The long way home

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Private Eye It was dark when the first signal came. I was back in the upstairs parlor of the Ghost Mansion. I was lying in the sleeping bag, my eyes closed, my thoughts drifting in and out of dreams.

For moments at a time, I would think I was home again, in my own bed, the blankets pulled up around my chin as I waited for my mom to call me and tell me it was time to wake up for school. I had that dream a lot these days. It was always pretty depressing when I woke up and realized it wasn't true, when the reality came back to me-that I was on the run, alone.

I was sinking deeper into sleep, deeper into my dream when the laptop made a noise beside me.

It was a soft two-note musical tone. I knew right away that it was the Private Eye program. It was alerting me that Mr. Sherman had signed on to his home computer.

I sat up quickly. I pulled the laptop to me. It had come out of sleep mode automatically. The monitor had come on and the Private Eye screen had opened. It was a blank blue screen. A moment later, shimmering white letters began appearing there as if they were being typed by an invisible hand. Everything that Mr. Sherman typed on his computer was appearing here on mine. It was kind of a weird feeling to be spying on someone like that. But it was the only way I'd be able to get the password I needed to break into his machine and find out what he knew about Alex and me.

Strikeback.

That was the first word that appeared on the Private Eye screen. It must've been Sherman's password. Strikeback.

There was a pause after that. Then more words began appearing, rolling out fast, then faster, white against the blue background.

At first, there was nothing very interesting. Mr. Sherman seemed to sign on to some kind of e-mail or instant-messaging program. Then he wrote a few messages about appointments and homework and conferences.

Have to re-sked for Monday.

Papers are now back in the system, with comments.

Stuff like that. It went on for another ten minutes or so. Ordinary messages a teacher might send to his students or colleagues or friends. The Private Eye program only intercepted Sherman's keystrokes, so I couldn't see any answers that came back, but I didn't figure they were anything more interesting than what I could see.

Which was pretty much what I was expecting. I didn't really think I was going to learn anything important just sitting here, watching Mr. Sherman's keystrokes. I figured if there was any important information on his computer, I would have to break into his house again and get into the computer using his password and find it myself. I didn't really believe he was going to be sending any e-mails or IMs with any deep, dark secret messages in them.

As it turned out, I was wrong.

After about ten minutes, there was a pause. The messages stopped coming. A white cursor blinked on the blue screen. Then…

What are we going to do about West?

My lips parted. I sat up straighter. I stared. I couldn't believe it. Was Sherman sending an IM about me?

I guess there was an answer of some kind, which I couldn't see. Then, a moment later, Sherman typed a message back:

If he was ever in Spring Hill, I think he's gone. It's too hot here with the police after him.

I felt the breath go out of me in a long hiss, as if I were a tire losing its air. It was me they were talking about.

My best guess is he's heading out to Chicago. He must have figured out about our operations there.

That was good. They didn't know I was still in town. But what Chicago operations were they talking about? And why did they think I was onto them?

A pause. Another answer I couldn't read, I guess. Then, again from Sherman's computer:

Yes. But we have to be careful. The police effort to find him is substantial and the last thing we need now is to tangle with the law. You saw what happened at the library.

As the words paused again, I stared at the screen eagerly. My mind raced as I tried to comprehend what it all meant.

It meant Sherman was one of them-that was the first thing. It meant he was one of the Homelanders. Maybe that meant he was the one who killed Alex too. At least he might know who did.

I took a moment to get hold of this idea: my old history teacher involved with terrorists, with murder. Oddly enough, the idea didn't shock me. It didn't even surprise me, to be honest. He never exactly hid the fact that he disliked America or that he thought ordinary moral ideas were all ridiculous. I guess if you followed Mr. Sherman's thoughts to their logical conclusion, this is where they ended up.

Absolutely. Absolutely.

That was the next message on the Private Eye screen. That didn't tell me much. And the pause that followed was even longer than before.

I waited. The bright glow of the computer screen was the only light in the dark house, an island of light in all that darkness.

Finally, more words appeared on the screen:

A series of explosions this time, right. He can't prevent them. Even if he gets to Chi on time.

Another long pause. I stared into the blue light. Without knowing why, I was beginning to feel jumpy, nervous, as if someone were watching me, as if the light of the computer in the dark house had left me exposed.

I started thinking about the words on the screen. Chicago. A series of explosions. Why did they think I knew about that? In fact, why would they be talking about it so openly on a computer? Weren't they afraid someone might hack in and get the information? Weren't they afraid someone might intercept their messages, just as I was doing right…?

A new thought went through me like a jolt of electricity. I sat straight, tense, hardly breathing. I stopped paying attention to the words on the monitor. Instead, I began to listen to the dark house all around me.

Because this didn't make sense, did it? What was happening here-none of it made any sense. If this was Sherman talking to the Homelanders, they wouldn't expose themselves online like this, would they? They were so secretive, so good at keeping themselves in the shadows. This didn't feel right. It didn't feel real. And so maybe…

Maybe it wasn't real. Maybe it was all phony. Maybe it was all just some kind of ploy to fool me, to keep me staring at the screen, to keep my attention diverted while…

My hand shot out quickly to the laptop and snapped it shut, turned it off. The light went out, the little parlor plunged into darkness, became one with the surrounding blackness of the Ghost Mansion.

They knew!

Suddenly I was certain of it. They knew about the Private Eye program. Of course. Mrs. Sherman must have told her husband that she thought she'd heard someone in the house. Maybe Sherman himself had seen the marks on the front door and guessed that the house had been broken into. His first thought would have been for the safety of his files, his computer…

I'd been careless. I'd been foolish. And now Sherman knew I had been in his office. He knew I had put the Private Eye program in his computer. He-he or someone-was sending false, nonsensical messages to keep my attention diverted to the screen while he traced my address, while he tracked me here.

I sat in the darkness, tense, listening. Did they already know where I was? Were they already on their way? Were they already outside, surrounding me? Or inside, already coming up the stairs.

I listened. For a moment or two, the house seemed silent. But the house was never silent, not really. There were always the creaks and groans of the wood settling. There were always the rapid footsteps of the vermin in the walls. There was always the wind outside in the graveyard, the leaves tumbling, the crickets in the dark.

Slowly-as slowly as I could-I unfolded from my sitting position and rose to my feet. I took a deep breath and let it out silently. Crouching slightly, I turned to face the parlor doorway.

I had to get out of here. I had to get out of here before they came for me. If I was outside, at least I'd be able to see them approach. At least I'd have room to run.

I started moving. Slowly. Step by step. Trying to keep the floor from creaking. I didn't pause to take anything with me. All those great supplies my friends had given me-the sleeping bag, the food, the backpack- there was no time to gather them up. I had to leave them all behind. I'd still have my wallet. The money-that would help. Plus the Swiss Army knife that was still in my pocket. But all the rest-I had to leave it. I just had to go.

I moved on tiptoe, hardly breathing. I moved in the direction of the doorway, which I could just make out-a rectangle of deeper darkness in the darkness of the room. As I moved, I listened with every fiber of myself. Listened for the sound of the door downstairs, or the odd creak of a floorboard. Anything that would let me know the Homelanders were there with me in the dark. There was nothing.

Now I was at the doorway. Now I was stepping out- slowly, slowly into the hall. I had to get to the stairs. I took another step…

And I felt the icy-cold circle of a gun barrel pressed against the side of my head.

Mr. Sherman's voice came out of the darkness.

"Too late, Charlie," he said.