Bad Monkeys Read Online Free PDF

would probably buy it.
    So after final bell that day, instead of going back to the library, we went to the lobby and waited for the other students to leave. Not long after the last of them had cleared out, the janitor passed through, pushing a cartload of garbage bags towards the rear of the building.
    “What do you think?” I asked Carlotta, once he was out of earshot.
    “I think this might not be such a smart idea, Jane. What if he really is the death angel? If he catches you—”
    “He won’t. You just stay here, and if you see him coming back, stick your head out the front door and yell something.”
    “What should I yell?”
    “Anything but my real name.”
    The teachers had all taken off too by now, so aside from the librarian’s Volkswagen, the janitor’s van was the only vehicle left in the lot. It was a utility-style van, with no windows in the rear side panels; the windows in the back doors were small, and tinted so you couldn’t see in. Add a little soundproofing, I thought, and it’d be perfect for kidnappings.
    Its doors were all locked, but like Nancy Drew I’d come prepared: during lunch period, I’d stolen a coat hanger from the closet in the teachers’ lounge. I slipped it in at the base of the driver’s-side window and fished around until the lock button came up.
    The inside of the van smelled like cleaning products. I was struck right away by how tidy it was. I mean I guess it’s no surprise that a janitor would be a neat freak, but still: the dashboard was completely clear, with none of the crap that usually collects there, and there wasn’t a scrap of trash on the floor or under the seats. Even the ashtrays were empty. There was nothing in the glove compartment but the van’s registration papers.
    The back of the van was a similar story. The floor was covered with a blanket that looked like it had just come out of a washing machine, and there was a gray metal toolbox stowed away neatly in one of the back corners. Other than that, I couldn’t see so much as a stray gum wrapper.
    Did you look inside the toolbox?
    Yeah. I almost let it be—it seemed obvious now that the janitor wasn’t the kind of guy to leave body parts lying around—but I decided I’d better be thorough.
    The blanket crackled when I stepped on it. I crouched down and lifted up a corner; underneath it was a double layer of plastic sheeting. Then I lifted that up, and found a set of luggage straps, pre-positioned for easy bundling.
    I smoothed the blanket back in place and turned tothe toolbox. It was padlocked; my coat hanger was no help here, but I had a couple different-sized paper clips, too, and one of them did the trick. I slipped off the padlock and lifted the lid.
    And? What was inside?
    Tools. A pair of handcuffs, for starters; a fat roll of electrician’s tape; gloves. Also four sets of pliers, three ice picks, and a loop of piano wire.
    Oh yeah, and one more thing: a hunting knife. It was a foot long, with a jagged-edged blade. Like the pliers and the ice picks it was shiny clean and smelled like it had been soaking in detergent, but when I took a closer look at it I saw that there was a hair stuck to the handle. A golden hair. I couldn’t tell whether the hair was from a person or a dog, but I was pretty sure the police would be able to.
    “Got you,” I said, and that’s when I heard footsteps outside the van.
    For a moment I hoped it might only be Carlotta, bored with sentry duty and come to help me search, but then I heard keys jangling and knew I was in trouble. Dumping the garbage must have been the janitor’s last chore for the day; instead of coming back through the building afterwards like I’d expected him to, he’d walked around the outside, bypassing my lookout.
    As he fumbled with his keys, I packed the knife away in the toolbox and got ready to make a run for it. But when I reached for the back-door handle to let myself out, the handle wasn’t there.
    The janitor opened the driver’s