Independence Hall Page 2

  “They look more like coffins.”

  I hit two more buttons and lights came on above the beds. I flipped another switch and two small plasma TVs flipped down, one above each bed. “Coffins don’t have reading lights or TVs,” I pointed out. “And look…” I picked up the laptop computer on the lower bunk. “Dead people don’t need computers.”

  There was an identical laptop on the top bunk. The computers would be our classroom for the next year.

  “Do you want the top bunk or the bottom bunk?” I asked.

  Angela spent a moment thinking about it. “Bottom, I guess.”

  “Let’s take a look outside,” I said.

  “Why?” Angela asked.

  “Storage,” I said. “Mechanical stuff. The guts. Let’s see what’s stowed below deck and how this thing works.”

  The bus was parked in a parking lot on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge off of highway 101 outside of San Rafael (Buddy’s idea to trick the fans so we could get a “clean getaway” as he put it).

  I started opening the compartments under the bus. The first two were filled with neatly arranged clear plastic storage containers. The containers were exactly the same size. Written on each in careful lettering was a detailed list of what was inside.

  “Wow,” I said. “Who did this?” I knew it wasn’t Mom and I didn’t think it was Roger’s work either. He seemed pretty relaxed, except when it came to vegetables.

  “It was me,” Angela admitted. “I’m kind of an organization freak.”

  “I can see that,” I said, wondering how she was going to get along with Mom who was the most disorganized human on earth. I closed the compartments, not sharing my concerns.

  “It’s really like a sailboat on wheels,” I told Angela as I opened another compartment. “This is the generator. These are the house batteries. We don’t have to be plugged into electricity for everything to work as long as the batteries are charged. I bet we could stay in this thing for a month without having to plug it in.”

  I opened the final compartment. “These are the holding tanks,” I explained. “Gray water. Black water. Fresh water…”

  “I know what fresh water is,” Angela said. “Do I want to know what gray and black water are?”

  “Probably not,” I admitted. “But I’m going to tell you anyway. Gray water is water from the sinks and shower. Black water comes from the toilets.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Angela said. “Whose job is it to empty the tanks?”

  “Your dad’s,” I said, hoping I was right.

  Hooked to the back of the bus with a tow-bar was a brand new Range Rover, cherry red. Hanging on the back of the Rover were two mountain bikes, also red (the color no doubt picked by my mother, who had worn something red every single day of my life).

  “Does your dad ride a bike?” I asked.

  Angela shook her head. “How about your mom?”

  “No way. They’ve either decided to take up biking, or the bikes are for us.”

  The Assignment

  Back inside, I hit a few more buttons on the dash, then went over to the refrigerator to check out the contents, which looked nothing like the food on the sailboat.

  Angela had retrieved her laptop and was sitting at the dining table booting up. She said something I didn’t quite catch because I was wondering how a refrigerator could be completely full and still have nothing edible inside—at least anything I wanted to eat.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Maybe we should talk about our school assignment,” Angela said.

  I closed the refrigerator. “Now?”

  She took off her sunglasses. “Why not?”

  Angela was a straight-A student. So was I in the subjects I was interested in like math and writing. (I would have gotten As in Magic too if they taught it in school).

  “We’ll have plenty of time later,” I said. “It’s not like we get to drive the bus. We’ll just be sitting here watching the country pass by.”

  “It might be a good idea at least to get organized,” Angela persisted. “We have to start working on this Web page. Figure out who’s doing which part of the assignment.”

  I thought about the neatly stacked boxes in the storage compartments. This could be a very long year.

  “What’s the hurry?” I asked. “We just got here.”

  “Your mom told me you were a whiz in school,” Angela said. “She said that your nickname was IQ.”

  Blabbermouth, I thought. I would have to talk to Mom about that.

  “Do you want my theory on schoolwork?” Angela asked.

  I didn’t, but said, “Sure.”

  “If you get it out of the way, it leaves time for more interesting things,” Angela said. “If you don’t get it out of the way, then you feel distracted and a little guilty and the interesting things aren’t nearly as interesting because you’re worrying about what you should be doing rather than what you are doing.”

  I had wondered if and when she was going to pull the big sister thing on me. It hadn’t taken long. “What do you mean by interesting things?” I asked.

  “Things that you’re really interested in besides schoolwork.”

  That was just about everything for me. “I’m going to change out of these clothes.”

  I pulled out a pair of baggy cargo pants from the drawer beneath the bunks and stepped into the bathroom. (I always wear cargoes because I have a lot of things to carry).

  I was thrilled about getting out of school for a year until I found out I wasn’t really getting out of school for a year. I’d been transferred to Angela’s school and was going to work with her teacher, Mr. Pallotta, even though Angela was two grades ahead of me. Mr. Pallotta was a nice guy, but a little too enthusiastic about the school thing for my taste. In addition to our regular schoolwork, Mr. Pallotta wanted us to put together a Web page of our tour. “It’ll be fun!” he had said excitedly. But it sounded like a lot of extra work to me.

  I came out of the bathroom and joined Angela at the table with a deck of cards (that’s one of the things I carry in my pockets), which I started manipulating.

  “Before we begin,” I said. “I’d like to point out that school doesn’t officially start until the day after tomorrow.”

  “We’re not really starting,” Angela said. “We’re just planning how we’re going to proceed. And what’s with the cards?”

  “Nervous hands,” I said, cutting the deck with one hand. “That’s what Mom calls it. I do my best thinking when my hands are busy.”

  “Well, this shouldn’t take too much thinking,” Angela said. “I don’t know the exact route we’re taking to Pennsylvania.” She pulled up a map on her computer screen. “But I’m guessing we’re passing through Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio before we get there. Nine states. Maybe more if we take side trips. I think we should include a few facts about each state even if we’re just passing through it.”

  “I’ll tell you right up front that I’m not very good at geography,” I admitted. “Now, give me a math problem or a word puzzle. I can help you out with those.”

  “I guess the geography will be one of my responsibilities, then,” Angela said. “We can create a map of our route as we go along, with facts about the different states, perhaps write a little bit about the places we stop, post photos, and maybe even upload video clips.”

  “I’ll do the photos and video,” I offered. Mom had given me a tiny digital camera for my birthday that did stills and video. I put the cards down and pulled the camera out of my pocket. “In fact I’ve already gotten started.” I showed her some of the photos I’d taken at the wedding.

  “Wait a second!” Angela said. She pointed to a photo of her eating broccoli. “I didn’t see you take that of me.”

  “Yeah…well maybe I shouldn’t have taken it so close-up.”

  “That’s not the point,” Angela said. “How did you take it without my knowing?”

  “A lot of pra
ctice,” I said. “I like candid photos. And I didn’t have any choice at the wedding and the reception. Buddy made it clear that the only people allowed to take photos were the professional photographers hired by the record company.”

  “Okay, you’re our official photographer,” Angela said. “But I get veto power over what we use and what we don’t use. Agreed?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Now erase the one with me and the broccoli.”

  “Fine.” I erased it. “What about the one of Buddy stomping up to us with the security guards.”

  “No,” Angela said, smiling. “I like that one.” She closed her laptop.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “It’s a start,” Angela said. She looked out the window for a moment then looked back at me. “One more thing.”

  I thought she was going to say something more about our assignment, but she had something very different on her mind.

  “This all depends on us,” she said quietly.

  Mr. Pallotta told us that the Web page would count toward half our grades, which meant that Angela was depending on me for half of her grade. And Mom had made it clear that I was not to screw up Angela’s grade point average.

  “I’ll do my part,” I insisted.

  “I’m not talking about the schoolwork now,” Angela said. “I’m talking about the concert tour, the marriage…everything.”

  “You lost me,” I said.

  “This is a huge break for your mom and my dad,” Angela said. “The album, the tour… Second chances like this don’t come along very often. If we mess up they’ll cancel the tour and lose their record contract.”

  She was right. There wouldn’t be another big chance like this for my mom and her dad. They’d give it all up in a heartbeat if they thought the tour wasn’t working out for me and Angela.

  “So, we can’t mess up,” I said.

  “We can’t let them know when we mess up,” Angela clarified, with a sly smile.

  . . . . . .

  “It’s not a bus,” Buddy told me as soon as he barged in. “It’s called a motor coach. You could buy ten buses for the price of this rig!”

  Mom and Roger and the entourage didn’t show up until midnight. Three encores held them up. There would have been a fourth, but according to Mom and Heather Hughes, Buddy literally pushed them off the stage.

  “Wedding’s over,” Buddy had shouted into the microphone. “Go home.” (Which I’m sure endeared him to everyone there).

  Among the people wedged into the coach were Heather and my parents’ agent (he books the concerts), their business manager (he handles the money), their lawyer (she negotiates the contracts), their producer (he makes the recordings), and their personal manager (that’s Buddy)—he does everything else. That’s the Match “team.” And they all get paid by my parents. Some of them get a percentage of what my parents make. Others get an outright fee for their services. So, they all have a vested interest in how this tour goes—in other words, how much money the tour makes and how many albums it sells.

  As everyone was ready to file out of the coach, Buddy gave the driver thing one last try.

  “You sure you won’t change your mind about a driver?” he shouted. “I can have one here in a hour.”

  Surprisingly, the entire team appeared to agree with Buddy, including Heather.

  Some of their comments:

  “With a driver you and Blaze could spend more time with your kids.”

  “Driving takes a lot out of you.”

  “You’re not professional drivers and this thing is a beast.”

  “You could spend that time rehearsing, writing new material, fine-tuning your performance.”

  “We’ve already been over that,” Mom said.

  “A dozen times,” Roger added. “Forget it, Buddy.”

  And with that we were off.

  Ziv took his right hand off the steering wheel and rubbed his dark eyes beneath his black-framed glasses.

  “Do you want me to drive?” Eben asked.

  “I’ll be fine,” Ziv answered. “I just need some coffee and maybe something to eat.”

  They had been driving for nearly four hours. Eben switched on the flashlight and looked at the map. “There’s a town five miles ahead.”

  Ziv nodded.

  Eben was glad he had not flown ahead with the others. The drive was giving him a chance to relax. As the miles went by, for the first time in what seemed like years, he was letting his guard down. And it felt good.

  Ziv was an ideal traveling companion. He spoke only when necessary, leaving Eben ample time to think, which was exactly what he needed at that moment.

  Along the edges of the headlights he watched the shadowy desert pass by mile after mile along the straight black road. It reminded him of trips he had taken with his younger brother, Aaron, through a similar landscape a world away. He would come home from a tough mission, pick up his brother, and take off with absolutely no destination in mind.

  “Here’s the town,” Ziv said.

  A single light burned straight ahead. The town was so small they might have missed it had they not been looking. They parked the blue SUV in front of a combination gas station, grocery store, and diner with a neon sign: Good Eats! Open 24 Hours 365 Days A Year including Christmas.

  The coffee was strong and the breakfast was surprisingly good considering the desolate location and the time of morning.

  Ziv sopped up the last of the egg yolk with his toast and popped it into his mouth. “Where are they now?” he asked.

  Eben turned on his hand-held computer and enabled the tracking software. A highway map appeared on the small screen. “They’re about fifty miles…wait a second.” He zoomed in on the flashing icon. “It looks like they’ve stopped.”

  “Where?”

  “On the side of the road,” Eben said. “There’s nothing around them.”

  The men got up, paid their bill, and hurried outside.

  Ziv swore.

  Their SUV was gone.

  So much for letting myself relax, Eben thought angrily.

  “What do you want to do?” Ziv asked.

  Before Eben could answer, a state patrol cruiser pulled up in front of the diner with its lights flashing.

  “I guess we report a stolen vehicle,” Eben said. “Is your weapon on you?”

  Ziv shook his head. “I left it in the SUV.”

  Eben had left his automatic pistol in the SUV too, which was just as well. American policemen were jumpy about people carrying guns.

  Two state troopers got out of the car and slowly walked up to them.

  “We’re glad to see you,” Eben said. “Someone has just stolen our car.”

  “How long ago was that?” one of the troopers asked. The nametag on his uniform shirt read: Williamson.

  “It just happened,” Eben said. “We were in the diner.”

  “Did you see them?” the other trooper asked. His last name was Arth.

  “No, we were eating breakfast.”

  “Can I see some identification?” Williamson asked.

  Eben looked at Ziv. “My papers were in the car.”

  “Mine too,” Ziv said.

  “Papers?” Arth said. “Where’re you boys from?”

  “Overseas,” Eben said.

  Williamson smiled. “Could you be more specific?”

  “Israel,” Eben said.

  “Well, I guess you should come down to the station. You can file a stolen vehicle report there.”

  “Station?” Eben asked, looking around the tiny town.

  “It’s not here,” Arth said. “We’re about seventy miles back up the road.”

  “We don’t have time for that,” Eben said.

  “You’re going to have to make time,” Williamson said.

  “Are we under arrest?”

  “No, but if you like we can arrange that. Besides, there are no car rental places around here. Think about it as a free ride.”

  “On one
condition,” Arth added.

  “What’s that?” Eben asked.

  “We’re going to have to frisk you before you get into the back of the cruiser. Standard operating procedure.” Williamson gave them a quick frisk. “What’s this?” He pulled the hand-held computer out of Eben’s back pocket.

  “It’s a computer,” Eben answered.

  “Never seen one this small. I didn’t know they have wireless in the diner.”

  “They don’t,” Eben said.

  “We’ll just hang onto it,” Williamson said.

  “Suit yourself.” Eben wasn’t worried. The files were all encrypted.

  Eben and Ziv got into the backseat.

  “How did you happen to arrive at the diner at the very moment our vehicle was stolen?” Eben asked.

  “Got a call from someone,” Arth said. “He suggested we pick you up and make sure you weren’t terrorists.”

  Eben gave a harsh laugh. “We’re the exact opposite of terrorists.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Williamson said.

  Arth peeled out of the lot and tore down the highway with the siren blaring.

  “So much for relaxing,” Eben muttered.

  “What?” Ziv asked.

  “Never mind,” Eben said with a sigh.

  Boone & Crockett

  I was up and out of my berth at 6 A.M.

  I probably would have slept a lot longer if my stomach hadn’t growled me awake. The coach was parked. Mom or Roger must have pulled into an RV park to get a little shut-eye. Angela was still asleep too.

  I dumped a load of bran cereal into a bowl and soaked it with nonfat organic milk. I decided to take my feast outside so I wouldn’t wake anyone with the alarming gurgling noises coming from my stomach. If I were lucky maybe the RV park would have a little store or a vending machine with candy bars or crackers.

  No such luck.

  Roger and Mom had not pulled into an RV park in the middle of the night. They had pulled off onto the shoulder of the straightest road I had ever seen. No buildings, no trees. In fact, there wasn’t anything higher than my knees in any direction for as far as I could see.

  Nevada, I thought. Has to be.

  I stepped outside and closed the door.

  And that’s when the dog snuck up behind me and barked. I’m not sure what flew higher, me or the bowl of bran. But when I came down the cereal was all over me and the dog was nibbling flakes from the sand near my bare feet.