The New Champion (17 page)

“Where is he?”

“With the losing team. He was so mad he couldn't get in her face right now.”

“Good guy, huh?”

“He was actually pretty funny, but I'm glad I'm not her. You've gotta watch out for Jig, though. He's like Rocky was last year. Rocky told me so himself. Don't trust the guy.”

“What will he do?”

“Talk smack. Try to psych you out. Did you notice when he was basically doing nothing? That was on purpose. He once told Rocky that if he ever got in the Games, he'd let his team fall behind, then come save the day and be the TV hero.”

Cameron nodded. “Clio figured that out. So, did he look like the hero?”

Spencer shook his head no. “It was a toss-up.”

“Between Clio and who?”

Spencer shoved him in the shoulder, turned, and walked away.

Lunch Following the

TEAM COMPETITION

“T
his can't be good,” said Larraine from Finance.

“You think?” said Bert Golliwop. “We're supposed to be whooping it up with the winners, and instead, we're in an empty conference room. No food, no fun.”

Jenkins from Human Resources was the last in the room. “Now what?” she said. “It's not another one of my people out with the flu, is it? Who gets the flu in August?”

“I don't know if it's one of your people,” said Burt, head in his hands. “But you should know what it is. You all should know. Who in tarnation broadcast privileged information on every live computer screen in the building?” He looked up. “We need to know, and know now: Where were our contestants during those five minutes?”

“Do you want me to get Carol and Bill?” Jenkins asked.

“I've already talked to all the escorts,” said Tawkler from Marketing. “The whereabouts of every contestant is accounted for during that time.”

“At least there's that,” said Bert. “At least we don't need to switch to an alternate challenge.”

There was a brief tap on the door before it opened. Danny, the intern, handed Bert a sheet of paper, then left.

Bert scanned the paper, then put it down. “Our airtight system was hacked. And my question is, Why can't the genius who did that work for me and not for Flummox?”

Morrison from Legal cleared his throat. “We can't assume it's Flummox, Bert. You realize it might be some random, crazy person out for notoriety or trying to make a buck.”

“Yes,” said Jenkins. “And I can't see the people at Flummox—”

“You dare stand up for my competitor, Jenkins? I thought you worked for me.”

Jenkins paled. “I-I do, sir. It's just—”

Bert Golliwop held up a hand. “Forget it, Jenkins. You stand up for your employees every day. That's in your nature and why you're good.”

The red raced back to her cheeks. “That's very kind—”

“But I still doubt it's someone out for a buck. If that were true, they'd hold our information for ransom instead of trying to sabotage us. And who might want to sabotage us? That dirty, rotten, cheating—” He took in a breath because finger-pointing wouldn't help. And if it was Flummox, with his ingenious puzzle division, it would be hard to prove.

“Be careful,” Morrison said. “With such limited thinking, we may be targeting an innocent suspect, therefore overlooking the real criminal.”

“Yes!” said Jenkins. “It may not even be within our industry. Though I could have sworn I did catch a glimpse of Flummox in that rat-infested arena. I'll bet—”

“Seriously, Jenkins?” said Tawkler from Marketing. “You may be great managing this whole employee system, but you'd flunk as a spy. If it is Flummox, it's not likely he'd show his face. He'd pay someone working here to carry out his plans.”

“I knew that,” said Jenkins. “I just wasn't, um—maybe the flu is getting to me.”

“The bottom line is this,” said Bert. “We need to flush out the mole, whoever he or she is.”

“Excuse me.” Jenkins pointed to the paper under Bert's hands. “What about Danny? He's been sitting in on meetings. I didn't clear him. I didn't even hire him. How'd that happen?”

“I hired him,” said Bert, “and it's not Danny.”

“How do you know?” said Jenkins.

“I've known his family forever. I also know he could have gone to grad school at Harvard or Brown, but I insisted he come here to get both classroom and practical education.”

“College kids are notoriously poor. Maybe he needed the money.”

“This isn't about that, Jenkins. This is about jealousy and corporate greed. But there's nothing else we can do now. Let's go meet the kids and eat something.”

“Even so,” Bert heard Jenkins whisper to Larraine on their way out, “it wouldn't hurt to keep our eyes on the intern.”

A
fter lunch, Bill led them through a series of winding halls into a large room. “Even Jig didn't see our lounge last year. Except for us monitoring you, this space is totally private. No public cameras or microphones unless we tell you. You have full access to me if you need it. Just push this.” He motioned to a green, plate-sized button on the wall. “Try it, Dacey.”

She pressed it with one finger.

“No,” said Bill. “Really pound it with your fist.”

She gave it a whack, and the room went dark. Eerie music came up.

Bill banged the button, and the room returned to normal. He stopped laughing and spoke into his headset. “Thanks, Danny. That was fun.” He swiveled the microphone away from his mouth. “Sorry. My lame attempt at humor. There is no magic button. Nothing brings the lights down or the music up unless you have Danny in the control room working the joke. If you need me, yell. If you're still hungry, eat.”

One part of the room looked like it came straight from a convenience store. It had a four-flavor ice cream machine, shelves of sweet and salty snacks, and a drink dispenser with fifteen types of soda and lemonade. Bill pointed out the bathrooms, then directed them to the five large armchairs in the middle of the lounge, each with noise-canceling headphones and a touch screen monitor with a huge menu of videos, games, music, books, and magazines.

They stood there like a tour group. “We have a few more details to take care of,” said Bill, “before we send you onward.”

A man in a dark suit and toy-printed tie walked in like he owned the place. Actually, he did own the place. It was Mr. Golliwop. “I've just come from congratulating your opponents for their fine efforts. And you five! What great assets to our Games! You've all played honorably. I expect that to continue.”

Mr. Golliwop gestured toward Jig. “This young man knows how disappointing it is to have that window of opportunity close on him. Though heaven knows what you were thinking, Mr. Jiggerson, in naming your competitor. It's been quite awkward bringing him back. Be that as it may, we fully anticipate you all will continue to be models of integrity and intelligence from here on out.

“And now that I've given my boring little speech, please take your chairs and pay attention to your monitors.”

Cameron settled into the most comfortable chair ever. It hugged him without making him feel he'd suffocate. His monitor showed the Orange Team in a colorful conference room with five large trunks. The camera panned to five more trunks on the other side of the room.

“No matter what happens,” said Mr. Golliwop, “you'll each receive one of those. And some of this—”

The feed cut to one kid fanning himself with a wad of hundred-dollar bills.

“How much is that?” Jig asked.

Mr. Golliwop smiled. “Enough for now. Also inside your trunks is our newest GollyGamer, which won't come out for months. And of course there's another thing or two you might find interesting.”

Like last year, when they'd hidden an important puzzle piece in the trunk? Wasn't anyone going to ask? He wasn't. No reason to tip off the competition. Anyway, how would he ever find that room if he needed it?

Cameron brushed the hair from his eyes. He was overthinking again. New rule: If he had no other options, he'd figure out where it was. The end.

Their screens went dark. “Relax,” said Bill. “I'll be back soon.” He left with Mr. Golliwop.

Dacey leaned over to Cameron. “So, your brother. He's a little doll. Or a big one.”

Cameron's brother wasn't any doll. “Spencer's the reason I'm here. He—”

“Sweet,” said Dacey, apparently uninterested in the rest of the story. She leaned over to Jig.

“Your friend,” Jig said before Dacey could say anything. “She's a little doll. Or a tall one.”

“She's a ditz,” said Dacey. “She always managed to cheat or something to win the pageants. That's why I quit. I swear they were rigged. But you,” she said to Jig, “you had the audacity to bring back Rocky.”

“If I'd known, I would've asked for my dumb little sister.”

“I would have kept Janae,” said Clio. “She's the fiercest person I know.”

They all looked at Estella. “Never in a million years,” she said. “They asked who I wouldn't want, and his ugly, cheating face flashed before my eyes.”

“At least they sent him away for lunch,” said Dacey, “and you had those people around you.”

“My family,” said Estella. “My mom and dad and my little brother and sister. They're a pain, especially when they don't listen to me, but they have my back.”

“And you have theirs,” said Clio.

Estella nodded, then shook her head. “What if they bring the jerk back?”

“Just pretend every step you take pushes a voodoo pin into him,” said Clio.

Estella almost smiled. “If you don't mind, I'm going to turn my chair around and breathe for a minute.” She tiptoed with her feet until the back of her chair faced them.

“Too bad she'll miss out on my secret,” said Jig. “I wasn't going to say anything, but it wouldn't be fair if only I knew this.” He leaned in toward them. “You know what Mr. Golliwop was hinting at with those trunks, don't you?”

“What?” said Dacey.

“When the time comes, think about how they needed them last year.”

“Right,” said Dacey.

Jig nodded. “And one more thing. Remember when Gil dropped his sticks last year? It wasn't because of Rocky. It was the pressure of needing the money. Gil was wiping sweat off his palms the whole time.” He rubbed his hands together. “Ever since then I swear I've been training my hands not to sweat, and it works. All you do is concentrate on the part affected by stress.”

Dacey was rubbing her nose. “It itches when I get nervous. I've seen videos of me twitching like a bunny.”

“You see?” said Jig. “Tell it not to itch. Or concentrate on your ears instead.”

She looked sideways like she was trying to see her ear. “It helped!” But then she rubbed her nose. “Well, almost.”

Cameron touched the top of his head. It was starting to sweat again. He'd barely felt it all day. Maybe he'd been too busy to notice. Maybe now that he was relaxing—

Seriously? He was falling for it. Spencer was right. Jig was trying to psych them out.

Clio rolled her eyes. She motioned for Cameron to turn his chair around. She came over and knelt by him. “You know what he's trying to do.”

Cameron nodded. “My brother warned me he would.”

“Don't listen,” she said.

“You, either.”

The door burst open, pretty much scaring the wits out of Cameron. Bill was back. “Who's ready to play more Games?”

Cameron sucked in a deep breath.

“S
it back!” Bill said.

“We're competing in chairs?” asked Jig.

“Nope.”

“Thank goodness,” Estella said. “I could fall asleep here. Best chair ever.”

“And you get to keep it!” said Bill. “Parting gift with the trunk and whatever.”

“Hey!” said Jig. “What's going on?”

The lounge was moving.

“Why walk when you can ride?” Bill put a hand on Jig's chair back. “We're heading to five separate challenge rooms. There you'll be on your own,” he said. “If you have an emergency (and I'm talking bleeding or worse), yell. But if you need to scream in frustration, yell, ‘I'm frustrated!' This whole competition works best when we adults can sit in the background, eating our chocolate and sipping our coffee.”

The lounge came to a stop.

“Let's do this!”

They stepped out the lounge door and into a cozy, round area. Its windows, though, must have had video screens instead of glass because they showed sandy shores with crashing waves.

“Our little attempt at humor in the Midwest.” Bill positioned them each in front of a door. “When you hear the signal, go!”

Cameron hoped he could hear the signal over his thumping heart. He shouldn't have worried. Waves crashed. His door opened. He rushed in. The door clicked shut behind him.

Four more doors lined the wall ahead. All locked. On the desk behind him sat a clear container just smaller than a basketball net. It was about a quarter filled with keys. At the three-quarter mark was a tube feeding in more keys, a few at a time.

Next to it was a flexible plastic card, larger than any stunt or puzzle card by far.

 

In puzzles like these

You find the right keys.

You open the doors.

You look at the floors.

Four things belong;

Four others are wrong.

BUT
(
AND HERE COME THE RULES
)

Select just one key—

Not two and not three.

Then try it before

You go back for more.

OH. AND
. . .

To make it more tough

(It's not hard enough),

The person you know

Will make your task grow.

(They're all unaware

What they're doing up there.)

TURN ON THE MONITOR ABOVE THE DESK.

 

Not again! On the screen, Spencer and Rocky and Laura and Stephen and Janae were picking up three keys on one side of a room and depositing them in one of five tubes on the other. Worse, Spencer and Rocky were moving as if they were in a race for a billion dollars.

Cameron had to hurry before Spencer made his entire container spill over. He grabbed the first key he touched and tried it in the first lock. It didn't fit, not even past the tip. It swam in the second lock. It got partway into the third. And no go in the fourth. He ran back and put the key inside an empty container he assumed was for discards. He grabbed another key. This was definitely not your normal door key. The part you stuck in the lock was square and hollow.

He ran it over and looked at the keyholes. The first door's keyhole was smaller than normal. The second's was square like the key he was holding. He tried it. It went in perfectly but didn't turn. The third's was like the ones at his house. The keyhole on the fourth was larger with space for two sets of notches, one on the top and one on the bottom.

This was good. He'd only need to try each key in one lock. Next key. Square. Door number two. No. Next. Large and notched on two sides. Door four. No luck. Normal key. Door three. No. Very long, very skinny key. Door one. No.

He glanced at the screen. Spencer was still racing with all his might. Poor Estella was probably transfixed by her old boyfriend. And why was he worried about Estella now?

More keys. He tried two normal ones. Another square one. A skinny one. Three two-sided ones. Another square one, and yes! Door two.

Inside was nothing but a small closet space with a couple of toys on the floor. Those would have to wait. Right now it was a race against all those keys Spencer was sending down the chute.

New game plan. He rooted through the container for normal-looking keys. They'd get buried more easily and be harder to find. If only he could stop the new ones from coming!

He tried the first normal key in door number three. No. Second key. No. Third. No. By the time he went back for a fourth key, he had to dig to find one beneath a barrage of new square keys, which he didn't need.

The keys were almost as high as the feeding tube. Spencer was still running. Hard. Fast. If only he'd trip and give Cameron a break. If only Cameron could take off his shirt and stuff it in the feed tube. Wait. Not a bad idea. Unless there was a rule against it. But being half naked on national TV? No, but—

Maybe his instruction card was large and flexible for a reason. He held it inside the container, against the feed tube with one hand. With the other, he clawed a bunch of keys against the card to hold it into place.

Spencer dropped in three more keys. The card held! The keys were staying in the tube!

Back to normal keys. He tried four more until the fifth worked. Door number three, open. He couldn't help himself. On the floor were both the zipper and shoelace cards from the old Dress Me, Dress You learning game. In the other door were the GollyRocket and GollyCopter. And these were supposed to have something in common?

He'd been better off knowing nothing. Spencer was still rushing over with the keys, and no telling how long the card would hold. Unless . . .

Oh, no! What if Spencer was feeding him keys he needed? Forget that for now. He could always reopen the floodgate later. Cameron grabbed a double-notched key. Why couldn't the first one work on door number four? Or the second? Why did it take eight of them?

Cameron knew better than to glance toward this floor, but it was like roadkill; he had to see. Two new objects: GollyGlitter and GollyGlue.

Back to the container. The card was leaning in like a dam about to burst. He shoved more keys against it, but they would hold only for a while. He had to get the last door open.

Time for the long, skinny keys. One, two, three. No, no, no. Four, five, six. No, no, no. Seven, eight, nine, ten. Eleven!

He pulled out the staircase and wardrobe from Mystery at Golly Mansion. He brought over the rest of the objects and laid them on the desk. What was he supposed to do now? He pulled the card from the container to a key avalanche. “Four things belong, four others are wrong.”

“It's wrong they don't give us another hint,” he muttered.

But they'd given him a drawer in the desk! False alarm. It had paper and pens and nothing. He used them, though, to list what he had:

 

Shoelace

Zipper

Wardrobe

Stairs

Glue

Glitter

Rocket

Helicopter

 

Step one, process of elimination. It couldn't be the words themselves because Golly hadn't instructed him to call it a helicopter or copter or chopper; a lace or a shoelace; steps or stairs. It had to be the objects themselves, not their names.

So what did four have in common? Similar markings? Nope. Common objects versus not? His house had stairs, glue, shoelaces, zippers; but Dacey probably had glitter, and Golly couldn't have predicted who owned what.

Next idea. The colors? The dates Golly introduced the products? What the company still made and what it didn't? No, no, and no. The answer had to be simple. Right now his brain was completely blank. And even when he figured this out, what was he supposed to do with the four things that belonged?

He inspected inside and underneath the desk drawer for writing. Nothing. Hoping the screen had more info now, he touched the monitor. Spencer and the rest were still running for keys. Not for long, though. The key wall was mostly empty.

So was the rest of Cameron's room. Nothing else inside the closets. Nothing under the desk. Just the key container, discard container, monitor—

Back up. He dumped out the keys from the discard container. At the very bottom it said, “Deposit the four that belong in here. Close the other four inside any of the closets.”

Yes! Back to the puzzle. Fresh brain. Fresh ideas. What fresh ideas? Maybe if he focused on the objects one at a time . . .

You tie a shoelace. You zip a zipper. You put clothes into a wardrobe. Shoes? Zipper? Wardrobe? What else has to do with getting dressed? Nothing. Unless he used glue and glitter to make a shirt. And no.

Still, he liked his direction. You tie a shoelace. You put clothes in a wardrobe. Or you open a wardrobe. Were there other things that opened? Not really. Onward. You stick things together with glue. A rocket flies. So does a helicopter. They lift up. They come down. And the stairs! You go up and down a staircase. One more thing.

Cameron scanned the objects, grabbed the zipper, zipped it down, then up!

He put the up-and-down things into the container. He threw the shoelace card, the glitter, the glue, and the wardrobe onto the floor of the second door and slammed it shut.

Now what? Nothing on the monitor. But the discard container suddenly glowed. It lifted up, up, up toward the ceiling. Cameron started looking for a trick wire, but the entry door opened.

Bill thumped him on the back. “Good work!”

“Fast enough?”

Bill pointed to their lounge. “See for yourself.”