The Van Gogh Deception

by Deron R. Hicks

  There were only two more days before everything would be concluded. Yet, despite all their efforts, the spider—​and the boy—​remained hidden. Until the boy was found, the spider destroyed, and two more days had passed, the risk of failure still existed. Palmer thrived on risks, but he hated the feeling he might fail. He had to remain diligent. They would continue their pursuit. Perhaps the spider would stay in its hole, hidden from the world forever.

  Perhaps.

  But Palmer wasn’t taking any chances.

  He had scrubbed the laptop and the cell phone for any sign of the spider but had found nothing. His team would have to be more aggressive. There was no other choice.

  Just as Palmer reached the end of the mall, a large black SUV pulled alongside the curb. Palmer glanced down at his watch. It was exactly 6:45 a.m.—​the driver was on time. Palmer opened the back door and got in. A large cup of black coffee was in the cup holder and the morning’s Post folded on the seat beside him.

  Palmer took a sip of coffee as the driver pulled away from the curb. Palmer reached over, grabbed the morning paper, and casually turned to the front page. For one of the few times in his life, Dorchek Palmer was caught off-guard.

  He quickly regained his composure. As bad as the situation appeared, there might still be some way to turn this to his advantage.

  He pulled out his phone and called his team.

  It was going to be an interesting morning.

  Chapter 6

  6:45 a.m.

  Saturday, December 16

  Sullivan residence, Washington, DC

  “Paris?” exclaimed Camille. “You’ve been to Paris?”

  Now she was really impressed.

  “Maybe you saw it in a book,” suggested Mary helpfully. Camille could tell by the tone in her mother’s voice that she doubted whether Art had ever been to Paris. Her mother had been there once on business.

  “I remember the museum,” Art said. “It was sort of weird, like a house with lots and lots of paintings. And there was a park beside the museum. It was filled with all sorts of statues. We had lunch there—​just some bread and cheese—​on a bench. I think it was in the spring because there were flowers everywhere.”

  Camille looked at her mother for confirmation.

  Mary nodded. “The painting’s at a small museum in Paris that used to be a hunting lodge. It looks more like a house than a museum. And there’s a park directly in front of the museum filled with statues.”

  “Wow,” said Camille as she turned back to the boy. “So do you remember when . . .” Camille paused in midthought. She had almost completely overlooked something Art had said. “You said ‘we’ had lunch in the park. Someone was with you, right?”

  The boy continued to stare at the mug.

  “I can’t see his face,” he said.

  “His face,” Camille said. “Who?”

  The boy shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t see his face. I can’t hear his voice.”

  Camille could hear the anxiety in the boy’s words, and it worried her. She reached over and put her hands around the mug. The simple act seemed to break the spell. The boy looked away from the breakfast table. He seemed embarrassed.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I just thought that . . . well, I thought that it might be something.”

  “It is something,” said Camille.

  “Camille’s right,” Mary said. “It’s a real memory—​part of who you are. But there’s no need to push too hard. The memories will come in time.”

  7:35 a.m.

  Saturday, December 16

  Starbucks, Washington, DC

  Dorchek Palmer turned on his computer and pulled up the files he had secured from the laptop. There were twenty-three records in total—​emails, documents, spreadsheets, presentations, photographs, and numerous other dossiers that would typically be found on anyone’s computer. He had searched the laptop thoroughly, but there had been no sign of the spider.

  Now Palmer was looking for something else in the files—​something that might lead him to the spider.

  Palmer clicked on the file labeled “Photos.” A hundred or so thumbnails popped up—​small images of buildings and people. He arranged the photographs by date and clicked on one of the most recent images. It was a picture of the Washington Monument.

  Typical tourist, Palmer thought.

  He clicked over to the next photograph. It was a picture of a blond-haired boy standing next to a tall blond-haired man, in front of the historical landmark.

  Palmer clicked on the information icon at the bottom of the photo. A small window popped up with the timestamp for the picture.

  December 12. 3:53 p.m.

  Palmer retrieved the morning paper from a side table.

  Bingo.

  With the photograph in edit mode, he carefully cropped it and then saved the file to his desktop. He then forwarded a copy of the photo to each member of his team. Palmer sat back and took a sip of coffee. With any luck, they would have the spider by this afternoon.

  Chapter 7

  8:23 a.m.

  Saturday, December 16

  Sullivan residence, Washington, DC

  “Grape or strawberry jelly?”

  “Strawberry.”

  “Wrong. Grape’s way better. Favorite movie?”

  “Star Wars, I think.” It was the first movie that popped into the boy’s head.

  “Yuck. Any of the Harry Potter movies is so much better. Favorite food?”

  The boy sat at one end of the couch, Camille at the other. Camille’s mother had decided that they would go to the National Gallery of Art at some point after lunch. She said it might help the boy remember. For the time being, however, he had to hang out with Camille while Mary finished up a couple of small projects for work.

  The show Adventure Time played on the TV in the background, but Camille did not seem interested. She had questions—​lots of them—​and she was shooting them at Art in rapid fashion.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe spaghetti?”

  “You’re just saying that ’cause we had spaghetti last night,” she said dismissively. “I think pizza’s the best, but we only have it once a month. Mom says it’s way fattening—​but I know she likes it too.”

  “Pizza’s good,” the boy replied.

  Camille rolled her eyes.

  “Favorite animal?” she asked.

  The boy paused for a moment. “I like dogs.”

  “Big dogs or little dogs?”

  “Big, I suppose.”

  “Too messy,” she said. “Cats are better. Have you been anywhere other than Paris—​like London?”

  He paused once more.

  Good question. Had he ever been to London?

  An image immediately popped into the boy’s head with startling clarity. Two men dressed in clothes from the Middle Ages standing by a table that was filled with all sorts of things—​books, two globes, a sundial. And floating in front of the men was a weird white and black image—​a hologram, almost, of a contorted and stretched skull. It was a painting—​a painting the boy had once seen in London. It was called The Ambassadors by a man named Hans Holbein the Younger, and it was almost five hundred years old. The boy remembered being fascinated by the skull. Why, he wondered now, could he remember that he had seen this bizarre painting in London, but couldn’t remember a single thing that really mattered about his life?

  “Yes,” he said. “I think I’ve been to London.”

  Camille shrugged. She was no longer impressed by his world travels.

  “Ketchup or mustard?” she asked.

  “Ketchup.”

  “Hmm, maybe. Favorite color?”

  “Red.”

  “Apples or oranges?”

  “Oranges.”

  “Wrong,” she replied. “Apples are better ’cause—”

  “Where’s your dad?” the boy blurted out. He knew that the question was probably inappropriate, but it had just occurre
d to him that he had not seen any photos of Camille’s dad—​and no mention of him either. He knew that families did not always have two parents. He wondered about his own parents—​his own family. Did he live with his parents? Maybe he lived with his grandparents, or an aunt or uncle. Did he have a brother or a sister? Did he come from a big family? He just didn’t know. It suddenly, however, seemed important to know about Camille and her family.

  “Don’t know,” said Camille nonchalantly. “I think he lives in California, but I’ve never met him.”

  “Never?”

  “Never,” replied Camille.

  “That doesn’t make you sad?”

  “Why should it?” she said. “Mom said he didn’t want kids. So it’s just been me and Mom my whole life.”

  Camille did not seem the least bit upset about the situation with her father.

  “Your mom’s great.”

  It seemed like the right thing to say, and the boy meant it.

  “Yeah,” said Camille. “I just wish we could have pizza more than once a month.”

  She paused for a moment as if deep in thought. He worried that he may have overstepped his boundaries with the questions about her dad. Finally Camille looked at him. She had a serious expression on her face.

  “Pool or beach?” she asked.

  8:53 a.m.

  Saturday, December 16

  Chinatown Coffee Co., Washington, DC

  Dorchek Palmer made his way through the front door of the narrow stone building while two members of his team assumed their positions outside the small coffee shop. He ordered an americano at the counter and then headed to a small table at the rear of the establishment. Taking a seat with his back to the wall, he placed his messenger bag on the floor next to him and waited. A little after nine o’clock, his appointment arrived. The man, perhaps thirty years older than Palmer, wore a tweed jacket and sported a large, unruly mustache. He ordered a cup of coffee and nervously made his way across the café, taking a seat at the table with Palmer.

  “Well?” the man whispered. “Have you found it?”

  “No,” Palmer replied. “Soon.”

  “Soon?” said the man incredulously. “We need results now. Do you know what could happen if the wrong person gets their hands on it?”

  Palmer nodded. “You’ll have results,” he said. “We’ve located the boy.”

  “You’ve found the boy?” the man said, a bit louder than intended. He caught himself immediately and lowered his voice. “Why didn’t you say so? Problem solved, right? Surely the boy will get us what we want?”

  Palmer reached into his messenger bag and retrieved the morning news. He opened the paper and spread it in front of him. “I take it you have not read the Post this morning?” he said beneath his breath.

  The man sneered. “I only read the Times . . .” he started to say. And that’s when he caught sight of the photograph on the front page of the Washington Post. Palmer glanced up at the man, who looked as if he’d taken a punch to the stomach.

  “The police?” the man finally said. “The police have the boy? How could you let that happen?”

  “The boy has amnesia,” Palmer assured him, casually taking a sip of his americano. “He remembers nothing.”

  “But . . . but,” the man sputtered, “what if he remembers? What if he’s faking? What if he has . . . ?”

  “We’ll have the boy soon,” Palmer said confidently. “The spider will follow.”

  “But your men lost him once,” the man said.

  “It was an unexpected turn of events,” Palmer replied. “Just like the spider.” He looked at the man over the rim of his coffee cup. It was clear Palmer had hit a nerve. Belette had been responsible for ensuring that any evidence of the spider had been destroyed. Had the man sitting across from him done his job as required, the spider would no longer exist.

  “It is what it is,” Palmer continued. “We deal with events as they exist, not as we wish them to be. I need you focused for this afternoon, not worried about what’s already happened.”

  The man nodded. “I’ll do my part.”

  “And I’ll do mine,” said Palmer.

  The man paused. Palmer could tell there was something else the man wanted—​needed—​to ask.

  “And what happens to the boy when you find him?” the man finally asked in a low voice.

  Palmer carefully folded up the newspaper and took a final sip of his americano. Before he stood to depart, he reached down to pick up his messenger bag and looked the man directly in the eyes. “There are questions, Dr. Belette, that you should not ask.”

  Chapter 8

  2:15 p.m.

  Saturday, December 16

  Sullivan residence, Washington, DC

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Leaving in five minutes,” said Mary Sullivan. “Almost ready?”

  “Almost,” the boy replied. “Be there in a minute.”

  He stood in front of the floor-length mirror in the guest bedroom and looked at himself. Blond hair, green eyes. One ear seemed to sit a little lower than the other, but nothing so obvious that anyone would notice. He needed a haircut, or—​then again—​maybe he didn’t. Maybe he liked his hair a little shaggy. There was nothing, he thought, particularly different or unusual about him. And while he recognized the face in the mirror, he couldn’t attach a name, an address, a personality, or anything else to the person he saw looking back at him. No family. No history. Nothing.

  And how did he know so much about Monet, or that painting in London? That didn’t seem normal at all. In fact, it was downright weird that a twelve-year-old kid would know so much about stuff like that.

  Shouldn’t I be freaking out? he thought.

  But he wasn’t freaking out. And that worried him. And he could tell that it also worried Mary Sullivan, although she was doing her best to hide it from him.

  He grabbed his jacket from the bed, pulled it on, and zipped up the front. It was time to go. He couldn’t stare at himself in the mirror forever.

  Mary and Camille were waiting at the front door. Camille was bundled up in a thick red ski jacket with white polka dots and a matching wool cap. The temperature had dropped below freezing overnight and still hovered just around thirty degrees. All the boy could think about was how much Camille looked like a giant strawberry.

  “All set?” Mary asked. “Is the sweater warm enough? Do you want a thicker jacket? Camille might have something you could wear.”

  The boy shook his head. Mary had given him a thick sweater and washed the rest of his clothes. He was willing to put up with a little cold weather—​he could only imagine what kind of jacket he might end up wearing if Mary pulled something out of Camille’s closet. “I’m fine.”

  She offered him a pair of gloves—​light blue with sparkles. “Camille’s extra pair,” she said apologetically.

  “No thanks,” the boy replied. He thrust his hands deep inside the pockets of his jacket. “I’ll be okay.”

  Mary laughed. “I understand,” she said with a wink. She handed him a knit cap. “You’ll need this,” she said. “It’s a bit of a walk to the Metro station, but don’t worry—​the hat is sparkle free.”

  The boy pulled the cap down onto his head, then followed Camille and her mother out the front door, down the steps, and to the narrow brick sidewalk. It was cold outside, but the air felt refreshing on his face.

  As he walked along the sidewalk, he felt objects in the pockets of his jacket. He pulled out three pennies, a wad of lint, and a paper clip from the left pocket. Deep in his right jacket pocket he found an old tissue and a small rectangular piece of black plastic. The piece of plastic had a small hole at the top and was engraved with white letters and numbers:

  WB

  WEST

  28

  He held the small collection of items from his pockets in his right hand as he walked.

  “What’s all that?” asked Camille, who was walking beside him. Her words formed little
clouds of frost as she spoke.

  “Just pocket junk,” he said. He picked out the pennies and stuck them in his pants pocket. He looked around for a trash can to toss the rest of the bits and pieces away, but there wasn’t one nearby. He stuffed it all back into a jacket pocket, figuring he could throw it away when he got to the museum.

  2:17 p.m.

  Saturday, December 16

  First District Station, Metropolitan Police Department, Washington, DC

  “My mom’s really embarrassed. This isn’t the first time he’s pulled this sort of stunt, but nothing as bad as this. Last year he just walked out of school after lunch one day and made his way over to the local movie theater. Nobody knew where he was, and everybody freaked out. We had teachers, my parents, neighbors, and the police looking for him all afternoon. Around five o’clock he called home and asked Mom to come pick him up. Claimed he had gotten food poisoning at school, passed out, and woke up in the theater. Can you imagine? Food poisoning. Nobody believed him, of course, but what could they say? Anyway, yesterday he told Mom that he was going to spend the night with one of his friends down the street—​Jack Dudley. Mom called Jack’s mom and made sure it was okay. School’s out for Christmas, so Mom didn’t care if he spent the night. Anyway, ’bout seven o’clock last night Mom called down to the Dudleys to check on him. Turns out he never showed up. Apparently he had called Mrs. Dudley and told her that he was sick and was going to stay home. Everybody freaked out again, but Mom didn’t want to call the police because of what happened last time. We went to the movie theater, the mall, Dairy Queen—​everywhere he liked to go. Spent all night looking for him.”

  The young man stopped speaking for a minute to take a sip of coffee. He wore a beat-up Baltimore Orioles baseball cap and thick black-rimmed glasses.

  “So I’m driving around this morning,” he continued, “looking for the little delinquent, when I get a text from one of my friends who had stayed in DC for the holidays—​I go to school here at George Washington. He sends me a link to an article in the Post and asks if I recognize anyone. I almost ran off the road. There was Taylor—​on the front page of the newspaper.”