Hideout: The Third Adventure Read online

  Cover

  Title Page

  The Third Hideout

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  Epilogue

  Don’t Miss the Complete Adventure with The Man With The Plan!

  About the Author

  Don’t Miss Any Antics of the Man with the Plan, from Gordon Korman

  Copyright

  Camp Endless Pines was aptly named. Located in rugged, hilly terrain, the coniferous forest stretched in all directions as far as the eye could see.

  Ben just called it Camp Endless. If it had been up to him, he never would have signed up for a program that was so hipped on outdoor adventure activities — hiking, rafting, caving, parasailing, wind surfing — a guy could break his neck just reading the list! And that didn’t even include the climbing! Mountain scrambles, top roping, Alpine training, bouldering. It was fine for Antonia “Pitch” Benson, who was practically born with a carabiner for a diaper pin. She and her whole family were big-time rock-jocks.

  Ben Slovak was here for exactly one reason. Camp Endless was the only summer camp that would accept Ferret Face. And without the little ferret under Ben’s shirt giving him strategic wake-up nips, there would be no way to keep Ben’s narcolepsy under control. The last thing he needed was to fall asleep in the middle of a camp activity like canoeing, or a hike. An unscheduled nap was annoying enough at home. In the wilderness it could be fatal.

  The choice had become Endless Pines or nothing. And Mr. and Mrs. Slovak had made it very clear that nothing was not an option.

  So here he was, climbing rocks and counting the minutes until he could go home.

  How could it be worse? Ben wasn’t sure. But he had a sinking feeling it had something to do with hiding a giant Doberman for the last ten days of camp.

  Speaking of climbing, Pitch shinnied down the trunk of a tall pine and dropped at his feet.

  “Well?” Ben queried. “Did you see the truck?”

  “Not yet, but it can’t be far. I think we should go out to the barrier. They could be along any minute.”

  The barrier was a huge limb, itself the size of a small tree. It had taken Pitch and Ben twenty minutes to drag it out where it would block the narrow dirt road. The job had been so stressful and sweaty that Ferret Face had tried to abandon his post inside Ben’s T-shirt. The ferret had been a little less reliable lately. He wasn’t enjoying Camp Endless any better than Ben was.

  The two concealed themselves in the underbrush by the side of the road. That was another thing about this place. The minute you stepped outside the camp, you might as well have been a thousand miles from the nearest other human.

  “You know,” Pitch said conversationally, “the minute I heard Luthor was going to Logan and Melissa, I knew it was only a matter of time before he ended up here with us.”

  “Do you think Swindle’s spies will find him here?” Ben asked nervously. He couldn’t imagine anyone finding “here,” much less a single animal hidden here.

  “They’ll probably try,” Pitch said grimly. “I hope The Man With The Plan has some really great ideas on how we can make this work, because we’ve officially run out of camps. I’d hate to see the poor mutt go back to Swindle.”

  “What I’m worried about is what Swindle’s going to do once he’s gotten rich off Luthor’s dog-show skills. Remember, he’s already promised to move back to Cedarville and devote his money to ruining our lives. I’ve got enough problems without some sleazy millionaire’s revenge fantasy.”

  “None of it happens if we can keep the dog under wraps,” Pitch reminded him in a soothing tone. “Wait — I think I hear something.”

  A motor, distant but unmistakable, was the only sound in the woods that wasn’t coming from something gross rubbing its legs together.

  The van appeared out of the trees, bouncing slowly along the rutted dirt road. It came to a stop in front of the fallen tree branch.

  Ferret Face poked his head out of Ben’s collar and looked on with interest. When the driver began the arduous task of hauling the heavy limb out of the way, Pitch and Ben swung into action. They darted around to the back of the vehicle and opened the twin doors. Griffin, Savannah, and Luthor jumped down, and the five disappeared into the trees.

  “Thanks, you guys!” Griffin greeted them. “Is everything prepared?”

  “Nothing’s prepared,” Pitch said irritably. “You texted us barely an hour ago. What were we supposed to do — build a safe house?”

  “The most important thing is to find somewhere for Luthor to hide,” Savannah put in. “It should be comfortable, but not too obvious, close enough so you can bring him food and come to visit regularly, because the poor sweetie has just been through a terrible experience. He needs to feel loved.”

  “Is it okay if he just feels liked?” asked Pitch. “I can do liked.”

  “There aren’t a lot of doghouse options around here,” Ben warned. “We’re lucky we have shelter for ourselves. This is a roughing-it kind of camp.”

  Griffin looked around. Tall trees stood like sentinels all about them. At last, they heard the bakery van continuing on its way, and the group ventured out of the woods to the relative openness of the road.

  “What’s that?” Griffin was pointing at what looked like a small hut towering over the top of the trees.

  Pitch followed his gaze. “That’s an old ranger station. Back in the day, they used to send a guy up there to scout for forest fires. But now that’s done by helicopter and satellite.”

  “So it’s just empty?” Griffin probed.

  “Wait a minute,” Savannah interjected suspiciously. “You’re not thinking of stashing Luthor a mile in the sky! How would you even get him up there?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Griffin decided.

  Skirting the camp, the group made its way through the woods. The closer they got to the abandoned station, the taller it seemed, towering in the sky easily thirty feet clear of the highest treetop. At last, they reached its base, where a faded sign proclaimed: P OUT.

  Griffin licked his finger and cleaned off the rest of the message. It now read: KEEP OUT.

  “Is it safe?” asked Savannah dubiously. She stared at the steep, rickety steps that spiraled up around the thick wooden support pole.

  “Safer than turning Luthor over to Swindle,” said Griffin briskly.

  Savannah started up the stairs. “I’ll go first.”

  It was a very tentative procession that made its way to the top of the ranger tower. Only Pitch, the climber, found the going easy. The others hugged the center pole, not daring to look down. Luthor whined and protested, and only Savannah’s reassuring voice kept him putting one paw in front of the other. Ferret Face peeked out of Ben’s sleeve, spotted the ground far below, and retreated with a terrified squeak.

  At last, they reached the top and noted with relief that the platform was solid beneath their feet. There were no walls, although torn screening still enclosed most of the space. A lot of bugs had made their way in, and at least one family of birds was nesting beneath the roof. But the shelter was basically dry. Best of all, it seemed like the last place on earth anyone would look for a fugitive Doberman.

  Then came the hard part — convincing Luthor that he had to part with his beloved Savannah yet again. For the first time, the dog seemed angry, even when Savannah used her best dog-whispering voice. He seemed to be saying, I’ve done my part, several times, and this is asking too much of me.

  Savan
nah was brokenhearted. “I’ll stay here with him!” she quavered.

  “Don’t be crazy!” Griffin argued. “If either one of us isn’t back at Ebony Lake by bed check, there’ll be a big stink, and everything’s going to get found out, including Luthor’s whereabouts. And that’s his one-way ticket to Swindle.”

  “I just feel so bad for him.” Savannah sniffled. “He’s been such a trouper through all this! And what do we do? We ask him for more sacrifice!”

  Luthor lay down on the floor, glaring at them resentfully, his hot breath moving the cobwebs that decorated every corner.

  “Actually, he seems pretty cool with it,” Ben pointed out. “I mean, he’s bummed, but he isn’t barking or anything.”

  “This is a hundred times worse than barking,” said Savannah reproachfully. “He’s given me his trust, and I’ve betrayed him. He may never forgive me.”

  “For crying out loud,” Pitch exclaimed, exasperated, “he’s a dog. He’ll forgive you with the first Puppy Treat.”

  “You know,” Griffin put in, “we should really get moving if we’re going to make the next laundry truck west.”

  “I know it’s not easy, sweetie,” Savannah pleaded with the Doberman. “But this is the only way.”

  Luthor looked daggers at her as she clipped his leash around the platform railing. A low growl began deep in his throat.

  Savannah was devastated. “He hasn’t growled at me since his old guard dog days! What if, in trying to keep him from Swindle, we’re turning him back into the mean, antisocial animal he used to be?”

  “We’re not just protecting Luthor,” Ben reasoned. “We’re derailing Swindle’s revenge before it ever starts, and that saves all our necks.”

  Griffin put a sympathetic arm around his friend’s shoulders, and started her down the stairs out of the station. “One thing at a time. First we hide him, then we worry about you two guys making friends again.”

  Following them around the spiral, Ben had a practical question for Pitch. “How are we ever going to look after that dog? If Savannah gets growled at, the two of us will be lunch!”

  It was going to be a really long ten days.

  Ben, wake up.”

  Ben opened one eye. It was still dark, which meant he was obviously dreaming. No, he could make out the first faint colors of dawn creeping in the windows of Cabin 17. Eli, the counselor, reached out and poked him in the ribs. “Come on, Ben. Everybody’s ready except you!”

  “Ready for what? It’s the middle of the night!”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s five-fifteen!” Eli insisted. “The fish are biting!”

  That was another thing that was big at Camp Endless, along with cliff climbing and kayaking over waterfalls: getting up at oh-dark-thirty to go fishing.

  Ferret Face peeked out from under the blanket and glared at the counselor, yellow eyes glowing. Waking Ben up was his job, and he was protective of it.

  Eli backed off. “Oh, I get it. You’re too tired, right?”

  As the only camper with a sleep disorder, Ben was cut a lot of slack in that department.

  “You get some more rest, Ben. I’ll ask one of the guys to look in on you in a couple of hours.” The rest of the bunk clattered out with their fishing gear, hip waders squeaking.

  “No, Ferret Face,” Ben said irritably as the small animal climbed inside his pajama top. “It’s not time to get up yet.” He tried to settle back in his bunk, but Ferret Face delivered one of his trademark wake-up nips. “Ow! Okay, okay, I’m getting up! Sheesh!”

  Ben peered out the small window in the cabin. Aside from his own bunkmates, not a creature was stirring. The mess hall was still dark, so breakfast wasn’t an option. Last night after lights-out, Pitch had climbed the ranger tower with food and water for Luthor, so he was taken care of for the time being. With his bunkmates out of the picture, Ben should probably sneak over and check in on the Doberman. But the thought of going up those stairs in the half-light with no Pitch wasn’t very appealing.

  So he took out his phone and decided to tap out an e-mail to his parents:

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  I’m writing this by the light of the fire from last night’s asteroid strike. The whole camp is destroyed, but don’t worry. The smoke keeps the bears away. . . .

  Obviously, his parents weren’t going to believe this, just as they hadn’t believed the volcano, the tsunami, or the zombie apocalypse. But they were definitely getting the message, which was that their son didn’t like camp very much.

  Unfortunately, the National Guard is rescuing us in alphabetical order. I’m not sure I’ll be still alive by the time they make it to S. At least I’m not Matthew Ziegelbaum, who is writing his will even as we speak.

  Well, gotta go. They’re toasting marshmallows over the flaming latrine. I wouldn’t want to miss out on that. It might be the last food I’ll ever eat.

  With his finger hovering over SEND, Ben frowned. What was that cooking smell? Maybe someone was roasting marshmallows. No, this was more like steak. Was he imagining it?

  Ferret Face popped out from under his collar and sniffed the air.

  “Steak, right?”

  In answer, the furry creature scurried down the length of Ben’s body, scampered across the floor, and slithered out the crack under the door in pursuit of the tantalizing aroma.

  “Hey, come back here!” But it was too late. The ferret was already gone.

  Tossing the phone onto the bed, Ben headed off in pursuit. What a time for Ferret Face to go on one of his little walkabouts — in unfamiliar surroundings where he could easily get lost, or forget which of the identical cabins was the right one. And who knew what kind of animal might prey on a tame little guy like him? Ferrets weren’t at the bottom of the food chain, but they weren’t at the top, either.

  Uh-oh. A yawn confirmed it. Ben could feel the irresistible drowsiness stealing into him like a blanket coming down over his head. And this time there were no little sharp teeth to shock him back to awareness. When narcolepsy struck, there usually wasn’t time to make it to a chair or a couch. He didn’t collapse, exactly. But it was all he could do to reach the wall, where he slid down to a seated position on the floor, snoring softly, dead to the world.

  * * *

  Dominic Hiller was flat broke. The steak alone had cost him $26.95, not to mention the gas money for a thirty-mile round-trip to the nearest diner. This whole job was turning out to be one disaster after another. His leg hurt from when all those kids jumped on him at the other camp. His partner had quit outright, telling Mr. Palomino, “It’s not worth it! These aren’t regular kids! They’re some kind of doomsday machine!” And on top of it all, it was starting to rain. These dirt roads would be pure mud by the time he found the dog and got him to the rendezvous point.

  He squinted at the number on the cabin — 17. According to the camp records, that was where the Slovak kid was. If Palomino’s theory was right and Luthor had been passed to Slovak, then the mutt was hidden here somewhere, within smelling distance of a big, juicy twenty-seven-dollar steak!

  Come on, pooch. Come to Papa.

  At that moment, a bundle of fur burst through the cabin door and made a beeline for the meat.

  For a split second, Hiller actually allowed himself to think, Hey, this is easy! before he noticed that the animal gnawing crazily on the bait was about one-eight-hundredth the size of Luthor. He reached out to brush the interloper away. The little weasel-like creature sank tiny razor-sharp teeth into his hand, drawing blood. The effort to keep from screaming brought tears to his eyes. Sucking air, he kicked the steak a few yards away. The animal released his hand and scrambled off after it.

  Where was the mutt? He shone a flashlight under Cabin 17, then eased the door a crack and peered inside. There was only one kid in there — fast asleep on the floor — and no dog. Camp sure was different from when he’d been a kid.

  A phone sat on a bunk, its screen still lit. That was weirder yet! The kid must have been typing less th
an sixty seconds ago. Who goes to sleep that fast? And on the floor? He picked up the phone. There was a half-finished e-mail on the screen from sender Slovak, Benjamin. So this was definitely the right kid.

  What to do, then? Squeeze the dog’s location out of Slovak? Or . . .

  He opened the phone’s camera function, and there it was: the most recent picture was Luthor, standing on a screen porch somewhere. No, make that a balcony, a high one — the trees were far below. He clicked on another photo, and light dawned. The “balcony” — he’d seen it before. It was the fire-spotting platform just west of the camp. He’d passed it on the way in. That was where they’d stashed the dog!

  He covered the bite wound with his mouth to soothe it. This might turn out to be easy after all.

  Pitch loved climbing in the rain. Clothes turned damp and heavy, and could throw off your sense of balance. The rocks got wet, slippery, and treacherous. Dirt and gravel became loose and unstable. Best of all, most of the other climbers gave up and went home. That left just Pitch, alone with the rock face, the purest relationship in the world — the climber and the challenge.

  The crest of the ridge was just a few feet above her now. She pushed for it, enjoying the burn in her muscles. This was always her favorite part — the moment when she reached the top, the highest point, and a whole new vista unfolded before her on the other side.

  There was the camp, nestled in the pines. And, about three-quarters of a mile away, the ranger platform where Luthor was safe and sound . . . or was he?

  There was a dark shape halfway up the steps on the tower. A person? It had to be. But the shape was kind of wrong, huge across the shoulders. Like Bigfoot wearing blue jeans! Whoever or whatever, it was descending very slowly, almost painfully.

  She squinted for a clearer picture, but the platform was just too far away. Acting on pure instinct, she began to climb down the other side of the ridge, moving carefully, yet never taking her eyes off the mysterious figure. She continued to find lower and lower positions, steadying herself with handholds that were often little more than a single finger jammed into a tiny crack or hole. Most mountaineers spent years perfecting the techniques she had grown up with. In the Benson house, it was as natural as breathing.