Free Zeke Bartholomew by Jason Pinter Page B

in place. We leaped out of the car, just as tendrils of flame began to blacken the rusty blue paint.
    â€œShe was a good girl,” I said. “And went out in style.”
    â€œClassy eulogy. Let’s go. Do you know where we are?”
    I looked around. The town swimming pool was just a few blocks away, and I recognized the old run-down movie theater that hadn’t seen business since people called it pop instead of soda.
    â€œThere,” I said, pointing at the Brian Brooks Little League Field a few blocks away. It was a beautiful field, with lush green grass and dirt as pure as, well, dirt could be. Even though I wasn’t much of an athlete, I would lie in the outfield during the off season to read, stare at the clouds, and wonder what people braver than me were doing at that very moment. Right now, though, I had no time for daydreaming.
    â€œThe baseball field? Your lab is on the baseball field?”
    â€œNot on,” I said. “Under.”
    I jogged over to the field and opened the gate to the ballpark. I inhaled deeply. I loved that smell. Sparrow followed, hesitant.
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œJust come on. I was out here a few years ago when I noticed that shed out in the distance,” I said. “I’d never seen anybody go in or out. It was just there. One day I got curious. It had an old rusty lock on it. I broke it off with an aluminum bat. And found this.”
    On the door was a combination lock. I’d put it there. As far as I knew, nobody else had even tried to get in after me. It was hiding in plain sight.
    I entered the combination, 5-2-8, May 28, the birthday of Ian Fleming, the man who created James Bond. I took off the lock and yanked open the creaky door.
    â€œThis is it?” she said.
    â€œSometimes you need to look closer,” I said. “Things can be more than they seem.”
    Inside the shed was a water fountain. It was caked in grime and sludge. Next to it was a grate that measured about eighteen by twelve inches. That was it. Nothing else. Except the dime.
    Inside the water dish on the fountain was a run-of-the-mill dime. I’d left it there the first time I found the shed, knowing what it was used for.
    I took the dime and knelt down. One by one I inserted it into the small slot at the top of each of the four screws holding down the grate. A little elbow grease and the grate was free. I pulled it off the opening and gently placed it to the side of the fountain.
    â€œLet’s go.”
    â€œDown there?” Sparrow said. She peered into the darkness, appearing hesitant. Strange for a girl who had just parachuted away from a damaged aircraft. My dad has a friend, Phil Bushwick, who served in the navy. Big, strong guy who looks like he wears his skin three sizes too small. Phil is afraid of frogs. I mean, once I brought a live frog home, and when he saw it, Phil, who was having a beer with my dad, fell over backward in his chair, cracked his head on the floor, and ended up in the hospital with a concussion. Maybe long, dark tunnels were Sparrow’s frog.
    â€œYou can wait here,” I said. “I’ll take the ComLet and go myself.”
    This appeared to anger Sparrow. “I’d rather fall into a vat of boiling acid. Let’s go, tunnel rat. You first.”
    â€œNo need to be so dramatic. Come on. “ I climbed into the grate opening.
    There were old metal footholds on the side where sewage workers must have climbed up and down at one point. Step by step I made my way down the ladder into the damp, smelly darkness. I’d made this trip many times, often with backpacks full of stuff. I felt a slight surge of pride when I saw Sparrow daintily making her way down, pausing every few seconds to check below her. For the first time all day, I felt like the braver person.
    â€œCareful,” I said, helping her the last few steps. A narrow stream of water flowed through the middle of the tunnel. The walls