The Impossible Fortress(66)

I had listened to Alf’s bullshit stories all my life but this seemed like a whole new level of absurdity. “Protect the herd from what?” I asked.

“It’s a biological safety check,” Alf said.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Charles Darwin, Billy! Don’t you pay attention in science?”

“Keep your voice down,” Clark hissed, but it was too late. Out in the field, one of the girls stopped running, lowered her net-stick, and turned toward the tree line. We got down as low as we could, crouching behind skimpy shrubs and trying to disappear into the ground. Alf was still mumbling about natural selection and gorilla tribes until I elbowed him in the side.

The girl on the field was maybe twenty feet away from us. She stepped closer to our hiding place, and I felt certain we were busted. Then a rubber yellow ball streaked past her and she turned to sprint after it.

“That was close,” Clark whispered. “Let’s keep going.”

We fell back into the forest, weaving through the trees until we saw the tall spire of the chapel. I checked my map and saw we had arrived at the north end of the campus, just behind a large two-story classroom building and a garden ringed by tall hedges. It was our only lucky break all day—the hedges were enormous, nine or ten feet tall, and shielded us when we emerged from the tree line. Any students or teachers glancing out the windows of the classroom building wouldn’t see us.

“What is this thing?” Alf asked.

I pointed to a narrow gap between two hedges—an entrance. There was a small stone tablet embedded in the ground. It was engraved with the words IN LOVING MEMORY OF SISTER BEATRICE (1821–1857). A PLACE OF BEAUTY AND SILENT CONTEMPLATION. Clark raised a finger to his lips, gesturing for us to be quiet, and slipped through the gap.

Inside the garden was a labyrinth of smaller hedges, all waist-high, guiding us through flower beds on paths lined with white gravel. Alf cringed with every step, tiptoeing like a little baby, hopping and yelping and crying out in pain. I glared at him. “Do you need to be carried?”

Alf lifted his right foot and plucked three jagged stones from his sole. “It’s like broken glass,” he said.

“Keep your voice down,” Clark said. The garden was full of shady nooks with stone benches and statues of angels and cherubs, and Clark reminded us that a sister could be lurking in the shadows.

“You should have left me at the polo field,” Alf said. “I’m no good without sneakers.”

“We’re almost through,” Clark said. “If we get closer to the classroom building, I bet we find someone.”

But the garden was more complicated than it looked—the paths doubled back on themselves, splitting into dead ends and infinite loops. I don’t know how anyone was supposed to relax in this place; it was a giant exercise in frustration, and Alf’s nonstop griping just made it worse.

Then we turned a corner and nearly collided with a girl on a bench. She was taking notes in a paperback and listening to a Sony Walkman—but at the sight of us, she dropped everything and scrambled backward, reaching for a silver whistle that hung from a chain around her neck.

“Wait,” I said.

“Please,” Alf told her.

The girl pressed the whistle to her lips.

“Video City!” Clark exclaimed.

And the girl hesitated.

“You work at Video City!” he said. “You’re Lynn Scott. You do Lynn’s Picks, the staff recommendations near the cash register. Don’t you recognize us?”

Our faces were covered with mud. Our clothes were ruined. Of course she didn’t recognize us.

“We were just there last week,” Clark said.

Alf nodded. “We rented Kramer vs. Kramer.”

Lynn blinked. “Wait a second—you’re those guys? The guys who keep renting Kramer vs. Kramer over and over?”

“Maybe once or twice,” Clark admitted.

“Eighteen times!” she said. “The owners keep a tally on a sticky note next to the register. They’re taking bets on how soon you get to twenty.”

I noticed Clark had already hidden the Claw inside his pocket. Every time we went to Video City, he was always careful to hide the Claw from Lynn and her coworkers. He’d manage to show his membership card and pay for the movie and accept his change and carry out the video using just one hand, which is a lot more awkward than it sounds.

Clark started to introduce us but Lynn cut him off. “You guys aren’t allowed to be here,” she said, kneeling down to retrieve her book and Hi-Liter. “I’ll get expelled just for talking to you.”

“We need your help,” Clark said.

She shook her head. “I’m here on scholarship. I can’t take any chances. My parents will kill me.”

“Please,” I said. “I have a letter for Mary Zelinsky. I just need you to give it to her.”

I reached in my back pocket for the envelope, only to find a limp, soggy mess, saturated with muddy water. I’d ruined the letter while crawling through the creek. I peeled open the envelope and saw all of my words blurred together. Mary would never be able to read them.

Lynn observed the dripping envelope, skeptical.

“Maybe you could find Mary?” I asked. “Can you bring her here?”

“No.”