“What do we do?” asked Joe.
I shook my head and took out my flashlight. I shone it on the glass case and saw very clear fingerprints. Joe leaned forward to study them.
“You know,” he whispered, “I bet the Phantom isn’t careless enough to leave his own fingerprints at the scene of the crime.”
“I agree,” I said.
Joe lifted his index finger and pressed it to the glass next to the print that was already there. I did the same. Then I pulled out my keys and unclipped the little magnifying glass from the key chain.
“You’re kidding me,” said Joe. “You carry a magnifying glass with you?”
“Always be prepared,” I said, and we leaned forward to examine the prints.
We spent a while squinting at them in the light of the flashlight. It was hard to be 100 percent sure, but the fingerprint left behind on the display case looked like it could be mine.
“How did he get your print?” asked Joe.
“No idea.”
I looked around and spotted a box of tissues. I grabbed a few and wiped down the display case. The Phantom was apparently serious about framing us for this theft.
“There’s glass everywhere,” remarked Joe. “Our prints could be all over the house.”
“Then we’ve got a lot of wiping to do,” I said. “Grab a few tissues and we’ll get start—”
I was cut off by a high-pitched scream.
DOUBLE SWORDS
6
JOE
AS SOON AS I HEARD the scream, I sprinted up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Frank was right behind me.
At the top of the stairs, I heard a whimper to my left. I bolted through the door and into a bedroom, then pulled up short.
Amber stood in the middle of the floor, her hands in the air. A figure dressed in black was behind her, both daishō swords in his hands.
They were pointed straight at Amber’s neck.
I looked around for Chet, and my heart sank when I saw a dark shadow crumpled on the floor to our left.
I moved toward him.
“Stop!” barked a voice I could only assume belonged to the Phantom.
I pulled up short. “If you’ve hurt him, I’ll make you suffer,” I snarled.
“He’s fine. Just a knock on the head,” growled the masked figure.
I looked at Amber, whose eyes were wide with fear. Razor-sharp sword points rested directly against her skin. Moonlight filtering from the window winked on the blades.
“Take it easy,” Frank cautioned, appearing at my side. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
The Phantom laughed. “I’m perfectly aware of that.”
His voice was gruff and low. The Phantom was obviously trying to disguise what he really sounded like.
“So you solved my riddle,” he said.
“It wasn’t that hard,” I replied.
“Then I’ll have to make the next one extra difficult.”
Frank threw a glare in my direction. The riddle was plenty hard; I just hadn’t wanted the Phantom to know that.
“Looks like we’ve got a bit of a standoff here,” I said.
“Not really,” said the Phantom. “A standoff would imply that you had something that could hurt me.”
“Frank,” whispered Amber.
“It’s okay, Amber,” Frank assured her. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“You sure about that?” asked the Phantom.
“Yes,” said Frank evenly. “Because if it does, we’ll make it our life mission to put you behind bars.”
The Phantom said nothing. I took the opportunity to look around. The bedroom was minimally furnished. Just the bed and a set of drawers. I checked the walls—
And froze. On the wall to my left was what I thought—and hoped—was a panic button. It was about three arm lengths away.
I licked my lips. What choice did I have? I could see by Amber’s stance that she was about to make a move, and I was worried it would lead to her getting hurt. I locked eyes with her and held out my hand in a wait gesture. She nodded almost imperceptibly.
I lunged forward and hit the button. Just as I had hoped, the main door alarms were on a separate circuit from the panic button, so even though the Phantom had disabled the alarm system to break in, the panic button still worked. A wailing, shrieking siren erupted around us, echoing through the house.
Amber took advantage of the Phantom’s momentary distraction and elbowed him in the stomach. He gasped and staggered back. She ducked away from the blades, and Frank managed to grab her, pulling her toward the door. The Phantom bumped up against the bed. His arms flew out to either side in an attempt to keep his balance, and one of the swords slipped from his hand, slicing through the air directly toward me!
My eyes went wide as I leaned back, trying to dodge the weapon. I bent over, then overbalanced and collapsed onto the carpet. The sword thudded into the wall and hung there for a moment, vibrating.
Then it started to slide back out of the plaster.
I rolled frantically to the side just as it slipped out of the wall and sank point-down into the carpet where my head had just been.
I scrambled to my feet. Frank was rushing toward the Phantom, but the masked figure—still holding one of the swords—rolled off the bed and sprinted toward the window, covering his face and jumping straight into it. The glass exploded and the Phantom followed, disappearing from sight.
Frank and I climbed through the broken window onto a small balcony, where we saw the Phantom clambering over the railing. I leaned over and glimpsed him dropping onto the angled roof of the patio. He hit it with a bang and rolled over the edge before he could stop himself.
I quickly followed him. The metal roof buckled beneath my feet, and for a second I thought it was going to give way. I paused, hands out to balance myself, and shuffled forward.
Moments later I realized my mistake. The roof was steeper than I had thought. My feet started to slide, and I dropped onto my back just as I launched over the edge.
I bent my knees as I hit the grass and rolled to the side. Even so, my breath exploded from my body. I clambered painfully to my feet and staggered around to the front of the house.
I looked both ways. Nothing. But he had to be around here somewhere. He had only been a couple of seconds ahead of me.
I turned in a slow circle, drawing in deep breaths, searching the shadows beneath the streetlights.
There. A movement about three houses down. Someone darting into the shadows.
“You see him?”
I whirled around to find Frank at my side.
“Sure do. Keep up if you can.” I set off again, determined to stop the Phantom from escaping with even one of the swords.
I darted into the driveway of the house he had ducked into. The Phantom was struggling to climb a high wall at the far end of the garden. To my surprise, Frank surged past me and leaped up, grabbing hold of the sword’s sheath. The Phantom tried to keep hold of it, but I caught up and helped Frank tug it out of his grip.
We both fell onto our backs as the Phantom let go. He pulled himself up onto the wall and turned to face us.
“Hear that?” he said, breathing heavily.
Frank and I slowly got to our feet. I strained my ears, but I couldn’t hear anything. I moved my head around slightly.
Sirens.
“You’d better get your friends,” the Phantom hissed. “Not sure you’ll be able to explain everything to the police.”
“If you’re talking about our prints on the display case, we wiped them,” said Frank.
The Phantom hesitated. I almost smiled. He obviously hadn’t expected us to find them.
“Clever,” he said. “Just as well that it wasn’t the only place I planted them.”
Then he turned and dropped into the garden beyond.
Frank and I looked at each other. I knew he was thinking the same as me. We’d both love nothing more than to climb over that wall and chase after
the Phantom. But Chet and Amber were still at Remington’s place. Chet needed our help, and we had to wipe our fingerprints before the police came. We didn’t have time to keep chasing him.
The sirens grew louder. The police couldn’t be more than three or four minutes away.
“Come on!” shouted Frank, and sprinted back toward the house. “You get Chet and Amber!” He tossed me the sword as we darted through the patio door.
Frank grabbed a dishcloth from the kitchen and used it to wipe down the glass around the latch. He was making sure the Phantom hadn’t planted more of our fingerprints.
I ran up the stairs, almost colliding with Amber at the top. She was dragging Chet out of the bedroom.
I quickly tossed the sword back into the bedroom, then helped her bring Chet none too gently down the stairs, trying to make sure his head didn’t bump the wood too hard. I could hear the sirens outside as we approached the bottom.
“Help me get him up,” I cried. Together, Amber and I managed to heave Chet onto my shoulders. We hurried toward the kitchen.
Frank wasn’t there.
“Frank!” I whispered loudly.
He reappeared a moment later. “Just double-checking the living room. I think I cleaned everything.”
We slipped into the garden just as the police were nearing the front door. I knew that when they found it locked, they would head to the back. I looked around, then rushed to the wall leading to the next-door neighbor’s house. Frank climbed over first, and Amber and I manhandled Chet up after him. He tumbled over the fence.
I hopped up onto the wall and turned back to help Amber, but she was already pulling herself up beside me.
Looking back toward the house, I saw flashlights shining into the back garden. I quickly dropped onto the grass. Amber landed next to me.
“A little help here.”
We looked over to find Frank pinned beneath Chet. We rolled his unconscious form over, and Frank pushed himself to his feet. As he did so, Chet groaned.
“Wha—what happened?”
“Shh,” whispered Frank. “Keep it down. We’re not out of this yet.”
Frank was right. He and I crossed the lawn, supporting Chet between us, and snuck around to the front of the neighbor’s house. The owners had come out to see what all the commotion was. They were standing out in the street with their backs to us.
We managed to sneak along behind them and head back to where we’d parked the car. After we climbed inside, Frank put it into neutral and released the brake.
We rolled back down the hill until the police and houses were out of sight. Then Frank started the engine, turned us around, and headed back into town.
IDENTITY CRISIS
7
FRANK
THE NEXT DAY WAS SATURDAY, so Joe and I had the whole day to plan our next move. We’d managed to foil the first of the robberies, but if the Phantom, aka Jack Kruger, kept his word (and there was no reason to think he wouldn’t), it meant there would be two more to go. Our best bet to stop him was to find out where he lived and report his whereabouts to the police before he had a chance to follow through on his threats to our family.
I checked the mail first thing, but there were no more riddles—just a flyer for the reopening of the Civil War exhibition at the town hall. So I spent the morning going through Dad’s files, hoping to find something that could help us track down the Phantom.
I brought what I found to Joe, who was sitting in the living room, poring over the day’s paper.
“Big write-up about the attempted robbery last night,” he said.
“Any mention of us?” I asked, placing the folder on the table next to him.
“Nothing.”
I felt a surge of relief. “He’ll make it harder for us next time.”
“Tonight, you mean?” said Joe, putting down the paper and stretching.
Tonight. It seemed crazy that we were waiting on a riddle to foil another robbery that was only hours away.
“What if he doesn’t send us a riddle this time?” I wondered.
“He will,” said Joe confidently. “He likes this game.” He nodded at the file. “What’s that?”
“Background on Kruger. Everything I could find on the Internet and from Dad’s files.”
Joe started leafing through the file while I lay down on the couch and tried to figure out our next move.
“Hey, did you see this?” he called. “Dad kept up his file even after Kruger was put in prison. He mentions Kruger’s cell mate here. It says they were released within a few months of each other.”
I vaguely remembered seeing something like that in the file, but by that time all the words had started to run together. I nodded, wondering where Joe was going with this.
“It says here that the cell mate was in prison for fraud, embezzlement, and forgery. Who better to set up a new identity for Kruger than someone who was in prison for that very crime? Someone he shared a cell with for years?”
Joe was right! Kruger wouldn’t be careless enough to seek out someone he didn’t know. Especially when he already knew someone who could organize a new identity for him.
“Is the name in there?”
“Randall Trethaway.”
“Address?”
Joe checked the files and nodded. “Dad kept his eye on Trethaway, too. His address is here.”
“Then we’re in business.”
• • •
A half hour later I was studying Trethaway’s house from the sidewalk. It was a single-story home, white paint peeling from old wooden boards. The windows were covered in wire mesh that was falling away from the frames, and the garden was filled with weeds and cluttered with old newspapers.
“Charming place,” muttered Joe sarcastically as we approached the front door.
“I think this is what Mom would call a fixer-upper,” I replied, knocking on the door. A tall, bald man answered, wearing neon surf shorts and a vest.
The man said nothing, just looked at us and took a big bite out of an apple.
“Are you Randall Trethaway?” inquired Joe.
“Might be. Who’s asking?”
“My name is Frank, and this is my brother, Joe. We’d like to talk to you about Jack Kruger.”
Randall brightened at this, which surprised me. In my experience, no one was ever excited to talk to us about a case.
“So you’ve heard about my book?” said Randall.
“Uh . . . ,” I began.
“Yes,” Joe put in quickly. “We have.”
“You’re a bit young for reporters.”
“We’re trainees. First year,” explained Joe. “Hoping to . . . uh . . . break a big story.”
Randall nodded seriously. “Well, you came to the right place. Come on in.”
He stepped aside. I looked at Joe, who shrugged and stepped through the door. I followed, entering a sparsely lit living room.
There was an old TV shoved up against one wall. A ratty couch sat in the center of the room, and opposite that was a steel table covered with newspaper clippings. Buried beneath all of them was an ancient-looking laptop.
Trethaway looked around. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “It’s the cleaner’s day off.” He chuckled at his joke.
“Um . . . so, Mr. Trethaway. You were Jack Kruger’s cell mate for how many years?” I asked.
“Ten,” answered Trethaway. “Ten years sharing a cell with one of the greatest thieves in history.”
“That’s quite a claim,” Joe observed. “Is that the angle of your book?”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Trethaway,” I said, “have you been in contact with Kruger lately?”
Trethaway glanced briefly at his computer. It was the barest flicker of his eyes, but Joe and I knew to watch for things like that.
“ ’Course I have. Wouldn’t be much of a book otherwise.”
“I see. It’s just . . . we’ve tried to track down Mr. Kruger, but we can’t find him.”
Tr
ethaway smiled slightly. “Ah, well. It’s hard to find a man if he doesn’t want to be found.”
Joe tried a different approach. “You were in jail for fraud,” he said.
“Yeah? So?”
“Mr. Trethaway,” said Joe, “I don’t want to be rude, but did you organize a new identity for Jack Kruger?”
Trethaway smirked. “Now, boys, that’s not the kind of thing a man can go on record saying.”
Bull’s-eye, I thought. Before I could say anything, Joe asked where the bathroom was.
Trethaway nodded at an open door that led into a hallway. “Out there, turn left, second door on your right.”
After Joe had disappeared, I asked, “Mr. Trethaway, would you be willing to give us Kruger’s contact details? It’s really important for our piece.”
Trethaway shook his head. “He’s served his time. He wants to start a new life.”
“If he wants to be left alone, how did you convince him to be featured in your book?”
“Let’s just say a favor for a favor.”
I thought about this for a second, studying Trethaway’s face. “Let me guess,” I said. “You supplied Kruger with a false identity, and he agreed to help you with your book?”
Trethaway shrugged. “You said it, not me.”
I wondered how much to tell Trethaway. Should I inform him that the Phantom was active again? But why was Trethaway so convinced Kruger just wanted to be left alone? And why would Kruger agree to have a book written about him if he was returning to a life of crime? It didn’t make sense.
Joe returned from the bathroom and inclined his head slightly, indicating that we should go.
I stood up. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Trethaway. We appreciate it.”
“That’s it?” said Trethaway in surprise. “You’re not going to be able to write much of a feature with what you’ve asked me.”
“No.” I searched around for an excuse. “Not yet, I mean. We’ll file a preliminary story at the Bayport Bugle, and when you’ve finished the first draft, let us know so we can write a more complete piece.”
The Curse of the Ancient Emerald Page 4
