by Mike Rich
“I think we may have found plenty for the good doctor to hunt through, don’t you, grandson?” Carter put an ever-so-slight emphasis on the word “hunt.”
“Oh, absolutely we did!” Henry answered, having picked up on it. “He might not have a clue about some of that stuff, but I’ll bring him up to speed.”
Chief winked.
Henry smiled.
Eloise and Gigi shared a suspicious look.
“All right, you two. What’s up here?” Eloise asked, even though she was still wearing a smile.
“Up?” Carter replied, cranking up the innocence. “Nothing’s up. Just a part of this one article that Henry and I both found very interesting. I’m sure Dr. Riggins will think the same.”
“Henrrrry?” Eloise turned her head.
“Hmm? Oh . . . yeah, yeah, yeah. What Chief said.”
“Mmm.” She nodded, even though Henry thought she looked completely and thoroughly unconvinced.
The old man gave Henry a slightly mischievous look.
“Ladies,” he announced. “If it’s all right with the two of you, I’d like for Henry and me to take our pie up to the study before we open gifts. Two slices each, please. I have a few more things to share with him that I think the good doctor will find very, very fascinating.”
Four pieces of untouched pumpkin pie sat on the edge of the old man’s desk, the snow now crisply pelting against the window as the story resumed. Henry listened intently as both the tale and the storm took a decided turn for the worse.
“Hiram Doubt was an evil man, Henry, and I don’t say that lightly,” Chief said with a lowering voice, the old newspaper photo staring up from the desktop below them. “He was nearly as rich as Skavenger, which is saying something, but then he lost nearly all of it. Lost it to Skavenger himself, who always found a way to stay ahead of him when it came to the business of industry.”
“Sounds like Mr. Doubt might not have taken it too well,” Henry speculated.
“No. No, he did not,” Chief continued. “But the one thing Skavenger didn’t know was that Doubt wasn’t just evil, he was vindictive . . . dangerous.”
The old man pointed to the photo again. “He surrounded himself with Grace and three other agents of darkness—shadowy men who carried out the very worst of his intentions.”
“Carried out? You mean they actually . . . ?”
Chief gravely nodded. “Legend has it Doubt himself took part in that last hunt on July tenth, 1885. Made it to where the grand prize was hidden, and found himself face-to-face with his longtime adversary.”
The old man leaned closer once again. “And that’s where the great Hunter S. Skavenger finally fell victim to . . .”
“Doubt,” Henry finished the sentence for him.
“Or so the story goes,” Chief said with a shrug. “Me? I think the reason Skavenger didn’t show for that next hunt was that he’d simply decided the puzzle wasn’t meant to be solved. Which is the one theory that still captivates me after all these many decades.”
Henry realized at that moment that his grandfather had once again shattered his skepticism—that his mother had been absolutely right just before they’d arrived that night.
His stories are getting crazier! Beautifully, magically crazier!
“I’ve waited a long, long time to tell you this, Henry,” Chief said to him with a look that said as much. “I have something I want us to do . . . together. Same as your father and I did for years and years, neither one of us ever telling a soul, not even to your mother or grandmother.”
Henry’s face dropped at the mention of his father. Chief nodded.
“I miss him too, grandson, more than anything in the world . . . but this’ll help, the two of us finishing it.”
“Finishing what, Chief?”
His grandfather said the next handful of words as if they were the most obvious in the world.
“Skavenger’s Hunt, of course! Finding the clues that must have been left behind. If nobody won, the riddles and puzzles are still out there. Right now, this very minute, here in New York.”
Omigosh, he’s right. Of course!
“Your father and I found fourteen clues—mostly small, easy things.” Chief smiled as he continued with the story. “Like how every eighth word in some of Skavenger’s riddles could be a key word. That was a fun discovery.”
He took a deep breath, before finally nudging the old and yellowed sheet of ledger paper closer to Henry.
“But the one thing we never did find, was the one thing I found just two weeks ago. Something I could put my hands on.” He nodded at the age-old, faded sheet.
“This?” Henry finally asked, not wanting to disappoint his grandfather.
“Two hundred and fourteen pages inside a book at the New York Public Library,” the old man replied, sounding far from disappointed. “I’d bet my first base from Yankee Stadium it was Skavenger himself who put it in the old Astor branch.”
“Okay,” Henry tried his best to sound impressed. “Buuuuuut, back to my very first question again. What is it?”
The great man—who always had a story for every moment, an answer to every question—rose to his feet and triumphantly proclaimed:
“I don’t know.”
Henry looked at him, confused.
“Not an idea in the world.” Chief shrugged. “Nothing. I don’t have a clue what it is. That’s what makes it so great!”
He rested his palms on each side of the ledger, the adventure-seeking smile returning as he added, “But there is one thing I do know, grandson. You and I are going to find out. That’s the reason I decided to tell you all of this tonight. The discovery of the ledger sheet was only a fortnight ago. You’re reaching an age where you can help with the search. And, perhaps most important, it’s Christmas Eve.”
The old man took in a much-needed breath before closing in on the end of his amazing tale.
“You and I are going to walk the streets of New York these next few months. Same as I did with your father for a long, long time. To try and solve what no one could more than a hundred years ago. Now what do you say to that?”
Henry answered the question with a growing smile as he pulled the ledger closer still.
“We map out our plan first thing tomorrow,” Chief said with growing anticipation. “What better time than Christmas morning, yes?”
“Yes,” Henry replied without a hint of hesitation. “Yes, yes, yes.”
FIVE
The Ledger Sheet
HOURS LATER, SAME as every Christmas Eve, Henry stared up at the ceiling of his grandparents’ guest bedroom with only the occasional blink, waiting to fall asleep.
Most years he lay awake because of the expectation and excitement for the morning to follow, especially those Christmas Eves more than two years ago when he knew that if he could just fall asleep, he’d soon hear the sound of his mom and dad calling for him to come downstairs.
Tonight, though, felt different. Really, really different.
Yep, this staying-awake business had absolutely nothing to do with whatever would be under the tree in the morning. Besides, he’d already opened two of his gifts: an authentic New York Giants hoody that his friend Jeremy-the-Jets-fan would hate, and an old pen that Chief later whispered to him was for the ledger—once they figured out what the darn thing was all about.
That’s what was keeping him awake, of course.
The ledger.
And the story that came with it.
Henry turned on his side, as if that would help him get to sleep, and looked over at the bedroom door. It was open a scant couple of inches—his mother always kept it cracked so she could peek inside a handful of times each night. Even at home, she had to make sure her son was still breathing.
I’m fine, Mom. No worries, I’ll be okay. Just need to find a way to get a little sleep.
He heard Christmas music softly playing downstairs. Just from the beat, he could tell it was Mariah Carey telling him that all she wanted for Ch
ristmas was, well . . . him.
Gigi liked to say she was an expert, or, as she politely urged Henry to call her, a historian of holiday music old and new. This was her favorite radio station—the one she’d tune to in the middle of November and leave on until New Year’s, when the last “Merry Gentleman” had been put to rest.
Henry sighed and plopped his arms on top of the comforter, unable to stop thinking about the great Hunter S. Skavenger’s story; of the unsettling description of Hiram Doubt and his Four Men of Darkness; of the legendary, though never-completed, hunts of 1883, 1884, and 1885.
And, of course, his father.
Henry had discovered only a few hours ago that Nathan’s promise of adventure had its roots in the very story Chief told him. That it should have been the three of them walking the streets of the city searching for whatever undiscovered items Skavenger had placed. A secret the three of them would have tried to hide from Gigi and Mom while asking for another piece of pie around the Christmas Eve table.
I just wasn’t old enough yet. They were waiting on me.
None of those things could ever be changed, of course. Henry knew that much. But the thought of adventure had been revived tonight by Chief’s promise.
A promise that the two of them would figure out what that ridiculous piece of ledger paper was all about.
Yeah, but seriously, what is it? Even Chief doesn’t know, and Chief knows everything! Is it really one of Skavenger’s clues? The first one? The last one? Maybe it’s nothing . . . maybe it’s just a bookmark in a book.
Henry tossed the covers aside. Maybe there was something in the story he’d overlooked or forgotten. Or, most tempting of all, maybe there was something on the ledger sheet he hadn’t seen. Maybe they just hadn’t looked closely enou—
Wait a second!
Henry remembered he’d once watched an old detective movie with his father in which the hero closely studied a piece of paper with a magnifying glass, seeing the imprint of words written on a sheet that had once rested above it. Henry and Nathan had laughed and laughed at how serious the detective seemed to be.
“Y’see? Y’see?” his father had mocked the actor’s stilted delivery. “Detective, this is now hard evidence! It can be admitted in a court of laaaaaw!”
Even now, Henry smiled.
Maybe that was it.
Maybe if he studied the ledger sheet closely enough, he’d find something he could show Chief in the morning; a Christmas gift of his own to kick-start the detective work for both of them.
He eased his way out of bed and tiptoed toward the door, being careful when he peeked out—in case his mother was on her final approach, ready to peek in.
The hallway was empty.
Henry stepped out, the music from downstairs barely loud enough to dampen the sound of his footsteps. He leaned his head around the edge of the hallway at the corner . . . the one that turned and led directly to his grandfather’s study.
The door was open, but only by the couple of inches he’d found it earlier that evening.
A layer of full-moon blue drew a line across the floor toward Henry’s feet, and for a half second, he was sure the old man would be in there, surrounded by candles blazing their light.
He wasn’t, though. The study was empty.
And Henry made his way in without a hint of a sound.
He looked toward the desk, dark but uncluttered, which meant he’d have to actually find the ledger sheet, wherever it might be. Knowing Chief, it could be anywhere; maybe even tucked inside one of the hundreds of books lining the shelves or stacked high on the floor.
Next to page 214 prob’ly.
Or over by the newspapers.
Or under the first base from old Yankee Stadium.
Or anywhere.
Henry decided to start at the desk, his eyes jumping to the old green banker’s lamp an arm’s length away—fake light absolutely, which meant nothing good could ever possibly come from it.
The lamp probably wouldn’t even work, he figured, given how much Chief relied on candles. If it did, though, it might spill light into the hall and straight under the door of his mother’s guest room.
Risky. Risky, risky, risky. But . . .
Gotta do it.
Ever so gently he tugged at the small, old chain hanging next to the bulb and the lamp flared bright.
Henry held his breath for a half moment, certain he was about to hear the turning of a doorknob, the steady rhythm of his mother’s footsteps, or some other sound that would quickly be followed by “Henry? What’s up? It’s the middle of the night. You feeling okay?”
There was nothing, though.
Nothing except for the scratching sound of Henry opening the desk compartment, revealing the junk drawer to beat all junk drawers. He shook his head, quietly moving aside the countless old letters, several of which were tucked inside brittle, old air-delivery envelopes, the familiar red-and-blue stripe around their edges.
Australia.
Brazil.
London.
Istan—
The ledger sheet!
It was right here. Not inside a book, but instead, underneath a letter from some guy named Dewey McElroy, postmarked 1947.
Henry quietly pulled out the old ledger and placed it under the light. The only sound came from the downstairs radio, which was now quietly informing the entire house that it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas.
Henry pushed the lamp cover a smidge higher to better highlight the old sheet of paper, then spent the next few minutes holding it upways, sideways, and longways, before reaching the conclusion that . . .
Zero. Zip. Nada.
He muttered under his breath, though very much out loud, “Well, guess I’ll wait till tomorrow to solve the Great Skavenger Hunt of eight . . .”
Henry barely whispered the first syllable of the year before a long-faded numeral . . . 8 . . . slowly began to scrawl itself onto the paper, without a hand or pen guiding it. Right there, in the old empty box where the date would’ve been recorded, the inked number quickly deepened into a dark and brilliant black.
Waaaait . . .
. . . wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait.
His actual voice had fallen silent even before saying the rest of the number, because he couldn’t say the rest of the number. Not with an eight now clearly, unmistakably visible on the age-old ledger paper.
Not a computer-looking eight, or a typewritten eight—even though the only typewritten eight Henry had really ever seen had been on his computer.
This was a handwritten eight. Gliding onto the paper as if it had been written in that same moment by the hand of a ghost.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he finally managed to murmur as he tilted the lampshade even higher to see if his eyes were playing tricks on him.
Nope. No tricks.
8
It was there. Right there. In black and white . . . well, black at least. And all he had done, just before the number had somehow appeared, was to say that Skavenger’s Great Hunt of—
Hold on. You said it. You said it out loud. You started to at least.
“Eighteen,” Henry whispered, making certain this time to say the entire word.
And just as the first number had appeared in the date box of the ledger, before his voice had stopped and faltered, the second numeral now followed suit.
18
The ghostly ink soaked its way into the old paper, slowly and hauntingly. Written in that very moment in letter-perfect handwriting. The elegant style of writing reserved for the year . . .
“1885,” Henry hesitantly added. Out loud.
Another eight and a new five began to spill onto the page. It was quiet enough that he could actually hear the scratching sound of an old pen as the full year appeared.
. . . shhccrriisstttchhh . . . shhccrriisstttchhh . . .
1885
The back of Henry’s neck tingled cold, his thoughts instantly jumbling into nothing more than a steady, u
ninterrupted stream of:
Holycrapholycrapholycrapholycrapholycrapholycrapholycrap.
Until, for whatever reason, the smallest flicker of curiosity decided to fight off the adrenaline and bubbling panic rushing through his body.
Perhaps it was Dr. Riggins and his never-ending fascination with questions that begged for an answer. Maybe it was Chief, who taught him that if he didn’t know something he should ask. And if he didn’t believe it, he should ask again.
Maybe one of those things was the reason why Henry was still sitting right there in the old man’s chair, staring at the suddenly very mysterious piece of ledger paper below him.
Wait, hold on here a second. I say it and it shows up? I say 1885 out loud and there it is? I said 1885 a couple of times when Chief and I were talking. I’m sure I did. So why now? What the heck’s even going on here?
He stared at the number for another good long minute. Maybe two.
The practical side of Henry Babbitt’s brain usually won most of these arguments, if not all of them. He got it from his mother. And right now that practical side was telling him: All right. Enough with all this “saying 1885 out loud” business. You fell asleep, okay? You’re dreaming. Simple as that.
He rubbed his eyes and then closed them tight. Really tight. It was a trick he’d figured out a few years ago as a way to help him get out of nightmares.
Close my eyes as tight as I can, long as I can, and I’ll wake up.
Henry kept his eyes shut for longer than was usually necessary; longer because the rolling, tingling sensation that was always there as he’d slowly wake up was missing this time.
He opened his eyes.
1885
Still there.
Still impossible.
Somehow, the ink had already faded enough that it now actually looked as if it had been there for well over a century. Henry rubbed his thumb right on the date—gently at first, but then hard enough that he worried for a second the old paper might rip in two.
The ink didn’t smear in the least.
Henry hesitated again for what felt like forever—wanting, but terrified, to say the one word he knew made perfect sense.
