Shift:A Virals Adventure(17)

I snatched my hand back. Touchy.

Hi was already crossing the garage. “Let’s check for anything strong enough to force a cabinet. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“The doors were made of pressed wood that splintered,” I reminded everyone. “There might be shavings stuck to the implement. Or maybe broken glass. Even dust could be significant. Go slowly, and be careful.”

Six workstations lined the wall. Each had a massive, freestanding toolbox labeled by name in black marker on dirty masking tape.

Hi took the first station and began opening and closing drawers. “Hello, Lionel Alonso. Are you a dirty, stinking thief?”

“Simon Rome.” Ben began rifling the second workstation. “Let’s check you out.”

Shelton looked a question at me.

“You take . . . Kenny Hall.” I gestured to the next station in line. “I’ll check out . . . Frank Glasnapp.”

I searched the tool chest systematically, inspecting the top drawers first, even though they seemed too small. My hypothesis was correct. Screws. Hinges. Bolts. Nails. Nothing suitable for B and E.

I switched to the lower section. These drawers were wider and deeper, and held more promising items. Hammers. Screwdrivers. A socket wrench set.

But my careful inspection came up empty.

If Glasnapp was our guy, he didn’t keep his instrument of choice in here.

The boys also struck out. We double-checked an ax Ben discovered, and two crowbars owned by Mr. Hall. None showed signs of recent use.

“Though we can’t be a hundred percent sure,” I grumbled. “If the crook wiped the tool down, we’d never know.”

“Two more to go,” Shelton said. “Double up?”

Hi nodded. “Shelton and I will take . . . John Johnson? Hey, great name, guy.”

I moved to the last workstation. “Ben and I will check this one. Trey Terry.”

Terry’s tool chest had larger compartments than the first I’d checked. We found a pair of hedge clippers, a rotating circular saw, a portable air compressor, and a collection of hatchets.

“This guy must work in the woods,” Ben guessed. “These things are probably used to clear brush from around the feeders.”

“But everything’s clean,” I muttered. “No shavings, no embedded plastic, nada.”

“We got nothing, too.” Shelton closed the last of Johnson’s drawers. “Weak sauce.”

“So we struck out on this one.” Ben casually spun a hatchet in one hand. “But we found the loot, and Kit can follow Hi’s plan to ID the crook. Still a win in my book.”

Ben attempted a second twirl, but missed the catch. The hatchet crashed to the floor.

“Easy, circus freak!” Hi hopped backward. “I like my toes where they are.”

“Sorry.” Ben chuckled. “In my defense, the handle is slick.”

Two neurons fired in my brain. Synapse.

“The handle,” I murmured. Then, “The handle!”

Ben reached for the hatchet, but Shelton scooped it first. “Not a chance, you. No more blade juggling on my watch.”


My hand shot out. “Gimme that.” I knew my voice sounded odd.

“Okeydokey.” Shelton passed it over with a quizzical look.

“Don’t you get all choppy-stabby on us, Tor,” Hi warned. “That’s no way to deal with frustration.”

“If I do, you’re getting hacked first.” But I focused on the object in my hands.

I flipped the hatchet upside down and held it by the blade. The handle was made of wood, stained dark brown. Its surface scratched and pitted by a lifetime of hard use.

And there was a lovely little chip at the base of the handle.

I felt a charge of adrenaline.

I snatched the splinter from my pocket and pressed it into the gap on the handle. All three boys straightened.

But my hopes were immediately dashed.

The splinter didn’t match. Not in size, color, or grain.

Ben dove for the tool chest. “There are five more of those in here.”

He grabbed two of the hatchets and handed them to Shelton and Hi.

“Not this one,” Hi said. “No gash on the handle.”

“Same story here,” Shelton said.

Three more came out in quick succession.

There.

I seized the last implement from Ben’s fingers. This one was larger, more a small ax than a true hatchet. Its handle was a foot long, worn, and stained dark brown.

With a one-inch, triangular notch at the bottom of the haft.

Heart pounding, I inspected the notch closely. The damage seemed fresh, with pale yellow wood still visible in the center of the breach. Inhaling deeply, I detected the faintest whiff of monkey chow.

My hands trembled with excitement.

Willing myself calm, I placed the splinter from Lab Three into the fissure.

Perfect fit.

Color. Shape. Grain. All a flawless match.

“Gotcha.”

“Trey Terry.” Shelton triple-jabbed his index finger. “You. Are. Busted.”

“We’re gonna be studs,” Hi crowed. “Maybe there’s a cash reward? How should we tell everybody?” He stroked his chin. “Should we be all like, ‘Hey Kit, come check out this awesome garden hose we found,’ and then BAM, we’re holding microscopes over our heads? Or should we play it ultra-cool, like cracking this case is no biggie. I’m torn.”