The Mapmaker and the Ghost (8 page)

He smirked as he thought of the impressive collection of sock fuzz that he had picked from in between his toes and that was just waiting to be discovered in his top dresser drawer. He had really had to scramble to come up with a hobby worthy of the Gross-Out Gang, but he was pretty proud of his final choice, after ruling out things like trying
to grow his nose hair (which would take way too long) or eating gas-inducing beans for every meal (which were vegetables and, therefore, inherently wrong). The maid had probably gotten rid of his toe jam collection by now, but he could always restock when he got back home.

Toe Jam had spent all of his considerable January and February allowance to bribe Toulouse into telling his parents that he was spending yet another summer at sleepaway camp. Instead he was happily hidden away here, in a forest not five miles from his mansion. He couldn't help but suspect that his parents were also more than a little pleased to have a break from the one thing in their lives that was the hardest to keep clean.

Meanwhile, he was having the summer of his life. For the first time, he felt like he belonged somewhere his parents hadn't paid to get him into. Well, at least they didn't know they had paid, Toe Jam thought as he looked at the slightly dulled coin. The other kids should be pretty impressed by this. Maybe even Snotshot.

He could feel his cheeks flush a little as he thought about her and was glad no one was around to see it, even though the dirt on his face probably concealed it anyway. The thing was, he didn't really
like
like Snotshot or anything. It was just that he thought she could be kinda cool and was maybe a little pretty. When she wasn't shooting boogers at people, of course.

Then again, Toe Jam smiled a little to himself, if he had to be perfectly honest, that was probably one of the coolest things about her.

The cavern was surprisingly large, Birch thought, as he continued to walk in between Brains and Lint. They had made their way down the “stairs” and were now in an extremely long underground hallway. The stone walls were pockmarked and slightly slanted, making it obvious that the structure was a hundred percent naturally made.

Birch was trying to keep his mind occupied to distract it from the sheer panic that was itching to spring up. He was observing his surroundings very carefully and was surprised to walk by a pile of unmade sheets and pillows. The makeshift bed, he noted, was inside one of a few little “rooms” he was passing, and each one of them seemed to be filled with belongings, like clothes and backpacks. One was even painted a pale shade of slime green. Another had faded posters on the walls.

There were little hallways everywhere. Birch thought they could have been escape routes, but then he realized that he had absolutely no idea where those escape routes would lead. They could land him in an even bigger pickle than the one he was already in, so he immediately forced his mind to change the subject. Since it had already wandered
to the subject of pickles, he started to concoct sandwich combinations in his head.

He was just about to put the top slice of toast on his imaginary sausage, Swiss, pickle, and barbecue-sauce sandwich when Brains grunted, “We're here.”

“Here” was another small room off of the main hallway. This one was bare except for some scattered rocks and a flashlight taped to the wall, which Brains switched on.

Brains pointed at the floor. “Sit down. You're going to stay here. Quietly. Got it?”

Birch nodded and slowly lowered himself.

“Hold on,” Brains said and walked out of the room. A few moments later, he was back with a small pillow. “Here. The ground's hard.”

“Thanks,” Birch said softly and repositioned himself so that he was sitting on the pillow. The ground was warm and he could hear a very faint gurgling sound coming from underneath it, almost like running water.

Brains then turned to Lint. “You are not to leave that front door. Got it? Not if you get hungry, tired, bored, I don't care. You don't leave until someone comes down to take over.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lint said glumly. “How come I get all the cruddy jobs?”

“Guarding this kid's about the most important job we've got right now. Spitbubble should be here soon.”

Brains started up the corridor, and Lint stationed himself in front of the entryway, sitting so that his huge frame took up almost the entire opening. With his back to Birch, he immediately reached into his pocket and took out a pouch. From the pouch, he removed what looked like a large, fuzzy ball. Then, he pushed up his T-shirt and started to poke around in his navel. Birch watched as Lint's hand finally emerged, holding a surprisingly large collection of belly button lint. With his other hand, Lint reached his pinkie into his ear and gave the finger two and a half strong rotations. The finger resurfaced with a thick glob of earwax. More delicately than Birch had seen him do anything else, Lint proceeded to use the earwax to add the new specimens to his ball.

“No-Bone, I need you to go back to the science museum one more time.” Brains's voice suddenly came booming out of the very walls.

Birch was startled. The voice was definitely coming from upstairs, but the acoustics of the cavern worked in such a way as to make it sound like a PA system was broadcasting right into his little cell.

“But I already stole the keycard,” he heard No-Bone say.

“I know. And good work. But I need you to finish this camera diagram. I'm pretty sure we're covered, but I want to be absolutely positive there won't be any surprises tomorrow.”

There was the sound of rustling paper.

Birch glanced quickly over at Lint, who was still lovingly attending to his lint ball. He didn't seem to be at all alarmed by the voices, or how clearly Birch could make out every word.

“You have to go,” Snotshot said sarcastically, “because Lint wasn't able to do his only job today correctly. Shocking, I know.”

At this, Lint jerked his head up and looked toward the staircase. Birch could see an angry grimace on his face. But, moments later, he shook his head. Almost absent-mindedly, he picked up one of the rather large pieces of rock strewn about, and started to do bicep curls with his left arm, while continuing to roll the ball around with his right.

“It won't take long,” Brains said.

“Okay, fine. I need to do a little shopping anyway,” No-Bone said.

“In case your plan doesn't work, Brains,” Snotshot started, “I'm going to think of some ways to distract the guard once we're in.”

“My plan will work,” Brains said coolly.

“Yeah, sure,” Snotshot said. “Still, just in case, I've thought of some good scenarios I can act out if we need to. You know, lost and scared little girl, dumb and confused little girl, that sort of thing. I'm good at improvising.”

“Improvising?” No-Bone asked.

“Yes. I used to be in the school plays, you know.”

“When were you ever in school enough to rehearse plays?” came No-Bone's amused drawl.

“Shut up!”

Birch heard a loud thud that reverberated down the wall and into his whole back. Snotshot must pack a pretty mean punch.

“Ow! You're crazy!” came No-Bone's muffled reply.

Lint didn't look particularly perturbed. He merely switched the arm doing the bicep curls.

From upstairs, Birch heard approaching footsteps and a different voice say, “I'm back.” It was the kid with the curly hair and monkey shirt.

“And I'm leaving,” No-Bone said as the sound of diminishing footsteps came through.

“What did you get, Toe Jam?” asked Brains.

There was silence for a bit. “Great. That should be worth a lot,” Brains said.

“Toulouse claims it's been in my family for two hundred years,” Toe Jam said.

“Way to get back at the 'rents,” Snotshot's snarky voice came through.

“Like they'll notice. They haven't noticed anything else yet.”

“That's an astounding amount of neglect. You must be proud,” Snotshot said.

“Well, anyway, Spitbubble will be happy. He'll probably bring it in to Barnes later,” Brains said.

“Talking about me? Behind my back?” came a new voice, this one much deeper than anyone else's. The voice rolled around its consonants like heavy boulders, slowly and with great power.

“Spitbubble…,” Brains said quickly. Birch thought he could detect a tiny note of anxiety in his voice. “Look what Toe Jam got today.”

Spitbubble waited a few moments before answering, letting the silence crackle with anticipation. “Nice,” he finally said. “I'll work on this. Everything set for tomorrow?”

“All set, Spitbubble,” came Snotshot's reply.

“Good,” the voice thundered.

There was a pause. Finally Brains spoke. “Um, we do have a little … situation.”

“Situation?”

“Yes, we caught an intruder today.”

Oh no
, Birch thought.
This is not good. Not good.

“An intruder in the cavern?” Spitbubble asked.

“No, in the woods,” Brains said.

“But we think he may have heard part of tomorrow's plan. That's why
I
suggested we bring him here and let you decide what to do with him,” Snotshot interjected.

“I see.”

There was another moment of silence.

“Well, take me to him then,” came Spitbubble's voice.

Birch heard a large shuffle and then the absolutely terrifying sound of a few pairs of sneakers moving down the long hallway that would eventually lead to his pounding heart.

The leading footsteps were slow and deliberate, as if they had all the time in the world. With every one, Birch felt his inner terror meter level up. He clenched his eyes shut, wishing that the peanut butter concoction from that morning had been real and that, instead of being about to meet the supervillain he was sure would destroy him, he was safe in his bed with a severe stomachache. If only adults had told him the truth about why he should never lie, about the terrifying groups of kids that lived in the forest just waiting to kidnap you should you ever put a toe out of line.

Though his eyes were closed, Birch could feel his lids darken as a shadow blocked out the light coming from the stairs. This was it.

There was only one thing Birch could do, and that was
to not cry. Goldenrod wouldn't cry and neither should he—no matter what they did to him.

He peeled open his lids, blinking as he laid eyes on the boy for the first time.

He
was
a boy, although clearly older than the rest of the kids. He was extremely skinny, so much so that even his shadow was only a sliver on the ground of Birch's cell. He was tall, too, and the shadow seemed to creep up the walls to the ceiling. The flashlight behind Birch's head illuminated his face, and Birch could make out messy jet-black hair atop a scrawny face with a pointed nose and patchy stubble. His eyes were as black as his hair.

“Leave us,” the deep voice said, seeming to come from somewhere beyond the large Adam's apple jutting out of the boy's bony neck.

Birch saw Lint step away from the door and heard his and the others' footsteps as they climbed back up the stairs.

The boy leaned against the doorway and folded his arms. He smiled at Birch, clearly cherishing his ability to stir up fear.

“So,” the boy finally said. “My friends tell me you've been spying.”

Birch gulped. He opened his mouth to speak but then, worried that talking would only cause a flood of tears, shut his mouth again and resorted to shaking his head.

“Oh, so you weren't spying?”
Birch shook his head again.

“Then what exactly were you doing in the middle of my forest?” Spitbubble's voice was extremely level. If Birch had just heard it under normal circumstances, he probably would have thought it to be the smooth sounds of a TV announcer, the one that told him batteries weren't included.

“Well?” Spitbubble said again, this time cocking his head and fixating his coal-black glare straight into Birch's eyes.