“No problem,” said Jordie. “If the school, the police, the forest rangers, the Coast Guard and the army don’t find us, Goose will be here.”
“Coach Flynn doesn’t think there’s any danger,” commented Boots. He scratched his head. “That’s what bothers me. If we’re all safe and sound — why do we need an SOS raft?”
* * *
Goose Golden lay on the couch in Jordie’s darkened trailer, a cold cloth on his head, a hot water bottle clutched to his middle. The strain of the last three days had sapped every gram of his strength. No one could blame him for slipping up in front of that reporter yesterday. His mind was operating at triple speed! And at that pace, who could screen every little thing that came out of his mouth? Besides, the reporter hadn’t noticed it. The secret was still safe.
There was an enormous crash as the trailer door was wrenched open and slammed shut, and there fumed Seth Dinkman, an avenging angel. He switched on the light and shoved a newspaper under Goose’s nose. The banner headline read:
JORDIE JONES “VANISHED INTO THIN AIR,” MANAGER SAYS
Dinkman was raging. “Only two people knew about this, and I didn’t tell! Who does that leave? Queen Elizabeth? No. Zorro? No. Shamu the Killer Whale?”
“It was me,” Golden confessed. “It just slipped out. I’m not myself lately.”
“Well, if you’re not yourself, why couldn’t you be someone intelligent? Do you know how many reporters we’ve got out there? A million, that’s how many!”
“What are we going to do?” quavered the manager.
“This afternoon I’m calling a press conference,” announced Dinkman, “just as soon as the rest of those bloodsuckers arrive! Jordie is not missing! He’s on vacation for a few days!”
“But he is missing!” wailed Golden.
“This is the official story,” Dinkman insisted. “We know exactly where he is, but we’re not telling the press so the poor kid can have some privacy. Anybody who prints anything different gets sued for libel.”
“Do you think they’ll believe it?” asked Golden.
“They’ll have to. The studio’s backing us up, Jordie’s parents are backing us up — we’re solid.” He pressed his index finger against the manager’s pancreas. “And if you blow this, I’m going to pull your tongue out and run a steamroller over it so you’ll have to fold for two hours just to get it back in your big mouth!”
* * *
Up a tall tree in Miss Scrimmage’s apple orchard, Cathy Burton lowered her binoculars and frowned. It had been three days since Jordie Jones had set foot outside his trailer. At first she’d thought the star was confined to his bed under doctor’s orders, perhaps due to complications with the healing of his eye. But Jordie never came out for meals, and no food ever went in. It didn’t make sense. Nobody fasted to cure a black eye. Maybe he was so sick that he couldn’t eat at all.
“Pssst! Cathy! Get down here!” Diane stood at the base of the tree, beckoning urgently.
“I’m watching for Jordie,” Cathy called down.
“Well, you’re not going to see him!” Diane announced tragically. “He’s gone!”
“Gone?!” Cathy dropped like a cat from the tree. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”
“Wilma just heard it on the radio! He’s disappeared!”
Cathy stared at her. Slowly a grin of sheer delight took over her face.
Diane was horrified. “How can you stand there smiling? Don’t you understand? He’s vanished! No one knows where he is!”
“I do,” grinned Cathy.
Diane was still raving. “He could be in trouble! Or hurt! or dead!” She stopped short. “You do?”
“It’s so obvious! I can’t believe I didn’t see it before! We last saw him three days ago, and the very next morning —”
“Die-in-the-Woods!” shrieked Diane.
“Right,” said Cathy, pleased. “He’s gone camping with Bruno and Boots. And it looks like they didn’t tell anybody, or no one would be saying he’s disappeared. Now, what does that mean?”
“He’s safe!” sighed Diane.
“And we’re the only ones who know where to find him,” Cathy added.
“That’s right!” said Diane excitedly. “We have to call the radio station —”
“Are you crazy? We call nobody! Jordie’s up there, with no cameras, no directors, no managers, no security — just a bunch of guys and a couple of teachers! When we get to him, he’s ours!”
Diane gawked at her roommate. “How are we going to get to him? For one thing, Miss Scrimmage is taking us to Montreal tomorrow with the Baking Club!”
“There’s going to be a slight change of itinerary,” Cathy replied smugly.
“Get real! Miss Scrimmage may be a little out to lunch, but she knows the difference between Montreal and Algonquin Park!”
Cathy’s eyes gleamed. “Yeah, but she doesn’t know the difference between the road to Montreal and the road to Algonquin Park. Think, Diane! Miss Scrimmage is hopeless with maps, so she types out her directions, one turn at a time. All we have to do is swap our turns for hers.”
Diane’s head was spinning. “But we don’t have any turns! That park is a humongous place, and we have no idea what part of it they went to!”
Cathy shrugged. “The bus company knows. I’ll call up and weasel it out of them. Come on, Diane! You should be bouncing off the ceiling! We’re finally going to meet Jordie Jones!”
“Well, I guess so, but —”
“No buts, kiddo! Pack your long johns! We’re going camping!”
* * *
Mr. Sturgeon drove his blue Ford north on Highway 48 toward Macdonald Hall. It was late afternoon, and he was returning from an exhausting day of meetings with the Board of Directors in Toronto. A good dinner was on his mind, followed by a quiet evening with his paper, a hot bath and then into bed for a solid eight hours sleep. Why, he could feel himself starting to unwind already.
He turned right onto the Macdonald Hall grounds, and his relaxation shattered into a million pieces. The wide circular driveway in front of the Faculty Building was a parking lot, jammed with cars, trucks and vans. The Headmaster could make out at least six TV mobile units. There was no question about it. The media was back at Macdonald Hall and in greater force than ever.
Grimacing with irritation, he threaded his way along the drive to his cottage on the south lawn. His wife was waiting for him, pacing up and down on the porch. Spying the Ford, she rushed forward to meet her husband, waving the afternoon paper in front of the windshield. The headline blazoned:
WHERE IS JORDIE JONES?
He knew instantly. If Jones was missing, it meant that he had joined Walton and O’Neal on the wilderness survival trip. And Flynn and Fudge, cut off from the world and not willing to leave the rest of the boys with inadequate supervision, had wisely decided to wait out the five days, treating the star simply as an extra camper. It all fit. What a useless, needless, unbearable complication!
With a screech of gears, he threw the Ford into reverse and backed all the way across the campus to the east lawn. There he found Goose Golden, sitting despondently outside Jordie’s trailer.
The Headmaster got out of his car and approached on foot. “Good afternoon, Golden.”
“J.J.’s missing!” blurted the manager. He clapped both hands over his mouth. “I mean — uh — no comment.”
Mr. Sturgeon smiled thinly. “Perhaps I can put your mind at rest. I know where young Jones is, and I assure you he’s safe and sound.”
The manager rocketed off the stoop and froze just short of enveloping the Headmaster in a bear hug. “Where? Where is he?”
Mr. Sturgeon looked around. “Perhaps we might summon Dinkman. I would much rather not have to tell this twice.”
Golden shook his head. “Seth’s holding a press conference. He’s trying to convince the reporters J.J.’s just on vacation.”
Mr. Sturgeon sighed heavily. “It is, in essence, the truth. Eight of my students are
away on a wilderness survival trip. Jones is with them.”
The manager recoiled in horror. “Survival? As in not dying? But he’s only a little kid!”
“My eight are hardly professional lumberjacks,” said the Headmaster in stern reproof. “They are well supervised and perfectly safe. You’ll have your client back on Saturday.”
“But that’s two more days! Anything could happen in two days in the wilderness! He could be attacked by wolves! He could fall in a hole! He could get bitten by a tsetse fly! He could catch Dutch elm disease!”
“Don’t be absurd, Golden. Only trees get Dutch elm disease.”
“Well, what if a sick tree falls on him, then? He’d be crushed like a bug! I want him back!”
“And you shall have him,” said Mr. Sturgeon icily. “On Saturday. Now, please pass this information on to Dinkman. Good day.” He returned to his car and drove off toward the south lawn.
Golden sat back down on the stoop, even more agitated than before. The thought of J.J. out there in the wilds was almost worse than not knowing the boy’s whereabouts at all. This was torture.
Look at him! He was hugging himself to keep his hands from shaking, rocking back and forth — he was a wreck! He began mumbling his mantra over and over again, but the relaxation of meditation would not come. He entered the trailer to try some of the primal scream therapy recommended by his psychiatrist, but today all it gave him was a sore throat. He did the twenty-minute workout, switching to the thirty-minute and finally the forty-minute. Nothing could calm him. He tried the TV, but found only a Cutesy Newbar rerun, which was too painful to watch. Poor J.J.
At last, exhausted, he stretched out on the couch. Soon the exertion, combined with his anxious days and sleepless nights, took its toll. Goose Golden was out like a light.
About half an hour later, Seth Dinkman arrived to give his report on the press conference. “Well, they didn’t really buy it, but at least now we’ve got them thinking —” He caught sight of Golden snoring softly on the couch.
It figured. Dinkman had just been put through the shredder by every reporter on earth, and here was Goose, taking a nap. Diabolically, he toyed with the idea of waking the manager by means of a bucket of ice water. No, that was a bad idea. Better to leave well enough alone. When Goose was sleeping, at least he wasn’t shooting off his mouth to the press.
* * *
“Tea’s ready, William.”
Mr. Sturgeon was standing in his living room, glaring out the picture window at his darkening campus. It was a carnival, that’s what it was! He’d already counted six pizza delivery trucks, two for Chinese food and a visit from the local chicken joint. There was that tall, red-haired reporter from some New York newspaper bedding down in the backseat of his Volkswagen, his great flat feet sticking out the window! A mobile unit from one of the Toronto stations had actually stretched a clothesline from the top of their van to the outstretched hand on the statue of Sir John A. Macdonald in front of the Faculty Building. On it flapped socks and underwear. They were doing their laundry! All over, picnics were going on, some of them raucous. One radio crew had had the gall to fill the barrel of the War of 1812 cannon that stood on the front lawn with ice cubes to keep their drinks cold!
Disgusted, he turned away from the window, walked into the kitchen and dropped heavily into a chair. “Mildred, they’re not leaving. Not even to sleep.”
She poured two cups of tea. “We don’t have to put up with this, you know, William. This is private property. We can call the police.”
“I’m sorely tempted,” he sighed, “but I don’t dare. They smell news, and if we kick them off the campus, it’ll only provide them with incentive to sneak back on. They’ll move their zoo out to the highway, which is not private property. And then we’ll be under siege, with police patrolling the perimeters, asking my teachers to show identification just to get to class. That’s not the atmosphere I want for our boys. I’d rather have the media circus than an armed camp.”
At that moment, the background music on the kitchen radio faded, and an announcer’s voice came on:
“And now for the eight o’clock news. Actor Jordie Jones is still nowhere to be found since he disappeared two days ago from location filming at the Macdonald Hall private school for boys, northeast of Toronto. Although studio sources cling to the story that Jones is simply on vacation, sightings of the young star continue to pour in from all over southern Ontario. The latest comes from Sarnia farmer Angus McPeach, who claims he saw Jones board a UFO in his bean field about noon today …”
Mrs. Sturgeon threw up her arms in frustration. “These media people are incorrigible! They crawl all over the campus on the pretext of finding the truth, and then they report such utter claptrap! Is there anything that would stop them?”
“Nothing short of Jordie Jones himself, dead or alive,” replied her husband morosely. Suddenly he snapped to attention, surprised by his own words. “Of course! If I can produce the boy, there will be no more mystery and no more investigations!”
“But that can’t happen until the wilderness survival trip comes back on Saturday.”
“Yes it can,” he replied, jaw set with determination. “Jones returns tomorrow. With me.”
His wife was shocked. “William, don’t even think of it! That’s a long drive and a gruelling hike through dense woods — both ways!”
“Do you think I’m looking forward to it?” the Headmaster demanded. “I haven’t gone on the wilderness survival trip in twenty-five years. I hated it then, and in all that time, I have undergone no change of heart. The only thing worse than going to Algonquin Park tomorrow is staying here and watching those sensation seekers use our cannon as an ice bucket!”
“But William —”
He was adamant. “Prepare my union suit, Mildred. I’m going on Die-in-the-Woods.”
Chapter 14
A Cry in the Woods
Miss Scrimmage’s driving would have earned her the pole position at the Indianapolis 500, so by nine o’clock the next morning, the Baking Club was burning northeast on Highway 11, heading for Route 60, which led to Algonquin Park.
The Headmistress glanced in the rearview mirror at the five girls riding with her in the school’s minivan. “Everybody cheery and comfortable?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Scrimmage!” raved Cathy. “I’m so glad I joined the Baking Club!”
Miss Scrimmage smiled happily. “Mind you, you look awfully crowded back there. I still don’t understand why everyone brought so much luggage. It’s only a short trip.”
The girls exchanged conspiratorial smiles. Their large suitcases concealed sleeping bags and other camping gear. Maybe Miss Scrimmage was going to Montreal, but they were heading for Jordie Jones.
Miss Scrimmage whizzed past a tractor-trailer at nearly double the speed limit. “How odd,” she frowned, gearing down. “None of these signs mentions Montreal. I hope we haven’t taken a wrong turn.” She consulted her directions (revised and retyped by Cathy the night before). “Well, this is the road, all right. Very strange.”
“Tell us again about proper manners in an authentic French pastry shop,” suggested Diane.
“An excellent idea!” the Headmistress agreed, accelerating. “Of course, we’ll be ordering in French, and the pronunciation of the letter “R” is crucial. Montreal waiters can be merciless on pronunciation. Why, I remember once …”
* * *
When Mr. Sturgeon stepped out of his cottage that morning, none of his students would have recognized him. He had traded in his usual conservative grey business suit for baggy khakis, held up by elastic suspenders which stretched tightly over his thick red-and-black-plaid flannel shirt. The boots on his feet laced halfway to the knees, and on his head perched a fur-lined leather hunting cap with earflaps. Only his steel-rimmed glasses gave away the fact that this was the stern, dignified Headmaster of Macdonald Hall.
He got into his car and started the engine, then ripped the hunting cap from his head and t
ossed it on the seat beside him. A glance toward home showed his wife in the picture window, shaking her finger at him. With a sigh, he replaced the cap.
He started off slowly down the crowded driveway. Delivery trucks with coffee and doughnuts were already beginning to arrive for the awakening reporters. He hadn’t set one tire on the highway yet and already he was in a traffic jam.
He was about to pull out onto the road when a voice cried, “Wait! Wait! You can’t go yet!” A streak of white overtook the car from the left side and leaptout in front. Goose Golden, toupee askew, pressed both hands against the hood of the Ford, as though he expected to keep Mr. Sturgeon off the highway by brute force.
The Headmaster rolled down his window. “What is it, Golden? I’m in a hurry.”
“Take me with you!” the manager begged.
“Whatever for? I’m only going down the road for a litre of milk.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, he felt an utter fool. No one shopped for milk dressed like a reject from Field & Stream.
“You’re going for J.J.!” said Golden urgently. “I have to come with you!” Even as Mr. Sturgeon was opening his mouth to refuse, the agent lunged for the passenger door, wrenched it open and parked himself on the seat, buckling his safety belt. He gave the Headmaster an ingratiating smile. “Nice hat. I’ve always wanted one of those.”
“Kindly leave my car, Golden.”
The manager crossed his arms. “J.J. needs me!”
Mr. Sturgeon grimaced. “You’re not exactly dressed for a wilderness trek. Please go about your business and allow me to go about mine.”
“J.J. is my business — my only business.”
The Headmaster shook his head in resignation. “Very well. I suppose you have as much right as anyone.” He put the car back into gear and turned onto the highway.
* * *
Following her directions, Miss Scrimmage took the exit onto Route 60 but almost immediately squealed the van into a dangerous U-turn.
“Idiot!” howled a man in a black Camaro. He had slammed on his brakes at the last second to avoid a collision.