“May I please borrow your phone?” Camille asked politely.
The girl with the purple hair plucked a portable phone from its base and handed it to Camille. “Have at it,” she said.
Camille took the phone and quickly dialed her home number. She held her breath as the line started ringing. She debated what to do if her mother actually answered—hang up, or try to explain what had happened? The reason Camille had called home, and not her mother’s cell phone, was that she wasn’t sure she had the courage to actually speak with her mom—at least not yet. She knew her mom would be worried—but also really mad.
Camille held her breath and listened as the phone rang once, twice, three times, four times, and then five times. No answer. There was a pause and then a click. The next thing she heard was her own voice on the answering machine on the other end of the phone. Camille let out a sigh of relief.
“Hi,” her voice on the machine said, “this is the Sullivan residence. We can’t take your call right now, but if you’ll leave a message at the beep, we’ll call you right back. Ciao!”
There was a slight pause and then a beep.
“Mom,” said Camille, “I just wanted to let you know I’m okay.”
She tried to keep her voice cheerful. She didn’t want her mother to worry.
“I’ll be home soon,” the girl continued. “Things are a little crazy, but I’m keeping an eye on Art like I promised.”
She paused for a moment.
“I love you,” she finally said, and then ended the call.
7:48 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
Townhouse apartment, Washington, DC
It had happened far quicker than he had expected.
The phone call had come in from a landline, which—although surprising—made it all the easier to trace. The address instantly popped up on Palmer’s screen—a coffee shop on G Street. The kids were moving fast—but where were they headed? The girl had called home and left a message. Palmer listened to the message. The boy was clearly up to something, but what?
How much does he remember? Dorchek Palmer wondered.
The boy and the girl had already incapacitated four members of his team—four of the toughest, most highly trained people on the planet had been rendered useless by two tweens.
Pure luck, Palmer kept trying to convince himself. Unfortunately, Palmer didn’t believe in luck. The kids were smart and resourceful, and his team had underestimated them at every turn. Palmer knew he could no longer take anything for granted. The key to the entire operation—an operation that had been in the planning stages for years—now rested on finding a boy with amnesia who was wandering around Washington, DC. If they didn’t find him, everything could fall apart. The consequences could be earthshattering. Palmer did not intend to find out just how earthshattering.
He called Nigel Stenhouse, his remaining team member. Stenhouse could be at the coffee shop in less than a half hour. Palmer’s directions to Stenhouse were clear: Do anything necessary to retrieve the boy.
Anything.
Chapter 33
7:49 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
Hotel Monaco, Washington, DC
The boy and the girl did this?
Impressive.
Detective Evans stood in the lobby of the Hotel Monaco. The Christmas tree, which had apparently fallen on some poor guy, still covered half the floor. The guests in the lobby seemed oblivious to the perilous circumstances around them—if anything, they seemed to be enjoying the absurdity of the situation.
A hotel security officer had approached the detective and Mary Sullivan as soon as they had entered the hotel. The security officer had handed over Camille’s distinctive red jacket with white polka dots. “Found this on the front steps,” he had explained. “Several of the guests reported seeing a blond boy and red-haired girl running through the lobby and up the stairs. We were looking for them when the alarm went off.”
“Where do the stairs lead?” Mary had asked.
“Conference rooms, meeting rooms, ballrooms,” the security officer had replied. “But the kids seem to be long gone. No sign of them.”
The security officer’s explanation had not satisfied Mary, who immediately headed up the stairs in search of her daughter and her charge.
The detective now stood alone in the lobby with the security officer and pondered her next move. There was a question she needed to ask, but she was afraid she already knew the answer.
“I need to see the security footage,” said the detective.
The officer paused. He seemed somewhat embarrassed. “Well,” he finally said, “funny you should ask.”
“It’s been erased, hasn’t it?” said the detective.
The security officer seemed surprised. “Every bit of it,” he said. “Every camera, every angle, every monitor. All gone. Strange, huh?”
The detective nodded. “Very strange.”
7:50 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
Steaming Monkey Coffee Emporium, Washington, DC
“You okay?” the girl with the purple hair asked.
Camille nodded. “I’m okay,” she replied. “Just checking in with my mom—you know how parents can be.”
The girl with the purple hair laughed. “Been there plenty of times,” she said. “Parents worry.” She extended her hand to Camille. “By the way, my name’s Tricia.”
Camille shook the girl’s hand. “Camille,” she said.
Tricia pointed behind Camille. “And is that your brother?”
Brother? Camille wondered. What’s she talking about?
And then it hit her. The barista was talking about Art. Camille glanced over her shoulder. He was less than ten feet away.
Camille reached across the counter and managed to drop the phone back into its base just as Art approached. Although she didn’t think calling home was such a big deal, she knew Art would freak if he caught her on the phone. He was way too paranoid.
“What’d you get?” Art asked as he made his way next to her.
Camille pretended that she had been reaching for one of the menus lying on the counter. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Ready to order?” asked Tricia, as if on cue.
The espresso machine beside her hissed and steamed. A husky bearded man in a dark blue T-shirt stood in front of the chunky metal machine and churned out shot after shot of the dark coffee extract. On the front of his T-shirt—in large uppercase letters—was the word “BOB.”
“I’ll have an iced mocha,” said Camille. “Medium. And a lemon bar.”
It had been a couple of hours since they last ate, and she was famished.
“Bob—one iced mocha, medium,” Tricia called to the man in the dark blue T-shirt. Bob merely grunted and continued tamping espresso grounds into a clean filter.
“And what can I get for you?” Tricia looked at Art.
Art opened his mouth to respond, then stopped and sniffed the air. He turned to Camille.
“Do you smell that?” he asked.
“Smell what?” asked Camille.
“He probably smells the wheat-grass white-mocha vegan brownies,” said the girl with the purple hair. “They’re our most popular item, but they have kind of a distinctive smell—they’re made with mushrooms, so they can get a little funky. Bob makes them fresh every day. If you can get over the smell, they taste great.”
Bob grunted his approval but never looked up from his coffee duties. Shots of espresso continued to flow unabated.
“No,” said Art, “not that smell.”
Art turned to a tall, lanky young man who had taken a position behind them in line. The young man wore a long-sleeve NYU T-shirt that was splattered with paint and a pair of brown pants. He looked as if he had not slept or showered for days.
Art sniffed the air deeply. He then pointed at the young man. “That smell,” he said. “His smell.”
Bob grunted his agree
ment from behind the espresso bar.
“Art!” Camille exclaimed in horror. “That’s so rude.”
“Can’t blame the little guy for that,” said the tall young man as he sniffed his right armpit. “I’m a bit gamy today—getting ready for a show next month, you know. Showers optional—but no judgments, okay?”
“Turpentine,” said Art. “Am I right? You smell like turpentine.”
The young man nodded. “I’m working on my master’s degree in studio painting. I always smell like turpentine.”
Art opened the front of his backpack and frantically felt around inside the pocket. His hand finally fell upon the object he was searching for and he pulled it out.
“There!” Art said triumphantly. He held out the small brass key engraved with the number 10. “Do you recognize this?” Art asked the student.
“How’d you get that?” the young man responded. He seemed genuinely surprised by the sudden appearance of the key.
“Do you recognize it?” Art asked again.
The student pulled a key chain from his pocket, selected a single key, and held it up for Art to see. It was virtually identical to the key Art had found in his backpack—the bow was even painted a brilliant blue. The only difference was the number engraved on the key—12 instead of the number 10.
“It’s a studio key,” the young man said. “A lot of art students rent out studio space while we prepare for our shows. Studio number ten is on the second floor—just down the hall from my studio.”
“Studio?” asked Art. “Where?”
“Right down the alley from here,” said Tricia, who’d been listening to the whole exchange. “It’s an old manufacturing plant—or something like that. The main entrance is on the other side of the block, but there’s a back entrance through the side alley.”
Art didn’t hesitate. He turned and headed out the door without another word.
Camille looked at Tricia. “I guess I’ll get my mocha later,” she said apologetically, and left the twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
Camille found the boy standing at the entrance to the alley. She was struck by how narrow the back street was. It looked as if she could stretch her arms out and touch both sides. And it was dark. The high brick walls on either side shielded out the light of the city, and the cool glow of the streetlight barely penetrated more than a few steps down the dark corridor. Even the snow seemed to be having a hard time making it into the thin space.
“Kinda dark,” she said. “Maybe we should walk around the block to the front.” She tried to hide the uncertainty in her voice. They had just been kidnapped from a museum, threatened with a stun gun, involved in a car crash, and chased through a hotel, barely escaping from the clutches of four thugs who clearly intended to capture them by any means necessary. Going down a dark alley did not seem like a great next step in their adventure.
“I’ll go first,” Art said calmly. “Stay close behind me.”
He started walking forward, but Camille hesitated. Art turned and looked at her.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s light somewhere up ahead.”
Camille nodded. She had no choice but to follow. Keeping an eye on Art was proving to be much more difficult than she had ever anticipated. She quickly caught up with him, and they stepped forward into the dark.
Part 3
“Even though one seeks with the expectation of finding, finding is a complete surprise nonetheless.”
—letter from Vincent van Gogh to his brother Theo, 7 November 1881
Chapter 34
8:02 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
Downtown streets, Washington, DC
The cold night air had settled hard into the dark, narrow alleyway. Camille held firmly to Art’s backpack and shuffled her feet to avoid tripping in the gloom. She listened intently for any sound that might signal the approach of pursuers. But the alley was disconcertingly quiet. The girl looked up. She could see the snow swirling in the sky far above her.
Glancing around Art’s shoulder for any sign of light up ahead, Camille saw nothing. She had lost all sense of depth perception, and her inner GPS had failed her completely. How far had they walked? How far did they have to go?
“You okay?” asked Art.
“I’m fine,” she replied, which was a complete lie. She was, in fact, exhausted, hungry, freezing, and scared.
“Just a little farther,” he said. His voice echoed ever so slightly in the narrow canyon of brick and mortar. It occurred to Camille how much Art had changed since that morning. Quiet and uncertainty had given way to confidence and determination. She could hear the shift in his voice. She could see it in his eyes.
They shuffled forward slowly for a couple more minutes in the dark. Camille continued to listen for any sign that they were being followed, but the only sound she heard was the soft swish-swish of her feet as they made their way along the concrete path. The sound was soothing and rhythmic—it made her realize how tired she was. She thought of her soft, warm bed at home.
Suddenly, Art stopped. Caught off-guard, Camille stumbled forward and planted her face squarely into his backpack.
“Ouch!” she exclaimed.
“Shhh,” Art whispered. “We’re here.”
He moved forward a couple of steps so she could see. Just a few yards to their right, a rusted lamp hung from the side of a windowless brick wall. Beneath its faint light was a metal door, painted a dingy gray and heavily dented. The kids made their way over to the entrance and stood beneath the lamp. Camille felt as if she were in a spotlight—not a particularly wonderful place to be, considering what they had already been through that afternoon.
There was a small sign on the door:
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY DEPARTMENT OF FINE ARTS
UNIVERSITY PERSONNEL AND STUDENTS ONLY
“Maybe you’re some sort of genius,” said Camille. “Maybe you’re already in college, and that’s how you know so much about art.”
“I’m not a genius,” said Art.
Camille shrugged. “You never know.”
Art grabbed the door handle, pushed down on the thumb lever, and pulled. The door didn’t budge.
“Locked,” he said. “Let’s go around to the front of the building—maybe the door is open on the other side. Or maybe there’s a window we can try to open.”
“Or,” replied Camille, “you could try the key.”
It had clearly not occurred to Art that the studio key might also open the door into the building. He took the key from his pocket, placed it into the lock, and turned. Once more, he grabbed the door handle, pushed down on the thumb lever, and pulled.
The door opened easily.
“Then again,” said Camille, “maybe you aren’t a genius.”
Art ignored her and peeked inside.
“Long hallway,” he said to Camille. “But it looks empty.”
He opened the door some more for Camille to step inside, removed the key, and followed her into the hallway. He pulled the door shut behind them and gave it a push to make sure it had locked.
The hallway was painted a pale industrial green—the sort of color you find in old hospitals and high schools—and the floor was a well-worn gray linoleum with little black specks. The building smelled of turpentine and dust. The lights in the hallway—metal boxes filled with long fluorescent bulbs and built into the drop-down ceiling—were spaced too far apart to properly illuminate the long, narrow corridor, creating alternating pockets of deep shadows. To their right was another metal door with a sign indicating that it led to a set of stairs. The light from the illuminated exit sign above their heads cast an eerie red glow around them.
“Good thing there’s nothing creepy about this place,” said Camille.
Art pointed at the stairs. “Second floor,” he said. “That’s where the guy at the coffee shop said we need to go.”
“No,” Camille replied. “He said the key goes to a room
on the second floor. He didn’t say we had to go there.”
But she knew there was no sense in arguing. Art had already opened the door to the stairwell and stepped inside. Camille reluctantly followed.
8:07 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
Hotel Monaco, Washington, DC
Detective Evans watched as Mary Sullivan made her way down the stairs and across the lobby of the hotel. She could see the disappointment in Mary’s face.
Evans debated whether to tell Mary about the missing security footage at the hotel. Earlier, when the detective had learned that the video at the National Gallery of Art had been erased, she had been willing to explain it away as a glitch in the system. But for security footage to disappear at two different locations was not a coincidence. It now seemed clear that whatever was going on involved way more than two kids wandering off from the museum.
“No sign of them,” said Mary dejectedly as she made her way over to the detective. “And I looked. I mean, I really looked. In every room, under every table, in the stairwell. There’s no way they’re in this hotel.”
“I’ve put out an alert for Camille and the boy,” said Detective Evans. “There’re going to be a lot of cops looking for those kids.”
Mary nodded. She looked tired. “This has something to do with the boy, doesn’t it?” she asked.
Detective Evans hesitated. “I don’t think we can really know at this—”
Mary interrupted her. “The truth,” she said. “Please.”
“Yes,” replied the detective. “I think this has something to do with the boy.”
Chapter 35
8:09 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
GWU Department of Fine Arts studio building, Washington, DC
Art poked his head out of the stairwell and surveyed the second-floor hallway.
The Van Gogh Deception Page 14