On Track for Treasure (14 page)

T
HE FAKE FIGHT AND THE REAL FIGHT

T
he house kids were supposed to send a message letting the barn kids know they'd gotten the schoolroom key, but there hadn't been a word all morning.

Frances was getting nervous. She'd wrapped the decoy pages in her shawl, which she then tied around her waist. Now she was working in the garden, waiting for the next part of the plan to begin. She kept looking over at the schoolroom window, though she knew it wasn't likely she'd see anything—Jack had said it was too high up in the room to give a good view from either side.

As far as their plan was concerned, though, the most important window was the one in the kitchen. Jack and Alexander were at the woodpile by the barn making sure they remained in sight of the house. At the right moment, the two of them would stage a fistfight, and if all went well, the Careys would spot them from the kitchen and run out to break up the ruckus. Then, in the meantime, Frances would sneak into the house with the decoy pages.

But nothing would happen until they had the schoolroom key. Frances began to chew her lip with worry. She knew it would look suspicious to be working in the same spot in the garden for too long, and she began to glance around, wondering if anyone noticed her. She saw Olive and Eleanor out for a stroll, so she crouched down and started weeding, hoping to avoid them.

“Frances!”

She jumped at the sound of her name.
Pipe down, Harold!
she thought.

Then she straightened up.
Harold?
He was supposed to be in the house! She looked all around and then heard him again.

“Frannie! I'm locked inside!”

He
was
in the house—he was calling from the schoolroom window! She could see his shock of red hair in the narrow space, and his hand reaching out, waving frantically. He must have climbed up to reach the window—not a surprise, since Frances knew Harold could scale trees like a squirrel.

She rushed over below the window. “What happened? Are you being punished? What did you
do
?”

“I didn't do anything! Eleanor locked me in!”

“
What?”
cried a voice from behind Frances. It was one of the Carey girls. “I did not lock you in!” Eleanor called up to Harold. “It must have been Olive!”

“I did no such thing!” Olive protested, her face turning bright red. “Not on purpose, I mean!”

The Carey girls were confused. Frances, though, had figured it out—Harold must have sneaked into the schoolroom, and Olive had locked the door. It had been accidental, of course—whoever had made the mistake (Olive, perhaps), Frances could see that both girls were flustered and felt bad about it. But then that gave her an idea. . . .

She turned to face the Carey girls. “You locked my
little brother
up?” she cried in a horrified voice. “My little brother, who's
sick
?”

“N-not me,” Eleanor sputtered. “At least, I don't think so. . . .”

“One of you did,” said Frances, her eyes narrowing. “Or maybe both of you. My poor, sick brother, what did he ever do to you?”

Up at the window, Harold began to cough loudly.

“It was an accident,” Olive said. “No need for Mother to know, right?” She glanced over at Eleanor, who nodded nervously.

“Of
course
not,” said Frances. “We can just go in quietly and let him out. I won't say a word, and I'll make Harold promise, too.”

Olive blew out a breath of relief. “Good. We'll just need an excuse to get the keys from Mother.”

Frances smiled. “I'm sure we can figure something out.”

“Did you hear something?” Jack asked Alexander as they waited over by the woodpile.

“No, why?” Alexander asked.

“I thought I heard someone yelling,” Jack said, motioning to Alexander to stay quiet. The two waited for several moments, and Jack listened for the voice again. He didn't want to say anything, but he could've sworn it was Harold, calling his sister's name.

But there was nothing more. Finally Jack shrugged. “Never mind.”

They went back to stacking wood and discussing the best ways to stage their fake fight.

“You should shove me first,” Alexander suggested. “Then I'll roll up my sleeves and take a swing, but you'll duck so that I'll miss.”

Jack wasn't so sure. “What if you don't miss? And why do I have to be the one to start it?”

“Because you're the hotheaded one,” Alexander said with a grin.

“What? No, I'm not!”

“Sure you are. It's why I have to be the one in charge.”

Jack snorted at that. “Oh, really?” Now Alexander was pulling that I'm-the-leader stuff again. “Well, if you're so smart, and I'm the one with the temper, why are you trying to provoke me now, before we've even gotten the signal?”

He was trying to be logical, but he could feel his own face getting warm. Why did Alexander have to be such a pain sometimes? They'd been getting along better for the past few days, but that all had suddenly changed.

“Don't be a turkey,” Alexander shot back. “I'm not trying to—wait a second . . . what's going on?” He peered over Jack's shoulder at the house.

Jack turned and saw Frances being led through the back door of the house by the Carey girls.

Why is she going inside?
Jack wondered. He couldn't see the expressions on any of the three girls' faces from here, but it seemed as if Olive and Eleanor sure were keeping an eye on Frances. “I don't understand,” he told Alexander. “She was supposed to wait for us to fight!”

“Then let's fight now!” Alexander said. “What are we delaying for?”

Jack would have loved nothing more than to shove Alexander just then, for real. But something was wrong inside that house. He knew it.

“What if she's in trouble?” Jack wondered. By now his mind was racing: Maybe Olive and Eleanor had caught Frances with the key and were taking her to Reverend Carey. Or maybe they had brought her inside because Harold had gotten hurt. It was all starting to add up, in dozens of awful ways. “That shouting I heard . . . I think it was Harold!”

Alexander's eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

“I think so,” said Jack. “I really think something's wrong in there. We should sneak inside and help.”

For just a moment, Alexander seemed to agree. But then he straightened his shoulders and looked down at Jack as if he were three feet taller, instead of just of a couple of inches. “No,” he said firmly. “We'll do what we planned with the fight. Create a distraction out here instead.”

Jack looked back toward the house. His hands were clenched into nervous fists.
He's wrong
, he thought.
I know he's wrong.

“Come on,” Alexander said, taking a step toward Jack, as if daring him. “Or are you chicken? That's why you're second fiddle around here.”

Jack took a deep breath and shoved Alexander. Hard. So hard, in fact, that the older boy staggered backward and fell.

“What?”
he yelped. “You pig! I'll slug you for real!”

But Jack wasn't listening. He was already running toward the house.

B
EHIND LOCKED DOORS

O
live, Frances realized, was the shorter one of the sisters, and the cleverer one, too. She'd gotten the keys from Mrs. Carey with no trouble at all. “We need to unlock the cellar and bring up a few more pickle crocks,” she'd told her mother.

“Good idea,” Mrs. Carey had said. She'd hardly looked up from her work on the sewing machine as she handed the key ring over.

Then Frances and Eleanor followed Olive into the pantry and watched as she unlocked a trapdoor in the corner of the pantry floor.

Olive spoke under her breath to Frances. “That way it's not a lie,” she said.

The girls left the cellar door open and ducked down the hall to the schoolroom. “I'll keep watch here and make sure Mother's not coming,” Eleanor whispered, while Olive stood ready with the key.

“Go in and fetch your brother,” she told Frances as she unlocked the door. “Make sure he keeps quiet about this. And keep an eye on him from now on, would you?”

“Sure.” Frances patted her shawl where the pages were hidden. She'd hand them off to Eli and tell him to wait for the Reverend to come in. Then she'd get Harold and slip out. “Don't worry.”

Olive pushed open the door and let Frances go inside.

“Eli?” she whispered. “Harold?” The rows of desks were curiously empty.

“Frances!” Harold called. He was up on the sill of the high window.

“Shh! Why are you still up there?” Frances said, trying to contain her panic. “You're going to break your neck!”

“It's easier to get up than to get down,” Harold said.

“Never mind! Where's Eli?” Frances hurriedly pulled out the sheaf of papers and dropped them onto one of the desks.

“He was standing over there behind the door a moment ago.” Harold motioned to the spot where Frances had just entered. “But now he's gone.”

Frances whirled around. Eli had slipped out through the open door!

She ran into the hall. There was no Eli, only Olive and Eleanor standing there wide-eyed.

“Did you let that boy out?” she asked them.

“Olive did,” said Eleanor.

“I did
not
!” said Olive. “He just ran out! He went that way!” She pointed in the direction of the kitchen.

Frances was sure he'd escaped out the back door of the house. But before she could say anything, they heard footsteps clomping down the hall toward them.

Eleanor gasped and lunged at the open door to the schoolroom, pulling it shut. Olive hurriedly locked it and hid the keys behind her back.
Harold's still in there!
Frances realized with horror, but the footsteps were coming closer, and there was nothing she could do.

The footsteps were Jeb's. He stopped and looked at his sisters and Frances suspiciously. “What in the blazes just happened?” he said. “I thought I saw that darky boy run out through here!”

“Don't call him that!” Frances said. “His name is Eli.”

“And . . . and . . . we don't know what you're talking about, Jeb!” said Eleanor, folding her arms nervously in front of her.

Frances could tell she wasn't a very good liar, probably because she'd had to keep a promise to the Reverend all these years. “She means that Eli is still in the schoolroom,” Frances told Jeb, thinking quickly. “See, I'll show you!” She knocked on the schoolroom door.
“Eli, you're in there, right?”
she called.
“Knock if you're in there!”
If Harold could knock in reply, Jeb would think it was Eli.

There was only silence. The three Carey teenagers gathered around Frances, and together they stared at the door. Frances felt her chest pounding. What if Harold couldn't climb down from the windowsill?

Tap-tap!
came the sound at last from the other side of the door.

Frances nearly fell over with relief. “See?” she told Jeb.

“Yes,
see
?” Olive said. Though, like Eleanor, she crossed her arms anxiously.

Just then, there were more footsteps, and Mrs. Carey appeared in the hall. “Olive!” she said sternly. “You left the cellar door open! Go and lock it, will you? And then return the keys to me.”

Olive mumbled a quick “Yes, Mother” and hurried down the hall.

Then Mrs. Carey turned to Frances. “Why, Frances! Are you here to see Harold?”

With her still-pounding heart, Frances could only nod for a moment. How many lies was she going to have to tell today? It felt as if her brain were doing somersaults.

“I've got his lucky pebble,” she said. “Eleanor said he's upstairs . . . uh, right?”

She held her breath and hoped Mrs. Carey wouldn't look around the house for Harold. She could tell by the expression on Eleanor's face that she thought the same thing.

“I suppose he is,” said Mrs. Carey. “You may go up and say hello.”

“Thank you!” Frances gasped as she darted up the stairs. She had never been so relieved to get away.

To Jack's surprise the back door to the house opened as he approached the steps. Nicky let him in, with his finger to his lips to indicate that Jack should keep quiet.

“What's going on?” Nicky whispered. “We just saw you shove Alexander!” Behind him were Sarah and Anka and George—they'd been peeling potatoes and must have observed him and Alexander fighting through the window. Jack peered out back at the woodpile, but Alexander was gone.

“Never mind that,” Jack whispered back. “Where's Harold? Is Frances all right?”

Sarah shrugged. “Harold's upstairs in bed. And Frances just came through here with Eleanor and Olive. I've no idea why. They wouldn't tell us.”

Jack nodded. He was just as confused as they were.

George pointed to the other end of the big kitchen. “You can't see it from here, but there's a pantry. They went in there to get something!”

Jack went over to the pantry doorway. No one was in there, but Jack stood inside a moment to marvel at all the casks and bins and sacks of provisions, the jars of jelly and preserves all lined up on the shelves. . . .

“Someone's coming!” Nicky hissed. “You have to hide!”

Jack spotted the open trapdoor in the corner of the pantry—he could see there were stairs leading down to a cellar. He tiptoed across the first few steps, then crouched and leaped down into the cellar like a cat to make the least amount of noise possible.

He ducked out of sight of the trapdoor as he heard footsteps on the floor overhead. Hardly daring to breathe, he waited. Jack looked around—one small window let in scant daylight, and though his eyes had yet to adjust to the dimness, he could make out bins of apples and potatoes.

Then, suddenly, the cellar darkened further as the trapdoor closed above him. Jack heard a key clink in a lock.

It was at the very same moment that Jack realized he wasn't alone. He could hear someone breathing.

“Hello?” he whispered.

Jack had barely spoken the words before something came at him in a pale flash and hit him in the head with a
thunk
!