A Will to Survive Read online

  “And Sal,” Joe said. “If he slept through my getting up, that leaves him out. I’ll question him the minute I get upstairs . . . unless he’s already asleep!”

  Sal was waiting for Joe by the open door of their room. “Listen,” he said. “I’ve got a bad feeling about what’s going on. What are you and your brother up to?”

  Joe spread his hands and shrugged. “We went out to look for owls. Somebody saw us and called the cops. By the way, was that somebody you?”

  Sal’s neck reddened. “No, I didn’t see you, and no, I didn’t call the cops. If I had seen you, I would have had words with you myself. I don’t like the idea of people prowling around in the middle of the night. There’s been too much bad stuff happening around here lately.”

  “We asked Tanya ahead of time,” Joe told him. “She said it was all right. Next time I’ll be sure to clear my plans with you, too. Okay?”

  “You don’t have to take it that way,” Sal said. “I’m worried, that’s all. Come on, we’d better catch some zzz’s.”

  Sal turned and walked into the room. As he went past Joe’s bed, his foot banged into something that rolled across the floor. Joe went over and picked it up. It was a spool of black nylon thread.

  “Where’d that come from?” Sal asked, over Joe’s shoulder. “It’s not mine. Hey, wait a sec. The guy who pulled that skunk stunt used black thread. Carl told me.”

  Joe was thinking the same thing. He turned and gave Sal a hard-eyed look. Then he realized Sal was giving him the same sort of look.

  Joe tossed the spool on his dresser. “It’s not mine, either,” he said emphatically. “Somebody must have dropped it here.”

  Sal stared at him. His fists were clenched. He opened his mouth to speak. Then, shoulders hunched, he turned away.

  As he tried to fall asleep, Joe found his thoughts going around and around. Was the thread Sal’s? If not, who had left it in their room? The door was not locked. Anyone could have tossed it in. In that case, it was obviously meant as a frame. But who was it fingering—Sal or Joe? Maybe the person who planted it didn’t care whom it pointed to, as long as it pointed away from him . . .

  • • •

  “Well, well. Look who’s here,” Rahsaan said loudly when Joe and Frank came down to breakfast the next morning. “Our two night owls!”

  Sal and Jack laughed and gave the Hardys nasty looks. At least the two had found something to be in agreement about, Joe thought. That was progress.

  Joe and Frank filled their plates, poured glasses of milk, then walked to the table. Wendy slid over to make room for them. “I think doing an owl count is a terrific idea,” she said when they sat down.

  Joe gave her a grateful smile. More than once, his being undercover had led to people treating him like an outcast. He was used to it. That didn’t mean he liked it.

  “So do I,” Callie said from the doorway. She stopped at the buffet to fill a bowl with cereal and fresh fruit. Then she sat down across from Joe.

  “Let’s face it, guys, we’re outnumbered,” Jack said to Sal and Rahsaan. He tried to make it sound like a joke, but Joe heard the hostile edge in his voice.

  “Did you enjoy the nature trail yesterday?” Wendy asked Frank. “I’m afraid the kids were a handful.”

  Frank laughed. “Some of them sure were! But yes, I enjoyed it a lot. And I learned so much. You have to be a real expert to lead a tour like that.”

  “Not really,” Wendy told him. “By tomorrow you could be taking a group around yourself. The most important thing is knowing how to admit you don’t know something. If you try to fake it, it shows.”

  After breakfast, everyone went to the seminar room for a talk about the tropical rain forest. Halfway through, Tanya came into the room and said, “Frank? Joe? Could I speak to you, please?”

  As he and Frank got up to leave, Joe could not help feeling they were being sent to the principal’s office for acting up. The others had that look he remembered from grade school—a mixture of curiosity, a little sympathy, and a lot of relief that they weren’t the ones being singled out.

  They followed Tanya to one of the smaller exhibit rooms. “This display case of birds’ eggs,” she said, stopping. “It has been moved.”

  Joe and Frank looked all around the case. They found faint marks on the dark oak floor, a couple of inches from each of the legs.

  “You’re right,” Frank said. “It was moved.”

  Joe stooped down and tilted his head one way, then the other. “Frank, look!” he exclaimed. “If you catch the reflection of the light just right, you can see a thumbprint on the glass.”

  “You’re right!” Frank said a moment later. “From the pattern of bumps, I’d say the person was wearing rubber gloves . . . not lab gloves, but kitchen gloves. This could be an important clue!”

  Tanya shook her head. “We use rubber gloves for many tasks here,” she said. “They are all over.”

  “Still, this may be an unusual pattern,” Frank replied. “We should dust and photograph it.”

  While Frank went upstairs to get his camera and fingerprint powder, Joe examined the wall behind the display case. He looked closely at each molding. Even so, he nearly missed a hairline crack. He began pressing on the wood in different places. Just as Frank returned, a panel swung open.

  “Did you find anything?” Frank demanded excitedly.

  Joe straightened up and cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “A stack of Life magazines from the 1950s, and about four tons of dust!”

  Before Frank could respond, a bell clanged loudly from nearby.

  Tanya gasped. “That’s the fire alarm!”

  Joe and Frank ran toward the central hall. It was already filling with dense black smoke. Joe threw himself to his hands and knees and peered under the layer of smoke. Dimly he spotted a bundle of clothes piled in the middle of the hall. Was that what was on fire?

  Suddenly Joe felt a chill down his back. That wasn’t a bundle of clothes. It was Sal! He was lying curled up on the floor—not moving and not breathing.

  7 Piercing the Smoke Screen

  * * *

  The thick greasy smoke billowed through the entrance hall. Frank dived to the floor. There was still a layer of breathable air there, but it was no more than nine inches deep.

  “Joe—get Sal!” he shouted. “I’ll try to find the source of the fire.”

  Tanya said, “I’ll make sure the others have left the building.”

  Joe was already on his way. He pulled himself across the hall on his belly, using his hands and feet. Frank followed him. He took slow, shallow breaths and tried to see where the smoke was coming from.

  By now Joe had reached Sal. In quick glimpses, Frank saw him hook a hand under the unconscious boy’s armpit and crawl toward the front door. Frank felt a surge of relief. The most urgent part of the job was done.

  Now for Frank’s part. He steered toward the densest part of the smoke. His eyes stung. He blinked repeatedly, trying to lessen the pain. Through a mist of tears, he saw, near the far wall, a black metal object about the size of a gallon paint can. It looked as if the smoke was billowing from an opening in the top of the thing.

  Frank crawled faster. When he was a few feet away, he saw a chain attached to the neck of the object. Dangling from it was a metal cap a little wider than the opening. Frank touched a fingertip quickly to the cap. It was hot, but not too hot to touch. Leaning on one elbow, he grabbed the cap and dropped it onto the opening in the top of the gizmo. Then, for luck, he banged it a couple of times with his closed fist.

  The smoke stopped. Frank twisted around and started to creep toward the front door. The ache in his lungs got worse with every breath he took. He felt a cough rising from his chest and forced it back. If he started coughing, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop.

  Frank could hear the blare of sirens and truck horns outside. Boots pounded up the front steps. Two sets of hands grasped Frank by the arms and tugged him out the door into the sun
light and fresh air.

  “I’m all right,” he started to say. The effort of speaking set off the cough he had been holding back.

  “Here. This’ll help.” A woman in a white jacket handed him a small tank of oxygen with a clear face mask attached. Frank put the mask over his nose and mouth and took a couple of whiffs. It helped a lot.

  “Thanks,” he said, removing the mask to speak. “The others are okay, aren’t they?”

  “They’re fine.” The woman pointed to her right. Frank could see Joe and Sal sitting on the steps. Sal looked very pale. The other interns were clustered around them. Callie saw Frank and hurried to his side.

  “How do you feel?” she asked, taking his arm.

  “Smoky,” he replied, rubbing his forehead. Some greasy soot came off on his hand. “I must look pretty wild.”

  “Well, yes,” Callie agreed with a smile. “But you’re safe. That’s the main thing.”

  Three firefighters came out and down the steps. The one in the middle was holding the black metal gizmo in his gloved hands.

  Tanya rushed over to them. “What is that?” she asked. “I’ve seen something like it before.”

  “It’s a smudge pot,” the firefighter told her. “It’s filled with oil and sends out thick smoke. Fruit growers use them to lay down a smoke screen when there’s a danger of frost.”

  “I thought it looked familiar,” Frank murmured to Callie. “I saw those in Florida one time, when we visited an orange grove.”

  “You mean there is no fire?” Tanya demanded.

  “No, ma’am, just a lot of smoke,” the firefighter replied. “Once you clear it out, you should be fine.”

  “Uh-oh,” Frank muttered. “More problems on the way.” A van with a satellite dish on the roof was speeding up the drive toward the house. Just behind it was a bright red sports car with the top down. A young woman with short blond hair was at the wheel. Frank had seen her face before, on television.

  The van and sports car stopped a few feet behind the fire truck. Two guys in striped overalls got out of the van and started unloading video equipment.

  The blond woman got out of her car, looked around, and walked straight to Tanya.

  “Hi there. Kate Mulhare, Channel Eight news,” she said. “I caught the flash on the emergency band and came right over. More trouble, huh? Tell me, is there a jinx on this place?”

  “Certainly not!” Tanya said stiffly. “I must ask—”

  “A skunk inside the museum,” Mulhare said. “Furniture moving around mysteriously. And wasn’t there a report of prowlers early this morning? When you add to that the eccentric reputation of Walter Parent—”

  “—You get nothing that makes a news story,” Tanya said firmly.

  One of the camera crew came over and fastened a tiny mike to the collar of Mulhare’s blouse. He turned to Frank and said, “Would you mind moving? You’re in the frame.”

  “I’m sorry, you’ll have to leave,” Tanya said to the cameraman. Her face reddened.

  “A fire at an important institution like this is breaking news,” Mulhare insisted. “Do you want half a million viewers to watch you try to kick us out?”

  A firefighter with pairs of silver bars on the collar of his shirt walked up to Tanya. “We’ll be on our way,” he said. “I’d keep an eye out if I were you. Somebody around here has a nasty sense of humor. The chief will have to decide if we investigate further.”

  Mulhare gestured to her camera operator, then said, “A nasty sense of humor? What do you mean by that, Captain?”

  The fire captain glanced at Tanya, then at the camera, before answering. “Somebody lit a smudge pot inside the building,” he said. “Maybe it was meant as a prank, but it could have led to a very serious situation. The person who did it was literally playing with fire.”

  He nodded to Tanya and walked to the fire truck.

  “Look, Ms. Mulhare,” Tanya began. Frank heard a note of desperation in her voice.

  “Please, call me Kate,” the newscaster said with a sugary smile.

  “Kate,” Tanya said through clenched teeth. “We are very, very busy right now. It is already past opening time. If I agree to an interview—say, tomorrow morning—will you please go now and leave us to our duties?”

  The sugar in the smile dissolved into triumph. “Why, sure, Tanya,” Mulhare said. “Eleven o’clock okay? That’ll give us plenty of time to put the story together before we air it.”

  The camera crew packed up their equipment. The van and the red sports car drove off. Tanya watched them go, then wordlessly went into the building.

  Joe joined Frank and Callie. “What was all that?” he asked.

  Frank filled him in. Then he said, “We have to find out where that smudge pot came from.”

  Joe gave him a smug look. “How about the storage shed near the old apple orchard?”

  “Is that a wild guess?” Frank asked.

  “Last week there were half a dozen of them in the shed,” Joe replied. “Sal just told me. He and Rahsaan noticed them. They were looking for baling wire to repair a break in a fence. And Sal says they mentioned seeing the smudge pots that night at dinner.”

  “Hey, that’s right!” Callie exclaimed. “I remember!”

  Frank felt his spirits sink. He had hoped that discovering the source of the smudge pot would narrow the list of suspects. But it was no help. All the interns had heard about the smudge pots in the shed. And of course Carl, the caretaker, must have known about them. Who did that leave? Only Bruce and Tanya, Frank thought glumly, and they could easily have known about them, too.

  Joe broke into Frank’s thoughts. “I’ll go look around the shed right now. If that is where the smudge pot came from, the culprit may have left some clues.”

  “I think we should try to find out where everybody was right before the smudge pot went off,” Callie said. “If two or three people were together, none of them could have lit it, right? How about I ask around?”

  “Good idea,” Frank said. “And I’ll try to track down that skunk scent. I hope Tanya doesn’t mind my using her phone.”

  Callie shook her head. “You saw the state Tanya was in after dealing with that TV reporter. I doubt if she’d mind anything that might get her out of this mess.”

  • • •

  Tanya put Frank at a table in her office with a telephone and two volumes of Yellow Pages. He started calling each of the companies listed under “Novelties.” The first one offered to imprint his name and message on ballpoint pens. The second specialized in helium-filled party balloons. A woman at the third company didn’t sell skunk scent, but for a very reasonable price she could have a picture of a skunk embroidered on baseball caps.

  Frank dialed the next number on his list and explained what he was after.

  “Skunks?” the man on the other end repeated. “How about stink bombs? Those I have. First class, too. They’ll clear everybody out of a room in ten seconds flat.”

  “How do they work?” Frank asked.

  “They’re little balls of thin glass,” the man explained. “You throw one on the floor and get away fast.”

  “Do they smell like skunk?” Frank pursued.

  “They stink, that’s all I know,” the man said. “Really, really bad. I’m talking sickening. What is it with skunks, anyway? You’re the second customer this week who wants skunks.”

  Frank sat up straighter. “Oh, that must have been my sister, Pamela, who called before,” he said.

  “Nope, it was a man,” the dealer said, taking the bait. “I told him to leave his number and I’d see what I could do. No dice. He hung up on me.”

  Frank reached the end of the listings. No shop in either directory had skunk scent. One used to carry it but stopped because it didn’t sell well.

  “Around here, we smell skunk often enough just driving around,” the shop’s owner told him. “You might try New York City. People there probably think the smell of skunk is exotic.”

  Good advi
ce, Frank thought. He went to the bookcase for the Manhattan Yellow Pages. While he was thumbing through it, the phone rang. Tanya answered. After a minute or two of conversation, she waved Frank over and switched to the speaker phone.

  “ . . . your problems,” a deep voice was saying. “I sympathize. But my offer won’t last forever. It can’t. From what I hear, the Shorewood Nature Center won’t last forever, either. What you decide in the next few days will be critical to its survival.”

  “We have a splendid reputation,” Tanya said proudly. “We’re known throughout the East.”

  “Of course,” the man said. “That’s why I want to work with you. I want to help you, give you the resources you need to develop properly. My plan is best for Shorewood. I urge you, accept it now, while you still can. Otherwise, I take no responsibility for what happens. The center may be damaged beyond repair.”

  8 A Deadly Hang-Up

  * * *

  Tanya brought the call to an end. For a moment she leaned her head against her hand, with the palm shading her eyes. Then she sat up straight and took a deep breath.

  Looking at Frank, she asked, “What impression do you have from what you just heard?”

  “In one word? Menace,” Frank replied.

  “I see we agree,” Tanya said. “That is some small comfort.”

  “Who was that?” Frank asked her.

  Tanya picked up her pen and doodled on her desk pad. “A man named Douglas Cleland,” she told him.

  Frank thought he recognized the name. “The big developer?”

  “Exactly,” Tanya said with a nod. “The project he is most interested in at this moment is a new gated community of very expensive waterfront homes . . . to be built on the bay frontage of the Shorewood Nature Center.”

  Frank snapped his fingers. “You got a call about this the day we arrived. From somebody named Roger.”

  “That was Roger Mainwaring, the attorney for Shorewood,” Tanya said. “Cleland approached him first. When we rejected his offer, he began calling me. The conversation you just heard is typical.”