A Boy Called Duct Tape by Christopher Cloud Page B

file through an open meadow of leafy weeds. We were nearly across the field—within a few yards of the forest—when Monroe stopped.
    “Aha!” he crowed. “Now I know what I smell! Cannabis!” He made a wide sweeping motion with his hand. “We’ve stumbled upon someone’s marijuana patch!”
    “Pot?” I said, fingering one of the lush stalks. The two-acre field was infested with the waist-high plants.
    “Yeah, pot,” Kiki confirmed. “We had a policewoman come to our school last month with marijuana plants. These look just like the ones she brought to class.” Kiki brushed a leaf with the back of her hand, then leaned forward and smelled it.
    “My teacher says smoking marijuana is bad for you,” Pia said, looking troubled.
    Kiki nodded. “Your teacher’s right, Pia. Smoking anything is bad for you.”
    I examined one of the leafy plants. It looked like a weed. I’d never smoked pot, but I’d seen a couple of eighth-grade boys smoking a joint behind the bus barn one day after school. A bus driver busted them, and they were suspended.
    We continued pushing through the field.
    “Monroe, is it like growing wild?” Kiki asked.
    Monroe shrugged. “I seriously doubt that—”
    “Stop!” I ordered from the back of the line, making a startled gesture. “Everyone, look at me!”
    Everyone stopped and turned toward me.
    “What is it, Pablo?” Kiki asked in a hushed voice.
    “Don’t speak,” I said.
    “Pablo,” Pia began in a scolding tone, “what are you—”
    “Don’t talk, just listen,” I interrupted, making eye contact with each of them.
    “What’s up, Pablo?” Monroe asked soberly.
    “We’re being watched,” I said, trying to keep my voice soft and under control.
    “Where?” Monroe asked.
    “Pia, Kiki, look away,” I said. “Look straight ahead into the forest. Don’t look to the right or the left. Nod if you understand.”
    Pia and Kiki replied with anxious nods.
    “Off to my right, Monroe,” I said in a halting tone. “Seated in a tree stand about ten feet off the ground. He’s wearing camouflage and face paint. About 50 yards away.”
    Monroe kept his head still, but shifted his eyes. Then, in a strangled whisper, he said, “Yes, I see him.”
    “Pablo …?” Pia choked.
    “Everyone just follow me,” Monroe said, “Do as Pablo said. Keep looking into the forest ahead.”
    Pia began to say something—my sister could be dangerously stubborn sometimes—but I gave her a stiff shake of my head.
    Monroe turned and began walking briskly out of the marijuana patch and into the forest. Pia, Kiki, and I followed. After we had marched a hundred yards or so into the heavy timber, Monroe stopped. He turned and faced us. “That was very close, my young friends.”
    “I don’t get it,” Kiki said, the tension draining from her face.
    “That marijuana field was being guarded by a man in a tree,” Monroe said. “I imagine he had a weapon of some kind. He was, no doubt, protecting his crop.”
    “Whew! We dodged a bullet—literally,” Kiki said, out of breath. “But I never saw him.”
    “How’d you see him, Pablo?” Pia asked.
    I blew out an anxious breath. “I saw a glint of sunlight off his glasses.”
    We hiked on.
    When we reached the base of Bear Mountain we fanned out in ten-yard intervals across its western slope and began searching for the mysterious JJ Rock. The cave entrance—if the map was accurate—was located only a few steps from the JJ Rock, and we examined every rock, boulder, and stone of any size, looking for anything resembling the letters JJ.
    We found no such writing, and by noon we weren’t any closer to solving the mystery. We rested under a tall chestnut tree halfway to the summit of the mountain. The heat and humidity were suffocating—our T-shirts were plastered to our bodies with sweat, and gnats kept flying up our noses—and Monroe insisted we take frequent water breaks from the canteens hooked to our belts.
    I kept a close eye on my