Enter the Core

by Peter Lerangis

  “A very thick wool jacket that should have a sweat stain on it but doesn’t?” Alex said.

  “Exactly.” Max turned to the portrait on the wall, gesturing toward the same spot. “And what do you see there, in the same place?”

  Alex leaned closer to the painting. Over Verne’s jacket was a signature. It was in black ink against the muted browns of the jacket fabric, but both of them could read it.

  LEVI HEK

  AZZA

  “What the heck?” Alex said.

  “Levi Hek,” Max corrected her.

  “No, I mean what-the-heck, as in why is this one signed and the other one not?” Alex asked.

  Max shrugged. He noticed that Mom was staring at the portrait too now, along with a thin woman with owlish glasses and unruly silver hair pulled into a ponytail. “That,” the woman said, “is a very astute question, my dear.”

  “Who are you?” Max asked.

  The old woman looked shocked by the question, which seemed perfectly logical to Max. With a smile, his mom said, “Professor Grigson teaches nineteenth-century art and literature. She brought this lovely book. What do you think, professor? Why is one signed and the other not?”

  “Odd . . .” The woman’s eyes darted from the book to the wall. “I certainly do not recognize the name. The portrait on the book cover is the original from a museum. This one on your wall is clearly a print. So perhaps Mr. Azza is a cheeky collector—a budding graffiti artist. Ah well. You know, these chocolates . . . they appear to have been involved in an accident. . . .”

  As the two women turned away, chitchatting about random things, Max thumbed the name LEVI HEK AZZA into his phone. It probably meant nothing, but you never knew.

  Jules Verne worked in mysterious ways.

  As he typed in the last letters, Alex grabbed him by the arm. With her other arm, she flashed the face of her watch.

  3:45.

  “It’s time,” she said, “to go to jail.”

  2

  THE visitor area of the Greater Southeastern Ohio Correction Facility smelled like a locker room that hadn’t been cleaned in a week. “Fragrant,” Alex said.

  “Glad I’m not the only one who noticed,” Max replied.

  They sat on blue plastic chairs at one side of a long counter, separated from the other side by a Plexiglas barrier. Each of them wore a lanyard with a plastic ID card marked VISITOR, and Max fingered his nervously. It was greasy and frayed at the edges. A bored-looking prison guard led Gloria Bentham into the other room through a thick metal door. Gloria walked with a straight back and raised eyebrows, inspecting the room as if she owned it. Even without makeup and carefully styled hair, she projected authority. “Thank you, my dear Florence,” she said to the guard.

  “It’s Flo,” the guard grumbled.

  As Gloria sat across from Max and Alex, the guard retreated closer to the wall. She faced them with folded arms and a slight scowl, as if she had much more important things to do. “Charming place, isn’t it?” Gloria said.

  Alex took a deep breath. “First of all, Mrs. Bentham, we’re sorry.”

  To their surprise, Gloria Bentham smiled and waved the comment away. “Well, if I were you, I would have done the same thing. I . . . er, took something from you, and in your ignorance you had every reason to hate me for that. But I must defend my actions—”

  “We know we were wrong,” Alex said.

  “You were trying to protect the vials,” Max added. “You warned us about Bitsy.”

  “Yes, well, she can be a charmer,” Gloria replied with a sigh. “Look, I understand. You spent time with her. She had gained your trust. And so had that unctuous will-o’-the-wisp, Nigel.”

  “We know who she is now,” Alex said. “Spencer Niemand’s daughter. I mean, not that it means anything. Sometimes bad people have good children. But Niemand nearly killed us, so we’re not big fans.”

  “Besides, Bitsy betrayed us,” Max said.

  Gloria massaged her forehead. “Spencer wanted nothing to do with her after the divorce. I tried so hard to raise her right. Bitsy was smart, so much sweeter and more compassionate than her papa. I had hope for her. But as she became a teen, I began discovering texts, emails, notes, all to her father. Spencer was obsessed with Jules Verne’s lost treasure, and Bitsy was sucked into the excitement. She needed his attention. She wanted so badly to be on his good side.” With a sigh, she folded her arms and leaned forward. “So. Let me guess. She stole the Isis hippuris. She knew the ancient waters wouldn’t work without that precious piece of deep-sea coral.”

  “Even worse,” Max said. “She stole it plus all the vials of magic water.”

  Gloria stared at him a long moment, then threw her head back with a barking laugh. It was so loud and sudden that Flo the guard, who had fallen asleep on her feet, let out a sharp “Yeep!” and stepped closer.

  Max and Alex stared awkwardly as Gloria’s raucous burst morphed into what sounded like a sob. When she lowered her head, her eyes were moist. “I feared this would happen. Well, darlings, this puts us in a pretty predicament. Now we are on the same side, aren’t we?”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Alex said. “We were hoping you could help us figure out where she would go.”

  Gloria thought for a moment, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “The walls have big ears here. And so do the guards. We must speak quickly and quietly. I do not want to remain in this place. My hearing comes up in a few days. Is this really necessary for an innocent woman? My life would be made a lot easier if you would drop your charges.”

  “How can we trust you?” Max asked. “What if you lie to us?”

  Gloria nodded. “Fair point. I did lie to you. Lying erodes trust, and trust must be earned. But if I have information that will help you, it’s only fair to require something in return.”

  Max looked at Alex. He wanted to trust Gloria Bentham, but it was hard to think of her as one of the good guys.

  Alex held up an index finger to Gloria, then slid her chair back, pulling Max with her. “We can’t just let her go,” Max said. “What if she double-crosses us? She’s creepy. She smells like ammonia.”

  “You’re right, but she’s trapped,” Alex reminded him. “We have the upper hand. She has no incentive to lie.”

  “Unless it can get her out of jail!” Max said.

  “Exactly,” Alex said. “So we can dangle that possibility and negotiate. Leave this to me.”

  As Max nodded hesitantly, Alex rolled back to Gloria. “Mrs. Bentham,” she said.

  “Call me Gloria, please,” Gloria Bentham said, cocking her head curiously.

  “Whatever. Let’s take this one step at a time. You tell us your information first. We will take that information and see where it leads us. If it helps us get the vials back, we will drop the charges.”

  “My dear, this involves chasing and finding someone,” Gloria Bentham said. “That could take a long time.”

  Alex looked at Max. Neither knew what to say, so they both shrugged. “We’ll . . . ask for a retrial?” Alex offered. “Or something?”

  Gloria nodded sadly and lowered her head. When she lifted it again, her lips were set firmly. She gestured the cousins closer to the glass. “I suppose I deserve this. And honestly, I do not want to see Spencer get away with one more scheme. Now listen closely. My daughter is quite clever, but I don’t believe she has the gumption or the wherewithal to do much with the vials. Which leads me to believe she is trying to impress her father.”

  “I could have told you that,” Max said.

  “Do not underestimate my ex-husband,” Gloria continued. “He foresaw that Verne based novels on his real-life adventures. Spencer had maps and secret notes that had been left to Verne’s editor who died on the Titanic.”

  Alex nodded. “Pierre-Jules Pretzel.”

  “Hetzel,” Max corrected her.

  “Spencer insisted those notes were not complete,” Gloria said. “He suspected Hetzel had more information. He was obsessed
with the idea that Verne had buried secrets in other books, not only Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.”

  “He’s right about that,” Max said. “The search for the serum ingredients turned into Around the World in 80 Days.”

  Gloria nodded. “You outran him on that one. I would not be surprised if he believes that your discovery—the completed serum—is now connected to some other crazy science-fiction story.”

  “But Spencer Niemand is in Greenland!” Alex exclaimed. “Do you think Bitsy’s headed toward—?”

  Gloria Bentham silenced her with a raised hand, glancing toward Flo the guard, who was lumbering closer. “Big ears . . .” Gloria whispered.

  “OK, come on, Your Majesty,” Flo said with a big yawn, “time’s up.”

  Max stared curiously at the guard. “Her ears aren’t that big.”

  Flo stopped short. “Huh?”

  “Gloria, tell us where Bitsy’s going!” Alex hissed.

  But the guard’s hand was on Gloria’s shoulder. Standing slowly, Gloria said with a wary smile, “On your way out, buy yourselves a copy of the Savile Gazette. All proceeds are donated to prison reform.”

  “Wait!” Max cried out. “Can’t we have just another minute—”

  “Yeah—next time you visit,” Flo snapped.

  “There are some fascinating articles on the front page!” Gloria sang, as Flo ushered her through the door.

  As the door slammed shut, Max banged on the Plexiglas. “No! Wait!”

  On their side of the divider, another guard rushed toward them. Alex pulled Max away from the barrier before he could be grabbed. “Max, it’s OK,” she said. “It’s a start. We need to set up another appointment, that’s all.”

  “When? Tomorrow? We don’t have the time!” Max shook loose. Circling around the guard, he bounded out of the room.

  Alex followed him down a worn linoleum-floored corridor toward a crowded waiting room. NO SMOKING signs were posted on three walls, but the place smelled of cigarettes and sadness. As Max headed for the door, Alex held him back by the arm. “Dude, we have to officially sign out.”

  Max turned. He removed the lanyard from his neck and handed it to her. As she returned it to a clerk behind a gray metal desk, Max caught a glimpse of the newspapers for sale. He lifted a copy of the Savile Gazette and scanned all the usual boring stuff—news about taxes and store closings and meetings.

  There are some fascinating articles on the front page. That’s what Gloria Bentham had said.

  His eyes rested on a small section marked International News at the bottom left side. And he let out a squeal so loud that three sleeping people woke up.

  Alex scooted over to him. “What? Are you OK?”

  “She was trying to tell us something,” Max said.

  He turned the newspaper toward her and pointed to a small headline:

  CONVICTED AMERICAN INDUSTRIALIST EXTRADITED FROM GREENLAND TO MASSACHUSETTS PRISON

  “What the . . . ?” Alex said.

  “I think the word is ‘Bingo,’” Max replied.

  3

  BITSY knew her papa hated sweets. So it didn’t make much sense to bring him a chocolate cheesecake at the Bilgewater State Penitentiary. But she held one in her lap anyway, in a neat white box wrapped with string.

  Papa would forgive her. She was sure of that. It was the thought that counted.

  The thought of escape.

  She’d found the bakery just outside the Niemand Enterprises plant in Waltham, Massachusetts. The box was what she needed. She’d tied it with a string that was given to her inside the plant, by a young techie named Jared. At first she’d remarked the string looked flimsy. So Jared, with a goofy smile, had held it over his head with two hands like dental floss. Screaming hyeeaah, he’d brought it down hard on the solid teak arm of a designer bench. As two broken pieces crashed to the floor, split like a stick of butter, Jared proudly assured her it would work on steel. It was made of . . . carbene, carbole, something like that.

  Holding the box carefully, Bitsy stepped out of the taxi. She had phoned ahead, so it took only a few moments to get clearance at the prison gate. The guard gave her a bored smile and gestured to an old walkway. “Follow the yellow brick road,” he grumbled.

  The walkway was cracked and weed choked, leading to a tan-brick building with barred windows. Patches of parched soil flanked the path on either side. Bitsy imagined they were lawns at one time, but now the dirt looked like cracked cement, flecked by grass tendrils that emerged like the withered hands of trapped prisoners. Men with rifles peered down from the rooftop. She did not wave at them.

  Although two guards stood just inside the entrance door, she had to open it herself with her free hand. “Thanks for your help,” she murmured.

  As she walked to the reception desk, she eyed a sign on the wall behind it that announced VISITORS TO BURGWASSER SUBJECT TO SEARCH, PLEASE OPEN C AGES. That last word was supposed to be PACKAGES, but some joker had managed to scrape away the PA and the K.

  The guard rapped her knuckles on the desk. “Package. Open it.”

  Bitsy placed the box on the desk, then gestured to the sign. “Is the name really Burgwasser? Everyone refers to it as—”

  “Bilgewater. Yeah, that’s just a joke, honey,” the guard said in a thick Massachusetts accent. “You must be related to the guy with the silver hair. You talk like him.”

  Bitsy untied the box, letting the string fall to the side. As the guard looked inside, Bitsy tensed. “I . . . er, talk like my mother too. She’s also in prison, you know.”

  “Lucky you.” The guard sniffed the cake, took out a plastic knife and cut it into six slices, then ran it through an X-ray scanner. “Sorry, prison rules. You’re clear. But you’ll have to eat it with your hands, no utensils allowed. Take this directly to the first door on your right. One of the officers will accompany you.”

  She handed Bitsy the box, laying the unraveled string on top.

  Yes.

  In a moment she was escorted into a cold little room. She sat at the end of a long bench that was sagging with the weight of grim-faced visitors. Peeling walls, flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed like dentist’s drills, a plastic barrier with small windows for hand-holding and gift exchange—this was a far cry from the plush prison where Papa once spent a week for a little misunderstanding about taxes.

  She recoiled at the sight of a guard who was practically shoving her father through the prisoner entrance. The uniformed man had a face like a basset hound, a six-foot-five package of too-solid flesh clad in a mud-brown uniform. “That her?” he growled.

  Spencer Niemand’s face brightened at the sight of his daughter. “Ah, dear Bitsy, may I introduce you to Mr. Schultz? He and I were just having the most lively discussion about quantum physics.”

  “It’s Schmultz,” the guard mumbled.

  Bitsy stifled a sob in her throat. Behind Papa’s beaming smile, his face was drawn and leathery and sad. The dashing silver stripe down the center of his black hair had gone completely white, and it seemed to have widened like a worn footpath. She’d last seen him—when? a year ago?—but he appeared to be a decade older.

  As he sat, Bitsy slid the boxed cheesecake toward the closed window. The string lay piled on the top. It looked limp and harmless.

  Spencer Niemand stared at the string just a split second longer than anyone would normally do.

  He knew.

  With a yawn, Schmultz yanked open the sliding window and Bitsy pushed the box through.

  Niemand smiled. “You look well, Elizabeth,” he said.

  “Happy birthday, Papa,” Bitsy replied.

  “It’s your birthday?” Schmultz asked.

  “Don’t drool, my good man, you can have a piece too,” Niemand said. “You’ll have to eat it with your hands like a caveman, but I’m sure you won’t mind.”

  Niemand held out the box with his right hand. With his left, he carefully placed the string on his bench.

  4

 
; THE taxi driver floored the accelerator, and Max felt his face flatten like an astronaut launched into space.

  “What are you doing?” Alex shouted, looking up from her phone. “You’re going to kill us!”

  The driver yanked the steering wheel left and right, to a concert of blaring horns from each side. “In Boston,” he shouted back, “we call it driving!”

  Being rich had its advantages. After finding the treasure left by Jules Verne, Max’s and Alex’s lives had changed big time. They could buy any clothes and eat in any restaurants they wanted to. They could hire private planes and cars. But no amount of money could prevent Max from wanting to puke in the backseat of a zigzagging Lexus on the Southeast Expressway.

  “What’s your name?” Alex demanded.

  “Mario!” the driver replied.

  “Figures,” Max said.

  “Want me to slow down?” Mario asked.

  “Yes!” Alex replied.

  “No!” Max shouted.

  Time was crucial. Max gripped to the armrest, watching the GPS. The prison was only ten miles and two exits away.

  Alex clutched Max’s arm, her fingers tightening with every swerve in the traffic. “We need to get there alive,” Alex said.

  “I’ll need both my arms,” Max said. “It feels like you’re trying to detach one of them.”

  “Sorry.” Alex sat back, pocketing her phone. “I just texted my friend Rod at Harvard. He’s the smartest person I know. He once interned for Spencer Niemand. Now he wants to go into criminal law, and he says he’ll help us if we need it.”

  “So, kiddos, who are you seeing at Bilgewater?” Mario asked, as he veered around two SUVs and a silver minivan festooned with bicycles. “Mind if I ask? Anyone famous? White-collar criminal? Ponzi schemer?”

  “Burgwasser,” Max corrected him.

  “Don’t know that name. Friend of yours?” Mario asked.

  “It’s the factual name of the prison,” Max said. “Bilgewater is the nickname. Bilge is the bottom of a boat. When bilgewater collects, it gets slimy and gross. So the name is sarcastic.”

  “He likes facts,” Alex explained.