The Trap Page 11

  I took it. I undid my belt and threaded it through the loops on the back of the case. The box wasn’t very big—you could maybe put two sandwiches inside. Once it was fixed, I said, “What’s in it?”

  “Perhaps a kind of weapon,” said Mr. Brody. “Perhaps immortality itself.”

  I tried to open the lid, but it was shut tight at the clasp, so firm it seemed welded. “Is there a key for it?” I asked.

  “Of a sort,” said Mr. Brody. “It will open when the time is right.” He paused. “One more thing, Henry. Tell me—can you remember what happens to you here, when you awaken?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then listen. There is a copy of my book on subtle travel, in a bookstore in Farro. Jefferson Used Book and Coin. Do you know that place?”

  “Sure,” I said, “I go there all the time.”

  “Open that book,” said Mr. Brody. “Find the number inside.”

  “What number?” I asked.

  And then, in an example of very bad timing, I woke up.

  I was back in my room. Helen was leaning over me, shaking my shoulders. “Henry,” she whispered. “Hey, Henry.”

  “Blast it, Helen,” I said.

  “Not my fault,” she replied. “Didn’t you hear the phone?”

  Reflexively, I reached down to my waist to see if the box Mr. Brody had given me was there. It wasn’t, of course.

  “Mrs. Brody called,” said Helen. “She was scared, Henry. She said someone was in her house—someone broke in.”

  I glanced at my bedside clock. It was three in the morning.

  “Come on, let’s go,” she said. “We’ll get Alan and Nicki on the way.”

  We dressed and snuck out. We jumped on our bikes, and our generator lights revved up, shining yellow on the pavement. I shivered, because I hadn’t put on any kind of jacket and even in summer the middle of the night is cold in Farro.

  On the way, I told Helen what had happened—that I’d met Mr. Brody. It was maybe the scariest story I ever told, and even scarier to tell right now, as we raced along pitch-black empty roads.

  “Henry, do you believe it, about Carl?” said Helen. “Is he . . . is he dead?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied.

  “We shouldn’t tell Alan,” said Helen. “Not until we’re sure.”

  I didn’t want to keep a secret from my best friend, but Helen was right.

  We reached the intersection where we had to split up—Helen to get Nicki, and me to get Alan. We each had our own technique for fetching our best friends at night. Alan was easy—all I had to do was circle around to his bedroom and knock on his window. I guess Nicki was harder, since her bedroom was upstairs, but Helen had managed it plenty of times.

  Soon the four of us were biking along South Half, through the maples. I peered across the gulch toward North Half and Longbelly Graveyard. My subtle form was right over there, only a few hundred yards away. And Mr. Brody. And Carl. I glanced at Alan, who was struggling to keep up with us on his half broken bike. I felt terrible for not saying anything about his brother, but I couldn’t. Not without being sure.

  “There’s the lights. She’s awake,” said Helen, as we rode up.

  We parked, went to the door, and knocked. It opened immediately. Mrs. Brody had been standing right there, waiting for us.

  “Thank you so much,” she said as we entered. “What a terrible night. I’ve brewed some chamomile tea.”

  MRS. BRODY COULDN’T tell us much. A sound had awakened her, and she came into the living room to find that someone had slipped inside through the sliding-glass door and searched through the bookcases. The books now lay on the floor in disarray. The intruder must have left when they heard Mrs. Brody coming down the stairs.

  “What do you think they wanted?” I asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” said Mrs. Brody. “Nothing in my library has much value.”

  “It must have been Møller,” said Helen. “I mean, he had Carl spying on this house. He set up subtle traps around your husband’s grave. Now he’s going through your books. He’s looking for something.”

  “You guys,” I said, “I think . . . I think I know what it is.”

  All eyes turned to me, and I told the story of what had just happened to me in the graveyard—meeting Mr. Brody and receiving the case, which I’d threaded onto my belt.

  “I knew I’d seen him,” said Mrs. Brody, when I finished. Her eyes shone.

  “You guys,” I said, “do you remember, the day Carl beat us up, what he said right as he left?”

  No one did.

  “He said, ‘I’m gonna live forever.’ And that was in the Airman Crusader books—the airmen were trying to get the secret of immortality. And . . . I think maybe Mr. Brody just gave it to me.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Helen.

  “The secret,” I said. “That’s what’s in the case. Mr. Brody said . . . that it was a weapon, and it was immortality.”

  “But it’s locked, Henry?” said Nicki.

  “Yeah, for now,” I said. Then I told the rest too, about the copy of Subtle Travel at Jefferson Used Book and Coin. “There’s a number in it,” I said.

  “What kind of number?” said Alan.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s when my sister woke me up.”

  “Not my fault,” said Helen.

  We stayed with Mrs. Brody until morning—fortunately, Mom and Dad always slept in after a late shift, and wouldn’t know we’d been gone.

  Helen, Alan, and I were in favor of skipping school and going straight to the bookstore, but Nicki wouldn’t have it. She absolutely would not miss class. “That place doesn’t open until nine,” she said. “Let’s go during lunch break.”

  “Seems like a good idea,” I said, happy to be on her side.

  Jefferson Used Book and Coin was in the old part of North Farro, between Sam’s Barbershop and Fresh Town Market Deli. The owner, Mr. Clemens, was a friendly man with wiry black hair that he combed over a bald spot. When the four of us arrived on our bikes he was outside, just unlocking the front door, with a paper bag in one hand that I knew contained a hamburger from Fresh Town (because I’d been here during lunch in the past and seen similar bags). Clemens heard us behind him as we dropped our kickstands.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “The Nilsson Twins, Nicki Chen, and Alan Dunn.” He nodded to each of us as he said our names. Farro was a small town, and he knew us all.

  “We’re trying to find a book, Mr. Clemens,” I said.

  “I have some of those,” said Mr. Clemens. (He always made this joke.) Then he said, “You look like you got poked with the wrong end of a stick, Henry.”

  He ushered us inside. The midday sun was blazing and the little shop was hot. It was jammed with books, many of which were not on shelves, but were stacked next to shelves in towers. The place was confusing, but I’d always liked it, and I thought Mr. Clemens was a nice guy.

  He stepped behind the front counter, which was a glass display full of money—new and old, domestic and foreign.

  “What’s the title of your book?” he asked, putting his lunch bag on the counter.

  “Subtle Travel and the Subtle Self,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s odd,” said Mr. Clemens.

  “Odd, sir?” I said.

  “Someone else called me about it this morning. Said he’d heard I had a copy. But I checked, and no. Of course,” he said, waving one hand around at the disorganized shop, “I explained that sometimes things evade me. He said he might come by and have a look himself. He was quite insistent.”

  I was stunned. “He was listening in,” I whispered. It was Abe—it had to be. He’d been in the forest. He’d overheard my conversation with Mr. Brody. For some reason, he wanted to get to that book before we did.

  “Spirituality is the last row at the back,” said Mr. Clemens.

  We dove into the shop.

  When we were far enough in to be out of earshot of Mr. Clemens, I said, “I think Mø
ller was listening last night, when I talked to Mr. Brody. Now he’s headed here!”

  “Let’s hurry,” said Alan.

  Mr. Clemens’s store was a mess. It looked like a tornado had passed through without finding the book it wanted. Eventually we reached a handwritten faded sign that said “Spirituality,” next to the back windows.

  We looked in the alphabetical position where the book should be, first for Møller and then for Brody, but it wasn’t in either spot.

  “Let’s just scan the whole case,” said Helen. She and Alan started at the top and worked their way down while Nicki and I started at the bottom and worked up. As we converged at the center, we all spotted it at once. It was tough to see because the spine was so sun-faded. I pulled it out.

  This copy was in better condition than the one from the woods, and I thought it had probably been right here for years. I opened to the title page and saw the names of the authors—and then saw something different. Near the bottom, someone had impressed an ink stamp, in blue. It showed a horizontal human body, and out of that another body rising, depicted with a dotted line.

  “It’s a subtle form,” said Nicki.

  Below this image were five bold letters, like an acronym: NFTSA, followed by the number Joseph Brody had told me about. “A telephone number,” I said.

  “Should we buy this?” said Alan. He pointed to the price penciled on the inside cover—twenty-five cents.

  Well, Nicki had a dime, but that was all we could scrounge up. “We can’t let Møller find it,” I said.

  “Henry Nilsson,” said Helen, snorting in amusement, “are you suggesting what I think you are?”

  “I . . . I am suggesting that, yes,” I stammered.

  “Don’t you think we should make a pros and cons list first?” she said, poking me playfully.

  “You’re good at this, Helen,” I said. “How should we do it?”

  “Give it here,” she said. I handed her the book and she stuck it under her shirt, jammed it inside the waistband of her jeans. To me this seemed kind of obvious, but I guess obviousness is not as important as confidence when it comes to theft.

  We returned to the front of the store.

  “Did you find it?” said Mr. Clemens.

  “I don’t think you have it,” I said. “That guy will be disappointed.”

  Helen was already leaping out through the front door, but I hesitated. Something caught my eye—a piece of paper taped to the front of the glass display cabinet. It read, “Part Time Help Wanted.”

  “Mr. Clemens, are you hiring someone?” I asked.

  “For weekends, to do some organizing,” he said. “You may have noticed a few things out of place . . .” He smiled.

  “Could I have an application?” I asked. I thought maybe I’d work an hour or two for free to start, as a way of paying for the book we’d just stolen.

  He squinted at me. “I don’t see why not,” he said, “except that there is no application. That’s how disorganized I am. Tell me, do you think you’re the man for the job?” He studied me. “Old Man Clemens and One-eye Nilsson?”

  “Oh, nobody calls me that,” I said. “They call me—”

  “HEN-REE!” Helen shouted from outside.

  We hopped on our bikes and sped up the street toward the nearest pay phone, but we hadn’t gone more than a few yards before I brought my bike up short.

  “Wait a second, you guys,” I said. I gestured to the corner of a nearby building, which looked like a decent hiding spot. “If he’s coming here—Møller—I want to see him.”

  “Lunch is ending,” said Nicki. “And we don’t have any idea when he’ll arrive.”

  “Come on, guys,” I said. “Stake it out with me.”

  My friends agreed, but our surveillance only lasted about two minutes before Helen got fed up and Nicki started glancing back toward school.

  “Henry,” said Alan, “I want to see him too, but maybe we should get to the phone.”

  “Okay, you’re right,” I said, sighing.

  We unstaked and pushed our bikes up the block.

  “What were you talking to Clemens about, Henry?” said Helen as we closed in on the phone booth.

  “He’s hiring someone,” I said. “I think I applied.”

  “A job?” said Helen.

  “To help Mom and Dad,” I said. “Get our TV back.”

  We parked our bikes next to the booth and crammed inside, closing the double-hinged door behind it. It was a tight fit, and Nicki and I ended up almost cheek to cheek.

  “Make the call,” said Helen. “I can smell your armpits, Henry.”

  “You are smelling your own armpits,” I replied. I picked up the receiver. Nicki dropped her dime in the slot, and I dialed the number in the book after Helen took it out from under her shirt. I always hate dialing zero when I’m in a hurry, because it takes so long to circle around—and Helen hates it even more. “Go, go, go,” she chanted as the dial turned. We all pressed our ears close to the receiver and waited breathlessly as it rang once, twice. Then I heard a click. Someone had picked up on the other end.

  A woman’s voice echoed as if it was coming from the end of a long hall. “You have reached NFTSA,” she said. “Dial 1 for remote reset.”

  “Hello?” I said. “My name is Henry Nilsson.”

  “You have reached NFTSA,” the voice repeated. “Dial 1 for remote reset.”

  “It’s a recording,” said Helen.

  “Should I dial 1?” I asked.

  “Geez, Henry!” said Helen, fed up with my hesitation.

  Well, okay then. I put my finger into the hole and turned the dial. A beep sounded, then a sudden rush of sound came on the line, like hundreds of people applauding.

  With a click, the sound was cut off.

  “They hung up!” said Helen, incensed, as the dial tone returned.

  “Does anyone have another dime?” I asked, but no one did.

  I placed the receiver in the cradle, and saw that the hairs on my arm were standing up.

  We piled out of the booth and went to our bikes. As I was throwing my leg over the top bar, though, I saw something.

  “Look,” I said, pointing across the street at the strip by the bookstore.

  There was a car parked out front—a white Chevy that hadn’t been there before. I peered at the store’s front windows. Inside, through the gleam on the glass, I could see someone moving around.

  “It’s him,” I whispered.

  The figure stepped up to the windows.

  And we saw him, though not clearly.

  He was pretty old, maybe in his seventies, tall, and wore a white short-sleeved shirt and white pants. His face looked tired, but even at this distance I could pick up an unnerving intensity in his gaze.

  He was looking right at us, and behind us—at the telephone booth.

  He knew what we’d just done.

  We jumped on our bikes and rushed off, pedaling for all we were worth.

  AFTER SCHOOL, WE RECONVENED at the bike racks. Alan had to go to work, and the rest of us decided to tag along so we could talk. Of course Helen and I were still officially grounded, and I knew Mom and Dad would be home today, waiting for us.

  “I don’t care,” said Helen, when I mentioned it. “Let them get mad. They’re wrong!”

  Normally I’d have wanted to go along with the grounding, to give things time to cool, but the situation being what it was, and our punishment being so unfair, I found myself in agreement with my sister.

  “It’s fine if you guys want to come,” said Alan. “I’m not really working today, anyway. There’s some off-season ball with the JV team out at Stimson Field. Coach invited me to play.”

  “To play with the JV high-schoolers?” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Alan. He didn’t sound very excited. At any other time he would have been thrilled, but I could see he was worrying about his brother. The longer Carl remained missing, the more awful the whole thing seemed.

  Stimson Field w
as well known around town. The diamond was a little smaller than regulation, but nicely limed, with real bases and a pitcher’s mound bordered on three sides by the field and on one side by the road. The JV players and Coach Wilson were there when we arrived, and Coach beckoned Alan over. Helen, Nicki, and I sat on some old wooden bleachers nearby.

  “Don’t lead off the base so much!” Helen shouted at a player. She didn’t play baseball much herself, but she knew all about it. She was good at every sport. Right after she yelled, the player she’d criticized was thrown out. Then Alan was up.

  He swung at the first pitch and connected with a bullet-like drive that bounced fast across the outfield and disappeared into the cornstalks. The center fielder went in after it as Alan slowly rounded the bases. He walked a little. He jogged. Then he jogged backwards. The other players laughed.

  He approached home, and still the ball he’d whacked hadn’t been found. He slowed before crossing the plate, then stopped and turned toward the cornfield, where the other outfielders were heading to search for the ball.

  Then he jogged in that direction, presumably to help look.

  Alan had been my best friend for quite a while. Years. And sometimes I felt I knew him as well as I knew anyone. This was one of those times. I saw that his pace wasn’t casual, as if he was simply going to look for a ball. He ran the way you do when you’re afraid you’ve lost something important.

  I stood up in the bleachers.

  “What is it, Henry?” said Helen.

  “Nothing,” I said, and I was off like a shot after Alan.

  Among the rows of corn, I heard a few players rummaging around even as Coach Wilson bellowed from a distance that we should stop looking for the ball—there were plenty of others.

  I jogged up one row, but then heard someone’s footsteps in the next row over. I pushed through and found myself a few yards behind Alan, who’d just come to a stop. He was staring straight ahead, at nothing.