Wade and the Scorpion’s Claw. Tony Abbott
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people clapped, including Lily. “I used to be able to do stuff like that,” she said. “Not since sixth grade, though. I’m rusty.”
“I never knew you were in the circus,” Darrell teased her despite himself. Joking around was his way of covering up his feelings.
“I was,” she said flatly. “It’s where I first saw your clown act.”
He grumbled a laugh, which was as good as he could do. I looked around. Leathercoat had wandered away, probably for a pineapple sandwich. Maybe Dad was right. He was just a guy.
“Kids, come over here.” Dad waved us toward him. “Terence Ackroyd just texted me the number of an investigator in Bolivia. I called and it’s ringing.”
Terence Ackroyd was the mystery writer who Sara had been due to meet in New York. After her luggage, cell phone, and passport all arrived from Bolivia without her, he was the one who’d told us Sara was missing.
Remembering what Galina Krause had said in Guam, we then put two and two together and realized that the Order had kidnapped Sara.
“One of Mr. Ackroyd’s mystery novels is set in Bolivia, and he knows a first-rate private detective there,” Dad said to us. “So he asked her to look into Sara’s disappearance. He just sent me the number and told me to call her anytime—” He held up his hand. “Hello? Yes, this is Roald Kaplan,” he said as softly as he could. “Terence Ackroyd gave me this number. Regarding … my wife. I was calling to see if you’d heard anything …” His voice trailed off. I could tell he was listening intently. Then he put the phone on speaker, and we crowded around.
There was a woman’s accented voice on the other end.
“Dr. Kaplan,” she said huskily, “our team of nine investigators believes that Sara Kaplan was taken from Bolivia to Brazil. We are tracking her location now.” Then her voice changed. “Mr. Ackroyd has insisted we do not contact official authorities. He has told you?”
“He has,” my dad said, with a glance up at Darrell, who hung on every word. “He said there was a message in her luggage?”
“He can tell you more about that when you arrive in New York,” the woman said. “In the meantime, we are on the brink of information that you will find helpful. I don’t want to go too far, but it could be very good news. I will call you within the next several hours.”
The expression on Dad’s face was suddenly a mixture of tears and smiles. “That’s really promising. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’re doing. Call this phone anytime. Please.”
“Of course. Keep it close.” She hung up.
Dad pressed the End Call button on his phone and put his arm around Darrell. He didn’t say anything. Neither of them did. But for the first time since we’d learned about Sara’s disappearance, Dad looked like he might really smile.
So did Darrell. “This is awesome! This is soooo good.”
It was definitely not news to go all crazy happy about, not yet, but it felt good that real detectives were looking for Sara. “Our team of nine investigators,” the woman had said. So far our little group had turned out to be pretty good at solving puzzles. But figuring out codes and riddles from the past was nothing like searching for a living person.
So, yeah, we felt lighter. I glanced around at the other passengers, wondering if they’d suddenly look less suspicious. They actually did.
Good. Now we could begin to relax a little.
The gate was cramming up even more now. There were so few empty seats that I didn’t think anything when a man in a dark suit sat down in the row directly across from us. He was thin, and he wore thick black glasses and carried a green shoulder bag. His hands were stuck deep in his side pockets. I heard my dad’s voice in my head—Not everyone’s planning something—so I looked away.
Darrell was feeling better, which usually meant he was hungry. “I need a Snickers,” he said. “Let’s all go to the newsstand, me for food and you to search the world papers for tragedies. Okay, Dad?”
“Ten minutes,” he said after checking his watch. “Stay close.”
In one of his last messages to us, Uncle Henry had predicted we’d hear about disasters happening around the world, and that they were connected to the Teutonic Order’s hunt for the relics. Sure enough, we soon read reports of a building collapse in South America, a ship sinking in the Mediterranean, and the disappearance of a school bus that later reappeared, shot up by musket bullets from the nineteenth century.
Yeah. Try to figure that one out.
In the airport bookstore, we searched the papers as we always did, but my attention was instantly snagged by the shelf of Terence Ackroyd thrillers. Last week, I would’ve barely noticed them. The store had quite a few of them—The Umbrian Vespers, The Berlin Manifesto, and his latest hardcover novel, The Mozart Inferno, which was currently at the top of the bestseller list.
“He’s an actual person,” said Becca. “I almost doubted it until now. I should read one. We’re going to see him in New York, after all.” She decided on The Prometheus Riddle, a spy thriller set in Greece.
“A nuclear submarine sank off India’s coast,” Lily said, holding up that morning’s London Times. “Ten crew members are missing. I bet the Order is behind it. They probably love to sink ships.”
Darrell poked my arm. “If I move a fraction of an inch—”
“Your head will fall off?” I said.
“And … I can see the German dude, hovering outside my field of vision.”
“Leathercoat,” whispered Lily. “Call him Leathercoat.”
Glancing over an issue of Science magazine, I saw the guy standing like a statue, holding a copy of El Mundo but not reading it.
I felt the same strange sensation I’d been experiencing for the last week: my skin tingled and a strange pain pierced my chest. It’s the jab of adrenaline you feel when you’re afraid. I’d felt that in my dream, too.
“I … have to use the bathroom,” I said.
“Because you’re scared,” Darrell told me. “It’s a well-known fact that panic makes you have to go—”
Lily put her hands over her ears. “Darrell, please stop talking!”
I headed to the men’s room. “See you back at the gate.”
“Nuh-uh. Buddy system,” Becca said. “Darrell’ll go with you.”
“What are you, my kindergarten teacher?” Darrell said. “Last time I took a buddy to the bathroom, I was five years old. And while we’re at it, why are we even calling it a bathroom? It doesn’t have a bathtub in it. That would be weird.”
“You’re weird,” said Lily.
“Or a restroom,” he went on, “because you don’t go in there to rest.”
“Darrell, please just go!” said Lily.
“That’s it!” he said. “We should call it a go room! I love it.”
She shoved him hard. “If you love it so much, then go to the go room already! Becca and I have our own mission.” She held up her London Times and five dollars. “We’re going to give the diary an old-fashioned makeover, a newspaper book cover!”
We split up, and Darrell tagged along with me. At least until his stomach remembered the Snickers he didn’t get. “My taste buds are requesting multiple Snickers bars for the road. Or the air. Or whatever. Wait for me here.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumbled.
It was good to see him lightening up a bit. The phone call with the Bolivian detective had