Art opened the pack wide. “Nothing,” he said. The disappointment was obvious in his voice.
“Check the front pocket,” she said. “I always throw all sorts of junk into the front pocket of my backpack.”
Art opened the front pouch and turned the backpack upside down. The contents of the pocket spilled out onto the bench.
“Holy cow!” Camille exclaimed. Sitting on top of the pile of stuff that had fallen from the backpack was a small wad of bills. Camille picked up the bills and counted them.
“This is more than four hundred dollars,” she said. “You’re friggin’ rich.”
“I’m not rich,” replied Art. Then again, it occurred to him, he might be. It wasn’t as if he actually remembered if he was rich or not.
“What else is there?” he asked in an attempt to distract Camille from her obsession with the money.
“A pencil,” she said. “Worthless.” She pushed it to the side.
She held up a small crumpled piece of paper, which she then folded flat on the bench. “A receipt,” she said, looking closely to read it. “From some coffeehouse. Worthless.”
She turned back to the pile and sorted out several tissues, some coins, a rubber band, a couple of empty candy wrappers, and a stick of gum still wrapped in its shiny silver foil. Only two items remained—a brass key and a small piece of white plastic, about the size of a credit card.
Camille held up the key. The bow—the round part that is used to turn the key—was painted a deep blue with the number 10 engraved in black. “Ring any bells?” she asked.
Art took the key and carefully examined it. “No. Nothing.”
He handed the key back to Camille—she had become the curator of the backpack junk. She dropped the key back into the pile.
Art picked up the piece of white plastic and turned it over in his hand.
“Look,” he said. On the reverse side of the plastic was a series of numbers: 01284267931248.
“What is that?” Camille asked.
“No idea,” the boy replied. “Maybe your mom will know.” He stuck the white plastic card back in the pile with the rest of the stuff that had fallen out of the front pocket.
“Is that it?” asked Camille. “Nothing else?” The disappointment was now evident in her voice.
“I think so,” Art said. He picked up the backpack and examined it. The front pocket was empty, as was the main part of the backpack. He shook the backpack just to make sure. As he did, something shifted around inside the bag.
“Did you hear that?” asked Camille. “There’s something still in there.”
Camille was right—something else was in the pack. But where?
Art ran his hand deep inside the bag and felt around.
Nothing. The backpack appeared to be completely empty.
The boy shook the bag again. Something was definitely shifting around inside.
Art ran his hand down inside the pack once more. This time he found a loose seam—the interior lining of the backpack had separated from the padded back of the bag. Art put his hand inside the lining. He felt something smooth and pulled it out. It was a small leather journal.
The cover of the journal was dark brown, dry and cracking along the spine and covered with scuff marks and scratches. Art opened it and thumbed through the pages, which were yellowed with age and covered with fine cursive script and small drawings. One of the pages was tabbed with a small yellow Post-it note—clearly a recent addition. Art opened the journal to that page.
On the top half of the page were two small drawings, both contained within rectangles. On the left was a drawing of a young girl holding some sort of basket in her lap. The girl wore a scarf around her head and stared directly out at the viewer with dark eyes. Beneath the image of the girl was the word “recto.” To the right of the image of the young girl was another rectangle—identical in size and shape to the one on the left—with the word “verso” directly beneath it. This rectangle was blank with one exception—in the upper right-hand corner was a strange, almost abstract shape. It looked as if someone had dropped a bit of ink on the page and it had splattered in all directions.
Camille pointed to the words beneath the drawings—the same fine cursive handwriting as the rest of the journal.
Alfred Guillou
Une Jeune Fille Avec Un Panier
Peinture à l’huile
1882
Nombre 76-13425
36 cm x 48 cm
Acheté en Belgique (Martin—1967)—reportez-vous à déposer
Condition: bon
Verso: lourde tache d’humidité dans la forme d’araignée
“That’s French, right?” asked Camille. “It looks French, but it’s so hard to tell in cursive. Everything looks French in cursive, don’t you think? I took a French class at school last year, so I know some words—où est la vache? Pretty good, huh?”
Art nodded. If he ever needed to locate a vache—a cow—he knew whom to ask.
Camille stared at the boy as his eyes ran down the page. “You can read French, can’t you?” she said. “I mean, really read it?”
He immediately knew she was right—he could read French. Two minutes ago the thought would never have occurred to him that he could speak any language other than English. But here he was, reading the words in the journal. And it scared him how easy it was. He wasn’t just translating the words in his head—he was actually thinking in French.
“So what is this?” the girl asked.
“It’s some sort of handwritten inventory,” Art said. “Like something an art collector or an art dealer might use.”
Camille pointed to the picture of the girl. “So that’s a drawing of a painting?” she asked.
“I think so,” Art replied. He pointed to the words beneath the image. “The artist’s name is Guillou.”
“Never heard of him,” said Camille.
“Me neither,” said Art. He felt as if he was admitting defeat.
“And what’s that mess on the right?” she asked.
“The verso,” he replied. “It means ‘reverse.’ That’s the back of the painting.”
“Why would someone want a drawing of the back of a painting?” Camille asked.
“Lots of reasons,” replied Art. “Sometimes artists signed or dated their paintings on the back, not the front. Or maybe someone wants to know if a painting has been damaged or repaired. There could be patches on the back of a painting on canvas, or braces on the back of a painting on wood. The back of a painting can tell you a lot about its history.”
“So what’s on the back of this one?” she asked.
“It’s a water stain,” replied Art. “The text says it’s in the shape of an araignée.”
“A what?” Camille asked.
“Araignée,” Art repeated in a perfect French accent.
He paused briefly. “In French, it means ‘spider.’”
Roper.
Sometimes referred to as the “outside man.”
It’s a slang term from a rather unique profession—the world of con men.
The roper’s job is simple—gain the victims’ trust.
Get them to trust you, and then rope them in.
The decision to use the term had been Palmer’s idea. Palmer thought it was cool. He said it sounded retro, like something out of Ocean’s Eleven.
Winston Lantham, a member of Palmer’s team, had initially despised the term.
They weren’t con artists, Lantham had insisted. They were professionals—well-trained, well-educated people who took pride in their work.
But Palmer had insisted. It was a perfect description for the role—embrace it, he told them.
And so the word had become part of the team’s lexicon—one of the unique words that defined their unique jobs.
Over time the term had grown on Lantham. And it turned out that Palmer was right—it was a perfect description.
Ever
ything was now in place. Lantham had left Gleb Bazanov, another member of Palmer’s team, set up outside with their SUV. The trap was set. Now it was time for Lantham to do his job.
He straightened his tie and prepared to rope ’em in.
Art meticulously repacked the backpack. He made sure to put the journal back where he had found it—carefully hidden in the lining.
He knew he was making progress in discovering who he was, but it was frustratingly slow. He felt as though there were a dam somewhere in his brain holding back the memories. Every now and then a drop would pop over the dam—a faint afterimage of who he used to be. It was just enough to remind him that another Art—a boy he still didn’t know—used to occupy his space.
Camille’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“I think that man’s staring at us,” she whispered.
Art zipped up the front of his backpack. “What man?” he asked, looking around.
“At the entrance,” Camille said under her breath. “The tall guy wearing a tie. Look, but don’t look like you’re looking.”
Art nonchalantly glanced from one side of the entrance hall to the other. He spotted the man instantly. He was tall and thin—dressed neatly in a dark coat and blue tie. He stood out from the small crowd of tourists preparing to leave the museum. And as Camille had noted, he was staring directly at them as he spoke into a cell phone. Art looked down at his backpack and pretended to adjust the straps.
“Let’s just head back to the café,” Art said. “When I say go, just follow me.”
“Too late,” Camille responded. “He’s—”
Art looked up. The tall man was now standing directly in front of them.
“Are you Camille Sullivan?” the man asked, addressing the girl.
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” she replied curtly.
The man smiled. “Of course you aren’t,” he said. “And you probably weren’t supposed to leave the café without your mother’s permission either, were you? You had her scared to death.”
“Well, I-I . . .” Camille stammered as her faced turned as red as her hair. “She told me to . . . keep an eye on him.” She pointed at Art.
“It’s okay,” the man said. He removed his wallet from his coat pocket and showed them a badge. “I’m Detective Wasberger of the Metropolitan Police. I believe we may have solved the mystery of your friend here.”
“Me?” said Art. “You know who I am?”
“I’m not supposed to discuss that,” said the man. “Detective Evans thinks it would be best if she had the conversation with you back at the station. She’s afraid you might . . .”
“Freak out?” said Art.
The detective nodded. “Yeah, she’s worried you might freak out. All I can say,” continued the detective, “is that there’s a very worried set of parents who lost track of you at Union Station yesterday afternoon.”
“The train station!” exclaimed Camille. “C’mon, you have to give us something more than that. Is he from around here? Or maybe New Mexico? Or Idaho? He speaks French—did you know that? Maybe he’s Canadian? Or maybe he’s French and speaks English really well.”
“Not my place to say,” replied the detective. “But I imagine you’ll find out soon enough.” He pointed to the exit. “We have a car outside,” he said. “Your mother’s probably already waiting for us.”
Camille looked up in alarm. “Is she mad?” she asked. “You know, for leaving the café?”
The detective shrugged. “She’s your mom,” he said. “Do you think she’s mad?”
“Dang,” said Camille. “I bet I don’t get pizza for an entire year.”
The detective laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll tell her you were just doing your job and keeping an eye on your friend. Maybe that will help.”
Camille stood up and headed toward the exit. “Trust me,” she said. “I will still be in trouble.”
Art stood up and threw the backpack over his shoulder. “I got lost at the train station?” he asked.
The detective nodded. “I suspect you gave your parents quite the scare,” he said.
The boy started walking toward the exit and then paused.
My parents? he thought.
“Something wrong?” asked the detective, who was now several steps ahead of the boy.
Art had no memory of the people he was about to meet—his parents. He didn’t know their names, what they looked like, or how they acted. Were they kind like Mary? Were they tall or short? What did they do for a living? Was his father bald, or did he have a head full of hair? Did Art look like his mom or his dad? He could feel the memories pounding against the dam in his head—all the answers, just sitting there somewhere. But the dam holding back those memories held firm. It was all very confusing—and scary. The sudden rush of information made the boy anxious and worried. He felt lightheaded.
Art took a deep breath. He needed to be tough.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said to the detective as he hitched up his backpack and continued to the exit.
Camille stood on the granite stoop just outside the tall glass doors of the west entrance to the museum and waited for Art and the detective to catch up. It was turning dark, and the street lamps in front of the museum were illuminated. Halos of icy mist hovered around each light.
“There’s the car,” the detective said. He pointed toward a large black SUV parked at the far side of the curving driveway that ran in front of the museum entrance. “Let’s head on over before we freeze to death.”
As they made their way over to the car, a massive man with short-cropped brown hair stepped out of the driver’s side and opened the rear door. He wore a pair of incredibly thick round glasses that seemed to sit directly on his eyeballs. He stared at them with a blank expression on his face.
“That’s Officer Smith,” said Detective Wasberger. Officer Smith nodded at Art and Camille and made an ill-fated attempt at what might have been described as a smile.
Camille stopped and peered inside the back of the car.
“Where’s my mom?” she asked.
“I’m sure she’ll be here any minute,” said Detective Wasberger. “Go ahead and grab a seat. It’s warm inside.”
Camille hesitated. “Maybe I should wait for my mom back in the museum,” she said. She glanced at the big man holding the door open for her. She didn’t think he looked much like a police officer.
“Your mom will be here any minute,” the detective repeated. “Security went to find her. Just go ahead and get in the car.”
Something was wrong.
Art glanced over at Camille on the sidewalk and could see that she sensed danger as well. He looked around for a way out, somewhere to run, but he knew that they were trapped. In the quickening darkness, they were little more than shadows—virtually invisible to anyone who might pass by on foot. Art knew that the sound of the traffic—passing just a few feet from where they stood—would instantly muffle any effort to cry out for help.
Art took Camille by the hand. He wanted to kick himself for following the detective out of the museum. He promised himself that if he was able to get out of this mess, he wouldn’t trust anyone until his memories had returned.
“What do you want?” he demanded of the so-called detective.
The man smiled. “Just be a good boy and get in the car,” he said. The tone of his voice did not match his smile.
Art stood firm. Trust no one, he had decided. “No,” he replied steadily.
The detective stepped in closer. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a rectangular black object—about the size of a smartphone. It had two silver electrodes protruding from one end. Art recognized it immediately—it was a stun gun.
The man’s smile was now gone.
“Get in the car,” he said firmly.
“Art?” asked Camille. “What is that thing?” Her voice was shaky.
“What do you want?” Art repeated. He positi
oned himself between Camille and the man with the stun gun. The boy held the girl’s hand tightly behind his back.
The man pushed a button on the side of the small device. A blue pulse of electricity raced back and forth from one electrode to the other.
Art could hear Camille gasp behind him.
“You’re going to help us find something,” the man said. “And I’m running out of patience.”
Art could feel Camille tighten her grip on his hand. He had no doubt the man would use the device to get what he wanted. The kids had no choice but to get in the car.
Chapter 19
6:00 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
West Building, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
Mary Sullivan and the security guard checked every inch of the gift shop.
There was no sign of Camille or the boy.
“Maybe they headed somewhere else,” suggested the security guard. “Kids get distracted and wander off.”
Mary stood in the middle of an aisle and looked around. She knew that the security guard was trying to be helpful, but something was wrong. This was not like Camille.
“Can you go ahead and alert the security guards at the exits?” she asked. Her voice was calm. Her heart was no longer pounding in her chest. She needed to be focused. She needed to find her child.
“Of course,” replied the security guard. “And don’t worry—we always find them.”
Mary nodded politely but was not the least bit assured.
6:02 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
Downtown streets, Washington, DC
New car smell.
It was the first thought that went through Art’s mind as he slid across the back seat of the SUV. They were being kidnapped in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world, and as strange as it may have seemed, the smell of the car was the first thing the boy had noticed.
Camille followed him into the SUV and settled in next to him. The door shut behind them, and the lock clicked loudly into place. Art tried the handle, but he knew the door wouldn’t open.
The Van Gogh Deception Page 9