The Whites of Their Eyes

by Andrew Clements

  Ben jerked his head around to look at Robert’s face—was he joking? No, couldn’t be, not about that . . . and he wasn’t smiling. Ben didn’t know how to react, when suddenly he pulled in a sharp breath—he hadn’t realized that he’d stopped breathing when Robert said that, about the car crash.

  “I’m—I didn’t know any of that—about—all that.”

  Robert shrugged. “No sweat—not many kids do. I mean, that was when I was in kindergarten, so it’s not like it got talked about at school or anything. The teachers all know ’cause Gram’s always at my conferences and stuff. But everything’s working out okay.”

  Ben smiled faintly, but he didn’t know what to say.

  “So,” Robert went on, “you want food or anything? Gram made some killer chocolate-chocolate chip cookies, and there’s ice cream—all kinds of good stuff.”

  Ben shook his head. “No thanks—maybe later. I just ate at the steak house with my dad. Oh—I mean—yeah, I—I just ate.”

  Talking about his dad? After what Robert had just said? So stupid!

  Ben felt his face turning red.

  Robert looked at him hard. “Listen, Pratt, I get it, okay? Almost everybody else has parents, and I don’t. It’s just the way it is, and I’m okay with it. So don’t get all weirded out. Sheesh!”

  “Sorry,” Ben said, still blushing.

  “And don’t say you’re sorry, either, Pratt. I’m still the same pushy jerk I’ve always been, right? So lighten up . . . before I have to come over there and punch you.”

  Ben laughed. “Right. A jerk. And pushy . . . so true.”

  Robert pointed at the table by the couch. “Toss me the remote. Gram said we could watch anything as long as it’s PG or PG-13 . . . wanna check out the cable listings? Or we could hook up my PlayStation. . . .”

  By eleven forty-five the TV was off, but it was still warm.

  Robert said, “I know it’s kind of early, but if we’re quiet now, Gram’ll be snoring in ten minutes. Maybe we should catch some sleep too, set our phones to buzz at two thirty. What do you think?”

  Ben was surprised Robert was asking his opinion. All night long he’d been the total chief about everything—the movie they’d watched (“Nah, that one stinks . . . this is the one we want.”), their Need for Speed marathon (“I am invincible!”), even about the snacks (“Sour cream and onion chips are the best!”).

  Ben nodded. “Yeah, some sleep would be good.”

  They both set alarms, and then Robert turned off the lamp on the table by his cot. With the light out, the wide glass walls and skylights of the sunroom stopped acting like mirrors and became windows again.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Ben felt like they were sleeping outside. There was no moon—he had checked the moon-phase calendar earlier. But the streetlights threw enough glow to reveal the oak and maple trees overhead, their swaying limbs outlined against the cloudy sky.

  After five minutes or so, Ben could tell Robert was still awake too. It seemed kind of weird to just lie there, both of them wide awake, without saying anything. But then again, it was a welcome break. Robert had talked nonstop all night.

  And anyway, what was there to talk about?

  I could always tell him that he’s started being pretty obnoxious again, especially to Jill. . . .

  He smiled to himself at that, but instantly heard his mom’s voice in his mind: If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything.

  Something nice? About Gerritt? How about halfway nice?

  “You know tonight?” Ben said quietly. “When you said you were the same pushy jerk? That’s pretty much how I always saw you.”

  Hmm . . . was that nice at all?

  But Ben heard a smile in the voice that answered.

  “That’s not exactly a news flash, y’know.” Robert paused. “So . . . what about now?”

  Ben had an answer ready, and almost cracked himself up. “Progress—from a D-minus up to a C-plus.”

  Robert laughed softly. “Nice report card . . .” He was quiet a moment. “You know, I kind of envied how your mom and dad never missed anything you did at school—choir concerts, that art show in fourth grade, even that dumb play we did for Colonial Day . . . you were Governor Winthrop.”

  “And you got to be Captain Oakes—I was so jealous!” Then Ben added, “And I—I was also jealous of how rich you were—new clothes all the time, and when you got your boat last year? That about killed me.”

  “Me? Rich?” Robert was genuinely surprised. “You got that wrong, completely. When my mom and dad died, they both had insurance, and the money went into a trust fund. Gram gets paid for my expenses once a month, and she’s crazy about making sure I dress nice for school. And the boat, that was a present from my uncle Mike. He’s not really rich, but he doesn’t have any kids, so I’m his go-to guy when he feels sad that his little brother died. I mean, it’s not like I wasn’t glad to get the boat and everything—but it’s not the same as yours.”

  Ben sat up on the couch. “Who told you about my boat? I was gonna keep it a secret until I crushed you out on the bay next weekend!”

  “Shhh! You’re gonna wake Gram.”

  Ben whispered again, “Who told you?”

  “Jill—she said your mom and dad pitched in for it . . . but you can forget about trophies, Pratt. The sailor wins the races, not the boat.”

  “Yeah, big talk.”

  “Big winner, you mean!” said Robert.

  “Big jerk, is more like it” said Ben. “And pushy, too—D-minus!”

  They both laughed a little, and then the room settled into a comfortable silence.

  Ben yawned, and ten seconds later, Robert did too.

  “So,” Robert said, “at oh-two-thirty hours, we roll.”

  “You mean, at five bells, we roll.”

  “Whatever. Get some sleep, Pratt.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  But Ben lay awake. He could hear Robert’s grandmother snoring from upstairs, as predicted. A low branch scraped on the roof now and then. And in just a few minutes, he heard Robert’s breathing slide into a deep, regular rhythm—waves on a beach.

  He was glad Robert had explained about his parents, and about the clothes. His boat, too. That stuff really was a news flash. But really, it was more like learning history. You go along, and you think the world is one way, then you pick up just a few more facts, and everything changes.

  Ben was pretty sure he’d never look at Robert the same way again. And he felt like that was a good thing.

  He also felt like this was going to change the way he looked at the problems his own family was having.

  And that was a good thing too.

  CHAPTER 15

  Red-Handed

  Getting out of Robert’s house had been as simple as waking up, pulling on black sweatshirts, grabbing their backpacks, and tiptoeing right down the steps from the sunroom.

  There were no traffic sounds—not on Central Street, not even on Salem Street. Ben could tell it was low tide by the smell of the onshore breeze—sort of a rich, muddy taste in the air.

  “This way,” Robert said, and Ben followed. Behind his house an alleyway cut through to Oak Street.

  Instead of taking Robert’s normal route to school, they crossed Central onto Church Street, which took them past the Congregational Church.

  Ben wondered about Robert’s parents buried there in the graveyard. What was it like for him, to know his mom and dad were right there . . . and did he remember them clearly, from back when he was so little? Ben pushed all that out of his head and concentrated on staying in the shadows.

  Four minutes later they were in the trees on the school grounds, coming at the building from the south. Robert whispered, “Let’s take this really slow, check the place out before we try to get in. You have an idea which door we should use?”

  Ben had thought about that. “I think the northeast door is still the best.”

  “No way,” Robert said. “Lyman knows you
’ve used that door. If he had any spare sensors, he’d rearm that one for sure. That’s only logical.”

  “Yeah,” Ben said, “but it’s also logical that he’s guessed I’m thinking like that, so he won’t bother arming that door. He’d put any spare sensors somewhere else.”

  “Yeah . . . ,” Robert said slowly, “but if he thinks you can figure that out, then he’s just as likely to put one there anyway.”

  “Exactly,” Ben said, “which means it’s still pretty much a fifty-fifty chance. But I know which key works in that door, and it’s the entrance closest to the north staircase. So it’s still the best choice.”

  They worked their way around to the north side of the school. There was no one on the harbor path at five minutes before three in the morning, so they ran across the last twenty yards of open ground, opened the door, and ducked inside. Ben went in after Robert and held the door open two seconds, just long enough to use his light and check for a sensor on the jamb . . . all clear.

  As planned, once inside the door, they stood there in the red glow of the exit sign for a full three minutes, ready to blast back outside and take off in different directions at any hint of danger.

  Ben strained, listening for even the suggestion of a threat. Nothing—only the muffled sound of waves against the seawall.

  “Let’s go,” Robert whispered.

  Ben nodded and followed him down the hallway, then left toward the north stairwell. Ben hadn’t gone fifteen steps when the phone in his pocket made two sharp vibrations, an incoming text. He jerked to a stop, and so did Robert—he’d heard it too.

  “Is it Lyman?” he whispered. It was the first time Ben had ever seen Robert look really scared.

  Ben took a hurried look at the screen, then breathed out slowly. “It’s okay—wait here.” He went back to the door and opened it for Jill.

  “I didn’t think you were coming!” he whispered, then immediately felt like he’d put too much emotion in his voice.

  Jill smiled slightly. “I’ve been watching for the junior burglar brigade since two thirty.”

  As they walked, he asked, “How’d you get out?”

  “The door in our kitchen opens into the back stairs, and there’s a door to the alley from the basement utilities room. Pretty simple. Then it was just keeping clear of cop cars and homeless people.”

  When Robert saw Jill, he grinned. “Hey, glad you came . . . and I’m sorry I was a jerk earlier, but—”

  “I know, I know,” said Jill, “you really, really, really want to see that space again. So let’s get to it.”

  Two minutes later they were under the north stairwell stairs, and Robert was walking around with his flashlight, moving from item to item, glancing at a small notebook he’d pulled from his back pocket. “Listen,” he said, writing something with his pencil, “don’t touch anything, okay? The integrity of the site is really important.”

  Ben was fine with standing by the doorway, and Jill was more than happy to stay close to the exit. There was the same smell of rats, and there were fresh droppings underfoot. Shining his light, Ben saw that the spiders had been busy too, but there were far fewer cobwebs than the first time he and Jill had walked through.

  When Robert went into the small adjoining room, he called out in an excited whisper, “Hey—you gotta see this!”

  They went in, and Robert was crouched down beside the pile of iron scraps Ben had spotted during their first visit. “See?” he said, moving a piece of iron with the tip of his pen. “See how this piece looks pinched here, and sharp along the edge? It was cut using that hammer and some kind of iron or steel chisel. These all came off of slaves!” Pointing, he said, “That’s an ankle shackle, and these were like handcuffs. I’m sure of it. That iron bed in the next room? I looked on the Internet, and beds like that weren’t made until about 1820. And those tally marks by the door? Those stand for people! Pretty amazing, huh? This was a hideout, part of the Underground Railroad! I’m sure about this!”

  “Sixty-seven,” Jill whispered. “That’s how many marks are by the door! This is . . . this is . . . historic!”

  “And it would have been the perfect cover,” said Ben, “a school! No one would have ever guessed! And right by the water? A runaway slave could just drop into a rowboat, and be on a ship for Canada in no time.”

  “You know what this means, don’t you?” said Robert, his eyes bright and wide. “This means the school stays—instant national landmark, guaranteed! No kidding, this is huge! Here, Ben, get some close-up pictures of these.” He pulled a wooden ruler from his backpack. “And get this in the pictures to show the scale, okay?”

  Ben took out his camera and snapped half a dozen shots.

  “And get the iron block, too,” Robert said. “That was the—”

  “Shhh!” Jill hissed, holding up her hand. “Did you hear that?”

  Everyone stopped breathing.

  And then everyone heard a door slam . . . and then the sound of footsteps . . . heavy steps with half a second between each one . . . the kind of footsteps a grown man would take . . . a tall man.

  Jill and Ben had the same exact thought. Both of them dashed back to the heavy triangular door—they’d left it standing open a couple of feet. Jill pulled the door shut gently, and Ben latched the iron hook. Robert stood frozen in the middle of the space below the landing, his face the same color it had been when Ben pulled him to safety two weeks ago. “This is nuts!” he whispered. “Janitors don’t come to school at three in the morning!”

  “No,” Ben hissed, “but industrial spies do! Lights off!”

  They heard the heavy footsteps on the wooden floor. Ben could tell that Lyman wasn’t hurrying. He was working his way along the first-floor hallway. Trying to estimate the man’s location was hard, but it sounded like he might be walking in the front hall, going past the office . . . yes. And now past room 12, headed for the library. The footsteps stopped every so often . . . right—Lyman was turning doorknobs, probably shining a flashlight into every room, making sure things were locked up tight.

  Ben realized that this was proof that Lyman did not have an alarm system in place. He was doing old-fashioned surveillance, low-tech, boots-on-the-ground legwork. Which meant that he wasn’t searching for them, he was just making his rounds, like a cop walking around the block.

  He began to breathe easier.

  But another sound made him jump like he’d been stuck with a pin.

  “Woof . . . woof.”

  A dog . . . a big one!

  Jill must have jumped too—she bumped Ben in the dark, then grabbed hold of his hand.

  They all heard the dog’s feet now, keeping pace with Lyman, its long toenails clicking on the wooden floor, and both sounds came closer and closer.

  Then the door into the stairwell opened, and the dog was inches away—Ben could hear it sniffing. And then Lyman’s deep voice.

  “What’ve you got there, Moose?”

  That little bit of encouragement got the dog excited, and he barked two huge woofs. Jill clamped Ben’s hand so tightly his fingers tingled.

  The dog went quiet again, just sniffing . . . and Ben heard another sound, just behind him down near the floor, a little scritching sound—a rat!

  The dog went crazy, barking and growling and pawing at the paneling like a thing possessed.

  “Moose—come!” Lyman growled. “It’s just a rat . . . wouldn’t even taste good.”

  Lyman’s footsteps sounded on the stairs above their heads, clomped across the landing and up the next flight.

  The dog whined and scratched at the wood again.

  “Moose—come!”

  Moose’s nose knew there was more than a rat behind that woodwork, but he obeyed, his toenails clicking as he scrambled up the stairs to his master.

  The door wheezed open, and they listened to Lyman’s heavy boots as he made a complete circuit of the second-floor hallway. Then a distant door banged shut, followed by more regular footsteps as he went up to the
third floor and repeated his rounds.

  Ben was amazed how the wooden timbers of the old building carried sound. It was like being inside a big drum. Lyman’s distant footsteps began tapping out a regular rhythm . . . must be coming down the south stairs. Ben tried to count the footsteps—more than fifty. So he had to be on the first floor again.

  It was quiet for several minutes, and Ben thought he must have left . . . then a loud metallic clang echoed through the building.

  After that, complete silence. Jill still had hold of his hand. They all stood in the dark for several more minutes.

  Robert whispered, “I think he’s gone, don’t you?” He clicked on his flashlight just as Jill dropped Ben’s hand.

  “That was a close one,” she said. “I thought Moose was going to have an early breakfast—us!”

  Ben smiled at her. “Nice work not freaking out when that rat started scratching around.”

  “It wasn’t a rat,” she said, grinning. “I made that sound with my shoe, down near the floor—I wanted Lyman to hear it and call off the dog.”

  “Brilliant!” said Robert. “A rat for a rat!”

  Ben said, “Nice! But listen, can we get out of here now? Gerritt, do you have enough proof?”

  The answer to that was no, and he had Ben take another ten or twelve pictures, especially of the heavy anvil block and the hammer.

  “That should do it,” Robert said. “I figure we show the pictures to Jill’s mom and maybe that guy who was here taking the tools away last weekend, get the Historical Society to line up someone from a preservation group. Then we bring them to the school, show them the hideout, and zap!—game over.”

  Ben unlatched the door and swung it open. Jill stepped out first, then Robert. As Ben came out and then pushed the panel shut, he noticed Robert was standing at the fire door, still as a statue.

  “Um, guys,” he whispered, “we better . . . um . . .” His voice trailed off into a soft hum.

  “What?” said Ben.

  Robert pointed through the window, and Ben came to look.