Friday, January 11, 2013

 

Farewell Fiction Friday (for now)


Okay, well I know I went back on my word last time, but this really will be the last chapter for now. By my estimate, I've posted about a quarter of the book, which I think is a pretty good amount. But I've reached a point where I've got some tweaks and changes to make in the narrative before any more of this sees the light of day. Hope you understand.

I'll be back soon, with some nonfiction for a change. I imagine for some of you, that will be refreshing.

Thanks for reading:

(Previous chapter)


Chapter 8

A Little Giant Clue

Ben didn't dream about the missing girl that night—or if he did, he didn't remember doing it. Instead, he dreamt that he was in the library's rare book room, holding the metal-bound edition of the Steel Sterling mystery he'd seen the day before. He was trying to put it back on the shelf, but it was too heavy. Finally, he heaved it on the shelf with a bang. Immediately, alarms started buzzing, both from speakers on the walls and from his leg. He looked down: A clock was strapped to his ankle and it was flashing. The heavy door to the main library swung shut, trapping him in the vault. Lights started flashing. A voice boomed over a loudspeaker. It said "Benjamin Bridge, you've been caught breaking and entering again. It's Hard Knocks camp for you, buddy. Stay where you are. Greg Grindle is coming to kick your butt!"

Ben jolted awake at this, but the alarm was still buzzing in his ears. For a second, Ben didn't know where he was. The room was dark, just a very faint light filtering in from the window. Then Ben saw his Gamehound on the desk, its screen flashing the time: 5:50.

Ben crawled out of bed and snapped the lid of the Gamehound shut. Instantly the buzzing stopped. An alarm clock was one of the many useful programs Oz had loaded into his game unit, but at this hour of the morning, Ben didn't feel at all like thanking his roommate for it. He looked over with envy at Oz, who was snoring contentedly away on his bed.

Rubbing his eyes, Ben stumbled around the room, pulling on clothes, then shoes, as he found them. In a moment, he was out in the hall, giving the door a satisfying slam as he did. Why should I be the only one awake? He thought.

The sun was coming up through a haze of clouds as Ben stepped out the door and started across the quad. It was cool out and everywhere, thin tendrils of mist floated inches above the ground. Ben strode across the grass and almost immediately wished he hadn't—early morning dew was soaking through the tops of his sneakers. Then he heard it: A slow measured beeping sound, different from the one in his dreams. He looked down and lifted his pant leg: The ankle monitor was showing a yellow light and giving off those measured warning tones. Ben felt his pulse rise and looked guiltily around, as though expecting police to come bursting out of the buildings and surround him.

He shook his head. Zoltan had said something the night before about the bracelets going out of curfew mode at, what? Seven? Obviously, the school's resident security and computer expert had not factored in Ben's job.

Ben didn't know how long he had before the ankle bracelet shifted out of warning mode to full-on send-in-the-SWAT-team mode, but there was only one thing he could think to do: Find the adult he was supposed to report to, then get up to the main building to get them to call in a false alarm, or whatever it was they were supposed to do. He squelched miserably along until he came to the gravel road that led from behind the main building. He followed it down the hill until he saw the building he was looking for: a red brick shed standing bright in the mist.

He went to the battered wooden door on one side and knocked. No answer. He tried to peer through the cracked window, but it had been papered over. He knocked again. Nothing, no sound. Well, except for the steady beeping from the monitor. It was distracting and worrisome.

Sighing hugely, Ben walked around the building. On the other side, he found a metal garage door, raised up just a couple of feet. He crouched down and peered in. "Hello?" he called.

Hearing no response, Ben checked his watch. It was already past 6. Ben scooted under the door and stood up.

The garage was almost pitch black, but the smell of the place made him relax instantly. He had been expecting the smell of garbage (the truck was certainly giving off plenty of that funky odor), but in here he caught only the smell of dust and oil. It reminded him of his Grandpa's workshop.

After a moment, his eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings and Ben realized there was some light in here, off in a corner. He headed that way and immediately wished he hadn't. His foot collided with something low and unyielding on the floor and Ben fell forward, landing on a pile of what sounded—and felt—like old metal and glass, judging from the massive crash and tinkle that followed.

"Hey now! Hey now! Who's sneaking around in here?" a voice shouted.

A moment later, several large fluorescent lights flickered to life and Ben found himself sprawled uncomfortably on a pile of green copper pipes. Nearby, an old mason jar—not broken, thank goodness—rolled on the floor, nuts and bolts cascading out of it and rattling on the cement surface of the garage. A shadow fell over Ben and he looked up.

Reynard looked much taller than he actually was as he stood over Ben. His sun-weathered face was contorted into a grimace of annoyance.

"Sorry, sorry," Ben said, trying to get to his feet. The little giant continued to glare at him, saying nothing. Nervously, Ben extended his hand.

"I'm, uh, I'm Ben. Ben Bridge. I'm supposed to help you, Mr. Reynard."

The man looked down at Ben's hand, but didn't move to take it. "What is that? You bring your alarm clock with you?" Ben lifted his pant leg and showed him the blinking bracelet. At that exact moment, the yellow light on the monitor box shifted to red and slow beeping tone sped up.

"It went off as soon as I stepped out of Doyle," he started, then stopped, all his words drying up under the man's harsh gaze.

Reynard glowered at Ben for a moment longer, then said, "You're late."

"Sorry. I did try—"

"Door's locked. Key's long gone. Garage is the only way in. And you're wrong."

Ben stood stupidly, his hand still held out. "Sorry?" he said again.

"It's not 'Mr. Reynard,'" he sneered, turning away. "Just 'Reynard' will do."

"Oh," Ben said. "Is-is that your first name? Or-?"

"I'll tell you when I know you better."

Reynard picked up a wooden crate and heaved it onto a work bench near the door. He began piling things into it—a giant roll of plastic trash bags, a metal brush, other odds and ends. He seemed to be ignoring Ben completely. Ben put his hand down. The incessant beeping was very loud in the enclosed space.

"Well?" Reynard said, still piling things into his crate. "You going to pick up the mess you made of my scrap pile? Don't expect me to clean it up for you."

Ben almost said "sorry" again, but instead decided it was smarter to shut up. He bent down and began pulling the various copper pipes back together, although he had no idea how tidy the pile had been before. In the end, he just stacked them as best he could. As he did this, he had a furtive look around.

The brick shed seemed much bigger on the inside than it did on the outside. The garage bay was cavernous, big enough to accommodate the dump truck. Or it would have been, if it wasn't filled with junk. The copper pipes appeared to be just one of a whole family of scrap piles, some of brass fittings and doorknobs, some of lumber. Several tables stood all around the walls, each one covered with odds and ends: old radios and telephones, broken cameras, rows of cracked cups and china.

The walls were lined with shovels, rakes, and, was that a horse bridle hanging there? Yes, it was, right next to what looked like a bullwhip straight out of an Indiana Jones movie. Ben craned his neck behind him and saw that another small wooden door led to a cramped office full of old wooden filing cabinets and a sprung metal chair.

Ben began collecting the nuts and bolts off the floor, when he spotted something dangling from the nearest table: an enormous horseshoe magnet. Ben grabbed it.

"Hey now! Did I say you could touch my lucky magnet?"

Reynard had spoken so sharply, Ben jumped, dropping the magnet. Immediately, several nuts and bolts on the floor attached itself to it.

"Not even here five minutes and he's stealing my stuff!" the man muttered to himself.

"I'm not stealing it. I just thought I'd pick up the—"

"Not without asking, you don't!" Reynard said. He had packed his crate and was now turning to give Ben his full attention.

"Okay," Ben said. "May I please use your magnet?"

Reynard shook his head. "Nope. Get those nuts and bolts off it and hang it back up. Right-side up too. Or all the luck will run out!"

Ben almost laughed at this, but one look at the little giant's face and he stifled the laugh.

"Use the small round magnet, there on the table," Reynard said. Ben hung the horseshoe magnet carefully in its place, then picked up the heavy disc on the tabletop. It was smaller, but just as strong as the horseshoe and Ben made short work of gathering up the nuts and bolts and putting them back in the jar. The magnet's owner watched him.

"How come someone smart enough to use a magnet to pick up screws is dumb enough to get in trouble with the law?" he asked gruffly.

"I dunno," Ben said. "It was a stupid mistake. I'm not a thief."

"Not what the papers said," Reynard answered back. "Yep, I can read. Know all about you. Bad enough they think I need help hauling trash. They gotta saddle me with a juvenile delinquent too. Complete with his own noisemaker, too."

Ben said nothing, but his faced burned. He swallowed his anger, then with an effort of will, looked up and stared Reynard in the eye. The man was only a few inches taller than he was, but to Ben, at this moment, he really did seem to tower over him.

"What would you like me to do next, Mr. Reynard?" he asked. He meant it politely, but for a second he caught a flash in the man's eyes and realized his error. Having already told him he was wrong to call him "Mr. Reynard," the school garbageman must have thought he was mouthing off.

"Just Reynard will do, Mister Man," he said. "Now take this crate out to the truck."

It took Ben a couple of struggling minutes, but he managed to shove the box under the garage door, then pick it up and muscle it up onto the edge of the tailgate. With a final effort, he heaved it into the bed of the dumper, and it landed with a metallic bang, echoing the sound the book had made in his dream.

Reynard followed, yanking the garage door down behind him. "Oh, good. Right in the back of the truck where it'll spill out and get garbage all over it. Now put it in the cab."

In the time it took Ben to cart it around to the passenger side, Reynard was already in the driver's seat and kicked open the door on Ben's side with one foot. Ben gasped and panted, trying to load the crate into the cab, but it was too high for him. Finally, with an exasperated grunt, Reynard reached over and grabbed the edge of the crate, hauling it—and Ben, who was still holding on—effortlessly into the cab.

"Where's your muscle, Mister Man? How much can you lift anyway?"

"I dunno," Ben said, clambering onto the bench seat and pulling the door shut.

"What do you weigh, anyhow? Hundred pounds? Ninety-eight? Bet you can't even lift your own weight. Man should be able to lift his own weight. I weigh close on to 250 pounds, Mister Man, and I can lift that and more, you better believe it."

Reynard turned the key and after an extended grinding and chuffing, the ancient truck coughed to life. Raynard revved it for a good long while, the truck belching clouds of black oily smoke into the fading white mist. Finally, when Reynard was satisfied that the truck was good and warmed up, he shifted into gear and the truck lurched ahead with a groan. They rolled down to a metal gate which Ben understood to be the service entrance to Sherrinford. For a moment Ben thought they were going to plow right through it, but at the last instant, Reynard pulled the wheel hard to one side and they made a U-turn.

"So this is the job," Reynard said. "We haul trash and that's it. The end. We do the head office first. We empty all the trash cans in the business office, the computer room, Mr. Reston's office, the Dean's office, all of 'em. Take out the old bags, put fresh ones in. We do them first while we still smell good. Then we do the cafeteria, and the kitchen and Mister Man, that's smelly. They're supposed to put all the trash from last night's supper out into the Dumpster, but they don't always. And sometimes kids sneak in there for a midnight snack and throw their mess away. They think no one knows about it, but the rubbish man knows all, and don't you forget it. Then we do the Dumpsters. Don't matter what's in the Dumpsters, we take it, throw it in back. I don't care if it's a foofy princess dress or a maggoty raccoon carcass, we muckle onto it, wing it in the back and take it to the landfill. You with me so far?"

Ben nodded.

"Jeez I hope so, because this isn't rocket science. We do the classrooms next—they're real good about putting stuff in the Dumpsters at night so we don't need to go in so much, unless we get called on a special job. We do the dorms last—there's a big trash can on every floor and a Dumpster out back for each. Whatever's in there—this side of a human body—we haul it away. That's the job, and it's simple, so there shouldn't be any questions." He paused a beat. "Any questions?"

Ben didn't have any.

They roared up to the back of the main building, where the back door was already propped open. Reynard handed Ben the roll of trash bags and led the way inside.

"I should probably talk to someone about this," Ben said, waggling his leg and the endlessly beeping monitor.

Reynard shrugged. "Worried that the bloodhounds are coming for you?" he snorted. "Needs to be rest, that's all. Old Zoltan forgot you were working for me, not sleeping in." And without another word, he strode down the hall.

The business office area was cramped, mostly cubicles and open desks with computer terminals on top. With a grimace of someone about to undertake an unpleasant task, Reynard went over to one of the terminals and began stabbing at the keyboard with two calloused fingers, swearing quietly as he did. Ben stood on tip-toes and peered over his shoulder. Reynard was in the school network and clicking his way clumsily through a series of windows until he opened an application that pulled up a screen with a list of names. Ben realized he was looking at the monitoring system, for next to almost every name was a green light. The one exception was a name near the top of the list. The light next to it was flashing red and a pop-up window kept flashing next to that, showing the word "INFRACTION" in bright red, with a date and time listed beneath it.

Alternately sighing and swearing, Reynard clicked on Ben's name, then stabbed some more at the keyboard. Then he reached into his pocket—as he did he turned and favored Ben with another glare—and turned back to the computer, hunched over so Ben couldn't see what he was doing. "Mind your business, Mister Man, while I enter this password and shut that almighty thing off," he growled.

Ben turned and backed up a couple of steps. As he did, the beeping stopped. Ben looked down and noticed that the ankle bracelet light was once again a soothing green.

"There!" Reynard huffed, glad to have his unpleasant task over with. As he turned away from the screen, Ben caught one last glimpse of his name. Next to it, there was no red or green light, just a single word: DISABLED. Did that mean what he thought it meant?

"Thought I told you to mind your business!" Reynard spat at him.

Ben pointed. "You-you forgot to shut the program off," he said. "Anyone could get in and mess with it."

Reynard glared at him some more, his nostrils flaring. "Well, well, a thief and a computer expert!" he grumbled. He gestured for Ben to start emptying trash baskets while the man himself turned back to the computer and fiddled with the keyboard some more, evidently closing the program. Then Reynard disappeared through an archway that led to a carpeted hall lined with shining wooden doors. It looked much fancier in there and Ben guessed that was where Dean Taras and Mr. Reston and a few others had their offices.

By the time Reynard returned, Ben had all of the trash collected from the cubicles. The little giant hurled a bag at Ben, which he caught just before it hit him full in the face.

"You discipline cases must be worrying Hawksmoor some. His ulcer's bothering him again," Reynard said.

Ben glanced at his watch. It wasn't even 7 yet. "He's here already? What time do the teachers come in, anyway?"

Reynard gave him another glare. "Here? Hawksmoor isn't here. Man's got an important job in the city. He just flies in with Oscar on certain days."

"But—"

"I guess you didn't hear me when I said there shouldn't be a need for questions," Reynard said curtly, and without another word, he led Ben out of the business office and into the computer lab.

The lab reminded Ben of his school—he supposed computer labs everywhere looked a bit like this—a row of desktops of varying size and age, with blue plastic chairs in front of every one. It was harder to get to the trash cans here. Several more boxes of printer paper were stacked along the walls and between the desks.

"Get back there and empty those buckets," Reynard said, pointing. Ben did as he was told, threading his way around chairs and boxes. He emptied the buckets, but on the last one, by a computer terminal in the farthest corner, he found several crumpled sheets of paper stuck between the trash can and a heavy color printer. He glanced absently at them—a few smeary emails that hadn't printed correctly, a list of cheat codes for a popular online game. He smiled a little when he grabbed the last errant piece of paper. It was a partially printed list of late entrants to the school and Toby's name was there. He was probably still sleeping up in the secret room, he realized. Why couldn't I get the library as my job, Ben wondered.

And so it went, with Reynard barking at Ben and Ben hauling trash, next from the cafeteria (gross) and then from the kitchen (super gross). But the worst was the Dumpster behind the kitchen. A bag was stuck at the bottom and Reynard made him climb inside to retrieve it, something he did only after slopping most of its contents (sour milk and mac and cheese) down his front.

Reynard kept up a regular string of chatter, alternating between gruff instruction and muttering comments of one kind or another to no one in particular, certainly not to Ben, who he barely looked at.

"Oho, I guess Grindle was sneaking around here last night," he said once when they were in the kitchen, or "Well, well, that explains a considerable lot," he said another time, as they emptied the bathroom trash (also super gross). Ben thought Reynard must have a lonely job, milling around the school before everyone was up, and so had fallen into the habit of talking to himself. You'd think he'd like a little company, Ben thought. But Reynard seemed to take no notice of Ben, except to make him the target of various insults and orders.

Finally, as the long hand on Ben's watch slowly crept toward 7, and the moment when he could make his escape (and take a shower, he thought gratefully), they made their way from the classroom building and the library over to the dorms. Ben was anxious to finish up and was leading the way to the girls' dorm when Reynard put a massive hand on his collar and pulled him back.

"You hold up there, Mister Man, where you think you're heading? Into the girls' dorm? I don't think much of that. You go empty the buckets on the floors over in Doyle. You thought the kitchen Dumpsters were bad. You try emptying the muck in a boys' dormitory. You meet me down by the Dumpster in back and I guess that'll wrap you up for today."

Ben ripped several bags off the dwindling roll and stomped over to Doyle Hall. His neck felt burned where the collar of his shirt had bitten into it. He hated when people grabbed him by his shirt collar. It was what bullies did. It was what Grindle did when he grabbed Oz on the bus. And I have to work for this guy for the whole summer? Ben thought.

And it was in this dark frame of mind that Ben made his way from the top of Doyle all the way down, floor by floor. By the time he reached the basement, he was lugging several overstuffed bags of trash. And Reynard had been right about them being mucky. More sour milk, this time mixed with flat soda, sloshed around in more than one bag. Ben caught a break in the basement—that trash bucket was already empty, so he hauled everything else out to the back, then reached into the Dumpster. He was almost all the way in, legs dangling out, to get one last bag, when he heard the roar of the dump truck and Reynard was there.

"You sure you got every bucket emptied?" he asked critically.

"Yes," Ben grunted, his voice echoing dully from the interior of the Dumpster. He was trying to grab one last bag, at the very bottom, but it was snagged on a bolt poking out from the bottom of the container.

"I don't know," Reynard said. "That seemed a little quick to me. I'm counting these here bags."

Ben sighed in disgust. He meant it to be quiet, but the echo of the Dumpster made it sound like a groan.

"Don't gripe at me, Mister Man," Reynard said. "I didn't ask to have a helper, specially not a man who can't even lift his own weight. What's keeping you in there? You planning to move in or what?"

"It's stuck!" Ben grunted. And it was. That last bag wasn't coming loose for anything.

"Oh for the luvva Mike, get out and I'll grab it. I swear—"

Ben felt the hand on the back of his shirt again, and decided that was it. With a mighty heave, he pushed himself back out of the Dumpster and whirled on the little giant.

"Don't touch me!" he shouted, surprising himself. But what surprised him even more was that the man took a step back. They stared at each other for a moment.

"I just—I don't like being grabbed. I was trying to get the last bag out and—I don't like being grabbed," Ben said again.

Reynard stared at him a moment longer, but his face didn't seem so stern now. Then he gave a small nod. "Well, that's fair enough, I guess," he said, then he walked over to the Dumpster and scrambled over the side.

"Yep," he said to no one in particular, "it's good and stuck. But I'll get er—" And with a mild grunt, Reynard pulled up, tossing the bag out onto the ground.

The bag had ripped as it came loose. Garbage spilled onto the dirt in front of Ben: old soda cans, crumpled paper airplanes, a sodden pizza box. As Reynard clambered back out of the Dumpster, Ben was already tearing a fresh bag off the roll to collect the scattered refuse. Then he stopped and stared.

There on the ground, Ben saw something he didn't expect to see falling out of a trash bag from a boys' dormitory: a flash of pink. The balled-up object looked a little like a giant wad of bubble gum. Ben nudged it experimentally with his foot and it unfurled.
 
It was a pink tie-dye t-shirt. With a peace symbol on it.

It was Briana Tanner's shirt.

And it was covered with dark red bloodstains.

Comments:
Dang! Blast! What a way to leave a story... but without a doubt, you are King of all Cliff Hangers : ) Good luck MM and I will check back from time to time to see if there are any new chapters~ ttfn!
 
I knew that shirt was gonna turn up at some point once you mentioned it. But I thought it might be found in a forbidden cabin later.

I'm gonna miss your story, MM. But I'll also enjoy hearing about other stuff.
 
Been loving your Friday updates. Not going to lie, I'm going to miss finishing this book. If I can't buy it soon, I'll be very disappointed. I NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS. :)
 
I love Reynard so much. Didn't you help with trash collection for a while or am I making that up?
 
tease.
 
And you leave us hanging, just like any good detective author. Looking forward to reading the next installment(s) once they are posted.
 
I think you should consider quitting your day job and post the rest of the story. I keep checking back to see if you've posted anymore...

Serously, thank you. It's a great story and I would absolutely purchase it and read it aloud with my boys (9, 12).
 
Is Reynard's toher name Jenny?

 
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You don't have to play computer games on a playstation - if you are reading this, you obviously have an Internet-enabled device, and you can play games on that, too! Lots of wii games also offer versions for computers, allowing you to play your favorite titles on any system.

Always familiarize yourself on the novice levels before going on to the more demanding levels. These games are pretty difficult, and trying on rookie can help you build skills. After you have mastered the control, buttons and functions of the game, then move on and challenge yourself.

You can get good deals by purchasing used video games. It is a good idea to buy a disc cleaner if you buy a lot of used games, though. You never know what sort of shape your game will be in when you do this. If your discs are really dirty a good cleaning kit will help to restore them. It is a good idea to look at several cleaning disc options. There are many kits like this on the market.

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The world of online games gets bigger and better over time. But there are many choices to make where gaming is involved. This article has helpful advice for both players and parents. Follow the suggestions presented here to learn how to choose and purchase video games with confidence.
 
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I would love to one day have a copy of this for my classroom - let us all know when we can buy it :)
 
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