“Sorry, mister.” Logan was in character, the picture of apology. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
The victim rubbed his jaw. “What’s with the fish around here? Are they made of cement?”
The blush in Logan’s cheeks was not acting. He and Melissa could not have ensured that they’d catch a fish from the camp pond. So they had borrowed one from the freezer in the kitchen. It wasn’t Logan’s fault that there had been insufficient time to thaw it out before it had to be used. Some things in theatre couldn’t be scripted in advance. “The northern perch is known for being solid.”
The man didn’t seem too angry. “I thought this camp was for actors, not anglers.”
“We’re all actors, but they let us do other things in our spare time,” Logan explained, launching into the character he had carefully prepared. “I like to fish because my father’s a fish and game expert for the federal government. My name is Ferris Atwater, Jr.” It was Logan’s favorite alias. “I’m not really a camper here. I just come during the day while my dad’s working in the area. He has to catch a feral dog.”
“A what?”
“A feral dog is a pet dog that gets lost and starts to live in the wild,” Logan supplied. “Dad suspects this one used to be a guard dog, because he’s a big Doberman, and kind of mean. The fish and game department thinks he might be dangerous to other wildlife, and even people.”
The plan was to convince Swindle’s spy that Luthor wasn’t being hidden in the camp somewhere, but was out in the woods, running free.
The man must have been almost as good an actor as Logan, because he appeared completely disinterested. “Yeah, well, watch where you’re waving that fishing rod, Ferris. The hook could take someone’s eye out.”
“I’ll be careful, Mr. — uh — I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Smith,” the man said quickly. “E. J. Smith.”
Logan held out his hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Smith. Do you live around here?”
“I have a summer place up on the mountain.” Mr. Smith pulled back from Logan’s grip. “Your hand is like ice!”
Uh-oh. “It’s the bait,” Logan exclaimed glibly. “My worms were in the fridge.” That was a close one! “Anyway, good meeting you.” He pulled a phone from the pocket of his shorts and snapped a picture.
The bearded man was suddenly angry. “What did you do that for?”
“In case the feral dog gets you,” Logan explained reasonably. “My dad needs to know everyone who’s in harm’s way.”
“I can look after myself!” growled E. J. Smith. “You delete that!”
“Okay, sure.” Following Melissa’s instructions, Logan carefully saved the photograph before erasing it from the screen.
“I don’t like pictures,” the man said gruffly. “I come up here for privacy, not to end up on some fish and game website!” He stormed off, giving the swinging perch a wide berth.
A smile found its way to Logan’s lips. Maybe Mary Catherine didn’t appreciate his talent, but there was more than one way for an actor to practice his craft.
This had been another successful performance.
* * *
Griffin’s face filled the small screen of Melissa’s phone as he examined the photograph of E. J. Smith. “No, it’s definitely not Malachi,” he concluded. “But Swindle could’ve hired another goon.”
It was after midnight, and Melissa and Logan were in the attic of the performance center, bringing Luthor his dinner. Across the hayloft, the Doberman was diving into seven feet of link sausages filched from the freezer on the same raid as the one that had netted the northern perch. It was a special treat for the dog, who had been surviving on table scraps and whatever could be smuggled to him in pockets and under hoodies.
“That’s what we figured,” Melissa agreed in a low voice. “I googled him, and it turns out E. J. Smith was the captain of the Titanic. So this guy’s definitely using an alias.”
“Never mind that.” Savannah bumped Griffin out of the frame. “How close do you think he is to finding Luthor?”
“He hasn’t got a clue,” Logan assured her. “My performance was legendary. He’s probably out in the woods right now, searching for a feral dog by flashlight.”
“My poor sweetie.” Savannah sighed in relief.
It was the one word that could have dislodged Luthor from the sausages. Up perked his ears, and he scrambled over to Savannah’s image on the phone.
“Oh, Luthor, I miss you so much! Are you being a good boy?”
In answer, a mammoth tongue came out and slurped across the small screen.
Melissa was horrified. “Moisture is not good for electronics!” She wiped the device on her pajama bottoms.
Griffin brought them back to the original point of the call. “Well, it isn’t Malachi, but the new goon’s definitely dirty. He even looks kind of familiar, but I can’t place him.”
“I thought so, too,” put in Melissa. “Could he be from Cedarville?”
“I doubt it,” Griffin replied. “Swindle would never hire someone we might recognize. Anyway, it seems like you’ve got this guy under control — for now. But be careful. If he keeps nosing around, you’re going to have to find out more about him.”
The union soldiers stood on the stage — a line of blue uniforms behind the grave markers of Gettysburg National Cemetery. They saw the tall stovepipe hat first, followed by the famous beard. And then he was before them — Abraham Lincoln, sixteenth president of the United States.
The president glanced at his notes on the back of an envelope, and launched into Lincoln’s famous speech. “Four score and seven years ago . . .”
A soldier broke ranks and pointed a finger at the president. “This isn’t right at all!”
Lincoln — played by Bobby Delancey — looked first at his accuser and then at Mary Catherine. “That’s not in the script!”
Logan threw off his hat, nearly removing his nose with the chinstrap. “When Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg address, he was coming down with smallpox! Where’s your rash?”
Bobby was bewildered. “Nobody said I had to have a rash!”
“A real actor doesn’t just learn lines!” Logan couldn’t hide his disgust at Bobby’s amateurism. “We have to be able to feel the heat from your fever. And your nausea — you haven’t even gagged! If we’re going to beat Camp Spotlight, we have to go all out!”
Mary Catherine stormed onto the stage. “Logan, get back to your mark. You’re a soldier. You have no lines in this scene.”
Logan bristled. “That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? I have no lines in any scene. I can do Lincoln like nobody’s business. Or Hamlet. Have you ever seen my Crucible? Nobody gets burned at the stake better than me! But you’ve got me playing four-legged creatures and a soldier with a plastic rifle!”
Wendy stepped onto the stage. “There are no stars here; we’re actors in a troupe. And all roles, big and small, are equally important. If we fight among ourselves, we’re giving Camp Spotlight an advantage over us.” When Logan looked stubborn, she added, “It’s up to you, Logan. If you can’t be satisfied with the parts you’ve been given, I’m going to have to drop you from the cast.”
Her words finally penetrated Logan’s resentment. His roles might be insignificant and insulting. But nothing would be worse than being out of the Showdown. That was the reason he’d come to Ta-da! in the first place.
After rehearsal, as he and Melissa headed for the mess hall for lunch, Logan’s bitterness spilled over. “This is all Savannah’s fault! It’s thanks to her that we’re saddled with Luthor in the attic of the performance center — which is the only reason I didn’t get picked to be captain!”
“It’s not just about Luthor,” Melissa reminded him. “Once Swindle’s done with the dog, he’s going to come after the rest of us. It’s his revenge for the baseball card heist.”
They stepped into the wood-framed building and froze in the doorway. There in the lunch line, helping him
self to chicken pot pie, was none other than E. J. Smith.
“What’s he doing here?” Logan hissed in consternation. “Why isn’t he out in the woods looking for the feral dog?”
“Maybe he didn’t believe you,” Melissa whispered back.
“Are you kidding? I killed!”
“You know, Griffin’s right,” she commented. “He really does look familiar. We’ve got to find out who he is.”
“Well, he definitely isn’t who he says he is,” added Logan. “E. J. Smith is at the bottom of the Atlantic.”
“If only I could get to his computer,” Melissa mused. “Then I’d know more about him than his own mother.”
“How are you going to that?” asked Logan. “He doesn’t carry a laptop with him.”
At that moment, Melissa caught her reflection in the glass sneeze-guard that covered the salad bar. Her expression matched one that she’d often seen on the face of The Man With The Plan. “Remember what he told you: His house is up on the hill somewhere. We can follow him, figure out where he lives. That’s where the computer is going to be.”
Logan was wide-eyed. “And break in?”
She nodded grimly. “You heard Griffin. We have to find out more about this guy.”
From: Melissa
To: Griffin
Followed E. J. Smith yesterday. He lives in cabin not far from camp. Hoping to get on his computer to learn true identity.
From: Griffin
To: Melissa
We’ll make a planner of you yet! Good luck!
We’re lost.”
Logan slumped against a tree, unable to go on.
“We’re not lost.” Melissa’s hair concealed the fact that she was rolling her eyes. “We’re going the right way. It’s just a little bit farther.”
Two days had passed since they’d tailed Swindle’s agent back to his summer home. Now, finally, the coast was clear. E. J. Smith was with the Ta-da! campers and counselors in the performance center, watching video of the various musical numbers and dramatic scenes of their revue. It was a little nerve-racking that Luthor was in the attic directly above so many people, including a professional dognapper. An accidental slip of the wrist could send the Doberman on a steady whirring descent into the midst of the entire population of the camp.
It wasn’t very long before the path rounded a dense grove of pines, and there it was, a small cottage of log and stone, nestled against the hillside. It looked exactly like Smith’s cover story — a summer residence in the woods, perfect for a city dweller to get away from it all. What it did not resemble was a dognapper’s lair. But they knew the truth.
Logan was getting cold feet. “Don’t ask me to pick the lock. I’m an actor, not a burglar.”
Melissa tried the door, but the knob didn’t budge. They examined the windows. All locked.
“If we break a window,” Logan reasoned, “he’ll know someone’s been inside.”
Frowning, Melissa raised her head until she found herself looking at a small window in the low A-frame attic. The sash was clearly raised a few inches. “There,” she said. “That’s the way in.”
“If you’re a squirrel,” said Logan, following her gaze. It was an awfully small window. “A baby squirrel.”
“Ben climbs into smaller places than that,” Melissa pointed out. In addition to being Griffin’s best friend, Ben served as the team’s tight-spaces specialist.
“Ben’s half the size of me,” Logan protested. “He goes in there because he fits!”
“Fair enough.” Melissa sighed. “I’ll do it. Just give me a boost to the porch roof.”
“Oh, right!” snapped Logan. “Leave me standing here for when E. J. Smith comes back!”
At last, Melissa ended the argument by forming a basket with her interlaced fingers. Logan stepped aboard, and she heaved him upward.
The disaster unfolded quickly. He got his hand onto the roofing shingles, but floundered there, unable to find anything to hold on to. As he wriggled, his free foot kicked Melissa in the mouth. She went down, leaving him unsupported. He tried to hoist his leg onto the roof, but succeeded only in getting it tangled in the chain of a hanging pot. The chain snapped. Down came the pot, and Logan with it, landing hard beside Melissa and the shattered planter. Clay shards and dirt scattered everywhere.
“Look what you’ve done!” he accused Melissa. “No way can we hide that we’ve been here now!”
“What I’ve done?” And then she saw it, half-buried in the fallen earth — a well-worn key. “We’re in!”
The house was small and neat, with wood-paneled walls and handmade rustic furniture. Over the fireplace hung a painting of E. J. Smith himself, with a velvet jacket and silk Ascot tie. It gave Melissa a moment’s unease.
“If he’s only here to go after Luthor, why would he bring a picture of himself to hang over the mantel?”
Logan peered into the single small bedroom. “Let’s just find the computer and get out. If we get caught, we’ll be sent home. And all those hours in a warthog suit will be for nothing.”
They found the computer on the kitchen table, and Melissa wasted no time booting it up. “You know, this is really slow,” she commented. “He should defrag his hard drive. And an anti-malware scan wouldn’t hurt. Who knows how many viruses he might have?”
“I don’t care if he has the black plague,” Logan retorted. “That painting is freaking me out! It’s like he’s watching us ransacking his house.”
“It’s not my fault he neglects basic computer maintenance,” Melissa said crossly. “Okay — I’m opening his e-mail program.”
And then a voice from outside the house announced, “Blasted raccoons! Look at the mess!”
Logan froze. “E. J. Smith!” he croaked.
Two pairs of eyes flashed to the front of the house. Through the window, they could see Smith, bending over his broken planter.
A moment later, the doorknob was turning.
“Hide!” It was barely a whisper, but no syllable ever resonated louder. Logan knew that an actor must always be able to think on his feet, because anything could happen in live theatre. But at that moment, the only action that came to him was a frantic dance in the middle of the living room.
The door began to swing wide. In a second, the dognapper would be upon them.
It was Melissa who grabbed him by the arm, hauled him across the living room, stuffed him behind the sofa, and squeezed in after him. She ducked her head out of sight just as the bearded man came into the living room and flopped down on the couch.
“Man, what a scorcher!” By the third breath, he was snoring.
Trapped behind the furniture, Logan motioned that they should make a break for it. Melissa shook her head, and mouthed the words, “Not yet.” It was too risky with the dognapper inches away from them.
“But we can’t stay here forever!” Logan squeaked.
The sound jarred Smith awake, and he looked around for the source. Then his eyes fell on the computer. “Did I leave that on all day?” He got up and walked into the kitchen.
Melissa and Logan crouched in uncomfortable misery while Smith phoned tech support, and tried to convince the agent that his computer had been on for six hours and hadn’t yet gone to screen-saver mode.
Melissa’s mind raced. What to do? Ordinarily, she took a lot of guidance from The Man With The Plan. But she couldn’t remember Griffin ever being stuck in a spot like this. She tried to troubleshoot the problem logically, as she would a technological glitch. But people were not predictable like computers. Would Smith turn away long enough for them to get out the front door? It was risky, but if they couldn’t get out of here, sooner or later, they would be missed back at camp. When would the point come where the consequences of that outweighed the danger of being caught here?
Logan shifted his position, and something fell out of his pocket, hitting the floor with a soft thud. It was a large candy caterpillar left over from the last “Hakuna Matata” rehearsal. Timon and Pumbaa had
to eat bugs while singing. Yes, it was a stage prop, but at that moment, Logan was grateful for something to snack on. He carefully bisected the gummy creature, and he and Melissa enjoyed an early meal.
The time ticked by with agonizing slowness. After an hour, Logan indicated that he was leaving, no matter what. They had a totally silent screaming match, complete with red faces and arm gestures.
By then, Smith was cooking dinner, and spicy curry fumes were making their eyes water. At last, nearly ninety minutes into the ordeal, a break! E. J. Smith left his creation to simmer on the stove, and stepped into the cottage’s small bathroom.
Melissa and Logan did not wait for an engraved invitation. They burst from behind the couch and blasted out the front door, never risking a backward glance. Stiff-legged and cramped, they staggered through the woods and down the mountainside, tripping over exposed roots and getting caught up in low branches.
Back at the cabin, E. J. Smith emerged from the bathroom to a peculiar sight. His sofa was pushed away from the wall, and his front door was ajar. Maybe he’d been absentminded about leaving the computer on, but he’d definitely closed the door. He walked over to the couch, and was about to push it back into place against the wall when he saw it — a gummy candy in the form of a caterpillar. He never ate candy. It was bad for the waistline and the complexion.
The evidence began to add up: the broken planter, the working laptop, the out of place couch, the foreign candy, the open door.
Someone had been in his house.
I’ve worked here fifteen years, and this summer’s revue is the best I’ve ever seen! Give yourselves a hand, people!”
Wendy’s praise brought cheers from the entire population of Camp Ta-da!
“The Showdown is scheduled to begin at three o’clock tomorrow,” the head counselor went on. “The buses from Camp Spotlight should arrive around noon. We’ll begin with the traditional barbecue lunch, and then we’ll start to get into our costumes. As the visitors, Spotlight will go on first. And then we get last licks. The weather forecast is perfect, we’ve got a great show and a lot of talented performers. This is the year we break the streak — I can feel it in my bones!”
Hideout: The Second Adventure Page 3
