by Kurt Dinan
“That,” Ellie says, and I look to where she’s pointing.
Oh.
Taped above the office door on the glass frame is one of our replica Chaos Club cards.
“Wheeler,” I say.
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“This can’t be good.”
“Where are you going?” Ellie asks.
“To find out what Wheeler did.”
Two minutes later, I find Wheeler in the foreign language lab. He’s at a computer with headphones on, repeating into a microphone what the animated Spanish-speaking mouse on the screen is saying. Wheeler’s so focused it takes a second to get his attention.
“What did you do?” I say once he joins me in the hall.
“Huh?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Men in suits came into Stranko’s office. Ellie saw the Chaos Club card you put up.”
An evil, satisfied smile slowly creeps across Wheeler’s face.
“Oh man, it worked.”
“What the hell did you do, Dave?”
“Nothing big. I just sent a couple emails from Stranko’s account.”
“Didn’t he deactivate it by now?”
“Yeah, but I can still use his email by logging into his office computer. This building is basically deserted if you get here early enough.”
I’m afraid to ask, but I have to.
“What were the messages?”
“Just some private thoughts Stranko shared with the White House. It turns out he really doesn’t agree with a lot of the president’s policies. Apparently, he’s angry enough to make some very specific threats.”
“So those guys—”
“Are probably Secret Service,” Wheeler finishes, and once he starts laughing, he can’t stop. “Did they take him out in handcuffs? Please tell me they did.”
“It’s not funny, Wheeler. He could end up in jail. I’m no fan of Stranko’s, but he’s never going to stop looking for us now. Don’t you get that? You didn’t take care of anything. You’ve just pissed him off for eternity.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“You’ve committed a federal crime, Wheeler.”
“Oh, just stop. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, but I do know I’m not done with Stranko yet.”
“What’s next? Framing him for murder?”
He only answers with raised eyebrows.
I walk back to Navarro’s room, expecting the Secret Service to drop out of the ceiling to waterboard me in the janitor’s closet. The two granola bars and can of Red Bull I downed after second period crash in my stomach like a tidal wave reaching land.
I’d talked myself into being okay with Adleta’s and Malone’s pranks, justifying what they did by believing the lie that their victims deserved the revenge, but Wheeler’s crosses a line I can’t ignore. Potential federal prosecution will do that to a guy.
Back in Navarro’s room, I send a text to all the other members of the Water Tower Five.
Meet in the theater before lunch.
• • •
The rest of the crew is already at the front of the stage when I walk in an hour later. I can hear them even from the back of the theater, and they’re making no effort to hide their conversation.
“Oh man,” Adleta’s saying. “Practice is going to suck tonight.”
“Sorry about that,” Wheeler says.
“No, it’s worth it. I only wish we could’ve heard those Secret Service guys grilling him. I hope they did a full body-cavity search.”
“They looked so serious,” Ellie says. “I’ll bet Stranko had to change his boxers afterward.”
“Yeah, I wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall in that meeting,” Malone says.
Wheeler sees me coming and says, “Max is pissed at me though.”
Malone says to me, “You’re worried he’ll get caught?”
“Partially that, yeah.”
“Dude,” Wheeler says, “I told you I was careful. I used Stranko’s computer, and it’s not like the Secret Service can trace his phone. I already told you, the phone’s been deactivated and the battery died a long time ago.”
“And if you do get caught somehow?”
Wheeler puts his hands up in a so what manner.
“I’m a minor. What can they really do?”
I’m no vocabulary wizard, but I think the appropriate word here is naive.
“You said ‘partially,’” Malone says. “What else are you mad about?”
Wheeler says, “Yeah, why did you summon us here, King Max?”
They’re all waiting for my answer, and I’m worried they’re ready to revolt. I need to tread lightly. Because the thing is, I still want to take down the Chaos Club, and to do that, I need their help. At the same time, the pranks bother me, but they already know that.
So how do I handle the situation?
By following Heist Rule #19: Lead with confidence and people will follow.
“Look, what we’ve pulled off this year so far has been amazing,” I say. “No, strike that—your pranks have been amazing. I haven’t even pulled mine yet. So I can’t really sit here and give you crap for who your pranks are against, especially since they’re all damn impressive.”
Everyone seems to straighten a little at this.
“At this point though, I think we need to rethink our strategy. Nothing we’ve done has helped us expose the Chaos Club. And my locker still smells like a bakery. So I don’t think more pranks are going to do anything.”
“What’s the plan then?” Wheeler asks.
“Give me a few days to think that over,” I say. “But no more pranks for now, okay?”
This is the moment it could all go to hell. I’ve basically just given an order. In the movies, the heist crew leader is always dealing with adults, not teenagers. And it’s not like there was ever a vote making me the group Leader with a capital L. The four all stare at me, and I brace myself for the assault of laughter that’s about to begin.
Then Ellie says, “Okay.”
Adleta says, “Cool.”
And Wheeler says, “Whatever you say, boss.”
It takes longer than I’m comfortable with, but Malone finally says, “Got it.”
And just like that, I’m a freaking genius.
“Wait a second,” Wheeler says. “Is this all a setup so you don’t have to pull a prank?”
“No, that wouldn’t be a fair. You did your prank. I’ll do mine.”
“Promise?” Malone says.
“Promise.”
• • •
February hits a week later, and let’s be honest, February sucks. It’s freezing cold, perpetually dark, and everyone walks around like their brains have gone cold and dark too. February defenders—of which there can’t be many—argue it’s not the worst month because it’s so short. But if your most redeeming quality is that you’re not around very long, you might as well not be around at all. And don’t get me started on that stupid spelling. Eliminate that dumb R and maybe we can talk.
Maybe it’s because of February’s high suck factor, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out how to continue the investigation into the Chaos Club. I suppose we could go with Adleta’s initial idea of beating his way through the entire student body until someone confesses, but that’s probably our last resort. The others have even stopped asking me what we’re going to do. Ellie pushed the hardest, asking on a daily basis, and then eventually, even she gave up.
Then an envelope.
Like the one I received inviting me to the water tower, this envelope is taped to the inside of my locker at the end of the school day. My pulse pounds in my ears as I tear it open and pull out a folded white sheet of paper.
The
picture is grainy and shot from far away, but it’s clear enough that you can tell that it’s me on the football field with a camera. I stand over Ellie, who, thankfully, is safely hidden inside the Zippy the Golden Eagle mascot costume.
Written on the back of the picture:
Meet at Ryder Park Baseball Field 4 tonight at 10.
Tell anyone, we turn you in.
Don’t show up, we turn you in.
Do anything stupid, we turn you in.
CHAOS CLUB
Chapter 17
I go because of the threat.
I go because I’m pissed.
I go because I’m scared.
I go because it’s our first real lead.
I go because what choice do I really have?
But mostly, I go because that’s what a leader does.
I don’t tell the other four. I’m not sure if the Chaos Club knows their identities, but since they shot that picture at the football field, they must know Ellie’s involved, and I want to protect her at all costs.
Does that mean it’s (one-sided) love?
In the time between receiving the note and lying to my parents by saying I’m going to the library to work on—you guessed it—a group project, a hundred questions have come to me:
Who took the picture?
Why not just turn me in?
Why do they want to meet?
Is this another setup?
All good questions I’d like answers to, but not the one I’m really concerned with:
Who in the group snitched?
Because either someone in the group ratted us out, or we’ve fallen victim to the one uncontrollable variable in every plan—randomness. You can plan a heist down to the last second, practice it until you dream it in your sleep, and double then triple check that every battery is charged, every schedule is running on time, and every person is in their exact position, and still be tripped up by a random act of the universe—the power going out, a dropped tool, a sudden sneeze, or, worst of all, a stranger accidentally wandering onto the scene.
Is that what happened here? Did someone walking by the football stadium on that December night see us and shoot the pictures? Then, realizing later what he or she had witnessed, contact the Chaos Club?
I consider calling Boyd because he’d know what to do. Most likely, he’d get to the park early, hide somewhere where no one would ever see him, then come out when the Chaos Club arrived, helping me overpower them and ending their reign of terror. Clearly I’ve watched too many movies. But because the note specifically said not to tell anyone, I don’t call Boyd. And this is too important to screw up. Besides, Boyd might tell my parents. Like I need more trouble in my life.
So I’m alone as I get to the vacant Ryder ball fields shortly before ten. The fields are near the school but aren’t on school property, so I won’t be in violation of Stranko’s zero-tolerance trespassing rule. The infield of field four is concrete hard, and the rain and snow of the last few months have leveled the pitcher’s mound. For a clear view in all directions, I wait at second base and pray no one’s parachuting in, bringing death from above. My head’s on a swivel, and I’m questioning every life choice I’ve ever made. I mean, agreeing to meet my sworn enemy? Alone? In the dark? How crazy does someone have to be?
Completely crazy.
• • •
It’s a few minutes after ten when I hear feet scraping on the hard dirt of the adjacent ball field. I squint hard into the darkness, and two figures emerge around the visitor’s side dugout, stepping onto the field, and…
They’re wearing masks.
And not like hockey masks or cute little bunny masks with a rubber band across the back, but full-fledged demon masks that cover their entire heads. Both stop dead when they see me, standing silent in the moonlight and looking creepy as hell.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
Their loose-fitting clothes make determining their exact sex difficult, but the person on the left is clearly bigger and at least a foot taller. If I had to guess, I’d say one guy, one girl. They start toward me in confident strides, and it’s only my clenched butt cheeks that stop me from shitting myself. At ten feet away, the bigger one pulls a small box from his pocket and holds it up to his mouth. When he speaks, his voice is obnoxiously distorted, like he’s a kidnapper making a ransom call.
“Give me your phone.”
Yep, a guy.
“What?” I say.
He holds out a hand.
“Give me your phone.”
“Why?”
“To make sure you’re not recording us.”
Huh. I should’ve thought of that.
I hand him my phone, and he pushes a few buttons. The smaller one leans in and whispers something that has the big one nodding.
“I’m turning off your phone-finder app too. I don’t want anyone to know where we’re taking you.”
“Whoa, wait a second. I’m not going anywhere.”
The small one takes the distorter and holds it up.
“We’re not going to hurt you.”
A girl.
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace private.”
“More private than this?”
The guy reaches into his jacket and pulls out a mask identical to the one they’re wearing, except this one has duct tape over the eyes.
“Put this on,” the girl says.
I may be dumb enough to come here, but I’m not dumb enough to put myself completely at their mercy.
“I’m out of here,” I say.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” she says.
“There’s no way I’m putting that mask on.”
The guy grabs for the distorter and holds it up.
“If you leave, Stranko gets the picture tonight. How long do you think it’ll be before he figures out who’s in the mascot costume? Now put the mask on.”
Again, do I have a choice?
I can’t see anything with the mask on, and the small slits at the nostrils and mouth have me suffocating. I’m led by the arm across the hard infield and off the diamond completely. We’re on grass for a bit, and the girl says, “Be careful. Don’t slip. There’s a step down here.”
Ah, kindhearted kidnappers, the best kind.
Then we’re walking on concrete, and I hear the chirp of a car door unlocking.
“No, it’s okay,” the girl says when I slow down. “You’ll be fine.”
A door opens, and I’m guided down so I don’t bang my head on the car. I can’t tell what the car’s make is, but I know it’s small because my knees hit the passenger seat in front of me. When my two captors get in, only a few feet separate us.
“Drive around a bit,” the guy says. “I don’t want him knowing where we are.” Then to me, “If you peek, Stranko gets the picture.”
The radio comes on, and we start driving. At first, I do a good job keeping track of our location. I’ve lived in Asheville my whole life, so I know these roads. But the turns become so constant that eventually I lose any sense of direction. When we finally come to a stop after twenty minutes of driving, we might as well be in China.
“This way,” the girl says once we’re outside the car. “It’s not very far, but we need you to be quiet.”
“Why?”
“Because we told you to be,” the guy says.
I’m guessing we’re walking across another empty parking lot. Of course, for all I know, it’s a dead-end road, someone’s driveway—or a walkway to an open vat of hydrofluoric acid.
“Just a little farther,” she says. “We’re heading inside.”
“To a murder shed?” I say, only half joking.
Neither reply. If I live through this, I need to stop being such a smart-ass.
We walk on
what’s probably a sidewalk for a few seconds, then without any sort of transition, the night sounds fall away and the air warms up as we step inside some structure. My guards are on either side of me, and I’m led a dozen or so steps before the door we just entered closes with a click. Whatever sort of building we’re in, there can’t be many people around. The only sound is the constant drone of a heating system. After another minute of walking, I’m led inside what has to be a small room. There’s no noise in here, and I sense that the walls aren’t too far out of reach. But it’s the unmistakable smell of wet paint that has me most confused. Even with the mask on, it’s overwhelming, like somehow I’m in the backroom of a paint store.
“Sit here,” the girl says.
“Can I take off my mask? I’m dying.”
“Actually, we need to tie your hands behind your back now. We don’t want you taking off your mask before it’s time.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means put your hands behind your back. We don’t have all night,” Mr. Attitude says.
Having come this far, I do as I’m told. Thankfully, the rope isn’t so tight it cuts off circulation.
“Do you know why you’re here?” the guy asks.
I should be scared, but I’m not. Probably because I realize that underneath the tough-guy act, he’s really just another dumb high school kid like me.
“You’re the one who brought me here. Why don’t you tell me why?” I say.
“Don’t be stupid. We want to know why you’re trying to get us in trouble.”
“What do you mean trouble?”
“Stop the shit, man. You know what we’re talking about. The fake website—”
“The aerial photo—”
“The pep rally—”
“The goldfish—”
“Zippy—”
“And siccing the Secret Service on Stranko,” the guy says. “That trouble.”
Well, it’s nice to know our work hasn’t gone unnoticed.
“You’re the ones who started it by getting us busted at the water tower,” I say. “Then you went and stuffed our lockers with dough.”
There’s a long enough pause that I’m guessing the guy and girl are communicating without speaking. Maybe with semaphore.
