Independence Hall Read online

  IQ SERIES

  PICTURE BOOKS WITH HIS WIFE, MARIE SMITH:

  B is for Beaver: An Oregon Alphabet

  E is for Evergreen: A Washington State Alphabet

  N is for our Nation’s Capital: A Washington DC Alphabet

  Z is for Zookeeper: A Zoo Alphabet

  W is for Waves: An Ocean Alphabet

  I, Q

  ( Book One: Independence Hall )

  Roland Smith

  Sleeping Bear PressTM

  www.IQtheSeries.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are

  either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2008 Roland Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Smith, Roland, 1951-

  I, Q : Independence Hall / written by Roland Smith.

  p. cm. -- (I, Q the series)

  Summary: Thirteen-year-old Q and fifteen-year-old Angela know their

  lives will become complicated when his mother and her father, wildly

  popular musicians, marry, but soon the teens are involved with spies and

  terrorists in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

  [1. Spies--Fiction. 2. Terrorism--Fiction. 3. Brothers and

  sisters--Fiction. 4. Musicians--Fiction. 5. Remarriage--Fiction. 6.

  Philadelphia (Pa.)--Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.S65766Iab 2008

  [Fic]--dc22

  2008049002

  ISBN 978-1-58536-325-4

  11 13 15 16 14 12

  ISBN 978-1-58536-468-8 (case)

  5 7 9 10 8 6 4

  This book was typeset in Berthold Baskerville and Datum

  Cover design by Lone Wolf Black Sheep

  Cover Illustration by Kaylee Cornfield

  Printed in the United States.

  Sleeping Bear PressTM

  315 E. Eisenhower Parkway, Suite 200

  Ann Arbor, MI 48108

  visit us at www.sleepingbearpress.com

  For my brother Michael

  who shared his music when I was young

  From a window across the street, Eben Lavi watched the couple and the two children leave their loft and climb into the back of a white limousine. It pulled away from the curb and started down the street. A moment later a blue SUV fell in behind the limo, three cars back, and began to follow.

  Eben pulled his disposable cell phone out of his pocket and thumbed in a number.

  “Ziv?”

  “Yes.” Ziv answered from the SUV in his old, gravelly voice.

  “When they get to the park, go over to San Rafael and install the device. When you’re finished come back into the city. I’ll call you when I’m ready to be picked up.”

  Eben flipped the cell phone closed and turned to the two women standing behind him. One was named Carma, the other Devorah.

  “Get everything cleaned up here then get to the airport to catch your flight,” Eben said. “I’m going over to the park. I’ll see you in a few days.”

  “This is crazy,” Carma said. “I say we just take her now and be done with it.”

  Eben pulled a light jacket over his crisp waiter’s uniform and straightened his tie in the mirror. “That is my decision to make,” he said calmly. “And now is not the time.”

  “I agree with Carma,”Devorah said. “It’d be easier to take her here in San Francisco than while they’re traveling.”

  “Not necessarily.” Eben walked to the apartment door and opened it. He paused before stepping out into the hallway. “Have a good flight,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

  He closed the door and walked down the hall, wondering for the hundredth time why his superiors had decided to saddle him with two out-of-control women and an old man who should have been put out to pasture years ago.

  Wedding Vows

  If the ceremony didn’t end soon I thought I might pass out, or worse.

  “Will you, Blaze Munoz, take this man, Roger Tucker, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, through sickness and health, until death do you part?”

  “I will.”

  “Will you, Roger Tucker, take this woman…”

  I felt a drop of sweat dance down my side like a spider and disappear into the waistband of my itchy, brand-new suit pants, which I hoped never to wear again.

  Mom, dressed in a white wedding gown, stared through her veil at her husband-to-be (my stepfather-to-be), Roger Tucker, with loving expectation. In my entire life I’d never seen this expression on Mom’s face. (At least I didn’t remember seeing it.)

  I glanced at my future stepsister, Angela Tucker. She was staring at her dad who wore the same blissful expression as my mom. Angela looked like I felt.

  “…through sickness…”

  I didn’t object to the marriage. In fact, I liked Roger. A lot. It was just that everything had happened so quickly.

  “…and health…”

  Three months ago Mom and I were living peacefully on our little sailboat in Sausalito, California, then Roger shows up at one of Mom’s rare singing gigs with a pile of songs he wrote, then…

  “…until death…”

  They put together a band called Match and cut a single called “Rekindled.” The song goes platinum in two weeks. They’re signed up to record an album. They get a national tour, then…

  “…do you…”

  They announce their marriage, sell the sailboat, lease a bus, and sublet Roger and Angela’s place in San Francisco.

  “…part?”

  Here it comes, I thought, trying not to sway. Mom, Roger, Angela, and me (Quest Munoz—Q for short) are heading out on a yearlong tour as soon as Roger says…”

  “I will.”

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

  Reception

  It was supposed to be a simple wedding in a small church with a little reception afterward for close friends at Roger and Angela’s loft in the city.

  I scanned the crowd. There were hundreds of people mingling in the roped-off Strybing Arboretum in the middle of Golden Gate Park and I didn’t know more than about thirty of them. Outside the cordon, kept at bay by bicycle- and horse-mounted San Francisco police, were at least another five hundred people hoping to get a glimpse of the invited celebrities.

  The Golden Gate wedding was the record company’s idea. A publicity stunt to kick off the Match album and concert tour. At first Mom and Roger said no, but when the company offered to foot the bill and make all the arrangements they changed their minds.

  I looked across the dance floor and spotted Angela. She was standing by the vegetable table munching on things that were good for her. She was a vegetarian like her dad. I guess I was too, now. “It’s a much better way to eat,” Mom had told me. She was probably right, but I missed hotdogs, cheeseburgers, chicken, beef, bologna sandwiches on white bread, and everything else I used to eat.

  In the four months I’d known Angela we probably hadn’t exchanged more than a thousand words. I’m thirteen, she’s fifteen (but I’m taller). I like her, though she’s always been quiet. Maybe she was shy. Or maybe she thought she was too old to hang out with her little brother-to-be. (But it turned out to be none of these things…not even close). She was always standing or sitting off to the side—like she was now—watching everything, but rarely participating.

  She has shoulder-length black hair with bangs, olive-colored skin, and dark brown eyes, which she usua
lly covers with sunglasses. I look like my mom: curly straw-colored hair, green eyes, lanky. I thought I looked like a tall blond version of Harry Houdini (a stretch, I know) who had been my idol since I was about six years old.

  Angela always carries a small, tattered, camouflage back-pack with her. She was carrying it now, slung over her shoulder. It didn’t quite go with the long pink dress she was wearing. (And that was another thing about Angela. She didn’t seem to care what she looked like, or what people thought of her). In the pack was a book or two, a journal she was always scribbling in, sunglasses (several pairs), and by the bulk of it, a lot of other things I hadn’t seen yet.

  Cameras followed Mom and Roger’s every move. Right now the newlyweds were in the middle of the dance floor. I snapped a couple of photos myself without anyone seeing, and then caught Angela’s sunglasses watching me. I gave her a wave and headed in her direction. It was about time that I got to know my sister—whether she wanted to get to know me or not.

  Brother & Sister

  Angela was holding a plate of broccoli and carrots with a large glob of blue cheese dressing on the side.

  “Some party,” I said. “There must be three hundred people here.”

  “Two-hundred-fifty-six, I think,” Angela said, surveying the crowd. “Counting guests, catering staff, reporters, and security people.”

  She couldn’t have possibly known the exact number. People were bouncing around the arboretum like tennis balls. “How’d you know that?” I asked.

  “By observing,” she said with a slight smile.

  I didn’t know Angela well enough to know if she were kidding me or not. I looked over at the dance floor. Several other couples had joined Mom and Roger.

  “I think this might be the first time we’ve actually been alone,” I said. “Not that being with two-hundred-fifty-six people is being alone. But—”

  “I know,” Angela said. “Between your mom, my dad…” She gestured toward the crowd. “…and everyone else, there’s always someone around.”

  “I don’t know about you,” I said, “but I thought I was going to pass out if the ceremony went on a second longer.”

  “Me, too!” she said. “I felt woozy.”

  “Exactly!” This was about as friendly as Angela had ever been to me. Now that we were official stepbrother and sister maybe things had changed.

  “What do you think caused that woozy feeling?” I asked.

  “Stress maybe,” Angela said.

  “I guess I’ve never felt stress then,” I said, “because I thought I was going to puke.” This probably wasn’t the right thing to say. Angela set her plate of vegetables and blue cheese dressing on the table. “Aside from the stress,” I continued quickly, “what do you think of all of this?”

  Angela shrugged. “I guess it all seems kind of orchestrated, as if—”

  “We’re on a reality TV show or something?” I said.

  “In a way we are,” Angela said. “They’re going to incorporate the wedding into the music video.” She looked at the crowd again and sighed. “I guess we’ll have to get used to it.”

  “Nah…” I said. “It’ll be fine once we get on the road. No one’s going to follow us across the country to Philadelphia. You heard what they told Buddy.”

  “Speak of the devil.” Angela pointed to a short, balding man bullying his way toward us through the crowd. He was flanked by two burly plainclothes security men running interference for him.

  Buddy T.

  Buddy T. is Mom and Roger’s personal manager, or PM. No one knows what the T stands for, but Roger thinks it stands for To-Do, because when Buddy speaks it always sounds like he’s reading a list.

  Buddy is abrasive, arrogant, and supposedly one of the best PMs in the music business. His job is to deal with the booking agent and concert promoters, fill the venues with fans, and make sure the equipment, roadies, and musicians all show up on time ready to work and perform. It’s an important and complicated job.

  Mom and Roger don’t get along with Buddy very well. He didn’t want Angela and me to go on tour with them. Mom’s response: “If they don’t go, we don’t go.”

  Buddy wanted to hire a driver to drive the tour bus. Roger’s response: “For the next year the bus is our home. We’re not staying in hotels. We don’t want a stranger living in our home.”

  “Or driving our home,” Mom added.

  In between personal appearances, performances, recording sessions, and tour rehearsals Mom and Roger had squeezed in driving lessons so they could handle the bus safely.

  Buddy asked for a detailed itinerary of our cross-country trip.

  Roger’s response: “We haven’t decided what route we’re taking to Philadelphia, where we’re going to stop, or what detours we’ll take. All you need to know is that we’ll be at the Electric Factory in Philly in plenty of time for the first concert.”

  None of this had set well with Buddy. He had worked with some of the biggest names in the music business and was used to getting his way no matter how famous they were.

  “One platinum song!” he had shouted during one of their meetings. “Big deal! Who do you two think you are? I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count the number of one-hit wonders I’ve worked with in my life. One of them is a security guard now. Three of them sell insurance for a living. And they were all famous. I mean really, really famous…for a heartbeat or two. Now look at ’em.”

  What Buddy couldn’t seem to grasp was that Roger and Mom had each sacrificed, or at least delayed, lucrative music careers to raise us.

  “I’ve been on tour before,” Mom told Buddy. “I got off the road because of Quest. I didn’t want to raise him in that toxic atmosphere. Roger and I are going to do this tour our own way. We’ve taken them out of school for a year to see the United States and arranged for them to continue their school-work through the Internet. We’re going to travel and act like the normal family we are. If we can’t find a way to do this as a family we’ll cancel the tour.”

  “Yeah?” Buddy said. “What about the record company? What about your contract?”

  “If they dump us,” Roger said, “so be it. I don’t care if I’m playing in front of ten or ten thousand people. I’m not in this for the money or fame. I just want to write and play my music and I can do that in San Francisco just as well as I can do it on tour.”

  Buddy had laughed at this comment. “You’ll change your tune once you get out on the road and feel those fans. If I could find a way to bottle and sell the high you’re going to get on tour I’d be the richest man on earth.”

  Roger and Mom had gotten so fed up with Buddy they went to the record company to see what could be done to get rid of him. The president of the company was a woman named Heather Hughes who had known Mom for years and was a good friend. Long before Roger came into the picture she and Mom had jogged together three times a week. She was tall, blond, athletic, and very direct.

  “I wouldn’t get rid of Buddy if I were you,” she advised. “Every band and solo artist hooked up with Buddy has come in here demanding the exact same thing. Here’s what you need to know about Buddy. When you asked me for the name of a good PM, I didn’t choose Buddy, he chose you. In the past two years I’ve begged him to manage a dozen different artists. He’s turned me down flat every single time. He called me and asked for this job. He likes your music, and believe it or not, he likes you and your kids. I know he’s a little rough around the edges, but when this is all over you’re going to consider him a part of your family. Everyone else he’s managed has. You will love him in the end.”

  That was hard for me to believe as I watched Buddy march up with a scowl on his face and grunt: “Time to go.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “Mom and Roger are supposed to sing before we leave.”

  “They’re going to sing,” Buddy answered. “But you and Angela won’t be here to hear it. They’re doing a short set. A couple of songs, max, then they’re outta here. I need
you on the bus ready to go. It’s a long trip from here to Philly.”

  “Why can’t we just ride over to the bus with them after they finish?” Angela asked.

  “Photo op,” Buddy said. “The wedding’s going to be part of their music video. It hits the air in a couple of days. You’re not included in the video per your parents’ request. Enough chitchat.” He nodded at the two security men. “These two will drive you over.”

  The Bus

  It was more like a rocket ship than a bus.

  I sat down in the white leather driver’s seat and stared at the rows of buttons and switches. I picked one and pushed it. A forty-two-inch plasma screen TV flipped open in front of the windshield.

  “Whoa!” I swiveled the chair around and smiled at Angela.

  “It’s a lot nicer than I thought it would be,” she said, running her hand along the back of one of the six leather chairs tucked under the polished rosewood dining table.

  I jumped up from the driver’s seat. “Let’s check out the bedrooms!”

  We walked to the back of the bus, passing a washer and dryer, stainless steel refrigerator, range, oven, microwave, dishwasher, a good-sized bathroom with a shower and tub, and arriving at a rosewood pocket door that swooshed open with the push of yet another button. Behind the door was a huge bedroom with a closet (filled with clothes), a vanity, another plasma TV, a second bathroom, and one king-sized bed.

  “This must be my bedroom,” I said. “I wonder where you and the folks are going to sleep?”

  Angela gave me a concerned smile.

  “I’m sure our bedrooms are around here somewhere,” I assured her.

  “We can see everywhere from where we’re standing,” Angela said.

  I didn’t point out the fact that the bus was actually ten feet longer than the sailboat I was raised on. Instead, I stepped out of the bedroom, found a set of blue curtains along the wall across from the main bathroom, and pulled them open.

  “Ta-da!” I said. “Bedrooms.”

  “Bunk beds,” Angela corrected.

  “On the boat we call them berths.”