by Mac Barnett
“This is ridiculous,” Dana said, coming up next to his friend. “There is no such thing as a secret road. We lost him, okay?”
The roar of the ocean obscured the sound of the man coming up behind them, so Steve didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. Steve saw a hand, holding a cloth, in his periphery. Of course. It wasn’t a coincidence that they’d run into a ghostwriter. It was a trap. Steve knew what was about to happen.
Time slowed down. In the moments before the cloth was placed over Steve’s mouth and nose, Steve noticed many tiny details.
The cloth was red.
The man’s sweater sleeve, rolled up, was turquoise.
On his forearm there was a tattoo. Steve just had time to read “rage will always be my last refuge” before he blacked out.
CHAPTER XL
CAPTURED! AGAIN!
WHEN STEVE CAME TO, his hands and feet were trussed up with rough ropes. It was dark—the only light came from a sputtering candle on a rocky ledge above him. He was cold, and so was the ground he was sitting on. His back was against a wet wall, and the air was thick and damp. The soft plinking sound of dripping water came from all sides. There was no doubt about it. Steve was in a sea cave. And his backpack was gone.
Dana was heaped on the ground to Steve’s right. Steve nudged him a couple of times with his feet, and he saw his friend groggily open his eyes.
“Where are we?” Dana asked.
“Who are you?”
Before Steve could answer, someone behind him spoke. “Trapped. In a criminal lair.”
Steve adjusted his position so he could turn toward the voice. A large man with a white beard and salt-and-pepper hair was sitting a few feet away. He was wearing a thick sweater with a large turtleneck and a black eye patch over his right eye. His arms were behind his back, and his legs were bound. The man was smiling, and his smile was warm and wise.
“Who are you?” Dana asked.
Steve knew what the man would say before he said it.
“I’m MacArthur Bart.”
CHAPTER XLI
WELCOME NEWS
“YOU DO EXIST!” STEVE SAID.
“Of course I do,” said MacArthur Bart. “I wrote you that letter.”
Steve’s heart was happy. He wanted to shake his hero’s hand, and would have, except for the ropes.
“I’m glad to see you, Steve. Although I wish we were meeting under better circumstances. And you must be Steve’s friend Dana.”
“Hey,” said Dana. “Good to meet you.”
MacArthur Bart sniffed. “What smells like a campfire?”
“We do,” Dana said. “What’s going on? Where are we?”
MacArthur Bart smiled sadly. “We’ve all been kidnapped by the B. Syndicate.”
“The B. Syndicate’s a front!” said Steve. “They claim they wrote the Bailey Brothers books!”
MacArthur Bart’s smile disappeared. “I know. Those ghostwriters are nothing more than mercenaries. Smugglers, thieves, and thugs. That’s why I got in touch with you—I was hoping you could help me deal with them.”
“What do you mean?” Steve asked.
Bart chuckled. “I suppose I have a little explaining to do.”
“I’ll say,” Dana said.
“Well, let’s start at the beginning.” Bart leaned back against the limestone wall. “When I was a young man, not so much older than the two of you, I had to support myself. And so I wrote my first book. It was a mystery for children, about two teen sleuths who recover a sunken treasure in the bayside town where they live. The first Bailey Brothers mystery. It was very popular, and I wrote more. Many more. Three books a year for the next ten years.
“Now, boys, like many writers I am shy, even private by nature. I had a small house in the forests north of San Francisco, where I did my writing in isolation. With success came fame, but I wanted no part of fame. And so whenever I went out in public, I did so under an assumed name.”
“A. C. Snuffley,” said Steve.
“Exactly!” said Bart. “I’ve used many fake names, but that has always been one of my favorites. And so, even as a nation of children grew to love MacArthur Bart, nobody knew that I was he. And then, after fifty-eight books, fifty-eight thrilling and action-packed Bailey Brothers mysteries, I ran out of ideas. I cobbled together The Bailey Brothers’ Detective Handbook by pulling tricks and tips from the previous books. But the handbook was the last book I ever wrote.
“I had writer’s block. I could come up with bits and pieces of Bailey Brothers stories, sure, but I couldn’t finish anything. A year passed. Then five years passed. And soon I gave up. I became more and more reclusive. I threw out my television set, stopped reading the newspaper. That was a long time ago.”
“What about the ghostwriters?” Steve asked.
“I was getting to that. A few years after I stopped writing, I received a visitor: a young man who called himself Jack Antrim. I don’t know how he found me, but I was sorry he did. He was a gangster, plain and simple, the leader of a crime ring. And he had a bold plan. Every illegal enterprise needs a legitimate front. A fake business helps you launder money and throws off the police. Well, this Antrim wanted to hide his gang behind a literary syndicate. It was brilliant. Who’s going to look closely at a bunch of writers for hire? I can’t imagine a less interesting group of people than writers.”
Steve saw where this was going and chimed in. “So he created the story that his gang wrote the Bailey Brothers Mysteries!”
“Exactly. A completely legitimate front.”
“But why’d you go along with it?” Steve asked.
“I was scared. He said he’d kill me if I went public. Besides, I had money, and, like I said, I didn’t want attention.”
“But that’s cowardly!” Dana said. Bart winced.
It hurt Steve to hear his hero called a coward, but he couldn’t disagree.
“You’re right, Dana. It was cowardly. But a few months ago I was stocking up on supplies in the town near my home and I saw a magazine cover promising an article on ‘the Real MacArthur Bart.’ I picked it up, of course, and there was a picture of Jack Antrim smiling back at me. It was a bunch of hogwash about his grandfather and the B. Syndicate, and it all made me so furious I started shaking. I decided enough was enough. And when I received your letter about solving that mystery in Ocean Park—the publisher still forwards my mail to a P.O. box I keep under the name Philip Snatterly—I knew you could help me. So I came to visit you. But the B. Syndicate got to me before we could meet.”
“And so now here we are,” said Steve. “Sorry we couldn’t be more help.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Bart. “I could always use the help of a couple detectives.”
“Actually, Steve’s the only detective. I’m just Dana.”
“How can we help you?” Steve asked.
“You can help me escape,” said Bart, his eye twinkling.
“But we’re all tied up,” said Steve.
“Come on, Steve,” said Bart. “The Bailey Brothers’ Detective Handbook. Chapter sixteen: ‘Escaping from Your Bonds.’”
“‘Find a keen blade or a piece of slate and secretly saw the ropes against the sharp edge,’” said Steve.
“You forgot ‘jagged limestone formations,’” Bart said. He paused, straining, then smiled. “There.”
He brought his arms in front of his chest and rubbed his wrists.
Bart was free!
CHAPTER XLII
A DARING PLAN
MACARTHUR BART UNTIED Dana and Steve quickly. The boys stood up. Steve’s muscles were sore, and his head ached.
“Listen up,” said Bart. “We’re in a small room off the cave’s main chamber. That’s where the ghostwriters have their hideout. There’s a narrow passageway that connects this cavern to theirs. Are you boys following me?”
Steve and Dana nodded.
“Now,” Bart continued, “there are usually only two ghostwriters here at a tim
e. Our best plan is to lure them in here and then ambush them. I’ll take one; you two take the other.”
“How are we going to do that?” Dana asked. “It’s not exactly a fair fight.”
Dana had a point. Bart seemed pretty strong, especially for an old man, but Steve and Dana didn’t exactly have the best record when it came to throwdowns.
“I used to box,” said Bart, “and I still train regularly.” Steve was beyond impressed. “I’ll try to look out for you two. But if you can, hit these guys in the solar plexus.”
It was time to settle this once and for all.
“Mr. Bart,” said Steve, “where is the solar plexus?”
Bart smiled and pointed to his abdomen.
“Why didn’t you just say stomach?” Dana asked.
“Because,” said Bart, “the simplest way to say things is seldom the most enjoyable.”
“Yeah, come on, Dana,” said Steve. “Solar plexus sounds completely ace.”
The trio moved over to the mouth of the passageway. Bart positioned himself on one side; Dana and Steve crouched on the other.
“Ready?” asked MacArthur Bart.
“Yeah,” said Steve.
“I don’t know,” said Dana.
“Help!” shouted Bart. “Help! One of the boys is injured! He’s bleeding!”
Steve heard footsteps and saw the walls of the passageway glow orange with the light of a flashlight. Someone was approaching.
CHAPTER XLIII
AMBUSH
JACK ANTRIM STEPPED out of the passageway.
“What—” was all he managed to say before MacArthur Bart landed an uppercut to his chin. Antrim dropped his flashlight, reeled back, and put his fists up. “Scott! Get in here! They’re trying to escape!”
Bart and Antrim moved into the center of the cave, punching and counterpunching, dodging and circling.
Another set of footfalls echoed.
“Let’s come at him from both sides,” Dana said hurriedly. He repositioned himself on the other side of the passageway.
In the dim light of Antrim’s flashlight, Steve saw the second ghostwriter emerge into the room. Even in the dark, Steve recognized him: It was the doorman.
Dana screamed. The doorman turned toward Steve’s chum. Steve panicked. Now that the brute’s back was to Steve, how could he punch his solar plexus? Dana launched himself at the ghostwriter, and the man came stumbling back toward Steve, who was still crouching. First the doorman, then Dana, tripped over Steve and came crashing onto the cavern floor. There was a dull thump.
Steve reached for Antrim’s flashlight and shone it on the pair of bodies. Dana turned back to the light, his eyes huge. The doorman wasn’t moving. “He hit his head on a stalagmite,” Dana said.
“I think you mean a stalactite,” said Steve.
“No,” said Dana. “I mean a stalagmite.”
Steve thought about it for a second. Dana was right. Too bad. “Whatever,” Steve said.
“I think we sort of kayoed him,” Steve said.
“I think we totally kayoed him,” said Dana.
Steve stared at the man on the ground. Even though the doorman had been ready to fight them seconds earlier, and shooting at them a couple of days ago, Steve felt a little worried about him.
“Is he breathing?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know,” said Dana.
Steve crouched down next to the man on the ground.
“What are you doing?” Dana asked.
“Checking his pulse,” Steve said. He saw the tattoo, “rage will always be my last refuge.” But Steve froze when he rolled up the man’s sleeve. The tattoo continued.
“He’s fine,” said Dana. “I can see him breathing.”
But Steve still stared at the man’s arm. He remembered the ghostwriter from yesterday, staring down at his crossed arms. So this was how these thugs masqueraded as writers—their tattoos were permanent cheat sheets that helped them write a page from the Bailey Brothers on command.
Behind him, Steve heard a man groan and drop to the floor.
CHAPTER XLIV
AN UNDERGROUND ESCAPE
STEVE TURNED AND POINTED the flashlight toward the sound. Antrim was on the ground, moaning softly. Bart, the sleeves of his sweater rolled up and his hands balled in fists, was still standing.
“Come on, boys,” said Bart. “Let’s get out of here.”
The two boys followed the writer down the passageway and into the main chamber of the cave. A series of electric lamps lined the walls. Steve was dumbstruck. Four shiny sports cars were parked in the middle of the cavern. Ornately framed paintings, wrapped in plastic, leaned against a rock column. Marble statues stood next to stalagmites. Wooden crates were everywhere. It looked like an underground bank vault.
“What’s with all the treasure?” Dana asked.
“This must be where the B. Syndicate hides all their loot,” Steve replied. Something on a small card table in the middle of the chamber caught Steve’s eye. There, next to a pile of magazines, was Steve’s green backpack. He ran for it.
“Steve!” shouted Bart. “What are you doing? We need to get out of here.”
“My backpack!” Steve said.
“We don’t have time,” said Bart.
“Just leave it,” Dana said.
But Steve kept running. He got to the table, slipped on a wet rock, picked himself up, and put on his backpack. Then he ran back to Bart and Dana.
“That was so dumb,” Dana said.
“I need my detective kit,” Steve replied.
“Never mind that,” said Bart. “I overheard the ghostwriters say there were two ways out of this cave.” He pointed to the right. A faint breeze came from that direction. “That way leads to the ocean. The other way leads to an opening up on the cliffs.”
“Let’s go up,” Steve said.
Bart nodded. They worked their way toward the back of the chamber, which narrowed to a steeply sloping pathway. Soon the electric lamps ended. Steve got out his flashlight and handed Antrim’s to Bart.
Bart led the way, Dana was second, and Steve brought up the rear. He hoped he could run like that when he was Bart’s age. He wished he could run like that now. Steve couldn’t believe he was escaping from a crime syndicate after sort of rescuing his hero. As he jogged in the near dark, he played the past few days’ events over in his mind. Like the Bailey Brothers would say, this had been a dilly of a case. Steve had never known what that meant, but he thought he did now.
After following the passageway up for what seemed like miles, Steve felt cool air on his face.
“We’re getting near the opening,” Bart said.
And he was right. Soon Steve could make out the silhouettes of trees and the starry sky ahead.
And then they were outside again. They kept going for a few minutes and then paused for a rest. Steve, Dana, and MacArthur Bart paused by the trunk of a tall tree and caught their breath.
“We did it,” Bart said.
Dana was grinning.
Bart stroked his beard. “We’ll rest here for a couple more minutes, then find our way to the road, which should be over that way. We’ll try to find a ranger and get a ride back to San Francisco. Then we’ll figure out how to take out this gang once and for all.”
That plan sounded great.
Steve reached into his backpack and pulled out a pen and the copy of The Treasure on the Chinese Junk Antrim had given him. “Mr. Bart,” Steve said, “now that we’re out of there, would you do me a favor? Would you sign this book for me?”
“Steve,” said Dana, his smile gone, “I don’t think now is the best time for this. We’re still kind of escaping right now.”
“Those guys are all kayoed,” Steve said. “I can’t stand thinking that this book is signed by a ghostwriter.”
MacArthur Bart laughed. “Sure, Steve.” Bart winked at Dana. “Don’t worry, I sign fast.” He scribbled something and gave it back.
Steve studied the book in the moonl
ight.
Steve smiled.
Dana shook his head. “First the backpack, now this. It’s like you want to get caught.”
Steve wheeled toward his friend. “For your information, going back for the backpack was important. The Nichols Diamond is in my backpack, okay?”
Dana’s eyes grew large.
“What,” Steve said. “You think I’d be stupid enough to hide it in my room?”
Dana shook his head. He was looking past Steve.
Steve turned around.
MacArthur Bart was holding a gun.
CHAPTER XLV
FIENDISHLY BETRAYED
“OH, NO,” SAID STEVE. “No no no no no.”
“I’m afraid so, Steve,” said MacArthur Bart.
“So you’re not MacArthur Bart!” said Dana.
Steve shook his head slowly. “No. He is.”
“Yes, I am,” said Bart. “You’re figuring it out, aren’t you, detective?”
“I’m not,” said Dana.
“This was all you,” said Steve.
“What?” asked Dana. “What’s going on?”
Steve ignored him. “You made up this whole kidnapping business.” Bart nodded. Steve continued, “We didn’t just escape. That was all just a dance back there, a trick to get the diamond. You’re the thief who broke into Fairview’s mansion.”
Steve couldn’t take his eyes off the gun in his face.
“Very good,” said Bart.
Steve put his hands over his eyes. “And I tipped you off to the plant in the drill.”
“You did?” Dana asked.
“He did,” Bart said. “In his weekly letter to me. I was dismayed to read that you’d cracked my scheme for smuggling the diamond out past Fairview’s security system. Impressed, but dismayed. But I’m so glad you clued me in about the plant. You were so proud of yourself, Steve!”
Steve slouched.
“You lied to us!” said Dana. “You’re not a writer! You’re a crook.”
Bart turned. “I’m both,” he said. “The story I told you in the cave was true. Up to a point. I am a very private person. And I did write the Bailey Brothers books—all of them. And I did get writer’s block. But that’s where the truth ends.