Ben shut his laptop. He rummaged around in his desk drawer until he found a clear plastic sleeve, a baseball card protector. He flexed it open and slipped the tiny message inside. Safe and sound. Preserved. An artifact.
They would have to catch up with Abigail later.
It was time to deal with first things first.
CHAPTER 10
Copper Beech
Ben blinked a few times, not sure where he was. He noticed a kind of chemical odor. Then he realized that the side of his face was jammed flat against his social studies book, and what he smelled was ink and shiny paper. He blinked again and noticed the digital clock over by his bed—9:23. He’d left two chapters of reading as the last thing to do tonight—a mistake.
He peeled his face off the page, yawned, and leaned back in his chair, gradually focusing his eyes. He saw the window on the slanted ceiling of his room, then the night sky beyond it. The moon was bright, not quite full, with clouds slipping past from east to west—a brisk onshore breeze.
He stood up on his desk chair and pushed the window open a few inches, then stretched up higher so he could get his nose close to the crack. He pulled in a deep breath of the cool night air. The ocean was almost half a mile east, but when the wind was right, the whole neighborhood smelled like the beach.
As he took a second breath, his cell phone rang. He reached into his pocket and nearly lost his balance. Catching the back of his desk chair just in time, he stepped down, then dropped backward onto his bed. He flipped the phone open and glanced at the screen—Jill.
Maybe she’d found out something about a lawyer.
“Hey,” he said.
No response. Ben sat straight up on his bed, took another quick look at the screen. The connection seemed fine.
“Jill? You there? Hello?”
“Can’t talk,” she whispered.
“What’s going on?” Ben heard rustling noises. He strained, trying to hear more . . . nothing. “Are you okay?”
She whispered, “I’m at the big copper beech on the south lawn of the school. Bring your Swiss Army knife. Also Band-Aids.”
The line went dead.
Ben jumped to his feet, heart pounding, instantly wide awake. He grabbed the small flashlight from his backpack, then found his Swiss Army knife in his desk drawer and stuffed it in his pocket. He rushed down the attic stairs and heard water running into the tub of the second-floor bathroom.
“Mom?” he called through the door.
The water stopped. “What, honey?”
“I’m gonna take Nelson out for a run around the block.”
Ben pictured her frowning .
“I think it’s pretty late, isn’t it?”
“It’s not even ten yet,” he said, then quickly added, “Besides, nobody messes with a person who’s got a dog. I need the exercise—too much sitting still today. I’ll be fine.”
“All right,” she said, “but be careful.”
“Always am,” he said, and then shot down the front hall stairs two at a time.
The first-aid stuff was in the wall cabinet of the powder room off the kitchen. He grabbed a handful of Band-Aids, the largest ones.
He got the leash off the table by the front door and gave a short whistle. “Here, Nelson—out!”
The corgi’s little legs churned and skittered all over the hardwood floor, and he yipped and danced as Ben fastened the leash.
“Back in a few,” he hollered up the stairs. The water was running again.
Ben took off running east along Walnut Street, and Nelson’s claws clicked away on the sidewalk beside him. The clouds had blotted out the moon, so he used the flashlight to be sure of his footing between the streetlamps.
As he ran, he tried not to worry about Jill, but he couldn’t help it. Why was she in the school yard this late? And why did she want him to bring his knife? Asking for Band-Aids—that had to mean she’d gotten hurt . . . but how? And why hadn’t she been able to talk to him?
He crossed School Street, and at the gate to the school property, he ignored the sign that said NO DOGS ALLOWED. The pathway through the parkland was lit by lampposts every hundred feet or so, but he didn’t want to be seen. He flipped off his flashlight and steered to the right. He also slowed to a walk, trying to get his breathing under control, trying not to feel panicked, and trying not to run into any trees or granite park benches.
He knew exactly which tree Jill meant. The big copper beech was more than a hundred and fifty years old, and it towered above a grove of oaks and maples in the area directly south of the school. Its smooth gray bark always reminded Ben of the giant World War II battleship he and his dad had toured on a visit to Fall River. The trunk of the copper beech was almost twenty feet around, with a huge rack of branches that started close to the ground—perfect for climbing. Anyone brave enough to keep going higher got an incredible view of the bay and the coastline.
Looking up, Ben could see the faint edges of the tree’s canopy outlined against the clouds. He shortened Nelson’s leash and moved ahead slowly. When he reached the trunk, he started around it toward his left.
“Jill?” he whispered.
Halfway around he whispered again. “Ji—”
He stumbled on something and nearly fell to the ground, then stepped on something else and went down in a heap, making a huge racket. Nelson let out a yelp.
“Shhh! Stay there,” Jill whispered. “I’m coming down.”
Ben rubbed his knee, and moments later he heard Jill drop to the ground from a branch on the other side of the tree. “Are you all right?” she whispered.
“Yeah, I’m good. And . . . you’re okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“’Cause I brought some Band-Aids.”
“Good. But first you have to help me toss this stuff into the bay.”
“What stuff?”
“The stakes,” she said. “You tripped on them.”
“What!”
“Shhh!”
Ben fumbled for his flashlight, shielded half the lens, and clicked it on. The dim light showed he was next to a huge heap of stakes, their pointed ends still covered with moist earth.
For the past week Ben and Jill had watched teams of surveyors carefully laying out the new theme park on the school property, marking where the gates and parking lots would be, where the foundations for the new buildings and the rides would be dug, and spraying big red Xs on all the trees that were in the way. Dozens of the ribboned stakes bristled on the school grounds, each carefully placed by men and women wearing hard hats, each driven into the ground with a hammer.
“Are you nuts?” he hissed. “You could go to jail for this!”
“Not if I don’t get caught. Are you going to help me or not?”
“Help you do what?”
“Throw these into the water.”
“That’s pollution!”
“Do you have a better idea? Besides, they’re just wood—they’ll sink pretty soon, or get washed up on some beach. C’mon.”
She bent down and began loading her arms with the four-foot-long stakes. Ben felt like he had to help. He took one of the stakes, pushed it into the ground, and looped Nelson’s leash around it.
“Stay.” The corgi lay down and yawned.
Ben and Jill each picked up ten or twelve stakes and headed toward the water. The last fifty feet or so were the most dangerous, because the trees thinned out and the harbor walk was lit by lampposts—but that also made it easy to scan both directions. When it was all clear, they both sprinted to the seawall, tossed the stakes into Barclay Bay, then ran back into the darkness.
It took three trips like that, and on the third one Nelson ran with them so that every last stake was thrown into the bay. The light swell from the onshore breeze had kept most of the sticks close to the seawall, and they made a soggy clicking sound as they hit against one another. Ben knew that when the tide turned in an hour or so, they’d all be pulled out to sea.
Back at the big tree
, Jill said, “Now I need those Band-Aids. But first the Swiss Army knife. Can I hold the flashlight?”
Covering most of the brightness with her left hand, she aimed a tiny spot of light onto her right palm.
Ben gasped. It was red and raw, and the reason was obvious. Jill had yanked up each of those stakes with her bare hands.
“See the slivers?” she said.
“Yeah, I see ’em.” Ben felt slightly sick, but he wasn’t going to let Jill know that. He pulled the tweezers from their place in the red handle of his knife. “This is gonna hurt. . . .”
Ben held Jill’s hand tightly and began poking around for the first splinter. He felt her tense up when he hit it. “Sorry.”
She took a deep breath and held it. Ben got a good grip with the tweezers and yanked it out—about half an inch of jagged oak. The hole in her hand began bleeding right away, and Ben remembered that that was good—it helped clean the cut. But the sight of the blood made him feel even woozier.
Jill let her breath out. “Good,” she said. “See that one? There, near my pinkie.”
“Yeah—got it.”
The second and third slivers were much smaller, so there was more digging around. Jill flinched, but she didn’t make a sound. Ben was impressed, but he wasn’t surprised. Nothing about this girl would ever surprise him again.
“Is that it?” he asked.
“Think so—thanks. Do you have those Band-Aids?”
“Sure.”
Ben gently smoothed on three of them, edge to edge, which completely covered her palm. Her hand seemed so small compared to his.
As he finished, she handed him his flashlight and asked, “How did you get out of the house?”
“Walking the dog. But my mom’ll probably call any second. How about you?”
“Just sneaked out. My mom and dad were . . . downstairs. And . . . I got the idea of pulling out all the stakes, and I just had to come and do it. I had to . . . and I did.”
Ben knew that wasn’t the whole story, it couldn’t be. But he’d ask for details later.
“Listen,” he said, “I’ll walk home with you, okay?”
“No, you’d better take Nelson back. I’ll be fine. Thanks for coming so fast. And I hope you don’t get in trouble. Really, thanks.”
“Anytime,” Ben said. And he meant it.
“Good to know,” said Jill. It sounded like she meant that, too.
“So, see you tomorrow,” he said.
“Right,” she said, “tomorrow.”
Ben stood still in the dark beneath the big tree and watched Jill’s shadow until she reached the brightly lit path. She turned with a smile and waved with her bandaged hand, then set off at a trot.
Ben whispered, “C’mon, Nelson. Let’s get you home.”
CHAPTER 11
An Honest Lawyer
It was Thursday, almost four o’clock in the afternoon. Ben and Jill sat in the waiting room just before their appointment with a lawyer, a woman named Amanda Burgess.
Back when everyone first discovered that the Glennley Group was trying to buy the school property, Mrs. Burgess had attended some town meetings as the attorney for the Edgeport Historical Society. Jill’s mom was a member, and she had kept records of all those meetings—which was how Jill had found the lawyer’s name.
When she called and asked Mrs. Burgess for an interview, Jill had explained how she and a partner were doing a social studies project on the history of the Oakes School, and that they wanted to ask her some questions about the captain’s original will. All perfectly true. That was also what both of them had told their moms, to explain why they would be coming home late after school.
Leaning back in a wide leather armchair, Ben shut his eyes and reviewed the plan. It wasn’t complicated: Ask some questions about the captain’s will, and then ask some more questions about how the Glennley Group got past that will. The rest of the plan depended on the way the lawyer answered the questions, and whether she seemed like an honest person—really, really honest.
Jill had seemed a lot more like herself at school today, more friendly, not quite as edgy. She’d apologized in person about the way she’d reacted on the phone last night, about the Abigail Baynes thing. She’d also thanked him again for meeting her at the copper beech tree. That had made it feel like a better day, but again, Lyman had shadowed both of them everywhere. Another school day was gone, and they’d made no real progress with any searching at all.
He still hadn’t asked Jill what had made her suddenly run out into the dark last night and yank up all those stakes. When they had noticed the surveying crew stomping around the grounds outside during lunch recess, Jill had nodded toward them and smiled a little, but other than that, nothing. She’d seemed hesitant and distant for days, then boom—she went and did something crazy and intense. And this meeting felt sort of the same way. Jill had insisted that they needed to come and talk with this lawyer right away, today.
Ben took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm down. It didn’t help. He still felt like there was a rope twisted around his stomach—with Captain Oakes pulling on one end, and Jill pulling on the other.
The receptionist’s phone buzzed, and a moment later the young man at the desk said, “Miss Acton, Mr. Pratt? Attorney Burgess will see you now. Go right through that door.”
As Ben walked into the office, the brightness made him blink—six large windows faced east and south. They were on the third floor of an old rope factory, just a block away from where Jill lived. The land sloped uphill from the bay, so the water and the coastline seemed to stretch on forever. Off toward the south, Ben could see four or five little Optimist sailboats, tacking and making turns around a practice buoy. He instantly spotted USA 222 on one of the sails—Robert’s boat. He was out there sailing on a beautiful afternoon, getting prepped for the next round of races. It almost ruined the view.
“Jill, Benjamin, welcome.”
Mrs. Burgess smiled and stood up from behind a large desk covered with ten or twelve neat stacks of file folders. Ben guessed she was about the same height as his mom, five-one or five-two. But older—dark brown hair with some gray here and there. She was attractive, but not at all glamorous. She had on a white blouse, and her jacket and pants were dark blue. Businesslike, in a friendly sort of way. The bracelet on her right wrist wasn’t fancy, but it looked expensive. Same with her wedding rings and her wristwatch. She stepped forward quickly and shook hands with Jill, then with him.
Ben noticed that Jill didn’t flinch when the lawyer squeezed her injured hand. There were only two Band-Aids on her palm today, smaller ones.
She led them toward a couch and four chairs arranged around a low table by the windows. “Let’s sit over here.”
When they were settled, she said, “So you’re working on a history project, correct?”
“Yes,” Jill said. “We’re trying to find out as much as we can about the Oakes School.”
Ben nodded. “Especially since it’s going to be torn down soon.”
A quick frown darkened Mrs. Burgess’s face. “It’s quite something, isn’t it? I’ve lived in Edgeport most of my life, and I loved going to that school. And to think it’ll be gone”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that. Hard to imagine.” Then she flashed a bright smile. “Well, the future keeps coming, whether we’re ready for it or not. So, how can I help? Jill said you two had some questions about Captain Oakes and his will.”
They hadn’t rehearsed how this part was going to go, but Mrs. Burgess was looking at him, so Ben nodded. “That’s right. I looked at a copy of Captain Oakes’s will, at the part where he gave his building and the land to be a school, and also where he said his gravestone should be right on the school playground. So I was wondering, was that unusual? I mean, did other people back then write things like that in their wills?”
Mrs. Burgess nodded. “Absolutely. It happened back then, and it still happens today. Lots of people have made all sorts of strange provisions i
n their wills—you hear about it on the news sometimes, where someone leaves a large sum of money to a poodle, or where a person requires that everyone wear a special sort of costume if they want to attend his funeral—lots of odd requirements. And people also leave land and money to schools or universities all the time. So those aspects of the captain’s will are actually quite common.” She paused. “The unusual part is the way Captain Oakes tried to protect his wishes out into the future. And he thought he had planned it all out perfectly, by getting the town of Edgeport involved. He must have felt sure that the town officials and citizens would never want to give up such a fine school, and in such a wonderful location, and simply let ownership pass to his heirs.”
As she said that last bit, Ben noticed some emotion in her voice.
Jill must have picked up on that too.
“Were you surprised,” Jill asked, “when the town council made that offer to the captain’s heirs, to pay them for giving up all their rights?”
“Surprised? Honestly, no. After twenty-seven years of practicing law, nothing surprises me anymore.” She stopped, thought a second, then added, “However, it did make me quite sad.”
“Well,” Jill went on carefully, “I did wonder if there was some special reason you worked for the Historical Society, when they were trying to stop the deal.”
“Yes,” she said, “but by that time it was too late. And then I had to remove myself from the whole business anyway. But you two probably know all about that.” And her voice suddenly seemed sharp, almost sarcastic.
It caught Ben off guard.
Jill was confused too. She shook her head. “Um . . . I don’t know what you’re . . . um . . .”
Ben had never seen Jill so flustered.
Mrs. Burgess looked first into Jill’s face and then into Ben’s. Then she flashed that quick smile again.
“Sorry—I was wrong to assume—it’s just that, Jill, you said you had found my name in the records of the public meetings, and then there was all the coverage in the local paper. . . . But . . . again, I’m sorry. I’m used to dealing with other lawyers, and reporters, too.”