Operation: Survival Page 2

  “I’m seeing a pattern here. Not a happy pattern,” Joe commented.

  “Yeah, I don’t think ATAC is sending us on a fun-filled vacation after all,” I said.

  I continued reading. “‘I’m not surprised another kid ended up dead under Linc’s supervision,’ a worker from the Montana camp, who would only speak anonymously, commented. ‘Linc would rather kill a kid than damage his success rate. The white-water accident that closed down Camp Character was no accident. Linc’s methods weren’t working on the kid, so the kid ended up dead. You don’t screw up the statistics when you’re dead.’”

  The picture of the kids around the campfire returned. It was hard to look at Zack’s grinning face, now that I knew what had happened to him. Now that I knew he hadn’t made it out of the camp alive.

  “Your mission is to go undercover at Camp Wilderness.” The voice coming out of the game player was clearly electronically generated. There was no way to identify the speaker, but we knew it was Q.T.

  “You must determine if Zack Maguire’s death was accidental. Or if he was murdered.”

  3 COVER STORIES

  “We need you to sign permission slips for a science trip,” I said that night at dinner.

  My parents, Frank, and Aunt Trudy all stared at me. Probably because what they heard was more like “Wah neeg oo oo gine ermissgin ips or ience rip.”

  Or maybe because they were all horrified by the sight of me talking with my mouth way too full.

  I couldn’t help it. When Aunt Trudy serves up her chocolate chip cookie pie, my mouth is going to be full. It’s a cookie. And a pie. That should explain everything. Unless your taste buds have been surgically removed.

  I chugged down some moo juice—as I used to call milk when I was four—and tried again. “Permission slips. We need you to sign them. The top kids in all the science classes get to spend a week at Moosetail Lake.”

  “Moosehead,” Frank corrected.

  Tail. Head. What was the big deal? They were both attached to the moose. I don’t know why Frank has to be so technical about stuff.

  “It’s in Maine,” I said. “We’re going to study the ecosystem of the lake.”

  Did you like how I tossed in the word ecosystem? I did that for Mom. She’s really into recycling and saving the planet and everything. I figured if she was leaning toward saying no, using the E word might push her toward yes.

  “Studying the ecosystem.” Mom shot a smile at me. “While canoeing, and rafting, and—”

  I held up both hands. “Okay, you got me.” Like always, I thought. Sometimes when I’m around Mom, I feel like my skull is made of cling wrap. Every thought visible.

  “There will be some fun to be had,” I confessed. “But I’m sure we’ll learn something, too. So, will you sign?” I slid the phony permission slips across the table.

  We got the slips in our ATAC pizza package—along with two plane tickets to Maine, details about our false identities, and bios of Zack Maguire and Linc Saunders.

  Mom and Dad exchanged a glance. You know, one of those glances that are like entire conversations. “I guess we can survive without you two for a week.” Mom pulled a pen from behind her ear. She always has a pen stuck back there. I think it’s a research librarian thing. She signed and gave me back the slips.

  Aunt Trudy took the pen from Mom and started jotting down a list on the back of a grocery receipt she found in her pocket. “Underwear—ten pairs each. Sods—twelve pairs each. Sweaters, wool—,” she mumbled.

  “Aunt T, we’re only going for a week,” I reminded her.

  “And you’re telling me in that week one of you isn’t going to fall into the lake at least once and need a complete change of clothing?” Aunt Trudy continued writing.

  Aunt T thinks Frank and I are about five. I mean, come on, who falls into a lake? I haven’t fallen into a body of water since I was … okay, since I was thirteen. But usually I have no problem surviving on one pair of underwear a day.

  Honestly, I can survive on less. I don’t really understand the need for new underwear every single day. Every couple works for me.

  Mom had more important things on her mind than wet boxers. “At this time of year, you may run into some black bears up there,” she told me and Frank. “If you see one, do what the Native Americans used to.”

  She lifted her arms into the air. Still holding her fork. She didn’t realize she was in danger of ending up with some meatloaf on her head.

  “Hold your hands over your head and say, ‘Hello, Brother Bear. I did not mean to disturb you. I will leave your territory and leave you in peace,’” Mom instructed.

  “What about that bear spray? One of the jumbo cans. I’m thinkin’ that might be a better way to deal with Brother Bear,” I said.

  They really do make the stuff. I thought it was a joke the first time I saw an ad for it in a camping magazine. Because once you’re close enough to a bear to zap it with spray, you’re already a lot closer than I want to be. But I have to say, the spray seemed a lot safer to me than Mom’s method.

  “The spray might just make them angry,” Dad jumped in. “And an angry bear is nothing you want to deal with.”

  “A lot of bears attack simply because they’re surprised,” Mom explained. “That’s why talking to them is good. You don’t have to use the exact words I gave you—say anything. You can even sing if you want to—”

  “Mom, what are you saying? We’ve all heard Frank sing in the shower. It’s enough to make a baby kitten go on a killing spree.”

  Mom shook her head at me. But she smiled, too. So the head shake didn’t really count. “Just make noise and keep your hands over your head. That makes you look bigger.”

  “If they do attack, you’re supposed to play dead, right?” Frank asked.

  “Good thing I just helped a kid do research on bears. I know all the answers,” Mom replied. “You should play dead—even if the bear bites you. Except with black bears. Black bears are scavengers, not hunters. So if one bites, it’s probably decided you’re food. That means you have to go on the attack.”

  I nodded. Good to know. But I had the feeling Frank and I should be a lot more worried about Linc Saunders—a potential murderer—than bears.

  Frank reached for the last piece of cookie pie. But I got there first. “I’m gonna take this upstairs. I need to get some homework in,” I announced.

  “Me too,” Frank said. I led the way up to my room.

  “Wimps, wimps, wimps,” Playback called.

  “It’s not nice to talk to Frank that way,” I told our parrot.

  Playback ruffled his feathers. Frank ignored me. He does that a lot. He flopped down on my bed. I pulled the files we’d received from ATAC out of the top drawer of my desk.

  There was a file for Brian Moya. And a file for Steve Neemy. Neemy’s stats included dark brown hair and brown eyes, so I handed that file over to Frank.

  I flipped open the file for Brian Moya. The blond hair, blue eyes description matched me. “Brian Moya, Brian Moya, Brian Moya,” I said aloud. I wanted to get a feel for the name.

  “You sound like Playback,” Frank commented.

  This time I ignored him. “Brian Moya,” I said one more time. Then I started to read the police report for Brian. Make that me. “Wow. I was arrested for shoplifting three times,” I told Frank. “The last time, the judge ordered me to a stay at Camp Wilderness.”

  “I trashed a convenience store in an act of gang violence,” Frank answered.

  I tried to imagine Frank trashing anything. It made my head hurt. He doesn’t even trash his bedroom. He’s freakishly neat. I’ve been thinking about having him studied by a team of scientists. I suspect he isn’t a hundred percent human.

  “Okay, so we should flesh out our cover stories.” Frank stared up at the ceiling. “Steve Neemy is from Brooklyn. So what gang should I have been in?”

  I sat down in front of my computer and Googled “Brooklyn” and “gang.” A lot of Mafia stuff came up.
Not what I was looking for.

  I tried “teen gang.” Yeah, this is more what we needed. “There’s some stuff on big gangs, like the Vice Lords and the Gangster Disciples. But if a guy from one of those gangs is at the camp—”

  “It would be way too easy for them to figure out I’m a fake,” Frank finished for me. We do that sometimes. Complete each other’s thoughts.

  “Right. Even if you studied from now until we leave, you’d never be able to get down all the details,” I agreed. Which is saying something. Because Frank’s a study champion.

  “So Steve Neemy—”

  “You mean you,” I interrupted.

  “Right. So I’m not from a major league gang. I’m from a smaller league gang,” Frank said. “Just me and some guys from the neighborhood. And I’m not one of the leaders or anything. I’m—”

  A knock cut Frank off “Enter!” I called.

  Dad came inside and closed the door behind him. “Your mother is doing a bear-by-bear survival breakdown for you two. I think I convinced her she didn’t have to include polar bears. You know your mom. Thorough. Plus, she worries.”

  Like Dad doesn’t. He worries a lot more than Mom does. But maybe that’s because he knows we’re ATAC. That gives him extra stuff to be worried about.

  “You all ready for the trip?” Dad asked.

  Let me translate the fatherspeak: Are you sure you don’t need my expert advice? Since I am an only partly retired PI, and I was a cop for a million years, and, oh, yeah, I founded ATAC?

  Frank and I keep waiting for Dad to realize we can handle ourselves. We’ve completed tons of missions.

  “Yep. We’re just doing a little prep on our cover stories,” Frank said.

  Dad leaned against the doorframe. Like he was just casually hanging out. But I could see how tight the muscles in his neck were. “Uh-huh. And that’s going okay?” he asked.

  Translation: I have years, and years, and yes, years more experience than you boys. I think it would be smart of you to ask for a little advice.

  “Going great,” I answered. I did that thing where you mean to nod once, but then end up looking like one of those bobblehead dolls. I hoped all those extra head bobs would convince Dad that I really meant everything was going great. That he didn’t really have to worry, because Frank and I were on top of things.

  Then there was one of those silences. You know the kind. A silence that is basically a battle of wills. Who will speak first? Who’s gonna crack?

  Frank didn’t talk. I didn’t talk. Dad didn’t talk. Even Playback didn’t talk—for once.

  I wanted to throw Dad a bone. I did. Just give him my opinion on the Linc Saunders is-he-a-murderer-or-not question. Or ask him his opinion.

  But the thing is, parents are hard to train. If Frank and I let Dad talk the case over with us this time, he’d want to do it every time.

  And Dad always has these retro ideas about everything. For example, he doesn’t see why we need our ultimate, extreme motorcycles. I mean, he makes sure we’ve got everything we need—he totally souped them up a short while ago—but he’d rather have us ride Vespas or something. Again, because he worries.

  And probably because he didn’t get to ride an awesome motorcycle back in the day, so he doesn’t see any reason we should now.

  “Well, if you need me, you know where I’ll be,” Dad finally said.

  Hey, we won. But we don’t always. Dad is truly superior at the silence game.

  Words came pouring out of me the second the door closed behind him. “So you’re going to be from a farm team kinda gang. Nothing that anybody but you and your crime-lovin’ buds know about. Do you have a name? The Pythons? The Vicious Sisters? The Polar Bears?”

  “Let’s get back to that,” Frank said. “I thought of something while—” He hesitated.

  “While we were waiting for Dad to realize we’re big boys who can handle our missions on our own?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Anyway, I think that one of us should pretend to be unathletic,” Frank went on. “I have the feeling that Saunders won’t have any patience for a guy who can’t meet all those physical challenges he lines up.”

  “I can see that. That quote from him made it sound like he didn’t have a lot of respect for kids who weren’t able to find their core of heavy metal.”

  “Steel,” Frank corrected me.

  Will he ever get my sense of humor?

  “And Zack’s mother said Zack didn’t have any experience camping or anything like that,” I added. “Maybe he kept messing up. Maybe Zack wasn’t strong enough to be the kind of Camp Wilderness success story Saunders loves.”

  “Maybe,” Frank agreed. “I think it would be interesting to see how Saunders treats someone who isn’t in great shape.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to be that someone. I’m a genius at the undercover stuff But no one’s going to believe I’m a couch potato.” I flexed for Frank. “Maybe I should be a guy with attitude. A guy who isn’t going to become a rehabilitation poster child for Saunders, no matter what. I think that would bug him as much as an out-of-shape kid.”

  “One of us should definitely give Saunders some attitude,” Frank said. “That’s a great idea.”

  “So you be the wimp, wimp, wimp. And I’ll be the outlaw who won’t be brought down by a stay at Saunders’s pathetic little camp.”

  Frank pulled a quarter out of his pocket. “I’ll flip you for it.”

  “Do you really think you can pull off an extreme bad-boy attitude? You’re not exactly … Let’s face it, Frank. You’re a teacher’s pet kinda guy. Every adult you’ve ever met loves you.”

  Frank gave me the Look of Doom. “Heads,” I said.

  The quarter went up. And came back down—tail up.

  “And you lose. Shall I call you Mr. Potato, or do you prefer Spuddy?” Frank asked.

  I shrugged. “At least I’ll be able to check out Chet’s theory.”

  “What?”

  “So I have to pretend to be out of shape and everything. But I’m still Brian Moya, shoplifter. And that means I’m still a Bad Boy. With capital Bs. If Chet’s right, the girls at the camp should think I’m The Man.”

  4 WELCOME TO CAMP WILDERNESS

  I was sitting in the back of a police cruiser. Me. Frank Hardy. Son of Fenton Hardy, a former cop. It was just so wrong. In so many ways.

  Wait. No. It’s not me, Frank Hardy, getting a police escort from the airport to Camp Wilderness, I reminded myself. It’s Steve Neemy.

  But the weird thing was—I still felt kind of ashamed. I felt like everyone in the little town of Greenville was looking at me. Wondering what Frank Hardy had done to get himself sent to reform camp.

  I told myself to start thinking like Steve. Steve was supposed to be a hard case. A guy with attitude. A guy who had no use for Linc Saunders and his rehabilitation program.

  I met the gaze of the middle-aged man who was using the crosswalk while the cruiser was stopped at a red light.

  What are you looking at? I tried to ask him with my eyes. What have you done with your life that’s so special? What gives you the right to feel superior to me?

  The man looked away first. Good. I’d channeled Steve pretty well.

  The cruiser exited the main street of the town. It was only a couple of blocks long. A little grocery. A bakery. A bait shop where you could get a hunting and fishing license. That kind of thing.

  The houses started coming farther and farther apart. Then we turned onto a dirt road. About five miles down it, I saw the sign. The sign that we’d seen in our mission assignment: WELCOME TO CAMP WILDERNESS.

  Looking at it made all the little hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end.

  “This is it, huh?” Joe said.

  The cop behind the wheel glanced over his shoulder. “This is it,” he answered. “Last chance. You screw up here, and it’s straight to juvie. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.”

  He didn’t say it in a nasty kind
of way. More in an FYI kind of way. Or even an I-don’t-want-to-see-you-mess-your-life-up way.

  “Unless you happen to turn eighteen while you’re at the camp,” his partner added. He gave us a not-all-that-friendly smile, and I noticed he had a gap between his front teeth. “Then you go straight to big-boy prison if you don’t keep your nose clean here.”

  We pulled up in front of a small, plain building made of pine planks. A couple of jeeps were parked in front of it. A quarter mile or so behind it was a long row of bunks.

  “Somehow I don’t think we’re going to be getting little mints on our pillows,” Joe said.

  I ignored him. But not in the way I usually do. I did it in a Steve Neemy why-are-you-even-talking-to-me way.

  The cops opened the back doors for me and Joe. We couldn’t open them ourselves. The backseats of cop cars don’t have door handles on the inside. Which is logical. Can’t give the criminal types an easy escape route.

  Then the cops marched us into what turned out to be Linc Saunders’s place. An office, bedroom, kitchenette combo. “Neemy and Moya for you,” the gap-toothed cop announced.

  Saunders nodded and the cops left. “Have a seat, boys. I was just about to run through the Camp Wilderness philosophy for Miss Hanks here. She’s a new arrival as well.”

  The teenage girl sitting on the sofa in front of Saunders’s desk didn’t look over at me and Joe. She kept her eyes on the bearskin rug on the floor. I tried to keep my eyes off it.

  See, my grandmother used to have this fox scarf kind of thing. It had its head still attached—just like the bear rug did. When I was little I used to dream that the fox came alive and tried to claw my face—

  You know what? This is not information you need to know. Back to the story.

  I sat down on one side of the girl. Joe planted himself on the other.

  The girl was cute, I’ll admit it. I wondered if Joe was thinking about Chet’s bad-boy theory.

  Saunders leaned back in his leather chair. The front legs came off the ground. The back legs creaked under his weight. It’s not that he was fat. He had less body fat than anybody I’d ever seen.