The Further Adventures of Jack Lime (15 page)

Thursday, October 31, 3:31 p.m.
Iona High, My Locker

I asked every single solitary person in both my classes, including my teachers, if they knew a kid named Jake Clim. Nobody had ever heard of him. So when the final bell rang, I wandered back to my locker and got ready for my showdown with Tyler. I was just opening the door when I heard a “Psst” coming from the nearest garbage can. I shuffled over, a little nervous about what I might find, and peeked inside.

“Howdy, Sarge,” Max said, staring up at me.

“What are you doing in there?”

“A little recon of my own,” he said. “I do some freelance work on the side. I hope you don't mind.”

“Did you manage to track down Jake Clim?”

“There's nobody at this school by that name, Sarge, and that's a Max Thorn guarantee. Did you ever consider it might be an alias?”

“Why would he use an alias?”

“I don't know,” Max said. “What was the job?”

“He wanted me to record him getting hustled by a couple of brunos down at the train station, at exactly the same time that Tyler Butt's precious comic book was being stolen. And now I'm getting framed for that job and my airtight alibi has disappeared. Oh, brother,” I added, as understanding dawned. “I've been such an amateur. Why didn't I see this earlier?”

“I've got a knack for clearing things up,” Max said, peering over the edge of the garbage can.

“That's great, because I've got a new job for you, Max,” I said. “Do you know Sebastian Cain?”

“He's a bit of an artiste, right?”

“That's the one,” I said. “I need you to watch him like a hawk, stick on him like glue, become his shadow. Do you think you can manage that?”

“Affirmative,” Max said, gritting his teeth. “Do you need me to take him down, too?”

“No, I don't want to spook him. I just want you to tell me where he goes and what he does for the rest of the day.”

“Where and when is the rendezvous?”

“My grandma's place, tonight at ten sharp.”

“Roger that, Sarge. Now I'm going to have to ask you to step away from the garbage can. You're attracting attention.”

“I wouldn't want to do that,” I said, and walked away. Whether I liked it or not, it was time for my meeting with Tyler Butt.

Thursday, October 31, 3:45 p.m.
Iona High, The Front Lawn

Tyler was standing in the middle of the main foyer with his arms folded across his chest when I arrived.

“Out front,” he growled, and started for the doors.

“Where's Cain?” I asked, following him outside, down the steps and onto the lawn that stretched out in front of the school.

“Where's your friend?” Tyler asked, ignoring me and taking off his jacket.

“If you just give me a second to explain,” I started, but Tyler wasn't in the listening mood. He just lunged at me, fists flying.

I tried to step out of the way, but he still managed to clock me in the nose. I stumbled back, a little dazed, and threw my arms up in front of my face just in time to block a barrage of blows he sent my way. Tyler stopped, stepped back and reconsidered his attack. By now a small crowd had gathered, and I took the opportunity to throw myself on top of him. I figured I had a better chance trying to smother his attack on the ground. I was wrong. I might've been four or five inches taller than Tyler, but he was as strong as an ox and as slippery as an eel. Before I knew what was happening, he had me pinned and was ready to start serving me some knuckle sandwiches. That's when somebody yanked him off me.

“That's the guy!” somebody yelled.

I sat up and saw Bucky King towering over me, holding Tyler by his shirt collar. The tall and lanky kid that Tyler had pushed around yesterday was standing a few feet away, pointing a long skinny finger at Tyler.

“That's the guy, Bucky,” he said. Three toughs from the Riverside Boys were standing beside him.

“You got a problem with my friend?” Bucky asked.

“Let me go!” Tyler said. “I got work to do.”

Bucky glanced in my direction and then turned back to Tyler.

“So do I,” he said, and pulled back one massive fist.

I didn't stick around to see how that battle would shake down. Instead I got up and broke through the crowd. That's when Darla, still dressed as Batgirl, grabbed my arm.

“This way,” she said, dragging me back up the front steps.

We'd gone through the front doors, across the main foyer and were about to head down the English wing when Snit and Van Kramp rushed outside.

“Come on,” Darla said, “you need to lie low for a little while.”

Thursday, October 31, 3:55 p.m.
Iona High, The Student Council Room

For those who don't know, the Student Council Room is a posh little oasis, set up next to the library, that doubles as the headquarters for the
Iona High
Guardian
. It's got a few comfy sofas, some tables, its own miniature refrigerator, a microwave and a half dozen slick computers. While Darla went to grab some tissue for my bloody schnoz, I slumped down in one of the sofas and spotted an early edition of the paper. The headline across the top, in big bold black letters was one word: “STOLEN!” Underneath was Darla's black-and-white photo, but the sides had been cropped so the focus was on the perp's leg. The light switches and that mysterious left arm had been completely cut out of the action. I thought that was a bit of a travesty, since I had them figured as pretty crucial pieces of evidence, and that's when I realized that I'd missed another gigantic clue. A clue that had been literally staring back at me in black and white.

“Here,” Darla said, coming back in and handing me a box of tissues. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a dope,” I said, wadding two tissues up into long tubes and stuffing one up each nostril.

“Why?”

“Did you crop that photo using a computer before it went in the paper?”

“I told you, Jack,” she said, “I'm an old-fashioned kind of girl. I did it manually with a cutter. To get it the way I wanted it first.”

“Where?” I asked.

“At my desk, over there,” she said, pointing into the corner.

“Are the clippings in here?” I asked, nodding at a garbage can sitting beside the desk.

“Probably.”

I rooted through a thousand candy wrappers and potato chip bags before I found four rectangular strips that had once belonged to her large glossy photo.

I sat down and started examining each of the strips. I'd been so focused on the perp's leg and the arm beside the light switches that I hadn't really looked at the faces in the crowd.

“Bingo!” I said, waving one of the strips in the air.

“What did you find?” she asked.

“Not what, who,” I said, holding the strip of photo up to her face. “That, Batgirl, is Ronny Kutcher. He's in Grade 7 at the middle school, so there's not a reason on earth why he should be at a comic book convention at Iona High. In fact, middle school students aren't permitted in Iona High without express written permission from their principal. I know because of a case I had last year. It all had to do with a bunch of plastic bananas, a wheelbarrow and a pair of dirty underwear, but that's a story for another time.”

“What now?”

“Now it's time for me to have a friendly chat with Ronny. Maybe he can explain what he was doing at Comic-Con. Heck, maybe he's even familiar with my disappearing friend Jake Clim. Thanks for the help, Darla.”

I was just marching out when Mariam Singh came in.

“Oh my, Jack,” she said, “what happened to your nose?”

“It's not important,” I said, trying to squeeze past her.

“Are you here about the Student Council records for Comic-Con yesterday?”

“I wasn't,” I said, stopping, “but what did you find out?”

“Well, according to the notes, Sebastian's table was next to the light switches.”

“Sebastian Cain?”

“Uh-huh, he's one of the Grade 12 reps,” Mariam said. “In fact, he planned the whole event.”

I grabbed her, hugged her, kissed her on both cheeks and left. I didn't stick around for the swooning, although I'm sure she felt pretty special after all that attention from yours truly.

KC stopped with her notes and looked up. “Swooning? Really, Jack?”

Well, I was excited anyway, and I stayed that way until I got to the Kutcher place.

Thursday, October 31, 4:15 p.m.
14 Mercury Lane, The Kutcher Place

The Kutcher residence looked the same as always, a perfect slice of suburban blandness. Even at the end of October, the lawn was still perfect, the garden was still tidy and the picket fence was still very white. I strolled down the walk and knocked on the front door. I heard the pitter-patter of feet thumping toward the door and hoped they belonged to Ronny. Unfortunately, when the door opened, I found out they belonged to his older sister, Sandra.

“Jack,” she said, pointing at my nose, “is that supposed to be part of your costume?”

“They're nothing,” I said, pulling out the two tubes of tissue I still had rammed into my nostrils. Only now they were partially soaked with blood.

“That is so totally disgusting,” she said, stepping back.

“I don't suppose you have a trash can I could throw these in?”

“No,” she snapped. “Aren't you a little old to be trick or treating?”

“I'm not here about candy,” I said, still holding the two bloody tissues in my hand. “I'm here to talk to Ronny. He's been a bad little boy.”

“Well, he's not here, and even if he was, I wouldn't let him talk to you. Not after the way you ruined his birthday party.”

“Ruined his birthday party? That's rich. I tracked down his bicycle at the bottom of the Iona River and you call that ruining his party? I was just doing my job, Sandra. A job you hired me for, by the way.” I considered tossing the tissues into the garden, but I have a serious problem with littering, even on the Kutchers' property.

“Are you talking about your detective agency? That's not a job, Jack. You don't even get paid. Face it, you're a pretend detective.”

“Just like you're pretending to be away at college?”

Her eyes got wide and her cheeks got red. I guess I struck a nerve.

“I'm just home for a short break,” she said.

“On a Thursday?”

“It's none of your business,” she spat, and started to the close the door, but I wedged my foot against it and stopped her.

“Tell Ronny I'm on to him, again,” I said, and pulled my foot away.

She slammed the door and left me standing there with my two bloody tissues.