The Lost Tribes, page 12
Carlos brushed leaves out of his view and searched the landscape as if he were expecting to see his father emerge from the jungle at any moment.
“What are you thinking?” asked Ben.
“I was thinking I liked life better the way it was before the game.” He studied the condor as it made wide, sweeping arcs across the sky.
Ben sighed, then perked up as a brainstorm hit him. “I’ve got an idea and you don’t have to do anything.”
Carlos scowled and maintained his focus on the condor.
“No. I mean it. I’ll challenge Dad to a basketball game. He’s pretty clumsy. Like a Harlem Globetrotter but without the skill. Either he’ll miss like always and throw it over the garage, or I’ll do it intentionally. When we go to get the ball, I’ll ask about the satellite dish. I’ll call you and tell you what he says.” Ben thought that sounded like a great spy plan. His dad could scope out the real story from Carlos’s dad.
At the mention of the satellite dish, Carlos’s closed his eyes. His mood grew even darker. Ben decided to drop the subject. Lately he had a knack for making things worse. He jumped down from the platform to study the tablets and spotted something hidden in the grass. A worn leather strap with a row of black stones imbedded around the circumference.
As soon as Ben touched the object, the jungle grew silent. The butterflies disappeared. The birds stopped chirping. The condor returned as if sizing him up for a potential meal.
“Think this is a clue?” He tossed it up to Carlos.
Carlos studied it with disinterest. “I think it’s a collar, but we might as well collect it. We may have to trade it for something useful later in the game.” He tossed it back down to Ben.
A collar? Ben knew exactly what he was going to do with it. He shoved it in his pocket, activated the tablet and called out the code for Sunnyslope. Carlos held off inputting the last number until Ben climbed back on the platform. As they dissolved, a star shaped symbol appeared on the obelisk.
No more to see at this location.
Clock is ticking.
Seconds later, they were back in Ben’s room, running for cover as the bookcase tilted from their weight and spilled its contents on the floor. Ben caught the bookcase midway and set it upright again. He paused hoping no one was home.
“Need more help with your math?” Carlos asked as he helped to pick up the books and games littering the floor. “The test is tomorrow, whether Mr. Bundy is back or not.”
“No. I need to start figuring stuff out for myself.” Ben’s hand brushed against his pocket. The collar was still there … outside of the hologram.
One more mystery to solve.
Carlos smiled halfheartedly, headed for the bedroom door, then paused. “You know you’re never going to get it, don’t you?”
“The math?” asked Ben.
“No. Your uncle’s approval.” Carlos didn’t bother to look at him. He just kept staring into space as if searching for answers in the gaps between the molecules of air. “You say we’re playing this thing because you want to go on an expedition, but it’s really about getting him to like you, right? It’s like me trying to please my dad by pretending to be something I’m not. It doesn’t work. Some people won’t change no matter how hard you try.”
Ben sighed. This started out as just a simple game. Now it was destroying everything and everyone around him.
“There’s one more thing,” Carlos said, both hands jammed in the pockets of his khaki pants. “Your basketball plan won’t work.”
“Why not?” Ben tried to read Carlos’s expression. All he saw was fear.
“Because I checked this afternoon. The satellite dish is gone.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Massacre
“Reasons are one thing, motives another.”
Charles Johnson, 1920
“ … the satellite dish is gone.”
Ben stared out his bedroom window toward the woods. Something was dreadfully wrong in the neighborhood and it was bigger than a disappearing satellite dish.
He took a deep breath and headed for the garage where his father was tinkering with his car’s engine. Ben suspected that his father was a frustrated inventor. He spent his free time in his workshop banging away on a project. Ben had never been able to pick the lock — but not for lack of trying. An ultra-bright light often shone beneath the door while his father worked. Ben wondered if it was a good idea for his clumsy dad and hot halogen lights to be near combustion engines and fuel.
“Hey, Ben! What’s up?” Jeremiah Webster looked up from beneath the hood, a dripping container of oil in his hand.
Ben forced a smile. “Want to shoot some hoops? You owe me a game.”
“Yeah, I know.” His father wiped his hands on a shop towel. “Last time we played I was about to beat you at HORSE.”
Ben burst out laughing. “We’d have to change the name to ‘onomatopoeia’ to give you a shot at winning!”
“Can’t take the heat, huh?” His father’s eyes twinkled.
“How about some one-on-one. It’s more your speed.” The knot in Ben’s stomach subsided. There was time to scope out the satellite dish. For now he just wanted to have some fun. He tossed the ball to his father, who dropped it, then caught it on the first bounce. “You can go first this time,” Ben said.
“You’re on, Hot Shot!” Jeremiah Webster walked out to the driveway and dribbled the ball between his lanky legs. As usual, he was unable to control it and nearly tripped. Ben dashed in, stole the ball and jumped.
“Score!”
The ball hit the backboard and dropped into the net. “You need me to spot you a few points, old man?”
“Hrmpph,” his father snorted as he grabbed the rebound. “I’m just giving you a false sense of security.” He lined up his shot and released the ball. “Score!”
“Miss!” Ben shouted as the ball hit the roof, rolled the length of the gutter, then reversed course before bouncing on to the grass. “This is proof that I did NOT get my basketball genes from you. Want some coaching?”
His father laughed. “No. Do you?”
As Ben reached for a lay-up his father grinned and tackled him to the ground.
“Hey! This is not football. Personal foul!”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you were cheating, Dad, so I get a free throw and a penalty free throw.” Ben tried pushing his father away. It was like trying to move a brick wall. Grinning, he scrambled to his feet, stepped to a line in the middle of the driveway and waved his father to the edge of the lawn. He considered launching the ball in the direction of the satellite dish, but decided to show off first. “Watch and learn, old man.”
The ball swooped through the net.
“Score!”
His father rebounded and began to dribble.
“Nope,” Ben said, waving an index finger. “I get another turn.”
“Okay,” his father said. “But take the penalty shot from there.” He pointed to a crack another twelve feet away.
“The penalty shot isn’t to penalize ME!” Ben protested.
His father kept pointing. “Scared of a little challenge? Come on, show me what you’ve got, Hot Shot.”
Ben walked to the crack and wiggled his hips arrogantly. He dribbled the ball in and out of his legs, stuck out his tongue, then aimed. He held his breath as the ball made its way to the basket. It landed on the rim, rolled two revolutions, then dropped into the net.
“Score!” Ben yelped!
His father eyed him with curiosity. “Lucky shot?”
“Skill and concentration,” Ben said, making a goofy face.
His father tossed the ball back to him and pointed to a spot further down the driveway. “Humor me and take a shot from there.”
Ben smiled and went to the designated spot. It would be like shooting from half-court — difficult, but not impossible. The ball passed through the net with a gentle “whoosh.”
“Score!” Ben danced in a circle and pumped his arm up and down. “Hah! So how many does that make? Why bother to keep score? Just concede now!”
His father cocked one eyebrow, retrieved the ball and returned it to Ben. Pointing to the end of the driveway he said, “Try from there.” His sharp tone was more of an order than a request.
“Dad! That would be like shooting from the opposite end of the court!”
“Yeah, I know. Try it anyway.”
Ben frowned. The spot was almost ninety feet away. This was going to be impossible. When he reached the street, he noticed a dark cloud forming. He’d have to work quickly if he was going to have time to show his father the satellite dish. He arched backward and threw the ball as if he were launching an Olympic javelin. Again, the ball landed on target.
Ben gawked. “Did you see that?” He shimmied from side to side and patted himself on the back as he returned to the backyard.
“How long have you been able to do that?” His father’s expression was a combination of shock and alarm.
“Don’t know,” Ben said, still dancing. “Never tried it from that far before. Forget school tryouts and State Championships. I should go pro right now!”
His father studied him for several seconds. The sparkle soon returned to his eyes. He grinned with pride and patted Ben on the back. “My son! Okay. My turn.” He took the ball, dribbled pathetically, ran toward the garage and jumped for a lay up. The ball hit the backboard, bounced from the right side of the hoop to the left like a ping-pong ball before bouncing off at an angle … on to the deck. Ben’s father seemed amused by the results.
Ben retrieved the ball from a deck planter, and pointed toward the garage. “That’s just pathetic. Do I need to paint an arrow on the net for you? Look! Basket! That is a basket.” Ben held out his hands. “Ball. This is a ball. Ball goes in basket. Simple concept. Want to try again?” He tossed the ball toward his father.
Without looking down, his father opened his hands and caught it squarely with his fingertips.
“Awesome Dad, you’re getting better at …”
Ben turned to see what his father was staring at. His uncle had appeared out of nowhere and, as always, had blown in ahead of a storm.
“Your boy needs some real competition, Jeremiah.”
“What do you want, Henry?” His father’s tone was anything but polite. “I thought you were headed to the Middle East.”
“Had some local business to attend to,” Uncle Henry said, the sky growing dark behind him. “Ben? How’s the game coming?”
Ben’s stomach turned. The week was almost over and the firing squad had returned for the kill. Ben looked to his father for support but his father’s eyes were narrowed and fixed on Uncle Henry. “We cracked the first clues and made it all the way to Peru.”
“Indeed.” Uncle Henry raised his eyebrows and glowered at his brother before returning his attention to Ben. “And now it appears you are taking a break to rest from the grueling mental challenge. Nothing like simplistic diversions to get the juices flowing. As I said, judging from your father’s performance on the court, you appear in need of some real competition to improve your skills. Perhaps you will indulge me in a game. What is it you call it? Horse?”
Ben gulped. The way he’d been playing, he was unbeatable. Too big to move with grace or speed, his uncle was definitely not the basketball type. Offensive tackle on a football team? Maybe. But definitely not a basketball player, so this was one time Ben had a fighting chance to be victorious. “Sure. Need me to spot you some points?”
“I was thinking I might extend the favor to you.” Uncle Henry tossed the ball to Ben. “Let’s see what about this game has you so captivated. One letter for every shot? You can start as offense.”
“That’s not how you play …”
“Horse?” Uncle Henry finished. “I know. But since when have you started playing by the rules. How about it? One letter for every shot you make? One for every shot I make. Game?”
“Yeah, sure,” Ben said, his mind working through this latest puzzle. His uncle was up to something. But what? He dribbled a few times, then aimed.
Uncle Henry lunged forward, intercepted the ball mid-flight and dunked it over his shoulder. “H.”
“That’s enough, Henry,” Ben’s father said. “Ben has homework.”
“Oh, this won’t take long.” Uncle Henry’s face was a blank mask as he nodded for Ben to proceed.
“Yeah, Dad. This won’t take long! If he plays as well as you do, this will be a massacre!” Ben dribbled then lunged to the right as his uncle reached for the ball. He reversed, faked a shot, pivoted, then aimed when he thought his uncle was off balance. Again, Uncle Henry jumped into the air, his massive frame rising as though he were weightless. He intercepted the ball at the top of its arc and dunked it through the net.
“I believe that’s an ‘O’.”
Ben was stunned. His uncle was the size of a bull elephant but he moved like a gazelle. Quickly formulating a new strategy, Ben retrieved the ball, dribbled backwards to mid-court range, then launched it. Uncle Henry stood aside and let the ball pass uninterrupted. It hit the target with a gentle whoosh.
Ben pumped his fist up and down. “Told you! Basketball is the key to my future!”
Uncle Henry stared as if preparing for a lecture. Instead he said, “You have an ‘H’ to my ‘HO.’ Should we change to ‘onomatopoeia’ to give you time to catch up?”
Ben laughed. “How long were you watching me and Dad?”
Uncle Henry glanced at his watch. “Long enough. I’ve got three letters left to earn and an appointment to keep. Shall we continue?”
Ben tossed the ball to his uncle who dribbled first with his left hand, then his right before bouncing the ball in a rapid 360-degree circle around his body. He seemed bored but made no attempt to shoot.
“So you’ve only made it through the first challenge,” he asked.
It didn’t sound like a question, but Ben answered anyway.
“Actually, we’re working in teams. The girls found the Tibetan emerald and the turquoise stone in Arizona. Carlos and I have an idea where the one in Peru is buried.” Ben reached in to steal the ball, but his uncle switched hands so fast Ben could barely follow it.
“Enough, Henry!” ordered Ben’s father.
Ben grinned. “It’s okay, Dad. I’m just letting him have a false sense of security.”
His uncle did not grin in return. Instead, he tossed the ball over his shoulder. The ball hit the target, bounced once then returned to his hands as if by remote control.
“ ‘R.’ ”
Ben was growing concerned that he’d underestimated his uncle. But he wasn’t defeated yet. Instead he smirked. “Getting tired? Need a rest?”
“Hardly.” Uncle Henry tossed the ball to Ben. “Clock is ticking. Are you going to play or talk trash?”
Ben paused to consider the situation. It was time to use his full arsenal. He reached down and pumped up his Sky-Jump sneakers. Get ready, old man! He pivoted, faked and otherwise tried to outmaneuver the immovable object known as Henry Webster. Despite his moves, Ben was blocked at every turn. Several minutes passed before he found an opening. He took the shot only to see it intercepted — again.
“S.” A bored expression crossed his uncle’s face as he slammed the ball through the hoop.
Ben rebounded and dribbled, taking the time to size up his opponent. He was down four letters to one — a massacre, just not the one he’d hoped for. One more basket and his uncle would win. His father stood on the sidelines, his expression showing a slow burn. In his arms, the only other spectator. The cat’s tail wagged gently as he eyed Uncle Henry, then flicked erratically as he shifted his gaze to Ben.
Ben stared at the basket, the end of the driveway, then his uncle. The sky grew darker. The wind picked up. There wasn’t much time left before the storm blew in. He dribbled backwards, arrogantly gesturing for his uncle. To his surprise, Uncle Henry followed.
Bounce.
“So you’ve not yet solved the Peruvian puzzle. What happened to solving a game in a week?”
Bounce, bounce.
A sudden gust of wind nearly toppled Ben, but he maintained his grip on the ball. “Mom took the game away.”
Bounce.
“Indeed! Tell me … how did you work around that little problem?” asked Uncle Henry, the sleeves of his shirt billowing like sails.
Bounce, bounce.
“I used a digital copy of the game I transferred to Grace’s old computer the first night.” Ben glanced at his father who did not seem to be concerned about this latest confession. Instead, his father was studying the sky and the approaching storm.
“Interesting,” Uncle Henry said, giving Ben a brief glimmer of hope at cracking the Ice King’s demeanor.
When Ben reached the street he waited for his uncle to move into defensive position. Instead, Uncle Henry moved to the side and cocked one eyebrow. Ben steadied himself and, in an attempt to compensate for the gusts of wind, aimed slightly to the left of the basket. The ball hit the net, bounced on the driveway, then rolled toward them.
“O!” Ben waited for his uncle to show his surprise at the remarkable shot.
Instead his uncle reached down to retrieve the ball as it came to a stop at his feet. His eyes showed an intensity Ben had not seen before. “Clock is ticking, Ben.”
His uncle slammed the ball so hard, Ben thought it would explode. He never took his eyes off Ben. Never once looked in the direction of the basket. The ball hit the pavement at an angle, then soared backward through the air — almost ninety feet — until it fell through the basket with a whisper soft “whoosh,” hit the driveway and stopped as if held in place by an invisible forcefield.
“E.”
Ben couldn’t bring himself to say the letter out loud. Instead he stood transfixed, his eyes locked on the ball. The net of the basket flapped wildly. The stems of his mother’s flowers were practically horizontal. And yet the ball sat on the ground as if cemented in place. Ben glanced up at his uncle hoping for an explanation.
“I believe that concludes this experiment,” Uncle Henry said finally. “In life there will always be a stronger opponent no matter how good you are. Time’s almost up, Ben. Finish the game. Might find skills more suited to your talents. I’m afraid basketball is not in your future.”
