The Hound of Rowan by Henry H. Neff Page B

the airport. He’s the one who was following me at the museum.”
    â€œYes, I know. He matched your description perfectly. It was a nasty shock, no question about it. But mission accomplished: here you are, safe and sound!”
    Max took a deep breath; it seemed the first real breath he’d taken since the airport.
    â€œNigel, my dad’s okay, isn’t he? They won’t bother him now that I’m here…?”
    â€œHe’ll be fine, Max,” Nigel said sympathetically. “You’re the one they want.”
    Nigel looked past Max and pointed at something out the window. Max turned in time to glimpse an old wooden sign:
    W ELCOME TO R OWAN T OWNSHIP , E ST . 1649
    They passed a few tidy cottages on the outskirts. The Atlantic Ocean shimmered ahead as Max took in the clipped lawns, fresh paint, and clean awnings. The town’s buildings were old but beautifully maintained. An old-fashioned movie theater rolled past, followed by a town green and a coffeehouse. Beyond these were a jumble of shops and small restaurants. Passing the row of businesses, they arrived at a small white church whose signboard indicated Rowan Academy was just ahead. Max swallowed and felt his pulse quicken.
    They turned off the road onto a smooth lane, passing beneath a towering green canopy formed by the overlapping branches of tall, twisty trees lining the road. They accelerated toward a high gate of black iron flanked by a sturdy stone gatehouse. The gate swung inward as they approached. Max tried to get a better look at a striking silver crest when the limousine crossed the threshold, but the gate swung shut behind them.
    The road had become a gravel lane, and the car now followed it to the right, plunging into a thick wood of ash and oak and beech.
    Max turned to Nigel.
    â€œWhy wouldn’t you let me say good-bye to my dad? Why did you make me hurry?”
    â€œOh, that—I
am
sorry. We needed to stay as consistent as possible with the others—those decoys—that preceded you. You did very well.”
    â€œWho
were
those other kids? Are they in danger?”
    Nigel smiled.
    â€œThose
weren’t
kids, and they are well equipped to deal with any dangers that might arise. You’ve seen your first Agents, Max.”
    Nigel wriggled out of his sport coat and held it up against the window. Max saw large dark stains under the arms. Nigel sighed.
    â€œBut I’m
not
an Agent, just a poor old Recruiter caught in the middle and not quite cut out for all this cloak-and-dagger stuff.” He sniffed once at the jacket before folding it neatly on his lap.
    â€œWhy were you the one traveling with me, then?” asked Max.
    â€œThe Agents insisted I’d be the best decoy out there,” Nigel admitted sheepishly. “They really can be brutal, you know.”
    â€œThey were wrong,” Max said. “That man wasn’t fooled. And anyway, I’m glad I got to travel with you and not some boring Agent.”
    Nigel brightened as the limousine slowed for an upcoming turn.
    â€œThank you, Max…. Welcome to Rowan.”
    The limousine emerged from the thick wood and into an enormous sunny clearing of smooth lawns, athletic fields, colorful gardens, and old stone buildings set near the sea. Max stuck his head out the window and listened to the seagulls. The car followed the lane along a grassy bluff high above the water’s edge before curving away to conclude at a large circular drive and a sprawling mansion of light gray stone. Many cars were parked in front.
    Max opened his door and gaped at a marble fountain of fishtailed horses spraying water high into the air. Through the mist, he squinted up at the mansion. He couldn’t begin to count its windows and chimneys.
    â€œOne hundred and eleven,” muttered Nigel, shuffling around the car with Max’s duffel.
    â€œWhat?” said Max, uncertain if his ears had fully popped from the flight.
    â€œThe Manse