WALKING
I t was one thing to play at being detectives, but there was a point when it all got too much. Too serious.
Luke and Tommy were
way
past that point.
They typed a letter on one of the library computers, detailing everything they knew. The plans for the bomb. The symbol that connected Mullins with the Werewolf organization. The lot. Then they printed it on one of the library laser printers and bought a plain brown envelope from the bookshop in the pedestrian mall.
On the front of the envelope they wrote “URGENT: SENIOR DETECTIVE.” That seemed like it would get to someone appropriate. They wrote the letters alternately in block capitals. Luke wrote the
U
, and Tommy wrote the
R;
then Luke wrote the
G
, and so on. They hoped it would confuse the police handwriting experts.
Then Tommy pulled a baseball cap down over his eyes, strolled casually into the police station on Washington Street,and slipped the envelope onto the desk of the officer on duty.
From here on, it was up to the authorities, and he was sure they would know what to do.
Tommy headed home. He was going to spend the evening on the Internet, seeing if there was any more information to be found about Herr Mueller and his friends.
Luke went for a walk.
There seemed to be so many different facts swirling around in his head, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, but he just couldn’t make them all fit together so he could see the whole picture.
When he needed to think, he walked. It always seemed to clear his head. Just strolling, looking at what was around him, letting his mind idle, instead of stamping on some mental accelerator, trying to force himself to come up with a solution to the problem.
The plans in the briefcase had been mirrored. Leonardo sometimes wrote in mirror writing, too. Was that some kind of connection? What about Mueller’s company? He had made a fortune out of rare-earth magnets. Was that important?
The Franklin Library had owned the book but had lost it. The Iowa University Library had the book, but their records had been destroyed in a fire. Could the fire have been deliberate? No, it was started by lightning. What about nice Claudia Smith? She seemed to get on well with Mullins/Mueller. A little too well, maybe? Was she involved somehow?
Images floated through his mind. The
Vitruvian Man.
The unmade fourth bed in the hotel room. Werewolves. Atomic bombs. Leonardo hiding his laboratory so well it wasn’t found for five hundred years, and keeping his drawings secret so they wouldn’t be misused.
Ms. Sheck. Missing. Was it possible that she was connected to this in some way?
More images faded in and out: the photos from the history books, Heinrich Himmler (nerdy-looking), Hermann Göring (fat and pompous), Albert Speer (dignified), and the dank concrete tunnels of the underground Nazi bunkers. Photos of the destruction and death of countless millions of people in World War II. Images that he wished he could wash from his mind but that he knew would be with him forever, playing again and again on a permanent loop in his brain.
He walked until the sun dropped below the tall buildings by the river, and the low golden twilight was replaced by deepening shadows. A snake slithered suddenly across his path on Dubuque Street, winding itself into some shrubs as he approached. Luke didn’t know who was more startled, him or the snake. There were no snakes in New Zealand.
By the time he got back to his bike, his head was clear. He still didn’t know the answers, but he knew what he had to do. He wasn’t looking forward to it—he was dreading it, in fact—but he knew it had to be done.
He had to read the book.
The most boring book in the world.
21. THE MOST BORING BOOK
H e finished dinner quickly, even though it was his favorite—macaroni and cheese—and he didn’t have seconds, which got his mother worried.
“Are you feeling all right, Luke?” she asked as he rinsed his plate in the sink.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m
I t was one thing to play at being detectives, but there was a point when it all got too much. Too serious.
Luke and Tommy were
way
past that point.
They typed a letter on one of the library computers, detailing everything they knew. The plans for the bomb. The symbol that connected Mullins with the Werewolf organization. The lot. Then they printed it on one of the library laser printers and bought a plain brown envelope from the bookshop in the pedestrian mall.
On the front of the envelope they wrote “URGENT: SENIOR DETECTIVE.” That seemed like it would get to someone appropriate. They wrote the letters alternately in block capitals. Luke wrote the
U
, and Tommy wrote the
R;
then Luke wrote the
G
, and so on. They hoped it would confuse the police handwriting experts.
Then Tommy pulled a baseball cap down over his eyes, strolled casually into the police station on Washington Street,and slipped the envelope onto the desk of the officer on duty.
From here on, it was up to the authorities, and he was sure they would know what to do.
Tommy headed home. He was going to spend the evening on the Internet, seeing if there was any more information to be found about Herr Mueller and his friends.
Luke went for a walk.
There seemed to be so many different facts swirling around in his head, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, but he just couldn’t make them all fit together so he could see the whole picture.
When he needed to think, he walked. It always seemed to clear his head. Just strolling, looking at what was around him, letting his mind idle, instead of stamping on some mental accelerator, trying to force himself to come up with a solution to the problem.
The plans in the briefcase had been mirrored. Leonardo sometimes wrote in mirror writing, too. Was that some kind of connection? What about Mueller’s company? He had made a fortune out of rare-earth magnets. Was that important?
The Franklin Library had owned the book but had lost it. The Iowa University Library had the book, but their records had been destroyed in a fire. Could the fire have been deliberate? No, it was started by lightning. What about nice Claudia Smith? She seemed to get on well with Mullins/Mueller. A little too well, maybe? Was she involved somehow?
Images floated through his mind. The
Vitruvian Man.
The unmade fourth bed in the hotel room. Werewolves. Atomic bombs. Leonardo hiding his laboratory so well it wasn’t found for five hundred years, and keeping his drawings secret so they wouldn’t be misused.
Ms. Sheck. Missing. Was it possible that she was connected to this in some way?
More images faded in and out: the photos from the history books, Heinrich Himmler (nerdy-looking), Hermann Göring (fat and pompous), Albert Speer (dignified), and the dank concrete tunnels of the underground Nazi bunkers. Photos of the destruction and death of countless millions of people in World War II. Images that he wished he could wash from his mind but that he knew would be with him forever, playing again and again on a permanent loop in his brain.
He walked until the sun dropped below the tall buildings by the river, and the low golden twilight was replaced by deepening shadows. A snake slithered suddenly across his path on Dubuque Street, winding itself into some shrubs as he approached. Luke didn’t know who was more startled, him or the snake. There were no snakes in New Zealand.
By the time he got back to his bike, his head was clear. He still didn’t know the answers, but he knew what he had to do. He wasn’t looking forward to it—he was dreading it, in fact—but he knew it had to be done.
He had to read the book.
The most boring book in the world.
21. THE MOST BORING BOOK
H e finished dinner quickly, even though it was his favorite—macaroni and cheese—and he didn’t have seconds, which got his mother worried.
“Are you feeling all right, Luke?” she asked as he rinsed his plate in the sink.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m
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