“Trust me. Wendy is not interested in boys, Werly. Save yourself the effort.”
He had no right to say what I was interested in—though he was right, at least about Werling.
Werling snorted at Ben’s estimation. “I think she’d be the best judge of that.”
My God, Werling actually sounded forceful. From my position, I peeked through the ductwork. They crossed to the large trunk. Ben flipped the latches. “Open tunnel five,” he said. The lid opened by itself.
Werling grabbed the lid. “I realize I’m not exactly Don Juan, but I have my good qualities.”
Ben patted him on the shoulder. “Yes, you do, Werling. You have some excellent qualities. However, judging Wendy’s interest in you is just not one of them.”
“She hasn’t seen my romantic, poetic side. I think you’ll find a change once she gets to know me. And you forget: persistence is my middle name.”
I could hardly keep from cracking up.
“Persistence is fine,” Ben said. “Just remember, I warned you.”
“Right. I’ll see you at the cave.” And then Werling disappeared down into the trunk, not bending over or doubling up like he might have if he were hiding in it. Instead, he climbed down like he was on a ladder.
I could cross off one question on my list. Bizarre as it seemed, the trunk was their way in and out.
Ben returned upstairs. When I heard him shut the kitchen door behind him, I tiptoed to the trunk, which was again closed and latched. I saw nothing strange about its outside; it was just an old green metal trunk with tarnished brass caps at the corners. I gave it a light knock and was surprised that it sounded muffled, like it might be full. The latches weren’t locked, so I flipped them open. So far, so good, but I recalled Ben’s warning about home security. The smell of Cathal’s burned hand wasn’t that old, and I decided to be careful. I got a wooden yardstick from the workbench and cautiously lifted the lid. To my surprise, the trunk was full of old clothes! There was no ladder. I poked the clothes and tried to lift them, but I got nowhere. Maybe I was going crackers.
Nine
River Rangers
“Honey, you need to take it easy today,” Aunt Mary said to Ben. She put the back of her hand to his forehead. “You look like you may be coming down with something. You stay in bed today.”
“I’m fine,” Ben said. The dark lines under his eyes said differently.
“Well, I’m in faculty meetings all day. I’ll be home to make supper,” Aunt Mary said.
“And I’m stuck at a seminar downtown,” Uncle Craig added. “I guess you two are on your own again.”
“No problem,” I said as I munched toast. “I’ll stay and watch Ben. He must be walking in his sleep to look so exhausted.” I emphasized the word “walking” and gave Ben a knowing grin. I was a light sleeper. My mom used to say she had to tie me to the bed at night or I’d float away. About 2:00 a.m. I had heard Ben go downstairs to the basement. By the time I got my robe on and followed, he was gone. He was gone half the night and didn’t return until five.
Ben narrowed his eyes and twisted his mouth up to one side. “There’s no need,” he said. It must have hit him I knew he had been out last night because he widened his eyes and didn’t look so sleepy anymore.
I simply smiled and nodded to confirm his suspicion. His jaw tightened but he said nothing.
“Wendy, you are a dear,” Aunt Mary said. “Ben, you stay home today and rest. There’s soup in the fridge.” Aunt Mary glanced at the kitchen clock on the stove. “Time to go.”
Uncle Craig folded his paper. “You two be good.”
“Oh, we’ll be good as can be,” Ben said.
“Why do I get a sinking feeling when you say things like that?” Aunt Mary said.
“I’ll make sure he behaves,” I said and smiled. Ben gave me a quick, twisted imitation smile in return.
“I’m so glad you are here, Wendy,” Aunt Mary said and beamed.
She really meant it, and it gave me a strange, good feeling.
They grabbed backpacks and bike helmets. Off they went.
Ben waited for the door to shut, then faced me over his cereal. “You can charm them, but you’re not bossing me. Understand?”
In some ways Tyrone and Ben are a lot alike. Luckily, or unluckily, I had experience in handling thickheaded boys. “Here’s the news, cuz. There’s a load you’re holding back—not telling me. I’m betting your folks would shriek at your nocturnal trips.” I added the “s” to trip, making it plural, like I knew there had been more than one. I could bet there had been, but I was fishing.
Ben took a deep breath and concurred with a nod. “Blackmail, huh? I should’ve expected it.”
I was right about the trips. “No blackmail. Just answer my questions and we’re cool.”
He gave it some thought while he studied me. He looked like he was weighing everything I had said or done since I arrived. “Okay. But there’s one condition.”
“What?”
“You must swear to keep what I say confidential. You know what that means?”
“Duh!”
His expression didn’t change and his eyes drilled into me.
“Okay, okay. I can keep a secret.” I spat in my hand and held it out. “I swear.”
He looked disgusted but shook.
* * *
In the basement, Ben pulled out a ratty old bandana and said, “You have to be blindfolded.”
“Ben, I’ve scoped out the trunk.”
This took him a moment to think through. “You’ve been spying on me?”
“No, Ben, I’m psychic. I saw it in the stars. Yes! Of course I’ve been spying.”
“And I used to wonder what it would be like to have a sister.” He put the bandana away. “I didn’t know how lucky I was.”
I smiled at his annoyance and stepped over to the trunk. “Open tunnel five,” I commanded.
Nothing happened. Ben crossed his arms and smirked. I repeated the command and when nothing happened again, I lifted the lid and saw the pile of musty old clothes. “Okay, what’s the trick?”
“For you, I’d say the trick is not sneaking around and poking your nose into things that you shouldn’t.”
“You are so full of it.”
“Without defining ‘it,’ that could very well be a compliment. I could be full of intelligence, wisdom, and good—”
“Zip it!” I snapped. “You made your point. But I know this thing is not a trunk . . . or it is a trunk, but it’s like a secret passage, and I’m willing to bet Uncle Craig and Aunt Mary don’t know about it.”
He was not as good at hiding his fear as he thought. I used to play poker with my brother, Tyrone, and could read him like a book. I smiled smugly.
“Very well,” he said and closed the lid. “It has personal voice recognition. Open tunnel five.”
There was a clunk and an electric whir. The lid opened onto a dark hole with a ladder. I looked down into a rocky tunnel. “Awesome,” I said, and I meant it. “Very awesome.”
The tunnel was cold and clammy. It smelled moldy and seemed to be a natural cave, though parts of the walls looked chiseled. There were lights on the ceiling every twenty paces. They automatically switched on at our approach. By my sense of direction, it headed east toward the river. Now I had more questions than ever, but Ben pushed past me and didn’t look in the mood for explanations. He was probably pissed, though it was hard to tell with him. I didn’t imagine he liked being outsmarted. He strode further into the tunnel. I used my asking-for-a-favor voice. It always worked on Dad. “Cathal isn’t really a kelpie, a water horse thing, is he?”
“You saw him.” Ben pointed to a low-hanging rock. “Duck.”
I ducked. “Okay, suppose I buy that for the moment. And I’m not saying I do. What does he have to do with the clams?”
“I’m not sure he has anything to do with them. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
The floor slanted down. Our path turned gradual
ly to the left, then to the right. It went on and on. I guessed we’d walked a block. The walls finally spread out and a crevice in the ceiling went up into the shadows. “What was Werling doing dressed like a bush?” I asked.
“When strange things happen in the park, we sometimes keep watch.” He stopped to tap a light that was not working. “Werling, however, tries to be invisible. It’s in his personality.” The light flashed on.
“This is all part of a club or something?”
“Or something.” He turned and continued down the tunnel. Ahead I saw a door. It was massive and made of rough stone. Ben’s hand quickly passed over a section of the cavern wall and a door opened toward us. Inside was a lit room about the size of the Prestons’ dining room. Lining one wall was electronic equipment. On another was what looked like a biology lab. Some of the room was a workshop, with a drill press and tools and large closets. Werling and another pudgy boy hunched over a Bunsen burner heating a clear glass beaker filled with red liquid. They were so absorbed that they didn’t even look up at our entrance.
Ben smiled at my open-mouthed reaction and said, “Welcome to River Rangers Headquarters.”
Ten
Pearl Fishers
“You can’t allow her in here!” the tubby, olive-skinned boy next to Werling sputtered. He had a Mideastern accent. He was short, round and shaped like a hamster.
“What?” I said. I was too amazed at the cave to register much else.
Werling spotted me and broke into a silly grin. “Hi, Wendy.”
“Mitigating circumstances, Oliver,” Ben said. “I’ll explain later.” He pulled me all the way into the room. It was like the Bat Cave without the budget. “Oliver, this is Wendy. My cousin. Anything of interest in the sample?” he asked hamster-boy.
Now I saw half of a clamshell bouncing around in Oliver’s boiling red liquid. It was probably the one that Ben took from Ally. The rest of it was on a cutting board, where the stuff from its insides was outside. It was not pretty, but I’m not squeamish. In science class, I’d dissected my frog and labeled it before most of the boys got over touching it. Oliver eyeballed me, and I stared back. He looked away.
“Is that the clam you got from the creek?” I asked.
“Mussel,” Oliver corrected.
“We’re performing an autopsy,” Werling said brightly.
“I beg your pardon!” Oliver said. “I’m performing an autopsy.”
“Oliver is our biology genius,” Ben explained.
Oliver lifted his chins and looked down his nose at me, even though he was talking to Ben. “What you brought in was a Lampsilis higginsii, or Higgins’ Eye, common to the Midwest. It is margaritiferous—able to produce pearls.” He went on to repeat pretty much what Ben had said about the clam at the creek. Meanwhile, I charged up a genuine dislike for Oliver. There was some family history in my feelings. Mom mistrusted all Arabs or Mideasterns or whatever, claiming they were all terrorists. But Dad used to say, “You can destroy your enemies more easily by making them friends.” He told us that Abraham Lincoln had said that. Dad was in the army and didn’t hate Iraqis, so I figured he knew something. After he was killed, Mom said one of Lincoln’s “friends” had shot him. She slapped me when I said Dad wouldn’t agree. Things did not go well after Dad died.
“Thank you, Dr. Science,” Werling said to Oliver, then added, “We estimate its age at about eighty. It could have hidden a large pearl.”
Oliver pointed at me. “Having her here is a Ranger violation, Ben,” he warned. He glared at me with brown eyes over his safety glasses.
“Who is this . . . person?” I snapped and walked over to him. I went face to face.
Oliver sat back, surprised.
“There’s nothing in our laws to prohibit her,” Ben said. “What’s your objection, Oliver?”
“Um, well, there have never been girls.” Oliver said. I could tell he was not happy having me so close.
Werling raised his hand and waved it. “I vote we admit Wendy!”
“I imagined you would,” Ben said drily. “Oliver, your objection is noted. Now, we don’t have time for argument. I need to talk to you about your findings.”
He turned to Werling. “Wendy has sworn to keep our secrets, and I trust her. You two go out on the front porch. Explain things to her.”
“Um, alone?” Werling stammered.
Ben gave him a pained expression. “No, Werling, not alone. Take Wendy with. Answer her questions.” Ben turned and leaned over the clam, starting a conversation with Oliver.
Werling gulped, but bowed slightly to me and said, “This way.”
I got the feeling Werling was like a dog who chased cars and had finally caught one. He didn’t know what to do with me. I smiled at the thought.
The other end of the room had another stone door, much smaller. Werling guided me that way, then peered through a peephole in the door. He opened it with a pass of his hand. Soft daylight filled the space beyond. I touched the door on the way out and realized it was solid stone. Amazing. I’d have to ask how all this stuff worked.
The “front porch” was really the mouth of the headquarters’ cave, where it opened to overlook the river flats. There was a small ledge with the black ashes of an old campfire. Around it, a cut log and a few large rocks made for seats. It was up a cliff, and we were midway up to the tree tops. Old elms and oaks spread out on the flats below us. The glittering Mississippi River was visible through the branches, about 200 yards away. Steep rocks and scrubby bushes led down from our perch. It was rough but climbable and open to anyone with a set of legs. There were cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and pop cans scattered around. The hot air was a relief after the boiled clam smell of the HQ. The uneven rock faces were covered with spray-painted graffiti. Our “door” fit seamlessly into the rock wall. I couldn’t see a break in the wall when Werling closed the door.
“Nice decorating job,” I said and took a seat on one of the larger rocks.
Werling grinned. “It’s always been a hangout. Um, we don’t use this door much and don’t want to draw attention, so we leave the garbage. We have tunnels and caves running all up and down the cliffs. I want to clean it up but Ben said the garbage is part of the disguise.”
“Exactly who are ‘we’?” I said and leaned back on another boulder, folding one leg up under me and holding my other knee with both hands. The sun shone on my back and felt good.
Werling ran his eyes up and down me and said, “Oh boy.” He puffed and took a deep breath, shifting his gaze anywhere but me. He was totally nervous. Pathetic.
“I won’t bite,” I said.
He found a rock and sat. He was terrified. It was kind of cute, in a way. If Ben expected him to explain things, he should have given him time to prepare. I decided to risk a question. “What’s your name? Your first name?”
“Huh?”
“I’ll take it slow. Ben calls you Werling. Is that your first name?”
“No.”
“Then it must be your last name, because I know your middle name is persistence.”
Like an overheated thermometer, red started at the bottom of his face and flowed up until I swear his scalp glowed. “Ben told you!” He was steaming as he got up. “I’ll kill him.”
I unclasped my knee and grabbed his arm to keep him from storming back into the cave. My teasing had gone a little too far. “Ben didn’t say anything. I overheard you two talking in the basement.”
“You overheard?” He suddenly stopped and tried to recall what else he had said, “You heard everything?” He was stunned.
“Um, I just heard the last part about your middle name,” I lied.
He looked doubtful, but then he noticed I was holding his arm. I took my hand off him. The red drained away, and he looked down shyly. “I’m sorry. I guess I kind of overreacted.”
“I guess.”
He brushed his sleeve where I’d grabbed him.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to grab you.”
�
��Oh, that’s all right.” He smiled and looked up at me. “It’s Marion.”
“What’s Marion?”
“You asked what my first name is. Um, it’s Marion. That’s my first name.” He looked like he was ready for me to laugh.
“Marion? Marion. Like John Wayne?”
He nodded, relieved. “You know the Duke’s first name. Cool.”
“So, we’re on a first-name basis now?” I asked.
“Cool beans!” he said. After that, he talked without falling over or stuttering. He explained that the River Rangers were a group of brainiacs who were deep into science and the environment and helped to maintain the river and park. I got the feeling he wanted me to think of them as a cross between the Boy Scouts and double-O-seven. Secret tunnels, an underground lab stacked with spooky electronic equipment—a mad scientist laboratory was pretty cool—and mysterious.
“Werling, there’s more going on here than a Cub Scout meeting. I’m not stupid.”
“Certainly not. You have a beautiful brain. I mean, a great brain and a beautiful, um, er—”
I cut him short before he blew a fuse. “So what’s with all this?”
“All what?” He looked truly puzzled.
I knew I wasn’t speaking Russian. I let out a scream of frustration.
Werling waved his hands. “Wendy, don’t do that.”
The door opened and Ben rushed to the mouth of the cave. “What’s going on? What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Werling insisted.
“Werling, did you recite one of your poems?” Ben asked.
“Ben! No!” Werling said and blushed redder than a traffic light.
“Thank heaven for that,” Ben said.
“Poems?” I asked.
Ben said, “He’s written a pile of poems about you—”
Werling grabbed Ben’s arm and twisted it, stopping him mid-sentence. Ben snatched his arm away, but gave Werling an apologetic grimace and continued, “about the Yu . . . kon. Right. Poems about the Yukon. He’s always talking about the Yukon. He loves Alaska.”
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