all these years. So much wasted time.”
“A clue?” said Timothy. “What kind of clue?”
“When I saw the frame, I was able to finally figure it out,” said the old man. “Each player has a number on his jersey. First, second, third base. Jenkins, Quigley, Fromm. The safe’s combination.”
Timothy tried to keep his voice even as he said, “So the safe wasn’t empty?”
“Of course, my lawyer would kill me for telling this to anyone…. But you kids look like you can keep a secret,” Jack whispered. “Am I right?” Without hesitation, Timothy and Abigail both nodded. “It was my father’s journal,” he added.
“Your father’s journal was in the safe?” said Abigail.
“I slipped it into my coat pocket when that librarian wasn’t looking,” said Jack. “No one ever suspects the old man.” He winked. “We get away with so much.”
“What was in the journal?” Timothy asked.
“Proof,” said Jack simply. “That my father was as human as the next. He was no monster. He loved me. He was distraught about Fred, my twin brother, who was killed in the war. I didn’t serve. I’m not yellow or anything. Got the flat feet. It was a difficult time for me back then. People can be cruel.” He shuddered, then continued. “The book was filled with pages upon pages of how much my brother and I meant to him, how much he missed Fred, what he would give if only he could have changed things.” The old man stared at the floor. “I would have done anything to make him happy again. I’ve spent most of my life following in his footsteps. Studying what he studied. Learning what he knew. Finding that journal changed everything….”
“The journal didn’t mention anything else?” asked Abigail. Timothy knew what she wanted to ask. But how could they possibly bring up the Chaos Tribe, the trial, and Delia’s resting place without seeming crazy themselves, or at least totally insensitive?
“See it for yourself,” said Jack, grappling his walker’s handles and shuffling the metal frame toward the kitchen door. “I think Jenny, my nurse, put the book in the upstairs office. I can’t make the stairs, but you’re welcome to go find it.”
“O-Okay,” said Abigail. She glanced at Timothy. He nodded. Maybe there was something in the journal that could take them to the next step.
Jack led the kids back into the foyer. He pointed up the stairs. “All the way to the top. Door’s the only one in the hallway. I think the book is on the desk near the window. Bring it down, would you? I’d like to look at it again myself.”
Together, Abigail and Timothy climbed the wide staircase. Each step creaked. At the first landing, an entry led to a short hall lined with closed doors. Timothy glanced up the next set of stairs. At the top landing, he could see the open door Jack had mentioned. It must lead to the room with the octagonal window over the porch. Timothy had a strange feeling. Why would an old man in Jack’s condition purchase a tall house like this? Sure, Jack had mentioned that his nurse helped him out, but still, why not live in an apartment like Abigail’s grandmother? He scrambled to follow Abigail up the stairs.
Jack called to them, “You make it?” At the top, Timothy glanced over the railing. The old man waved from the foyer. “It’s a hike. I still haven’t been up there,” he said. “Stupid of me to buy a three-story house at my age, but I just fell in love with it. It’s nice and quiet at the end of this street.”
Timothy’s stomach fluttered. Jack had just answered his question. Weird …
“Jenny said she put the book on the desk,” Jack called, his voice growing faint as Timothy moved away from the railing and followed Abigail into the large empty room. “Do you see it?”
Bare wooden beams held up the violently pitched roof. The walls slanted all the way to the floor—raw, dusty planks. The desk sat underneath the window. Abigail stopped in front of it.
“Is it there?” Timothy whispered.
Abigail shook her head. She picked something up and turned around. In her hands was a familiar book. Timothy froze when he saw it; his feet stuck to the floor. It was not the notebook Jack had mentioned. He tried to reach out and take it from her, to see if his eyes were playing tricks, but he couldn’t even do that. His arms went dead.
These cards are more than just cards.