The Multiplying Mysteries of Mount Ten

by Krista Van Dolzer

  While the door was mostly closed, I pulled my treasures from my pockets: my leftover sloppy joe and my mostly empty chocolate milk. My cargo pants were going to smell like leftover Italian for a week, but that was a small price to pay for Operation Pepto-Bismol. After making sure that Brooklyn didn’t have a line of sight, I ripped open the carton, jammed the sloppy joe into the opening, and stirred the whole thing with my finger. Those last few drops of chocolate milk were going to make it extra creamy.

  Once I’d put the final touches on my gloopy, soupy mess, I got down on my hands and knees and cozied up to the toilet. This part was going to be tricky. I had to make it look like I was barfing without actually barfing. And I had to do it for an audience.

  Clutching the carton in the hand that was closest to the wall, I tucked my elbow by my side, then nudged the door open with my toe. While I pretended to gag, I shook my concoction into the toilet. A few globs even missed the bowl and splattered all over the rim. Jackson Pollock himself couldn’t have done a better job.

  I had no way of knowing if Brooklyn was seeing my performance, but then, the other math nerds were whooping and hollering like monkeys. Once I’d emptied the carton, I faked one final convulsion and kicked the door shut all the way. I couldn’t flush the carton, but with any luck, Brooklyn would be so grossed out she wouldn’t bother to investigate. I buried it under a handful of used tissues, then hopped back to my feet.

  As I washed off my hands and face, I inspected myself in the mirror. I hadn’t brushed my hair since yesterday, so it looked suitably mussed. My cheeks were probably too bright, but hopefully, if Brooklyn noticed, she’d just think I was feverish.

  When I finally crawled out of the bathroom, Brooklyn was scowling at her tray, and Marshane was snickering. He probably would have snickered even if I’d really been sick, but I didn’t look at him for fear of snickering myself. Luckily, Director Verity was paying him no heed.

  I glanced back at the bathroom. “Sorry about the mess,” I mumbled. “I guess I’m still feeling sick.”

  Director Verity made a face. “You’ve had a long day,” she replied. “Why don’t you just go to bed?”

  I nodded miserably, but when Brooklyn didn’t say a word, my heart started to pound. If she didn’t take the bait, we were going to have to call off the whole mission. I sent Graham a sideways glance, but he just shook his head. He didn’t know what to do, either.

  Since I was fresh out of ideas, I staggered toward the stairs. I’d just grabbed hold of the railing when Brooklyn leaped out of her seat.

  “I’d like to request a change of rooms!”

  I paused on the landing, trying not to look too hopeful.

  Director Verity pursed her lips, then, finally, sighed. “Very well,” she said. “You may sleep in Cabin Zeta for tonight—but only for tonight.”

  As I dragged myself up the stairs, I couldn’t help but risk a tiny grin. Operation Houdini was up next.

  CHAPTER 17

  Cabin Epsilon was quiet—Munch would probably say too quiet—as I waited for the hours to pass. With no roommate to hoodwink, I huddled on my bunk fully clothed and flicked my flashlight on and off. Not even my sketchbook had been able to distract me. It was like I knew my time was coming.

  Finally, at 10:16, I eased my sliding door open and tiptoed out onto the balcony. An owl hooted eerily as I lowered myself over the edge, and it was all that I could do not to curl up into a ball. After reminding myself that I did not believe in ghosts (just real, live mass murderers who were probably too smart to give themselves away by hooting), I snaked around the flower beds and cut across the gravel driveway, dodging patches of moonlight. I didn’t plan to use my flashlight until we were in the shed.

  By the time I reached the narrow road that wound up to Archimedes’s cabin, I could already see the shapes of the math nerds waiting for me. When Federico turned his head into a shaft of silver moonlight, the smudges under his dark eyes immediately captured my attention.

  “Nice makeup,” I said, smiling.

  “It’s not makeup, it’s eye black. It’s supposed to make me look more threatening.”

  He’d joined our motley crew after discovering a clue under the pool table in the game room: Harpy is a girl. Thankfully, he’d shown it to Graham instead of Director Verity. We’d only exchanged a dozen words, but I’d already figured out he was the opposite of threatening. Still, because he’d made himself such a straightforward punch line, I couldn’t bring myself to actually say it out loud.

  “Are you ready?” I asked Munch instead.

  He held up his trusty pouch. “Are you?”

  I forced myself not to grin. Marshane had definitely pinned him, but teasing Munch about his tendency to answer questions with more questions was only going to make him more uptight, and we desperately needed him to focus.

  I surveyed my motley crew. I really only needed Munch, but Graham, Marshane, and Federico had also decided to show up. If they thought this would be a nature hike, they were in for a surprise.

  “Oh!” Munch said suddenly, plunging a hand into his pocket. “I found another clue.”

  He handed it to me, but I couldn’t read it in the dark.

  “What does it say?” I asked.

  “ ‘Minotaur’s first name begins with the same letter as Hydra’s last name.’ I committed it to memory.”

  I slid the clue into my pocket. “All right, let’s go,” I said. “The sooner we get in, the sooner we can get back out.”

  I headed up the hill like a bloodhound on the scent, the other math nerds on my heels. We only made it a few feet before I noticed a low growl emanating from somewhere behind us. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I visualized a grizzly bear stalking through the undergrowth. I raised a fist to call a halt, but whatever was growling halted, too. My pulse fluttered wildly—until I realized our grizzly bear was a mouth-breathing Marshane.

  “If you can’t close that yap,” I said, “I’m gonna have to send you packing.”

  “Hey, it’s not my fault,” he hissed. “My dumb foot fell asleep while we were waiting for Eye Black, and now it’s starting to tingle.”

  “Well, then, make it stop tingling. If our old friend Archimedes decides to pull out his shotgun, you’re gonna want to be able to run.”

  I could almost hear the blood draining out of Marshane’s cheeks. “Archimedes has a shotgun?”

  “Theoretically,” I said. “But he’s not gonna pull it out because he’s not gonna see us.”

  The others nodded nervously, and we went back to hiking. We only made it three feet, though, before someone cursed under his breath.

  I stopped again. “Now what?”

  “It’s my eye black,” Federico said. “I think I smeared it in my eye!”

  “Why were you touching it?” I asked.

  “You’re not supposed to touch it?” he replied.

  I fought the urge to smack my forehead.

  Graham was more generous. “Have you ever used eye black before?”

  “In real life?” he asked. “Well, no. Coach never puts me in. But I have tried it on in front of the mirror lots of times.”

  This time, I didn’t fight the urge.

  “Here,” Graham said gallantly. I couldn’t see what he passed him, but it sounded like a water bottle. “You can rinse it off with this.”

  Marshane shook his head. “That’s not gonna work,” he said. “Eye black won’t mix with water. If he wants to get it off, he’ll have to wipe it on his shirt.”

  “He can’t wipe it on his shirt,” I said. “Director Verity might see.”

  Munch ripped a clump of leaves off the nearest waist-high bush and offered it to Federico.

  Federico took the clump. “What if it’s poison ivy?”

  Munch considered that, then shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  Federico hesitated for another couple of seconds, then bravely wiped off his face. Once he could see again, we resumed our uphill climb. This t
ime, we made it ten whole yards before something thumped behind me.

  I whirled around. “Now what?”

  Munch’s shoulders hunched. “I accidentally dropped my tool kit.”

  Marshane flashed his teeth. They looked like tombstones in the dark. “At least you didn’t ask a question.”

  Munch clenched his pudgy fists, but I threw myself between them before he had a chance to use them. For a bunch of brilliant math nerds, they could sometimes be meatheads.

  “Spread out and find that pouch,” I hissed. “We’re kind of on a schedule here.”

  “We are?” Federico asked.

  The truth was, we really weren’t—as long as we were back by morning, no one would notice we’d snuck out—but Mom always brought up schedules when I was being difficult. “No more questions,” I replied, “or I’ll send all of you home!”

  At least that shut them up. We got down on our hands and knees and felt around for Munch’s pouch. The ground was cold and lumpy; I tried not to think too hard about what those lumps might be. At least it only took a minute for Graham to stumble across it.

  Munch slipped it into his coat. “I guess I do have butterfingers.”

  “You do not have butterfingers. You have the most useful fingers in this whole camp, you understand?” I gave his back an awkward pat. “No more interruptions, though, okay? Let’s just get in and get out.”

  The math nerds nodded gladly, and for once, they kept their word. We didn’t have to stop again until we made it to the clearing. When I crouched down behind a bush vaguely shaped like a cauldron, the others hunkered down beside me.

  “All right, here’s the plan,” I said. “I’m gonna infiltrate the shed, Munch and Graham are gonna watch my back, and Marshane and Federico are gonna keep an eye on theirs.”

  Federico nodded gamely, but Marshane wasn’t convinced.

  “Why are you taking Graham?” he asked. “He won’t be much help in a fight.”

  Graham’s nostrils shriveled into slits, but before he could defend himself, I held up a hand.

  “For one thing,” I replied, “there’s not gonna be a fight, so it doesn’t really matter. And for another, if there is a fight, someone needs to take care of Federico.”

  Federico’s eye black sagged. “But I thought you just said—”

  “Forget what I just said, all right?” I should have known to keep it simple. “In and out, remember? We’ll be back before you know it.”

  Federico didn’t look convinced, but he nodded, anyway. I thanked my lucky stars. I could deal with butterfingers and smeared eye black, but I drew the line at temper tantrums.

  I signaled Munch and Graham to follow me. “Let’s go.”

  I ducked under the bush and army-crawled out into the clearing, ignoring the pesky stickers that dug into my fleshy forearms. Thankfully, Munch and Graham seemed to be ignoring them, too. When I popped up in the grass, they popped up right behind me.

  We took the same path around the cabin, scurrying across the road, then crouching down beside the ring of dirt. The grass got tangled in my hair, but I batted it away and concentrated on our goal. The shed was the key to this whole puzzle—I could feel it in my fingertips—and we were on the verge of cracking it.

  We left Graham at the corner so he could cover our flank (a word I’d learned from Toby, which made my heart twist a little), then darted around the next corner and skidded to a halt. The shed squatted in the grass like a mud-encrusted troll. The padlock gleamed in the moonlight, practically begging to be picked.

  “I’ll cover you,” I whispered, scanning this side of the clearing while Munch unpacked his tools. The grass swayed hypnotically in the cool mountain breeze, but I didn’t let it get to me. If I let my guard down for even a fraction of a second, I might never see Toby or Angeline again.

  The clanking of a heavy chain drew my attention back to the shed. Munch was kneeling by the doors, fiddling with the padlock. The tools he’d already tried were lying in a useless heap while the ones he hadn’t tried yet were quickly dwindling to zero.

  I squatted down beside him. “How’s it going?” I whispered. It was pretty clear how it was going, but it seemed rude to point that out.

  Munch gritted his teeth. “Not so well,” he admitted.

  My pulse pounded in my ears. “I thought you said you could crack it.”

  “I can,” he said grumpily as he pulled a pair of bolt cutters out from under his shirt.

  “Where have you been hiding those?” I asked. They were a foot long and had to weigh as much as my left leg.

  “They’re Mr. Pearson’s,” he replied as he got into position. “I just asked if I could borrow them.” He motioned toward the doors. “Now get over here and help.”

  I wiped my hands off on my jeans. “What if Archimedes hears us?”

  Munch waved that away. “Do you want to get into this shed or not?”

  At least he was back to answering questions with more questions.

  I drew a shallow breath, then took hold of the other handle. It felt warm in my hands, but it felt solid, too, like it could shatter bones as easily as it could shatter chains. Maybe that was why my conscience picked that moment to attack me. We were literally breaking and entering—and we probably weren’t done. But what about Angeline and Toby? Weren’t they more than worth the risk?

  “Esther?” Munch whispered. “Are we doing this or not?”

  I tightened my grip on the handle. “Oh, we’re doing it,” I said as I clenched my teeth and squeezed.

  It took us several tries, but we finally managed to snap the heavy chain in half. The padlock swung back and forth like a shiny pendulum.

  “Here,” Munch said curtly, shoving the bolt cutters into my hands. I had no choice but to take them as he unthreaded the chain. The clanking sounded too loud, but neither Archimedes nor his shotgun made an impromptu appearance. When Munch dropped the padlock at my feet, the doors swung slightly inward, like they were welcoming me home.

  We’d made it into the shed.

  The inside of the shed was as dark as a black hole. I could make out blocky shapes, but they could have been almost anything. Cabinets. Wheelbarrows. Hacksaws. Maybe Archimedes was a very special kind of sculptor.

  Munch squinted into the gloom. “Now what?”

  “Now,” I said courageously as I pulled out my flashlight, “we lock ourselves in.”

  “We can’t lock the doors from the inside. And even if we could, we snapped the chains in half, remember?”

  I hadn’t planned this far ahead. Time to make something up. “Then you can lock me in—or at least make it look like I’m locked in. Once you’ve got the doors secured, you can hide behind that bush and keep an eye out for Archimedes.”

  Munch shook his head. “Anyone who takes a good look at those chains will be able to tell that they’ve been cut.”

  “Then we’ll have to hope that he’s nearsighted. I haven’t come this far to quit.”

  Munch held up his hands. “All right, all right, I’ll do it, but only if you stop talking in cat posters.”

  I grinned despite myself and tightened my grip on my flashlight. “I’ll let you know once I’m finished.”

  “If I don’t hear from you in, like, five minutes, I’m coming in to get you.”

  I waited for Munch to close the doors, then flicked my flashlight on. After blinking the spots out of my eyes, I took a look around. At first, the shed’s contents didn’t seem out of the ordinary. There was a workbench, a broken rocking chair, and an upside-down green bike dangling from a pair of hooks. When I shone the flashlight down the workbench, the first thing I spotted was a stack of dusty textbooks. But the second thing I spotted was an old-fashioned typewriter.

  It was a fancy-looking thing, with four dozen circle buttons and a polished black roller. I would have bet dollars to doughnuts that it belonged to the killer.

  I set the flashlight down so it would illuminate the workbench, then picked up the typewriter and carefully t
urned it over. I didn’t know what to expect (though a PROPERTY OF DIRECTOR VERITY, RESIDENT MASS MURDERER label would have been nice), but the typewriter was clean, no fingerprints or scratches.

  I got down on my hands and knees and shone my flashlight under the workbench, but except for a few stacks of brittle, yellowing newspapers, the space was also clean. Pushing my annoyance aside, I stood up again and ventured deeper into the shed. When I (literally) stumbled across a bookcase, I felt my pulse speed up. According to Ms. Clementi, my old journalism teacher, you could tell a lot about a person by the sorts of books he read, but except for the stash of romance novels, the books didn’t tell me much.

  Then I noticed that several of the spaces on the lowest shelf weren’t dusty; someone must have just removed those books. Before that thought had finished forming, I dashed back over to the workbench to check the dusty textbooks’ spines: Introduction to Logic, A Concise Introduction to Logic, and a dog-eared paperback called, appropriately, The Game of Logic. I was reaching for that last one when my gaze happened to land on a blond bobby pin.

  Adrenaline surged through my veins as my fingers closed around it. I didn’t mess with bobby pins, blond or otherwise, and I was willing to bet that Brooklyn didn’t, either.

  It definitely proved there was a link between Angeline and the killer.

  I stuffed the bobby pin into my pocket—after all, it wasn’t stealing if you were simply taking back what belonged to someone else—then pawed through the textbooks, searching for something, anything, that would give me a hint as to what to do with all the clues. But despite its title, A Concise Introduction to Logic hadn’t been designed to be read in thirty seconds.

  I was weighing the pros and cons of just taking it with me when a pebble bumped against the shed. My initial thought was that I’d imagined it, but when a second pebble glanced off the shed in the same spot, I knew I hadn’t made it up. Someone was coming, and Munch was trying to warn me.

  I darted toward the doors, but when I pressed my ear to the seam, I could already make out the thuds of someone’s heavy footsteps. There was no way I could escape without getting spotted by the someone (who was probably the killer), which left me with just one option: hide.