“Because you were right. About everything. And I need your help.”
Oliver got in the car.
“Okay,” Preston said. “Where’s Kaplan holing up?”
“What?” Oliver exclaimed, fastening his seat belt. “How can you not know that?”
“Because I didn’t need to. Frankie found it last week, didn’t he?”
“Um, yeah,” Oliver said, warily conceding the logical absurdity of his point. “A bungalow at 714 Euclid.”
Preston nodded but then, curiously, did nothing. He just sat there, mumbling numbers and equations to himself with his eyes closed.
“What are you doing?” Oliver asked.
“Quiet,” Preston squeezed in amid the mumbling. “Please.” He then opened his eyes and stared fixedly up the street. “Three, two,” he said softly. “One.”
Then Preston peeled off down the street, driving fast with one hand while the other kept a kind of metronome time on the dashboard.
“Where are you going?” Oliver asked, confused.
“To 714 Euclid,” Preston said between counts on the dash. “Like you said.”
“But that’s the other way.”
“Oliver, how familiar are you with non-Euclidean geometry?”
“Not terribly.”
Preston gave Oliver a momentary glance as he swerved suddenly to avoid an oncoming car. “Well, I tell you what. We survive the afternoon, and I’d be more than happy to give you a crash course.”
Oliver was willing to look past Preston’s sarcasm, but at this particular moment he really wished the man had avoided saying the word “crash.”
Jimmy Sandoval was driving up Interstate 94, about five miles from the Wisconsin border, when his cell phone lit up with an emergency alert from the FBI criminal database.
“What the …” Matilda’s father muttered, pulling over at the next exit. When he clicked on the alert, his screen filled with the results of a facial recognition match.
Suddenly Jimmy was looking at a surveillance photo of a handsome, dashing-looking man.
Jimmy had no idea who this man was. Neither, it appeared, did the FBI. The man had more aliases than most people have socks.
Victor Larrabee
Lester Townsend
George Kaplan
The list of assumed names went on. Jimmy tried to access the rest of the file but was blocked by the server; whoever this guy was, Matilda’s dad didn’t have the clearance to know anything more about him.
Confused, Jimmy brought up the facial recognition request he had apparently made to the criminal database last night. Sure enough, his computer had sent a driver’s license photo of this guy under the presumed name of George Kaplan.
“I didn’t take this. So who did?” Jimmy stared at the picture, confused.
Then not so confused.
“Matilda.”
Jimmy dropped his phone, got back on the highway, and hightailed it back toward Chicago.
Meanwhile, Frankie and Gilbert were still playing cat-and-mouse across the neighborhood. Frankie cut across the streets when he had to but tried to keep to the backyards as much as possible.
He was running out of neighborhood to work with, however. Though the area was still residential, if he was going to get help, he was going to have to cross a patch of longer, wider commercial streets.
Frankie peeked out from behind the fence he was using for cover. The coast seemed clear, but once he made a run for it, he’d have to go at least a couple hundred yards before he could hide again. And, man, was he tired.
Summoning the last of his energy, Frankie bolted from behind the fence and sprinted down the street.
A few blocks away, Gilbert’s Lincoln Town Car eased slowly out of its own hiding place, toying with Frankie as it quietly gained on him.
By the time Frankie realized that Gilbert was closing in, he was too exhausted to make another break for it. He kept running but knew it was only a matter of time before he was done for.
Frankie reached an intersection at the bottom of a steep hill, his lungs on fire and his legs throbbing with pain. The Town Car was only half a block away now but gaining slowly and taunting him with its patience. Frankie could even see Gilbert laughing cruelly inside the car.
What Frankie couldn’t see was that way, way up at the top of that hill was …
That old Cadillac. The one he and Archie passed every day on their walks.
Now, the lone tire block holding the car in place at the top of the hill was heavy enough. But Archie had one hard head. And days upon weeks of banging that head into the block had, little by little, nudged it out of place. In fact, the tire block was now only barely holding the rear tire in check. The tiniest disruption would cause the car to break free entirely.
Like, say, the timed lawn sprinklers three houses up the block. In particular, the busted sprinkler head closest to the curb, which dribbled a steady stream of water that rivered down the gutters, carrying just enough current to nudge the tire block that last little bit, allowing the Cadillac’s back tire to rotate, ever so slowly, forward.
Back down at the bottom of the hill, Frankie doubled over in exhaustion. He looked at the Town Car and waited for Gilbert to get out and capture him again.
Except Gilbert didn’t do that. He didn’t get out of the car. Instead he gunned the engine and started driving straight for Frankie.
Knowing he didn’t have the time or strength to dodge the car, Frankie accepted his fate. He stood up straight and closed his eyes in defiant bravery.
And completely missed the beautiful moment when the runaway Cadillac rolled down the hill and pulverized Gilbert’s car less than a foot away from where Frankie was standing.
Frankie opened his eyes in shock as he surveyed the glorious carnage all around him.
“Judas Priest!” He laughed.
It was a great moment, though sadly one that didn’t last long. Gilbert—battered, bloody, and bruised—crawled out of the car and glared at Frankie with a murderous rage.
“Aw, come on,” Frankie said.
The Dangerous Jams ended their set on a really killer number. And the gig was a smashing success—literally. At JoJo’s, a gig wasn’t a hit unless someone threw at least one chair into a wall. The whole bar had been rocking. It was wild, loud, and thoroughly awesome. At one point, Billy thought he heard a car crash outside, but no one bothered to check.
Shortly after the gig, though, Mrs. Gonzales came up to Billy and Bad Becky to tell them that she was taking Mr. Abernale and Mr. Lindo back to Shady Glades.
“This sort of thing takes a lot out of Mr. Lindo,” she said. “Billy, I’ve spoken with your mom, and she’ll be here to pick you up soon. Ms. Tillman, I can send the shuttle van for you later, if you like.”
“That’s all right, ma’am,” Bad Becky said dismissively. “One of these clowns will get me home.”
The car was going to crash. It hadn’t happened yet, but Oliver knew it was inevitable. It had to. Because Preston was racing through the city streets with absolute focus but no obvious purpose. Sometimes he slowed down for no reason, other times he sped up, running stop signs and red lights without a second glance, only to then come to a screeching stop in the middle of the street. He changed direction constantly, a few times against traffic. Oliver wasn’t sure if Preston was insane or just didn’t know how to drive or both.
At the moment, Preston was running yet another red light just as a very fast-moving delivery truck barreled into the intersection, where it would no doubt T-bone them viciously.
Instead, the truck seamlessly made a right-hand turn, missing their car completely.
The color drained from Oliver’s face.
“It might be easier,” Preston said calmly, “if you closed your eyes.”
“I’d love to, but I can’t.” Oliver’s body was rigid, his eyes fixed forward, too terrified to even blink. He was literally scared stiff.
Preston took a hard turn into an alley and gunned the engine. Then he turned to Oliver,
giving the boy his full attention. “Before we get to Kaplan’s, I need you to understand something—”
“Don’t look at me!” Oliver cried. “Look at the road!”
“I don’t have to look at the road,” Preston said reasonably as a dog walker passed in front of them with less than a second to spare. “I only need to maintain the course at a constant speed and—”
“JUST LOOK AT THE ROAD!”
“Very well.” Preston sighed. “But this might be my only chance to apologize.”
“First things first,” Oliver said. “Get my mom back, then you can apologize.”
Preston cocked his head. “Quite right,” he said.
This had to be the steepest hill in the Midwest, or at least it felt like that to Frankie. Not even the adrenaline-fueled fear of looking back and seeing Gilbert limping after him with determination like a murder-crazed cyborg could quicken Frankie’s pace. Sprinting up the hill felt like running in a dream, exhausting and fruitless.
His legs were jelly and he’d nearly passed out from light-headedness when he heard the music. Raucous, head-banging music. Frankie found a renewed energy as he clumsily lumbered toward that music. It was amazing what a person could do when they had a soundtrack to spur them on.
But it wasn’t enough. Gilbert finally caught Frankie right outside a biker bar, grabbing him by the neck and sneering into the boy’s face. The henchman’s neck veins bulged, and steaming fury snarled from his nostrils.
“You’re done for now, boy.”
For the second time in less than ten minutes, Frankie closed his eyes and awaited his death.
“Hey! Chicken pesto on olive!”
Frankie opened his eyes to find Billy Fargus standing in the doorway of the biker bar. He slurped a Coke and watched Frankie’s impending murder with a look Frankie wished was full of a lot more alarm and a little less idle curiosity.
“Yeah, that is you. Man, that was some sandwich,” Billy said with respect. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Is this guy bothering you?”
“Beat it, punk,” Gilbert growled.
Billy just smiled, because while the ferret-faced dude shook Frankie down, Bad Becky and two dozen old warhorses had come out to see what was going on.
“Pick up, pick up!” Jimmy yelled at his phone as he sped down the street.
There was no answer at home. He tried Matilda’s cell again. Again nothing.
Jimmy nearly ran a red light, slamming on the brakes just before the intersection. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, fear and adrenaline nearly ripping it off the shaft.
Then, just before the light changed, a group of bikers raced across the intersection. On the back of one bike was a boy about his daughter’s age.
On the back of another bike was another, bigger boy, also about Matilda’s age.
On the back of a third bike was a wiry, mean-looking man in an ill-fitting business suit, gagged and hog-tied to the seat.
But what really caught Jimmy’s attention was the club name on the back of all the bikers’ jackets.
THE ANGRY CLOWNS.
This was, by far, the coolest Frankie had ever felt in his entire life. Riding on the back of a motorcycle, wind in his face, the deep rumble and shake of the motorcycle’s engine numbing his butt, not to mention the smell of sweaty, old leather. It was just awesome.
As the geriatric motorcycle club passed Henry’s Market, Frankie glimpsed the owner, Henry Beecham, standing out front. A man and a woman with briefcases and expensive suits waited patiently while Mr. Beecham finished reading a bound stack of papers.
The beastly engine under Frankie roared, pulling his attention back to the road ahead. But just before he looked away, the woman handed Mr. Beecham a check. Mr. Beecham took one look at it and smiled broadly.
And then promptly collapsed to the ground.
Preston parked his car down the block from George Kaplan’s house. The sun had slipped below the horizon line, and the last light of dusk softly faded into darkness.
“What do we do now?” Oliver asked.
Preston, lost in thought, didn’t seem to hear him.
Oliver started to ask again but was distracted by a tap on the window.
Sullivan, gun in hand, pressed his face against Oliver’s window. “Mr. Kaplan’s been expecting you,” he said through the glass.
The big man glanced at Preston. The scrawny little guy didn’t look like much, but Sully remembered his boss’s description of Oglethorpe’s abilities and shuddered. Then he looked up to the sky, half expecting a giant plastic Mouse Trap net to fall on top of him.
Awkward Introductions * Preston Oglethorpe Stops Thinking
Approximately two and a half minutes after Sullivan led Preston and Oliver away at gunpoint, Frankie, Billy, Bad Becky, and the Angry Clowns pulled up behind Preston’s recently abandoned car.
About forty-five seconds after that, they were joined by Jimmy Sandoval, who came to a screeching halt just behind the caravan of motorcycles.
“Special Agent James Sandoval,” he said, flashing his badge, a mixture of stern authority and parental panic on his face.
“Aw, man,” groaned a hulking, bearded Angry Clown. “It’s the fuzz.”
Frankie stepped to the front of the group. “No worries, Mad Dog. I got this.”
“Hey, I recognize you!” Matilda’s dad said, pointing a suspicious finger at Frankie. “You were on my front porch!”
Frankie turned back to Mad Dog and the others. “This might take a minute.”
What followed was a brief but tense conversation. Frankie admitted the bare bones of what he, Matilda, and Oliver had been up to the last couple of months, and Jimmy explained that finding Preston Oglethorpe was the reason the Sandovals had moved to town. Mr. Sandoval looked like a responsible adult, so Frankie knew there’d be an inevitable call to his parents. But for now, they were both after the same thing: saving Matilda and Preston. Which is how Frankie found himself on a garage roof, scouting Kaplan’s house with a borrowed pair of binoculars.
“When’s backup getting here?” Frankie asked. “I figure SWAT can set up over there, across the street.” He passed the binoculars to Matilda’s father.
“No backup,” Jimmy said. “This needs to happen as quietly as possible.”
“What?”
“Can’t risk the exposure,” Jimmy said. “Whoever this George Kaplan guy is, he isn’t the only bad guy out there who’d like to get his hands on Preston Oglethorpe.”
Frankie looked over the edge of the garage to the alley below, where Billy and the Angry Clowns were tormenting the hog-tied and helpless Gilbert.
“Um,” Frankie said, “should we be doing something about that?”
Jimmy glanced down. “No time,” he said. He closed the binoculars and scooted to the edge of the roof.
“What are we gonna do?” Frankie asked.
“We aren’t going to do anything,” Matilda’s dad said, flicking his legs over the gutter and shimmying down a drainpipe. “I am going in through the front door.”
“Really?” Frankie called down after him. “That’s all you got?”
“The gang is all here.” George Kaplan clapped his hands in delight as Sullivan led Preston and Oliver into the living room. “You look well, Preston.”
Oliver glanced across the room at Matilda, then ran to his mother. She held him protectively as she stared in disbelief at the man she hadn’t seen in over twenty years.
“Preston?” she said. “Is that you?”
Preston barely looked at her, his expression unreadable. “Hello, Floss,” he said quietly.
“You really are back.”
“For several months now,” Kaplan interjected. “Shortly after your husband split, in fact. I think Preston wanted to be there for you in your time of emotional need. But it’s so hard to coax him out from behind his equations. Isn’t it, Preston?” Kaplan gave him a “there, there” pat on the shoulder.
“So you spied on us,” Oliver said,
stepping between his mother and Kaplan. “Lied to us. Pretended to be someone else. This was all a trap to catch Preston, wasn’t it?”
“No, no, Oliver. You’ve got it all wrong, dear boy. Catch Preston Oglethorpe? I doubt such a thing is even possible.”
“Then why did you do it?” Matilda jumped in. “If you weren’t trying to catch him, why all the role-playing? Why all the games?”
Oliver had been wondering the same thing, but looking at the smug smirk on George Kaplan’s face, it suddenly all made sense. “You never wanted to capture him,” he said. “You wanted to break him. That’s what all this was about. You were living the life Preston wanted and rubbing his nose in it.”
“I must say, that’s a rather vicious way of looking at it, Oliver,” Kaplan replied. “I merely needed to show our dear Preston where he belongs.”
“With you?” Matilda said with contempt.
“Precisely. With me.”
“So you can control him!”
“So I can protect him,” George Kaplan corrected. “He can’t function out here, in the world. Surely even you children can see that now.” He turned his attention to Preston and said softly, “Can’t you see it, too, Preston?”
Preston looked away, his entire posture one of sadness and defeat.
“Don’t listen to him,” Oliver said.
“But he’s right,” Preston said. “You said so yourself. I’m worthless.”
“I was wrong. He is wrong,” Oliver insisted. “Besides. Don’t let him, or me, or anyone tell you who you are.”
Preston looked at Oliver quizzically, the words striking a chord.
“Oh, Oliver, you have such spark.” Kaplan was impressed. “After college, I do hope you’ll come to me for employment. In the meantime, however, I wouldn’t fret too much about all of this. It’s like we talked about. People generally have no idea what they really want, much less what they need. They just think they do. But with Preston I can fix all that. I can run the entire world, put everything in its proper place, and no one will ever even know.”
“But it would all be a lie,” Oliver said.
Connect the Dots Page 13
