Camp X (16 page)

“Maybe we have to ask inside,” I suggested.

“No choice.”

We walked past the presses and into the office. There were two people seated at desks: Mrs. Perkins, who answered the telephones, and Mr. Jennings, who was one of the reporters. He was a nice, older man. She was a not-so-nice, old woman. She continually looked like she'd just bitten down on something sour. I would have liked to ask Mr. Jennings about the papers, but he was on the phone. Mrs. Perkins was free.

I stopped in front of her desk. “Hi.”

She looked up but didn't answer.

“I was short some papers for the route. Do you know where we could get two more?”

“The store.”

“What store?” I asked.

“Any store across the whole county. They've all gone out. Why didn't you take the papers you needed?”

Jack came to my defence, as usual. “He's not a regular paper boy, he was just doing Mr. Krum a favour because Peter Cook is sick again!”

“Then maybe you should ask Mr. Krum,” she suggested. “He's in his office.”

I hesitated. I didn't want to talk to Mr. Krum. He'd been out by the loading dock when we'd been sorting our papers, and he'd really wanted to talk. We'd worked as quickly as possible so we wouldn't be left alone with him. That was probably the reason I'd counted wrong in the first place, because we'd been so anxious to leave.

“I assume you know where his office is located?” Mrs. Perkins snapped.

“Thanks,” I said.

Jack and I walked slowly toward his closed door. I lifted my hand and knocked.

“Wait!” called out Mr. Krum.

We stood by the door, unable to enter, but unable to leave either. I had to fight the urge to turn around and run. The door opened, and Mr. Krum was standing there. His expression changed from angry to surprised to welcoming in the space of just a second.

“Jack, George! What can I do for you two?”

“I sort of miscounted papers and I need a few more,” I explained.

“The trucks have already left. How many are you short?”

“Two.”

“That is not a problem. I believe there should be two or three left at the sorting table.”

“We already got three from there,” Jack pointed out. “We're still two short.”

“There can be only one answer then,” Mr. Krum said. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“I'll drive you to the store and we'll pick up two papers.”

“That's okay. We can walk,” Jack told him.

“I'm sure you could, but you would have to purchase the papers, whereas I can simply take them. Come.”

Jack and I hesitated, but I didn't see any choice. How could we explain not going with him? So what if he asked a few questions? We didn't have to say anything. We trailed Mr. Krum out of his office.

“Mrs. Perkins, I am going out,” Mr. Krum announced. “I will not be returning today, so I leave things in your reliable hands.”

She nodded her head but didn't say a word.

Mr. Krum opened the front door and the bell attached to the frame pinged loudly, making me jump. His car was parked just outside the office. It was a big, black sedan.

The editor climbed into his car, then reached over and unlocked the passenger door, pushing it open. Jack gave me a little shove so I had to climb in first. He sat down beside me and closed the door as Mr. Krum started the engine.

“This is most fortunate that you two came back. I was hoping to talk to you,” Mr. Krum began.

“What did you want to talk about?” Jack asked him.

“Many things.”

“About me getting my own route?” I hoped.

“Perhaps. You know it is important for me to trust the
people that work for me. Trust is very important, don't you think?”

“I'm sorry about the papers . . . I won't forget to count again,” I apologized.

“Coming back to get the papers was a sign that you are responsible. I'm referring more to trusting somebody to be honest.”

I bit the side of my cheek.

“George, do you always do that when you are nervous?” Mr. Krum asked.

“Do what?”

“Bite your cheek.”

“Not always,” I said, stopping myself.

“There is nothing to be nervous about, George. I assure you, I am not angry at you for needing my assistance to get more papers.”

“Mr. Krum, we just passed the store,” Jack pointed out.

“We're not going to that store. It would not have papers yet. It is one of the last deliveries on the driver's route. So, wouldn't you agree that trust and honesty are things that an employer should expect from those he employs?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Jack answered.

“We're honest, honest,” I said.

“I believe that of you both. Now, I was wondering if you would be good enough to answer a few questions.” “Sure,” Jack said.

“Of course.”

“I was wondering how you know Mr. Granger.”
I swallowed hard but didn't answer. Jack remained silent as well.

“I saw him drive you boys home yesterday from the D.I.L. plant.”

“Oh, is that his name?” Jack asked. “He works at the plant.”

“He's the head of security at the plant,” Mr. Krum said.

“We didn't know that,” Jack said. “We had to drop off our mother's lunch.”

“She forgot it and asked us to bring it,” I added.

“And he just offered to drive us home afterward.”

“That was very kind of him,” Mr. Krum observed.

“He was just driving our way is all,” Jack continued. “I'm not sure where he was going to.”

“Really? It appeared he was going to Corbett's Creek. At least, that's where he dropped you two off.”

I felt the colour drain from my face.

“You were following us?” Jack asked.

“It is as I said, newspapermen are always curious.”

“I meant that I didn't know where he went after he dropped us off.” Jack was thinking fast. “We wanted to go for a swim and we needed to get our suits and inner tubes.”

“A long swim. You did not reappear for over two hours.”

“You waited for us?”

“For over two hours. Did you go onto the Sinclair farm?”

“No, of course not,” Jack lied.

“We haven't been back to the camp,” I added.

“The camp . . . strange that you should call it that.”

“That's what
you
call it,” Jack said.

“No. Never. I refer to it as the Sinclair property or the farm or even Glenrath, but never the camp.”

“But I must have heard it from you.”

“No. The only people who refer to it as the camp are the spies who are being trained there.”

“Spies . . . what do you mean spies?” Jack asked innocently.

Mr. Krum turned and looked at us. His expression left little doubt that he thought—he knew—that Jack was lying.

“Have you . . . have you . . . been talking to some of the people there?” I asked him.

“No, but apparently you two have.”

“No, we haven't.”

“Please do not lie to me, Jack.” His voice was very calm and his eyes were now trained on the road again.

“Well, if you haven't been talking to any of them, how do you even know what they call the place?” Jack asked.

“I've been listening to their radio messages.”

“You have? But . . . how . . . and why?” I asked.

Mr. Krum answered by speeding the car up. We had left the last street behind and turned onto the highway.

“We have to get home,” Jack told him, firmly.

“I am afraid that will not be possible.”

“But our mother is expecting us. You can't just take us!” he exclaimed.

“I am afraid it is necessary. I believe you have found a way into that camp, and I need to know how.”

“We're not saying anything. Stop the car!” Jack yelled.

Mr. Krum took his right hand off the steering wheel. He
slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed a pistol.

“You will remain quiet and calm,” he said as he aimed it in our direction. “I want you both to slip off the seat and onto the floor of the car.”

I looked over at Jack and then at the gun. Reluctantly we slid down onto the floor.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I EDGED OVER ON
the floor toward Jack, trying to gain a few more inches of separation from Mr. Krum. I just wished I hadn't been the first in, because then I would have had Jack between me and our captor . . . as if that would have protected me. We drove along in silence. The only noises were the droning of the engine and the rush of vehicles whizzing past us in the other direction. I could just catch a glimpse of the roofs as they raced past. I tried not to, but I couldn't help looking over at Mr. Krum. The pistol remained firmly in Mr. Krum's hand . . . his shaking hand. Why was
he
shaking? He was the one with the gun . . . A
gun
. Now it was
my
turn to start shaking.

The car started to slow down. Mr. Krum turned the wheel and I could tell from the sound of the tires against the ground that we'd turned onto an unpaved road. We travelled a few car lengths and then he brought it to a stop. Was this where we were going?

“There is a chain across the lane,” Mr. Krum said, quietly and calmly. “Jack, you are to get out and unlock it so that we may proceed. The key is under the large rock behind the post.”

Jack didn't move.

“Do as you are told,” he said, pointing the pistol at my brother.

Jack pushed himself up and onto the seat and then opened the door and started to step out.

“Attempting to run would not be wise . . . I would not like to have to shoot you, and your brother.”

My whole body tingled with fear.

Jack nodded his head and climbed out of the car.

“You may sit on the seat now,” Mr. Krum told me.

“What?”

“There is no need for you to be on the floor . . . take the seat.”

I climbed up and watched Jack. He had pushed the rock aside and was reaching down to get the key. Part of me wanted him to just bolt away, while the rest of me was terrified. Mr. Krum would shoot at him . . . maybe he wouldn't be able to escape. And me . . . I'd be as good as dead.

I moved slightly over again, away from Mr. Krum. Just behind us I heard the rush of air as another car passed. I looked over my shoulder. It was already gone. We were no more then a few dozen yards away from the highway. Maybe somebody would see us, or maybe I could get to the road and run for help. The door was beside me, open, ever so close. Maybe I could just—

“Do not even let that thought into your mind, George,” Mr. Krum said.

I froze in place.

Jack fumbled with the lock and then it popped open and he released the chain. It fell to the ground with a thump. He came back to the car and climbed back in, landing partly on top of me. I wasn't going to move over. Awkwardly, Jack closed the car door.

Mr. Krum set the car back in motion and we moved down the long farm lane. The way was rough, potholed and rutted. On both sides there was thick brush and trees. We kept going until we came up to a small farmhouse. The little front porch was sagging on one side, and one of the panes of glass in the front window had been replaced by a piece of cardboard. Mr. Krum stopped right in front of the house and turned the car off. Was this where he lived?

“Please get out of the vehicle.”

Jack and I climbed out one side while Mr. Krum climbed out the other and then circled around behind us.

“Please walk into the house.”

We started walking. Jack grabbed the screen door and it practically came off in his hand. Only the top hinge was holding it in place.

“Nice place you have here,” he muttered.

“It is sufficient. Please proceed.”

Jack pushed open the solid wooden door and we walked in. It was immediately apparent that Mr. Krum didn't live here. Nobody lived here. There were a few crates and a broken chair, but nothing else.

“Through the door to your right, please,” he said, motioning with the pistol.

“All this politeness would be a lot nicer if you weren't pointing a gun at us,” Jack grumbled as he started to walk.

“There is no reason why this cannot be done politely. I simply need you to answer my questions.”

Jack pushed through a swinging door and I followed. I had an urge to throw the door back at Mr. Krum, the way they would have done in some sort of gangster movie, but I didn't. I just followed Jack into the room, the kitchen. There was a table and six chairs. The counter was covered with dirty dishes, and there was an icebox and a wood-burning stove, its stone chimney reaching up through the ceiling.

“Sit . . . please.”

Jack took a seat and I sat down on the chair right beside him. It creaked and slumped as I settled into it, and for an instant I thought it was going to give way and collapse. It was wooden and old and badly in need of repair.

Mr. Krum pulled a chair over and turned it backwards. He sat down with his arms and the pistol resting on the back of the chair. Then he looked at his watch.

“There is little time, and I need my questions answered.”

“We have answered your questions,” Jack told him stubbornly.

“No, you have avoided answering my questions, and I think that is not wise. Your choices are to provide me with answers or be questioned by my associates.”

Jack and I exchanged a look.

“Did you think I was working alone?”

“We hadn't thought of anything,” I said.

“Please do not deny that you had some suspicions. It was obvious from your refusal to answer my questions, the manner in which you tried to avoid me, and the way George would chew on the inside of his cheek . . . as he's doing now.”

I stopped myself.

“I simply need answers. I have no desire to hurt either of you boys. But if I do not get answers, I am certain that my associates will be neither as patient nor as concerned as I for your well-being.”