Caching In

by Kristin Butcher

  And even then, Merlin only takes us so far. It would be cool if he said the cache was behind a bench or inside a hollow log. But no. He hasn’t been programmed for that little trick, so once we get close, Merlin signs off and Chris and I are on our own.

  It’s my GPS, so I lead the way—for the first half hour, anyway. But as soon as I wheel onto Richmond Road, Chris shoots past me and speeds away.

  “Hey!” I holler after him. “Where are you going?”

  “Where do you think?” he yells over his shoulder.

  I have no clue, but Chris is already half a block ahead, so I have to pedal hard to catch up. The street is narrow, and there are parked cars on both sides, so we’re pretty much riding in the middle of traffic. A couple of cars honk. Chris gives them the finger.

  When we get to the light at Richmond Road and Bay Street, Chris swings into the turn lane. I look at the GPS mounted on my handlebars.

  “In one hundred meters, turn left to destination,” Merlin says.

  “Hmph,” I mumble in amazement as I follow Chris through the intersection.

  And just like that, we’re in the parking lot of the Royal Jubilee Hospital.

  I brake and lower one foot to the pavement. “This is it.”

  But Chris doesn’t stop. He hangs another left and coasts down an incline and through the entrance to the parkade. I follow him.

  We slide our bikes into the bike rack and lock them. “How did you know we were gonna end up at the hospital?” I say. “And how did you know these bike racks were here?”

  He taps the side of his head with his finger. “Brains.”

  “I’m serious, man.”

  Chris frowns. “What? You think I’m not smart?”

  “Yeah, you’re a genius. Now answer the question.”

  He shrugs. “I played a hunch. When you turned onto Richmond Road, I automatically thought, hospital. I mean, what other landmarks are on the street? Then I remembered the obituary. It said Carlisle died here. I figured it was a clue. As for the bike rack, I used it last summer when my grandfather was having surgery.”

  I nod and glance around. “So where do we start looking?”

  We head back into the sunshine and up to the main driveway.

  Chris points to the shrubbery surrounding the parkade. “What about there?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. There aren’t any weeds. And the shrubs are all perfectly trimmed. The hospital obviously has a gardener. If the cache was hidden in there, he would have found it. Besides, cars are constantly whizzing up and down the road and turning into the hospital parking lot. Somebody would see us finding the cache—just like they would have seen whoever hid it.”

  “Unless it was hidden in the middle of the night.”

  I shoot Chris a dirty look. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, forget it. We’re not coming back here later.”

  “Fine,” he concedes grudgingly.

  We take the crosswalk to a bench on the opposite sidewalk. As we flop down, I sigh and Chris boots a pebble.

  “So now what?” he says. “It can’t be in the middle of the road.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  Even so, we both stare at the driveway as if the cache is going to magically pop out of the pavement. Gradually, my gaze shifts to the hospital. There’s a sandwich place attached to it, and as a steady stream of people walks in and then out with subs, my stomach starts to growl. Lunch was hours ago.

  Chris pulls out his phone and presses a few buttons.

  “Tree of Life,” he mutters. There’s a determination in his voice that makes me forget about sandwiches.

  “What?”

  “That’s the clue.”

  “What clue?”

  “Look there.” He points to a sprawling tree a little to our left. It’s not tall, but it’s really wide, and its branches are all bent over. The leaves practically touch the ground. “What do you see?”

  “A tree.”

  “A tree of life?”

  I feel my eyebrows dive into one another. “What are you talking about?”

  He taps his phone. “The obituary said that instead of giving flowers, people should donate to the Tree of Life. So I did a search. There’s a Tree of Life movie and a Tree of Life store. Why would the dead guy’s family want people to donate to those? And there is nothing on Richmond Road. It’s gotta be a clue.”

  We stand up and head for the tree.

  The dangling leaves form a thick, green, circular curtain. We push through, and suddenly the parkade, driveway and hospital disappear. We can’t see out, and nobody can see in.

  The tree looks ancient. The bark is black and cracked, and the branches are all knobbly and gnarled. If a tree can get arthritis, this one definitely has it.

  “Hey, look!” Chris nudges me and points above our heads. “It’s a knothole.”

  I nod. “I see it. There’s another one too—a couple of feet above that one. Do you think that’s where the cache is?”

  Chris takes a deep breath and steps up to the tree. “We’ll soon find out.”

  Like I said, the tree isn’t tall, but Chris is, so he has no trouble reaching the lower knothole. When he stands on his toes, he can even feel inside.

  I hold my breath as he gropes around.

  “Well?” I say when he finally pulls his hand out.

  He makes a face and wipes his hand on his jeans. “Nothin’. I should’ve known that was too easy.”

  “But that’s good, right? Less chance that anybody’s found the cache yet. We’ll be the first ones.”

  Chris shakes his head. “Or not, since I can’t reach that high, there are no branches to climb, and I don’t seem to have a ladder.”

  I ignore the sarcasm. “I can stand on your shoulders,” I say. I’m shorter than Chris and lighter too.

  He doesn’t answer right away. He hates it when somebody else comes up with an idea. Finally, he nods and mumbles, “It could work.” Then he crouches on his knees in front of the tree.

  I hop onto his shoulders and grab the trunk as he stands up. The knothole is right at my eye level. And there’s something inside—a metal tube with plastic caps on both ends. I reach in and grab it.

  “I’ve got it!” I call down to Chris.

  In a matter of seconds, I’m back on the ground, and the two of us are scrambling to get the tube open.

  “It’s a paper,” Chris announces as he fishes it out.

  “Another clue, I bet.”

  As he unrolls the paper, his eyes practically pop out of his head.

  “What? What is it?” I demand, yanking on his arm so I can see too.

  I blink a couple of times to make sure I’m not hallucinating. The paper is a handwritten letter. I have no idea what it says—not because it’s in code or a foreign language or anything, but because all I can focus on is the fifty-dollar bill clipped to the top corner.

  Chapter Four

  “Is it real?” Chris asks.

  “Do I look like a counterfeit expert?” I snort as I rub my fingers over the bill. It’s new and smooth—not a wrinkle or rip anywhere. “Do you think it’s real?”

  Chris shrugs. “It could be fake, I guess, but why would somebody stick a bogus bill in a cache? It’s not like they’re gonna get change back.”

  “Good point. Maybe we should look at the letter.”

  Chris flips the bill up out of the way and starts to read while I look over his shoulder and follow along.

  Dear Geocacher,

  I trust I have your attention. The fact that you are reading this letter means you found the first cache at the cemetery and decoded the clues in the obituary. The reward for your sleuthing is this fifty-dollar bill. You can take it and quit, or you can continue with the hunt. I promise it will be worth your while.

  However, the challenge I extend to you is not for the faint of heart. Nor is it for lazy thinkers. From here on out, there’s no more GPS. You’re going to have to use your geo-senses. If you�
�re clever enough, resourceful enough and daring enough, you won’t be disappointed.

  You will have three days to find two more caches and present yourself at the finish line. Three days—that’s all. After that, the game is over. The clock is ticking. Good luck.

  “It sounds like Mission Impossible,” I say.

  “Yeah, it does,” Chris agrees. “Let’s hope the fifty doesn’t self-destruct.”

  We both grin. Then I nod toward the letter. “So what’s our mission?”

  Chris starts to read again.

  Follow the marathon man. Hurry northwest before flying south. Remember, this isn’t a picnic. Billy loves Sara. Be prepared for danger and be on edge. Good luck finding your nest egg.

  “That’s the clue?”

  Chris shrugs. “Apparently. What do you think it means?”

  “Absolutely nothing!” I hoot. “It’s just a bunch of goofy sentences strung together. Whoever wrote that is messing with our heads.”

  “Maybe not. We didn’t see the clue in the obituary right away either. Besides, if the puzzle was easy to figure out, it wouldn’t be a challenge.”

  “Oh, this is a challenge, all right.”

  “Don’t give up before we’ve even started.” Chris taps the fifty-dollar bill. “If we find the next cache, there could be more money. Maybe a freakin’ truckload of money. Do you want someone else to get it?”

  “Okay, fine,” I concede. “I guess we don’t have anything to lose. The fifty bucks is ours to keep no matter what.”

  Chris grins and slaps me on the back. “Exactly.” Then his face gets serious again. “So let’s start with marathon man. What do you think that means?”

  “It’s an old movie,” I say, without even having to think. When Chris eyeballs me like I’m missing a few brain cells, I add, “My parents have the DVD.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Just because it’s in my house doesn’t mean I’ve watched it.”

  Chris nods. “Right. So what other possibilities are there? Maybe there’s a real-life marathon man.” Suddenly his eyes light up like someone has flipped on a switch in his head. “What about that Simon Whitfield guy? He came to our school. Remember? He’s a marathon man, isn’t he? And he lives in Victoria.”

  I shake my head. “He’s a triathlete. It’s not the same thing.”

  Chris frowns. “Too bad. I thought I was on to something.” He sighs. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out. So what about the Hurry northwest before flying south? I’m thinking that’s gotta be directions.”

  “Yeah, probably. But northwest from where? And when are we supposed to head south?”

  Chris’s eyes narrow. “I bet you anything there’s a trick in there. The person who hid the caches doesn’t waste words. They all mean something. So Hurry and fly are probably part of the clue too.”

  “Brilliant deduction,” I say. “But that doesn’t get us any closer to figuring out the clue. The only part that makes any sense at all is the bit about this not being a picnic. No kidding! But who the heck are Billy and Sara? And what do they have to do with the search?”

  Chris shakes his head. “I don’t know. But I have a feeling this cache isn’t going to be easy to get to, even when we figure out where it is.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The letter says we have to be daring, it says the search isn’t going to be a picnic, and it stresses that it’s dangerous.”

  “So do you still want to do it?” I say.

  “Oh yeah! This is the most fun I’ve had all year! And if there’s money to be had, even better. Bring it on, man.”

  “If there’s money. All the letter says is that finding the other two caches will be worth our while. It doesn’t say we’re going to get money. We’re just assuming we will because of the fifty-dollar bill.”

  “Not only that,” Chris argues. “The letter says Good luck finding your nest egg. A nest egg is a person’s savings.”

  “Maybe,” I say, “or maybe it means the next cache is going to be an egg again, and it’s going to be hidden in a nest.”

  Chris frowns. “Don’t be so negative. Are you with me on this thing or aren’t you?”

  I frown back. “Of course I am. I’m just saying we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Until we decipher the clues, our search isn’t going anywhere. And so far we’ve got nothing.”

  Chris waves away my concerns. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, right. And what about this cache?” I wave the metal tube. “We have to put it back.” Noting the horrified look on Chris’s face, I add, “Without the money.”

  “Why bother? Do you really think anyone else is going to come looking for it? And even if they do, what are they going to think when there’s no fifty bucks attached?”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t care. I just think we should stick to the geocaching rules.” I can tell Chris is getting ready to protest, but I don’t give him the chance. “I wouldn’t feel right if we took the cache with us—and neither would you. You’re the one who’s always going on about following the rules. That shouldn’t change just because there could be money involved. So just take a picture of the letter, and boost me back up to the knothole.”

  Chapter Five

  When he gets home, Chris sends me a copy of the clue from his phone, and right after supper I go to my room to try to decipher it. Yeah, right! I can’t make any sense of the words no matter how hard I stare at them. At first that only frustrates me, but after a while I start to panic. Chris and I have three days to find the other two caches. Two of those days are going to be eaten up by school, so there isn’t much time.

  Then I have a thought. How would the person who wrote the letter know when Chris and I found the cache? How could he or she know when to start counting down the days? Someone had to have been at the hospital watching us. Either that or… I turn on my computer and navigate to the geocaching website. Maybe there was a time limit on this cache that I didn’t notice this morning. I follow the chain of links to the listing.

  Except, there is no listing.

  I scroll through all the posts. I check the other categories too. Nothing. The listing has vanished. How can that be? It was brand-new this morning.

  I scowl at the computer screen like it somehow made the listing disappear. The longitude and latitude coordinates were there. I didn’t imagine them. I got them from the website, and they led to the cache in the cemetery. And the clues in that cache took us to the one at the hospital. Both caches were very real. So was the fifty-dollar bill.

  None of this is making any sense. A listing goes up and comes down on the very same day. Who would do that? And why? It was up for such a short time, Chris and I are probably the only ones who had a chance to look for the caches.

  Ding, ding, ding! Suddenly, bells start ringing in my brain.

  I smack my forehead with the heel of my hand. Of course! Maybe Chris and I are the only ones who are supposed to look for the caches. I don’t mean that they were hidden especially for us. But maybe they were only meant to be found once, which means Chris and I are probably the only ones in the hunt.

  At first I like that idea. If there’s no competition, the fifty dollars is ours, and so is anything else we find. But the more I think about it, the more I feel like a fish on a hook. Chris and I are playing this game blind. Who knows where this chase is going to take us? We could be getting sucked in royally.

  Acting on a hunch, I tear out to the carport and hop onto my bike. In ten minutes, I’m back at the cemetery. I stash my bike behind a bush and head up the path toward the spot where Chris and I found the first cache. But as I approach it, I see someone kneeling by the grave. I duck behind the same tree we hid behind earlier.

  I wait for my heart to start beating normally again, and then I peer around the tree trunk. It’s a woman crouched by the grave, and she’s all covered up.

  Even though it’s a warm May evening, she’s in
baggy sweats. She’s wearing a hat and sunglasses too. The only part of her that’s showing is her hands.

  She’s digging into the bouquet. When she lifts her head and glances around, I pull back behind the tree. Once again my heart is pounding in my chest.

  When I think it’s safe, I poke my head out on the other side of the tree. The woman is still kneeling. I can see the cache in her hands. Did she discover it by accident? Or did she come looking for it? Maybe she hid it, and now that the listing has been withdrawn, she has come to take it away.

  I watch her open the yellow-and-white box. The first thing she pulls out is the ticket stub to the dance. She stares at it for a few seconds before flipping it over. Finally, she stuffs it into a jacket pocket and fishes out the obituary. She sits down on the grass and reads it. She’s facing me, and even though she’s wearing sunglasses, I can tell she’s frowning.

  She must sit there, staring at the obituary, for a good five minutes. Finally, her face relaxes, and she sticks the obituary and box into her pocket and pushes herself to her feet. Then she smiles, pats the headstone and heads off down the path.

  I wait until I figure she’s good and gone before I leave my hiding spot. I go to the grave. I don’t know why. There’s nothing it can tell me now.

  I check out the bouquet. With the cache gone, it’s just a bunch of flowers and ribbons, and the grave is just a grave. It’s like a hot link in a computer game that goes dead once you’ve found what you need.

  I stand up, but instead of heading back to my bike, I start down the path the woman took. It’s empty, but I can see a car parked on the road below. And then I blink, and the woman walks out of the trees and back onto the trail.

  I stop breathing. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her turn in my direction. But that’s all I see, because I’m already tearing back to my bike.

  “Who was it?” Chris asks when I call to tell him what happened.

  “I don’t know!” I shout into the phone. I’m still rattled by the thought that the woman might have seen my face.

  “It was a lady. That’s all I can tell you.”