Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Follow the Codes . . .
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part 2
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Part 3
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Author’s Note
Middle Grade Mania!
About the Author
Connect with HMH on Social Media
Footnotes
Follow the Codes . . .
Join Art and Camille in viewing famous paintings—all portals to Art’s memory and identity—with the interactive QR codes feature you’ll discover in these pages.
Each QR code image in this ebook contains a link that will take you directly to each painting—all you have to do is click on the image of the QR code. If you’re reading this ebook on a device that is not Internet enabled, you will need an Internet-enabled smartphone or tablet that has a QR reader app. If you don’t have a QR reader app on your device, ask a parent or guardian to download a free QR reader from the app store. Once you have downloaded the app, simply open it and hover the device over the QR code, which looks like this:
The art will appear in your browser.
If you don’t have access to a smartphone or tablet, be sure to visit www.nga.gov to view many of the paintings mentioned in this book. Happy sleuthing!
Copyright © 2017 by Deron Hicks
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
www.hmhco.com
Cover art © 2017 by Antonio Javier Caparo
Cover design by Whitney Leader-Picone
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Hicks, Deron R., author.
Title: The Van Gogh deception / Deron R. Hicks.
Description: Boston ; NewYork : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2017] | Summary: “When a young boy is discovered in Washington, DC’s National Gallery of Art without any recollection of who he is, he must piece together the disjointed clues of his origins while using his limited knowledge to stop one of the greatest art frauds ever attempted.” —Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016010019 | ISBN 9780544759275 (hardback)
Subjects: | CYAC: Mystery and detective stories. | National Gallery of Art (U.S.)—Fiction. | Art—Forgeries—Fiction. | Identity—Fiction. | Memory—Fiction. | Washington (D.C.)—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Mysteries & Detective Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION / Art & Architecture. | JUVENILE FICTION / Action & Adventure / General. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Friendship.
Classification: LCC PZ7.H531615 Van 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016010019
eISBN 978-1-328-69888-9
v1.0817
To my parents, for all their love and support.
To my wife Angela, for her persistence and patience.
To my children Meg and Parker, because they inspire me every day.
Prologue
The boy appeared out of nowhere.
He could see the boy’s reflection in the protective glass that surrounded the small sculpture. The boy was blond—his hair a bit unruly, but otherwise normal-looking. He wore a blue jacket and sneakers.
He tried not to stare directly at the boy—it seemed rude, under the circumstances. Nobody likes to be stared at, particularly by a stranger. So he watched from the corner of his eye as the boy glanced around the room.
Maybe the boy was looking for someone? Perhaps his parents?
The room was filled with famous paintings and sculptures. The boy, however, didn’t seem to notice. The crowd swirled about the room, but the boy just sat on the bench, his hands in his lap and a blank expression on his face.
It was hard to say how long he sat there watching the boy—he wasn’t wearing a watch, and there wasn’t a clock in the room. It was strange: time seemed to stand still. Had he been there an hour? Two hours? Longer?
No one seemed to notice the boy—no one but him. Everyone else just passed through the room as if the boy didn’t exist, or was invisible.
He worried about the boy. He seemed lost.
Who was he?
Why was he here?
Rude or not, he couldn’t help but stare.
He glanced down briefly at his own blue jacket and his own sneakers. Odd, he thought—so much like the boy in the reflection.
He looked back up at the boy. He wanted to speak. He wanted to tell the boy that everything would be all right. But he couldn’t find the words. The boy simply stared back at him.
He felt powerless to help.
And so he waited—hoping someone might come along and help the lost boy sitting on the bench.
Part 1
“We must make an effort like the lost, like the desperate.”
—letter from Vincent van Gogh to his brother Theo, 2 April 1881
Chapter 1
8:53 p.m.
A few years ago
Locronan, France
For almost three hundred years, the simple stone structures on the outskirts of the small French village of Locronan had served as home to a family of farmers. The largest barn, constructed of thick blocks of local granite, had once housed the family’s small collection of livestock but no longer served that purpose. Victor Baudin was no farmer and had converted the family barn to suit his unique profession. The well-worn stone pavers, the plastered walls, the thick wood beams, and the faint smell of hay and manure remained. However, bright fluorescent lights, modern windows, and a new central heating and air-conditioning system—with silver vents slithering around the ceiling of the former barn—made it clear that this was no longer a home to poultry, cows, and goats.
Along one long wall ran several shelves. One shelf—stretching up to the full height of the ceiling—was lined with dark bottles of boiled oil, vinegar, bleach, gallotannic acid, ink of cuttlefish, hydrochloric acid, elemental mercury, and rainwater. The next shelf was filled with tins. A crisp white label identified the contents of each: carbonate of lead, zinc oxide, sulfide of mercury, ground mollusk shells, hydrate of iron, flaxseed, realgar, dragon’s blood, powdered mummy, and lapis lazuli.
A large industrial o
ven sat at the far end of the room between two wide wooden drying racks, and a long metal table ran down the middle of the former barn. The stark industrial appearance of the oven and the table contrasted sharply with the rough stone structure in which they were housed. Bunsen burners, microscopes, beakers of every conceivable size and shape, a condenser, a mortar and pestle, clamps, and tubing had been shoved to one side of the table. Beneath the table were rows of tall wooden boxes with handwritten labels such as “filbert,” “hake,” “badger,” “mottler,” “mongoose,” and “cat’s tongue.” The other half of the table was empty except for one item—Baudin’s greatest creation.
Victor Baudin had often joked to himself that in another day and age the room would have been perfectly suited for the work of an alchemist or a sorcerer. While there was far more science than witchcraft in his efforts, the room did not lack in its share of wizardry.
Baudin turned to the table to examine his masterpiece once more. As always, there was an odd combination of pride, relief, and sadness when he finished a project. His client—a man he had never met and whose name had never been offered or asked for—had been remarkably patient. Three years, Baudin had explained. Even with modern technology there were certain methods—ancient techniques—that could not be rushed or duplicated. The client had accepted Baudin’s terms, paid the bills in cash as they came due, and waited for the news that the job was finished. And now it was, and as close to perfect as it could be. The client would be pleased.
The knock on the barn door startled the old man out of his reverie. He quickly covered his work with a light cotton cloth.
Presentation mattered.
“Un moment,” he yelled as he made his way across the room.
He drew back a creaky iron bolt and pulled open the heavy oak door. A short, balding man with a bushy mustache stood outside. The cold winter wind whipped through the open door.
“Come in, come in,” said Baudin. “Il fait froid.”
The man stepped inside. Baudin bolted the door back in place and turned to greet his visitor.
“Your work is finished?” the balding man asked. Although the visitor tried to hide it, Baudin could hear the excitement in the man’s voice.
“Yes,” replied the old man. “Your client will be pleased.”
Baudin pointed to the far end of the room. “Suivez-moi,” he said. Follow me.
The men made their way across the room to the far end of the metal table.
“Gracier les dramatics,” said Baudin as he took hold of one corner of the cloth that covered his creation. “I thought it deserved a proper introduction.”
The balding man smiled and nodded approvingly. “Of course.”
The old man removed the cloth with a flourish and stepped aside. The balding man gasped, then quickly regained his composure. He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his coat pocket and bent over Baudin’s creation. He spent several minutes examining the front and then turned it on its side. He ran his finger across the back of the creation. He held his index finger up for the old man to see.
“Dust,” the balding man said appreciatively.
Baudin nodded. “Les détails sont importants,” he replied. The details are important.
The balding man laid the creation back down and bent over it once more. For several minutes he said nothing. Finally, he turned back to the old man.
“Fingernail?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Baudin.
The balding man ran the edge of his nail on his right index finger across a small corner of the creation. He bent over and examined the area. His fingernail had not left a mark or impression.
The balding man stood up, put his reading glasses back in his pocket, and turned to the old man.
“The materials conform?” he asked. “No substitutes? Everything’s authentic?”
“As your client required,” said Baudin.
“The paperwork?”
Baudin retrieved a large folder from a side table and presented it to the balding man. The balding man quickly thumbed through the folder.
“Everything appears to be in order,” he said.
Baudin opened the oven. Heat blasted into the room. The balding man placed the folder on one of the racks and closed the door. The men stood silently and watched. Within seconds the paper had burst into flames. Two minutes later only ashes remained.
The balding man turned to Baudin. “And the others?” he asked.
Baudin pointed to the drying racks, which were stacked high with more creations. “On schedule,” he said.
The balding man nodded and turned back to the table. “It is truly a masterpiece,” he said appreciatively.
Baudin smiled. It was a masterpiece. The alchemist had indeed turned lead into gold.
Chapter 2
10:37 p.m.
Thursday, December 14
Parking garage, Washington, DC
He had done everything he could.
The tall middle-aged man took one last glance at his phone. Cell service was almost nonexistent in the below-ground parking garage, but he still checked. The phone confirmed what he already knew: NO SERVICE, the small letters read at the top left corner of the screen. The phone and the information it contained were now a liability. He scrolled through the phone’s settings and found the Reset button. Within seconds everything he had ever saved on his phone—contacts, emails, photographs . . . everything—was gone. The man slipped the phone back into his coat pocket.
There were only two cars in the massive concrete space: his small rental and a large black SUV parked in front of the only vehicle exit. It would take far more than wishful thinking for his small car to have any chance of pushing that behemoth out of the way. Good thing leaving in the car was not part of the man’s plan.
He glanced across the parking garage at the door leading to the elevators. A large man wearing a black winter coat now blocked the entrance.
There was only one other way out of the garage—a service door leading back into the building. Getting there was the problem. The parking garage was L shaped. The man would have to make it to a concrete pillar fifty or so feet away, turn right around the corner, and then it was another hundred feet to the service entrance. In his youth, he might have had a chance. But not now. There was no way he could make it to the door before he was caught. But making it to the door wasn’t the point. He just needed to buy a little time. He adjusted the satchel on his shoulder.
The rear door of the SUV opened and a man stepped out.
“Just hand it over,” the newcomer yelled across the garage, “and you’ll be free to go.” His voice echoed across the empty concrete space.
The middle-aged man wanted to laugh. There was no way he would ever be allowed to go free. He’d be lucky to make it through the rest of the night alive. But he didn’t panic. There was too much at stake. He backed up against the trunk of his rental car and took a deep breath. It was time.
He knocked once—ever so lightly—on the back of the car. He then took his satchel in his hand and started walking as quickly as he could toward the large concrete pillar. All he needed to do was make it to the pillar and around the corner by the count of twenty.
1, 2, 3, 4, he slowly counted to himself as he walked.
“Don’t make this difficult!” the man standing by the SUV yelled.
He ignored the man and continued to walk. He was almost halfway to the pillar.
5, 6, 7, 8, 9 . . .
The man in the black coat, who’d been stationed at the elevators, started walking toward him.
10, 11, 12, 13 . . .
Twenty feet to go.
The SUV revved its engine in the distance behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The vehicle was now moving swiftly across the garage to intercept him. He started sprinting.
14, 15, 16, 17 . . .
Three more seconds. He had to make it around the corner in three more seconds or none of this would matter. He could hear footste
ps behind him. The man in the black coat was closing the distance faster than expected. The middle-aged man needed to pick up the pace.
18 . . .
19 . . .
He could hear the footsteps getting closer.
. . . 20!
He made it to the concrete pillar, pivoted to his right, and headed toward the service entrance. Time was now on his side, but every additional second mattered.
He could hear the man’s footsteps almost directly behind him now. He whipped around and threw his heavy leather satchel at his pursuer’s feet. He had intended merely to use it as a distraction—to gain a little more time and a little more distance—but the satchel hit the man flush on his right shin and sent him cursing and sprawling to the concrete.
Maybe, the middle-aged man thought, he could actually make it to the service door. Once inside, he could contact the police. Maybe everything would work out.
BAM.
A gunshot followed by an explosion of concrete brought him back to reality. The bullet has missed him by mere inches, but shards of concrete had slashed across his neck above his collar. He could feel warm blood flowing down his back. He stopped and looked to his left. The man from the SUV was now standing less than thirty feet away and pointing a gun directly at him. He seemed incredibly young.
“No more games,” the man said.
The middle-aged man knew there was no sense in continuing to run. He dropped his arms to his side and leaned back against the wall.
“Where is it?” the young man demanded.
The middle-aged man took a deep breath. “Where is what?”
The young man smiled. “I know why you came here tonight.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
The young man sighed. “Very well, we’ll do this the hard way.”
The young man motioned toward the man in the black coat—the same man who had been knocked to the ground with the satchel, who was now getting to his feet.
“Take care of him,” the young man said.
The Van Gogh Deception Page 1