Framed (12 page)

G
riffin put down the notebook, trying to blink away a pounding headache. Operation Dirty Rat had not yet even begun, and he was already stressed. There were so many fine points that needed to be ironed out before zero hour on Wednesday. His parents, for example. They’d never let him leave while under house arrest, and sneaking out was no good, either — not for hours. What if they checked his room and found it empty?

No, Mom and Dad had to be sent away someplace. But where, and for what reason?

A single blown detail could bring the entire operation crashing down around his ears. Hard experience had taught Griffin this.

The planning session was taking place at the ping-pong table in the basement, while Melissa probed with a screw driver inside the PEMA hub, which was bolted to the floor. That was another source of his jitters. One false move could alert the police.

Chill out
, he soothed himself.
Melissa knows what she’s doing….

Her voice was so soft that he almost missed it. “Ready,” she announced.

“Really? That’s — uh — great. Are you sure? I mean — uh —
what’s
ready?”

She held out an old cell phone with the backing removed and the wiring exposed. “This handset generates a digital signal that matches the hub on the floor. If you shut down the hub and turn this on, it will transmit to the police station directly. We have to test it, of course.”

“Of course.” Griffin accepted the device, handling it as if it were filled with nitroglycerin. He had faith in Melissa, but he didn’t relish the
prospect of more face time with Detective Sergeant Vizzini.

She read his mind. “Well, if it doesn’t work, better to know now than on Wednesday night,” she reasoned. “If the police get an alarm signal, you’ll be home. They’ll figure it’s a glitch in their system.”

Griffin took a deep breath. “Okay, on three. One … two …” He powered on the converted cell phone at the same instant that Melissa clicked off the hub.

The transmit light on the floor unit winked out. Griffin’s heart jumped up the back of his throat. But —

He pulled up his pant leg and checked the indicator on the PEMA anklet. Solid green.

They waited. Three minutes. Then five. No sirens in the distance. No insistent pounding at the front door.

“It works?” he asked.

“I think so,” she told him. “In here. Now we have to try it outside the hub’s range.”

Right. Who cared if the device did the trick in the house, where Griffin was allowed to be anyway? The real test would be to take it beyond the two-hundred-foot limit.

They headed upstairs. Mom was out and Dad was in his workshop, experimenting with different
bait trays for the Vole-B-Gone. They were safe for the moment — so long as a stray police car didn’t pass by.

“Let’s go.”

Griffin wasn’t sure why he was so afraid to walk on his own lawn. He did this every morning en route to the JFK bus. The anklet wouldn’t begin to flash its warning until he reached the road.

He clung to the transmitter with white knuckles. If Melissa was right, the device would trick the PEMA system into thinking he was still in the house.

He stepped down to the blacktop. Anklet check: no blinking.

Two more strides took him to the middle of the street. Nothing. He crossed the road and jogged onto the opposite lawn. The anklet was now at least a hundred feet out of range, and the indicator still showed solid green.

It works! It really works!

Since the cell phone was now acting as the hub, all he had to do was hold on to it. He could be miles from home, yet the device would never be far from the bracelet on his ankle — well inside the two-hundred-foot limit.

“Melissa,” he called, his voice low despite the triumph he felt. “You’re a genius.”

Her eyes were covered by her curtain of hair, but her lips betrayed a rare smile.

A loud mechanical clanking disturbed the quiet of the block. Griffin watched in horror as the Bings’ garage door began to open. He saw his father’s shoes … pants … shirt — in another second, the whole guy would be standing there with a perfect view of his house-arrested son!

Griffin dashed across the street and up the walk in a desperate bid to outrun the rising door. He flung himself inside just as the mechanism clicked off, and Mr. Bing stepped onto the driveway.

“Oh, hi, Melissa,” he said, noticing the shy girl. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“I was just leaving,” she told him before starting for home.

Her work there was done.

A
t two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon — zero hour minus five — Mr. Bing was at his computer, browsing through farm blogs. For people who worked from dawn till dusk, farmers certainly seemed to be quite an online community, always willing to share their expertise. But no one seemed to have any idea what bait to use to trap the orchard vole.

His frustration had been growing in recent weeks. The SmartPick and Rollo-Bushel were both fully operational. If he could only perfect the Vole-B-Gone, it would round out his resume as an inventor and establish him as a major player in the orchard world.

He chuckled ruefully. The voles, apparently, had other plans.

A chime alerted him to the arrival of a new
e-mail. He called up his inbox. The message was from Dalton Davis of Davis, Davis, and Yamamoto, the law firm the family had hired to represent Griffin.

“Honey!” he called excitedly to his wife. “Come and see this!”

Mrs. Bing hurried into the room. “A break in the case!” she repeated. “That sounds hopeful!”

The Bings had no illusions about their son. Griffin was capable of spectacular mischief and had proven it more than once. But to see him go down for something he hadn’t even done was the ultimate torture. Could this be the first ray of hope to penetrate the black cloud that had surrounded the family for weeks now?

Eagerly, Mr. Bing typed a short reply:
Thanks — we’ll be there.
They had met at this roadside restaurant before. It was located about halfway between Cedarville and the offices of Davis, Davis, and Yamamoto in New York City.

The couple joined hands. The shadow over their son’s future was almost unbearable. But perhaps there was light at the end of the tunnel.

Mrs. Bing’s eyes fell on the folded copy of the
Herald
on the desk beside the mouse pad. Celia White’s column was on the front page. The headline read:

CMS VISITS ANCIENT ROME WITH
HAIL CAESAR

Her melancholy returned. “The school play,” she said sadly. “While we’re meeting with lawyers, fighting for Griffin’s life, other parents will be bundling their kids into costumes and watching them perform.”

Her husband nodded unhappily. “The worst part is seeing him locked in the house like a criminal. That used to be his school. Now he can’t even buy a ticket and go to their play.”

What Mr. and Mrs. Bing did not know was that Griffin was very much going to the school
that night — not to watch the play, but to lead the team in Operation Dirty Rat. And the e-mail they believed was from their lawyer had actually come from the laptop of Melissa Dukakis.

Okay, there were other names on the welcome poster that hung in the entrance foyer. Mrs. Arturo insisted that the entire cast had to be on there — right down to the lowliest centurion and set painter.

But Logan only had eyes for himself. Julius Caesar. After mindless kiddie shows and dumb commercials for athlete’s foot cream, here at last was a role meaty enough for him to sink his teeth
into. Today was the first day of the rest of his life as an actor. He had to
nail
this performance. Absolutely nothing could be allowed to interfere with his dramatic focus.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a tiny shadow with a long skinny tail moving quickly across the terrazzo floor, hugging the wall.

A rat! A
pack
rat? Could Savannah’s wacky theory be true?

He launched himself across the foyer on an intercept course with the fleeing creature.

At that moment, the heavy glass doors opened, and a tall woman rushed into the building. Logan collided with the newcomer and bounced off, dazed.

“What on earth?” she exclaimed in outrage.

“Sorry —” He took in her familiar birdlike features.

Oh, no! Celia White!

“You’re Logan, right?” The reporter skewered him with hawk eyes. “What happened to your face? You look like you’ve been in a knife fight!”

“It’s — uh — makeup,” he stammered. “Caesar was a general before he was an emperor, you know.”

Her expression softened. “I’m proud of you,
Logan. I know you’ve been in trouble in the past. To see you starring in the play is wonderful!”

Logan could only stare at her.

“I was right all along,” the reporter went on. “Once that awful Griffin Bing was removed from the mix, the rest of you could start to turn your lives around. Sometimes you have to cut off one bad branch to save the whole tree. I only hope your other friends can find such positive outlets for their energy.” She reached out a claw and shook his hand. “Congratulations. I’ll be in the front row cheering for you.” And she stalked off to reserve a good seat.

Logan was still shaking as she disappeared down the corridor that led to the auditorium. The only “positive outlet” his friends had found was Operation Dirty Rat, which would be starting any minute. And this time, the team was bringing along the worst juvenile delinquent at Jail For Kids. What would Celia White have to say about that?

A quick scan of the foyer revealed no sign of the rodent. Just as well. He mustn’t allow himself to get distracted. Not on opening night.

H
ail Caesar
was a sellout. By 6:45, the parking lot of Cedarville Middle School was jam-packed, and both sides of the street were lined with cars to accommodate the spillover.

The school’s front foyer was a mob scene as student ushers rushed to show the throngs of theatergoers to the auditorium in time for the play to begin on schedule.

One small group, however, kept its distance from the bustling school building. In the darkness of the deserted football field, Savannah, Pitch, Melissa, Ben, and Shank milled around one of the goalposts, waiting for The Man With The Plan to arrive.

Ben was fiddling nervously with the reel of his father’s fishing rod. “It’s not like him to be late. What if the transmitter-thingy messed up? He could be in jail right now.”

“He’s not,” Melissa said quietly. “It worked perfectly when we tested it.”

Shank hefted the canvas bag containing nine of his father’s rodent traps. “He gets five more minutes. Then we start without him.”

Nobody uttered a sound. The only thing worse than being on a plan without Griffin was being anywhere with Sheldon Brickhaus.

In the next moment, Griffin was among them, breathless from running. “Sorry, guys,” he panted. “I had to wait for my folks to leave for the fake meeting.”

He felt guilty about how upbeat Mom and Dad had been. They were so hopeful that his troubles might soon be over. They were going to be devastated when Dalton Davis was a no-show at the diner. His one consolation was the fact that he hadn’t been lying when the e-mail had promised “a break in the case.” If Operation Dirty Rat went well, there’d be no case left to break.

Pitch pointed to the modified cell phone firmly attached to Griffin’s belt. “Is that
it
?” she asked, adjusting the coil of climbing rope she carried over her shoulder.

Griffin nodded. “And it stays with me no matter what. It’s the same deal as the hub in my basement.
If it falls off and I get out of its range, you’ll be visiting me in the slammer.”

The sound of distant applause reached them, along with the majestic opening music of
Hail Caesar
. That meant everyone was in the auditorium. The coast was clear.

The play was on, and so was Operation Dirty Rat.

The team entered the building cautiously. The foyer and halls were deserted, but no one could rule out the chance of a stray wanderer — including Mr. Clancy, Dr. Egan, or Celia White, who was covering the play for the
Herald
. Both Darren Vader and Tony Bartholomew had been spotted in the ticket line. All the suspects were on the scene. Including, Griffin hoped, one very guilty pack rat.

Shank led the group down the corridor, stopping at a small alcove between the two bathrooms. From his bag, he produced a cage trap the size of half a shoe box and placed it against the wall in the corner, underneath a porcelain drinking fountain. The bars were bent and stained with age, and holes in the mesh had been repaired with staples and window screening. It was a piece of junk compared with the brand-new, high-tech Vole-B-Gone, but Griffin didn’t dare use his father’s invention. If
pack rats found the prototype as easy to avoid as voles did, he’d be out of luck.

Shank reached into his pocket, pulled out a crystal spray bottle of perfume, and squeezed four big blasts into the small enclosure.

Instantly, a powerful, sickly sweet floral odor was all around them.

Ben nearly dropped the rod. “What’s that — Eau de Dead Body?”

Shank grinned. “It’s called Rendezvous in Paris.”

Pitch choked. “I feel like I’m drinking a Shirley Temple inside a sewage treatment plant.”

“My mother used it one morning,” Shank explained. “And when my dad got to work, the animals were all over him. Turns out no nuisance wildlife can resist it.”

As if to prove this point, a tiny nose poked out the bottom of Ben’s shirt, sniffing furiously. A second later, Ferret Face burst into the open in a swan dive onto the cage.

Ben scooped up the ferret and stuffed him back under his collar. “Don’t even think about it, pal. You’re not a nuisance — most of the time.”

Savannah removed a glittery ball of aluminum foil from her backpack and placed it inside the
trap. “Because pack rats like shiny things,” she explained.

Shank nodded approvingly. “Let’s set the rest of these traps.”

As the team headed off after Shank, Griffin patted the transmitter on his belt and checked the indicator light on his PEMA anklet. Still green.

So far, so good.

The Bings stepped into the Four Corners diner and looked around. The dining room was crowded, but there was no sign of Dalton Davis.

Mr. Bing sensed his wife’s unease. “He’s probably just stuck in traffic. It’s murder getting out of the city this time of day.” He turned to the hostess. “Table for three, please. We’re meeting someone.”

They sat down, and the waitress brought them two coffees.

“Just what I need,” commented Mrs. Bing with a nervous smile. “Something to make me even more jittery.”

Their eyes never wavered from the front door.

Both cups remained untouched.

The lofty pillars of ancient Rome towered over Logan Kellerman. Well, they weren’t
real
pillars — just background scenery painted on huge art paper and held up by tall wooden frames.

But for a true actor, that was all it took. He was no longer a seventh grader; he was Gaius Julius Caesar, Rome’s greatest general, speaking before the Senate. Dressed in a toga and sandals, he projected to the last seat in the last row of the auditorium.

“The victory of our legions in Gaul has brought greater glory and riches to the Republic …!”

As he delivered the speech, his eyes panned the crowd, settling briefly on Darren Vader in the second row. For some reason, Darren was holding up a file card. Logan squinted to make out the message:
NICE DRESS
.

The insult almost caused Logan to garble the word
maximus
. But he recovered and concentrated on his proud parents in the front row beside Celia White. The newspaper columnist was beaming up at him. She may have been a dangerous lunatic, but at least she appreciated good theater.

A few rows behind her fidgeted Tony, looking nervous and squirming in his chair. Was that because he was up to something?

His eyes traveled to Dr. Egan, who was not in a seat, but standing at the back of the auditorium. Every now and then, he would open the door a crack and peer out into the hall. Looking for latecomers, Logan reasoned. But he hoped Griffin and the team would be careful.

The team placed all nine traps — three on the second floor, three on the main floor, and three in the basement. Then came the hard part — watching and waiting. They broke into pairs. Savannah and Melissa took the upstairs post; Griffin and Shank stayed on the ground level; and Pitch and Ben were sent down the custodians’ steps to the boiler room.

“How come we get stuck with dungeon duty?” Ben whined over the walkie-talkie. “It’s creepy. There could be rats down here.”

“That’s what we’re hoping for,” Griffin told him nervously. “One, anyway — the one with the ring.”

“All clear up top,” Pitch reported. “I mean, it smells like a funeral parlor, but the traps are still empty.”

“You know,” Melissa’s quiet voice came over the small speaker, “when our house had squirrel
problems, it took a few days before the snares caught anything.”

“That’s because her nuisance wildlife guy didn’t know about Rendezvous in Paris,” Shank assured Griffin. “The stuff is the gold standard. Trust me. It won’t be long.”

The time passed nerve-rackingly slowly. Griffin could hear a lot of action coming from the auditorium — a battle scene, maybe. He pictured Logan, in Julius Caesar’s plastic armor, fighting with a toy sword.

Shank found his own way to keep himself entertained. He snatched the transmitter from Griffin’s belt, cocked back his arm, and asked, “Hey, do you think I can chuck this more than two hundred feet?”

Griffin was in full panic. “Are you crazy? If that thing breaks, I’m dead!”

Shank was disgusted. “I don’t know why I hang out with you, Justice,” he said, returning the unit. “Where’s your sense of humor? You’re as much fun as the chicken pox.”

Griffin was about to retort when another sound reached them, different from the play, and closer. Footsteps.

“Radio silence!” he whispered frantically into the walkie-talkie. “Someone’s coming!”

Shank grabbed Griffin and hauled him around the corner into the boys’ room. There they hid, barely daring to breathe, as the rhythmic tapping of leather on terrazzo grew louder and louder. Then they saw him, heading down the main hall to the office.

Mr. Clancy.

His usual work shirt had been replaced by a Colts jersey, matching the colors of his headband. Griffin was turned to stone. Was the custodian all decked out in his team regalia to take his final revenge on the ‘69 Jets? To make some kind of move on the ring, or even get rid of it altogether?

And here we are in the middle of a risky plan to trap the wrong suspect!

The custodian passed by, heading toward the office.

“It’s Clancy,” Griffin breathed into the walkie-talkie.

“I knew it!” hissed Pitch. “Has he got the ring?”

“Not yet,” Griffin whispered.

“What should we
do
?” quavered Melissa’s voice.

Griffin’s eyes met Shank’s in wordless question.

“Sit tight and be ready to move,” the older boy advised. “If we spot the ring on him, we can’t let the guy out of the building.”

It was only a few minutes, but it seemed like hours, before the footsteps returned.

Trembling, Griffin peered out the doorway of the bathroom.

Something small was cradled in the custodian’s hands. Florescent lighting glinted off a shiny surface.

The words were almost out of Griffin’s mouth:
Red alert —

Then he recognized the object — a foil-wrapped candy bar.

He tried to wheeze “False alarm!” into the walkie-talkie, but no sound came out. The enormity of the mistake he’d nearly made threatened to tear him in two. If he hadn’t been leaning against the boys’ room wall, he probably would have collapsed under legs of jelly.

Mr. Clancy walked by once again in the direction of the auditorium. Soon the footsteps faded.

“All clear,” Griffin murmured into the walkie-talkie. He stepped toward the door.

Shank put an iron grip on his shoulder. “Don’t move.”

Heart thumping, Griffin followed Shank’s pointing finger. In the hall outside the bathroom, a small shape was slinking along the baseboard in the direction of the drinking fountain. The light brown creature was small, furry, and round as a baseball.

Behind the body trailed a long rodent tail.