The Ghostwriter Secret
Page 1
THE GHOSTWRITER
SECRET
Read all the Brixton Brothers Mysteries:
#1 The Case of the Case of Mistaken Identity
SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales
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imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2010 by Mac Barnett
Illustrations copyright © 2010 by Adam Rex
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Book design by Lizzy Bromley
The text for this book is set in Souvenir.
The illustrations for this book were rendered digitally with a Wacom tablet and Photoshop CS3.
Manufactured in the United States of America
0910 FFG
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Barnett, Mac.
The ghostwriter secret / Mac Barnett ; illustrated by Adam Rex. — 1st ed.
p. cm. — (Brixton Brothers ; 2)
Summary: Twelve-year-old Steve is investigating a diamond heist but
the case suddenly changes when the author of the Bailey Brothers detective novels
writes him a letter to say that he fears for his life.
ISBN 978-1-4169-7817-6 (hardcover : alk. paper)
[1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Authors—Fiction. 3. Crime—Fiction.] I. Rex, Adam, ill.
II. Title.
PZ7.B26615Gh 2010
[Fic]—dc22
2009052021
ISBN 978-1-4424-0956-9 (eBook)
For Paul Saint-Amour, Dan Birkholz,
and David Foster Wallace—three wise men
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I SUNDAY
II POLICE TROUBLE
III A STRANGE CALL
IV AN ALARM IN THE NIGHT
V A NEW CASE
VI JEWEL HEIST!
VII A SECRET UNCOVERED
VIII UNIDENTIFIED FLYING OBJECT
IX DEATH THREAT
X A MYSTERIOUS LETTER
XI A CALL FOR HELP
XII AN INTERROGATION
XIII SEARCHING FOR CLUES
XIV A SINISTER TRAP
XV SECURITY BREACH!
XVI A TRUE CHUM
XVII THE INVESTIGATION BEGINS
XVIII SPADEWORK
XIX BREAKING AND ENTERING
XX THE MISSING MAN’S ROOM
XXI A DEADLY MISTAKE
XXII A TERRIBLE STRUGGLE
XXIII CAPTURED!
XXIV UNDERWATER CHAOS
XXV DANGER FROM ABOVE
XXVI THE BEE SYNDICATE
XXVII TWO DETECTIVES
XXVIII THE VIPERS’ DEN
XXIX THE BEES’ NEST
XXX GHOSTWRITERS
XXXI THE TRAIL GOES FRIGID
XXXII A HUNCH
XXXIII IT HAPPENED AT MIDNIGHT
XXXIV EAVESDROPPING
XXXV FIRESTORM
XXXVI TROUBLE IN THE HOSPITAL
XXXVII GOING HOME
XXXVIII BIG CITY CHASE
XXXIX THE VANISHING SEDAN
XL CAPTURED! AGAIN!
XLI WELCOME NEWS
XLII A DARING PLAN
XLIII AMBUSH
XLIV AN UNDERGROUND ESCAPE
XLV FIENDISHLY BETRAYED
XLVI THROUGH THE FOREST
XVII CASE CLOSED
THE GHOSTWRITER
SECRET
CHAPTER I
SUNDAY
IT WAS SUNDAY, which was Steve Brixton’s least favorite day of the week, and the sun was setting, which was Steve Brixton’s least favorite part of a Sunday. But Steve was on his living room couch reading Bailey Brothers #19: The Strange Case of the Strangest Stranger, which was part of Steve Brixton’s most favorite series of all time: the Bailey Brothers Mysteries.
The Bailey Brothers Mysteries were fifty-eight high-octane adventures featuring Shawn and Kevin Bailey, two quick-thinking, hard-punching teens who never met a case they couldn’t crack, a motorcycle they couldn’t ride, or an avalanche they couldn’t cause and subsequently survive. Sleuthing ran in their family: They were the sons of the great American detective Harris Bailey, and they were terrific sleuths in their own right.
There were fifty-eight thrilling and perfect Bailey Brothers mysteries in all—starting with Bailey Brothers #1: The Treasure in Trouble Harbor and ending with Bailey Brothers #58: Spacejacked!—all written by the same author, MacArthur Bart.
MacArthur Bart, a.k.a. America’s Mystery King, a.k.a. Steve’s hero, had also written the book Steve loved above all others: The Bailey Brothers’ Detective Handbook. The handbook was packed with Real Crime-Solving Tips—stuff like How to Make a Plaster Cast of a Scoundrel’s Shoe Print, and Surefire Methods for Defusing Some Kinds of Time Bombs. Basically all the high-level supersleuth stuff.
Steve had the handbook pretty much memorized, but he still carried it around with him wherever he went. In fact Steve had all the plots to the Bailey Brothers Mysteries memorized, but he still liked reading the books second and third times. Plus it was research, since a few weeks ago Steve had officially opened his own business, the Brixton Brothers Detective Agency. Steve didn’t have a brother, or even a sister, but putting “brothers” in the name of your detective agency was a great way to make it sound totally ace.
Right now Steve didn’t have a case to work on, which was why he was lying on the couch—the living room aglow with the last of the day’s sun—and finishing chapter eighteen of his book. A gang of car thieves had just captured the Bailey Brothers and was holding the boys in a sea-cave hideout:
“You creeps will never get away with this!” dark-haired Shawn Bailey hollered. “Crime doesn’t pay!”
The large lawbreaker with the salt-and-pepper beard looked up from the game of cards. “It doesn’t, eh?” he growled. “Then hows come we’ve got enough tourin’ cars and roadsters stashed away in the old barn to make a fortune?”
Shawn and Kevin exchanged a knowing glance. Now they knew where the lawbreakers were stowing the stolen cars! If only they could get free and notify the police. Behind their backs the brothers redoubled their efforts to undo the knots that bound their hands.
“Gin!” shouted the tattooed crook, slapping his cards on the table. “I win again!”
The bearded hood turned to his fellow criminal and frowned. “Go sit on a stalactite, Charlie.”
“I think you mean stalagmite,” interrupted Kevin, who had taken honors in geology. “Stalactites grow from the roof, and stalagmites grow from the ground.”
“An easy way to remember,” Shawn chimed in, “is that the c in ‘stalactite’ stands for ‘ceiling,’ and the g in ‘stalagmite’ stands for ‘ground.’”
“Enough!” roared the bearded lowlife. “I’m gettin’ tired of all this jabberin’. Charlie, gag this pair of Goody Two-shoes until Smokestacks Samuels gets back and tells us what to do with them.”
The man called Charlie stood up and grinned. Gripping two oily rags in his tattooed hand, he limped over to the corner of the cavern where Shawn and Kevin were kept. “This ought to muffle youse two.” He sauntered up to Shawn first and reached for the boy’s face.
Just then, Shawn untied the last knot and freed his hands. Quickly, he brought his fist around in a powerful haymaker punch to Charlie’s solar plexus! The goon collapsed on the limestone floor.
“You kayoed him, Shawn!” whooped Kevin. “Coach Biltmore would be proud!”
Shawn grinned and removed the knife from Charlie’s belt. He hurried over to his brother, making sure to hold the knife with its blade pointing down while he ran, and quickly sawed through Kevin’s bonds.
Meanwhile the big bearded baddie was lumbering toward them, holding a blackjack in his left hand. “It’s gonna be fun whackin’ you two over the head,” he snarled.
“One, two, three!” counted Kevin, and at once the two brothers bum-rushed their opponent. The large man flew back against the cavern wall and slumped to the floor, unconscious. “Jumping junipers!” Kevin exclaimed, brushing his blond hair aside. “We sure took care of those two!”
“You bet we did,” his younger brother replied. “Now what do you say we tie them up and hide out in this cave? I’ll bet you dollars to doorknobs Smokestacks Samuels will be back any minute.”
“We can surprise him!” Shawn agreed. “Then we’ll learn his real identity!”
“I can’t wait to find out who the ringleader of the Viper Gang really is,” Kevin remarked.
Suddenly a silhouette appeared on the rocky outcrop near the roof of the cavern. A high, clear voice rang out in the darkness. “You boys will never make it out of here alive. Nobody messes with Smokestacks Samuels!”
Just then, a high, clear voice rang out in the Brixton household. Steve froze.
CHAPTER II
POLICE TROUBLE
“STEVE, DINNER!” He put down his book.
Sunday was Taco Night. Steve hated Taco Night—most of the bright yellow shells were broken before they even got out of the box, and the ones that weren’t just snapped in your hand when you tried to load them up. Steve got off the couch and trudged into the dining room.
His mom, Carol Brixton, was already sitting at the table. So was a man with a blond mustache, tan uniform, and shiny badge.
Great. It was Rick.
Rick was Steve’s mom’s boyfriend and Steve’s number one enemy—after lawbreakers and evildoers, that is. (And honestly, Steve hoped that one day he would discover that Rick actually was a lawbreaker—then his mom would have to break up with him—although more and more it seemed like he was probably just a doofus.) Rick always came over for dinner on Sundays. One more reason to hate the day.
Rick wielded his taco like a flick-knife.
“Grab a taco,” said Steve’s mom.
“All right!” said Rick. Rick had already taken the only unbroken taco shell and was now rolling up his right sleeve. There, on his bicep, was a tattoo. “Check it out, Steve. I just got it.” The skin on Rick’s arm was still a little puffy.
The Bailey Brothers’ Detective Handbook has some interesting things to say on the subject of tattoos:
Shawn and Kevin Bailey size up everyone they meet: You never know who might be a villain in disguise! Remember that fable about the wolf in sheep’s clothing? Well, sometimes criminals are like wolves, except instead of sheep’s clothing they wear the clothing of normal, law-abiding citizens. But even though you can change your outfit, there’s one thing you can’t change: tattoos! Almost all criminals have tattoos, and if you’re an expert like the Bailey Brothers, those tattoos tell you what kinds of criminals they are. Here are some common criminal tattoos and what they mean:
Safecracker
Car Thief
Smuggler
Smuggler Who Fakes a Haunted House to Conceal His Hideout
Cat Burglar
Forger
Blackmailer
Racketeer or
Hit Man
Corporate Crook
Unfortunately, none of those tattoos matched what Rick had on his arm, which looked like this:
“What is it?” Steve asked.
“It’s a dragon speaking the Chinese character for courage,” Rick said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Steve squinted at the tattoo. “It looks like the dragon is eating the Chinese character for courage.”
Rick frowned. “Well, it’s not.”
“Okay.”
“Have a taco shell,” Carol said, and put two pieces of shell on Steve’s plate.
“What were you reading in there, Steve?” Rick asked.
“Bailey Brothers.”
Rick chuckled, which meant that he was laughing at a joke he was about to make. “Shoulda known. Seems like you’re reading more mysteries than you’re solving there, detective.”
“Well, I’ve only had a detective agency for a couple of weeks, Rick,” Steve said.
“I can’t believe you’re letting him do this, Carol,” Rick said as he shook a spoonful of refried beans toward his taco shell, trying to dislodge the brown mash.
“Oh, come on, Rick,” Carol said. “It’s just a little hobby.”
“It’s not a hobby, Mom,” Steve said. “It’s a profession.”
Rick rolled his eyes. “Profession. You think you can be a detective just because you got lucky on that one little job.” Rick was referring to Steve’s first case, The Case of the Case of Mistaken Identity, when Steve had saved the United States of America.
“But Steve,” Rick continued, “fighting crime is a job for grown-ups. Well-trained, efficient, intelligent grown-ups. People like me.” Rick was grabbing some shredded lettuce from the bowl in the middle of the table. He was using his hand, even though there was a pair of salad tongs right in the bowl. “If you ask me, these Bailey Brothers books are giving you funny ideas. Kid detectives! Ha!” He actually said “Ha!” instead of laughing. Steve clenched his fist and cracked the piece of taco shell in his hand.
“You know,” said Rick, stroking his mustache thoughtfully, then putting his hand back in the lettuce bowl. “I should write a book about solving mysteries. I could do a much better job than what’s-his-name, Mark Borneo—”
“MacArthur Bart.”
“Yeah, him. My book, well, it would be about guys like me. Adult detectives. Police detectives. Guys who solve cases through research and diligence and elbow grease. There wouldn’t be any of these ridiculous car chases and explosions.”
“That sounds like a really fun book, Rick,” said Steve with a straight face. His mom smiled a little.
“It would be fun!” said Rick. “Fun and educational. I’ll betcha that Bart guy doesn’t know anything about real-life crime.”
“You know there are salad tongs, right, Rick?” said Steve.
“Steve!” said Steve’s mom. She wasn’t smiling anymore.
For a minute the only sound was the crunching of taco shells.
“Alls I’m saying,” Rick said, “is that when I was Steve’s age, I had normal hobbies, like football and chasing girls.” Carol frowned. Rick added, “And I was on the debate team.”
Steve found that hard to believe.
Carol took a sip of water. “Maybe you should join the debate team, Steve.”
“Great idea,” said Rick.
“Except our school doesn’t have a debate team,” said Steve.
“Start one!” Rick and Carol said at the same time, and then started laughing together.
This was bad, even for a Sunday.
“When I—”
Rick’s cell phone went off. His ring tone was a few bars of smooth jazz, repeated over and over again. Steve hated smooth jazz.
He flipped the phone closed and stood up. “Sorry, guys. Gotta go. Big case. Huge. And Chief Clumber wants me to take the lead on it.”
“Do you really have to go now?” asked Carol.
“Duty calls,” said Rick. He looked at Steve and smiled. “Time to do some of that real detective work I was telling you about,” he said, tapping the side of his head. There was a piece of lettuce in his hair.
He gave Carol a kiss and Steve a nod and hurried out the door. Steve’s mom was quiet. Now that Rick had left in the middle of dinner, she’d be in a bad mood. You didn’t need to be a detective to figure that out.
For the rest of the meal Steve just let his mom vent about her boss at the hospital, and when they were finished eating, Steve cleared the table and did the dishes without his mom having to ask. As he scrubbed a skillet, he thought about Rick out on a big case. He looked down at the pan. Food was burned and stuck to the bottom, and it wasn’t coming off. Sundays were awful.
He put the pan in the dish drainer and went upstairs to his crime lab.
CHAPTER III
A STRANGE CALL
THE DOOR TO STEVE’S CRIME LAB, a.k.a. his bedroom, had a piece of Scotch tape that ran for a few inches along its bottom and connected to the jamb. The tape was a security system—if the tape was loose, someone had broken into Steve’s room. (Villains were always breaking into the Bailey Brothers’ crime lab to scare them off their cases.) Steve checked the tape to see if it was intact. It was.
Two weeks ago, when Steve had decided to open his own detective agency, he had used the hundred dollars his grandma had given him last Christmas and converted half his bedroom (which was not all that large) into a crime lab. He’d modeled it on the Bailey Brothers’ headquarters.
Steve Brixton was now the proud owner of the following sleuthing tools:
• One typewriter, missing the T key, which was unfortunately needed to type Steve’s name. The Brixton family computer worked better, but his mom wouldn’t let him keep it in his room. Plus the sound of the keys clacking was pretty ace.