Casey Templeton Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Gwen Molnar

of all the new anti-Semitic propaganda these Hate Cells are spreading.”

      “And speaking of the Hate Cell here,” said Katie Sanford, who helped out in the school library, “I hear quite a few kids saying if Mr. Deverell had minded his own business he wouldn’t have gotten hurt. You can bet they’re hearing that at home.”

      Casey had heard that kind of talk, too.

      “Mr. Deverell’s as likely to die as get well,” Bill Sanford said as he reached for another cinnamon bun. “Can’t these people see where this kind of thinking leads? Who will be next?”

      “Seems this Hate Cell is part of a newly formed satellite operation with its home base in Idaho,” Casey’s father said thoughtfully. “Their white supremacy ideology, like their racist ideology, is a cancer, and as it grows, it’ll gain power and influence. At that point anyone who disagrees with them becomes a potential target.”

      “What I don’t get, Dad,” Casey said, “is the difference between white supremacy and racism.”

      “White supremacists concentrate on manipulating white people’s fears of being taken over by people who aren’t white, then they try to incite those people to take action, which usually results in violence,” Casey’s dad explained. “Racists generally hate specific races or ethnic groups not necessarily because of their colour or their religion. Sometimes it’s just based on ancient prejudices.”

      “How do racists operate?” Casey asked.

      “Sometimes it’s subtle, like finding ways to prevent them from renting certain properties. Sometimes it’s overt, like destroying their property or encouraging their kids to make fun of minorities. Before the kids around here get whipped up by hate propaganda, we’ve got to find out who’s behind this Hate Cell and flush them out.”

      “Hear! Hear!” several people called out.

      “I’m telling you,” Casey’s dad continued, “this is such a good town that we should insist on zero tolerance for intolerance.”

      Jim Bailey laughed. “Spoken like a candidate for something. Whatever you’re running for, you’ve got my vote.”

      The group decided to pack it in for the evening after that, and when they were gone, Casey and his dad began clearing up.

      “You’ve done enough, Mary,” his dad said. “Casey and I will take it from here.”

      Casey’s mother nodded wearily. “Thanks, guys. “I’m really bushed.”

      “Dad?” Casey asked as he loaded cups and saucers into the dishwasher. “Do you know Mr. Ogilvy?”

      “Sure, I’ve known Bertram Bradley Oglethorpe Ogilvy since grade one. Why?”

      “I was visiting Bryan Ogilvy tonight, and his father sort of mentioned you. It didn’t sound as if he really knew you, though.”

      “He knows me, and I know him only too well.”

      “What does he do? He seems really rich.”

      “He doesn’t do anything. He never has, and yes, he’s very, very rich. He’s C. Wilberforce Willson’s great-nephew. Through his mother he inherited all the old boy’s money when he was twelve, and he’s been an absolute jerk ever since.”

      “He sure is rude and unpleasant,” Casey told his dad as he stacked the folding bridge chairs. “By the way, Bryan Ogilvy’s coming over tomorrow afternoon. He might want to talk to you.”

      “Oh, really?” His dad looked surprised. “That’s interesting.”

      Neither Casey nor his father could have guessed just how interesting it was going to be.

      CHAPTER SIX

      “Mom and Dad, you remember Bryan Ogilvy?” Casey had answered Bryan’s doorbell ring on Saturday afternoon and taken him right into the living room.

      Casey’s mother smiled at Bryan. “Hi, Bryan! Nice to see you. Casey’s dad and I have known your father for a long time.”

      “How do you do?” Bryan shook hands stiffly.

      “I was telling Casey last night that I started grade one with your father,” Casey’s dad said. “We haven’t met your mother, though. She’s from …?”

      “Montreal,” Bryan offered. “Dad met her when he was at McGill University.”

      “I didn’t realize your father had gone to university,” Casey’s father said, amazed. “Somehow I thought he’d stayed here all his life.”

      “Well,” Bryan said, “he went to McGill but just long enough to meet my mother.”

      Casey’s dad nodded.

      “Bryan and I have things we need to do, so we’re going upstairs now,” Casey announced to his parents.

      “When you’re done, come down for something to eat,” his mother suggested.

      “Sounds good.” Casey glanced at Bryan, who nodded and smiled thanks.

      Bryan followed Casey up the stairs.

      “Where did we leave off, Bryan?” Casey asked as they settled into chairs across from each other after Casey closed his bedroom door.

      “Have I told you about the music yet?”

      “No. What kind of music?”

      “Hate music. White power rock and roll. It’s got violent lyrics that call for murdering black people or starting a holy war. Anybody surfing the Net can find sites selling hate music or offering it free for downloading.”

      Casey whistled. “Really? Did you buy any?”

      “I bought a few, and I’ve done some research on the music,” Bryan admitted. “They sell huge numbers of white power CDs every year in North America. I bought some, like I say, but I didn’t ‘buy’ into them, if you know what I mean.”

      “Yesterday you told me the online group asked you to steal for them and that they said they’d tell your parents and the police about the stealing and the drugs if you didn’t do the next thing they wanted. So what did you do?”

      “I distributed hate propaganda — some of the stuff you found in the Old Willson Place and … and …”

      “And what?”

      “I made that pipe bomb they used on the Finegoods’ store. I got instructions off the Web.”

      “But you’re only a kid!” Casey cried. “Nobody’s going to get a thirteen-year-old to make a bomb!”

      “They think I’m nineteen,” Bryan said, “and I told them I knew how to make one.”

      “Have they ever seen you? Have you ever seen them?”

      “No.”

      “Do you know who they are?”

      Bryan hesitated, then said, “No. But they know my name. There’s a mail drop where I pick up and leave stuff — a locker at the bus depot. They sent me a key to it. The thing is, Casey, I know telling you about all this isn’t good enough. I know I should tell my parents. Only I just can’t.”

      Casey knew there was only one way to go — talk to his dad — but it was up to Bryan to decide. “There’s no way I can help you.”

      Bryan gazed out the window sadly. “Do you think I could talk to your father instead of the local Mounties?”

      “Sure.” Casey was glad he had already mentioned the possibility to his father. “My dad will know what to do.” He opened his bedroom door and went to the head of the stairs. “Dad, can you come up here for a minute?”

      Bryan and Casey’s father talked