the image on the cell phone.
“Can I see?” he asked.
“Don’t see why not,” Fiona said, turning the phone toward him.
On the right side of the image was the back of the box, and on the left was the wall, but it was what was in between that obviously interested the Troubles. Roughly in line with the back of each of the drawers were thin strings or cords attached from the box to the wall. Nine cords in all.
“Did the other boxes have these?” he asked.
“Not as far as we know,” Fiona said. “There was no mention of anything like this in the records.”
“Definitely something new,” Keira said.
Eric looked at the picture again. “What do you think they are?”
Fiona shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“All right, everyone,” Mr. Trouble said. “We’re out of here.”
Cradling the box carefully in his arms, Uncle Carl brought up the rear as they went back to the car. He then wrapped it in his jacket and put it carefully in the trunk.
“Shouldn’t you hold it?” Eric asked when Uncle Carl got in beside him.
Uncle Carl looked unsure. “Do you think I should?” He leaned forward and touched Mr. Trouble on the shoulder. “Maybe I should get it before we go.”
“It’s fine where it is,” Mr. Trouble said, starting the car.
“Are you sure?’
“I’m sure.”
“Where to now?” Eric asked. “The workshop to figure out what’s inside?”
“The workshop’s still flying around, remember?” Keira said.
“Oh. Right.”
“Now we take you guys home,” Mr. Trouble said.
“That’s right. Slumber party.” Fiona raised her arms halfheartedly into the air. “Woo-hoo.”
Maggie groaned.
As Mr. Trouble pulled the car away from the curb, Eric caught a quick glimpse of someone at a house across the street. He was leaning out from behind a stack of firewood, watching them drive off.
Within just a few seconds, he was out of sight. But it had been long enough for Eric to get a look at the guy’s face.
Peter Garr.
And he was sniffing the air.
Excerpt from the TFS Encyclopedia
Maker’s Box
Name given to box that appears to be present at each Maker hideout at some point.
Until 1895, the square-shaped waxy residue that was often found in connection with a case was thought to be unimportant. This residue was always found on a wall in the house the Makers used as their residence.
In 1895, Robert Trouble discovered the first Maker’s box still attached to the wall in a house near New Orleans, Louisiana. The box had slots for nine drawers across the front, but all the drawers were missing. The box, though in poor condition, is stored at TFS headquarters.
A second box was discovered in 1957 in Memphis, Tennessee. This box still had four drawers intact, though empty. Attempts to figure out what they might have contained failed. This box is also stored at TFS headquarters.
As of this writing, they remain the only two boxes that have been discovered.
While it is apparent these boxes have an important function, that function is still unknown.
17
Mrs. Ortega was all smiles and hugs when they got there.
“A homework slumber party,” she said to Maggie. “Mija, what a great idea. We should do these more often. Fun and educational.”
As more proof of her approval, she got them three large pizzas — something Maggie’s mom almost never ordered — and then left them undisturbed in the dining room.
Eric could tell Maggie was seriously not happy with the situation. She barely talked to him and said nothing at all to the Trouble sisters. He tried to start a conversation a couple of times but finally gave up.
Surprisingly, the evening turned into exactly what they were pretending it was — a homework slumber party. With little else to do, they broke out their books and studied. Even Fiona and Keira had brought along work, though Eric was pretty sure Keira had tucked Noriko’s Revenge inside the history book she was pretending to read.
Having finished his math homework for Ms. Lindgren, he’d begun working on his Spanish worksheets for the coming week. Next up would be the essay for Mrs. Bernhardi’s English class.
“Ugh,” Fiona said. She was sitting to Eric’s left while her sister was directly across from them. Mag
gie had chosen the chair at the head of the table, as far from them as she could get.
Eric finished the sentence he was writing then looked over. “Something wrong?”
“Broke my lead and forgot my sharpener,” she said, holding up her pencil.
“I’ve got an extra one.” He got a pencil out of his bag and handed it to her.
She smiled. “Thanks.”
They worked in silence for a few seconds.
“What are you studying?” he asked her.
“Advanced Trigonometry.”
“Whoa. Seriously? What grade are you in?”
She shrugged. “Tenth, or maybe eleventh.”
“Uh, isn’t that something you should know?”
“We’re home-schooled. With the business our family’s in, if we went to a regular school, we’d be absent all the time. Schools don’t like that, no matter how smart you are.”
Home-schooled. That made sense. But it did bring up another question.
“So where do you guys live?”
“What? Don’t you think the plane’s our home?” she asked.
“Your brother called it your mobile headquarters. I just thought that meant you have a place somewhere that doesn’t move around.”
“I was kidding.” She laughed and looked back at her book.
Eric waited several seconds then said, “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“Nope.”
He frowned. “But you do have a permanent place, right?”
“We have to keep the plane somewhere.”
“Look, I don’t mean to disturb you,” Maggie said from her end of the table. “But I’m trying to get some work done. That’s why we’re here, right? So if you could hold it down, I’d appreciate it.”
Fiona grimaced. “Sorry.”
Eric wasn’t sorry, though. He was annoyed. Maggie was supposed to be his best friend, yet all she had been doing was denying that anything was wrong and basically saying he was crazy. But she’d seen what had happened to him after he was scanned. She’d seen the SUV trying to run them down. She’d seen the Maker’s box. Granted, none of that was as odd as, say, seeing a phone book get spit out of the air, or experiencing time speeding up, or feeling the effects of the gold-ball talisman, but still, it should have been plenty for her to at least realize that things in his life were currently miles from normal.
Before he could tell her how he felt, Fiona leaned over and silently mouthed, “It’s fine.”
What was it with girls telling him when he should and shouldn’t speak? Because this definitely wasn’t fine. But he kept his mouth shut and went back to his Spanish homework.
At ten, Maggie stood up. “I’ve got a headache. I’m going to bed.”
Keira immediately jumped up from her seat. “I’m tired, too.”
Maggie glared at her for a moment then looked at Eric. “You’re on the living room couch.” She left without saying goodnight.
“See you in the morning,” Keira whispered, then followed Maggie out.
After they’d been alone for a few minutes, Fiona said, “You know, she is a good friend.”
“Who? Maggie?”
“Yeah. She’s been concerned about you.”
“She’s not concerned about me,” Eric said. “She thinks I’m stupid for listening to you guys.”
“You don’t understand girls at all, do you? If she didn’t care about you, she wouldn’t get so upset. Look, she hopped in our car with you yesterday evening when she had no idea who we were, only because she thought you shouldn’t go alone. And she’s had plenty of time since then to tell her parents or someone at school or even the police what she thinks is going on.”
“She did tell someone at school, remember? After the fire alarm, she went to the office.”
Fiona shook her head. “You are such a boy. She just wanted you to think that’s what she was doing, hoping it might make you see things her way. But she was never going to go through with it. She was too afraid it would get you in trouble. Besides, there’s a big part of her that believes something weird is going on. She just doesn’t want to admit it.”
“How do you know she didn’t go? You were with me.”
She shrugged. “I asked her.”
“When?”
“When we were waiting in the car at school while you were playing around with your buddy Peter. But I already knew the answer. Oh, and that’s another thing. When the scanner knocked you out, no one was more concerned than she was. She’s doing exactly what a best friend should do. She’s trying to protect you.”
As much as he didn’t want to hear it at the moment, he knew she was probably right.
He decided to change the subject. “So I take it your brother hasn’t been the boss for that long.”
She gave him an odd look.
“This afternoon,” he said, “that little fight about him being in charge.”
“We weren’t fighting, we were just…”
“Disagreeing?”
She took a deep breath. “Ronan’s only been Mr. Trouble for about a year. It’s not an easy job and he’s got some pretty big shoes to fill. My sister and I sometimes forget that.”
“I kind of get the feeling that you think you might be able to do a better job.”
She raised an eyebrow and then, after a few seconds, smiled. “Maybe, but it’s Ronan’s job, not mine. He’s a good Mr. Trouble. Someday he might even be great.”
“Should it concern me that he’s not great yet?”
She laughed. “Not at all. With all of us together, we’re an unbeatable team. You couldn’t be in better hands.”
He hoped she was right. “Has your family really been fighting the Makers for two hundred years?”
“Actually, two hundred and fifty. Great-to-the-seventh Grandpa Thomas Leatherwood became the first, back in 1762.”
“Leatherwood? Like you called yourself at school?” Eric asked, and then he suddenly remembered. “The pamphlet! Your family history. I knew I’d seen that name somewhere before.”
“So you did read it,” she said.
“Ah, well, I kind of half-read it, then fell asleep. Sorry. I don’t remember reading why you changed your name to Trouble, though.”
She rolled her eyes. “Did you bring it with you?”
“It’s in my backpack.”
“Then I suggest you take another look at it before you go to sleep.” She stood up. “Check out great-granddad to the third, Robert. You’ll find your answer there.”
“That’s probably a good idea. Maybe it’ll help me understand what’s going on a little better.” He yawned. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
He leaned over to his backpack, unzipped the front section, and pulled out the pamphlet. As he sat back up, he was surprised to see Fiona still standing there.
“You won’t actually find all the answers in there,” she said, looking a little as if she’d been caught in a lie. “Most clients never even hear the name Maker so the details would only confuse them.”
“But I have heard the name. So I’m not like most of your other clients.”
“No, you definitely aren’t. In fact, I’d say you’re not like any of our previous clients.” She seemed to be lost in thought. “Hold on,” she finally said, then set her book bag on the table.
Out of the main section, she pulled out a dark purple purse, and from inside that, a worn-looking, business-size envelope that had been folded a few times. She hesitated, then handed it to him.
“It’s a copy of a letter Thomas Leatherwood wrote to his son before he died.”
“You mean the first Mr. Trouble?”
She nodded. “Don’t tell Ronan I have it. And especially don’t tell him I let you read it. I like keeping a copy with me. Helps remind me why we do what we do, and how important it is.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t say anything.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Now get some sleep. Tomorrow things will start turning around. You’ll see.”
“What about tonight? Do you think anything will happen?”
“Ronan and Uncle Carl are taking turns watching the neighborhood. We’ll be fine. Goodnight, Eric.”
“Goodnight,” he said.
He carried the pamphlet and the envelope over to his makeshift bed on the couch and lay down. Before he started the letter, he reread the pamphlet, this time paying more attention. But Fiona was right. It didn’t really have a lot of answers.
He unfolded the envelope, hoping it would tell him more. Inside were several sheets of paper that had obviously been handled many times. He started from the top, first reading the stamp that had been imprinted on the page above the letter, then the letter itself.
When he was done, he read it again.
And when he finished that time, he read it once more.
THIS IS A TRANSCRIPT FROM
THE TROUBLE FAMILY ARCHIVES
DOCUMENT LEVEL A TOP SECRET
***FOR FAMILY MEMBERS’ EYES ONLY***
Original Document Located in Archives Vault
May 29, 1780
My dear son Edward,
Forgive me for waiting until after my death to reveal the things I’m about to tell you. I worried that if you were told too soon you would not believe me. You needed to get some experience first, and see some of the things that I have seen before you would be open to the truth.
As I write this, you are only fourteen, but over the past year you have already joined me on several of what you call my “adventures” so I know that even now, you have seen things no other man has ever seen. By the time you read this, it is my hope that you will have completed several adventures of your own and, because of this, will be more open to believing.
As you know, your direction in life has been chosen for you, as it will be for your son, and his son, and his son’s son. Perhaps at this moment of reading you don’t even have a son, but you will. It is your destiny.
And all of this is my fault as much as it is anyone’s.
I’ve talked about the great shipping company I inherited from my father when I still lived in England. But the story I have told to you and to others — that in 1762 I decided to sell my ships and make a new life in what was then the colony of Massachusetts — is not the complete truth. It was a decision forced on me by an event that changed my life and put the Leatherwood family on the path you now find yourself.
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