The Ghostwriter Secret (14 page)

“What do we do?” Dana shouted. The fire was loud. Who knew fires were so loud? “The fire's between us and the door!”

“I don't know!”

“What does the handbook say?”

Steve pulled out the handbook and looked up “fire” in the index, then went to page 122. “‘Stop, drop, and roll!'” Steve read out loud.

“That's what you do if you're
on
fire!” Dana screamed.

“Well, that's all it says!” Steve stashed the handbook back in his backpack.

The whole room was heating up fast, and smoke rushed in. Steve took off his sweatshirt and put it over his face. He had never been this hot in his life. His skin stung, ten times worse than the sunburn he'd gotten at the beach last August. The wall the boys were leaning against was radiating heat. Keeping low and staying close to each other, Steve and Dana crawled to the middle of the office. It was getting hard to see. The beam of Steve's flashlight
only traveled a few feet before getting lost in a cloud of smoke.

Down on the floor there was a sound like gunshots popping off.

Through the haze Steve saw that things in Antrim's office had begun to catch fire. Over to his right, blue arcs of electricity jumped and danced. The air was hot and thick and tasted like plastic. Steve couldn't see a thing. His flashlight was now useless. He reached out in the dark with his left hand and felt Dana's arm. He grabbed it tight.

“We're trapped!” Dana said.

Steve was disoriented. Lost. He didn't know which way they had come from. He just lay there, breathing into his shirt. He couldn't give up. He could not give up. But what could he do?

Sirens. Sirens getting closer. For the first time all week Steve was glad to hear sirens.

Would the firemen be able to find them? Would they even be looking for kids in an old warehouse?

There was a glimmer of light off to Steve's left. It got stronger. Lots of lights, flashing, like strobes.

“The window!” Steve shouted as loud as he could, but now he couldn't even hear himself. The fire was just too loud. Things were falling and cracking and breaking and roaring.

He pulled on Dana's arm and put Dana's hand on his back. Dana grabbed Steve's shirt. Steve got up on his hands and knees and started crawling toward the flashing lights. Dana followed. They got to Antrim's desk and crawled around it to the window. The world outside seemed like a blur of bright lights, red trucks, and snarled hoses. Steve stood up. It was a lot hotter on his feet. He groped around in the dark for something heavy.

There. He felt it. Something wooden. Antrim's chair. Steve picked it up and hurled it mightily at the window. There was the sound of shattering glass and a blast of cool air. The smoke poured outward. Steve saw Dana a few feet to his right. He reached out.

The decision to jump out a window had never been easier.

Blindly, hand in hand, they leapt.

They fell down hard on a fireman who was trying to knock down the back door.

Steve, Dana, and the fireman all tumbled to the ground.

“Y
OU BOYS ARE IN A LOT OF TROUBLE,”
said Detective Taylor.

She was sitting in a chair in Steve and Dana's hospital room. It was morning, and the room was bright and sunny. A mural stretched around the walls showing a train being driven by Mickey Mouse, except you could tell the mural was not officially sanctioned by Disney, because certain features on Mickey's face were slightly off: His coloring was too orange, and his snout was a little long. Plus Bugs Bunny (who for some reason was yellow) was riding in the caboose. Mickey and Bugs only got together in these weird hand-done
paintings you found in pediatric wards and dentists' offices. Impostor cartoon murals always made Steve vaguely uneasy.

Steve and Dana sat straight up in bed. Until Detective Taylor walked in, they had been watching TV. They felt fine, although they both smelled like smoke. Last night they'd been taken to the hospital for monitoring, and the nurse had told them this morning they were ready to go.

“Do you two want to tell me what you were doing at that warehouse last night?” Detective Taylor asked.

“That was the B. Syndicate headquarters!”

“I know that now,” said Detective Taylor. “And the B. Syndicate is a book-writing collective. Not a criminal gang.”

“So they say,” said Steve.

“And I don't know why I did this, but I looked up MacArthur Bart. No one with that name is currently living in the United States. It's a pen name. And apparently a lot of people already know this. A couple of guys around the station were big Bailey Brothers fans, and they all remembered where they were when they first found out that MacArthur Bart didn't exist.”

“Don't you think it's a pretty big coincidence—”

“I think it's a pretty big coincidence that a building
you guys broke into last night caught on fire.”

“Exactly!” said Steve.

Detective Taylor just looked at them.

“Wait,” said Steve. “You don't think …”

“That we …,” said Dana.

“Arson?” said Detective Taylor. “It was the first thing that crossed my mind. But it looks like it was caused by an electrical short. I guess the lesson there is that sometimes a coincidence is really just a coincidence.”

Steve was about to tell her about the conversation they'd overheard before the fire started, but he thought better of it. No need to complicate things. Detective Taylor would never believe them. They just needed to get out of there and finish the case. The manuscript for the new Bailey Brothers book would have been destroyed in the fire. The Syndicate's headquarters was in ashes. There was a lot of sleuthing to be done.

The police detective looked at the boys for a few seconds and then said, “Of course, you two were trespassing.”

Dana groaned.

“But I talked to a Mr. Antrim, and he doesn't want to press charges.”

Steve was relieved, but suspicious.

“And I called your parents—”

“How'd you find their number?” Steve asked.

“I called the number on your business card.” Detective Taylor said.

“See,
I
need
my
own phone line,” Steve said to Dana.

Dana nodded.

“Your parents are very upset,” Detective Taylor continued, “Apparently you two were supposed to be in San Diego, at a debate tournament?”

Steve and Dana didn't say anything.

“Steve, your dad is here to see you.”

Steve was confused. “My dad?”

A grinning man in a tan uniform stepped into the doorway.

Great. It was Rick.

“Well, if it isn't the debate champions.”

“Rick's not my dad,” said Steve.

“You boys are in a lot of trouble,” said Rick.

“We heard.”

“Your parents are none too pleased. None too pleased at all. They sent me to take you home.”

“Why did they send you, Rick?” asked Steve.

“Well, I offered. See, there are a couple things I'd like to talk to you boys about, and I thought a long drive might be a good opportunity to get some
answers. So once we heard that you were okay, your parents decided to entrust you to a responsible officer of the law.”

Rick smiled.

“Me,” he said.

Detective Taylor seemed less than impressed.

“I can't believe you thought he was my dad,” said Steve.

“Let's go, boys,” said Rick. “We need to talk.”

T
HE THREE OF THEM SAT
shoulder to shoulder in the front of Rick's truck, driving through the streets of San Francisco. Dana, a true chum, sat in the middle. Both boys were morose about their investigation's abrupt ending.

“You guys smell like a campfire,” Rick said.

“Yeah, the nurse said that will last for about a week,” Dana replied.

“Oh,” said Rick, rolling down a window.

“So, while you guys were supposed to be in San Diego,” Rick said after a long silence, “some weird stuff happened at the Sea Spray Waterfront Hotel.”

Dana got tense.

“Oh, yeah,” said Steve. “I heard that place is pretty nice. What's been going on?”

“You heard it's pretty ni—hey, that's good, Steve. Well, let's see. There was a huge shoot-out by the pool.”

“Crazy,” said Steve.

“Really wild,” said Dana.

“You know, Rick,” said Steve, “feel free to tell me about this stuff if you want my professional advice, but I really can't solve all your cases for you.”

“I'm not … You're just … Look, the hotel manager reports two kids acting suspicious at the front desk right before the shoot-out happened. One blond, one with brown hair.”

“Hmm,” said Steve. “Maybe they're kids in our school?”

“Nate Rangle has brown hair,” Dana said.

Rick's grip on the steering wheel tightened. “And the day before, a kid was hanging around the hotel.”

“So?”

“A kid detective.”

“Could be any kid detective.”

“The clerk thinks his name was Steve.”

“Oh,” said Steve.

“But you've never been to the Sea Spray Waterfront
Hotel,” said Rick, “so it's probably some other amateur sleuth named Steve.”

“I'm not really an amateur, Rick. And, yes, maybe I have been by the hotel.”

“Why?” said Rick sharply, taking his eyes off the road to look at Steve for a second.

“Confidential,” said Steve.

“Why don't you just tell me what's going on, Steve? I can help you.”

“Like on my last case?” Steve said. “When you arrested me?”

“I didn't arrest you.”

“You would have, if I hadn't stolen your police car.”

Dana snorted.

“Look, Steve,” said Rick. “I'm sorry I tried to arrest you. I made a mistake. But we need to trust each other now. I can help you.”

Steve was silent. Rick pulled over to the curb in front of Ghirardelli Square.

“The curb's red, Rick,” said Steve.

“It's all right. I'm a cop.”

Steve rolled his eyes.

“You guys stay in the car,” Rick said. “I'm going to run in and grab some chocolate for your mom. She loves this stuff. It'll put her in a better mood.”

Rick hopped out of the truck, paused, and turned
back to Steve. “Does she like milk chocolate or dark?”

“Isn't that your job, Rick?”

She liked milk chocolate.

Rick shook his head. “Hey, I'm trying to help you out here, man.”

Just as Rick was closing the door, Dana said, “Hey, Rick, will you leave us your keys so we can listen to the radio?”

Rick hesitated for a moment.

“Rick,” said Steve, “I'm sorry I stole your police car. I was wrong. We need to trust each other.”

Rick squinted at Steve, then nodded slowly.

“Please let us listen to the radio so we're not bored out of our minds.”

Rick smiled. “All right, Steve. Yeah. We can trust each other.”

“When Mom hears that, she'll really be in a good mood.”

Rick laughed. He tossed Dana the keys.

“Now, when I come back,” said Rick, “let's the three of us have a talk, as friends.” He shut the door. Dana put Rick's keys in the ignition and turned them to power the radio.

“You're listening to 103.1, the Wave, smooth jazz on the California coast,” said a velvety voice. Then
some guy started playing clarinet, accompanied by a tinny keyboard.

“This music sucks,” said Dana.

“Seriously,” said Steve. The thing was, smooth jazz wasn't jazz. It wasn't really even that smooth.

Dana flipped through stations while Steve played with the button that controlled the windows. Something caught his attention in the rearview mirror. He turned around to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.

“Dana,” said Steve. “It's the doorman!”

Dana whipped around and looked out of the truck's back window. Sure enough, the doorman was walking out of a mini-mart, carrying a bag of groceries. He was wearing tan slacks and a turquoise sweater.

“He's dressed like a ghostwriter!”

The ghostwriter loaded the bag into the trunk of his car.

“Where's he going with those groceries?” Dana asked.

“Let's find out,” said Steve.

Steve climbed over Dana and took a seat behind the wheel.

He turned the key in the ignition.

Rick's truck started up.

“O
KAY,” SAID
S
TEVE
. “You get on the floor and press the gas and brake pedals when I tell you.”

“Wait, why?”

“Because I can't work the pedals and see the road at the same time.”

“Yeah, but why do I have to be the one on the floor?”

“Because I already know how to drive.”

Dana sighed and slipped down to the floor. Steve kneeled on the driver's seat, found the gearshift, and put the truck in reverse.

“Gas!” said Steve.

The car jumped backward.

“Brake!” said Steve. “Gently!”

He couldn't really make out Dana's reply.

The ghostwriter drove past them in the opposite direction.

Steve turned the wheel hard to the left and shifted into drive. “Gas!” he shouted.

The truck leapt into the street and made a hard U-turn. Oncoming traffic slammed to a halt. Horns blared.

“Brake!”

“Gas!”

“Gas!”

Steve worked the wheel and got the car moving in the right lane.

“How's it going down there?”

“It's gross. There are lots of jelly beans, and they're covered in lint.”

“Well, you're doing an ace job.”

“Thanks.”