Abby and the Secret Society

by Ann M. Martin

  “Back off! Back off right now, or — or something might happen to the boy!”

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. Or my ears. I pinched myself, wishing that what I was seeing was just a nightmare. But I was wide awake, and I was horrified. This was not the way my plan was supposed to work out. How could everything have gone so wrong?

  It all began a couple of days after my friends and I had gone to see Sergeant Johnson. We had put the little silver keys and the note back into the false bottom of the trophy, and returned the trophy to its place in the golf clubhouse. Then we were ready to put my plan into action.

  Here’s what I did next: I sent a letter to former mayor Armstrong. And it wasn’t a “Hi, how are you? I’m fine” type of letter. It was an anonymous letter, accompanying a note that had supposedly just turned up, a note from David Follman to Sergeant Johnson (which I had really written). A note which said that Follman had “found the goods on Armstrong,” and that Johnson should look in Armstrong’s golf trophy for the key to the mystery. The letter went on to suggest that Armstrong might be interested in what else the note had to say.

  Where had the note come from? No, I hadn’t found it at the club. It was a forgery. I’d written it myself. (I guess I have to give some credit to Cary Retlin for the idea.) See, I had a hunch that Armstrong might know what David Follman’s “Shelter Favorite Food” note meant, and that he’d lead us to the answer, incriminating himself in the process. By the end of the day, we would know the answers to the mystery of Dark Woods. It was all supposed to work out very neatly.

  But something had gone terribly wrong.

  It had started out perfectly. All the BSC members were at Greenbrook, and so was Sergeant Johnson. Stacey was sitting for Stephen at the club. The rest of us were ready for action. I had filled Nikki in on the plan, and she was eager to help. She had sent a gracious note to Armstrong, apologizing for being rude and inviting him back to Greenbrook for a tour of the club. He accepted immediately, no doubt because he was curious about “Follman’s” note, and couldn’t wait to follow up on it.

  At first, everything went exactly according to plan. Nikki led Armstrong around the club on a tour. We BSC members, plus Sergeant Johnson, followed behind them, being ultracareful to stay out of sight. (We must have made quite a sight: a tall policeman and a line of girls, all tip-toeing around.) First, Nikki showed Armstrong the main building, explaining the renovations in great detail (I think she enjoyed torturing him a little, since she knew he was dying to get at that trophy). She even showed him every single swatch Darcy had gone through before she’d chosen the “perfect” material for the dining room drapes. Then she took him over the grounds, telling him about what flowers would be blooming in each month of the summer. She showed him the newly resurfaced tennis courts, and the new changing rooms near the pool. Then, finally, she led him to the golf clubhouse and showed him around in there, explaining the planned renovations. We followed quietly, staying hidden every step of the way. We could see and hear them, but they couldn’t see us.

  “You probably feel most at home here,” Nikki said, at one point when they were both standing near the trophy case. “Hardly anything’s been changed yet.”

  Armstrong nodded and smiled, but he kept glancing nervously at the case.

  “I think that’s about it for our tour,” Nikki said, just as we’d planned. “I need to head back to my office. But you’re welcome to relax in the lounge here. You’d probably like to sit and reminisce for a few minutes.”

  Armstrong agreed — very eagerly — and thanked her for the tour. Then he watched Nikki leave. I held my breath and crossed my fingers, but I didn’t have to wait long before he did exactly what I had predicted he would do. As soon as he heard the clubhouse door close behind Nikki, he headed straight for the trophy case.

  He put down his cane and opened the glass door. Then he gave one quick glance around (we all ducked down behind the couch we were peering over), and pulled out a trophy. Fumbling a little, he unscrewed the false bottom and shook out the keys and the real note from David Follman to Sergeant Johnson — the one that said “Shelter Favorite Food.” As he unfolded the note, his hands were shaking so hard that I could see the tremors from where I stood, behind a door. I could also see that his forehead was glistening with sweat, and I could have sworn I heard his heart pounding.

  My own heart was beating pretty fast. This was the moment of truth. Would he know what the note meant?

  He read it quickly and wrinkled his brow, and then he read it again. He glanced at the silver keys he held in his palm. Then he read the note again. I felt my heart sink. Obviously, he wasn’t sure what the note meant. Was my plan ruined?

  Suddenly, a purposeful look came into Armstrong’s eyes. He grabbed his duck-headed cane and, pocketing the note and keys, turned and walked off quickly, toward the back door. He never even glanced toward our hiding place behind the couch.

  “Yesss!” I said under my breath. “Let’s go, troops.” I motioned to the others, and we followed at a safe distance.

  Armstrong headed out the door of the clubhouse and straight toward the gardens. “Where’s he going?” hissed Sergeant Johnson. I shrugged. I was as curious as he was. We just kept following the man with the cane.

  It didn’t take long for him to reach his destination. Where was he headed? If you guessed, you’re a better detective than I am.

  The maze.

  I should have known. There was something mysterious about that maze from the very beginning, and we’d all known it. But somehow I never guessed that it held the secret of Dark Woods.

  Armstrong walked to the opening of the maze. I hurried, thinking he was going to disappear inside, but suddenly Mr. Kawaja materialized and stood before the former mayor, arms folded. Mr. Kawaja had a very obstinate look on his face.

  “Oh, no. He’s not going to let him in!” I hissed. I was standing behind one of those huge bushes I’d helped to prune. Sergeant Johnson was next to me, while Kristy, Claudia, and Jessi crouched nearby, behind another bush. Mal and Mary Anne were hidden by a large tree.

  I had a terrible feeling that things were beginning to go wrong. And then something happened that made me sure of it. While Armstrong was busy arguing with a silent but stubborn Mr. Kawaja, Stacey came running to me.

  “Abby!” she whispered. “Stephen’s missing!”

  “Missing?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

  “He ran off. I can’t find him anywhere. And I’m almost positive I’ve seen Mr. Stanton hanging around. I think Stephen may be in danger!”

  Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Armstrong shove Mr. Kawaja aside and run into the maze. I thought fast.

  “Sergeant Johnson and I have to follow Armstrong,” I said. “The rest of you can start searching for Stephen in the gardens. Be careful!”

  Sergeant Johnson nodded at me, and we took off. We ran past Mr. Kawaja, who was still sprawled on the ground, and into the maze. Almost immediately, I knew we were in trouble. We ran through hedges that stretched over our heads, taking so many right and left turns that I knew there was no way I could retrace my steps. And then, the worst possible thing happened.

  We ran into a dead end.

  “Oh, no!” I cried. “We’ve lost Armstrong for sure.”

  Just then, Mr. Kawaja appeared. “Follow me!” he said.

  I was stunned. “You can speak?” I asked.

  “When it’s important, I speak,” he answered seriously. “Follow me,” he repeated. Then he turned and started walking fast.

  Sergeant Johnson and I exchanged looks. His said, “Can we trust him?” Mine said, “What choice do we have?”

  We followed Mr. Kawaja.

  He led us through what seemed like fifty twists and turns in the maze. I was just starting to wonder if Mr. Kawaja was purposely making sure we’d be lost, when suddenly we arrived at a wide open space: the center of the maze.

  And there, kneeling on the ground and clawing at the dirt, was Armstrong.
His duck-headed cane was flung to one side, and he was so intent on his task that he didn’t hear us approach.

  I couldn’t figure out what he was doing until we came a little closer. When we were about twenty feet away, I saw it. A trapdoor. Armstrong was scrabbling in the dirt, uncovering a secret door.

  Suddenly, I heard a rustling in the bushes, and Stephen popped into the clearing. What a relief! He wasn’t lost after all. I started toward him, but Sergeant Johnson held me back.

  “Armstrong!” said Sergeant Johnson. “Stop where you are!”

  Armstrong looked up, surprised. His glance took in me, Sergeant Johnson, and Mr. Kawaja. Then he spotted Stephen, and in one move — a surprisingly strong, fast move for such an old man — he grabbed the boy and clutched him tight.

  “Back off! Back off right now, or — or something might happen to the boy!” Armstrong shouted.

  That’s when I pinched myself, and discovered that I was definitely not dreaming. Sergeant Johnson laid a hand on my shoulder, as if to reassure me, and to hold me back. Then I heard another rustling in the bushes, and Mr. Stanton appeared. I stared at him, shocked. Was he still part of Armstrong’s crooked group? Was he here to save his friend? I started to say something, but Sergeant Johnson shushed me.

  “We’re going to back off a little,” he told Armstrong. “Don’t hurt the child.”

  Armstrong watched us back up. Then he turned to Mr. Stanton. “Paul,” he said warmly.

  “Let go of my grandson,” commanded Mr. Stanton. “Now.”

  “But, Paul!” said Armstrong. “If I do that, then this gentleman,” he nodded at Sergeant Johnson, “will come after me. You understand, don’t you — brother?”

  “I’m not your brother,” said Mr. Stanton, spitting out the words. “I never was. Let go of the boy, or I’ll tell everything.”

  Slowly, Armstrong loosened his grip on Stephen. Mr. Stanton knelt and held his arms open, and Stephen ran to them.

  Then everything happened at once. Sergeant Johnson sprang forward and handcuffed Armstrong to a small apple tree. He read him his rights. Nikki rushed into the opening, along with Claudia (who had had the brains to run and find the blueprints to the maze) and the other BSC members. Nikki joined her father and Stephen in a huge hug.

  “I’ve been so stupid, Nikki,” Mr. Stanton was saying. “Can you forgive me? I’ve been watching Stephen and beginning to feel as if I know him. Then I saw him in danger, and I knew what a fool I’d been.”

  As my friends and I watched, Nikki hugged her father tighter. Obviously, all was forgiven. I heard Mary Anne sniff, and I couldn’t blame her for crying. I was practically ready to cry myself, from relief. My plan had gone wrong, but in the end everything had worked out.

  Or had it?

  There was no question that Stephen was safe, and that he and Mr. Stanton were headed for a beautiful future as grandfather and grandson. I found myself becoming a little choked up as I watched them — and Nikki — head out of the maze together, led by Mr. Kawaja. I think they were so thrilled at their newfound closeness that they’d forgotten about Armstrong and the mystery of the secret society.

  But I hadn’t. Oh, maybe I’d put it out of my mind for a few seconds, but that was all. The scene being played out in the center of the maze had been beautiful, but we still had a mystery to solve. And the first thing to do was to find out where that trapdoor led.

  Just as I woke up to that fact, I heard a tiny clinking sound from nearby. Armstrong had dropped the two little silver keys onto the frozen ground. I pounced on them, ignoring the old man’s glare. He looked uncomfortable and angry with his wrists cuffed to the tree. The duck-headed cane lay on the ground where he’d thrown it, and he seemed sort of naked without it. “If you use those keys, I can’t be responsible for what happens to you,” he said in a threatening tone.

  I was standing near Mary Anne, and I could actually hear her gulp when she heard that. But he didn’t scare me. I had a feeling he was bluffing. He knew that soon we really would have the goods on him.

  I held up the keys. “Anyone interested in finding out where these lead us?” I asked. I headed over to the trapdoor, joined by my friends and Sergeant Johnson.

  “I figured it out,” said Claudia, brandishing the blueprints she still carried. “It’s a bomb shelter. That’s what ‘shelter’ must mean, in Follman’s note.” She showed us a tiny symbol on the blueprint, a pinwheel shape. “The secret society must have built the shelter for their own use, back when everybody was worried about the Russians bombing us.”

  Kristy frowned. “I bet they wouldn’t have let certain people down there, either,” she said. “If the club was picky about members, think how strict they’d be about who was in their bomb shelter!”

  As we spoke, Sergeant Johnson was busy trying to pry open the trapdoor, using a tool that had been hanging on his belt. Suddenly, he gave a loud grunt and sat back on his heels. The door had popped open — just a crack, but it was open.

  I stepped forward, grabbed the handle, and pulled the door all the way open.

  “Wow!” breathed Jessi, who was looking over my shoulder.

  “Wow is right,” I said. We were staring down a long, steep flight of concrete stairs. The staircase disappeared into the gloomy dark. I couldn’t see where it ended, which gave me a creepy feeling. The rest of my friends clustered around to look.

  “So, I guess we should head down there,” said Mary Anne doubtfully.

  “Definitely!” said Kristy. But I noticed she didn’t step forward.

  I wasn’t feeling all that eager to walk down those steep, dark steps myself. But we had to, if we wanted to solve the mystery of Dark Woods. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves.

  Just then, Sergeant Johnson stepped forward. I suddenly realized that I had ignored the fact that he had nearly fallen when the trap door had opened, and I felt terrible. I could have at least given him a hand up. I blushed as I looked up at him, but he didn’t seem upset. He peered down at the staircase.

  “Maybe you all should wait up here,” he suggested. “I’ll check things out and make sure it’s safe.” He unhooked a flashlight from his belt as he spoke.

  His offer was tempting, but only for a second. There was no way I was going to miss out on being there when the mystery was solved. I’d spent too much time on it for that. Plus, I had to admit that Sergeant Johnson and his flashlight made the stairs look much less scary.

  “I’d rather come, if that’s all right with you,” I said politely. What if he insisted on going alone?

  “Me, too,” said Kristy.

  “I want to come,” said Jessi. Mary Anne, Claudia, Stacey, and Mal spoke up, too.

  Sergeant Johnson smiled. “I should have known you’d want to see this thing through,” he said. “You kids are troupers.” He switched on the flashlight. “Let’s go, then,” he said. “Just watch your step — and stay behind me.” He started down the stairs. I followed him, and the rest of my friends were right behind us.

  With Sergeant Johnson’s flashlight beam lighting the way, the stairs didn’t seem nearly as frightening as they had from above. Still, I was nervous about what we would find at the bottom.

  It felt as if we walked down stairs for a long time. There was a damp feeling to the air, and I started to wonder if my asthma was going to kick in. How far underground were we going?

  Finally, Sergeant Johnson stopped, so suddenly that I nearly bumped into him. Jessi did bump into me, and Kristy bumped into her, and so on.

  “Sorry!”

  “Ooops!”

  “Sorry!”

  It took a moment for everyone to sort themselves out in the dark. Sergeant Johnson waited patiently. Then he said, “There’s a steel door here. And it’s locked. Who has those keys?”

  “I do,” I said. I dug into my pocket, pulled them out, and put them into his outstretched hand. He took them and handed me his flashlight in return.

  “Shine this on the keyhole here, would you?” he asked. I held t
he flashlight carefully while he put a key in and tried to turn it. It didn’t move. I bit my lip. He tried the other key. It turned, and the door swung open!

  I shone the flashlight ahead, only to see a short corridor and another steel door. “Boy, they weren’t taking any chances with strangers coming in, were they?” I asked. This time, I didn’t even wait to be told. I just shone the flashlight on the keyhole. Sergeant Johnson used the first key to unlock that door, and we stepped into the bomb shelter.

  I was still holding the flashlight, so I shone it around. The room we were in was small, but it was packed tight with supplies. A makeshift table sat in the center, surrounded by folding chairs. Every wall was covered with shelves, and every shelf was covered with everything you can imagine needing if you were planning to survive underground for more than a few days. Every carton was carefully labeled. There were medical supplies in cartons with big red crosses on them. There were sheets and towels and pillows, leading me to think that there was another room somewhere for sleeping. There were huge drums that must have contained water or some kind of fuel. And there were shelves and shelves full of food in cans and jars and cardboard boxes. Fortunately for me, the room had been sealed so tightly that there didn’t seem to be much dust.

  “Incredible,” said Sergeant Johnson softly.

  “Awesome,” Kristy agreed. “They really had it all planned, didn’t they?”

  “I wouldn’t want to have to stay down here, though,” said Mary Anne with a shudder.

  “I don’t know,” said Claudia. “It could be kind of fun — for a day or two. After that, I’d start going bonkers.”

  “How are we ever going to search for clues down here?” asked Mal, which snapped us all back to the mystery.

  “It won’t be much of a search,” said Sergeant Johnson. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I have a feeling I know what David meant by ‘Favorite Food.’ Can I have that flashlight?” I handed it to him, and we followed him as he walked to one of the food shelves and started to rummage around. It was only a matter of seconds before he said, “Ah, here we go.” He handed the flashlight back to me and used both hands to lift a large tin canister from the back shelf.