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No one says much of anything on the ride back to the house, and we're all shaken after my mom drops us off at home.

Caleb looks down at the burly man staring back at him from the sketchbook sitting on the hall table.

“Whoever you are, you sure have lousy people skills,” he says.

Wearily, the three of us troop up the stairs and down the hall to my room.

My room.

I have the sickening realization that Isabel has never seen my room.

Or smelled it.

I run to open a window.

Isabel gives a weak smile as she looks around the collected debris that makes up my bedroom. “Well, this is certainly cozy….”

“Yep, this is where the magic happens,” says Caleb, flopping down on the bed.

I turn on the laptop and smoothly kick as many pairs of old underwear and T-shirts under the bed as I can.

I offer Isabel the chair by the desk. She gingerly steps over an old fast-food wrapper and sits down.

I lean into the computer and go to Google.

“First off,” Isabel finally says, “he clearly said the letter
M.
More than once.”

“Yeah, that's got to have something to do with it,” I agree.

“What starts with
M
?” Isabel asks in a slightly smug tone.

“Is that a rhetorical question?” snipes Caleb from the bed.

“How about…
Maltese Falcon
?” Isabel practically shouts. “He was trying to give you message about the book.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But I'll feel a lot better when I can figure out what ‘Shee guy mass' means.”

“You're pretty proud of yourself, aren't you?” asks Caleb.

“You didn't think of it,” Isabel says with a smirk.

“Yeah, but I also didn't miss something right in front of me,” Caleb says as he riffles the pages of the book in his hands.

Isabel and I turn at the same time. “What?”

We jump on the bed and look over Caleb's shoulder as he opens the paperback. He stops on page two. It's been lightly circled in purple pencil.

He raises an eyebrow and turns to page fifty-four. Also circled in purple.

“They're the only two pages circled,” he tells us.

Isabel scans the pages.

“There's nothing important on these pages, is there? I don't see any numbers or anything about a key,” Isabel reasons. “Although the detective does hide the falcon in a storage locker and mail the key to himself.”

“And you never told us this?” I ask incredulously.

“We'd already found the key, and it wasn't mailed, so I didn't think it was important,” Isabel snaps back.

“You guys are missing something,” Caleb sings in a
nyah-nyah
voice.

I glare at him. “Okay, big shot. Let us in on it.”

“Sorry, it's just not so often I figure out something before the great Ted Gerson, so I wanted to enjoy the moment,” Caleb says.

“Okay, you've had your moment. Now tell us or I'm taking a pair of Ted's old underpants that he tried to hide under the bed and pulling them down over your head,” Isabel replies calmly.

I'm not sure which is worse, that Isabel saw me do it, or hearing her say “Ted's old underpants.”

“Two numbers are circled. Two and fifty-four. And in what color?”

“Purple?” I say. Then it dawns on me.

“Remember the blank piece of paper back in Great-Uncle Ted's apartment?”

“Violet,” Isabel laughs. “Ultraviolet.”

I turn from my Google search. “Purple…well, 254 nanometers falls in the spectrum for ultraviolet light, right?”

“But we don't have the lamp,” Isabel says, bummed. “How are we going to—”

Caleb sits up. “Ted, you still have that UV pen, I bet!”

I nod. “Somewhere in my desk.”

Isabel looks at me strangely. “You have a UV pen?”

“Sure,” Caleb explains. “It's a spymaster kit thing. You write notes in invisible ink to each other that can only be read under UV light. We both got them for Christmas.”

“I see,” Isabel says, nodding. “Like, when you were eight or something.”

“Actually,” Caleb answers proudly, “it was last year.”

I don't have to turn back from the desk to know that Isabel is suppressing a giggle. She clears her throat.

“Well, that's one advantage of being a ner—I mean, liking that kind of thing, I guess,” she says.

I pull out my desk drawer. I remove random Pokémon cards, Lego pieces, an old
Transformers
toy from a Happy Meal, and a plastic Slinky from a birthday party I probably went to in third grade.

Finally, after what seems like every embarrassing thing I've ever owned has been taken out and put on display, I find the pen. Miraculously, the battery still works.

I hand the pen to Caleb.

“We just run this UV bulb on top of the pen over the pages in the book and see if anything pops up,” Caleb tells Isabel, and they set to work.

I turn back to my computer. I type in “shee guy mass” and get nothing.

Well, I do get someone Chinese whose name is Shi Gai.

“Bull's-eye!” Caleb cries. “We've got a winner!” He crosses his arms in triumph.

“I don't see anything,” Isabel sniffs. “There isn't anything written.”

“We're not just looking for words,” he reminds her. “See? That letter is underlined.” He grabs his sketchbook. “This is going to take some time. We have to be really careful not to miss anything.” He writes down the letter
M.

“A coincidence?” asks Isabel. She leans in and watches Caleb run the UV light from the pen over the page. They turn the page and she points excitedly.

“Another one!” Caleb writes the letter
O
next to the
M
.

“Have you checked the page numbers too?” I ask as I try yet another spelling of “shi gai mas.”

Caleb looks sheepish. “That's the kind of thing he asks me when I get stuck in an escape game.”

Sure enough, one of the page numbers turns out to be circled under the UV light.

I'm having a lot less luck.

Nothing is coming up for me. I try putting “shi gai mas” into a Japanese-to-English translation program and it shows nothing.

Isabel takes a break from the book and looks over my shoulder.

“Maybe Japanese uses another letter for the
sh
sound?” she suggests.

“Maybe,” I say. So I try “chi gai mass” as Isabel returns to help Caleb.

The closest thing I find is “chi gai massage,” a business with a sexy-looking woman smiling out from the Web page. Don't hold me to this, but I'm reasonably sure that wasn't what Mr. Yamada had in mind.

“How's it going over there?” I call.

“We're halfway through,” Isabel reports. “We've got a whole bunch of letters and numbers, but I'm not sure it's making sense.”

I turn back to the screen. I quickly type “chigai mass,” and before I can correct my mistake, Google suggests “chigaimasu.”

I feel that familiar jolt go through me, like whenever I solve a killer game.

“I got it,” I say, pumping my fist.

Caleb and Isabel look down at the laptop as I press the button to reveal what the word means.

“ ‘
Chigaimasu:
Not the same, mistake, or wrong, or incorrect,' ” I read.

“So he was saying
M
is incorrect or wrong?” asks Caleb.

“Great. Now all we have to figure out is who or what
M
is,” Isabel says sourly, sitting back on the bed and going back to tracing the pen's light over the pages.

“Okay. Let's think,” I suggest. “
M
could mean
Maltese Falcon.
Was he telling us
The Maltese Falcon
was the wrong book?”

“That doesn't seem right,” Caleb reasons.

“
M
…is there a person named M?” My eyes catch the sketch of the burly man in Caleb's sketchbook that upset Donna Yamada so much.

I look over at the man. “Are you Mr. M? Are you wrong? Incorrect?”

Caleb closes the old paperback. “We've got all the numbers and letters.”

“Let's see what you have,” I say, and proceed to write them neatly on a new sheet of paper. “The numbers are 23, 44, 57. The letters are
M, O, R, P, O, A, R, K, S, R, T, E, T, E.
”

“It
has
to be an anagram. But what are the numbers?”

“There are too few to be a phone number,” I say, “unless you missed one.”

Isabel throws the book at me. “You look, then. I checked Caleb and he checked me. That's all we found.”

“It could be an address,” suggests Caleb.

I nod. “Of course. Look at the letters. If you rearrange them, they make the words
Moorpark Street.
”

“Is that near here?” Isabel asks.

“Not too far. 234457 Moorpark Street.”

I turn and enter the information into the computer.

“Wait,” says Isabel. “You hit the
M
twice. It says
MMoorpark.
”

“Right,” I answer. “Hey, don't hate on mistyping. That's how I found out what
chigaimasu
means.”

I'm about to retype the address, when I stop.

“What's up, dude?” Caleb asks. “Come on, let's find out where 234457 Moorpark Street is.”

“Mr. Yamada didn't say ‘M,
chigaimasu,
' ” I say slowly as my mind turns this over. “He kept saying ‘M…M…
chigaimasu.
' ”

I look up at them. “What if he
meant
‘M.M.
chigaimasu
'?”

“So?” Caleb says impatiently. “So it's M.M. We don't know any M.M., do we?”

“Maybe we do.” I begin typing something into the browser. “M.M.? Monuments Men?”

The Monuments Men site loads in. But somehow, it looks slightly different.

“Isabel, do you know how identity thieves get you to enter your private information online?”

“I think so,” Isabel answers. “My dad warned me about this before I could buy anything on the Web. They set up sites that look exactly like the real sites, only they're phony. And the Web address is the same except for one small change.”

“Exactly. Like dot com instead of dot org.” I scroll up and come to the page Stan showed us on his laptop.

But it isn't that page. Instead of copying the address from Stan's business card, I find the site through Google.

It's www.monumentsmen.org, not www.monumentsmen .com.

All the difference in the world.

“What are we looking at?” asks Caleb in a small voice, like he knows what it is.

“This is the real Monuments Men site,” I say as we look at the photo. It's identical to the one Stan showed us, but he's not in the picture.

Behind the old man holding the ledger is a different smiling man.

He has a broad, bald head, a unibrow, big black plastic glasses, and a fringe of hair around his ears.

“And that,” I say, indicating the man whose face we've come to know so well, “is the real Stanley Kellerman.”

“Nicely done!” says a voice behind us.

I've felt a lot of things in my gut—the lurch of nausea before a big test, butterflies before giving a presentation at school, even the whomping up-and-down of a roller coaster.

But this is different.

For the first time in my life, I feel real fear.

Fear in the pit of my stomach.

A cold, small thing that slowly begins to grow as I turn with the others and see the man we've come to know as Stanley Kellerman standing there.

“How did you get in?” I ask. I'm buying time, trying to process what's happening.

“Oh, I let myself in,” Kellerman says easily. “It's not hard if you know how.”

Isabel opens her mouth as if to yell, but quicker than I would have thought was possible, Kellerman bounds across the room, grabs her wrists in one hand, and squeezes.

“Ouch! That hurts!” Isabel gasps.

“Well, it's supposed to, isn't it?” he says genially, like a gym teacher at your school explaining the rules of a new game.

“How long have you been here?” I demand.

“Long enough. I stood outside the door for a while. You were doing so well decoding your great-uncle's little game, I didn't want to interrupt you.”

I try to casually put my arm over the paper.

Kellerman laughs. “Oh, Ted. That's so silly, isn't it? Let's just go back to your work and find out where that building on Moorpark Street is, okay?”

He's still holding Isabel's wrists in a viselike grip.

Caleb sounds like he's hyperventilating. “Are you…going to kill us?”

Kellerman regards Caleb for a second and then looks at me. “Kill you? Whatever gave you that idea? I just want what Ted's great-uncle found.”

“So you promise you won't kill us?” Caleb pleads.

“Yes, I promise,” Kellerman says soothingly. “As long as Ted cooperates. He's quite good at these games, as you know. His great-uncle was right to trust him to solve his little amusements.” He pulls Isabel toward the door, then leans against it, as relaxed as if he's just popped by to hang out and shoot the breeze. “So, first things first. Where's the key?”

“What key?” I ask, trying to stall as long as I can. I desperately wonder if there's a walkthrough on the laptop for this:
The Game of Ted 1.4: Escape the Fake Kellerman.

“Okay, Ted, we'll play it your way.” Kellerman sighs. “I think it's time for you to meet Douk-Douk.”

“Douk-Douk?” asks Caleb, who is curled up on the bed.

“A Frenchman named Gaspard Cognet made the first douk-douk in 1929,” Kellerman says. “It was supposed to be just for the colonial workmen, you know, to use in their daily jobs.”

There's a click. A small folding knife appears in Kellerman's other hand. It has an engraved blade and a blue hilt.

“But in the fifties, the Algerians who were trying to liberate themselves from France found a whole new use for douk-douks. They're very sharp, you see. Razor sharp.”

The silence in the room is total. No one moves. The only sound is Caleb's labored breathing.

“I'd like the key now, please,” Kellerman repeats in the same pleasant tone.

A small red dot appears on Isabel's arm. At first I can't figure out what it is.

But to my horror, I watch the dot grow larger, and I realize:

Isabel is bleeding.

The douk-douk has pricked her. Isabel tries to wriggle free, a look of panic in her eyes.

“Oops. Guess my friend Douk-Douk slipped. Accidents happen, huh?” says Kellerman, in the same maddeningly pleasant voice. “I guess by now you should have figured it out, Ted,” he continues. “As your ‘Dear Uncle's' lawyer found out, this is not a game.”

Kellerman reaches into his pocket with his knife hand, pulls something out, and throws it at Caleb, who looks frozen with fear.

“There's a Band-Aid—be a good boy and open it for me, Caleb?”

Caleb stares at the wrapped Band-Aid and slowly begins to peel it open.

“Go to the bathroom, Ted, and get a tissue. And if you're not back in five seconds, Douk-Douk might slip again. You understand, don't you?”

I nod. I race to the bathroom and return with the tissue.

I head over to Kellerman, who tightens his grip on Isabel.

“No need to come closer, Ted. Just put it on the edge of the desk. Now, Caleb, take the tissue and dab it on Isabel's arm. That's good.”

Caleb does what he's told, then carefully applies the Band-Aid to Isabel's wound. His hands are shaking.

“You're not still scared, are you?” asks Kellerman. “Nothing needs to happen. It's all up to Ted. Right, Ted? Now let's have that key.”

I look at Caleb and Isabel. Both have fear like I've never seen in their eyes.

I slowly walk around the room.

“So where do we think he hid it, kids?” Kellerman asks lightly. “Behind a poster? Taped under a drawer in his desk? I can't wait to find out!”

I go to my desk chair and turn it over.

“I do hope Ted isn't thinking of throwing that at me. That would be a very foolish thing to do, wouldn't it, Isabel?”

Isabel stares straight ahead, mute.

“I said, wouldn't it, Isabel?” Kellerman says, a slight menace apparent behind the jolly voice.

“Yes, it would,” Isabel replies mechanically.

I stare at Kellerman with contempt. I carefully unscrew one of the wheels from the legs on the chair and then turn it right-side up. The key falls into my hand from the tube.

“Excellent!” Kellerman says. “That's a new one on me! Ted, slowly place the key on the table and back away.”

I do as I'm told. It all seems so dreamlike, as if it's happening to someone else.

“Now we're all going to go on a little trip. But first, I need you to take out your phones.”

“My father took my phone,” Isabel says, in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Then I guess it's just the boys. Let's go, fellas. Phones, please.”

We both reach into our pockets.

“Put them in the desk drawer and close it.”

My heart sinks. Without our phones, we can't be traced. We do what he says, and I watch our chance of rescue disappear as I push the drawer shut.

“There's just one more piece of the puzzle, right?” Kellerman continues, casually shifting so that he can view the laptop while still holding tight to Isabel's wrists. “I believe you were going to look up an address.”

I move to the laptop and sit down. I reach for the keyboard, but Kellerman calls out: “Ted, please don't do anything stupid, like typing a different address into the search bar. I can see it from here. Just press Enter, and we'll all see where we're going.”

“We?” Isabel asks softly.

“I can't exactly leave you here, can I?” reasons Kellerman. “Besides, who knows? I might need Ted's genius at solving games. Great-Uncle Ted was certainly a clever man, wasn't he?”

“Then just take me.”

I'm a little surprised to hear these words coming from my mouth. “As long as you have me, they won't say a thing, right, guys?”

“You may be a wizard at figuring out clues, but when it comes to people, you've got some growing up to do,” snorts Kellerman. “If I just take you, who knows what little scheme you might cook up? But with your friends along, you're not about to put them in danger. And whether they are in danger depends solely on how well you cooperate. For example, just press the Enter key, please.”

I do what I'm told.

We all stare at the screen.

234457 Moorpark Street is a storage facility.

Kellerman's face lights up. Almost to himself, he murmurs, “That's the ticket! You've done it. Only a matter of time now…”

As he stands momentarily mesmerized, Isabel wrenches herself out of his grasp and pulls at the bedroom door, trying to get out.

Caleb and I immediately spring forward, reaching for the knife in Kellerman's hand.

With one move, Kellerman pushes us out of the way and slams the door on Isabel's arm. With a cry of pain, she pulls her arm back in.

Kellerman grabs her, roughly this time.

“All right, we could have done this the easy way, but I see you have other ideas. Any of you try anything like that again, I can make one of you disappear just like that lawyer. Don't think it can't happen. I've done it before, but only when I had to. Do I make myself clear?”

The three of us stand there frozen, dumb with terror.

We all nod.

Kellerman's demeanor changes, and the good cheer returns to his voice. It's chilling how easily he can go from one to the other.

“Now we're going to all go downstairs and into my car. Let's make this nice and simple. I apologize for losing my temper. You honestly have no idea what you're dealing with here. But once this is over, as long as everyone plays along, you'll have a great story to tell your friends and I'll have what I want. Deal?”

We nod again. Kellerman reaches behind him and with his knife hand opens the door.

He backs into the hallway, still holding Isabel.

We reach the landing, a weird procession, Kellerman walking backward with Isabel, with us facing them. At the head of the stairs, Kellerman motions with his head for Caleb and me to go first.

“I'm sure we don't want me to trip on the stairs, do we? It'd be terribly unsafe while I'm holding a knife.” Isabel's eyes are staring straight ahead, as if she's willing herself to get through this.

We walk carefully down the stairs, with Kellerman and Isabel close behind.

Just as they reach the bottom step, we freeze.

There is the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.