The Ghostwriter Secret (13 page)

S
TEVE AND
D
ANA
sat on the curb across the street from the B. Syndicate's headquarters. Steve pulled a Jolly Rancher out of his backpack, unwrapped it, put it in his mouth, and spit it out on the pavement. No doubt about it. This was his worst day as a detective.

“So what do we do now?” Dana asked.

“We go home,” Steve said.

Dana stared at Steve. “Are you kidding me?”

Steve looked at his chum. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you must be joking. We haven't solved the case.”

“There is no case,” Steve said. “There is no
MacArthur Bart, so he can't get kidnapped.”

“So what? I want to know who those guys with guns back at the hotel were. And who was the guy with the fishing net by the mailbox? Look, I don't care whether there's a MacArthur Bart or not—I want to know who was trying to kill us. How did all this happen? We're in the middle of something.”

Steve shook his head. “We're at a dead end.”

Dana stood up. “Let's untangle this. This all started with a letter from MacArthur Bart. If he doesn't exist, then who wrote it?”

“I don't know.” Steve thought. “Nate Rangle! It could have been Nate. He stole my letter on Monday. He opened it, read it, and decided to write back for revenge. So he called the Sea Spray and got the name of a guest, then sent me there to meet him. As a prank. But then the guest, this Snuffley, happened to be involved in something larger. Maybe he was a real criminal. Whatever—that's none of our business. I think we just stepped into a mess that has nothing to do with us. Maybe
his
gang was called the Bee Syndicate. Like the buzzing bee.” Steve squinted. This wasn't right. It was like he was singing the right tune but with the wrong words.

“So Snuffley,” Dana said, “he just happened to be part of a criminal organization called the Bee
Syndicate, and the group of ghostwriters that write Bailey Brothers books just happened to be called the B. Syndicate?”

“Those guys are on the up and up. Did you read those articles? Didn't you see that guy type a Bailey Brothers book?” Steve asked.

“Come on, Steve! Coincidences are the lazy detective's crutch!”

Steve stood up. He was suddenly angry. “I am not a lazy detective!”

“Then investigate this! People have been trying to kill us. It's personal now.”

Steve felt his face heating up.

“Look,” said Dana, “I say there's something fishy going on in that warehouse, and we need to take a closer look. Steve,” said Dana solemnly, “I have a hunch.”

“What?” Steve asked.

“Yep. That's right. I have a hunch.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. There something going on with those ghostwriters. I can feel it right here.” Dana pointed to his stomach.

“You've got a hunch,” Steve said quietly.

Dana nodded.

Steve stood up. “Then we'd better follow it.”

I
T WAS A MOONLESS MIDNIGHT
. Steve Brixton—black-clad in sweatpants, sweatshirt, and ski cap, all purchased from a tourist kiosk in downtown San Francisco—stood shoulder to shoulder with his best chum, Dana, also in black. The only thing about their attire that was not completely stealthy and invisible was the white, reflective lettering, emblazoned across every article of clothing, reading
PRISONER OF ALCATRAZ—IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO THE ROCK
.

They stood in the shadows, hidden from the glow of streetlamps, although no one was around to see them.

Steve held up one finger, two fingers, three, and the
boys crossed the street swiftly, in silence. Steve took out the hotel key card from his pocket and started working on the lock. Almost immediately the key card snapped in two pieces. Steve winced.

“What now?” Dana asked.

Steve motioned for Dana to follow him around the side of the building. They paused by a low window.

“In
The Tail the Tailor Told
, the Bailey Brothers are hunting down a cat burglar who breaks into apartments and jewelry stores by cutting a circle in windows and then removing the glass with suction cups. Once he's inside, he replaces the glass.”

“So?”

“So that's what we'll do.”

“But we don't have a burglar's kit.”

“We'll improvise.”

Steve scoured the ground, and it didn't take him long to find a rusty nail. “Here we go,” he whispered.

There was a high, sustained squeak as Steve traced a large, lopsided circle on the pane. The nail's path left a faint white outline.

“Bingo,” said Steve. “This is just what it looked like in the book.”

“What about the suction cups?” Dana asked.

“The suction cups pulled the glass out toward the burglar. I'll just tap on the bottom of the circle, and then
the top will come toward us, and you can catch it.”

Dana frowned. Steve picked up a large rock and delicately tapped on the glass.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, with a little more force.

Still nothing.

He swung the rock, intending to give the glass a good knock.

The whole window shattered.

“We're in!” Steve said.

Steve found an old bucket and turned it upside down by the wall. The two boys used it as a step stool and gingerly climbed through window.

Steve and Dana took a few cautious steps. Shards of glass crunched beneath their feet. A pipe was leaking somewhere deep in the building. The place was deserted.

Steve flipped his flashlight on and slowly moved the beam across the room. In the pale yellow light, things that had seemed real this afternoon took on a ghostly aspect.

“Okay,” said Steve. “Let's split up. I'll check out the ghostwriters' desks. Next, you look at Antrim's office. We're looking for anything that proves these guys are up to something, that they aren't who they say they are. See if you can get in that locked filing cabinet.”

“How am I supposed to see in the dark?” Dana asked.

Steve smiled. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a flashlight. “I bought this for you at Walgreens today when you were in the candy aisle. It's a present. Every sleuth needs one.”

Dana took the flashlight and turned it on. “Thanks,” he said. “But I'm not a sleuth.”

Dana disappeared silently into the maze of Bailey Brothers books. Steve turned and crept over to the desks. He paused. He needed to search methodically. He'd start at the desk closest to him and work back, checking all the drawers. Then he'd look at the ghostwriters' computers.

But first he would take a peek at that new Bailey Brothers book. Just to see what was going to happen with the wolves.

He went over to the stack of papers next to the typewriter and turned it face up. The page he'd read this morning was right on top. Steve reread the last bit to get in the mood:

 

“Someone's here,” Kevin whispered.


Many pairs of eyes gleamed.


“It's a route of wolves!” cried Shawn.


The wolves approached the fire. The leader of the pack bared his teeth as he


Steve flipped to the next page:

raged and the wind whipped outside the Baileys' refuge in the cliffs. The boys removed their snowshoes and took stock of their possessions.


“Four flares, a box of matches, and two cod sandwiches,” lamented Shawn.


Kevin managed to will a stoic smile. “We still have the treasure map.”


The boys built a small fire with some kindling and wood they found near the mouth of the cave, and soon they were thawing, their spirits buoyed, as always, by sandwiches.


Steve stopped. This was how the last page had started. He scanned down to the bottom. This page
was identical to the one he'd just read. He flipped to the next page. The same. Steve rifled through the thick stack of paper. Every page was the same. This wasn't a new Bailey Brothers book. It was the same piece of a story typed over and over again.

The ghostwriter was a fake! The B. Syndicate was a front!

But a front for what? And if the B. Syndicate hadn't written the Bailey Brothers books, who had?

Steve's heartbeat sped. He had to show Dana. He tucked the manuscript under his arm and ran back through the warehouse and up to Antrim's office. Dana was crouched behind Antrim's desk, peering into an open drawer. “Nothing so far,” he said. “I'm trying to find a key to that cabinet.”

“Dana, check it out.” Steve shoved his find in front of his chum's face. “Notice anything weird?”

Dana read through the first page. When he got to the next one, his eyes widened.

“They're all the same,” Steve said. “You were right! There's something weird going on here.”

“This is—”

Dana was interrupted by a sound from down in the warehouse: the whine of the front door opening. Someone was coming inside.

S
TEVE AND
D
ANA CLICKED
off their lights and dove for cover against the half wall of Antrim's office.

“What do we do?” Dana whispered.

“Just wait. Maybe they don't know we're in here.”

“I hope they don't see the broken window.”

Two voices became clear, ringing through the empty warehouse. Steve recognized them: the doorman and Henry.

“Just seems like a waste,” Henry said.

“Yeah, but you know the boss. Cautious to the point of paranoid. Apparently the kid went to the cops today.”

“So what? The cops have been by before. That's why we have this place.”

“Yeah, but he says as long as this Brixton kid's snooping around, the whole operation's at risk.”

So Antrim was scared. Steve felt a rush of satisfaction.

“Plus,” said the doorman, “he's mad at us for not getting the job done in Ocean Park.”

“Well, why didn't they just grab the kids when they were in here today?”

“They thought they were just fans. Apparently, Brixton used a fake name. Carter or something. They still don't know how the kids found out about the B. Syndicate.”

“And they're not gonna.”

Steve wanted to laugh.

“Well, come on, let's get this done.”

The two boys sat, their backs pressed hard against the wall, listening intently and clenching their teeth. Sometimes they heard footsteps, sometimes they heard rustling, and sometimes they heard nothing at all.

Finally the doorman spoke. “All right,” he said quickly. “Let's get out of here.”

The front door clanged shut.

“Are they gone?” said Dana.

“Maybe,” said Steve. “Or maybe it's a trap. Let's wait five minutes.”

Sure enough, soon there was the sound of more rustling, and then cracking, like chairs being broken over someone's knee.

“What's happening?” Dana hissed.

Steve didn't know, and he hated that he didn't know. His brain was divided into two halves: the half that wanted to peek over the wall and see what was going on and the half that wanted to stay hidden forever.

He stared straight ahead, thinking. Then he noticed something unusual.

The window behind Antrim's desk, across from him, was flickering, like it was reflecting the lights of a thousand flashlights.

He nudged Dana with his elbow. “Look.”

“How many people are down there?” Dana asked.

Steve was sweating. Normally he didn't sweat much. He wiped his face with his sweatshirt.

All right. That was it. Steve had to look. He had to know. If there was an army of ghostwriters down in the warehouse, then it was better to find that out now and think of a plan.

He turned around and slowly rose up to take a peek. As soon as his face was above the half wall,
a blast of heat burned his eyes. It was like he had opened an oven door.

There was no army of ghostwriters.

But the warehouse was on fire.

A thousand Bailey Brothers books went up in flames.

“F
IRE!” SHOUTED
S
TEVE.

Dana popped up next to him.

“Fire!” shouted Dana.

They squinted and watched as the fire spread across the warehouse floor. Steve had had no idea fire moved so quickly. Orange flames engulfed whole swaths of the space below. Towers of red Bailey Brothers novels burned, sending grayish-brown clouds of ash and heat billowing to the ceiling. It was mesmerizing. Dana and Steve watched, transfixed and horrified. Hot smoke poured upward. It was
like a liquid, thick and quick-moving, constantly in motion.

The smoke hit their faces, hot and dry and foul. It was like being downwind of the world's biggest campfire. They ducked back down.