“I know what you collect!” said Van desperately. “I know about the wishes!”
The chamber had been still before. Now it was so silent, so breathless, the entire room might have been sealed inside a twinkling glass bottle.
Van realized—too late—that this was a test. And he had just passed.
Or failed.
For a long, cold, quiet minute, everyone stared at him.
“So. He knows,” said Nail, in that deep voice that seemed to draw everyone in. “He hears the Creatures. And he knows.”
There was another quiet minute. Van struggled to breathe. His lungs felt like two shriveled prunes wedged up against his thundering heart.
“Might it not be in our best interest,” Nail went on at last, “to have someone like him—someone able to be seen without being noticed—on our side?”
The Collectors looked at one another. Then they started speaking all at once, trading words that Van couldn’t catch. He shrank into the armchair, watching closely as everyone gathered around a broad wooden desk. Nail scrawled something with paper and pen. Then the crowd dispersed, and Nail glided slowly back toward the spot where Van sat.
“. . . may be wrong to trust you,” said Nail, bending down again so Van could see his sharp, stony face. “. . . up to you to show us. Prove that you are not our enemy.” His voice grew deeper. “Or we will have to treat you like one.”
“Yes,” said Van desperately. “I will. I’ll prove it.”
Of course he had no idea how he was going to prove this. But at the moment, he would have promised to do almost anything if it would get him out of this underground room full of strange, angry people.
Nail held the folded paper out to Van. “Written instructions. So there can be no misunderstanding.” He gave Van such a long, sharp look that Van suddenly knew just how it would feel to be a peeled potato. Then Nail turned to the three burly men. “Take him home.”
Jack was already at Van’s side. “Rivet. Beetle,” Van thought he heard him say. “Let’s go.”
Before Van could even begin to unfold the paper, the men had dragged him away from the firelight, through a heavy door, along a stone corridor, and back up the steep stairs to the City Collection Agency office. The flock of ravens came with them, letting out caws that sounded like the laugh someone gives when they don’t think a joke is funny at all.
Jack sat next to Van in the carriage. The other men climbed back onto the bicycles, and they all whooshed off through the twisting alleys. Jack didn’t speak. When Van ventured a glance his way, Jack was staring straight ahead, his black eyes glittering like tar paper. Beyond the carriage’s black hood, the sky was fuzzy and deep gray, torn by one jagged hole of moonlight. The ravens’ wings flashed.
The carriage whipped around a corner, and for an instant, Van thought he spotted Mr. Falborg’s grand white house, with one light glowing in an upstairs window—but then they turned again, and he was thrown back against the seat. He didn’t manage to wriggle upright again until they reached his own building.
The man with the raccoon—Beetle, Van thought—threw the rope and hook, sending it straight through Van’s open window.
Jack sprang out of the carriage. “Claw man.”
“What?” said Van.
Jack hooked one thumb toward his back. “Climb on.”
Hesitantly, Van wrapped his arms around Jack’s neck. Jack grabbed the rope and began to climb. In seconds, they were dangling above the sidewalk, Van clinging tight to Jack’s back. In a few more seconds, they had reached Van’s windowsill.
Jack leaned through the opening. Van tumbled down onto the hardwood floor of his bedroom, breathing hard and feeling like his bones had been replaced by cooked spaghetti.
“Be dead,” murmured Jack, pointing at the paper still wadded in Van’s fist. Read that.
Van nodded.
Giving Van one more glare, Jack slipped back over the sill and dropped out of sight.
Van staggered to his feet. By the time he reached the window, the three dark-coated men and their strange carriage had melted away into the dark.
Van closed and locked the window, even though this suddenly felt a little like closing a screen door to keep out a thunderstorm. He pulled the shades. He climbed into bed and yanked the blankets up to his chin. Then he reached for the switch of the bedside lamp.
The paper Nail had handed him was thick and yellowish, with ragged edges, and the writing on it was slanted and hard to read. With shaky hands, Van tipped the page sideways and leaned closer.
You have met a Collector of another kind. He may already have shown you some of his treasures, but there is one collection he keeps well hidden. You must get a close look at this collection. Learn what it contains. As proof that you have seen it, and that you are indeed on our side, bring a piece of this collection back to us. If you fail to do this, we will know that you are not an ally after all, but an enemy.
Van’s chest squeezed. With shaking hands, he refolded the note. First he tossed it to the foot of the bed, but he could still see it lying there, watching him. He slid off the mattress, grabbed the note again, and tucked it behind the black curtain at the back of the miniature stage. He placed SuperVan in front of it to stand guard.
A Collector of another kind.
There was only one person this could mean. And if ravens and pigeons and spiders and people in long dark coats had been watching Van in his own bedroom, they could certainly have been watching him as he trotted through the door of Mr. Falborg’s big white house.
There is one collection he keeps well hidden.
That dark, red-curtained room. The hidden black doors at the very back.
That unsettled feeling in the pit of Van’s stomach began to bubble up again.
But Mr. Falborg was so nice. And now Van was supposed to spy on him, to steal his secrets and give them away.
What if he didn’t want to be the Collectors’ ally? Then again, if kidnapping was what they did to someone who only might be a friend, what would they do to an enemy?
That howl from deep underground echoed in Van’s memory. What dark, hidden, horrible thing had he wandered into?
Van launched himself back across the room. He dove underneath the covers. Even with the blankets wrapped tight around him, it took a very long time before he stopped shivering, and an even longer time before he finally fell asleep.
12
Unexpected Guests
VAN spent the next day reliving that horrible night, searching the entire apartment for spying spiders, and bumping distractedly into things. His mother spent it straightening the things Van had bumped, tidying the kitchen, and singing along to music on the stereo. But Van was too preoccupied to notice this.
He was kneeling on the window seat with his forehead pressed against the glass, scanning the street for dark-coated people or lurking creatures, when there was a knock at the apartment door.
His mother hurried to answer it. She was smiling before she’d even turned the knob.
“Well, hello!” she exclaimed to Mr. Grey and Peter, who stood in the doorway with their arms full of grocery bags. “Please come in!”
Van swung his legs off the window seat.
The Greys set the bags on the kitchen counter. Mr. Grey and his mother kissed each other on the cheek. Peter stared straight ahead with his cold swimming-pool eyes.
“Shall I put the wine in the refrigerator?” Mr. Grey asked.
“That would be perfect,” said Van’s mother. “Giovanni, Charles is going to make us his famous risotto. Why don’t you and Peter go play in your room while we cook?”
Van’s chest squeezed. The stolen squirrel and the blue bottle holding Peter’s birthday wish were still hidden under his bed. Having Peter close to them seemed risky—like balancing a piranha in a fishbowl on the edge of your bathtub.
“Giovanni, did you hear me?” his mother asked.
“Yes,” said Van.
Wishing he could think of any way out of this, Va
n slid off the window seat and headed down the hall. Peter stalked right behind him.
They stepped into Van’s room. Peter slammed the door.
Van backed up to the side of the bed, shielding the treasure box with his body. He reached for his hearing aids at the same time, pressing them quickly into place. “I’ve got some games,” he said. “Or we could play Legos.”
Peter stayed near the door. His eyes veered away from Van, taking in the rest of the room. He shrugged.
“Do you want to draw?” Van offered.
“I don’t care,” said Peter. He looked past Van, at the little stage. He stepped closer.
“I didn’t know you were coming over tonight,” said Van desperately.
But Peter had already knelt down in front of the stage. He reached for the SuperVan figurine, mumbling something that sounded like, “Yeah, I dineezer.” He glanced up at Van. “What is this stuff?”
“It’s a maquette.” Van knelt beside Peter. “My father made it. He was a set designer.”
Peter snorted, twirling SuperVan’s head between his fingertips. “My dad doesn’t make anything. He just bosses other people around.”
“Well,” said Van, checking the curtain to make sure Nail’s note was entirely hidden, “I guess that’s his job. He is a director.”
Peter faced Van straight on for the first time. “Why are you defending him? Listen!” He tilted his head toward the door.
Van listened, but he couldn’t hear anything from beyond his room. “What?”
“Them. This is how it always goes.” Peter’s voice was low and intent. “It’s the same with every singer he picks to be his new girlfriend.”
“What?” said Van again. “My mom isn’t his girlfriend.”
“What do you think’s going on?” Peter hissed. “And if you say, ‘They’re just making dinner,’ I’m going to go crazy.”
“I . . .” Van trailed off.
Peter looked away. He set SuperVan back in the center of the stage.
“You said this has happened before?” Van asked, after a moment.
Peter shrugged. “Usually I just get left at home. I guess because your mom has you, he thought he’d drag me along.” He looked at Van again. “You don’t want them to be together, do you?”
Van’s thoughts streaked through the pages of an imaginary calendar. He saw himself forced to spend more and more time with Peter. He pictured moving into Peter’s stuffy house, being told to call snooty Mr. Grey “Dad.” He imagined being left alone with Peter while his mother turned her special smile on Mr. Grey, being unable to call loudly enough or move fast enough to catch her as she drifted farther and farther away.
“No,” he said.
Peter was quiet for a beat. Gently, he touched the velvet edge of the miniature curtains. “I just wish . . .”
Van smoothed the curtain so the corner of the note was out of sight. “You wish what?”
But Peter didn’t finish. He tipped his head toward the door once more. “Listen.”
Van tried. “I can’t hear anything.”
“Exactly. It’s all quiet. They’re probably kissing.”
“No they’re not.”
“Yes they are.”
“No they’re not.”
Wordlessly, Peter crept toward the door, beckoning for Van to follow him.
The two of them tiptoed down the hall and peeped around the corner into the kitchen.
Van’s mother and Mr. Grey were bowed over a cutting board, doing something with knives and herbs. Their hands were very close together, but their lips were several inches apart.
“I told you,” said Van, a little too loudly.
Their parents looked up.
Mr. Grey looked faintly annoyed.
Van’s mother gave a bright smile. “Giovanni!” she sang. “Why don’t you and Peter come and set the table? You can show him where everything is.”
Van led Peter across the kitchen to the silverware drawer. As they passed the cutting board, Van’s mother gave Van a quick kiss on top of his head. Mr. Grey ignored them both.
Van and Peter arranged the knives and forks around the little table. Music was still playing on the stereo, and Van couldn’t catch any of his mother and Mr. Grey’s murmured conversation—although he heard his mother’s bell-like laugh more than once. He snuck a look at Peter.
Peter’s shoulders were slumped. His face was blank. His eyes didn’t look icy any more. Now they just looked . . . watery. For the first time, Van felt something not quite as warm as liking, but much less cold and prickly than dislike, for Peter. Before Van could figure out exactly what it was, there was another knock at the door.
“I wonder who that could be!” sang Van’s mother. “We’re certainly not expecting anyone else!”
Van watched as she opened the door.
“Ingrid Markson?” said the deliveryman in the hallway. “Dies in fire.” He handed her a bouquet of white lilies and turned quickly away.
Dies in fire? Van’s mind scrambled the words. These are for you. That must have been what the man had said. Still, Van’s heart kept beating a little too hard.
“Another admirer, Ingrid?” said Mr. Grey.
Van’s mother laughed. “I’d be very surprised.” She pulled a little envelope out of the floral paper. “Oh, they’re from Mr. Falborg!” She smiled from Van to Mr. Grey. “You and Ivor Falborg are old friends, aren’t you, Charles? He says, ‘I’m delighted to be better acquainted with you and your robin-rescuing son.’ Isn’t that sweet? And Giovanni, he enclosed a note for you.” She handed Van a second, even tinier envelope.
Master Giovanni Markson, it read, in neat, courtly script.
Van pried open the paper flap.
My friend. Let no one else see this note. Come and see me as soon as you can. YOU ARE IN TERRIBLE DANGER.
13
More Unexpected Guests
VAN did not sleep well that night.
After taking out his hearing aids, turning on the night-light, and building a barricade of pillows, he curled up in the very center of his bed and tried to switch off his brain.
But his brain kept switching itself back on.
Mr. Falborg had to be talking about the Collectors, said his brain, in a voice that sounded a lot like the china squirrel’s. They’re why you’re in serious danger, right?
Of course, said Van. Please be quiet and let me sleep.
But what do you think it means, that you’re in danger? His brain plowed on. What are they going to do to you? Are they going to drop you into that pit? Are they going to do something worse?
I really don’t want to think about that, said Van. Please, please, please, STOP.
For a few seconds, his brain went still.
Then, when Van almost felt safe closing his eyes, it asked, Remember what Nail’s note said? That if you don’t go back to the Collectors, you’ll be their enemy? So you have to go back. But do you think it’s a trap? Are you going to tell Mr. Falborg about them? And how did Mr. Falborg know about you being in danger in the first place? Maybe he knows all about the Collectors. Maybe he knows you’re supposed to spy on him. Maybe he’s trying to trick you. Maybe you should go into hiding. Or maybe you should run away. But where would you go?
By this time, Van had sandwiched his head between two pillows and clenched his eyelids and his teeth. Of course, this didn’t do anything to shut out the voice, which was coming from inside.
What else might the Collectors be hiding? What do you think is down in that Hold? Hey. Hey, are you awake? Hey.
Van shut his eyes tighter.
Hey! Hey, Van? Hey, Minivan? Hey. Hey. Hey.
The voice in his head seemed to have changed somehow. It was higher. Quicker. And he’d never called himself “Minivan.”
“Hey. Are you awake? Are you awake yet? How about now? Hey. Hey, Van. Hey. Hey. Hey.”
Something small and slightly damp pressed against Van’s face. He shoved aside the top layer of the pillow sandwich, opened his eyes,
and found himself nose to nose with a silvery squirrel.
“Barnavelt?” Van whispered. “How did you get in here?”
“I’m a squirrel,” Barnavelt answered. Van realized that he’d been hearing the squirrel’s voice perfectly clearly, even without his hearing aids, just like he’d heard the voices of Nail’s rats. Still, he scooted back toward the head of the bed and reached for the bedside table.
“I can climb almost anything,” said the squirrel, hopping after him. “Except glass. And mirrors, which are a kind of glass. And once I fell off a telephone wire, but it was icy, so that doesn’t count. Hey, is this your bed?”
“Yes,” said Van, putting his hearing aids in place. “It’s my bed.”
“It’s nice.” Barnavelt gave an experimental hop. “Bouncy. I bet I could—hey! Are those spaceships on your sheets?”
“Barnavelt,” Van broke in, as the squirrel started bouncing again. “Are you here to spy on me? Because I haven’t had the chance yet to do what Nail said, but—”
“Spy on you?” Barnavelt stopped bouncing. “Of course not. I’m just a wish collector, not an information collector. They’re mostly spiders. I can’t sit still long enough to be a spider.”
“Then . . . why are you here?”
“Why am I here?” Barnavelt echoed. He stared around the room, his eyes going foggy. “Why am I here?”
“Did you come to warn me about something, or to get something, or—”
“Pebble!” the squirrel exploded. “Yep. That’s it. She wants you.”
“Wants me to what?”
“To talk. She’s outside.” The squirrel leaped from the bed to the windowsill, poking his nose through the opening. “See?”
Van wriggled out of bed and hurried to the window. Hunched in the shadows beside the building’s front stoop was a baggy-coated girl.
“Is this a trick?” Van whispered.
The squirrel blinked. “Is what a trick?”
“This. Getting me to come outside. Is somebody going to kidnap me again?”
“I don’t think so,” said Barnavelt. “But I may have missed that part.”
Van took another look out the window. The streetlights were on, and the glow of the moon rinsed the sidewalks, turning the pavement to silver. There was no one else in a long dark coat lurking near the doorstep—at least not as far as he could see.
The Collectors Page 8