Camille couldn’t move—the driver had a vicelike grip on her wrist and had leaned the entire weight of his torso against her. She could feel his chest rising up and down. Her face was still planted firmly in his armpit, and she could barely breathe.
“Let’s go!” shouted Art from outside the car. The girl tried to respond, but her words came out muffled.
“Get off me!” the driver barked at the detective. “The boy’s getting away!”
Camille heard a groan from the front seat. “What . . . happened?” a groggy voice asked.
“Let’s go!” Art shouted again.
There was only one thing Camille could do in her position.
The girl opened her mouth as wide as she could and bit down hard on the man’s armpit.
The driver howled in pain. He instantly released his grip on Camille’s wrist. She pulled her arm free, slid across the back seat, and was out the door before the driver could react. Art took Camille by the hand, and they started running.
Chapter 22
6:25 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
Downtown streets, Washington, DC
He was too late.
Eric McClain was just getting out of his car when the boy and the girl sprinted away from the wreck. He tried to catch up with them, but he was quickly swallowed up in the gathering crowd. He made it through just in time to see the kids disappear around the corner at the end of the block. He thought about chasing them farther, but they had too much of a head start.
McClain knew he needed to act fast, but he also needed help. He made his way to the opposite side of the street to get away from the crowd and placed a call to the two other team members. Luck was on his side—the two had left the museum together but had been delayed in traffic. They were already headed in McClain’s direction and would be circling the block within minutes.
“Put in your earpieces,” McClain told them before he ended the call. From this point forward all communications would take place using the two-way radio earpiece communicators.
But there was one more call McClain needed to make.
To Palmer.
Art and Camille moved quickly away from the accident scene. As soon as they broke free from the crowd, they sprinted toward the end of the block. They made it around the corner at F Street before stopping along an iron railing. An oval sign on the railing read HOTEL MONACO: WASHINGTON. To their left, just down the sidewalk and less than a hundred feet away, was the entrance to the hotel. It occurred to Art that the car had actually crashed into the side of the hotel, which took up the entire city block. He glanced back down at the entrance to the hotel and saw the parking valets—two young men dressed in matching burgundy outfits—sprinting down the sidewalk directly at Art and Camille. The valets were followed close behind by a portly limousine driver, who seemed to be struggling to keep up the pace. Art’s heart jumped in his chest, and he gripped Camille’s hand tightly as he prepared to run.
“They’re not after us,” Camille said calmly. “They’re checking on the accident.”
She was right.
The valets sprinted past them without a word.
“Evening,” the limousine driver gasped as he trundled past the kids.
Art took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He needed to get his bearings. The smoky chemical smell of the air bags still lingered in his nostrils.
The boy looked around. Directly across the street was yet another massive stone building with tall columns. Washington, DC, was filled with structures like that. Large letters on the front identified the building as the National Portrait Gallery. On the far corner of the intersection was a large modern structure covered with glass—a sharp contrast to its stone counterpart across the street. To Art’s right, farther down F Street, was a large ornate gold clock that jutted from the side of an old building. The clock read 6:29.
Traffic continued to flow by at a steady pace, but the sidewalks were relatively empty. The sights and sounds of the wreck had drawn in most of the bystanders for a curious and perhaps morbid peek. Art exhaled for what seemed like the first time in forever.
“Are you okay?” he asked Camille.
She nodded. “Are you?”
The boy could hear the sirens in the distance. The police would be there any minute. His shoulder ached from the wreck, and he felt as if he had just run a marathon.
“I’m fine,” he replied.
A million different thoughts raced through his head. What did those men want? Where had they been taking him? Was there anyone he could trust? Art tried to push back against the flood of thoughts rushing through his brain, but the tactic wasn’t working. He felt as if his head were about to explode.
And that’s when Camille started laughing. Everything in his head came to a screeching halt.
Laughing?
“What’s so funny?” Art asked. Didn’t she understand how serious this situation had become?
Camille continued to laugh. “You . . . with . . . a . . . can of Coke,” she finally managed to gasp. “That . . . was . . . hilarious.”
“Listen,” said Art, “this is a very dangerous—”
“A Coke!” Camille exclaimed, and then doubled over in laughter once more. “How’d you think of that?”
“We don’t have time . . .” Art started to say—and then he paused. A slight smile crossed his face. It was ridiculous, he realized. The fact that it had actually worked made it even more so.
Art smiled wider. “How did the driver taste?”
“Terrible,” Camille said. “Like old socks.”
The phone call had gone just as Eric McClain had expected. Palmer had exploded when he learned that the boy had gotten away—again. But Palmer was Palmer—and after threatening to fire the entire team, he calmed down and formulated a plan. Palmer instructed McClain to stay and keep an eye on the accident scene in case the boy returned. The other team members would start searching for the boy and the girl. They couldn’t have gotten far—it was dark, starting to snow, and turning colder by the minute. Palmer figured the kids would probably try to make contact with the girl’s mother or the police. Palmer would monitor the mother’s phone and police communications. If the two called for help, the team would intercept before anyone arrived. There was still no indication that the boy knew who he was or why they were after him. But Palmer’s luck wouldn’t hold out forever.
“Find them,” Palmer had said to his search party. “Do whatever you have to do.”
McClain could hear the police sirens getting closer. He was staying near the accident scene, just as Palmer had told him to do. If the boy showed up again, McClain needed to be in a position to seize him. But from his vantage point in the middle of the block, McClain had a limited view of the surrounding area.
He pulled his coat tight and headed up the sidewalk.
“Now what?” asked Camille. “Wait for the police and let ’em know what happened?”
“No,” replied Art.
“No?”
“We can’t trust anyone,” he said.
“What does that mean?” asked Camille.
“It means that someone who claimed to be a detective just kidnapped us. He had a badge—didn’t you see it? How do we know he wasn’t a real detective? What if we walk back around that corner and get stuffed into another car? I don’t know who I can trust, and I’m not taking any chances.”
“You can trust my mom,” said Camille. “We can use the phone at the hotel to call her.”
“I trust your mom,” said Art. “And I trust you. But that isn’t the problem. Somehow the two guys in the car knew I was at the museum. Think about it—the detective said that you had left the café without telling your mom. How could he have known that? How long have they been watching us? How many of them are there? I’ll bet anything that they know where you and your mom live. They might even have followed us from your house, or tapped your phone, or both. You can’t call your mom while I’m around.”
The boy paused.
“Besides,” he finally said, “I’ve got something I need to do.”
“What?” asked Camille.
Art held out his backpack. “I now have a bunch of clues,” he said. “And I’m going to find out who I am and why those guys are after me.”
Chapter 23
6:32 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
Downtown streets, Washington, DC
“Clues?” asked Camille incredulously. “What are you talking about? Your backpack was full of a bunch of junk.”
“The receipt from the coffee shop,” said Art. “That’s a clue.”
“The receipt?” replied Camille. “That’s your big clue? You had a croissant and a hot chocolate. Mystery solved.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Art asked.
“Get what? It’s just a piece of paper.”
“Do you ever go out for breakfast?” he asked. “Just you and your mom?”
“Sure,” replied Camille. “Almost every Sunday morning, we go to this little restaurant right down . . .”
Camille paused. A smile crossed her face.
“Every Sunday morning,” she began again, “we walk to the same little restaurant. It’s right down the street from our house.”
“Exactly,” said Art. “You don’t drive across town for breakfast—you go somewhere close to home. And maybe I did the same thing. Maybe I live near the coffeehouse and I go there with my parents all the time. Or maybe I was staying at a hotel close to the place, or maybe I was just passing through. Who knows? But it seems as good a place to start as any other.”
Art was right—it was a good place to start. But what if it led nowhere? What if it was simply a dead end? Camille was cold, and it was starting to snow. She knew her mother was worried to death. Everything about this seemed like a bad idea. But for the first time since she had met Art, he seemed to have a purpose—a goal. Camille could begin to see something more than the quiet boy who had arrived at her home the previous night. He no longer seemed completely lost.
“Well,” she said, “I guess we’d better find that coffee shop.”
“You’re not going to the coffee shop,” replied Art.
“What?!” exclaimed Camille.
“I’m going there alone,” he said. “They’re after me, not you. Give me a head start, and then you can go to the hotel and call your mom. Even if your mom’s phone is tapped, I’ll be long gone by the time she gets there—and you’ll be safe at the hotel.”
“Not a chance,” said Camille. “I made a promise.”
“A promise?”
“To my mom—to watch out for you.”
Part of the boy wanted to laugh at this short red-haired girl and her promise to watch out for him. But he didn’t. She was tough and brave, and Art trusted her. And to be honest, he could probably use a friend.
Eric McClain made it to the corner of Seventh Street and F Street just as the police cars arrived and headed toward the accident scene. The blue flashing lights filled the intersection. He looked back and watched the crowd surrounding the smashed vehicle move aside as the police cars approached.
McClain turned his attention back to his post. He glanced to his left, directly down F Street, the direction in which the kids had escaped.
Holy cow.
It took every bit of self-control not to react.
There they were—the boy and the girl—standing by a short iron railing just across the street and less than one hundred feet away. McClain turned away so the kids would not see him staring at them. He immediately notified the other team members, whose car was now within two blocks of the intersection. He quickly laid out his plan. Regina Cash would get dropped off at the opposite end of the block on Eighth Street. Nigel Stenhouse, the final member of the team, would park directly across the street from the Hotel Monaco and in front of the National Portrait Gallery. They would have the block completely sealed off. McClain would then approach the boy and the girl and subdue them with the tranquilizer darts. Stenhouse would converge with the car; they would pop both kids into the back seat and take off. It could be done in five seconds—perhaps fewer. They would pick up Regina a block away and head back to base.
Simple.
McClain nonchalantly glanced over his shoulder. The boy and the girl were still standing there.
Stupid kids, he thought. How did Lantham and Bazanov let those two get away?
McClain received the signal that Nigel Stenhouse and Regina Cash were in place.
Showtime.
Mary Sullivan sat in the front seat of the detective’s car and stared out the window. They were driving slowly down Madison Drive, just south of the museum. Detective Evans had explained that it was still too soon to put out an alert for Camille and the boy. They had been gone for only an hour, and it wasn’t the first time that a couple of kids had wandered off by themselves. There were certainly plenty of things to see in the area around the National Gallery of Art—things that might draw the attention of a couple of tweens. The normal protocol was to check the area around the museum before putting out any alerts. Mary knew this procedure made sense. But she also knew that Camille would not have left the museum without her permission. Something else was going on—and Mary suspected that Detective Evans felt the same way. Mary had begged her to do something—anything.
It didn’t take a whole lot of convincing.
Although she couldn’t issue a formal missing-child alert, Detective Evans had asked a couple of patrol officers in the area around the museum for a favor. She provided them with a description of Camille and Art and asked them to let her know if they spotted the kids. The officers readily agreed—they understood how the procedures worked, but they were also parents. They would keep an eye out for the kids.
The call came just as Detective Evans and Mary Sullivan reached the intersection with Twelfth Street. It was from one of the patrol officers. The detective listened as the officer spoke.
“Thanks,” the detective said. “Heading that way now.”
She ended the call and turned to Mary. “Car crash on Seventh Street, just a few blocks from the museum. Witnesses reported two kids running from the scene of the accident.”
The detective paused.
“One of them,” she finally continued, “was described as a young girl with bright red hair and wearing a polka dot jacket.”
“Camille!” Mary exclaimed. “A car accident? How?”
“We’ll figure that out later,” said the detective. “Let’s just find your daughter and the boy.”
Detective Evans turned onto Twelfth Street and headed north.
Chapter 24
6:43 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
Downtown streets, Washington, DC
Eric McClain waited for the light to change and then started walking across the intersection. The other team members had now assumed their places. Regina Cash stood at the far end of the block on Eighth Street, and McClain could see the large black SUV idling directly across the street in front of the National Portrait Gallery.
Everything was going as planned.
The boy was talking, and the girl had her back to McClain. They appeared oblivious to what was going on around them. McClain gripped the knockout pens in his right coat pocket. All he needed was a second to incapacitate both of the kids. They would never even see it coming.
The black SUV pulled away from the front of the National Portrait Gallery and slowly headed toward the rendezvous point.
McClain glanced once again at the boy and the girl.
The boy was no longer talking. He was staring directly at McClain. They locked eyes for only a moment, but that was all it took.
“We’re going to need a taxi,” said Camille. “It’s too cold to walk to the coffee shop.”
Art didn’t respond.
“Didn’t you hear me?” she said. “We’re going to need a taxi.”
Again, Art
didn’t respond. He had just locked eyes with a man in a long gray coat on the crosswalk at the intersection. It had been for only a moment, and the man had looked away just as Art caught his eye. But Art knew something was wrong.
“Run,” Art said.
“What?”
The man was now staring directly at Art. The pretense was gone.
“Run!” the boy yelled again as he grabbed Camille by the hand and started pulling her down the sidewalk. They had a decent head start, and Art hoped that they would be able to outrun their pursuer. But that hope quickly evaporated. Up ahead—past the stairs leading to the entrance to the hotel—a woman in a light brown jacket was now sprinting toward them. To his right Art spied a large black SUV heading directly at them from across the street. It was identical to the vehicle from which the kids had just escaped.
How many of these guys are there? the boy wondered.
And do they drive anything other than black SUVs?
Art realized that the sidewalk had become a trap. That left only one option.
“The hotel!” he yelled at Camille. “We have to get to the hotel!”
Chapter 25
6:46 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
Downtown streets, Washington, DC
People were converging on them from all directions.
Art could hear the footsteps behind him growing louder, and the woman in the light brown jacket was closing the distance fast.
“Run!” he yelled again.
The boy and girl made it to the base of the stairs leading to the entrance to the hotel and started climbing. Their pursuers, however, had closed the gap to within a few yards. Camille’s short legs could cover only one step at a time, and Art knew it would be only a matter of seconds before their pursuers would be on them.
The Van Gogh Deception Page 11