Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble (11 page)

“School's out for the summer.”

“Outstanding.”

“There is one thing.”

“Yes?”

“You ever hear of a General Joseph C. Clarke?” Riley had hoped to ask his father that question.

“Hang on,” said Sergeant Lorincz. He swiveled away from the laptop at his end to tap on a keyboard attached to a second computer. “I'm checking our personnel database via a secure satellite uplink,” he said over his shoulder. “Here we go.” The sergeant swiveled back to face Riley. “Can I ask why you need to know this information, Mr. Mack?”

“It's for a, um, a project.”

“I thought you said school was out for the summer.”

“Yeah. It is. This is more like a personal project. For my mom. She has to meet this General Clarke at a ‘salute the troops'–type dinner at Brookhaven Country Club this weekend.”

“And you want to help her out, let her know how she can make table talk with the general?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“I see now why your father is always bragging about you.”

“He is?”

“Twenty-four/seven.”

Riley blushed. Just a little.

“Tell your mother that General Joseph C. Clarke serves out of the Pentagon as chief procurement officer for the United States Army's Near East military operations.”

“What's that mean?” asked Riley.

“He's an extremely important pencil pusher. Buys all the stuff we need out here in the field. Blankets, uniforms, tents, food. Everything. If you want to do business with Uncle Sam, you need to do business with General Joseph C. Clarke first.”

“Oh. Okay. Cool. Thanks, Sergeant Lorincz.”

“My pleasure. One more thing, Riley.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I have the unwelcome duty of informing you that your father will be unable to link up with you or your mother for a period of several days; not until, as he put it, he ‘gets to the bottom of this mess hall mess.'”

“I understand. You guys have enough to worry about over there. You shouldn't have to worry about your food trying to kill you, too!”

“Roger that. Will you pass on word to your mother as to our situation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Appreciate it.”

Riley saluted the computer screen as the soldier's image faded out of view.

“Poor Dad,” he mumbled.

It sounded like the food over in Afghanistan was even worse than the slop in the school cafeteria.

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, RILEY
and his crew gathered once again in Jake Lowenstein's basement.

The heavy rains had stopped around two or three in the morning. Now the sun was out and shining bright.

“I've cooked up a little scheme I call Operation Water Hazard,” Riley said to his assembled troops.

“Lay it on us,” said Jamal.

Riley untied the string clasp on an interoffice envelope his mom had brought home from her job at the bank and dumped out its contents on a worktable.

“I wrote down everybody's assignments on index cards.” He handed one to Briana. “Work on your imitation of Mr. Paxton. Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“I need you and Jamal to help Bree out.” He handed them both cards. “Search the internet. See if you can find voice recordings of Mr. Paxton.”

“Should be easy,” said Jamal. “Big blowhard like that? He's probably out there all the time, pontificating profusely. Ya'all know what
pontificating
means?”

“Yes,” said Briana. “‘To speak in a pompous manner.' Just like you.”

“I am not pompous, Briana. I am precise.”

“You guys?” said Riley. “Fish are dying out there. Our swimming hole is totally polluted. Work with me.”

“Sorry,” said Briana.

“I also express remorse for my pedantic proclivities,” said Jamal.

“Huh?” said Mongo.

“He means he's sorry,” said Briana.

“I found some intel on Mr. Paxton,” said Jake.

“Already?” said Riley. “Excellent! What can you tell us?”

“He's not only president of the Brookhaven Country Club, he's chairman and chief executive officer of Xylodyne Dynamics.”

“Xylodyne is humassive!” said Briana.

“Yes,” said Jake. “They have operations in more than seventy countries, hundreds of subsidiaries, affiliates, branches, divisions. . . .”

“They're like their own country,” said Mongo.

“Probably have their own army,” said Briana. “My parents are always going to anti-Xylodyne rallies and protests.”

“And,” said Jake, “Xylodyne does about a bajillion dollars in business with the Pentagon.”

“Well,” said Riley, “that explains why Mr. Paxton is trying to brownnose General Joseph C. Clarke: he's the guy who signs the bajillion-dollar checks.”

“But why's he kissing the EPA's butt?” asked Jamal.

“Probably because he knows his golf course renovations are responsible for what's happening down in that creek. Mongo?”

“Yeah?”

“You're with me.” He handed Mongo a card.

Jamal raised his hand. “Um, Riley?”

“Yeah?”

“What's with the note cards, man?”

“I dunno. Mr. Phelps always had an envelope with junk stuffed in it on
Mission Impossible
.”

“He did!” gushed Briana. “This is so cool. We're like our own TV-show-slash-major-motion-picture franchise. Some day, an actress will play me: an actress playing people who
aren't
me!”

“But my card is blank,” said Mongo.

“Yeah,” said Riley. “Sorry. My hand kind of cramped up on me after a few cards. Anyway, you're with me. We're heading back to the creek to see if we can ID the source of this pollution.”

“Okay,” said Mongo. “I'll write
creek
on my card in case we get split up or something.”

“Good idea. Jake?”

“Yes, Mr. Phelps? What is my mission, should I choose to accept it?”

“Lock onto the GPS chip in my cell phone.”

“No problem.”

“Track us.”

“Still no problem.”

“Overlay our position on that topographical map of the creek and country club; let us know if we leave the watershed contours. Jamal?”

“Yo?”

“I need to borrow your lock-picking tools.”

Luckily, Jamal had been an excellent instructor.

Riley inserted a stainless-steel file from his younger friend's leather kit into the padlock, flicked it a couple times, and popped open the hasp.

“We're in,” he whispered to Mongo, who had grabbed Jake's aluminum baseball bat “just in case we run into somebody besides dead fish.”

Riley pushed open the gate. He and Mongo stepped into the no trespassing zone. Then Riley closed the gate and slipped the lock back through the fencing so he could reattach it on the other side.

“Um, Riley?” said Mongo. “Why are you locking us in?”

“We many not be the only ones checking out the creek this morning.”

Mongo hefted up his baseball bat.

“Come on.” Riley led the way through the brambles to the creek bank. Once again, they were staring down at dozens of floating fish carcasses.

“This way,” said Riley, splashing into the shallow water. “It's only about six inches deep. We'll walk the creek upstream.”

Mongo waded in after him.

There were clumps of dead fish ringing both their legs. The creek water had a scummy fish-oil slick oozing across its surface.

“This is so gross,” said Mongo

“Just don't look down.”

“I can feel dead fish bumping into me. They're cold and slimy—like floating slabs of snot.”

“Okay, okay,” said Riley, slogging toward the far shoreline. “We'll take the land route.”

“Thank you!” said Mongo.

They hauled themselves out of the stream. Riley touched his Bluetooth earpiece and said, “Call Jamal.”

The voice-activated dialing system engaged with a dial tone followed by string of bleeps and bloops.

“That you, Riley Mack?”

“Yeah. You and Jake got us on the map?”

“Ten-four, Eleanor. You should head upstream maybe twenty feet. When you come to where it bends a little, hike up the hill through the trees. That'll take you to the golf course.”

Riley heard a clicking noise in his ear. “Hang on, Jamal. I have another call.”

Riley was about to tap his earpiece again when Mongo raised his bat.

“Somebody's comin'!” he whispered.

“Take cover!” Riley whispered back.

“What's going on?” asked Jamal.

“We have guests.” Riley and Mongo ducked behind a patch of berry bushes.

The second call clicked in Riley's ear again.

He'd have to let it roll over to voice mail.

“Riley?” said Jamal. “What's going on, man? Who's out there with you two?”

Riley answered as quietly as he could.

“Gavin Brown.”

RILEY WAS CROUCHING IN THE
bushes, eyeballing Gavin Brown and his buddies through a hole in the thorny branches.

“I could take them all out,” said Mongo, dragging his bat closer.

“Shhh,” said Riley, because he wanted to hear what Gavin and his goons were grousing about.

“Ten dollars an hour isn't enough to pick up dead fish,” he heard one of the high school guys moan.

“Well, if we don't do what he tells us to, my father will arrest us all for those other things he knows we did.”

Riley, of course, recognized Gavin. His flat flounder face was one of a kind. Well, among humans. The dead creatures floating in the creek all had Gavin's beady eyes, smooshed-in nose, and puckered lips. Gavin, who used to terrorize all the younger kids at Fairview Middle School until Riley intervened, was a big ox. His friends were even bigger and oxier. There were six of them, sloshing through the creek.

“It's too hot to work,” complained one of the thugs.

“The sun makes the fish smell even worse,” added another.

“Do we have to do this now?” whined a third. “
Mortal Death Kombat Three
opens today.”

“No way,” said the main complainer.

“Totally,” replied the movie buff. “Plus, if you go to the very first show, you get a free Mortal Death Kombat drinking cup and squiggle straw!”

“This sucks! I have been waiting, like, all year to catch that flick!”

“Well, when's the first screening?” asked Gavin.

“In an hour, man,” said the movie maniac.

“Then let's go!” said Gavin.

“Really?”

“Hey, my dad just said we had to come back again on account of the rain last night. He didn't say
when
we had to come back!”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Sounds good to me!”

The six goons whooped, high-fived, and hightailed it back to the dirt road and took off.

“Okay,” said Riley. “They're gone for the day. Jamal? You still there?”

“Yeah.”

“I need to check my voice mail. The caller ID shows it was Ms. Kaminski beeping in. Meanwhile, you guys should hit everybody's garages and backyard storage sheds. Round up as many ice chests as you can.”

“Are we putting together a picnic?”

“No. A bucket brigade. I'll be back after I check my messages.”

Riley thumbed a few digits on his smartphone. Punched in his voice mail ID.

“Hello, Riley, this is Ms. Kaminski. As we suspected, there are seriously elevated amounts of nitrogen in the water sample you took from Mrs. Montgomery's fishpond. I'd look for any heavy lawn fertilizing, either in their yard or the neighbors'.

“Ron also said he found other trace elements, including large quantities of cyanuric acid, which is sometimes used in bleaches, disinfectants, and herbicides. So, again, I think we're looking for somebody using lots of lawn-care chemicals. Hope this helps. Oh, and thanks for the gift certificate you dropped off at school this morning. I've never eaten at the Quilted Dove but everybody says it's the best restaurant in town.”

Riley shrugged. The Dove was okay. If you were a grown-up and liked stuff like striped bass tartare and couscous instead of pizza and fries.

“Anyway, good luck tracking down the source of your pollution! So long.”

Riley disconnected the call.

“Come on,” Riley said to Mongo. “We need to head upstream and uphill.”

They followed the creek until they reached the bend Jamal had mentioned. Using trees for handholds, they hauled themselves up a very steep hill. They were approaching the edge of the forest when Riley's earpiece buzzed again.

“This is Riley. Talk to me.”

“Hey, it's Jake.”

“Where's Jamal?”

“With Briana. Looking for ice chests.”

“What's up?”

“I'm tracking you on the topo map. You should be approaching the fairway behind the country club.”

Riley and Mongo stepped out of the trees into the high grass fringing the golf course, what golfers called “the rough.” The woods they had hiked through were littered with tiny white balls.

“There should be a knoll of some kind to your left,” said Jake.

“Yeah. The fairway slopes up to a little pond . . .”

“A water hazard,” said Jake.

“Exactly. And above that, there's a plateau with a flag planted in it. It's the putting green for the ninth hole.”

“Okay,” said Jake, “that plateau corresponds to the drainage divide. Surface runoff from everything downhill of it flows through the forest to the creek and then down to Schuyler's Pond.”

“Hang on,” said Riley. “Somebody's coming again.” He motioned for Mongo to slip back into the darkness under the trees.

“Who is it?” asked Jake.

“It sounds like heavy equipment,” Riley reported. “Probably part of the landscaping crew.”