Huh? Everyone was confused at first. But as Erica kept ranting, we started to figure it out. Erica blamed McKenzie for her real father’s death because the stunt he was doing when he died was for one of McKenzie’s music videos. Okay, that didn’t make much sense. But if there was one thing working for ATAC had taught me, it was that bad guys—or girls, in this case—weren’t always rational about why they did what they did.
Anyway, it seemed Erica was still harboring some major resentment against ol’ Tyrone, whether he was actually responsible or not. It didn’t help much that he’d first married and then dumped her mother, either. Besides that, it sounded as if he’d barely noticed that Erica existed until he had to—namely, when her mother died while Erica was still a minor. She hadn’t had any other close family, and so he’d taken her in.
“But it was obvious you never wanted me around,” she spat out, shooting daggers with her eyes. “I’m sure the only reason you didn’t throw me in foster care or something was to avoid any bad publicity.”
I glanced over at McKenzie, expecting him to deny that. But he just shrugged. “Go figure,” he said, dripping sarcasm. “Can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want such a lovely stepdaughter around.”
Harsh. But now Erica’s motive was looking pretty obvious. When she’d seen how excited her stepfather was about GX—his “baby,” as she herself had put it—she’d seen her chance for a little revenge. It had started with some online agitating as Sk8rH8r, and she claimed that at first that was all she’d planned to do.
But then Frank and I got sent in to investigate the online threats—and the other early vandalism, which wasn’t her doing—and she panicked. That was why she’d faked getting hit by that rock. She was trying to throw us off in case we suspected her.
“See?” Frank glanced at me when she admitted that part. “I knew that was an important clue. I just never figured out what it meant, that’s all.”
I nodded. “And then things escalated even more, right?” I said to Erica.
“I guess.” By now she actually seemed eager to talk. Maybe she wanted her stepfather to know exactly how deep her grudge ran. “Anyway, that old geezer and his nephew kind of inspired me, I guess. I mean, their stunts were good—but I knew I could do a lot better.” She actually smirked as she shot another look at McKenzie. “Like blowing up that stupid mountain. You shouldn’t have called it Mount McKenzie, Tyrone. Why not just name it what it was—Mount Ego?”
“Why, you—” McKenzie growled, taking a step forward.
Frank held up one arm to back him off. “And the Leap?” he asked Erica. “Did you sabotage that, too?”
“Yeah.” The smirk faded, and she looked troubled. “It wasn’t supposed to hurt anyone, though. The ride wasn’t even open yet—I figured one of the cars would get smashed up on the last test run, and it would freak everybody out.”
That actually made sense, sort of. “But what about the bomb on Cody’s skateboard?” I asked. “And the tank? Someone could’ve gotten killed with those.”
“Not likely,” she said. “I mean, yeah, that little bomb might’ve stung a bit if someone was on the board when it went off. But killed? Nah. And how slow and stupid would someone have to be not to outrun a freakin’ tank?”
I didn’t bother to point out that Sprat had almost gone splat thanks to that tank stunt. Because there was still one big disaster that definitely had gotten someone killed.
Before I could mention that, Frank asked about a few of the other dangling loose ends. Like our late-night whitewater chase. Turns out that was Erica. She’d also hacked into her father’s cell phone account and sent those texts to Ox about the tractor, and replied to our e-mail to Nick. And she was the figure Lenni had spotted sneaking around that night—the same one who’d dropped the flag on us.
“Never heard of anyone getting killed by having a flag land on them,” she said defiantly.
“Get real,” I blurted out, too impatient to wait any longer. “If you really didn’t want anyone killed, why’d you mess with Bomber Pilot?”
Her jaw dropped. “What?” she blurted out. “No way! I didn’t do that! I told you, I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.…”
That seemed like kind of a tough argument to make, considering the circumstances. But she stuck to it.
“Whatever,” I said as Ox and McKenzie finally dragged her away. “She’s just covering—she knows that’s the one charge that’s way more serious than the rest.”
“I guess.” Frank watched her go. “I just can’t stand the thought that there’s a loose thread—again.”
“I hear you. But we’ll have to let the cops sort it out. Loose thread or not, I’d say this mission is over—finally.”
• • •
A few days later we were back in Bayport, lounging in our favorite private spot beside the public pool. It was the first chance we’d had to discuss the case without Mom or Aunt Trudy lurking around. It was also my first chance to harass Frank about how Erica’s “crush” on him had really just been her keeping an eye on us.
“Whatever. Anyway, I’m glad that one last loose end was finally tied up,” Frank commented lazily as he stretched out on his lounge chair.
Yeah, he was changing the subject. I decided to let him—for now, at least.
“I know,” I said, feeling troubled by what HQ had told us about that. As it turned out, Erica really hadn’t been responsible for that particular disaster. It had been simple human error, probably due to the rush to open the ride. “I can’t believe Tyrone managed to sweep that all under the rug. There hasn’t been a peep about it on any of the entertainment shows. Or the national news, either. Just a couple of local stories.”
Frank turned his head to meet my eye. “Guess it’s a good thing for Tyrone it was just some random employee who died and not Sprat or one of the other guests,” he said grimly. “Anyway, supposedly Bomber Pilot is back open and one of the most popular rides at GX.”
I shuddered. It didn’t seem right. But what could we do? We’d already told ATAC—and the police—everything we knew about the incident.
“I wonder how many people Tyrone had to pay off this time,” I said. “You know—local cops, inspectors, witnesses…”
Frank bit his lip, looking as disturbed as I felt. “I know,” he said. “I heard he paid off the dead guy’s family, too.”
I sighed. “Oh well. I guess it was just an accident—I mean, it wasn’t like Tyrone wanted anything like that to happen. He’s really not a bad guy in most ways.”
“Yeah,” Frank agreed. “I mean, he did help Ox out of a jam when he needed it. And Erica’s over eighteen now—he could’ve just let her get tossed in jail instead of shelling out for that expensive mental treatment place they’re sending her.”
I nodded slowly. All the rationalization in the world wasn’t going to make what had happened seem right. But what could we do? It was out of our hands.
“Anyway, it must be nice to have that much cash.” I glanced around at our decidedly nonluxurious surroundings. “You know—enough to make just about any problem go away.”
“Maybe. Then again, maybe not.” Frank shrugged. “Erica had pretty much everything she could want, and she still wasn’t happy. Come to think of it, Nick’s not exactly a happy guy either.”
He had a point. But suddenly I wasn’t in the mood to think about it anymore. Rich or not, I was pretty content to be exactly where I was—with another tough mission under my belt and nothing else to worry about on a hot summer day.
“Come on,” I said, jumping to my feet. “Last one in the pool’s a rotten egg!”
Get ready to meet the next great kid detective, Steve Brixton!
Here’s an excerpt from The BRIXTON BROTHERS Book #1: The Case of the Case of Mistaken Identity
STEVE BRIXTON, A.K.A. STEVE, was reading on his too-small bed. He was having trouble getting comfortable, and for a few good reasons. His feet were hanging off the edge. Bedsprings were poking his ribs. His sheets were full of cinnamon-graha
m-cracker crumbs. But the main reason Steve was uncomfortable was that he was lying on an old copy of the Guinness Book of World Records, which was 959 pages long, and which he had hidden under his mattress.
If for some reason you were looking under Steve’s mattress and found the Guinness Book of World Records, you’d probably think it was just an ordinary book. That was the point. Open it up and you’d see that Steve had cut an identical rectangle out from the middle of every one of its pages. Then he had pasted the pages together. It had taken over two weeks to finish, and Steve had developed an allergic reaction to the paste, but it was worth it. When Steve was done, the book had a secret compartment. It wasn’t just a book anymore. It was a top secret book-box. And inside that top secret book-box was Steve’s top secret notebook. And that top secret notebook was where Steve recorded all sorts of notes and observations, including, on page one, a list of the Fifty-Nine Greatest Books of All Time.
First on his list was a shiny red book called The Bailey Brothers’ Detective Handbook, written by MacArthur Bart. The handbook was packed with the Real Crime-Solving Tips and Tricks employed by Shawn and Kevin Bailey, a.k.a. America’s Favorite Teenage Supersleuths, a.k.a. the Bailey Brothers, in their never-ending fight against goons and baddies and criminals and crime. The Bailey Brothers, of course, were the heroes of the best detective stories of all time, the Bailey Brothers Mysteries. And their handbook told you everything they knew: what to look for at a crime scene (shoe prints, tire marks, and fingerprints), the ways to crack a safe (rip jobs, punch jobs, and old man jobs), and where to hide a top secret notebook (in a top secret book-box). Basically, The Bailey Brothers’ Detective Handbook told you how to do all the stuff that the Bailey Brothers were completely ace at.
The Bailey Brothers, of course, were the sons of world-famous detective Harris Bailey. They helped their dad solve his toughest cases, and they had all sorts of dangerous adventures, and these adventures were the subject of the fifty-eight shiny red volumes that made up the Bailey Brothers Mysteries, also written by MacArthur Bart. Numbers two through fifty-nine on Steve Brixton’s list of the Fifty-Nine Greatest Books of All Time were taken up by the Bailey Brothers Mysteries.
Steve had already read all the Bailey Brothers books. Most of them he had read twice. A few he’d read three times. His favorite Bailey Brothers mystery was whichever one he was reading at the time. That meant that right now, as Steve lay on his lumpy bed, his favorite book was Bailey Brothers #13: The Mystery of the Hidden Secret. Steve was finishing up chapter seventeen, which at the moment was his favorite chapter, and which ended like this:
“Jumping jackals!” dark-haired Shawn exclaimed, pointing to the back wall of the dusty old parlor. “Look, Kevin! That bookcase looks newer than the rest!”
“General George Washington!” his blond older brother cried out. “I think you’re right!” Kevin rubbed his chin and thought. “Hold on just a minute, Shawn. This mansion has been abandoned for years. Nobody lives here. So who would have built a new bookshelf?”
Shawn and Kevin grinned at each other. “The robbers!” they shouted in unison.
“Say, I’ll bet this bookshelf covers a secret passageway that leads to their hideout,” Shawn surmised.
“Which is where we’ll find the suitcase full of stolen loot!” Kevin cried.
The two sleuths crossed over to the wall and stood in front of the suspicious bookcase. Shawn thought quietly for a few seconds.
“I know! Let’s try to push the bookcase over,” Shawn suggested.
“Hey, it can’t be any harder than Coach Biltmore’s tackling practice,” joked athletic Kevin, who lettered in football and many other varsity sports.
“One, two, three, heave!” shouted Shawn. The boys threw their weight into the bookshelf, lifting with their legs to avoid back injuries. There was a loud crash as the bookshelf detached from the wall and toppled over. The dust cleared and revealed a long, dark hallway!
“I knew it!” whooped Shawn. “Let’s go!”
“Not so fast, kids,” said a strange voice. “You won’t be recoverin’ the loot that easy.”
Shawn and Kevin whirled around to see a shifty-eyed man limping toward them, his scarred face visible in the moonlight through the window.
The man was holding a knife!
That was where the chapter ended, and when Carol Brixton, a.k.a. Steve’s mom, called him downstairs to dinner.
The X-Factor Page 10
