Fear Itself Read online

  Nodding at Jill, Ben said, “You know, I don’t think it’s legal to look through someone’s book bag. You know my dad’s brother, the one on the Beverly police force? I’m gonna call him and ask about this.”

  Jill made a face at him. No way did he have an uncle who was a cop.

  Ben felt like he had to keep trying to sound natural. “Anyway, we’d better get to fourth period. You want to hang out after school?”

  “Can’t, I’ve got orchestra.”

  Ben was pretty sure that was true. “Well, I could come work in here after school. How long’s your rehearsal?”

  “Only a half hour today.”

  “Good—so maybe we can walk down to the harbor after, okay?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  Out in the hallway Jill was furious, walking so fast Ben almost had to trot to keep up. “What did I tell you?” she hissed. “Lyman is a professional, and I am not, and neither are you.”

  “Well, you’re the one who said, ‘Oh, relax, Ben, he’s stuck in the cafeteria.’”

  “Yes,” Jill said, nodding, “and I was wrong. We have to remember that Lyman is not the school janitor. He’s an undercover agent pretending he’s a janitor.”

  They went through the doors into the long hallway that led to the Annex.

  “And,” Jill went on, “he’s got a huge budget to work with, and he probably has all the latest spy equipment. He could have planted GPS tracking devices in our backpacks. He could be listening to us right now.”

  Ben shook his head. “He could be, but I bet he’s not. Hidden cameras and secret listening equipment and tracking bugs? Those things are totally illegal, especially if someone tried to spy on kids. And inside a public school? No way. People go to jail for stuff like that. No matter how much he’s getting paid, I don’t think Lyman would take that risk. I mean, I wouldn’t—would you?”

  “Of course not,” said Jill, coming to a stop. “But we’re not him. I’m just saying we have to be a lot more careful. And if we want to do something or go somewhere without him knowing about it, then we’ve got to have a strategy—like splitting up so one of us can be the lookout.”

  The bell clanged three times, and the hallway around them filled up with kids.

  “I agree one hundred percent,” said Ben. “Well, look, I’ve got to get up to the third floor. But we can’t let this get us down, okay? ’Cause that stuff in the office about the bell? I’m almost sure it means something. We can figure this out. We just have to stay focused. Okay?”

  Jill took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All right,” she said, “but you have to promise me something .”

  “What?” he asked.

  “That you won’t tease the tigers. Okay?”

  Ben smiled and put his hand over his heart. “I promise. No more tiger teasing—at least not today.”

  “I’m serious, Benjamin.”

  “I know, I know—sorry. We are going to be super serious and super careful from now on. I’ll text you tonight. You’re headed to chorus, right?”

  “Right,” she said. “And you’ve got science now.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well,” she said lightly, “have fun with the quiz.”

  Ben stared at her. “There’s a quiz? And you didn’t tell me?”

  Jill grinned. “Don’t be scared—just look it in the eye and say, ‘Smile.’”

  CHAPTER 5

  Odd, Odder, Oddest

  Ben slipped into a pew at the back of the Seagate Chapel. Fifty or sixty people were standing up, singing a hymn. He felt embarrassed to be late for the service, but it had started at three, and he’d had to walk more than a mile from school.

  Looking around a little, he spotted Mr. Telmer, the principal. Also a handful of teachers from Oakes School. It was weird to be the only kid in sight. Plus, he was the only person carrying a backpack, and the only person who wasn’t dressed up. But there was no way he could have carried a coat and tie out of the house on a Monday morning without getting a million questions from his mom—questions he didn’t want to answer. It would have been tough to explain why he felt like he had to attend the funeral of the school jani- tor. But he did—he felt like he owed it to Mr. Keane.

  This was only his second funeral ever. When his mom’s father had passed away, he’d been four years old. All he remembered was his mom sniffling a lot and squeezing his hand so hard it hurt.

  The hymn ended, and everyone remained standing. Up front, a woman wearing a long purple robe stood next to an easel that held a large framed photograph of Mr. Keane. She raised both palms, closed her eyes, and bowed her head.

  “And now, let us go forward into our lives, confident that our friend Roger is safe, confident that the love of God is more powerful than sadness, more powerful than death itself. Amen.”

  The congregation murmured “Amen,” and as the organ began playing again, everyone sat down while the minister led a small group of people up the aisle toward the back of the chapel.

  Ben had a clear view. The little woman in the black dress had to be Mr. Keane’s wife. And the stocky man at her elbow was definitely his son—same wild hair and bushy eyebrows.

  Ben left the chapel and followed the others across Union Street and into the fellowship hall. Long tables were covered with all sorts of food—cheese and crackers, cookies and brownies, cakes, pies, several fruit platters, and eight or ten steaming casseroles.

  Suddenly he was starving, and almost made a dash for the plates and forks. But just in time he realized there was a line, and he was in it. People were supposed to greet the grieving family before they stuffed their faces.

  Fortunately, he was near the head of the line. About three minutes later he shook Mrs. Keane’s hand and said, “I’m sorry for your loss. I’m Ben Pratt, from Oakes School. I . . . I knew your husband.”

  The woman wasn’t much taller than Ben, and her eyes were as sharp and blue as her husband’s. She held on to his hand as she leaned forward. “I’m glad you came,” she said, and then whispered, “Roger told me about you, right at the end. Could you stop by our house next week, some day after school?”

  He nodded and smiled a little, and then quickly moved to the right as the large woman behind him swooped in to hug the widow.

  Mr. Keane’s son was next in the receiving line. Ben held out his hand and looked up into his face. The resemblance to his dad was startling. The son’s handshake was quick and businesslike.

  “Thanks for comin’.”

  The room was filling up quickly, and Ben had to work his way slowly toward the refreshments. He glanced to his right—and there was Lyman bobbing through the crowd, a head taller than almost everyone else. He sidestepped the reception line and took up a position by the wall, then just stood there, looking around.

  Ben wanted to duck down low and head for an exit. But he stopped himself. After all, he belonged here, and Lyman didn’t. Why should he let that guy make him feel scared? It took an effort, but Ben clamped his jaw tightly and turned his back on Lyman, and in less than a minute he’d reached the food tables.

  He took a plate, and as he began loading it with chunks of cheese and tiny sandwiches, Ben realized that Mrs. Keane’s whispered invitation hadn’t surprised him. It even made sense, in an odd sort of way. In fact, over the past five days, all sorts of odd things had begun to seem normal, almost expected.

  Like Lyman, for instance, standing way over there in the corner of the room now, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Yes, it was odd to see him there, slowly scanning the room with his dark, unsmiling eyes. But it would have seemed odder if he hadn’t been there. Ben smiled as he took a big bite of chocolate cake—maybe he should go over and snap another picture of the guy.

  No, he’d promised Jill he would keep a safe distance from the tigers.

  He wished she had come . . . so he’d have someone to talk to. When they were in social studies together during fifth period, he had almost invited her. Twice. Hey, want to go to a funeral with me? Bu
t that had seemed really odd. So he’d chickened out. Twice.

  Anyway, Jill had orchestra practice. And with that sour attitude of hers, maybe a funeral would have pushed her over the edge.

  Still, he wished she had come. If they spent some time together, maybe she’d open up a little, tell him what was bugging her. Because something was definitely bugging her.

  The fruit from one particular tray was especially sweet, so Ben headed back for more. The man ahead of him had one hand on his aluminum walker while he filled his plate with the other, carefully picking out only strawberries and blueberries.

  He glanced at Ben and handed him the big spoon. “Here you go, junior. Great-looking fruit, huh?”

  Ben smiled and took the spoon. “Yeah, it’s really good.”

  It was clear that the man wouldn’t be able to use his walker and also carry his plate, so Ben said, “Can I help you with that?”

  “Thanks. I’m headed for the nearest chair.” He shuffled off to the right while Ben served himself.

  He followed the man to a tiny round table, then waited while he wrestled himself into a chair. Ben sat down and slid the plate of fruit across to him.

  The man grabbed his fork and dug in right away, then smacked his lips.

  “Mmm, mmm—ripe berries in May! Too bad people have to die before you get fruit this good.”

  Ben looked around quickly, shocked to hear him talk like that.

  He saw Ben’s face and cocked an eyebrow at him. “Oops—I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

  Ben nodded.

  He grinned. “Happens more and more. Can’t tell you how many people I’ve upset just in the past three days. And the last funeral I went to? People were having so much fun I forgot and thought I was at a wedding. They threw me out for trying to dance with the widow.”

  Ben didn’t know if he should smile or be more shocked. So he took a bite of melon and looked away—only to see Mrs. Keane walking straight toward their table. She came over and put a hand on the old man’s shoulder, then bent down to kiss him on the cheek.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Tom.”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it, Maggie. Really sorry.”

  She smiled at Ben. “I was going to introduce you two, but I see this rascal already found you.”

  The man pointed at Ben. “Him? He’s my new fruit carrier.” Then he winked and said, “I was just telling him I might ask you for a dance in a minute, see if we can’t cheer this party up a little.”

  Ben’s mouth dropped open, but Mrs. Keane laughed.

  She looked at Ben and said, “Don’t believe a thing this man says, you hear me? He’s the biggest liar in all of Massachusetts, and that’s saying something .”

  She shook her finger at her friend and gave him another kiss on the cheek. Then she moved on to the next table.

  The man dug into his fruit again, and Ben said, “She seems really nice.”

  “Tough as nails. She and Roger lost a baby daughter. No laughing at that funeral. But she bounced back from it . . . amazing. Tough as nails.”

  “So you’ve known them a long time?”

  He wiped some strawberry juice off his chin with a napkin. “Yup, going on fifty years. Gave Roger his first job when he was a kid right out of the navy. Good people, both of them.”

  “Mr. Keane worked for you?”

  “Not really. I took disability retirement when I was forty-five, hired Roger to take over for me. I was the custodian at Oakes School.”

  Ben almost choked on a grape. Coughing, he reached for some water and took three quick gulps before he realized it wasn’t even his glass.

  “You were the janitor there?”

  “Sure was. Best job I ever had.”

  Ben tried to look casual, which was hard. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Lyman was still in the far corner, talking now with a woman who was about half his height.

  Turning back to the old man, he said, “I was with Mr. Keane at school, the morning of the day he died. And he mentioned your name to me. You’re Mr. Benton, right?”

  “Yup, but everybody calls me Tom.”

  Ben reached into his pocket. Then he put both hands on the table, cupped together. He opened them just enough for the man to see what he had. “He gave me this, that morning .”

  Tom stared a second, then pulled in a sharp breath. His eyes got wide, then narrowed as he looked up into Ben’s face. “You? You’re the new janitor?”

  Ben smiled and shook his head. “No. Don’t stare, but over my left shoulder, way in the corner, that tall guy? He’s the janitor now, but Mr. Keane didn’t trust him. So he gave this to me, and told me I had to try to keep the school from being torn down. So that’s what I’m doing .”

  Ben put the coin back in his pocket.

  Tom Benton’s eyes were still narrowed. “And how’s that going?”

  “Not bad, I guess. I mean, we’re just getting started—looking for things.”

  His eyes got wide again. “We? Who’s we?”

  “Just me and a friend of mine. Really smart. I needed help.”

  “Hmm. . . .” He paused, thinking about that. “What have you found so far?”

  “A list of clues.”

  Tom nodded. “Good. I found that too—‘on the upper deck.’ There with the big key.”

  It was Ben wide-eyed now, and breathless. “The other things, the safeguards? Did you find them, too?”

  Tom shook his head. “Didn’t look. No reason to. Haven’t thought about those clues for a long time. But I sure did back then. I knew that school like the back of my hand.” His eyes seemed to film over. “A lot of history at that place . . . a lot of history.”

  He stuck his fork into a strawberry that was bigger than a golf ball and bit off half of it.

  Ben said, “The first clue? It’s about bells, and today—”

  Tom stopped chewing. “‘After five bells sound, time to sit down,’—right?”

  “Exactly!” Ben said. This guy had an amazing memory! “So today we looked at the ship’s bell in the office. Do you think there’s a link between the name on the ship’s bell, the Safeguard, and the things we’re looking for? Because they’re called ‘safeguards’ . . . on the message from the Keepers.”

  Tom ate the other half of the strawberry, chewed and chewed, then swallowed. “Seems to me at one time, I did think that made sense. And I recall making a list of ideas. . . . It was a long time ago.” He shrugged. “Well, my memory’s not perfect, but everything’s still there. Sort of like a shortwave radio station—clear some days, not so great on others. But I’ll do some thinking, see if I come up with something. I still walk those halls almost every night, especially when I can’t get to sleep. I see myself walking up the granite steps, in the front door, left past the office, and then straight into the south stairwell. The seventh step from the ground floor has a bad squeak, but only if you’re carrying a bucket of water—it’s the extra weight. You probably didn’t know that.”

  Again, the filmy eyes.

  Ben’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He hadn’t told his mom he’d be late getting home. He let the phone ring and kept his focus on Mr. Benton’s face, hoping he’d keep talking, and maybe remember something useful.

  Mr. Benton was more interested in fruit. He chased the last blueberry around the edge of his plate, stabbed it, then plucked it off the fork.

  “You know,” he said, glancing briefly into Ben’s face again, “I think my old fishing tackle box might still be in the workroom over at the school. Maybe under the bench? I don’t know. . . . I went looking for it in my storage locker at the place I was staying about a year ago? Couldn’t find it. Used to take it to school when I worked Saturdays. Sat out on the seawall and cast for snappers about sundown. Caught some nice ones too, if the day was warm enough.”

  He was quiet, tapping his fork on his plate, a smile on his face. Then he looked back at Ben. “Be nice to get that tackle box, ’specially if they really tear the place down. Thought of
it about a month ago and meant to ask Roger to fetch it for me. Never made the call—forgot all about it. And then he died. Funny what a man remembers.” Jerking his head toward Lyman over in the corner, he said, “’Course, I could ask that fella, though, couldn’t I? Shouldn’t be hard to —”

  “Um,” Ben said quickly, “Roger—I mean, Mr. Keane? He told me to steer clear of that guy.” Actually, Ben didn’t want Lyman anywhere near Tom Benton. He might remember something, might let something slip out.

  Mr. Benton looked disappointed.

  Ben said, “I mean . . . I could probably find your tackle box. In the janitor’s workroom, right? I could at least see if it’s there. What’s it look like?”

  “Well, let me see . . . ,” he said, speaking slowly. “It’s all metal, and it’s pale green, except for the rusty spots. ’Bout as big as a loaf of bread. And it’s kind of heavy—lots of big lead sinkers for deepwater fishing. Used to go out for haddock every few weeks, went with my uncle James. In fact, he’s the one who gave me that tackle box back when I was fifteen. . . . ’Course, James is gone now, died quite a while ago. . . . Still, it’d be nice to have that box. Just to have it . . . you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Ben. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.” Then Tom got a sheepish look on his face. “Suppose I can ask a favor, another one?”

  “Sure,” Ben said.

  “Could this stay just between us? I don’t want everyone thinking I’m this old geezer who’s gone soft in the head about junk from his boyhood. I guess that’s pride. . . .” And then he grinned. “As if folks don’t already know I’m crazy!”

  Ben kept a straight face. “I won’t tell anyone—promise.”

  “Well . . . thanks.”

  Ben leaned across the table and put out his hand, and the man shook it.