He also added an L or W to show who had said what.
in charge L
chief (maybe thief) W
boss (maybe loss) L
quickest way around (or maybe down) W
just forget it (or just go get it?) L
shrink (or maybe stink) L
remember who (or maybe to) L
shuttle [something] talents (or maybe balance?) L
shuttle topple [something]
twenty flowers? L
sunk (or maybe shrunk or skunk?) L
sweat? slow today (or saw today?) W
all over by Monday L
Lyman’s last phrase was chillingly clear, and Ben hated writing the words—it looked so harsh and final: all over by Monday.
“Food’s ready, Ben.”
“There in a minute,” he called back.
Jill and Robert really had to know about this now.
And listen to the memo, too.
He saved his cleaned-up sound file and then copied it into a new e-mail. He added Jill’s and Robert’s e-mail addresses, then wrote:
Lyman’s boat is at Parson’s marina—he’s leaving for a long trip MONDAY! Must have some kind of plan—it’s why he and W slacked off this week.
Listen to the recording. I made it Tuesday—best sound I can give you, L n W arguing. Don’t know if there are any real clues here or not.
Text me right away if you have ideas.
Ben
He started to put away the iPad, but there was an immediate reply from Robert.
Nice try, Pratt!
Classic prerace brain attack—not buying it.
Today you lose!
Captain Gerritt
Ben started to reply, but just shook his head and put the iPad to sleep.
What an idiot!
But maybe that idiot, who was also a genius, would listen to the recording anyway. And get an idea.
At this point it was out of his hands—at least for a few hours.
He had spaghetti to eat.
And then he had a race to win.
CHAPTER 21
Bright Sun, Dark Clouds
It was a little after one p.m., and the observation deck of the Bluewater Sailing Club was the perfect spot for some last minute research. One look across the bay told Ben that today’s race would be tough.
The course lay about half a mile offshore, and three big red buoys made a triangle. The longest side was about three-fourths of a mile long, and the two short sides were about a quarter mile each—and the race was two full laps.
A steady fourteen-knot breeze was blowing up out of the southeast, but the water wasn’t choppy. Instead, long sets of two- and three-foot swells swept through the course. Making clean turns was going to be hard, and it was going to take a different set of skills at each buoy.
Like the last race—the one where Robert had nearly drowned—the two of them had both drawn the second racing group. Ben had made the short voyage from his home beach, gotten his boat checked in and prepped on the club beach, and then he’d hurried to the clubhouse to watch the first twelve Optimists beat their way around the course.
In just ten minutes of the first lap, he saw six different sailors miss a turn, and four of those had happened at the farthest downwind buoy.
Tough course! And the laps’ll go fast.
But Ben still smiled as he watched—if they’d made the course easy, it wouldn’t be half as fun. He leaned forward against the wooden railing, totally lost in the action.
“Thought you’d be getting set to launch by now!”
“Dad—hi!” Ben smiled, but he didn’t take his eyes off the boats. “Just checking out the course. Um . . . did you see Mom yet? When she dropped me off she said—”
He felt a tap on his shoulder.
“I’m already here! Your father and I made plans a week ago to come and watch your new boat in action. But if he hadn’t said hello, I don’t think you’d have noticed either one of us. It’s a perfect day for sailing, don’t you think?”
She sounded happy. Ben smiled and said, “Yeah, unless you want to try to win a race. And as long as you don’t mind freezing a little.”
He’d gotten thoroughly wet on his way to the sailing club, and the water wasn’t much warmer than it had been three weeks ago.
But his mom was sure right about the way everything looked. Sails of all sizes dotted the brilliant blue waters, from the inner harbor all the way out past the headlands, where a stronger wind was kicking up whitecaps.
Ben glanced over toward the beach. The launch marshal had just lifted the Preparatory flag. He had to go check in, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay right where he was, there between his mom and dad—stay and watch the races together, maybe sit at a table all afternoon and then order some burgers.
But his dad knew the signal flags too.
“Looks like you need to get over to the beach, Ben.”
“Yeah, I do. Well, I’ll see you afterwards, okay?”
“You bet, sweetheart,” his mom said. “And be careful, all right?”
“I will, Mom.”
“And good luck out there!” his dad said.
Ben looked at him. “I heard a quote a while ago: ‘Shallow men believe in luck . . . Strong men believe in cause and effect.’ Ralph Waldo Emerson said it, and I think it’s true.”
Ben had a sudden thought that made him cringe, and even blush a little.
I think I just sounded like Robert!
His dad nodded thoughtfully. “I like it.” Then he smiled and said, “And I heard a quote about twenty years ago, written by John Paul Jones: ‘I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast, for I intend to go in harm’s way.’ So, go hop into your fast ship, and let’s see some great cause and effect out there!”
“And stay out of harm’s way!” his mom added. She smiled, but Ben knew she was serious.
“Thanks. I’ll be careful and fast! See you guys later!”
• • •
The start for the second group of boats was delayed. The wind had shifted, so two of the buoys needed to be repositioned. When Ben shoved off from the club beach, he had to set a three-tack course to reach the starting line.
Another boat pulled close downwind, mostly hidden by his sail. But Ben already knew who it was. If Robert had any fears after almost drowning during their last race, they sure weren’t showing today.
“Ahoy there, Pratt! I hope you feel like losing today, because I sure feel like making that happen!”
Ben ignored the taunt, and called back, “Did you listen to that file I sent? It wasn’t a joke, Gerritt. Lyman’s really thinking his work is all done here, and he’s pulling out Monday.”
“Yeah, I listened—it’s really hard to hear anything clearly, Pratt. Besides, maybe Lyman’s talking about some other Monday, or even some other issue entirely—ever think of that? That recording could mean a million different things. You need to put all that out of your puny little mind, because I need you to focus on losing this race!”
Instead of replying, Ben pulled in his sheet and quickly came about. In three seconds there was a nice stretch of water between them. Conversation over.
In a way, though, Robert was right—except for the digs about losing.
Because Ben didn’t want to think about any of that stuff now. He just wanted to sail his new boat—which he loved. Compared to other boats he’d been stuck with for races, this one handled like a sports car, and it rode the swells like a surfboard.
Just as he made ready to come about for his last tack to the starting buoy, a tall sail a quarter mile northward caught his eye.
It was the big Jeanneau yacht, and there at the port-side wheel Ben could see Lyman himself, his face tilted upward, checking the trim of the headsail. And there was Wally, too, working one of the winches just fore of the helm. Both of them were wearing white trousers and sport shirts—two gentleman janitors out for a Saturday sail.
Ben pulled his Optimist on
to its new line, and a sharp flash of anger stabbed at him—the idea of those two cruising around on a half-million-dollar boat!
That moment of inattention cost his boat a sudden dig into the side of a swell, and he shipped about five gallons of cold seawater. Bailing like mad, he kept his eyes ahead and his bow aimed for the starting mark—and he pushed Lyman and Wally completely out of his mind.
The Optimist flag and the Preparatory flag had both been hoisted at the stern of the race officer’s boat, and Ben hadn’t marked the time—another error.
But judging by where Robert was positioned, there was probably about a minute before the Optimist flag would drop and the air horn would signal the start.
So he was still in good shape.
He bailed out one last scoop of water and slid forward to trim the hull. He was locked in on the mark now, and he saw a perfect path to the starting line. He nudged the tiller and pulled on the sheet—but suddenly something felt wrong.
It was his phone, vibrating in the waterproof chest pocket of his life vest.
Electronics of any kind were forbidden onboard during a race, but he’d thought Jill might try to call him after listening to that recording. And he wasn’t going to use his phone to try to cheat or something, so he’d brought it.
He pulled the sheet into a cleat, which freed up his left hand. Then he reached into the pocket, pushed the talk button, and then the speaker control.
“Talk to me!” he barked, and yanked the rope loose from the cleat just in time to ease up and avoid a collision.
“Well, a friendly hello to you to!” Jill said.
“Louder,” he shouted. “Get anything useful?”
A younger girl in a boat less than ten feet away looked at Ben like he’d gone mad and was talking to himself—or even worse, talking to her.
Jill spoke up, and Ben could hear her.
“Only a few words really seem clear to me, but I don’t know what they mean.”
“Tell me!” he yelled.
The little girl was doing all she could to get her boat farther away from Ben’s.
Jill paused, then said, “Hey—you’re sailing, right? And the race is starting! How much time do I have?”
“Almost none! Just the important words! Tell me!” he bellowed.
The little girl looked terrified. “I don’t know!” she wailed. “Stop yelling at me!”
Ben felt sorry, but he had to ignore her because Gerritt was making a move, trying to use that Rule Eleven leeward gambit, trying to force him to give way and lose his line.
With barely a thought, Ben jogged his tiller, which instantly blocked Gerritt’s wind and dropped him two lengths back.
Jill’s voice was faint and tinny, but Ben heard her.
“I’m pretty sure I heard the word ‘scuttle,’ and I definitely heard ‘Saturday.’ And there’s something about ‘talents’—or it might be ‘gallons.’ And then ‘all over by Monday.’ ”
“Okay—gotta go! Thanks!” Ben grabbed the sheet with his teeth, which he shouldn’t have done—he had caps on the front two. But he was able to grip the rope for half a second, just long enough to tap his chest pocket and end the phone call.
At that moment, the flag dropped—rheeeeehp!
And as the blast from the air horn faded, Ben crossed the line very close to the mark—one of the best starts he’d ever made!
But he was barely aware of it.
His mind was back aboard the Tempus Fugit, running through his list of possible words on that index card, trying to see each one—and trying to match his list with what Jill had just said.
She said “Saturday”—and I had “slow today” or “saw today”—which could be Saturday. Okay, Saturday—which is today!
This first leg of the race was one of the short sides of the triangle, and it aimed east-southeast . . . which meant that Ben had to keep his bow just a few points off the wind. He found a sweet line and held to it, almost without effort—except he had to do a lot of weight shifting to compensate for the swells.
I thought I heard “shuttle,” and Jill heard “scuttle.” So that works. But both words have possibilities . . . and Lyman might have been talking about his boat.
Because Ben knew what Jill’s word meant. If you scuttled a boat, it meant you sank it on purpose, like during a sea battle to block a shipping channel or the entrance to a harbor. Or if you needed to put an enemy ship completely out of commission, you went down below the waterline and you opened all the sea valves, which would let the water come rush—
Water!—“gallons,” not “talents” or “balance”! Gallons of water!
Lyman was going to scuttle the school! Saturday!
Ben jammed his tiller hard right, and instantly the bow jumped left.
The windward boat nearest behind him was Gerritt’s, and Robert shouted, “Clear! Clear!”
It looked like a collision for sure. But the boom whizzed above Ben’s head, the sail snapped tight, and his boat leaped forward out of Robert’s path—with just inches to spare.
It was a textbook move, a perfect snap turn—but at the wrong place. It also put his boat onto the exact course Ben wanted: north-northwest, and toward the shore. More accurately, right toward the Oakes School.
“Pratt!” Gerritt yelled. “You’re in violation!”
Robert was right, of course.
Because Ben was now sailing straight through the middle of the triangle defined by the three race buoys—a clear violation.
The air horn chirped, and he glanced at the race officer’s boat—a black-and-yellow flag waved at him.
Ben ignored the warning and frowned at his sail.
It’s gonna take thirty minutes to reach the school—too long!
He reached for the halyard, gave a pull, and let his sail drop into the hull. The boat lost headway, gently rolling with the swell. One of the race boats began motoring toward him.
He got out his phone, clicked to Jill’s number, and punched talk.
It began to ring.
Pick up, Jill! You’ve gotta do something now!
The phone kept ringing.
C’mon, Jill—answer! You have to!
And on the sixth ring, she did.
CHAPTER 22
Like Family, Like Enemies
Jill said, “This is what I’ve got so far—do you want to hear?”
Ben and Robert nodded, and she began reading from a document on her iPad.
At approximately two o’clock on Saturday afternoon, firefighters used axes to break open a side door at the Oakes School. They were responding to a 911 call about a fire on the third floor.
But when the fire crew charged up the stairs, they didn’t find a fire.
What they found was a flood.
In the third-floor girls’ room, a pipe had broken, one of those big silver pipes attached to a toilet. It wasn’t clear whether a gasket had failed, or if the old pipe had corroded away. But whatever the cause, one thing was clear: For at least one hour, water had been gushing out at about fifty gallons per minute.
A former Oakes School janitor, a man named Tom Benton, was near the school and noticed the fire trucks. When he learned what the problem was, he went right to the school basement and turned off the main water valve to the building.
There was a large drain in the center of the tile floor in the girls’ room, so only about half of the three-thousand gallon flood had gotten out into the hallway.
Mr. Lyman, the present school janitor, did not respond to his phone or his emergency beeper, so the firefighters and some citizen volunteers who appeared on the scene did what they could to deal with the water. People used mops and buckets, towels from the gymnasium, and two large water vacuums owned by the school.
There was some damage to the wooden floors in the third-floor hallway, and the plaster ceiling in the second floor hallway was also spotted and dripping. Four computers in a lab on the second-floor were destroyed by water.
One of the firefighters said that if
it had been Monday morning before the flooding was discovered, the entire basement of the school would have filled up like a swimming pool, and water would have risen up to about three feet in all the rooms on the first floor. Also, most of the ceilings in the second- and first-floor classrooms would have gotten soggy and fallen to the floor, and all the books in the school library would have been destroyed, including the original books left by Captain Oakes. And the Underground Railroad station under the north staircase would have been completely flooded.
The fire chief said that if the flooding had not been stopped when it was, town inspectors probably would have had to declare the whole building unsafe. And certainly, no students would have been permitted inside the building. They would have had to finish the last few days of the school year somewhere else.
And the 911 call that saved the school? It came from an untraceable cell phone.
“So, what do you think?” she asked.
“It’s awesome,” Ben said. He especially liked all the things she’d left out—about how he had called her, and how she had been the one who called 911 and Tom Benton.
Robert nodded in agreement, then said, “Yeah, it’s a good summary, but what’s it for?”
“Well,” Jill said, “at the very least, I can use it as part of our project on the history of the school—it’s a pretty important historical moment, don’t you think? And I thought I might send it to the Edgeport Pennant tomorrow—let them do whatever they want with it—publish it, or just use it for information if they write a story of their own.”
“What do you mean ‘if’!” Ben exclaimed. “You know they’re gonna do a big story about this!”
It was Sunday afternoon and they were sitting on the seawall in front of the school, looking out at the water. It wasn’t really a Keepers meeting—just a chance to catch up about the recent events.
They were also taking a rest, because they were part of a flash mob that the Historical Society and the PTA had organized to help clean up the school before Monday morning—eighty or ninety people had shown up.
Which was good, because there was a lot to do, much more than the school janitors could do on their own. Both Lyman and Wally had worked from Saturday evening until almost two in the morning under the direct supervision of Mr. Telmer, the principal. And they probably had another late night coming up.