Skavenger's Hunt

by Mike Rich

  The boy spun around.

  “Oh, so no nickel and no idea what’s goin’ on.” He rolled his eyes. “Follow the crowd, wise guy. You wanna get close enough to hear, ya better get movin’.”

  And with that, he rolled up the paper, tucked it under his arm, and was gone for good.

  Henry stood on the edge of the brick road that was Central Park West, not knowing what to do.

  Skavenger’s third hunt. Today. Wait a second . . .

  Henry reached into his pocket again, whipping the ledger sheet open with a flick of his wrist. The words were still there. Only one of the precious destination and date boxes had been filled:

  July 10th, 1885, Central Park, New York.

  Up at the very top, though, in even brighter black ink than just a moment ago, were the most important words of the entire message . . .

  Find me. There is a way back.

  Sincerely, Hunter S. Skavenger

  There. Right there.

  There’s a way for me to get back!

  Quickly, Henry rattled through the things he knew—or at least the things he thought he knew. Chief’s and Gigi’s house wasn’t Chief’s and Gigi’s house—not yet. He had no phone. No way to let anyone know what had happened to him. No way to let his mother know he was . . .

  Oh no.

  No, no, no. She’s gonna wake up soon . . . and I’ll be gone.

  Henry was already backing up toward the street, his only hope somewhere behind him in Central Park. He had to get to Skavenger while he was still there, before the legend himself was gone, before . . .

  He turned straight into the path of another oncoming horse-drawn carriage. “Hey! Oglądać się!” a Polish driver angrily shouted as he pulled his nickering draft horse to a not-so-sudden halt.

  “Sorry!” Henry managed to call back, still scampering. A small smile grew on the carriage driver’s face—he was obviously aware of what was going on this morning along with everyone else in sight.

  But there was no smile on Henry’s face as he sprinted hard into Central Park, through the ever-growing flood of men wearing top hats and women carrying parasols.

  Skavenger. Gotta talk to Skavenger.

  Which, he could tell with one look around, was the same goal everyone else had too. Thousands and thousands of hunters were crowding into Central Park, with a lot more on the way.

  The trumpets and trombones sounded brighter now. Closer. And in an opening in the crowd up ahead, where an enormous stage had been constructed, rising high above the summer-battered ground, Henry finally heard the announcement that was so important for him to hear.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen! I present to you—MR. HUNTER S. SKAVENGER!”

  SEVEN

  Skavenger

  CHIEF’S CLAIM THAT there had been thousands and thousands of people in Central Park that day turned out to be absolutely true. There wasn’t just one brass band playing—there were at least a dozen. Hot air balloons were stationed here and there, apparently ready to help a hunter or two with a quick escape once the first riddle was announced.

  Henry waded into the back of the enormous gathering. He passed one team of hunters that looked like a nineteenth-century quartet of Dr. Riggins-types; another group that was made up of flag-waving Canadians, their pencils already poised for whatever was about to be said; and even a trio of priests with rosaries around their necks.

  The crowd of onlookers suddenly roared as Skavenger finally stepped up to the elevated riser at the front of the stage, every inch of it decorated with red, white, and blue bunting. He wore a thin black suit that fit his lean frame like layered feathers on an eagle, accented by a bright red shirt and a pure-black tie. There was no top hat on his head, no hat of any kind, for that matter. His hair was combed back and shiny gray, which gave him a commanding look; as did the buttons on his coat, which sparkled like diamonds in the morning sun.

  Skavenger offered the throng a proud and confident smile as he held his hands out wide—dispelling the notion that a secretive and private man could not be a pure showman.

  As Chief had guaranteed Henry during the telling of his tale, Skavenger looked both mysterious and charismatic.

  Henry, though, was stuck at the back of the crowd, with no easy way of moving any closer.

  “Fellow citizens of New York!” Henry heard the booming voice as he started wedging his way through the gathering. “Fellow citizens of the WORLD! I welcome you once more to the greatest of adventures.”

  The crowd erupted as one, raising their arms to cheer. Henry took advantage of the moment to dart below a good many of them, stopping when he heard the voice again.

  “The rules of the hunt remain elementary,” Skavenger announced as Henry tried to perch up for a better view.

  “Solve the first clue, solve the second, solve them all,” he went on to proclaim. “But to that one person or one team that solves the final clue, after a perilous journey—a QUEST!—that shall take them far and near . . .”

  Henry’s tiptoes were already aching.

  “. . . I offer THIS!”

  With a grand flourish, Skavenger gestured toward an enormous canvas that had just unfurled across the stage. On it was an artist’s rendering of a spectacular bank safe—the etching detail so precise even Henry could see it.

  “A fortune both enormous and incalculable!” Skavenger boomed through the cheering as two top-hat-clad gentlemen moved to each side of the painted canvas. “A prize that has been both witnessed and certified as authentic by these fine men. Two of New York’s most reputable and honorable bankers!”

  The thunder of approval lasted long enough for Henry to move closer than even he’d expected.

  One more quick shot to the right, whip through there, and I’ll be—ummmph—

  “Hey! Lunkhead!” A hand latched tightly onto his collar. Henry turned—or, more accurately, was turned—putting him face-to-face with a scruffy, sharp-eyed boy he guessed was at least two years older than him.

  Worse yet, he was four inches taller and wider.

  “What’s the hurry?” the boy demanded with a no-nonsense smirk, before stealing a quick glance toward the stage over Henry’s shoulder.

  He wore roughly the same kind of clothes as the Brooklyn newsboy, except they were just that: rougher. The boy’s brown trousers were held up by green suspenders that looked as if they’d been pulled out of a gutter—and not recently. Same thing applied for the gray cap covering his reddish, poorly cut hair. The only thing that didn’t hint at an apparent lack of money were his eyes: green in the middle, brown on the edge, but whip-smart in their attentiveness throughout. As if they never missed a single thing.

  “C’mon, dude,” Henry replied, trying to squirm free. “I just couldn’t hear what he was saying.”

  “Join the crowd,” the boy grumbled under his breath, smirk still intact. “And what did you call me? Dude?”

  Oh boy. Careful what you say. Who knows what “dude” means in 1885, right?

  Another boy, who looked closer to Henry’s age and thankfully not much bigger, stood nearby, frantically scribbling down notes barely an inch from his patched-up spice-colored vest. His writing was actually frantic enough that the frayed hat resting on his dirty-brown and somewhat trimmed hair was threatening to fall off at any second.

  “Whatta ya say, Ernie?” the boy holding Henry in midair asked the other. “Got ourselves a bootrag says he can’t hear.”

  Ernie, peering over his long nose through what looked like hand-me-down frameless glasses, replied without so much as a glance, “Yeah, well, he’s not the only one who can’t hear. I’m tryin’ to write all of this down, remember?”

  The boy wearing out Henry’s collar finally let go. “Stay put,” he said as he pointed a threatening finger at him. “We’ve been here for hours, what’s fair is fair.”

  Henry would have had trouble getting much closer anyway—right now, at least. He figured he was a football field away from the stage, maybe more.

  Ernie, in
the meantime, was repeating each of Skavenger’s words out loud. “I . . . offer . . . this. Fortune. Enormous. Incalculable.”

  The man in front of him turned and glared. “Shhhh, quiet!”

  “Aw, quiet yourself,” Ernie shot back. “I’ll pipe down when there’s somethin’ to hear.”

  Thousands upon thousands of eyes were locked on Skavenger as he looked out over the tightly packed multitude.

  “And so,” Skavenger decreed as Henry heard the undeniable scratching sound of thousands of pencils landing in unison onto notepads, “I hereby offer to those here, a call!”

  Ernie wrote the words down as quickly as Skavenger said them.

  “One that can only be heard by the great explorers like Lewis and Clark. Who number here in the thousands, same as in 1804, searching distant territories for new adventure!”

  Henry heard the shushing man say to the woman next to him, “Clark. Distant territories.”

  “And now,” Skavenger held his hands wide again. “Let this adventure begin! Good luck!”

  Central Park nearly shook, so deafening was the response. The man in front of Ernie jabbed his pencil onto the paper he’d been writing on—the unmistakable motion of an exclamation point.

  “I’ve got it, I’ve got it, follow me.” He kept his voice low, excitedly reaching for the woman’s hand. They quickly disappeared into the crowd.

  Now’s your chance. Go! Go!

  Henry tried to make his move, but got stuck right off the bat. The crush of thousands of New Yorkers and citizens of the world swirled in every direction around him.

  Gotta get to him. Just . . . okay . . . where’d he go? Where is he?

  Henry jumped up just high enough to spot the creator of the Great Hunt moving to the right-hand side of the stage, but he was still a whole football field away. He jumped again and saw Skavenger in his bright red shirt heading for something . . . heading over to . . .

  He’s gonna get off the stage. On that side. Over there!

  Henry ran as quickly as he could, which wasn’t as quickly as he needed. Half the crowd was heading one way, the other half the opposite. It took more than a few precious seconds before Henry was able to finally find his first good opening and rushed through it, weaving past scattering and hopeful hunters.

  Until he was blocked again. He rose onto his tiptoes for yet another desperate glimpse.

  Skavenger was surrounded by what had to be security—two dozen men at least, probably more—ready to lead him off the stage. Henry jumped, but couldn’t see Skavenger’s destination. He jumped again.

  His horse carriage. There!

  Henry could get there, he knew he could. It was close enough now; all he needed to do was head that way just a little bit more and . . .

  I can show him the ledger. I can find my way back!

  But an unexpected cluster of hunters rushed right in front of Henry just then, completely blocking his path as they loudly shouted out: “Mr. Skavenger! Mr. Skavenger!

  C’monnnn, no, no, NO!

  His legs were running short on gas, but Henry jumped one last time as high as he could, barely catching a glimpse of Skavenger. He was right there—approaching the carriage that was now so close.

  “Wait! Hold on! Over here!” Henry yelled. A narrow path opened to one side and he dashed into it, now able to see the polished wheels and the immaculate midnight-black sideboards.

  The carriage was now very close.

  But it was also the carriage that Skavenger was now climbing into, waving to the crowd before ducking his head and moving in to sit down inside. The outstretched arms of his security team kept the starstruck hunters from approaching even one more inch.

  “MR. SKAVENGER!” Henry shouted. “MR. SKAVENGER! OVER HERE! I NEED TO—”

  “Back up, young man! Now.” A stout security man fixed him with a steely, no-nonsense look, just as Skavenger turned his head and locked eyes with Henry.

  He sees me!

  “MR. SKAVENGER!” Henry yelled, his best chance yet, his only chance. “I’VE GOT THE LEDGER SHEET! THE ONE YOU LEFT! YOU SAID THERE’S A WAY . . .”

  But the driver had snapped the reins and the pristine carriage was now slowly pulling away. A somewhat curious look remained on Skavenger’s face for another second or two, his eyes staying with Henry as the glittering wheels gathered momentum.

  “MR. SKAVENGER! WAAAAAIT!”

  But the only response Henry heard was the sharp clip and clop of the enigmatic man’s black horses and the rolling sound of his departing carriage, which was now blocked by the convergence of hunters wanting to watch him leave.

  Henry’s shoulders sagged as the sound of the horses faded into nothing, leaving behind only the growing buzz of hunters jabbering over the puzzle Skavenger had left for them to solve.

  For Henry Babbitt though, Hunter S. Skavenger hadn’t simply left. No, it was far, far more lasting than that.

  Hunter S. Skavenger was gone.

  Henry trudged his way through the still-crowded, still-excited park, even though he didn’t feel the activity in the least. Instead, he found himself feeling something all too familiar.

  He felt alone.

  All right, so . . . what now?

  That was one of, oh, only about a million questions Henry was busy asking himself. His distant eyes were fixed on nothing more than the torn-up turf a few feet in front of him—the shredded papers with misspelled words written on them; the occasional group of hunters running in tandem, seemingly convinced they had the answer to the legendary figure’s first riddle.

  The wild panic he’d felt only an hour ago had faded a little. Not all of it, of course, but a good amount had been dampened by the sobering sight of Skavenger actually seeing him, actually locking eyes with him—only to be followed by the finality of his carriage not stopping or even slowing down.

  Which brought Henry right back to his first question.

  What now?

  He lifted his head, slowing to a stop as he heard two familiar voices squabbling just a short distance in front of him.

  “Come on, pal, hurry it up!” the collar-grabbing boy barked at Ernie, snapping his raggedy green suspenders apparently out of habit. “Look at everyone! They’ve already got it figured out!”

  Ernie glanced up at the hundreds of people pursuing the first clue, which Henry could tell was doing nothing to help the young hunter with his own detective work.

  “Lewis. Clark. 1804,” he said, waiting for something to click. “1804. That’s the year they started their expedition.”

  “Right, right, right. Distant territories, something about new adventures,” the other boy offered, hoping to provide inspiration.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, Jack.” Ernie sounded impatient with himself. “The distant territories of the west.”

  Neither of them had noticed Henry yet.

  Ernie’s pencil tapped over the words as Jack paced back and forth. “Holy smokes, Ern,” he whispered loudly enough that Henry could easily overhear. “If we don’t come up with something right here, right now, we’re gonna be out of this before we ever—”

  “Clark might not be William Clark,” Ernie noted with a sharp tone. “It could be a different Clark. What if he’s Edward Clark?”

  “Who the heck’s Edward Clark?” Jack leaned closer to ask.

  “He’s the guy making all those sewing machines. He had a partner.” Ernie snapped his fingers, trying to place the name. “C’mon, c’mon . . . his name was Ringer, Linger, SINGER! That was it. Singer. They went into business together a few years ago.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  Henry inched closer to listen, neither boy paying a sliver of attention to him.

  “So Edward Clark isn’t only about sewing machines.” Ernie rubbed his forehead. “He’s been building stuff, all these new buildings. They’re all over the city.”

  Ernie looked at his notes, his hat once again threatening to fall from his head. The worried crease between his eyes had grown too tight for Jack�
��s liking—right up until it disappeared.

  “Distant territories!” Ernie shouted as he circled the words. “The ones out west! It’s the Dakota. The Dakota Apartments. He just finished it!”

  Jack fixed Ernie with a skeptical look. “Skavenger put his first clue right here next to Central Park? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Looks that way,” Ernie grinned. Jack clapped him on the back, noticing Henry eavesdropping in the same moment. “Don’t even think about it, pal,” he warned. “You go your way, we’ll go ours.”

  The two boys headed off in the direction of the Dakota as Henry glanced up at the building’s proud gables and steep-pitched roofs, already visible over the park benches edging West 72nd Street.

  It was a place he’d seen countless times before—but not like this.

  Look at it. It’s brand new! They must have just finished it.

  Henry had listened to every word the two boys had just said, which, unfortunately, reminded him that in the chaos of the announcement, he hadn’t taken down a single word of the first puzzle himself. He’d been too busy trying to figure out a way to get to Skavenger.

  Now that he’d missed out on that tiny little detail . . .

  Chief said he’d learned something important about the clues. He and Dad. What was it? The thing he said they discovered about the words. Oh yeah! Right!

  His eyes scoured the ground, searching for a left-behind scrap of paper that might have the puzzle written on it.

  Gotta be one around here somewhere. It’s a long shot, yup, but it is a shot at least. There!

  Henry grabbed a crumpled slip of paper and unwadded it.

  Blank. Nothing.

  Guess it’s more of a really, really long shot. Being as I’m in 18-freaking-85, and I don’t know a single person or anything about the ci—

  Henry whipped his head up. Jack and Ernie were already almost out of earshot and moving quickly.

  “Hey! Wait!” Henry called out to the two boys. Jack and Ernie kept right on going, without even a glance back.

  “I THINK IT COULD BE SOMEWHERE ELSE!” he shouted loudly enough that the two of them, along with about a hundred other hunters, turned to look.