“I’m sure he’s fine.” Mr. Sloan steered them away from the building and toward the mass of kids.
Emily and James walked through the crowded lawn, trying to spot their teacher or the DJ.
“We didn’t see every single person exiting the gym,” James reasoned. “They must be here somewhere.”
On the fringe of a group, they overheard José telling others, “Dude, a cop took Mr. Quisling into the school, like, for questioning.”
“Did they arrest him?” someone asked.
“He was so uptight. He was bound to crack,” another kid chimed in.
“You’re lying, José,” a girl retorted. “There’s an evacuation. They’re not letting anyone in the school.”
“The fire was only in the gym, Ms. Know-It-All, and it’s out. Not to mention it’s a separate building. I’m telling you,” José said, “I heard an officer tell Mr. Quisling they had an anonymous tip and they needed to look in his classroom.”
James stepped up to the group. “Are you sure?”
José nodded.
“Where’s the DJ? Have you seen him?” Emily asked.
José frowned. “Odd time for a song request,” he said.
Another kid pointed to the street. “He booked it out of here. The fire freaked him out.”
The students continued to buzz. Emily and James stepped back to the outskirts of the crowd.
“Mr. Quisling is going to be blamed for all of this,” James whispered.
It had certainly looked like Mr. Quisling was responsible; Emily couldn’t argue with that. She’d watched him fill the fog machine herself, and he scooted back a second before it exploded, almost as if he’d anticipated it. And what was the anonymous tip the police were questioning Mr. Quisling about, and who had called it in? Coolbrith?
“Charlie took off,” Emily said.
James sighed, but nodded. “If he’s been trying to frame Mr. Quisling to look like an arsonist, we let him walk right into our school and do it.”
“We invited him, even,” Emily added. “And now that the quest thread has been deleted from Book Scavenger, Mr. Quisling is the only person connected to the hidden copies of Tom Sawyer and the locations of the fires. We need to get in that school and talk to him. Right now.”
“There’s no way they’re letting us inside,” James said.
A police officer tied off yellow tape in front of the gym entrance to keep people from reentering. A group of girls were wailing about their purses being left behind with their phones inside, but the officer wasn’t swayed.
The front of the school was still disorganized, with teachers trying but failing to get kids to sit on the lawn. Parents had started arriving in cars. One dad left his engine humming in the middle of the street with the door flung open when he ran over to hug his daughter. The parent started chewing out Principal Montoya.
James tapped Emily’s arm. “I have an idea.”
CHAPTER
42
WHILE EVERYONE ELSE was paying attention to the principal attempting to calm the outraged parent, Emily and James slipped away to the sidewalk and rounded the corner to a side street, like they were heading home, even though this wasn’t the route they would normally take.
A chain-link fence enclosed the school blacktop and faculty parking lot, both dimly lit and devoid of people. This was the opposite side of the school from the gym, so there were no emergency responders here. James pointed to the school building, darkened other than the lit windows of Mr. Quisling’s classroom on the ground floor, and said, “The side door with the gummed-up lock.”
Of course! Emily remembered the door that hadn’t opened or closed properly yesterday. They squeezed through the gate left ajar for the faculty parking and then climbed over the half fence that bordered the lot and blacktop. When Emily jumped to the ground, the fence rattled and clanged, sounding like it was amplified through a megaphone. The two crouched in the shadows to make sure nobody came running outside or around the building, looking for who made the noise. After several minutes passed, they ran, bent low, across the blacktop to the side door.
James pulled the handle, and it didn’t budge at first, like before. He grimaced and tried again; Emily crossed her fingers the janitor hadn’t taken the time to scrape out the old gum and actually lock the door tonight. Finally it gave slightly, then gasped open.
Once inside, they quickly pulled the door shut to snuff out the moonlight cast on the floor. The indoor quiet felt pronounced, like someone had pressed a mute button. Shadowy walls of lockers and darkened classroom windows lined the hallway. They crept toward Room 40. A long, low creak lingered behind them. Emily and James froze mid-step, then scrambled forward to a nearby stairwell where they could hide.
They huddled motionless for several excruciating minutes, waiting to see if the shadows would shift.
“You heard that, right?” James whispered. “That wasn’t my imagination?”
Emily nodded, and then realized he might not be able to see her in the dim light of the stairwell. “Yes,” she said. “Maybe it’s the walls settling.” That had been her parents’ go-to explanation for any creepy nighttime sound in one of their rentals.
They couldn’t hide in the stairwell all night, so they continued toward Mr. Quisling’s classroom. Emily repetitively looked over her shoulder. When they reached the intersecting hallway, voices came from around the corner. One she didn’t recognize said, “Seems unusual for a social studies teacher to keep a supply of sodium metal on hand. Are you aware this element is highly explosive when mixed with water?”
They heard their teacher’s voice reply, “I have no idea how that jar got into my drawer. I swear, I’ve never seen it before in my life.”
“They’re in Mr. Quisling’s room,” Emily whispered.
A police radio crackled. “We’re going to have to confiscate this, all the same. Traces of sodium were in that fog machine. I’m sure you understand.”
“There’s paper wrapped around the jar, too,” a woman’s voice said. After a light rustling, she added, “The handwriting here looks an awful lot like what you have written on that white board. Did you write what’s up there?”
“Yes, but I don’t know what that piece of paper is.”
“Looks like a list of dates: October ninth—Ferry Building, November eleventh—Mission, December twenty-seventh—Washington Square Park…”
“Those are the dates of the fires,” James whispered. “Mr. Quisling is being framed.”
This time, Emily didn’t balk at the idea of doing something. She charged down the hallway to Room 40, no longer worried about making noise. James was right behind her.
“Mr. Quisling, we have to tell you something!” Emily called out as they skidded to a stop just inside the classroom door.
Their teacher jumped up from where he sat on a student’s desktop. A raised welt on his cheekbone and small white bandage marked where debris from the exploding fog machine must have hit him. Two officers were there as well. One held a brown bottle in his hand and had been leaning over Mr. Quisling’s desk, writing something down, while the other was sealing a small piece of paper inside a clear bag.
The officer at the desk straightened. “What is this?!” A tag on his uniform identified him as E. Pike.
The other officer stepped toward them, shooing them with the plastic bag in her hand. “Back outside. Go, go.”
Emily ignored the officers and talked to Mr. Quisling. “Coolbrith is impersonating you on Book Scavenger. Each of the dates on that list is a fire that was set after you found the copy of Tom Sawyer. You’re being set up.”
Mr. Quisling’s brow wrinkled. “How do you know about Coolbrith? How…”
“All right.” Officer Pike clicked his pen and tucked it in his front shirt pocket. “We can’t have you kids in here.”
Emily rushed on, knowing she had a small window of time before the officers made them leave. “James and I should have said something before, but we thought you and Coolbri
th were trying to solve the unbreakable code—”
“The unbreakable code?” Mr. Quisling crossed his arms and frowned. “Emily, this really isn’t the time.”
Officer Pike nodded to his partner, who stepped forward and gently herded Emily and James backward to the hallway.
Emily tilted her head to shout around the officer’s shoulder, “Coolbrith tricked you into thinking he was your old girlfriend leading you on a Book Scavenger quest!”
James leaned his head around the other side of the officer and added, “There was a man at Coit Tower yesterday who started a fire after you found the book. That was Coolbrith!”
Mr. Quisling’s mouth dropped open.
Running footsteps echoed in the hallway. Emily braced herself to see more officers arriving to escort her and James away, but instead Mr. Sloan leaned against the door frame, trying to catch his breath.
“What in the world?” Officer Pike threw his hands in the air. His partner spoke into a handheld radio.
“I saw them sneaking around the school,” Mr. Sloan said between gasps for breath. “I’m sorry they bothered you. I’ll take them out front.”
After so much anguish over whether she should say something to Mr. Quisling, Emily couldn’t believe her words carried no impact. Mr. Quisling might have been surprised by her outburst, but now the look on his face was the same as when he caught Emily and James passing a note in his class: disappointed, but not worried or concerned. The image of her teacher propelling back from the exploding fog machine replayed in her mind. The stifling smell of burning paper at Hollister’s came back to her.
“It’s Charlie, Mr. Quisling,” Emily said. “He’s trying to make you look like an arsonist. He was the DJ and brought the fog machine and must have put the sodium inside, knowing he could ask you to add the solution later. He probably planted that bottle in your classroom, too, and gave the police the anonymous tip.”
“Charlie? My former student?” Mr. Quisling shook his head, refusing to believe Emily. “That’s quite an accusation to make.”
“I know, but someone really is trying to set you up. And you gave Charlie the only D he’s ever gotten for a class. He’s been holding a grudge ever since.”
Officer Pike sighed and removed his pen. Clicking it open, he asked, “Do you have a last name for this Charlie? Is he still here?”
“I remember Charlie,” Mr. Quisling said evenly. “He wasn’t an angry or malicious kid. He also wasn’t a motivated student—that’s why he earned a D. He couldn’t be bothered with homework. I cannot fathom Charlie taking the time and initiative to do what you are saying he did.”
“Don’t underestimate a disgruntled student,” Mr. Sloan said. He rested his hands onto Emily’s and James’s shoulders. “We need to let the police do their job.” He gently pulled them backward to the hallway. To the officers he said, “She was recently involved in a bookstore fire. Very traumatic, as I’m sure you can imagine. Tonight’s events have probably retriggered stressful feelings.”
Emily bristled at this. At first she thought it was because he was dismissing her concerns as some kind of hysteria, and she was tired of not being taken seriously. But then his comment fully registered with her and something clicked.
She pulled away to face Mr. Sloan. “How did you know I was at Hollister’s bookstore the day of the fire?”
Mr. Sloan gave a clipped laugh. “Emily, come on now. You talked about it.”
Emily shook her head. “At the first dance committee meeting after the fire, you said you were sorry to hear I’d been there when it happened. But I never told you I worked at the store. Only a few people knew I helped out at Hollister’s on Saturday morning.”
“That fire was on the news,” Mr. Sloan said.
“But Emily wasn’t on the news,” James pointed out.
Emily dared to look at the other people in the room. Mr. Quisling studied the substitute teacher like he was a painting in a museum. The officers were as attentive as two cats watching a mouse.
Mr. Sloan smiled in a placating sort of way and spoke slowly. “The fire happened weeks ago, Emily. Word travels around a school. And didn’t I see you two at Hollister’s book party? Maybe that’s when I learned you spent your Saturdays at the store.”
“That party happened before she started helping Hollister,” James pointed out.
Emily’s vision blurred, and she was back in Hollister’s Treehouse the morning of the fire, hearing the door chime over and over. If Mr. Quisling had found the Tom Sawyer and left, Charlie might have run out next “to feed his meter,” as he claimed, leaving Emily alone in the store. If Mr. Sloan then entered, he could have assumed the store was empty when he set the fire, but realized he was wrong if he heard her call for Charlie, or if he had waited somewhere outside afterward and seen her race onto the sidewalk.
“You are Coolbrith.” Emily threw the words boldly, trying to sound more confident than she was.
Mr. Sloan laughed. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. What does that even mean—I’m Coolbrith?
Emily turned to Mr. Quisling. Her teacher was far from laughing, but she couldn’t tell if the scowl on his face was directed at her, or if her theory was beginning to make sense. She forged ahead to make her case before the officers lost interest in what she had to say.
“Why did you fill the fog machine, Mr. Quisling?” Emily asked. This seemed like an important question. “Charlie brought it with his DJ equipment. Why didn’t he?”
“Vivian told Charlie to hold off on the dance music and special effects until after the game, remember?” James interjected. “So maybe he couldn’t do it himself while he was playing the music. Maybe he had to ask someone else to do it.”
“Charlie did ask someone else,” Mr. Quisling replied. He was calm—superficially calm—like a teakettle before the boiling water inside makes the whistle blow. “Didn’t he, Harry? But you were too busy manning the snack table—or at least that’s what you told me when you asked if I could grab the fog solution from the break room and start up the machine for the DJ.”
Mr. Sloan rolled his eyes. “Don’t let these kids manipulate you, Brian. It’s been a long, stressful evening. I think you’re getting confused.”
Mr. Quisling took a step closer, and the officers tensed, like they were preparing to separate the two men if they had to.
“I remember who you are now,” Mr. Quisling said. “It’s been over thirty years, but it’s coming back to me. You didn’t go by Harry. When we worked together, you were Harvard Sloan, that odd friend of Miranda’s.”
Mr. Sloan snorted. “Now you remember me? Of course you do, now, when it’s convenient for you. You couldn’t remember me last September at the literary labyrinth. You could barely spare a second to talk with me, you were so high and mighty about your win. But I remembered you. It’s hard to forget someone who ruined your life.”
“I didn’t ruin your life,” Mr. Quisling replied.
Mr. Sloan guffawed. “Oh, you didn’t? I forgot, you’re an expert about my life, too, even though you couldn’t remember me until five seconds ago.”
“If by ruining your life you’re referring to when you were fired from Hamlet High School, that wasn’t my fault.”
Mr. Sloan shook his head, disgusted. “I’ve never met anyone so arrogant. So self-absorbed.”
The two officers exchanged a look, and Officer Pike stepped forward. “Gentlemen—” he began, but Mr. Sloan ignored him.
“I had one chemistry demonstration go wrong, and off you raced to report me to the principal.”
“You launched a fireball across a classroom,” Mr. Quisling said evenly.
“Accidentally. It was my first year teaching. Nobody was hurt. But you couldn’t wait to get rid of me. You knew it was only a matter of time before I would have taken your job, your girlfriend. You got me fired, and that started a chain reaction that ruined my life. But guess what?” Mr. Sloan leaned close to Mr. Quisling, spittle flying off his lip as he hiss
ed, “I. Am. The. Phoenix. I always rise from the ashes.”
“All right.” Officer Pike stepped between the two men. He placed a firm hand on Mr. Sloan’s shoulder. “I’m going to ask you to go with my partner while I finish up here.”
The substitute teacher clamped his mouth shut and allowed himself to be led from the room.
CHAPTER
43
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Officer Pike left, after finishing his report with Mr. Quisling and taking statements from Emily and James.
“So Mr. Sloan is the arsonist, then?” James asked. “He went to all that trouble to get back at you for something that happened over thirty years ago?”
“That appears to be the case.” Mr. Quisling gave a heavy sigh and dropped into his chair, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. “What a waste of a good mind.”
“I would feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so angry about him hurting you and Hollister,” Emily said. “It’s sad. That’s a long time to carry a grudge. That’s more years than I’ve been alive.”
“More years than you and I both put together,” James amended.
“Okay, okay.” Mr. Quisling held up his hands. “I get it: I’m old.” Their teacher gave a light smile and sighed. “I should have known better, getting wrapped up in that quest. I accepted it at the start because, well, I have a hard time turning down a challenge.”
Emily nodded. She could relate to that.
“Actually, at first I assumed Coolbrith was my son, Robbie. The quest title, ‘For Old Times’ Sake,’ sounded like a nod to when he and I used to play the game together. But then after I found the first and second copies of Tom Sawyer, it seemed clear Coolbrith was someone who knew about my old fascination with the unbreakable code. That seemed a little odd coming from Robbie, but I’ve talked to him about it before. I even took him to see the code at the library when he was younger and enjoyed puzzles and Book Scavenger.
The Unbreakable Code Page 20