Fear Itself Read online

  “I’m really glad I got to meet you, Mr. Benton.”

  “Good to meet you, too. And call me Tom, okay?”

  “Right. I’ve got to get home now, but if you remember something about the clues, or about the building, or maybe something about Captain Oakes, anything would be a huge help. It’d be great to talk again. And I want my friend to meet you.”

  He nodded. “You bet. Throw enough questions at me, something might bounce back at you. I’m at BayHaven Care, up on High Street. Got a view of the water. Not like the view from the school, but it’s not bad. Come and see me anytime—I’m always there . . . unless I’m at a funeral with good food.”

  Ben stood up. “I will. And in the meantime, wish me luck.”

  Tom frowned. “Can’t do that. ‘Shallow men believe in luck. Strong men believe in cause and effect.’ Ralph Waldo Emerson. My sixth-grade teacher had it up on the classroom wall.”

  “I’ll remember that. Well, good-bye.”

  “So long .”

  Ben turned to go, and Tom said, “Wait a second.”

  “Yes?”

  “You didn’t tell me your name, son.”

  “Oh, sorry. I’m Ben, Benjamin Pratt.”

  “Benjamin. Good. You know . . . there is one thing I just remembered.”

  Ben leaned forward. “Yes?”

  “I’m out of strawberries. Want to get me a refill?”

  Ben smiled and picked up his plate. “Happy to.”

  Five minutes later he had said his good-byes to Mrs. Keane and her son and was out front on Union Street. He had his phone in his hand, thinking about what he was going to say to his mom.

  “Young man?”

  One of the servers from the hall was coming down the steps toward him, her white apron flapping in the sea breeze.

  She bustled over and handed him a white bakery bag. “Mrs. Keane asked me to give you this. She said there was going to be a lot of fruit and desserts left over, and she knew you’d enjoy some more.”

  Ben smiled as he pulled the bag open to look—a big piece of chocolate cake right on top. “This is great! Tell her thanks for me.”

  “I certainly will. Good-bye now.”

  He slipped the bag into his backpack and opened his phone again.

  He was dreading this call. He had to explain to his mom why he was late . . . without actually telling her where he’d been . . . and without lying. Because if he told her he’d gone to Mr. Keane’s funeral, she’d ask a million questions. Without Dad around, it seemed like she was on his case more than ever.

  However . . . she had met the janitor when he’d helped Ben and his dad scrape the hull of the sailboat two summers ago. And he could just tell her that when he’d heard that his funeral was today, he’d felt like he should go and pay his respects. Because that was the truth.

  And even if his mom thought that was odd—well, so what? Ben was pretty sure he actually was a little odd, but in a good way. His mom needed to start getting used to that, and the sooner, the better.

  Yes. He’d tell her the truth and then deal with whatever came next.

  He pushed the CALL button on his phone and hoped for the best.

  CHAPTER 6

  Multitasking

  “I am not asking you, Ben, I’m telling you: If you’re going to be late coming home from school, call me. Every single time—no exceptions, no excuses, no discussion. Got it?”

  Ben nodded.

  She slapped a big spoonful of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “I need to hear you say, ‘Yes, Mom, I understand.’”

  “Yes, Mom, I understand.”

  “All right then. Please pass the peas.”

  Sheesh. Ben couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his mom this mad. Even the dog was scared. Nelson huddled under the table, and Ben wished he could crawl down there with him. At times like these, a corgi was much better company than a mom.

  He’d called her after the funeral and told her where he’d been. She hadn’t sounded that upset over the phone, mostly relieved. Then when he’d arrived home around four thirty, she hadn’t seemed mad at all. Even seemed sort of pleased that he’d done something thoughtful and considerate. That was an hour ago.

  So something else must have happened since then. Something that upset her. But there was no point in asking what. Could have been anything. These days, it didn’t seem to take much.

  Ben felt a quick flash of anger at his dad for not being at the dinner table, for not being there to say, Hey, sweetheart, take it easy—he’s just a kid, and kids mess up. No big deal. That’s what he always used to say. At times like this.

  Then he thought of his dad, sitting alone at the small table aboard their sailboat. The anger vanished.

  Ben wasn’t really hungry, not after all that food at the funeral. But he cut off a piece of meat, put it in his mouth, and said, “Mmm—great steak.”

  “Don’t talk with food in your mouth. But thank you. I used that special seasoning you like.”

  Ben ate the rest of his meal quickly. This didn’t seem like a good time to have a conversation. His mom must have felt the same way. She didn’t talk much either, just a quick question about how Robert was doing, and a comment or two about her work at the realty office.

  It was one of those comments that made Ben decide to risk a question. “You said home prices in Edgeport are falling, but prices for apartments and office buildings are going up? That doesn’t make sense.”

  His mom smiled. “It only makes sense if you think about that new theme park. People don’t want to live near a big tourist attraction, but they do want to have stores and hotels and restaurants near it. The last six months have been crazy, and once they start construction, I’m going to make a lot of sales—a lot!”

  Ben gulped. “So . . . you’re happy about the theme park?”

  “Well,” she said, “I wouldn’t say I’m thrilled about it, and I know it’s going to change the town. But it is happening, and I am a realtor, so I’d be pretty silly if I didn’t take advantage of it, wouldn’t I? I mean, you’ll be going to college in a few short years, and all that money has to come from somewhere. The timing’s actually just about right.”

  Ben couldn’t believe it—his own mom was happy about a bunch of plastic ships. And neon lights. And huge parking lots with swarms of tourists.

  He cleared the table in silence.

  Talking about making money had definitely cheered up his mom. As they finished cleaning up the kitchen, out of the blue she said, “Say, guess what I found on sale at the grocery store? The Sea Hawk with Errol Flynn—it’s out on DVD.”

  “No way! The Sea Hawk? Awesome!” And Ben wasn’t acting—it was a great adventure movie, one of his favorites. The scene where the hero escaped from the Spanish slave galley flashed through his mind—fantastic!

  His mom was beaming. “So how about we watch it after your work’s done?”

  “Absolutely!” But then he groaned. “Problem is, I’ve got a ton of homework, plus that extra credit work for social studies.”

  “Oh. And that’s the project you’re working on with Jill?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, there’s so much research.”

  “What kind of research?” she asked.

  Ben wasn’t sure if his mom really wanted to know, or if she was just talking to hide her disappointment about not watching the movie together.

  “You know,” he said, “reading in the library, searching online, studying the building itself, stuff like that.”

  “The building itself? You mean what it looks like, the architecture?”

  “Kind of. But we’re also trying to figure out the history of the construction. Because the place started out as a huge shipping warehouse, and they had to turn it into a school. And the carpenter who did most of the work, this man named John Vining? His tools are still there, right in the school. And his drawings, too. I love stuff like that.”

  “What did you say his name was—the carpenter?”

  “John Vining .
”

  “Hmm,” she said. “I feel like I’ve heard that name somewhere.”

  “Really?” said Ben. “I thought that too. But I haven’t made any connections yet.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll remember. And it’s fine about the movie—I have work I should be doing too.”

  “So . . . how about we watch it Friday?” said Ben.

  She brightened up again. “That’ll be perfect—a night at the movies. Popcorn and grape soda, some chocolate, the whole package.” She gave him a quick hug, then kissed the top of his head. “Go do your homework.”

  As Ben swung his book bag onto his shoulder and headed for his room, he recalled what Tom Benton had said about the squeaky step in the south stairwell at school—the seventh one from the ground floor. He smiled. He liked counting footsteps too, always had, ever since he’d learned his numbers.

  And going to his room, it was ten steps straight up the front stairs to the second floor, a left turn, eight paces along the hallway, and then another left into a doorway. Up four steps, a half turn to the right, and then six more steps to the landing. A quick turn to the left, push the door, and there it was—an attic room so small that it made his cabin on the Tempus Fugit seem almost spacious. Everything was small—the bed, the single window between the exposed beams, the pine dresser, his desk. Even the doorway was small, and it only had part of a door. The corner above the doorknob had been cut off at an angle so it wouldn’t scrape the slanted ceiling.

  He tossed his bag onto the bed, then got his phone out. Jill was on speed dial, and in two seconds she said, “Hello?”

  “Hey,” he said. “How’s it going?”

  “Okay.”

  She sounded down, so Ben kept talking. “Guess what my mom said at dinner—she’s actually glad about the new theme park, says it’s going to be great for her real estate sales. Can you believe that?”

  “Yes, I can,” said Jill. “My dad’s the same way—can’t wait for the whole thing to take off.”

  Ben thought a second. “But your mom’s been fighting the project from the start, right? How does that work?”

  “They deal with it.” Jill changed the subject. “So, I looked for you after orchestra. Guess you decided not to stay and study in the library.”

  “What?”

  “You said you might stay after. At lunchtime.”

  “Oh, right,” said Ben, “that. I was just kind of talking, you know . . . when we thought Lyman might have bugged that alcove? I had plans to go to Mr. Keane’s funeral after school. It started at three.”

  “You had plans? How come you didn’t ask me to go?”

  “You said you had orchestra—and . . . I mean, it would have been great if you could have come. I was the only kid there. I almost asked you during social studies . . . twice.”

  “But you didn’t,” she said coldly. Then in a milder tone, “But I don’t blame you. I wasn’t exactly Little Miss Sunshine today, was I?”

  “Well . . . no,” Ben said carefully.

  He wanted to ask her about that, but immediately she said, “So, what was it like?”

  “The funeral? Well, I actually missed most of the service, but at the reception I met Tom Benton—he was the school janitor before Mr. Keane. And when I showed him the gold coin, you should have seen his face! He thought I was the new janitor. Lyman was there too, and I told Tom how Mr. Keane said not to trust him. I told him about you, too—how I told you the secret because I needed help with everything. And get this—he solved the directions on the coin, like, fifty years ago, actually found the copper plate and the big key, and then put them back! Isn’t that great?”

  “Did he hunt for anything else?” Jill asked.

  “I asked him that same question. He said no, because there wasn’t any reason to. But he said he thought about all the clues, and he might have come up with some good ideas . . . except he can’t remember now because it was so long ago. But he said he’d keep thinking. I told him I wanted him to meet you.”

  Ben heard his mom’s footsteps on the second floor, heard her open the hallway door to the attic. “Ben?” she called up the stairs. “I can hear you talking—time to hang up and get on your homework now.”

  He held his phone against his chest, “Okay. Just another minute—I’m talking to Jill . . . about our project.”

  “One minute, Benjamin.”

  “All right”—then into the phone, “Sorry, that was my mom. I’ve got a ton of homework.”

  Jill said, “Yeah, me too.”

  She sounded distant again. Maybe he really should have asked her to come this afternoon. Wasn’t much he could do about it now. Got to keep moving forward.

  “Listen,” he said, “if you get a little time later tonight, could you maybe look online and see if there’s anything about John Vining? We need to know more about that guy. And try to keep thinking about that first safeguard clue.”

  “Okay,” she said with a sigh, “but I’ve got to tell you, it all feels pretty pointless.”

  “But it’s not,” Ben said. “If what we’re doing is so pointless, then how come Lyman keeps dogging us around?”

  “I don’t know—maybe he’s just a creep.”

  Ben almost snapped back with a reply . . . but arguing wasn’t going to help.

  “Well, anyway,” he said, “I’ve got to get busy. But text me if you come up with anything, okay?”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  “G’bye.”

  Ben sat and stared at his phone. Jill’s moodiness was getting to him. Was she right? Was it all pointless? He had to admit that feeling so responsible for everything was tough.

  Homework. He really did have a lot. And compared to figuring out how to defend the school, doing research about Jack London was going to feel like a vacation.

  He and Robert Gerritt had been assigned to work together on this author study, and, as usual, Robert was totally obsessed with getting a perfect grade. So he’d taken charge and immediately volunteered to do most of the reading and most of the writing and most of the oral report. He had given Ben two simpler tasks—making a biographical map of London’s life, plus a time line of his published works.

  Ben looked over the printouts from his Internet research. Jack London—the guy was amazing. His eye stopped on one article where it said that he’d been an “oyster pirate.”

  What?

  Ben opened his laptop, clicked to Google, and typed in “London AND oyster pirate.” Instantly he had his answer. Under cover of night, young Jack London and a gang of thieves had gone on raids to steal fancy oysters from shellfish farms that had been planted in the mud along the shore near San Francisco.

  That was a year or so after London had bought his own sailing sloop, and a year or so before he worked his way on a seal hunting ship all the way to Japan.

  Which got Ben thinking about ships again. And about life onboard a ship. And about that ship’s bell, the one in the school office. And about the clue: After five bells sound . . .

  Ben navigated back to Google and typed “ship’s bell,” and then clicked around until he found a list of the bell-ringing patterns that was like the one on the wall in the office. Except this particular listing also showed the different times of day when five bells was rung—two thirty, six thirty, and ten thirty. And it rang for both a.m. times and p.m. times . . . because there were different groups of sailors keeping watch all day and all night. So . . . if you didn’t know what watch it was when it rang five bells . . . then you couldn’t really tell what time it was. Because it rang five bells six times every twenty-four hours. . . .

  Pretty confusing .

  Ben pulled out a fresh index card and sketched six little clock faces, and he put an hour and a minute hand on each one, then wrote the times below them.

  When he was done, he felt like he understood what five bells actually meant—at least the time-of-day part.

  Which was progress, right?

  But the more he stared at those six clock faces, the more he t
hought about the first clue . . . and the captain . . . and John Vining . . . and Lyman . . . and poor dead Mr. Keane, and . . . he felt like his head was going to explode.

  So he shut his laptop and tucked the index card into his pocket and went back to his author study information.

  He had real homework to do.

  And he knew that if he didn’t have a clear sketch of Jack London’s author time line and also that biographical map before language arts class tomorrow, Robert would kill him—whether Ben had saved his life last Saturday or not.

  The author study work took longer than he’d thought it would. Then there were eighteen math problems. Then he had to read the first ten pages of the new chapter in his science book—in case there was another pop quiz.

  By the time Ben finished it was late, and he was yawning. Plus, he was hungry again. But it felt good to be done.

  He was just about to go down to the kitchen for a snack, when he remembered the white bag from Mrs. Keane. It was right there in his backpack on the bed.

  He got out the bag and carefully pulled out that big hunk of chocolate cake. It was sort of smooshed, and when he peeled off the plastic wrap, some of the icing stuck to it. The cake tasted great anyway, even better than it had at the funeral . . . probably because now he was hungrier.

  The heavy container in the bottom of the bag had to be fruit—perfect! Fruit was juicy, and the thick icing had made him thirsty. There was even a plastic fork in the bag .

  He pulled out the large cup, pried off the lid, and stared, his mouth wide open.

  There were thirty or forty keys in the cup—keys of all shapes and sizes. Some were dull brass, some were silvery, some looked almost new, and others were worn smooth. And all of them were attached to one very large ring attached to a belt hook.

  He lifted the keys out of the container, and underneath them was a note, written in blue ink on a dessert napkin.

  Ben—Roger asked me to give these to you. He said you’d either make good use of them and then hand them on to someone else, or else you’d get to keep them as a souvenir of a school that used to be.