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Authors: Rebecca M. Hale
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character. He wasn’t a junior staffer posing as a janitor, he told himself. He actually was a janitor.
• • •
ANOTHER SET OF footsteps sounded against the marble floor—a man’s heavier stride in flat-soled dress shoes.
Spider risked a quick glance at the incoming figure. It was one of the supervisors, returning from an off-site meeting.
Amazed at his own brazenness, Spider swept himself into the supervisor’s path. Tilting his head at a slight angle, his eyes tracked the man as he passed.
Even when the supervisor had to skip sideways to avoid the mop, he never gave Spider a second glance.
• • •
FILLED WITH A renewed respect for the Previous Mayor, Spider pushed the dust mop toward the hallway that held the supervisors’ offices.
Not far down the corridor, he spied the closed door to President Hernandez’s office. He could just make out the heads of the two men sitting at the desk inside. The PM had told him to be on the lookout for something like this—a shut door was the sure sign of an attempt to cloak a confidential conversation.
Proceeding cautiously but deliberately, Spider sidled up to the door and pretended to discover a particularly resistant piece of dirt stuck to the floor. He pushed the dust mop vigorously back and forth, trying to decipher the murmur of the hushed voices inside the office. His young face twisted with concentration as he strained to hear the words.
Finally, after checking up and down the empty hallway, he cupped his hand around his ear and pushed the edge of his palm against the door to amplify the sounds from the opposite side.
As the junior-staffer-turned-fake-janitor processed the details being discussed inside the president’s office, his demeanor became more and more animated.
After listening for several minutes, Spider issued a vigorous fist pump and then took off down the hallway, the dust mop now zooming across the floor with no regard for the appearance of cleaning efficacy or discreet janitorial conduct.
Out past the glass wall, he ditched the dust mop, leaving its handle propped against a marble column. Nearly losing his baseball cap from the top of his head, he sped around a corner and dove into one of the building’s enclosed stairwells. The rubber soles of his sneakers squeaked against the slick marble stairs as he sprinted to the first floor, clearing the last three steps in a single leap.
After flying down one of the main hallways flanking the building’s center rotunda, Spider spun into a granite-walled vestibule located beneath the central staircase.
A light flickered on, illuminating a row of empty pay-phone stations.
Fingers trembling, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his chest pocket and read the number scrawled on its front. He punched in the digits and waited anxiously as the phone began to ring.
“I’ve got something for you,” he whispered excitedly when the PM answered.
“No,” he added with a confident pshaw . “Of course no one saw me.”
Chapter 11
THE DOCTOR IS IN
DR. KIMBERLY KLINE scanned the Academy of Sciences’ front entrance, searching for her missing frog expert.
Not five minutes earlier, the attendant at the front ticket booth had called down to her office, alerting her to Sam’s arrival. Kimberly had proceeded directly to their meeting spot beneath the dinosaur skeleton, but the burly frog aficionado was nowhere to be found.
A petite woman in blue jeans, sneakers, and a dark blue Academy T-shirt, Dr. Kline wasn’t much taller than many of the schoolchildren exploring the museum that day. Her light blond hair was cut in a short bob that bounced when she walked. A nonstop bundle of energy, she fit in well with the Academy’s youthful patrons.
She had joined the aquarium’s cadre of herpetologists—or, to use Sam’s terminology, frogologists —just a few months earlier, but she was already acquainted with the eccentric Frog Whisperer from their previous consults at his field camp. She knew he
• • •
ANOTHER SET OF footsteps sounded against the marble floor—a man’s heavier stride in flat-soled dress shoes.
Spider risked a quick glance at the incoming figure. It was one of the supervisors, returning from an off-site meeting.
Amazed at his own brazenness, Spider swept himself into the supervisor’s path. Tilting his head at a slight angle, his eyes tracked the man as he passed.
Even when the supervisor had to skip sideways to avoid the mop, he never gave Spider a second glance.
• • •
FILLED WITH A renewed respect for the Previous Mayor, Spider pushed the dust mop toward the hallway that held the supervisors’ offices.
Not far down the corridor, he spied the closed door to President Hernandez’s office. He could just make out the heads of the two men sitting at the desk inside. The PM had told him to be on the lookout for something like this—a shut door was the sure sign of an attempt to cloak a confidential conversation.
Proceeding cautiously but deliberately, Spider sidled up to the door and pretended to discover a particularly resistant piece of dirt stuck to the floor. He pushed the dust mop vigorously back and forth, trying to decipher the murmur of the hushed voices inside the office. His young face twisted with concentration as he strained to hear the words.
Finally, after checking up and down the empty hallway, he cupped his hand around his ear and pushed the edge of his palm against the door to amplify the sounds from the opposite side.
As the junior-staffer-turned-fake-janitor processed the details being discussed inside the president’s office, his demeanor became more and more animated.
After listening for several minutes, Spider issued a vigorous fist pump and then took off down the hallway, the dust mop now zooming across the floor with no regard for the appearance of cleaning efficacy or discreet janitorial conduct.
Out past the glass wall, he ditched the dust mop, leaving its handle propped against a marble column. Nearly losing his baseball cap from the top of his head, he sped around a corner and dove into one of the building’s enclosed stairwells. The rubber soles of his sneakers squeaked against the slick marble stairs as he sprinted to the first floor, clearing the last three steps in a single leap.
After flying down one of the main hallways flanking the building’s center rotunda, Spider spun into a granite-walled vestibule located beneath the central staircase.
A light flickered on, illuminating a row of empty pay-phone stations.
Fingers trembling, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his chest pocket and read the number scrawled on its front. He punched in the digits and waited anxiously as the phone began to ring.
“I’ve got something for you,” he whispered excitedly when the PM answered.
“No,” he added with a confident pshaw . “Of course no one saw me.”
Chapter 11
THE DOCTOR IS IN
DR. KIMBERLY KLINE scanned the Academy of Sciences’ front entrance, searching for her missing frog expert.
Not five minutes earlier, the attendant at the front ticket booth had called down to her office, alerting her to Sam’s arrival. Kimberly had proceeded directly to their meeting spot beneath the dinosaur skeleton, but the burly frog aficionado was nowhere to be found.
A petite woman in blue jeans, sneakers, and a dark blue Academy T-shirt, Dr. Kline wasn’t much taller than many of the schoolchildren exploring the museum that day. Her light blond hair was cut in a short bob that bounced when she walked. A nonstop bundle of energy, she fit in well with the Academy’s youthful patrons.
She had joined the aquarium’s cadre of herpetologists—or, to use Sam’s terminology, frogologists —just a few months earlier, but she was already acquainted with the eccentric Frog Whisperer from their previous consults at his field camp. She knew he
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