If I was somehow able to sneak on that bus, I would need to let Henry know where I was. I unzipped my backpack and looked for something to write on. Since I had dumped out all of my school supplies earlier, the only paper available was the crumpled-up pieces of newspaper I had stuffed into it. I reached in and fumbled around for something to write with. Nothing. Not a pencil—not a pen—not even a crayon. All I did find was an old glue stick, stuck to the bottom of the backpack. I couldn’t very well write with that.
I glanced at the long line of boys boarding the bus. How could I leave a message for Henry with nothing to write with? Then I got a brainstorm. I began unfolding the pages of newspaper and searched for large headlines. I started tearing out individual letters one by one until I had enough to form the words I needed. I used the glue stick to spread adhesive on the back of each letter and pasted them on one of the pieces of newspaper. I decided to stick them to a large photograph where they would stand out better. I had written
O-N T-H-E B-U-S
and just hoped that Henry would find the note and figure out what I was up to. I folded up the page, with the letters showing, and placed it on top of the others in my backpack. I then zipped it up and left the entire backpack on the ground behind the park bench.
I crossed the street and noticed that the last kid had just boarded the bus. I ran up to the door, as if I belonged there, and was just about to step on board when a man wearing army fatigues and holding a clipboard grabbed me by the arm.
“Wait one minute, son,” he said. He glanced at a paper on the clipboard. “What’s your name?”
Oh no, I hadn’t planned on that. I needed to think fast.
“Um…you won’t find it there,” I said. “I just got booked a few minutes ago. The cop told me to run out here and get on board. He said he’d fax the paperwork over.”
The Camp Phoenix rep made a face. He apparently didn’t like my answer. He glanced back over his shoulder at the police station. He was probably considering going in there himself to pick up the paperwork. But, of course, it didn’t exist. A few moments passed. Then he sighed and motioned for me to board the bus.
Phew. I had done it. I had actually done it. A new chapter in my life as a professional P.I. was about to begin.
CHAPTER 16
The Suite and Sour Caper
I was grinning when I stepped onto the bus. I was pretty proud of how I had talked my way past the guy with the clipboard. Sam Solomon would have approved. That smile, however, quickly faded when I got a good look at the other kids on the bus. They all seemed to be staring at me. And they all looked really mean. Some of them looked like they wanted a piece of me right then and there. I was wondering at that very moment what I had gotten myself into. I had always managed to use my brains to get out of tough scrapes. I was hoping that my intellect would somehow protect me from this bunch.
I searched for an open seat. There were none. It appeared that I would have to share with one of the other offenders. I tried to find a seat next to someone who didn’t look as if he wanted to do me harm. I slowly made my way down the aisle, careful not to make contact with anyone. That soon became impossible when the bus suddenly started up and darted forward. The jolt sent me flying. I had become a human pinball, bouncing off seats, metal rails, and bodies.
“What do think you’re doing, you idiot?” one of the teens yelled out.
I was now flat on my back in the middle of the aisle. I slowly lifted my head. “Sorry,” I said as I attempted to stand. Before I had gotten back to my feet, I felt a shove from another unfriendly type. I was once again on my butt. This was getting ridiculous.
“Hey, fat boy, watch your step,” some kid said. He was laughing. As were many of the others.
I was wondering if Colonel Harvard Culpepper knew what he was doing by bringing these troublemakers to his camp. They might destroy the place. I got back up for a second time and looked for a place to sit. The stares continued. I didn’t feel welcome. If I ever did manage to solve this case, I was just hoping to come out of it alive.
I worked my way to the back of the bus. There was a kid with a crew cut and glasses in the last seat. He was staring at the floor. He seemed to know I was standing there but said nothing. He wasn’t overly friendly, but at least he didn’t look threatening. I thought it best to ask permission to sit.
“Is this seat taken?” I asked.
The kid just shrugged.
I took that as an invitation to join him. After I had plopped down next to him, he slid over a few inches. I guess I did take up a full seat and then some. I tried to give him as much space as possible. The ride for the next few minutes was fairly uneventful until we got stopped by a freight train and were stuck in traffic for what seemed like forever. It was at that point that I decided to take a chance and start up a conversation. I was just about to extend my hand and identify myself when I abruptly stopped.
Wait a minute. I wasn’t supposed to be a nice guy. I was supposed to be like one of these kids—a troubled youth. I needed to make it seem like the world was against me—like following rules was for suckers—like anyone who got in my way might not live to talk about it.
I slapped my seatmate on the shoulder. “So, how ya doin’?” I said. I tried to sound tough.
“Not so good,” the kid replied.
“So whatcha in for?” I asked.
“I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind,” he said.
I cracked my knuckles. “Would you believe it?” I said. “They got me for breaking and entering.” Out of the corner of my eye, I looked for a reaction from the kid. There was none. Apparently I hadn’t convinced him I was an actual juvenile delinquent. He obviously needed more persuading. I nudged him in the ribs with my elbow. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. They also pinched me for assault with a deadly weapon.” That seemed to do the trick.
The kid suddenly looked at me as if I were an ax murderer. He slid over as close to the window as possible.
I leaned toward him and whispered, “Let me tell you something, pal.” I looked around to make sure no one else was listening. “I intend to break outta this place. You can join me if you want.”
The reaction I got was totally unexpected.
“Listen, I don’t belong here,” the kid said. “I’m not like you or any of these other—” He stopped in mid-sentence. He apparently didn’t want to offend any of the others. “Please just leave me alone. Okay?” He closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands.
Whoa. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just trying to fit in. I wasn’t trying to stir things up. This kid had nothing to worry about from me. Actually the two of us were probably more alike than he realized. I wasn’t like any of these other kids either. In any event, I decided to respect his privacy. I put my head back against the seat and kept my mouth shut for the remainder of the trip.
About twenty-five minutes later, we pulled up in front of a long iron gate. It was connected to a chain-link fence that seemed to go for miles on either side. On top of the fence, four strands of barbed wire ran along the entire length. A sign hanging over the gate read, in large letters, Camp Phoenix. And beneath it, the words You enter here as boys. You will leave here as young men. An attendant dressed in army fatigues stepped out of a small guardhouse and walked up to the bus. He stopped at the driver’s-side window. There was a brief, inaudible exchange with the bus driver.
A moment later, the gate slowly opened and we proceeded into the compound. I leaned in the direction of my new friend to see out the window. He pulled away from me as I tried to get a better look at things. The estate was filled with thick green grass and hundreds of tall maple trees. Since we had two maples in our yard at home, I was able to recognize them. As we continued on, I could see two rows of buildings on either side of the road. The ones to our left were gray and drab with peeling paint and broken windows. The grounds around them were filled with weeds and patches of brown grass. The buildings to our right, however, had a brilliant redbric
k facade. Sculpted bushes and colorful flower beds surrounded them. There were even statues and fountains. What a contrast.
The bus turned left and headed in the direction of the older, run-down buildings. This wasn’t a good sign. We pulled into a driveway with potholes everywhere. The bus and its contents bounced in every direction. I grabbed a nearby handrail to avoid falling out of my seat. Some of the kids started yelling at the bus driver.
“Hey, jerk, are you trying to kill us?” one of them said.
“Drive much?” another added.
“Back up. You missed one of them potholes,” a third one chimed in.
From where I was sitting, I could only see the back of the driver’s head. I was waiting for some kind of reaction. It didn’t take long. The bus screeched to a halt at the front entrance of a building with a sign that read Repentance Hall. The driver jumped from his seat and stood in the aisle with his arms folded.
“You boys got a lot to learn about respect,” he said. “Now, I want you to exit this vehicle in an orderly fashion. I don’t want to hear a peep. When you get out there”—he pointed to a spot right in front of the building—“I want you to line up single file, and remember to keep your mouths shut. And if I hear even a sigh, you’ll spend the next week in the sweatshop. You got it?”
If the driver was attempting to intimidate us, he had done an excellent job. There were plenty of scowls on the faces of the passengers, but as instructed, no one made a sound. A minute later we had assembled in front of Repentance Hall. The driver was the last one off the bus. He waited for the group to fall into place.
“My name is Sergeant Stanley,” he said. “Remember that. Sergeant Stanley.” He cocked his head to the side. “Now, let’s see what kind of soldiers we have here.” He turned his back to us and then spun back around and yelled out, “Attention!” with the accent on the last syllable.
Some of the kids just stood there. Most stood perfectly erect with their arms at their sides. I’m happy to say that both my friend and I were in the latter group. And then in military fashion, the sergeant placed his arms behind his back and began a formal inspection. He walked past us and made eye contact with each one of his new recruits. Noticing that one of the boot campers was slouching, Sergeant Stanley grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him up, nearly lifting him off the ground.
When he had completed his rounds, the sergeant stood in front of the group. “At ease,” he said.
Again, most of the kids responded appropriately. But a few seemed confused by the order.
“I can see we have a lot of work to do,” he said. He pointed at Repentance Hall. “That, gentlemen, is your home for the next few weeks.”
Next few weeks? Oh no. I was expecting to locate Josh and finish up here by the end of the weekend. If I didn’t show up at home on Sunday night, my mom was sure to call Sherman’s mother and this whole thing would blow up in my face—although I had conveniently forgotten to leave her a phone number.
“I intend to turn every one of you into a new man. Before we’re done, you’ll become contributing members of society. It may take some of you a little longer than others, but that’s completely up to you.”
“You can’t keep us here,” one of the older teens shouted out. He was taller than most of the others. He probably weighed in at close to 250 pounds. Now, I was certainly big for my age—or rather round—but I didn’t tip the scales at anything close to that. By the tone of this bad boy, there seemed to be very few people he was afraid of.
My seatmate from the bus, standing to my left, mumbled something under his breath.
“What’d you say?” I whispered.
“I said—what am I doing here?”
Sergeant Stanley was now nose to nose with the smart-mouthed recruit. “We can’t keep you here?” he said. “Oh yes, we can.” With both hands, he grabbed the kid by the collar and head-butted him.
The tall teen fell backward and grabbed his forehead. As you might guess, the sergeant now had our complete attention.
“Anybody else with a problem?” he said.
There was complete silence.
“I thought so,” he said.
If that hadn’t been disturbing enough, a bullhorn then sounded. Some of the kids jumped. Seconds later, groups of teens filed out of Repentance Hall. They were dressed in orange prison jumpsuits. Each one seemed to be holding some kind of yard tool—shovel, rake, pitchfork, broom, hoe, hedge clippers, watering can, you name it. Others were pushing wheelbarrows. Still others carried large plastic bags. They followed a member of the camp staff, dressed in fatigues. He led them to an area overrun with weeds and other debris.
“Get to work,” he yelled out.
Sergeant Stanley cleared his throat. “Take a good look, gentlemen. Tomorrow you’ll be joining those poor suckers.” He smiled. He seemed to enjoy seeing the frightened looks on our faces. “You see, fellas, Colonel Culpepper believes that the only way to rehabilitate you is to introduce you to organized physical labor. Each day you’ll work until you drop. And then you’ll work some more. And in a few weeks, when we’ve purged all the toxins from your pathetic carcasses, then you just might be worthy enough to re-enter civilized society.”
I glanced down the line at my new band of brothers. I hadn’t committed the kinds of offenses that some of them had, but I was beginning to feel sorry not just for myself, but for all of us. This just didn’t seem like the right way to turn these kids around. Intimidate them? Work them to death? And it certainly wasn’t the way to treat someone like Josh Doyle. He wasn’t a criminal really. A little misguided maybe, but not a criminal. The sooner I found him and we got out of here, the better.
“But there is a way to avoid all this,” the sergeant said.
We all looked up.
He looked at his watch and seemed to be counting down the seconds. Suddenly, the bullhorn sounded again.
“Take a good look across the road,” he said, pointing at the beautifully manicured grounds and the shiny redbrick building with the sign Resurrection Hall.
A group of teenage boys soon began pouring out of the building. But this group was nothing like the others we had just seen. These kids were in street clothes. They were laughing and joking with one another. Some were wearing baseball gloves. They began playing catch. Others threw a football around. Still others tossed Frisbees. What exactly was going on here? Everyone seemed so happy and content. I just didn’t get it. None of this made any sense.
And then all at once, I felt a sensation in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. It was him. It was Josh Doyle. I was sure of it. He was standing around talking with some of the other kids from Resurrection Hall. And then as soon as he started walking, my suspicions were confirmed. He was limping. It was definitely him. I had been right about him being here all along.
There was something, however, that seemed odd—Josh was smiling. He appeared to be happy and having a good time. I had only seen him a few times before in my entire life, but never once had I seen a smile on his face. He was always so serious. I was beginning to wonder if I was doing the right thing. Was I about to rescue him, or was I denying him a chance at happiness?
“Play your cards right, fellas, and you could end up there,” Sergeant Stanley said. “Once you make it to Resurrection Hall, then you’ve really made it. If you end up there, you never have to leave. You can stay there as long as you like. You don’t have to go back to jail or back home to your dysfunctional families. Everything that you could ever want is provided for you. What do you think of that? Looks pretty good, huh?”
I wasn’t sure if I’d get into trouble, but I decided to speak up anyway. I raised my hand just to be safe.
“Yes, Private,” he said.
“Sergeant, how exactly do we end up over there?”
“Now there’s a bright young man,” he said. “With that attitude, you just might make it, son.”
I noticed some of the other guys staring at me. I wasn’t sure if th
ey were glad I had asked the question or wondering who the sap was.
“Well, let me tell you how you can go from this side of the road to that side,” the sergeant said. “All you gotta do is buy into the program. You need to do everything that the colonel says—even if you don’t like it. But there’ll be plenty of time to discuss all of that. Right now we need to get you processed and assigned to rooms.” The sergeant motioned for us to follow him.
While we made our way to wherever, I glanced across the road again at Josh. He was now sitting on the grass in a small circle with some of the other boys. They were holding paper cups. Someone from the camp was pouring what looked like lemonade into them. One of the kids in his group patted Josh on the back. Both grinned. This wasn’t at all the scenario I had expected. I had assumed that every kid at this camp would be miserable and would welcome a chance to escape. My plan to get myself arrested and end up here had seemed like the perfect strategy. Now I was worried that I had made a big mistake. I began to wonder what Sam Solomon might have done in a situation like this. At first I couldn’t recall anything similar, but then it came to me. Of course, Episode #34—The Suite and Sour Caper.
Sam had been hired by a wealthy couple whose teenage daughter had been kidnapped and was being held for ransom. Sam trailed the kidnappers across six states before discovering the missing girl in a hotel suite in Miami Beach. But when he got there, the young captive was angry that he had tracked her down. It seemed she didn’t want to be rescued. She wanted to stay with her kidnappers. The girl was suffering from what we now call Stockholm syndrome, where hostages begin to bond with their captors and have positive feelings toward them. Sam knew in his heart that this girl was confused, and although she resisted, he still returned her to her parents.
The Camp Phoenix Caper Page 15
