The Shadow Cipher

by Laura Ruby

  “Wait!” said Tess. “Stop!”

  A high-pitched whine cut through the humid summer air. Then a series of muffled WHUMPs like the beating of drums in a marching band pounded Tess’s ears, WHUMP, but she didn’t know what it was, WHUMP, where was it coming from, WHUMP. It was only when she saw the bright bursts of flame in each of the windows at 354 W. 73rd Street that she herself understood, that they all did.

  Explosives.

  For a moment, nothing else happened, the building’s many eyes seeming to look down upon her with a placid sort of calm, the way mothers regard crying children.

  And then, all at once, the floors collapsed in on themselves, falling and falling, imploding into a gray cloud of dust.

  The shock of it punched her in the throat and in the chest, odd strangled, wordless sounds bursting from her lips. No. No. No. This was not supposed to happen. Not after everything they’d done.

  Everything they’d done.

  They had done this.

  They had set the cane.

  They had started the clock.

  They had set the building off.

  Is any treasure worth any cost?

  No.

  No.

  No.

  But the stinging dust that filled the air said that it was, that the worst had come to pass, said that it was over now, that everyone else had been right, that a bunch of kids could never solve the Cipher, that the Cipher itself was as fanciful as any fairy tale, and who but little kids could believe in fairy tales anyway?

  There was no treasure.

  And now there was no 354 W. 73rd Street.

  She couldn’t help the sobs that racked her body. Adults had gathered around—from where she had no idea—they were all suddenly there, a small crowd of them, patting her and Jaime and Theo awkwardly, saying, “There, there,” and “You’re all right,” “Everything will be okay,” like they must have seen people do in movies. She wanted to hit them all. She wanted to tell them nothing would ever be all right.

  But there was a hole in the landscape just like there was a hole in her gut. In her heart. When the dust started to clear, Tess could see all the way to the river. She saw the raw, naked walls of the buildings on either side, exposed for the first time in a hundred and fifty plus years. The stupid water tower on the roof of the building next door mocked her: YOU GOT IT ALL WRONG, TOOTS.

  Eventually, the crowd grew bigger. The cops showed up. The fire trucks and the ambulances, the firefighters and the EMTs. The reporters with their vans and their microphones.

  All of them ignoring three kids and their giant, dust-covered cat.

  Still, Tess and Theo and Jaime stayed. Tess felt rooted to the spot, like she could never move. The moon burst through the clouds, silvering the dust, so bright that they had to shield their eyes. The beams hit the water tower on the nearby building, sending an arrow of silver down through the dust, where it hit the wall of the building on the other side of the demolition site.

  Tess’s breath curled, caught.

  For there, on that newly exposed wall, was a rectangle of shadow in the shape of a door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Theo

  Implosion, the opposite of explosion. Technically, instead of energy and matter released outward, implosion was a bursting inward, a situation where matter collapses in on itself. A method often used in building demolition in order to spare the surrounding buildings.

  He could almost hear Tess’s voice in his head: Theo, you robot.

  Except he didn’t feel like a robot. He felt like he himself had imploded along with 354 W. 73rd Street, the very center of himself plummeting straight down, all his outsides cascading in.

  And then Tess whispered, “A door.”

  “What did you say?” said Theo.

  She leaned in. “But look at the wall of the building next door. There’s a door on it. Or there’s a shadow in the shape of a door.”

  She was right. On the expanse of dull-colored stones was a hazy rectangle of shadow made when the moon shone through the water tower on the opposite side of the rubble that was once their home.

  Theo’s mind was churning. “The building had to come down. We wouldn’t be able to get to that door if it hadn’t. We would never have seen it.”

  “That means they knew,” said Jaime. “The Morningstarrs, I mean. They knew people would be too curious not to set the cane and start the timer. That we’d have to do it.”

  Maybe Theo should admire this, admire them for their ingenuity and their cleverness and their insight into people, their ability to plan a building’s implosion long before implosion was invented, their completely impossible ability to predict the future, but he couldn’t, not with his home collapsed in front of him. “The Morningstarrs were jerks,” he said. “If they were so smart, they would have figured out a different way. They would have known people lived here, that this was someone’s home. They would have anticipated every possibility. They could have made it so the building could stay. But they didn’t.” He searched for a stronger word, a better word, but he was too angry. “Jerks,” he said again.

  They watched the firefighters pick through the rubble, the cops take statements, the reporters report. They didn’t ask Jaime or Tess or Theo any questions. What would kids know about this anyway? It was obvious that someone was going after Darnell Slant’s buildings, the reporters said. But how did they plant all those explosives in the first place without being seen? How did the implosion occur so neatly, to the point that it left the sidewalk intact? Why was there so little debris? What kind of new technology had done it?

  Theo almost laughed.

  A clock had done it.

  But that wasn’t exactly true. Theo stuck both hands in his hair, watched the too-small curls of smoke twisting up toward the stars. What if the Cipher really was alive? Then it wasn’t still and static, just a series of clues waiting for someone to follow them. It shifted, it responded.

  If they hadn’t set the clock, what would it have done? What would it have asked them to do?

  What if they weren’t discovering the Cipher as much as building it for themselves as they went along? Goading it and challenging it?

  “We need to see what’s behind that door,” Theo said.

  “There are way too many people around right now,” Tess said, her voice dull as a butter knife. “And our parents and Jaime’s grandmother and father will be worried. They might have heard about this already.”

  “We’ll be grounded for life,” said Jaime.

  “Wouldn’t be the worst thing that happened today,” said Theo.

  “Jaime, how about you come home with us now and go back to Hoboken in the morning?” Tess suggested.

  “Yeah, that way my mom won’t have to go too far to arrest us all,” said Theo.

  “Sounds good,” said Jaime. “But . . . I don’t want Mima to wake up alone.”

  “Right,” said Tess. “Okay.” And her eyes got that glassy look again, because this was good-bye. Not forever, but still. Good-bye. Good-bye, Jaime, good-bye, 354 W. 73rd Street.

  Good-bye.

  Tess threw her arms around Jaime and hugged him. Theo patted Jaime on the back, and Jaime slugged him on the shoulder. They went their separate ways, Jaime traveling to one Underway station and the twins to another. The twins took a train across town and then over to Queens. The Guildman in his glass box wore the same inscrutable expression every Guildman wore, paying Theo and Tess and Nine no more mind than he paid anyone. The people swaying in their seats with the rhythm of the train read books or listened to music or stared off into the distance thinking about whatever it was people thought about: work, bills, the chicken they would make for dinner. It was like any other ride on the Underway and also unlike any other ride because Theo wasn’t the same. He had been betrayed. He had seen a man carried off by Rollers. He had seen two others swallowed whole. He had watched his home crumble. That had to mark a person, but no one looked at him any differently. Their eyes flicked to his h
air and then skirted away. To them, he was not a human whose life had changed forever, he was a kid who needed a haircut.

  They got off the train. Their steps slowed; no one was in a hurry to get to Aunt Esther’s, not even Nine. They would probably be grounded for a month. Or a year. It might be a while before they could get back to the building with the shadow door. It was just as well. Theo had a sinking suspicion that opening that door wouldn’t be an end to anything, but yet another beginning.

  Tess unlocked the door in front of him and swung it open cautiously, as if she were afraid Mr. Stoop or Mr. Pinscher were lying in wait. But the only thing lying in wait was Aunt Esther, who sat in her chair in the living room. The house was quiet.

  “Well!” she said. “Hello, you children! How was your evening?”

  Theo sat on the couch. “Somewhat eventful.”

  “Hmmm,” said Aunt Esther. “We had a few adventures here ourselves.”

  “I can imagine,” said Tess.

  “Can you?” said Aunt Esther, knitting needles clicking.

  Tess said, “I imagine Mom is furious that we took so long.”

  “Furious isn’t the word. Sleeping is the word. She was so exhausted that she and your dad lay down for a nap a few hours ago and that was that. I don’t think they’ll wake up till tomorrow.”

  “So, you guys didn’t hear the news?” Theo said.

  “The only thing I heard was snoring,” said Aunt Esther. Nine nudged her knee and Aunt Esther scratched the top of Nine’s head. “Well! I think we’ve all had enough adventures for one day. I’ve made the beds in the attic and you should be comfortable enough. I shall wake you all in the morning. Or rather, Lancelot shall. He’s been practicing his pancakes. I rather think he likes it here.” Aunt Esther held up her knitting, which appeared to be outfit for a very small octopus. “And I rather hope that you two come to like it as well.”

  As Aunt Esther had predicted, the smell of pancakes woke Theo and Tess.

  Also, the sound of yelling.

  Tess and Theo got up, rubbed the sleep from their eyes, and wandered downstairs in their pajamas. Their parents were in the living room, hands around mugs of coffee, shouting at the TV. As soon as they saw Tess and Theo, Mr. Biedermann quickly shut it off.

  “Heeey,” said Mrs. Biedermann, drawing out the word. She put the coffee on the table, hugged Tess tight. And then she did the same thing to Theo. “I’m so glad to see you two.”

  “What were you watching?” said Tess.

  “Oh, nothing,” said their dad, again, too quickly. “Who wants pancakes?”

  “Dad?”

  Mr. Biedermann put his coffee cup on the table, rubbed his forehead. “You guys might want to sit down. Something happened last night.”

  “Our building imploded,” said Theo.

  Mrs. Biedermann’s mouth hung open. “You knew?”

  “Jaime told us. He has a cell phone. He gets news and stuff. It must have happened right after we left. We missed the whole thing.”

  “Oh!” said Mr. Biedermann, her eyes moving from Theo to Tess. “Are you okay?”

  Nine shambled over to Tess, pressed her big body against Tess’s leg. Tess didn’t say anything for a minute. Then she said, “I’ll live.”

  “So is that what was on the TV?” Theo said. “The news?”

  “Oh, that jerk Slant was going to have a press conference and I just want to arrest him right now for being such a schmendrick!” their mother erupted.

  “So, let’s watch it,” Theo said.

  “Are you sure?” said their dad.

  “Yeah,” Theo said. “Let’s see what the schmendrick has to say for himself.”

  Mr. Biedermann punched the button on the remote and a reporter’s face filled the screen. “We’re waiting at the site of 354 W. 73rd Street, where Darnell Slant is expected to make a statement after he’s seen the damage from last night’s mysterious implosion that destroyed his latest investment. Luckily, no one was hurt in the event that took down this landmark building. But people everywhere are wondering whether this was simply a wanton act of sabotage, or whether Slant himself planned this all along. Aaaand, here we go live.”

  The camera panned away from the reporter over to a tall, pale man with thick, dark hair buzzed on the sides, a man who would be handsome except for the lipless slash that matched his name. Jaime couldn’t have drawn a better villain.

  “Thank you all for coming,” said Darnell Slant in his nasal accent. “This is an important day for all of New York because this is about the survival of New York. I know that some of you are upset. Some of you will probably protest what I’ve done here.”

  Wait, what he had done?

  “And that’s good. That’s what we do in this city. We fight for what we think is right. I’m fighting, too.”

  Tess stiffened, and Nine licked her knee.

  “Some of you see here the engines of destruction. I see engines of progress. The Morningstarrs were geniuses, the earliest architects of our city. I have said before that they should be honored in museums, in history books. We should think of them every time we ride the Underway. But the world in which they lived is history. And we need new heroes.”

  Theo tugged at his hair, wanting to stuff bits of it into his ears to muffle the sound of Slant’s words.

  Tess was squeezing her fists so tight that her knuckles went white.

  “We have been trying to solve the Cipher for more than a hundred years,” said Slant. “But the solution is not in the streets or the buildings of this city, but in us, in its people. We are the magic. We are the treasure. And we are going to keep moving forward. The world stops for no one, and neither do we. We will rebuild. Thank you.”

  He thrust the microphone at the nearest minion and was swallowed up by the buzzing, yammering crowd.

  “Schmendrick,” said their mother.

  “Liar,” said Tess.

  “So, according to Darnell Slant himself,” the reporter said, “this was a planned demolition. But with residents barely out of the building, was it a legal demolition? Will charges be brought? And what are we to make of the fact that two men that reportedly worked for Slant, a Mr. Sinscher and a Mr. Poop, were found wandering in their underwear in Riverside Park, with no memory of the last six months? And what of the disappearance of Edgar Wellington, the current president of the Old York Puzzler and Cipherist Society, who vanished from the society’s headquarters a week ago only to show up last week at a Miami bar dressed like a Starr Punk?”

  “Edgar is back?” said Mr. Biedermann. He turned to his wife. “Did you know?”

  Mrs. Biedermann sighed. “I didn’t want to upset anyone even more. But yes. He doesn’t remember anything either, apparently.”

  Theo didn’t have a name for what he felt about Edgar. Relief. Rage. Sadness. Disappointment. All of the above? “That’s . . . weird,” Theo said carefully.

  “Yes. Very,” said Mrs. Biedermann. “All of this is very, very weird.”

  “Weird,” said Aunt Esther, “is relative.”

  And then there was nothing but the sound of Lancelot banging pots and pans in the kitchen, the scrape of coffee mugs on the table, the click of Aunt Esther’s knitting needles, Nine’s furious and insistent purr.

  Slant had said, “We are the treasure.” Not so different from what Grandpa Ben always said.

  Slant was so wrong about so much, but what if he was also just a little bit right?

  Their world had been torn apart, but they were still here.

  What is the city but the people?

  “It’s very, very weird,” said Tess. “But we’re safe. And we’re together.”

  “Yes, we are,” said Mrs. Biedermann, smiling, taking Tess’s hand. “We’re together.”

  They hadn’t found the treasure, not yet.

  But maybe they’d had one all along.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Jaime

  It was a long ride from Hoboken. A short walk and two different trains, the Path u
nder the Hudson and the No. 2 uptown. He wasn’t worried about the Guildmen anymore. They gave him no more attention than they gave anyone else, as long as he wasn’t littering. (He did, however, give the centipedes that cleaned the Underway cars a wider berth. Who knew when they would explode?)

  Now he was sitting in his favorite spot across from 354 W. 73rd Street, or rather, the empty lot where the building used to be. He’d gotten over the shock of it. Mostly. He’d even gotten over the shock of living in Hoboken (though he would never stop bugging his dad to find them an apartment somewhere cool, like Harlem or Seneca Village). Even Mima had adjusted, joining another bowling league, going out salsa dancing, and starting her own handyman business, which she called the Handy Woman. She was even busier than ever. Bought herself her own white van so that she could drive around and see her clients. Sometimes, Jaime went with her. He was getting pretty good with tools himself.

  “Watcha drawing, kid?” said an older man, who stopped to tie his shoe. He was wearing a brown suit that nearly matched the brown of his skin.

  “A building,” said Jaime, flipping the sketchbook so the man could see.

  “Ah, that building. They never did figure out who did it, did they? Not for sure.”

  “Nope,” said Jaime. “Not for sure.”

  The man stood up straight, mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “A shame about all those people, though. Nobody should be pushed from their homes. It’s not right.”

  “No,” said Jaime. “It isn’t.”

  “Probably going to build some kinda fancy hotel or something. Some condos with an amusement park on the roof. Some restaurant that serves tiny food that only makes you hungry.”

  “Probably,” said Jaime, smiling a little.

  “Cheer up, kid,” the man said. “Who knows? Maybe in twenty or thirty years, you’ll be the guy who owns the city and you can do whatever you want with it.”