Zeke Bartholomew Read Online Free Page A

laughter, or Stefan Holt. There was something about Derek Lance that made me uncomfortable. Like he knew who I was, knew what I was trying to do, and was able to cut just in the right spot to strike a nerve. And he had.
    â€œYou know,” Kyle said, “I bet that gadget has at least one thing going for it.”
    â€œOh, really? What?”
    â€œWe could use it to cut the gum off your butt.”
    â€œYou know I hate you, right?”
    â€œDon’t blame the peanut gallery.”
    I ignored Kyle and gritted my teeth. I knew right then and there that I had to turn the tables. I had to know just who Derek Lance was. I had to spy on the spy.

That night I did what any self-respecting adventurous spy would do—I went through Derek Lance’s trash cans.
    I waited until after my stomach was bursting with a double helping of my dad’s famous spaghetti and meatballs and he was crashed on the couch watching Law & Order reruns. Then I slipped on a pair of navy blue sweatpants and a gray hooded sweatshirt (I didn’t own black). I tried on a pair of cheapo sunglasses, but took them off after I bumped into a tree outside.
    Using the cloak of darkness—or, more accurately, simply hoping nobody saw me—I crept into the Lances’ front yard. Two trash bins were sitting on the curb, filled with all sorts of junk.
    Quietly I removed the lids from the trash bins, took a pen from my pocket, and began to dig through their garbage.
    The top layer was your common junk pile. Soda cans, packing peanuts, empty microwave food boxes. Apparently Derek and I had one thing in common: we both liked fish sticks. Below the fish stick boxes I found the first clue: discarded maps from all over the world. Honduras. The Netherlands. Prague. Iceland. Costa Rica. Beijing. No doubt souvenirs from Derek Lance’s travels around the globe.
    Under the maps I found something even more interesting.
    A compass with a cracked face. It looked heavily used and didn’t appear to be working. Below that I came upon something even more curious: a small blue pillbox with one word printed on the side: Ipecac.
    Whoa. Syrup of ipecac was something spies commonly used when they were poisoned. It was derived from the ipecacuanha plant and, when synthesized, was used to induce vomiting. If a spy was poisoned, a dollop of ipecac syrup would help him upchuck any evil goop he’d been forced to drink. I’d never heard of it existing in pill form. That sounded like some heavy-duty spy stuff, formulated in some underground lab where bespectacled scientists spent hours figuring out how best to make secret agents puke. Awesome.
    I popped the pillbox in my pocket and continued searching. Soon I found a pair of sunglasses…just like the ones Derek Lance wore.
    I wiped them off, placed them over my eyes, and practiced my best spy impersonation.
    â€œHey, I’m Derek Lance,” I said to nobody in particular. “Freeze. I’m Derek Lance. Agent Lance. That’s me, all right. You have the right to remain awesome.”
    I cringed. Wow. I made an even dorkier spy than I thought. Still, if I had access to the kind of technology and equipment that Derek Lance did, I’d be able to create some of the coolest devices ever known. Either way, I decided to keep the shades.
    Then, below a few billion packing peanuts, I found a cardboard box for something called a “Red-i-Cam.” The box had contained a small, mountable surveillance camera. I dug deeper and found five more empty Red-i-Cam boxes. I turned around, looked up. And saw them.
    One Red-i-Cam was bolted to the Lances’ front door, right above the peephole. Several others were mounted over the windows. Another hung over the garage. Clearly the Lance family wanted to know about everything and everyone who came near their house.
    My blood ran cold. They could probably see me at this very moment. And in my dark sweatpants and sweatshirt, wearing a pair of aviator