The New Recruit: Sample Chapter

NOVELS

Text Box: CHAPTER ONE Pilot Point, California The ringing phone jolted Spencer Garmond awake. He sat up, accidentally knocking his basketball off the sofa. His stiff neck ached, and he glared at the ball rolling across the floor. It didn’t make the best pillow. The setting sun cast a brilliant pattern of light through the lace curtains onto the orange shag carpet. Dust particles floated in the beams adding to the old-fashioned wallpaper, yarn blankets, and antique furniture that Grandma refused to update. He stood, grappled for the phone on the end table, then froze. What if Mr. McKaffey was calling about his missed detention? The principal probably had Grandma’s number on speed dial. Thankfully she didn’t own an answering machine. The phone rang again. Grandma had threatened to send Spencer to military school if he screwed up again. And he had—not counting the detention—even though it wasn’t totally his fault. C-rok didn’t own the park. Spencer could play ball there if he wanted to. Another ring. Okay, so that was like ten or something. McKaffey wasn’t that patient. He picked up the receiver. “Yeah?” A low voice rasped, “Spencer? This is Lillian Daggett.” He yawned, relieved at the familiar voice of his grandma’s friend, and massaged his neck with his free hand. Grandma’s car wasn’t in the driveway, and the cuckoo clock read 5:32. She must have run to the store to grab something for dinner. “Grandma’s not home.” “Actually, I’m looking for you.” Spencer groaned inside. Grandma always dragged him into helping her with stupid errands. What had she volunteered him for now? “I have your money, from the lawn mowing,” Mrs. Daggett said. “Could you come get it?” Spencer perked up. He’d been saving up for some more memory for his computer. “Yeah, sure. I’ll be right there.” He hung up, excited about the cash. Mrs. Daggett paid by the month and owed him thirty bucks. He found his battered Lakers cap on the floor and pulled it on. A sharp pain from the welt of his forehead shot through his skull. He considered leaving the cap home, but his hair wasn’t long enough to cover the welt, and he didn’t want Mrs. Daggett to see it. Why did he have to lose it with C-rok again? If Grandma found out, he’d be gone. As if Pilot Point Christian School wasn’t bad enough; at least they had a good ball program. He shuddered to think what kind of basketball they played in military school. Probably none. Which reminded him, if he was going on a walk, he needed the ball. The more he held it, the more his dribbling, shooting, and ball handling in general improved. It had rolled under Grandma’s fancy tassel lamp. He got on his hands and knees, crawling over the itchy carpet to retrieve it. He tucked the ball under his arm and opened the front door. Grandma and two men climbed the porch steps. A pink-faced bald man with a tiny double chin and coke bottle glasses wore tan military gear; Spencer had seen him somewhere before. The other, tall and thin with oiled black hair, wore a sharp navy suit. A black sedan idled behind Grandma’s green Lincoln in the driveway. Spencer’s brain whirred. Had she already called the military school? Was she sending him away? “Here’s Spencer,” Grandma said, her expression unreadable. Her fluorescent green tank top with gaudy flamingoes distracted him from his fear for a millisecond. The men stopped on the porch. The one in the suit stared at Spencer, eyes squinted; a thick black moustache hid his mouth. Spencer couldn’t go to military school. He wanted to play basketball where scouts would see him and offer college scholarships. How could Grandma have known about today’s fight? It had only happened an hour ago. Somehow Grandma often knew things she shouldn’t. “Come inside, gentlemen.” She opened the screen door. “I’ll get you something to drink, then you can talk with Spencer.” Spencer flattened against the wall as Grandma and her guests filed indoors. He had to hide somewhere. Now. Before she cinched the deal. His mind whirred. None of his friends lived close enough to walk…the school gym was closed…the gangsters might still be at the park… Mrs. Daggett was expecting him. Plus he could use the cash to hang somewhere until the men left. Then maybe he could convince Grandma to give him one last chance. Spencer slid out the door, jumped the four porch steps in one leap, and dropped his ball in the grass. The back door of the sedan opened, scaring Spencer straight into the flowerbed edging the driveway. He tripped over a plastic pinwheel and fell into soft dirt and daffodils. Another man in the same tan uniform climbed out of the car. Pale and freckled with bright orange hair, he could pass for Spencer’s relative—only Spencer didn’t have any relatives except Grandma Alice. “Spencer,” the man said in a deep voice. “You okay?” The screen door whooshed open and Grandma scurried out. “Where are you going, young man? Get in this house immediately!” “I can’t go to military school.” Spencer scrabbled to his feet and sprinted away, ignoring Grandma’s muted protests drifting after him. He tore down the street without looking back. Right on Maple. Left on Elm. The Daggetts lived in a one-story peach stucco home halfway down the block. After he got the cash, he could take the bus to Kip’s house. If Kip wasn’t home… He took the front steps two at a time, but before he could knock, the front door opened. Mrs. Daggett was huge, a wrinkled lineman in an Eagles-green housecoat. She flashed her pasty dentures. “You must be thirsty, dear. Come have some lemonade.” Spencer stepped inside the dark and musty living room. The place was bigger than Grandma’s but had the same old-person smell. Dust-caked knickknacks, old-fashioned toys, and books cluttered the floor. Heavy brown drapes hid a wall of windows as if the sun was an intrusive neighbor. A hallway stretched across the house to the back door with entrances to the bathroom, bedrooms, and kitchen. Mrs. Daggett led Spencer the long way around, through the disorderly living room into the kitchen, stopping at the refrigerator to remove the lemonade. She cracked two ice cubes from a frosty tray into a glass, poured the lemonade, and handed it to him. “Sit, sit. I’ll get your money.” He perched on a wooden chair in the dining room and took a gulp of lemonade. A clock ticked somewhere, but he couldn’t find it in the mess. “I’ve got some fabric for Alice,” Mrs. Daggett said from somewhere. “It’s just the thing for her log cabin project.” Fabric? No. He didn’t want any fabric. Just the money, thanks. The phone rang. Spencer’s hands shook, the ice cubes clinking against the side of his glass. He set it on the table. Mrs. Daggett picked up on the second ring. “Yes, he’s here. I’m sending him back with some darling yellow calico perfect for…is that so?” Spencer stood and tiptoed toward the hall. Mrs. Daggett’s voice had lowered to a whisper. Time for plan B. Somewhere close he could hide for free. The mall? The doorbell burst into a chimed version of “Amazing Grace.” Spencer hurried down the hall toward the back door and bumped into Mrs. Daggett. She clamped a hand on his shoulder, her grip surprisingly strong. “Someone’s at the door, Spencer. Would you mind?” Spencer shook his head, fear boiling inside. “Don’t be such a ninny-pinny. They aren’t going to hurt you.” Mrs. Daggett pushed past him, and he ducked into the bathroom to keep watch. She opened the door. “Rolf! How lovely to see you.” The red-haired man entered. “Where is he?” “I had no idea this was a recruitment day,” Mrs. Daggett said, closing the door behind the uniformed stranger. “Glen should have told me. This secret nonsense is ridiculous. You must be excited, though. Will you finally tell him? After all these years…how do you think he’ll react?” Spencer frowned, confused by Mrs. Daggett’s familiarity with this Rolf guy and her strange comments. Rolf’s head turned, scanning the living room. “Where, Lil?” “Oh, calm down! He’s just having some lemonade. Would you like some? It’s fresh squeezed.” Spencer wanted to run, but fear and bewilderment kept him frozen. Why would Mrs. Daggett be on a first-name basis with the military school staff? His curiosity wasn’t worth the risk. He had to leave, now. When Mrs. Daggett and Rolf drifted through the living room towards the kitchen, Spencer seized the moment and snuck toward the back door. “Spencer?” Mrs. Daggett poked her head out of the kitchen doorway. “Where are you going?” He whipped around and backed into the laundry room. Rolf darted up behind her, and Spencer took off on a panic. He jumped a laundry basket, knocked a pile of towels off the dryer with his arm, and crashed into the back door. He fumbled with two deadbolts and wrenched the door open. Rolf yelled, “Stop!” but Spencer slammed the white wood door on his fingers. The man growled through clenched teeth and the metal screen. “We just…want…to talk.” Forget that. Spencer fled through the back yard and banged out the side gate. On the sidewalk, the pink-faced, bald man jumped out from behind a fat palm tree and grabbed Spencer’s wrist. “Calm down, kid.” Spencer yelped and tried to twist away. He pulled, kicked, elbowed, and managed to send them both into a rose bush. Spencer breathed in the sweet fragrance as he squirmed free, ignoring the sharp thorns scratching his bare arms. “Wait!” the bald man called. Spencer fled across the street right in front of the black sedan. The car screeched in a haphazard u-turn. He hoisted himself over a white picket fence and ran through a yard, vaulting the fence on the other side and continuing on. The sedan turned at the end of the street and Spencer ducked between two houses. He stopped for a moment, panted, and scanned his surroundings. Barbecue smoke drifted from the back yard to his left. A four-foot brick wall fenced the back yard on his right. He clambered up and walked it like a tightrope. He dropped down into a back yard on the other side, ran around a bean shaped swimming pool, and crept up the side of the house. Rolf jumped out at him, freckled face glaring. He grabbed Spencer by the front of the shirt and pushed him against the side of the house. His calm but firm voice promised, “Talk. For five minutes.” The sedan pulled up at the curb. Rolf grabbed Spencer by the elbow, twisting his arm so that Spencer feared it might break. He gritted his teeth and complied. Rolf forced him toward the car and opened the back door. “Get in.” Spencer climbed inside, dread churning in his mind. The car was fancy. Tan leather upholstery. Spotless. The man with the moustache reclined in the back. Rolf slid beside Spencer and shut the door. Mr. Daggett, without his standard plaid shirt and suspenders, sat behind the wheel. Spencer gasped. Today Mr. Daggett wore the tan uniform. “Mr. Daggett, what are you doing?” Spencer asked, but the old man only hit the gas and the car pulled away. “Cozy,” Rolf said. “You should recruit in a Lincoln more often, Priere.” “It is quite different,” the moustache man said. His thick accent sounded European. Maybe French. Mr. Daggett stopped the car. The passenger’s door opened, and the bald man fell into the front seat, breathing hard. He slammed the door and dabbed his cuts with a handkerchief as Mr. Daggett pulled away. A dozen knots formed in Spencer’s stomach. What did these men want to talk about? Where were they taking him? He hunched forward and set his clenched fists on his knees, trying to be as small as possible. He fought the urge to elbow the Frenchman in the nose and try for the door. Something told him Rolf would be quick to stop him. The bald man looked over the front seat and shot Spencer a crooked smile from his pink face, his thick glasses flashed in a passing glare. “I think we scared him.” Ya think? “I am Priere,” the moustache man said. “This is Rolf. You know Mr. Daggett. Pat Stopplecamp is up front. His students call him Mr. S. I apologize for frightening you, but we needed to speak somewhere private. We did not mean to make you uncomfortable.” Too late, buddy. Spencer wiped a trail of blood from his knuckles onto his dirty jeans. Rose bushes pricked deep. “Pree-air?” He looked in the man’s squinted eyes. “Are you from the military school?” “No, Spence—may I call you Spence?” Spencer blinked. “I have come to recruit you.” “Recruit me for what? Did Grandma put you up to this? What are you supposed to scare me into obeying or something?” Mr. S chuckled, his voice airy and soft. “If only that worked.” Spencer’s eyes narrowed at Mr. S. More like Mr. Chess with those thick glasses and that pink face. Spencer remembered seeing the guy at a school assembly last fall doing a mission presentation on South Africa—maybe Swaziland. “Is this about the missions club?” “This is much more than a club,” Priere said. “You have been chosen for the Juvenile Agent Development Program of the Mission League.” Spencer burst into laughter. “Are you crazy? I didn’t apply for any missionary thing.” He had better things to do than hang out with a bunch of Boy Scouts. “You do not apply for the Mission League, Spence,” Priere said.” You are chosen by God.” Spencer snorted. “Chosen by you, you mean.” And probably Grandma. Mr. Daggett shot a scowl over his shoulder. “Spencer, don’t you disrespect Priere, or Alice will hear about it.” Spencer clamped his mouth shut. No need to provide more ammo for Grandma to send him away…or sic missionaries on him. He wasn’t sure which was worse. This missionary thing was a new angle. “This is an incredible privilege,” Priere said. “Few are chosen.” “You’ll train to be an undercover agent—a spy—something kids dream of,” Mr. S said in his humming voice. “Missionary spies? What do they do? Search for lost Bibles?” Spencer grinned. “Seriously, let one of those dreamers have it. I don’t do God.” He folded his arms and glanced at Mr. Daggett, hoping he didn’t find that statement disrespectful. Mr. Daggett continued to circle the neighborhood. “Recruitments are done with four people,” Priere said. “The intercessor, myself; your future instructor, Mr. S; and two witnesses, Rolf and Glen. We chose Glen since he is a retired agent you know.” Spencer met Mr. Daggett’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Are you kidding me?” Mr. Daggett steered the sedan up O Street. “Served in Special Forces for twenty years before transferring to Profiling, sonny.” “Special Forces?” Spencer faked a smile and pinched his thigh, hoping to wake from this bizarro nightmare. He often had weird dreams—many stranger than this one—but he didn’t wake and now his leg throbbed. Mr. S shifted sideways to face Spencer. “You were called because God has plans for you in this organization. We know you’re smart, athletic, have a desire to travel, and your family has a history in the organization.” Spencer scoffed. “My grades are barely Cs, I’ve never been out of Pilot Point, and I live with my grandma. She’s no Bible-agent or whatever you call them.” Priere raised a black eyebrow. “Things are not always as they seem. Think it over. I will come by to speak with your grandmother.” Mr. Daggett steered into Grandma’s driveway. Rolf climbed out and Spencer scrambled after him. He grabbed his basketball off the lawn and burst into the house. Grandma sat in her brown velour armchair, crocheting. She mumbled something as he ran to his room. He locked the door and collapsed on his bed, trying to forget what just happened. Grandma’s militant steps pounded through the house. “Spencer?” She banged on his bedroom door. “Open this door!” He groaned and pushed himself up to let her in, but the doorbell rang. He fell back into his blankets to embrace a moment of peace before she returned to press him for information. His room was the only place in the world where he felt comfortable, besides a basketball court, of course. It was small, with a twin bed, an ancient dresser, and that same orange shag carpet, but it was his and it had a lock. The Mission League? Bogus. Why couldn’t basketball scouts recruit him? Duke University would probably make a phone call—maybe a house call—not chase a potential player all over Pilot Point and stuff him into a car. Besides, fifteen wasn’t old enough for college ball. Minutes flicked by on his alarm clock and Grandma didn’t return. He opened his window to let some air into his stuffy room. Air conditioning was one of the many luxuries Grandma Alice found excessive. Voices drifted in from the front porch, Grandma’s and a man’s. Spencer strained and was dismayed to hear a European accent.

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