Lunging, he caught the handle of the broom in one hand. Two Rubbishes were diving from above, and a Filth bared its sharp, rodent teeth. Kicking off the couch, Spencer slammed the broom against the floor. The door was too far away. But the window . . .
• • •
Across the street, Daisy was doing all she could to keep the stranger from calling the police.
“It’s a game we like to play,” she lied. “Ya put your right broom in, ya put your right broom out, ya put your right broom in and you shake it all about,” Daisy trailed off, wagging her broom in the man’s face. “It’s kind of weird, I know. But it’s actually fun if you give it a chance.”
“Seems a little rowdy in there,” the stranger said, not willing to put his cell phone away just yet.
“Yeah,” Daisy said. “Sometimes it gets a little out of hand. You know, when somebody wants to put the mop in . . .”
Suddenly, there was a shower of glass and Spencer burst through the front window, gripping his broom tightly. He shot across the apartment yard, barely missed a tree, and continued flying across the street.
Daisy and the stranger were both speechless: the stranger, because a boy appeared to be flying across the street, and Daisy, because a dozen Toxites were flooding out of the broken window behind Spencer.
Spencer’s feet touched down just yards from Daisy. The boy hit the ground running to keep pace with his descending broom. “Come on!” he shouted at Daisy without missing a beat.
“Now, wait a minute,” the man with the polo shirt demanded. He whipped up his phone, apparently deciding to involve the police. But before he could dial the number, a puff of dark dust struck his phone and sent it clattering to the sidewalk, vibrating with the force of suction.
It was a good shot and the stranger stood dumbfounded. Daisy blew on her sweaty fingers, causing a few dusty particles to billow like smoke from a gun.
Chapter 33
“You’re a genius.”
Spencer drifted over Aunt Avril’s dead lawn toward his second-story bedroom window. It was risky to use the broom where anyone might be watching, but it might be far worse trying to explain to his mother why he and his friend had come home with mops, brooms, and backpacks full of vacuum dust.
As the two kids had fled Maple Park, Spencer instinctively turned toward home. Daisy’s house was closer, but the savage Toxites were carving a path of destruction to get back to Welcher Elementary and the Gates home was right along the way. It would be safer if they got to Hillside Estates where they could make new plans in peace.
Spencer braced his feet on the windowsill and popped off the screen. He always left his window open an inch so the air in his room wouldn’t get stuffy. Spencer waited for his broom’s gravity to return before climbing through. He quietly dropped to the floor and waved for Daisy to follow him. She glanced around the neighborhood nervously, then struck her broom on the ground and started to rise.
Spencer propped his mop and broom in the corner and slipped Daisy’s pink princess backpack off his tired shoulders. It was good to be back in his sanctuary, where everything had its place. But as Spencer surveyed the room, he noticed several major irregularities. His closet door was open, the hamper overturned, and dirty clothes strewn across the floor. The pillows were off the bed and his checkered bedspread was wrinkled.
Spencer’s first reaction was defensive. What if the BEM had somehow sabotaged his room, planting more angry Toxites in case the beasts in the apartment didn’t do the job? But upon closer inspection, Spencer realized that the wrinkle pattern on the bedspread was all too familiar—jumping little Max feet.
Suddenly, a head of brown hair popped out from under the bed. Max screamed with delight when he saw Spencer standing by the closet door.
“How you get in?” Max shrieked. “I wanna scare you.”
“You
did,
for a minute,” Spencer said angrily. “Get out, right now. Did you forget that my room is off-limits to you?”
Max crawled out from his hiding place, lip trembling. “I . . . I just wanna play.”
“Out!” Spencer ordered unsympathetically. He stood rigid, his arm pointing to the door. Little Max bowed his head and walked out of the room.
“That was a nice older brother,” Daisy said from the windowsill once Max was gone.
“What do you know about it,
only child?
” Spencer retorted, shutting the door and moving to straighten his bedspread.
“I just think you’re being kind of rude right now.”
“Look,” Spencer said, throwing his pillows angrily onto the bed. “
You
didn’t get attacked by killer Toxites.
You
didn’t get a lying note from the BEM. I have a right to be upset now, okay?”
Daisy nodded patiently. “All right. You did have it rough today. I’ll just get out of your way.” She leaned out the window, ready to use her broom.
“Wait,” Spencer said. “I get it. Don’t go.”
“Will you be nice to me and apologize to your brother?”
“He should apologize to
me.
Look at the mess he made!”
Daisy folded her arms stubbornly.
Spencer sighed. “Fine. Next time I see him, I’ll apologize.”
“Good,” Daisy said, resuming her usual countenance. She stepped off the window seat, crossed the room, and sat down on Spencer’s wrinkle-free bedspread. “How’s your cut?”
Spencer lifted a hand to his cheek. He could feel a line of hard, dried blood. “I’m fine,” Spencer assured. “What we really need to do is find out where Garth Hadley is holding the janitors.”
“I don’t know,” Daisy said. “Walter searched for a week and couldn’t find him. What makes you think we’ll do any better?”
Spencer grunted. “We
have
to find them. It won’t be long before the BEM figures out that we have the nail. They’ll track us down as easy as pie. What then?” Spencer started gathering the dirty clothes that Max had spread across the room. He hoped that Daisy wouldn’t notice his underwear. Angrily, he flung the clothes back into the closet, one piece at a time.
Garth had tricked him—tried to hurt him! Spencer had thought he had everything under control, but the Maple Street apartment was nothing but a setup. Garth Hadley would be laughing. Laughing hard. He’d tricked a twelve-year-old—wow. Would Hadley keep laughing if the twelve-year-old tricked him back?
“Spencer!” Daisy scolded. Without realizing it, Spencer had twisted a shirt in his hands until the fabric began to tear.
“We have to find them!” Spencer shouted, hurling the shirt into the closet.
“Calm down,” she said coolly. “Let’s sort out what we know.”
Spencer stopped straightening his room and rubbed his forehead in thought. “Well, there’s like, five or six BEM workers in town. And they could each have a couple of fake names; that seems to be the trend right now.”
“But even if they were using real names,” Daisy said, “the only one we know is Garth Hadley.”
“Oh, good. We’re back to where we started.” Spencer reached down, snatched a pair of shorts by the hem, and gave them a good flick into the closet. As he did so, a small piece of crumpled paper fell to the floor. Momentarily intrigued, Spencer straightened it out. When he saw what was written on it, he sighed and crumpled it again.
“What was that?” Daisy asked.
“Nothing,” Spencer said, tossing the scrap into the wastebasket by his dresser. “Just some stupid note that Nancy wrote.”
“Love note?” Daisy asked, jumping off the bed and reaching into the trash basket. Daisy opened the paper and, to Spencer’s annoyance, read aloud:
Spencer is so out. Draw something on his face. —Nancy
“Yeah,” Spencer said, shutting his closet door at last. “Remember the day that Dez drew on my face? I guess Nancy thought it would be funny.”
“Nancy Pepperton?” Daisy asked, staring hard at the paper.
“The
only
Nancy in our class.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Daisy stammered. “This sure isn’t Nancy’s handwriting. I know because she’s way sloppy and hard to read. Not like this.”
Spencer stole the scrap from Daisy’s hands, scrutinizing the penmanship with the eye of a detective. It was true. The handwriting was far nicer than anything a sixth grader could conjure. And wait a minute . . . there was something familiar about the way his name was written.
“Yes!” Spencer suddenly shouted, tossing the paper in the air like a single piece of confetti. “This is the same handwriting on the paper that Walter found in the recess aide’s vest!”
“Wait. I don’t think Nancy Pepperton is working for the BEM,” Daisy said.
“Of course not.” Spencer rubbed his hands together. All of his anger and energy flowed into this new clue.
Daisy watched him pace for several minutes. Finally she burst out, “Well, who wrote it, then?”
“I don’t know,” Spencer shouted back. “I’m trying to sort it all out.” In that moment, something clicked. It was so obvious! How could he possibly have overlooked it?
“Daisy,” he cried, crossing the room till they were only a foot apart. “All this time we were trying to figure out who could have put that little bottle of pink soap in the bathroom.”
“Who?”
“It was obviously the same person who wrote the note for Dez to draw on my face.”
“Who?”
“Leslie Sharmelle! Our substitute when Mrs. Natcher was sick last week.”
“Whoa,” mumbled Daisy, her eyes bulging as she tried to sort that one out. “But Miss Sharmelle’s a girl. She can’t go in the boys’ bathroom!”
“Oh, please, Daisy!” Spencer slapped a hand to his forehead. “That’s not going to stop her. Even
you
have been in the boys’ bathroom.”
“What if it was Dez?” said Daisy. “What if Miss Sharmelle gave the soap to Dez and he put it in the bathroom? He had some weird crush on her, remember? Dez would have done anything for her.”
But Spencer wasn’t really listening. He didn’t care exactly
who
had put the soap in the boy’s bathroom. He had enough evidence against the substitute teacher anyway.
“Think about it, Daisy,” Spencer said. “Leslie Sharmelle was a BEM spy from day one. They needed a kid to work for them inside the school. It was the only way to get close enough to Walter and steal the bronze hammer. The BEM must have poisoned Mrs. Natcher so we would have a substitute. Then Leslie planted a Filth in my desk. That’s why I fell asleep after recess that day.
“Once I was out, Miss Sharmelle used Nancy’s name and somehow dropped the note on Dez’s desk so he would draw on my face. Then she planted the soap—or maybe she gave it to Dez—and the next day she was gone. Miss Sharmelle did her part. The rest was up to Garth Hadley.”
“Wait a minute,” Daisy said. “The note that the janitors found in the recess vest was signed by S.B. If Leslie Sharmelle wrote it, shouldn’t it be L.S.?”
“Fake name,” Spencer explained. “While I was hiding out under the desk by Principal Poach’s office, a woman came out of an interview. He called her Mrs. Bently, but she said, ‘I wish you’d just call me Sarah.’ Get it? Sarah Bently! S.B.”
“What does that have to do with Leslie?”
“It
was
Leslie! Same clicky high heels and everything. She even wore the same flowery perfume. Leslie staged an interview with the principal so he would open the doors. That’s how everybody got inside to capture the janitors.”
Daisy thought about it for several minutes. The evening sunlight angled through the bedroom window and a breeze played in the leaves of a nearby tree.
Daisy nodded, finally adding, “Spencer. You’re a genius.”
“Thanks,” Spencer said, grinning. The rage he’d been feeling earlier was totally replaced by hope.
“At least we have three names to work with now,” Daisy said. Listing them on her fingers, she stated, “Garth Hadley, Leslie Sharmelle, and Sarah Bently.”
“Let’s hope that’s enough,” Spencer said, crossing the room. He shouldered the princess backpack and hefted his mop and broom. “Come on.”
“Where are we going now?” Daisy asked.
“To rescue the janitors.”
“But where?” She followed him onto the windowsill.
“The Best Western Hotel.”
Chapter 34
“There’s always a turning point.”
A shampoo bottle.
Spencer was basing his whole hypothesis on a shampoo bottle. Leslie Sharmelle’s little container of pink soap had come from a Best Western Hotel. Daisy reminded him that there were probably hundreds of Best Westerns, any one of which could have provided the bottle. Maybe Spencer was grasping at straws—but it was worth a shot.
They drifted down to the dry grass of Aunt Avril’s house.
“Do you have any idea how far away the Best Western is from here?” Daisy asked. She answered without giving him time to speak. “It’s, like, a lot of miles. Clear out by the highway, Spencer. I don’t think I can walk that far.”
“Maybe we can ride bikes,” Spencer said. “I think there’s an extra in the garage.”
Daisy grabbed his sleeve. “You have to remember,” she said, “we’re only kids. No one trusted Garth Hadley because he relied on kids to do his work when he should have gone to the police. There’s always a turning point, Spencer, when we have to hand it over to adults we can trust.”
“But the police will never believe us!” he cried.
“I’m not talking about the police,” said Daisy. “I’m talking about your mom.”
“Mom?”
“She stood up for you in the office. She believed every bit about Garth Hadley.”
“That’s just ’cause I didn’t tell her everything. Only the believable parts.”
“So you’re a chameleon,” Daisy said.
“I’m not a—” Spencer moaned.
“You can’t keep changing colors, Spencer. If you tell your mom the whole truth, she’ll believe you.”
“My mom’s not . . . argh!” Spencer grabbed his head. They didn’t have time for this. “She really doesn’t like
magical
things.”
“This isn’t about magic. It’s about telling the truth so someone will help us save Walter and Marv.”
Spencer sighed. She was right, as usual. If his mother was inside, they needed her help. Spencer left Daisy standing on the crispy grass. He entered the house, screaming for his mother.
Alice came around the corner. “What’s wrong, Spence? What’s the matter?” There was no time to explain everything, such as why he was wearing a princess backpack and holding a mop and broom. She gasped. “My word, you’re hurt!” Alice gently touched the scratch on his cheek.