The Academy (6 page)

The man had a pinched face, tightly set blazing blue eyes, a high forehead, and a stubble of short cropped hair, absolutely flat on top. He possessed a look of fierce intensity, his mouth too small to have ever smiled.

Steel stood stone still. A bead of sweat dripped into and stung one eye. He reached up and rubbed it, making it worse, then dragged the sleeve of his school blazer across his face, mopping up.

“Do you happen to know what time it is, Mr. Trapp?” The man’s voice was somewhat hoarse, but not lacking in authority.

“Five of ten, sir,” Steel said.

The man on the bed pointed to a desktop clock radio belonging to Steel’s roommate. 10:55, the display read.

Steel glanced at his watch. “But…”

“Step over here,” the man instructed.

Steel did as he was told.

The man reached out and took Steel by the wrist. As he started to twist Steel’s arm, Steel thought he intended to hurt him—but it was only to get a better look at his wristwatch. Noting the time on Steel’s watch: 9:56, he said, “I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, although it is beyond me how, with the incorrect time on your watch, you could make dinner or classes, and yet fail to meet curfew.” He looked directly at Steel, his eyes like lasers. “Nice try, Mr. Trapp. An
A
for effort. But I wouldn’t try it again.”

Steel knew better than to attempt to talk back to a teacher. He kept his mouth shut, wondering what this guy wanted with him. It should have been his dorm master, Mr. Roare, checking up on curfew. Now that his anxiety had lessened, his memory kicked in and he recalled everything about this man from the
Third Form Handbook, An Introduction to the Wynncliff Faculty
.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “I’m—”

“Walter Hinchman. Forty-seven years old. A graduate of Williams College, with a master’s from Columbia. You teach Fourth Form English Literature, a Fifth Form course called Chaucer and Shakespeare: The Power of Poetry, and Sixth Formers, The Mystery of Myth.”

Hinchman nodded thoughtfully, either impressed or annoyed, Steel wasn’t sure.

“Sit down, Mr. Trapp.” He indicated for Steel to sit across from him on the edge of Verne’s bed.

Steel obeyed, though reluctantly. Verne squirmed and moved over.

“I’ve heard of this remarkable memory of yours,” Walter Hinchman said. “Quite an impressive display, just now, though I think you could put it to better use than showing off.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you heard of ga-ga, Mr. Trapp?”

Steel’s heart fluttered. Was he actually going to get off without punishment? “Well…yes, sir. I have.”

“Ever seen it played?”

“I’ve seen some of the upperclassmen playing, sir. From a distance.”

“Did you know your father played?”

“My dad?”

Hinchman nodded. And to Steel’s surprise, his small mouth did know how to smile. It was a strange smile, as if a line had been cut into a piece of paper; his lips barely parted.

“He was on the Spartan Club championship team, three years running. I played
against
him in the finals. And lost.”

“He’s never mentioned it,” Steel said. The more he learned about his father, the less he felt he knew him.

“Do you know anything about the game?”

“Not much.” Steel knew that club-level ga-ga was considered the elite sport at the school, but he pretended otherwise. He wasn’t sure what Hinchman was getting at.

“It’s a yearlong sport that you play in addition to whatever seasonal sport you’ve signed up for, so it requires excellent grades because of the extra load. You must maintain a B average, a 3.0. It’s played inside during the winter term—we share the wrestling room—and outside in spring and fall. There are four clubs—Corinth, represented by the Minotaur; Sparta, by Medusa; Argos, by Apollo; and Megera, by Poseidon—that compete for school championship. You
never
refer to a club by its symbol, only its ancient city. The winning club then advances to represent the school in an interconference tournament in the spring. Each of the club teams consists of five starters—three boys and two girls—and two substitutes—one boy and one girl. Seven students per team. Twenty-eight students altogether out of a student body of three hundred eighty-five. It is among the highest honors at the school to play club-level ga-ga, and typically ensures the student athlete the offer of a scholarship at one of the Ivy League colleges.

“It’s a game of quick reactions, endurance, teamwork, and mathematics—geometry, to be specific. I see on your test scores that your math, specifically your geometry, is quite good.”

Steel had never had a grade lower than an A+ in any course. Photographic memory went a long way toward preparing for tests and completing homework. He never forgot what he read; never forgot what a teacher said. The other kids considered him ridiculously smart, but he didn’t think of himself that way. It was more magic trick than brains. Sometimes he felt like one of those birds that could speak phrases in English, yet had no idea what it was saying.

“I suppose,” Steel said modestly. He didn’t want his roommate thinking of him as some kind of brainiac nerd, ace student. That was a label certain to ruin any chance of finding decent friends.

“In particular,” Hinchman said, “your memory skills intrigue me. Did you know that athletes, like all humans, are pattern oriented? We tend to do things the same way. Take drying yourself off after a shower. Keep track of it sometime. You tend to do it the same way each time. One person might start with his hair or his face, then shoulders, or the back, or arms—but he’ll do it the same way, the same pattern, nine out of ten times. A man shaving his face—same thing. The order in which we dress, or button a shirt. The direction in which we lick an envelope. A million different patterns that become the behavioral skeleton of who we are. The same is true of athletics. We actually strive, in athletics, to repeat ourselves. To serve a tennis ball the exact same way each time. Or throw a football. Or dribble a soccer ball. We are, in fact,
trained
to repeat ourselves so that our mechanics become flawless, so that we become as efficient as possible.”

“I hadn’t thought of it, exactly,” Steel said. This guy was
weird
.

“Ga-ga is no different, Mr. Trapp. Split-second timing and reactions. Key to the game. Speed, agility, and decision making. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well…maybe a facile memory isn’t everything,” Hinchman said. “I’m inviting you to try out for the team.”

“Me?”

“I coach the Spartans, Mr. Trapp. Three club championships in nine years. We went to state twice. We have not won that honor…yet, but the Spartans have a promising team this year. Much stronger, in my opinion, than the Megerians or Argives. More promising by the minute, I might add.”

“I’m an underclassman,” Steel reminded. “Third Form. I thought—”

“Exceptions can be made.” He stood. “I’m not suggesting you’ll qualify, Mr. Trapp, only that an opportunity is there. It’s only a tryout, after all.”

“But I don’t know anything about ga-ga.”

“I’ve just told you: I coach. Coaches teach, Mr. Trapp. You will meet me in the ga-ga pit at six a.m. each morning for the next week. Tryouts begin the twenty-seventh. Competition will be fierce. It won’t be easy. Might not even be possible. But I’m offering you my services, my experience. And it would be foolish of you to refuse, so I will not offer that option. Athletic shoes, sweats, and long sleeves. Six a.m. tomorrow.” He moved toward the door, where he paused and looked at Steel with his sharp eyes over a severe Roman nose.

“Curfew violations result in any club athlete losing that distinction. He or she is immediately off the team. I’d get my watch fixed, if I were you. Do we understand each other?”

Verne, sitting up in bed, watched the exchange with barely contained excitement, stunned to hear of the invitation for Steel to try out for the Spartans.

“Well,
answer
him!” Verne said, prodding Steel.

Steel’s head was spinning. He’d gone from expecting to be punished for missing curfew to an invitation to try out for a sport he knew nothing about. His voice was too tight to speak, so he simply nodded.

“You’ve made the right decision,” Hinchman said. “Do not be late, Mr. Trapp, or the invitation will be withdrawn.”

Taddler, dressed in stay-pressed khakis, had added a navy blue sweater he kept clean for special missions. He’d combed his hair and brushed his teeth and had spent several minutes wiping off his running shoes to make them as presentable as possible—although their ratty condition was a bit of a giveaway. Johnny, wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked, waited for the signal from a bench across the street. He wore blue jeans and a dark sport coat, looking like a preppie, and prepared to play the part. Both boys carried small two-way radios that fit easily into a pants pocket.

At 6:45 a.m. Taddler approached the hotel entrance on foot, carrying a Health Mart shopping bag.

“Hey, how you doing?” said the doorman.

“Better than my mother,” Taddler said, hoisting the bag.

“You mind if I see your room card?” the doorman asked. If it had been noon, Taddler wouldn’t have been questioned, but the early hour raised some eyebrows. Mrs. D. had been warning them for weeks that the hotels had increased security. How she knew this stuff was unclear, but the boys took her word on it. She was a smart lady, and no one was going to bite the hand that literally fed them.

Taddler flashed him the card and stuffed it into his pants, wanting to appear slightly annoyed at being bothered.

“Thanks,” the doorman said, setting the revolving door spinning.

Taddler stepped into the moving wedge and pushed the door around to the other side, where he was greeted by the soft sound of classical music, the smell of coffee, and a group of friendly faces, from the bellman to two women behind the registration desk. The atmosphere was so far from that of the Corinthians that each time Taddler did one of these missions he felt it had to be some kind of dream. The wealth and privilege of the people in these hotels was otherworldly, as was the general acceptance that this was somehow normal. They seemed so accustomed to it, and he had to wonder what that was like—to live the way the guests did, or even to have a job in a place like this. He wondered if he might ever stay a single night in such a place, and imagined how exceptional a night that would be for him.

With experience as his guide, he headed for the elevators. He rode up four flights to bypass the mezzanine and conference floors. He hung the Health Mart bag on the handle of the service stairs to be temporarily rid of it, and stepped into the hall. He waited, standing on the landing marked Four, waiting for the scuffle of shoes on concrete.

They came from above, and he could tell by the rattle that it was food service—exactly as he wanted. He started up the stairs, and soon saw a woman wearing a uniform on her way down, carrying a spent room-service tray. He purposely took up a little too much space on his side of the stairs. As she slowed to pass him, he spoke loudly.

“The elevators are a nightmare.”

“Tell me about it,” she said.

He gently nudged her, sending the tray off balance.

“Sorry!” he called out. He intentionally overreacted and reached out to stabilize the tray.

The all-access room card was most often carried in the small apron that the women wore. It was a tricky area to access; he had to make sure he kept the pressure away from her body. As his left hand grabbed the tray, his right slipped into the apron’s front pouch and touched the cool plastic. He deftly deposited the card given to him by Mrs. D. and withdrew the card belonging to the waitress. All in less time than it takes a frog’s tongue to catch a fly.

With the tray kept from falling, he apologized again and hurried up the stairs.

He’d needed both hands free to accomplish the switch, which was why he’d left the drugstore bag behind.

What he didn’t know was that a hotel detective had found the bag only minutes after he’d left it, that the detective had called it in, and one of the doormen remembered a kid with a similar bag. As Taddler reached the seventh floor and pulled out the two-way radio, he had no idea that they were already looking for him.

“Johnny?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I’m on Seven.”

“Got it.”

Five minutes later the elevator on Seven opened, and Johnny and Taddler crossed paths, switching places. As they did, without any acknowledgment of the other, their hands barely brushed. The all-access card passed from Taddler to Johnny in a move so practiced, even a cop wouldn’t have spotted it.

Taddler rode the elevator down to the second floor, to the health club.

He avoided the business breakfasts in the private dining rooms and headed straight to the club. He approached the desk to ask a question about services, but his eyes were on the sign-in sheet on a clipboard next to the stack of towels.

R. Ungerman had signed in at 7:07.

Taddler reached into his pocket and pushed the radio’s call button twice, sending two clicks and signaling Johnny that the room was empty.

Then Taddler explained that his mother was wondering if they offered something called a Chinese Oil Massage.

The woman smiled and handed him a price sheet.

He thanked the woman and left; mission accomplished. Any minute, Johnny would be on his way inside.

Grover Cleveland IV, a direct descendant of the U.S. President, and currently director of security for the Haymarket Hotel, had the habit of pinching his chin and rubbing his goatee when something interested or annoyed him. His employees knew better than to interrupt him when they saw the gesture coming, as they did now. Due to his ancestry, Cleveland held an overinflated opinion of himself. Being a hotel detective was not exactly the same as being president of the United States, but don’t tell Grover Cleveland IV that.

Two weeks earlier, he and every other hotel director of security in the city had been notified of a ring of petty thieves operating in area hotels. Sometimes money was taken; other times information. It seemed to be highly organized and possibly involved teen youth. The Organized Crime Bureau in the Boston Police Department had assigned Detective Mark Ulrich to the investigation. Ulrich was to be notified if anyone had information.

Grover Cleveland picked up the phone and then hung up before speaking. He stroked his goatee, his beady eyes dancing side to side. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself with the Boston police; on the contrary, he hoped to impress them.

The mention of the suspicious shopping bag, and the doorman connecting it to a male youth entering the building, raised the hackles on the back of Cleveland’s hairy neck. He directed Howard Lightfoot to use security camera footage to identify the boy who had entered the hotel, and then “follow” him by moving from one camera to the next.

The trouble with the plan was that it proved too time consuming. It took Lightfoot five minutes to find the images of the boy entering the hotel, and another two minutes to pick up sight of him in the lobby. Too long.

“Keep working on it,” Cleveland said, thoughts grinding like gears in his tired head. He’d stayed up late the night before watching a DVD of
24
, and all the coffee in the world couldn’t help him right now.

“If I could make a suggestion,” Lightfoot said from his chair in front of the video control board. He was a big man with pitch-black hair and angular features.

“Go ahead,” Cleveland said.

“I can bring up all the hallway views on monitors two through six. Rotate through them in five-second intervals.” He did this as he spoke. Images of the hallways appeared. “If there are any kids—teenage boys—walking around, we’ll identify them.” He took a deep breath and waited for Cleveland to either explode or claim that this was his intention all along: both of which Cleveland was known to do. Cleveland only stroked his chin, which Lightfoot took as a good sign. “If we were then to post Kreutz in the lobby, and you were to take the arcade exit…” Another pause. “I don’t think anyone could
leave
the hotel without our knowledge. Not unless they used one of the service exits, loading docks, or the kitchen access. They’d have to know their stuff to use any of those.”

“There are twelve ground-floor exits to the hotel,” Cleveland reminded him. “Sixteen fire escapes and five garage levels. We have only the three of us at the moment: you, me, and Kreutz.”

Again he reached for his phone. But again he decided against calling the police. It would be too embarrassing if it proved to be for nothing.

Lightfoot had forgotten about the garage levels. He wasn’t sure what to say.

“What I would suggest,” Cleveland said, “is that you monitor the video. Assign Kreutz to the lobby. I’ll take the arcade entrance.” He made it sound like he’d just thought of this all by himself. “We’ll stop any teenage boy and make sure we connect him to a reservation and an adult.” He paused. “What do you think about that plan, Lightfoot?”

Howard Lightfoot rolled his eyes. It was a good thing he was facing the bank of computer screens and not his boss.

Cleveland puffed out his chest imperially and charged out of the small basement office like the military commander he wished he was.

Johnny used the room-service key card to gain entrance to 1426. He didn’t knock. If it turned out someone was in the room, he would look confused and mumble something like, “How come the stupid key worked?” and then leave as quickly as he’d come. He had a real gift when it came to lying.

No one was in the room: Taddler had done everything right.

Johnny moved quickly to the other side of a handsome desk. There was a leather briefcase on the floor. He opened it and concentrated as he flipped through the contents, needing to remember the exact order he found things in. He used the notepad by the phone, writing down the sequence of what he discovered: a
Time
magazine, a printout of an Internet map page, two Netflix DVDs, and a manila folder.

Inside the manila folder he found the letters Mrs. D. had mentioned. He jumped up and fed the letters one by one into the printer/fax/copier. Before he pressed the
START
button, he counted the number of blank sheets of paper in the feeder:
seven
.

He counted eleven letters to copy.

He slipped out an oversized mailer from where it was tucked into his back beneath his shirt, and counted out eleven sheets of blank paper and fed them into the feeder.

He hit
START
.

The copier was incredibly slow. Each sheet took five or ten seconds. It seemed an eternity.

His radio clicked three times.
Pause
. Three more clicks.

He was to talk if able.

“Yeah?” he spoke into the radio.

“I’m looking down from the mezzanine into the lobby. Looks like they maybe put a guy on the door.”

“No way.” Johnny leaned over the printer/copier, wondering how it could take so long. There were still six letters to go.

“We could try the entrance to the shops, but I gotta think we have problems.” Taddler was holding the radio like a cell phone, and he had the volume turned way down so that only he could hear, but he still felt as if he stuck out, being the only kid for a million miles. “I’m not sure what to do,” he admitted.

Five letters to go
. The machine was taking forever.

“You there?” Taddler asked.

“Yeah,” Johnny answered. “This thing is pathetically slow. I can’t believe it.”

“I think you should abort.”

“I’m so close.”

“Yeah, but…I still think—”

“Okay. I’m almost done,” Johnny replied, his transmission interrupting Taddler’s.

In the basement security office, Howard Lightfoot caught something out of the corner of his eye. It was not easy watching four monitors that covered seventeen floors, each image changing in five-second intervals. He froze all the images and then reversed the playback on screen four.

A kid entered the frame, walked to a room, and entered.

Lightfoot counted the doors.

“1425 or 26,” he spoke into the hotel radio. “A kid entered. A boy.”

“I’m on my way,” Cleveland replied. “Stay with him, Howard. Monitor his every move.”

“I’m on him,” Lightfoot answered. He kept the other screens on PAUSE, the one screen now the center of his attention.

Taddler saw the man he believed to be a house detective move toward the bank of elevators, his finger pressed to his ear.

Taddler hurried down the escalator and then controlled his urge to run, and instead moved calmly toward the revolving door while only yards from the house detective, whose face was presently turned away from him.

It looked as if the guy had heard something over the radio, and had moved toward the elevators as a result.

Taddler hoped that didn’t involve Johnny.

“Hey!” he heard a voice from behind.

The house detective.

Taddler took off running.

“Stop!” the man shouted.

Taddler hit the revolving door and pushed hard, the big doors easing forward. Reaching the other side, he turned to see the man coming toward him at a full run.

There was no way he was going to outrun this guy.

He looked down. A big pink concrete urn held a small evergreen tree. He leaned his weight into it, raised it up on its edge, and was able to rotate it so that it wheeled toward the revolving door. He moved it into the path of the door by a good six inches, then turned and ran.