Theo braked and they passed. Why would they be following him?
He was rattled and made the quick decision to duck through an alley and cross a backyard. He was half looking over his shoulder when a large man stepped in front of him and grabbed the handlebars of his bike. “Hey, kid!” he growled, now face-to-face with Theo.
It was Buck Baloney, breathing fire and ready for war. “Stay outta my yard, okay?” he growled, still gripping the handlebars.
“Okay, okay, sorry,” Theo said, afraid of getting slapped.
“What’s your name?” Buck hissed.
“Theodore Boone. Let go of my bike.”
Buck was dressed in an ill-fitting and cheap uniform with the words A ll — P ro S ecurity stitched on the sleeves. And, he had a rather large pistol on his belt.
“Stop cutting across my yard, you understand?”
“I got it,” Theo said.
Buck let go, and Theo sped away without getting shot. Suddenly, he was excited about returning to school, and to the safety of his classroom.
Chapter 3
Theo checked in at the front office and returned his release form. His classmates were in fourth period Chemistry, and Theo wanted to avoid walking in late. Instead, he went to Mr. Mount’s tiny office, down the hall from his classroom. The door was open, and, luckily, Mr. Mount was at his desk, eating a sandwich and watching the local news on his laptop.
“Have a seat,” Mr. Mount said, and Theo sat in the only other chair in the office.
“So I guess you know,” Theo said.
“Oh, yes. It’s all over the news.” Mr. Mount slid his laptop over a few inches so Theo could have a better look. The sheriff was talking to a gang of reporters. He was saying that there was no sign of Mr. Duffy. They had searched his home and found nothing. Both of his vehicles, a Mercedes sedan and a Ford SUV, were locked and parked in the garage. Evidently Mr. Duffy had played golf, alone, late Sunday afternoon and was seen leaving the course by a caddy. He was in his golf cart and headed in the general direction of his home on the sixth fairway, the same route the caddy had seen him take many times after playing a round. At 10:30 on Sunday night, Pete Duffy spoke by phone to Clifford Nance, and, according to Nance, agreed to meet with his defense team at 7:00 a.m. sharp for a lengthy prep session.
Pete Duffy lived two miles east of town in a fairly new development called Waverly Creek, an upscale residential community designed around three golf courses and meant to offer its residents a lot of privacy. Entry and exit were monitored twenty-four hours a day by guards at gates, with surveillance cameras recording everything. The sheriff was positive Pete Duffy had not left Waverly Creek during the night through one of the gates. “There are some gravel roads leading in and out, and I suppose that’s where he went,” the sheriff speculated. It was obvious the sheriff had little patience with reporters.
He went on to say there was no indication, yet, of how Pete Duffy fled. On foot, bike, scooter, four-wheeler, golf cart-they had not been able to determine that. But, there was no record of Duffy owning a scooter, motorcycle, or other type of vehicle that required registration.
In response to random and thoughtless questions, the sheriff explained that (1) there was no evidence of an accomplice involved in the Duffy escape; (2) there was no suicide note, in the event he jumped from a bridge or some other dramatic stunt; (3) there was no evidence of foul play, as if an intruder, for some unknown reason, wanted to eliminate Duffy the night before he was to stand trial; and (4) so far, they had found no witness who laid eyes on Duffy after the caddy saw him drive away with his golf clubs.
The sheriff finally had enough and excused himself. The news station switched back to the studio, where a couple of anchors launched into a windy summary of what little had just been said by the sheriff.
“So where is he?” Mr. Mount asked, chewing on his sandwich.
“I can’t believe he would take off in the middle of the night on foot and through the woods,” Theo said. “What’s your theory?”
“An accomplice. Duffy is not the outdoor type, not a man who understands the woods and what it takes to survive. I’ll bet he slipped away from his house, after midnight when his neighbors were sound asleep, used a bicycle because he didn’t want to make noise, and rode a mile or two down a trail where his accomplice was waiting. They tossed the bike in the trunk of the car, or the back of a pickup, and away they went. He wasn’t due in court until 9:00 a.m., so they had a head start of seven or eight hours.”
“You’re really into this, aren’t you?” Theo asked, amused.
“Sure. And you’re not?”
“Of course, but I haven’t given it as much thought as you. Where is he right now?”
“Far away. The cops have no idea what kind of vehicle they’re driving, so they’re home free until more clues pop up. He could be anywhere.”
“You think they’ll catch him?”
“Something tells me they will not. This might be the perfect escape, especially if he has an accomplice.”
Mr. Mount was in his midthirties and, at least in Theo’s opinion, was by far the coolest teacher at the school. His father was a judge and his older brother was a lawyer, and he often talked of leaving the classroom and going to law school. He sponsored the Eighth-Grade Debate Team. Theo was his star, and so the two had developed a close friendship. As they watched the news on the laptop, both minds were spinning wild scenarios about what had happened to Pete Duffy. How had he really managed to disappear?
“I guess we’ll discuss this in Government tomorrow,” Theo said.
“Are you kidding? This town will talk of nothing else for the next two days.”
The bell rang and Theo was suddenly ready to leave. Lunch was only a twenty-minute break and there was no time to waste. The halls were instantly crowded as five sections of eighth graders hurried from their classrooms, to their lockers, and to the cafeteria.
The Strattenburg Middle School had been modernized a few years earlier, and one of the more popular improvements was the new lockers. They were wide and deep, and made of wood instead of the old noisy metal boxes that had lined the halls for decades. Keys were not needed because each locker had an entry panel similar to the keypad of a phone. Punch in your five- or six-digit secret code, and the door clicked open.
Theo’s pass code was Judge (58343), in honor of his beloved dog. He pulled open the door, and immediately knew something was wrong. Several things were missing. Theo occasionally suffered asthma attacks, which required him to use an inhaler. He kept one in his pocket at all times, and he kept a three-pack of reserves in his locker. These were gone, as was a blue and red Minnesota Twins cap he kept on a hook in case it rained. Two unused notepads were missing. His books were there, stacked on top of each other. He froze for a moment, staring into the locker to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, then glanced around to see if anyone (the thief?) might be watching. No one seemed to be paying attention to him. He shifted his books, poked around, and finally came to the conclusion that his locker had been broken into. He had been robbed!
Small-time thievery happened occasionally. The new lockers, though, with their advanced security system, had virtually eliminated such break-ins. He looked down the hall and up to a spot above a large wall clock. There was an empty bracket where a security camera had once been installed. The camera was gone because the school was in the process of updating its video-monitoring system.
Theo wasn’t sure what to do. If he reported the theft, he would spend the next hour or so in the principal’s office filling out paperwork. And, worse still, he would have to deal with a hundred nosy questions from his friends and classmates. As he walked to the cafeteria, he decided to wait, to think about it, to try and figure out how someone could learn his code and break in his locker. He could always report it tomorrow.