Nickel Bay Nick (18 page)

Every shopper stops. Every head whips around.

I'm so focused on Mrs. Atkinson's shopping bag that I fight the urge to look. Strolling past, I make my drop, and it's only then—once the final Ben is in place—that I actually hear what the man down the hall is yelling.

“Stop him!” he's howling. “Stop that pickpocket!”

Panic rips through my body.
This is it!
screams the voice inside my skull.
You've been caught!
The blood rushing to my head makes me stagger away from Mrs. Atkinson, but the fringe of my scarf snags on a corner of her bench and pulls it from my face. I can't stop to untangle it, because the shouts behind me are growing louder, getting nearer and nearer.

“Don't let him get away!” other voices yell. “Grab that kid!”

Despite the thumping of my heart, I try not to freak out. I lower my head and pick up my pace, plowing through a wall of people. Everyone in my path, though, is stopping, craning their necks to watch the tidal wave of commotion that's bearing down on me. Up above, on the second and third floors, I spot security guards running along the railings, shouting into their walkie-talkies, dashing to the escalators. Then up ahead, without warning, a hulking guard breaks through the crowd, gripping the leash of a snarling German shepherd and running
straight at me
!

Stopping dead, I throw both hands overhead in surrender and am about to shriek, “I give up! You got me!” when the most amazing thing happens.

The cop and his dog run right past me.

Now I'm totally confused. If they're not all chasing me, then who
are
they after? I look back. Up and down the hall, voices are hollering and echoing.

“There he is!”

“Don't let him get away!”

“He's the one!”

I don't see who they're talking about until suddenly, thirty feet behind me, a kid in a hooded sweatshirt sprints out of the crowd of shoppers, leaps over the German shepherd in his path and veers to his right, leading his pursuers down the west corridor of the mall. Just before he disappears from my sight, the hood falls back from the guy's head, and I can see that it's . . .

“Jaxon?” I whisper in shock.
What's he doing here?

But this is no time to ask questions. Any second now, someone is going to find one of those fifteen Nickel Bay Bens, and then a whole
other
circus is going to break out. And despite the baseball cap pulled low over my forehead, I'm really exposed now. I've got to get out.

I mistakenly assume that every guard in the mall is hot on Jaxon's tail, but when I round the corner to the nearest exit, I find out how wrong I am. Three guards stand between me and the parking lot. And two of them have kicked me out in the past.

With a quick U-turn, I head back into the mall. I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but I have no other choice.

I've got to activate Plan C.

As I whiz along, I unzip my backpack and, into each trash can I pass, I deposit a single item from Samantha's outfit. When the nylon shoulder bag is finally empty, I ball it up and toss it, too.

Plan C requires me to get myself to the Pampered Pooch, a pet grooming salon, in the west corridor of the mall. Unfortunately, it's the same corridor that Jaxon has just led all those guards and angry shoppers into, but by the time I arrive, I'm relieved to see the mob has moved beyond the Pampered Pooch. The store's employees—six men and three women, all wearing white smocks and holding hair clippers and brushes—are standing around in the arcade, drawn outside by the uproar. As I slip into the unattended shop and dart into the back work area, I hear one of the groomers asking a passerby, “What's happening?”

“Cops caught a pickpocket,” comes the answer.

Twenty minutes later, when Dr. Sakata arrives to pick up Hoko from his grooming appointment, he is led into the workroom, from which he emerges carrying an enclosed kennel. Inside is one shampooed, fluffy dog.

And lying at his side, sharing the crate, is one small boy.

Although I can't see out—and no one can see in—I still hear the footsteps racing past and a new chorus of voices, this time shouting joyfully.

“Somebody found a Ben!”

“Then he's here! He's here!”

“Nickel Bay Nick is in the mall!”

THE
CLUE
IN THE
COAT

On the way home, in the darkness of the dog crate, I calm Hoko by scratching his back, his ears and his neck. He repays me with a thousand kisses. On his collar, I'm confused to discover something hanging alongside his dog tags. I'm rubbing the object between two fingers, trying to figure out what I've found, when suddenly the SUV's tailgate swings open.

We're back in Mr. Wells's garage.

Dr. Sakata unlatches the door of the crate, and Hoko bounds out. I crawl after him, stand up straight and stretch out the kinks. With all the licking I've been getting from Hoko, I'm wet from chin to forehead. I rub my face dry with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, muttering, “Yuck!” which gets an understanding nod from Dr. Sakata. Then I follow him as he carries the empty cage into the house.

A weird grinding sound is coming from the living room, where we find Mr. Wells standing over a paper shredder, feeding documents from the folders on his desk into the steel blades.

“Any problems?” he calls over the noise.

“Nope,” I answer. “What're you doing?”

He waits until the machine stops whirring before he answers. “Operation Christmas Rescue is at an end. You have fulfilled your part of our agreement.” With the sweep of an arm, he indicates the files and reports he had collected about my dishonorable past. “So now I'm destroying all the evidence I collected on you.”

I don't know how to respond. I guess I'm relieved that Mr. Wells can no longer blackmail me, but at the same time, I'm bummed to realize that, yeah, our missions are over. Operation Christmas Rescue is history.

Mr. Wells smiles broadly and rubs his hands together. “So! You had to resort to Plan C, huh?”

• • •

For our final lunch together, Mr. Wells decides we should eat in the dining room, so he, Dr. Sakata and I seat ourselves at one end of a table that could easily handle twelve. Then I give Mr. Wells a full account of the White Mission. He chuckles when I tell him about the two boys chasing me down the escalator and into the bathroom.

“Smart move, choosing the men's room!” he exclaims.

When I get to the part about Jaxon, he nods knowingly. “Yes, I heard that on my police scanner,” he says. “He's been booked down at the station.”

“Dad was right about Jaxon,” I grumble, stirring my soup. “I bet his lawyer father gets him out tonight, and he'll be back in school tomorrow.” After a moment spent staring into my bowl, though, I set down my spoon and say, “Y'know what I think?”

“What's that, Sam?”

“I think tomorrow, when I go back to school,” I announce, “I'm gonna try to make some new friends.”

Mr. Wells smiles and nods. “Sounds like a plan.”

Without any more missions to prepare for, we linger over our meal. The mid-afternoon sun is throwing long shadows across the dining room floor when Mr. Wells finally reaches into the pocket of his three-button sweater, pulls out a small box and sets it on the table in front of me.

“What's this?”

“Think of it as congratulations for a job well done,” he says.

“But I was working to pay you back for the damage to your roof,” I protest. “I shouldn't be getting a present.”

“It's not really for you.”

I scrunch my nose in confusion. “Who's it for, then?”

“Open it and find out.”

I lift the lid off the box and fold back the tissue paper to reveal a small wooden picture frame holding a square of glass. It takes me a moment to realize what I'm looking at behind the glass.

It's a coin. A very old nickel. I've seen others like it only twice before. One is in a bulletproof case at the Nickel Bay Historical Society. And the other is in a photo in Dad's scrapbook.

I look up at Mr. Wells. “Is this Phineas Wackburton's fourth nickel?”

“It is,” he says. “That's the one your father received from the town of Nickel Bay for saving all those lives in the factory fire.”

“But Dad said he lost his! When we moved all those times!” I press my hands to my skull, feeling like my head might explode. “Okay, wait! How . . . how did you get it?”

“Six months after your heart transplant,” Mr. Wells begins, “you developed a serious infection. I'm sure you don't remember much of this, it was so long ago.”

I shake my head. “It's mostly a blur.”

“Your father's finances were already stretched to the breaking point, and the costs of your unexpected hospitalization and treatment were threatening to bankrupt him. He felt that the only thing of value he had was the Wackburton nickel, so, in desperation, he contacted a coin dealer. Who contacted me.”

“And you bought Dad's nickel?”

Mr. Wells nods.

“Wow.” I lift the tiny frame and peer at the coin. “So, when you asked me to tell you about the naming of Nickel Bay, you already knew the story?”

“More or less, but I needed to learn how much you knew.” Mr. Wells nods to the coin. “I thought it might make a nice gift from you to your father.”

I look up. “But he'll wonder where I got it.”

“So tell him we found it while we were organizing my files,” Mr. Wells says with a flip of one hand. “Say that it was in a box with a lot of other coins and trinkets, and that I had no idea what it was.”

“Then he'll want to know where
you
got it.”

“Oh, Sam!” Mr. Wells chuckles. “You've always been such a good liar. Don't let that skill desert you now!” He rubs his palms excitedly. “You could say that, over the years, I've bought collections from many coin enthusiasts. Tell him that I have been negligent about organizing and cataloguing those coins, to the point that they've ended up jumbled together in a stack of cardboard boxes in my attic. If he asks me, I'll say that I don't remember who sold me what. That story should hold up, don't you think?”

“I guess,” I say slowly before I suddenly remember my manners. “I mean, I'm really, really grateful, so thanks. Thanks a lot.”

“You're welcome, Sam.”

I replace the lid on the box, but my mind is elsewhere. Something in Mr. Wells's story doesn't add up, but I can't put my finger on what it is.

“Mr. Wells? Did you say the coin dealer contacted
you
?”

“I collect historic artifacts.” He gestures around the house. “I do business with a lot of dealers.”

My eyes narrow. “And that's how Dad was able to pay my medical bills?”

“I assume that's how he used the money.” Mr. Wells shrugs. “As I said, I was interested in the coin.”

His gaze is steady, and anybody else would believe that Mr. Wells is telling the truth. But now that I'm thinking like a spy, the casual tone of his explanation sets off alarm bells.

“Here's what confuses me,” I say, ticking off each point on my fingers. “You just happen to live at the corner of the same street we live on, in a house you happened to move into just after I got my heart transplant, right?”

“If you say so.”

“Six months later, Dad's in desperate need of cash, and you
happen
to get a call from the same coin dealer who's selling Dad's Wackburton nickel? Or did
you
call the dealer?”

“It was a long time ago.” Mr. Wells tries to sound relaxed. “Does it matter who called whom? Like I said, I was interested in acquiring a rare nickel. I got the coin, your father got the money, and you got the treatment you needed.”

“Mr. Wells,” I say, shaking my head, “don't you know that it takes a liar to recognize a lie?”

“Why do you think I'm lying?” His voice rises in pitch, and I know I'm getting to him.

“Because!” I explode. “You're not from Nickel Bay! You didn't know me or my dad.”

“So what?”

“So why did you help us?”

“I did not set out to help you!” Mr. Wells insists. “You make me sound like a guardian angel.”

The breath catches in my throat. “What did you just say?”

Mr. Wells throws his arms open. “I said I am nobody's guardian angel!”

And in that moment, the final puzzle piece clicks into place in my brain.

“Guardian angel!” I shout. “That's it!”

“What's what, Sam?”

Reaching into my shirt collar, I pull out the carving of Hanuman hanging around my neck. “You told me the people of India think of Hanuman as a protector. A guardian angel. Remember that?” I ask, holding up my little statue. “You said it when you asked me how I got mine.”

“So?”

“So . . . Hoko!” I call. “C'mere, boy.”

Hoko trots over and sits at my knee.

“The whole way back from the Four Corners Mall, I was lying at Hoko's side, getting slobbered over,” I explain, “and I was doing this.” I run a hand through Hoko's thick coat, and he moans with delight. “That's when I felt something around his neck, something he's always wearing, but it's hidden by his fur, right? I thought it felt familiar, but it was too dark in the cage to see what it was. Then you said ‘guardian angel' just now, and you reminded me . . . okay!” I pull the object free of Hoko's fur. “Here it is.”

What I'm holding is a duplicate of the Hanuman around my neck.

“Aha!” I shout triumphantly, and lean down so that I can hold my pendant next to Hoko's. “Coincidence? I don't think so. I think Hoko has always worn this.”

“But as I . . . as I told you, Sam,” Mr. Wells stammers, “people all over India wear Hanuman for . . . for good luck and—”

“And protection,” I finish his sentence. “Yeah, that's what you said.” I straighten up in my chair. “Last week you asked me to tell you about my Hanuman, but you already knew that story, too. And you knew it because you sent this to me”—I hold up my carving—“in the hospital after my operation. Didn't you?” Instead of answering, Mr. Wells stares at the carving. “And six months later, when I got sick again and Dad needed money, you bought his Wackburton nickel. Only you did it through a coin dealer so Dad never knew you were the buyer.” Letting my Hanuman drop to my chest, I lean forward. “So let me ask you one more time, Mr. Wells.
Why were you being my guardian angel?
”

For a long time, Mr. Wells stares at me, until I notice his mouth trembling. Then—and I'm not expecting this—from the corner of one eye, a tear rolls down his cheek. Now I'm really confused. I don't know what I said to make him cry. And I sure don't know how to make him stop.

“He can't tell you himself, so allow me.”

The voice comes out of nowhere. It's not me speaking, and it sure isn't Hoko. I spin around in my chair to the only other person in the room.

“Dr. Sakata?” I gasp. “You speak American?”

“You mean English?” he replies, without any accent.

Now my mind is totally blown. “
This whole time?
”

“I live in Columbus, Ohio, with my wife and two children,” he says. “I'm head of surgery at the State University Hospital. So, yes, I speak English.”

“But why . . .” I gesture between him and Mr. Wells. “Why did you guys only speak Japanese to each other?”

“So we could exchange secrets in front of you. It's a common trick in the world of espionage and interrogation.”

Mr. Wells pulls a handkerchief from his sweater and dries his cheeks.

“So what is it,” I ask Dr. Sakata, “that Mr. Wells can't tell me himself?”

Dr. Sakata takes a deep breath. “When Mr. Wells's son and daughter were growing up, they rarely saw their father. Depending on where Mr. Wells's work took him, his family was constantly being moved from one exotic location to another, and then he would leave for a top-secret mission, often for months at a time. When he'd return, there wasn't much Mr. Wells was allowed to say to his own children. He couldn't answer their questions about where he'd been and what he'd been doing. He couldn't take them to an office and introduce them to his coworkers. And he was hardly ever around to celebrate their birthdays or Christmases.

“His little girl, Nancy—”

“Is that really her name?” I interrupt Dr. Sakata. “I mean, you guys haven't been exactly honest about
your
identities.”

Before Dr. Sakata answers, he looks to Mr. Wells, who makes a little nod.

“That's really her name,” Dr. Sakata says before continuing. “Nancy eventually got used to the peculiar arrangement with her father. After all, she had her mother to talk to, and the two of them grew very close. But Mr. Wells's son, Patrick, felt left out, and by the time he was a teenager, Mr. Wells began to notice disturbing changes. Every time he'd return from another mission, he'd find Patrick growing angrier, more distant, more disobedient. Mr. Wells's solution was to send Patrick off to military school.”

“I was such a fool,” Mr. Wells mumbles, shaking his head.