The huge vehicle clung there for a moment. Then the wheels came off the wall and the truck dropped with a crunch to the ground. Instantly, gravity rushed through the cab, toppling everybody to one side, with Bernard at the bottom of the dog pile. He reached out and rubbed the steering wheel apologetically. “Sorry about that, Big Bertha.”
Spencer was still trying to sort up from down when Penny rolled down the passenger window and climbed out. She unclipped a toilet plunger from her belt and clamped the rubber suction cup onto the front of the garbage truck, lifting the vehicle effortlessly.
The Rebels were tossed around inside the cab before Big Bertha was upright again, this time with her wheels on the parking lot asphalt where they belonged. Bernard revved the engine.
“Is it broken?” Daisy asked.
“Of course not,” answered the garbologist. “Big Bertha’s magically enhanced. She can drive out of a head-on collision without a scratch.”
Penny leapt back into the cab just as the first Sweeper reached them. It was a Filth man, his teeth jagged and his back bristling with deadly quills. He hunched over, quivering for just a moment before blasting his arrowlike projectiles at the Rebels.
Most of the quills pinged harmlessly off Big Bertha’s shell as Bernard peeled across the parking lot. But one of the quills shot through the open window and buried itself in the seat between Walter and Daisy.
“Let’s roll that up,” Penny said, quickly making sure the window was tight again.
“We’ve got to find Dez!” Spencer said, squinting through the windshield.
The big kid was sitting slouched in the middle of the parking lot with a Sweeper woman standing over him.
“What’s he doing?” Alan asked.
Spencer shook his head. It wasn’t like Dez to sit patiently as a prisoner. Unless . . .
“It’s that Rubbish Sweeper,” Spencer said. “Her breath is affecting him.”
Dez looked as apathetic as could be. As the headlights flashed across his face, Spencer saw an expression of utter boredom, as though he didn’t care that the Sweepers had captured him.
Bernard honked the truck horn, but even the obnoxious noise couldn’t rattle the kid from his deep laziness.
“Come on, Dez!” Penny shouted. Still no response.
Spencer glanced in the rearview mirror. Mr. Clean was circling around behind them, rallying the other Sweepers into a deadly charge. There wasn’t enough time to get out and shake Dez to his senses.
“Remember that joystick in my old truck?” Bernard asked. “The one that controlled the mechanical arm to pick up trash cans on the roadside?”
Spencer nodded as Bernard pushed a button on the dashboard. A panel slid aside and a silver joystick rose out of the console. “Well, this one is about seven hundred times better.”
The garbologist wrapped his hand around the joystick and pressed a red trigger button. Instantly, a mechanical arm stretched out from the side of the Auran garbage truck. The metal arm telescoped out, reaching much farther across the parking lot than Spencer thought possible.
The Rubbish Sweeper who was guarding Dez moved to intercept, but Bernard yanked on the joystick and the arm pummeled into the winged woman, tossing her aside. Bernard pressed another button and the claw grippers opened. Then, double-checking the distance in his side mirrors, Bernard dropped the mechanical arm over Dez.
“Ugh!” Dez grunted, still under the effects of the Rubbish breath. The grippers closed around his middle and scooped him into the air. “This is so boring! Why won’t somebody do something fun?”
“This ought to be fun enough,” Bernard said, directing the joystick. The mechanical arm retracted, lifting Dez over the open back of the garbage truck. Then Bernard let go of a button, the grippers released, and Dez plummeted into the trash.
“Right where he belongs,” Spencer muttered.
Big Bertha roared across the parking lot, New Forest Academy fading in the rearview mirror as they drove down the mountain road.
Chapter 12
“What’s next?”
No one spoke until Big Bertha ambled out of the canyon and into some residential back roads. Then Daisy raised her hand.
“Um,” she said. “Shouldn’t someone check on Dez?”
“Nah,” Bernard said. “I’m sure he’s fine back there. Probably lounging in the trash like a pig in a mud hole.”
Penny rolled her eyes. “I think you’re the only one who enjoys lounging in trash.”
“That’s a shame,” he said. “It’s quite cleansing.”
“Where are we even going?” Spencer asked, watching darkened houses whisk by.
“Back to Welcher,” Walter answered. “If everything had gone according to plan, we would have stepped right back into my janitorial closet after stealing Holga. This puts us behind schedule.”
“Why?” Penny said. “What’s next?”
Alan and Walter glanced at each other. Without the translation of the
Manualis Custodem,
Spencer wondered if they knew what to do. But Walter delivered the answer without hesitation.
“We have to steal Belzora.”
“Bel-
who-
za?” Bernard asked.
“The final warlock hammer,” Walter said. “The one that belongs to Mr. Clean.”
“I thought we just got away from Mr. Clean,” Daisy said. “Now we have to go back and fight him?”
Alan shook his head. “Not at New Forest Academy. In order for this to work, we have to take Belzora
and
the bronze nail. That means going straight to the heart of the BEM.”
Spencer thought back to a handful of visions he’d had in Mr. Clean’s office. “The BEM headquarters are in Washington, D.C.,” he said.
“Right,” answered Alan. “But that’s not where Mr. Clean is hiding his nail. He has a secret BEM laboratory. We know that’s where he experiments with Glop, so the nail has to be there.”
“And where is Dr. Frankenstein’s secret lab?” Bernard asked.
“What?” Daisy cried. “Frankenstein’s working for the BEM?”
“Massachusetts,” answered Walter. “Outside of Salem. We’ll give you more details when we get back to Welcher.”
“Why are we going all the way back to Welcher?” Penny asked. “That’s at least an eight-hour drive from here. Won’t it be easier to invade the BEM labs if Mr. Clean isn’t there? If we strike now, we can get in, find the nail, and be waiting for him when he gets back from the Academy.”
“That’s a decent plan,” said Walter. “But we need a base of operations. Somewhere we can work from.”
“Aren’t there a couple of Monitor schools nearby?” Daisy asked Spencer. “Maybe they can help us out.”
The Organization of Janitor Monitors was a network of students spread across the nation. They spied on their janitors and emailed Spencer the reports. The president of the Monitors was a genius thirteen-year-old named Min Lee.
“Can I borrow a phone?” Spencer asked.
Penny slipped hers from the pocket of her Glopified coveralls and handed it to Spencer. He punched in the memorized number and waited for an answer.
“He’s probably sleeping,” Daisy said. “My dad says we shouldn’t call people after nine o’clock.”
Spencer glanced at the clock on the dash. It was well after midnight. He was just about to give up when Min answered, his diction perfect despite the grogginess in his voice.
“Hey, Min.”
“Greetings.”
“We need your help again,” Spencer said. “We’re looking for a Monitor school in the Denver area.”
“One moment,” answered Min. Spencer could hear him typing rapidly on a computer keyboard. “I’ve pulled up the spreadsheet. There are two Monitor schools relatively close, both reported to have Rebel janitors. The Monitors are Anna Ferguson and Jeremy Hatch.”
Daisy was listening in, her ear pressed close to the phone in Spencer’s hand.
“Ooh, pick Anna’s school,” Daisy said. “I remember her. She had cute shoes.”
“Uh, how about Anna?” Spencer said. He couldn’t believe that he had just picked a Rebel location based upon a girl’s shoes!
“The school is Viewmont Elementary,” Min said. “The janitor’s name is Earl Dodge.”
“I need you to get ahold of Earl,” Spencer said. “Tell him to meet us at Viewmont as soon as possible. Can you do it?”
“Of course I can,” Min said.
“Thanks,” Spencer replied, but the phone was already dead in his hand. He passed it back to Penny, who instantly started navigating to Viewmont Elementary School.
“I’m not sure how I feel about rushing in like this,” Walter muttered. “There are things back at Welcher that we need.”
“It’s fine,” Alan quietly assured. “We’ll swipe Belzora and then get back to Welcher to double-check the instructions.”
Spencer was sure they were talking about the
Manualis Custodem,
but no one dared mention it in front of Penny and Bernard. Luckily, those two were arguing loudly about which way was right and which way was left.
“Are you worried about its security?” Alan whispered.
The warlock shook his bald head. “I duct-taped the translated binder to the table in the closet. Only my fingerprints can peel it up. The pages would be destroyed if anyone else tried to get them.”
“What’s the problem, then?” Alan asked.
“I didn’t dare secure the actual
Manualis,
” Walter said. “It’s a very old book. I didn’t want to damage it. The best I could do was hide it in a drawer in my janitorial office. It isn’t safe. Anyone could get their hands on it.”
“Even if someone got to it,” Alan said, “the book is latched and locked. It would take a warlock nail to open it. We have Holga and the nail with us here. Your nail is set in the walls of Welcher Elementary, but as long as you have Ninfa, no one can pull it out. That leaves Mr. Clean. So it makes even more sense to move on him as fast as we can.”
Walter nodded. “What if Clean doesn’t go back to the BEM laboratory? That would leave us sitting in the enemy base.”
“I can check,” Spencer chimed in. “I can spy on Mr. Clean and try to figure out his plans.”
“Excellent,” Walter said.
Spencer held out his hand, and his dad slid the cool, hard handle of Holga into his palm.
Chapter 13
“What more can you lose?”
The visions didn’t bother Spencer at all anymore. When his eyesight returned, Spencer got an immediate fix on Mr. Clean’s location. The tall warlock had just entered the Arts Building at New Forest Academy. He moved with silent, serpentine grace as his half-human Sweepers scuttled down the dark hallway behind him.
Clean’s slime-covered hand pushed open the band room door. In a flash, he was staring into the face of Director Carlos Garcia. The Latino man was pressing a red hand against the bloody gash on the side of his head. His face was pale and his fingers trembling.
Despite all the evil that Garcia had done, Spencer hated seeing him so helpless and terrified. Spencer instantly shifted his perspective, his vision fading to white for just a moment before returning through the eyes of Garcia. It was more frightening from this angle, looking up at Mr. Clean’s Sweeper face. But at least Spencer didn’t have to see the panic in Garcia’s eyes. Now he was seeing through them.
“You have failed me again,” Mr. Clean said.
“But I thought . . .” Garcia began.
“Why have you not taken the Sweeper potion?” Clean bellowed. “Were my instructions unclear?”
“They were very clear, sir.” Garcia’s eyes dropped to the floor. “The potion . . .” he stammered. “I may have lost the Sweeper potion.”
“Lost the potion, lost the Rebels, lost your warlock hammer,” Mr. Clean said. “What more can you lose?”
“Please, no,” Garcia said, his hands raised in pleading. “You still need me. What about the Academy?”
“You think the Academy needs you?” said Mr. Clean. “You think
I
need you?” He laughed, a deep gurgling sound in his slime-choked throat. “Soon the Academy will have a new director.”
Garcia took a staggering step backward as Mr. Clean reached into his white lab coat. When his strong hand withdrew, he was holding a dirty rag by one corner.
“As a child, I enjoyed vexing my younger sister,” Mr. Clean said. “Of all my methods, she hated this the most.” As he spoke, he slowly wound the rag, twisting it from end to end. “A simple dishrag, when flicked just so, would leave a terrible mark—a bright welt that would have her whimpering for hours.”
Director Garcia tried frantically to back up, but Clean’s Sweepers had ringed him in, hissing and crowing with unnatural sounds.
“And so I thought,” Mr. Clean said, striding a step closer, “if a simple rag would leave a welt, what would a Glopified rag do?”
“You cannot do this!” Garcia shouted. “You cannot do this to me! I’ve been your companion! Your friend from the beginning!”
“You were never my friend, Carlos,” said Mr. Clean. “Only my puppet.” He lifted the twisted rag. “And now I must deal with you. But I can assure you, your death will be clean. Because if there’s one thing I hate—it’s a mess.”
The Glopified rag whipped outward, glistening and rippling with magic. A scream escaped Director Garcia’s lips, and then the tip of the rag cracked against his chest with a sound like a gunshot.
Then nothing.
No fading vision into pinpricks of white. No change in perspective. Spencer was suddenly sitting in the garbage truck, seeing through his own eyes, with Holga still resting in his palm.
“What happened?” Daisy asked.
Spencer shook his head. He couldn’t form words. He tried to jump back into Director Garcia’s vision, but there was nothing there. So he did the next best thing, and when he focused on Mr. Clean, Spencer made the link, seeing through the Grimelike eyes of the tall warlock.
Mr. Clean was still standing in the band room, just tucking his terrible Glopified rag back into his lab coat. Before him, in the space where Garcia had stood only seconds ago, was nothing but a wisp of vapor, clinging in the air like mist after a summer storm.
Mr. Clean waved his hand dismissively, sending a current of air rippling through the immaterial remains of Director Carlos Garcia.
“What now, sir?” rasped a Filth Sweeper at Clean’s side.
“We must return to the laboratory,” Mr. Clean said. “The Rebels have taken Garcia’s hammer. We must assume they will be coming for mine. But first . . .”