Skavenger's Hunt

by Mike Rich

  Grand Central Station had that amazing ceiling that looked like it belonged in Italy somewhere. It had the “Whispering Gallery” over by the Oyster Bar—where the acoustics did this funny thing where you could whisper something on one side of the room and someone else would hear it way off in a faraway corner. And that wasn’t even bringing up the legendary brass clock that was worth about a gazillion dollars.

  As far as Henry could tell, about the only thing Grand Central Depot had in common with the not-even-built-yet Grand Central Station was that they were in the same exact spot.

  Also, the smoky stench had reached a new peak here. There were steam trains all over the place—and steam trains, Henry had now learned, used coal. Lots and lots of coal. He could have sworn at one point that ash was actually falling from the sky.

  Horse crap everywhere, ash blizzards, stray dogs doing what they gotta do . . . ugh.

  Ernie had also told him during the walk that the Depot had been built a good while back by Cornelius Vanderbilt, and that it had been a smart investment for the New York rail tycoon because he was just that: a New York rail tycoon. In a word, the railroad business was booming.

  After Vanderbilt died a few years back, his grandson took over the family biz and decided that the Depot—while really, really big . . . and smoky—was hopelessly undersized given the crush of passengers using it every day.

  So, plans were now in the works for a new terminal—Grand Central Station—the one Henry knew so well from his time.

  There were two other things Henry had learned in the last hour. He discovered the first, very important, piece of information when they’d arrived at the Depot, and he’d checked the ledger sheet in his coat pocket.

  The first destination line still held the ghostly-inscribed entry of Central Park, New York, while the line below had since been filled with Telephone Exchange, Hell’s Kitchen, New York, and the third line now read Grand Central Depot, New York.

  His eyes went back to Skavenger’s message at the very top.

  . . . when the final empty box of this sheet is full, so ends your adventure. Whatever the date and location, there you will stay. Forever.

  Luckily, a good number of empty ledger boxes remained. Whether Henry could find his way to Skavenger before the last one was filled, he didn’t have a clue—which, as it turned out, was the second thing he’d learned: the clue itself. The one Ernie and Jack were arguing about right now across the street from the Depot’s main entrance—the highlight of which was a massive and spectacular clock directly above the words NEW YORK & HARLEM R. R.

  “Listen to it again, Jack, okay?” Ernie suggested, his finger aimed at the huge Victorian-framed timepiece as Henry walked closer.

  “I don’t need to!” Jack replied, snapping his suspenders. His patience looked to be long since gone.

  “Well, you’re gonna listen, to the important stuff at least,” Ernie snapped back, holding his journal with one hand while pointing with the other—a pose that made him look like a southern preacher.

  “GRAND! TIME! TRACK!” he continued with his sermon, popping the journal shut. “Grand Central Depot! The clock! The track for New York and Harlem. The track to his own heart, Jack! It’s all right here!”

  “That’s not the only thing that’s here.” Jack shook his head. Now it was his turn to point: at the impromptu gathering of about a dozen fellow citizens of New York, or fellow citizens of the hunt, all of whom had apparently made the same phone call to Skavenger that the three boys had made earlier, along with making the same exact guess about the Depot.

  Right now those dozen or so hunters were searching everywhere from the horse carriage valet to the street-side benches. They were trying—and failing miserably—to look discreet.

  One pathetic guy had even placed a ladder against the brick facing of the entrance, an easy fifty feet below the clock’s face, but much closer to the street-level cop patiently tapping his baton between two of the rungs.

  Whoa . . . that’s a cop? The one with the big ears and the funny-lookin’ hat, carrying a baton? I thought those kind of cops were only in London.

  “Okay.” Ernie was busy sheepishly conceding Jack’s point. “So a lot of folks are thinkin’ the same thing, I’ll give you that.”

  “Thaaaaanks, Ern,” Jack stretched the word out, probably to make sure he didn’t lose any of the intended sarcasm. He glanced up at the clock itself, and Henry caught himself doing the same.

  It was 7:40 p.m. Already startin’ to get dark. And Skavenger’s riddle said we only have till midnight.

  Jack let out a deep breath and walked over to Henry. “What do you think, Babbitt?” he asked. “Got any ideas?”

  “You mean like somethin’ besides the clock?”

  “Yeah I mean somethin’ besides the clock!” Jack rolled his eyes at him now. “If you think the clock’s right, speak up. If you think it’s somethin’ else, we wanna hear that too. We’ll try and figure out where else it might be.”

  The gas lamps closest to the Depot were now flickering, ready for the night ahead. For the shortest of seconds, Henry caught himself thinking of the candles back in Chief’s study—the dozen or so he always kept there, lighting each of them the second the sun dipped out of view through the window. In Henry’s mind, those candles were the centerpiece of a room that had plenty of contenders for that title.

  “Babbitt?” Jack dropped his head a bit so he could look Henry straight in the eye. It didn’t even register.

  The flames. In the old man’s study.

  Something was once again nagging at Henry. It was a feeling that had been bothering him ever since Ernie first read the clue back in the Kitchen. The reason he hadn’t said anything then was because he didn’t know what the “something” was.

  But . . .

  The flickering streetlights across the way.

  Chief’s study.

  ’Kay.

  Candles.

  All right, sooooo?

  Back home.

  “Babbitt.” Jack snapped his fingers an inch away from Henry’s eyes. “Ideas? Got any?”

  Not yet, hang on. Okay, back up a second—what is it about the clue that you’re sure about?

  “The track to his own heart . . .” Henry blinked and quietly said, not sure where the thought might take him.

  “What about the heart?” Ernie asked as he moved closer. Across the street, the cop was still rattling his baton inside the ladder rungs, only with more gusto this time.

  “Yo, pally!” the beat cop yelled up at the ever-scaling hunter. “Down! Now! You wanna climb up to a big clock? Go to London!” The crowd around him broke into laughter.

  See what I mean? London! I knew I was righ—

  Jack moved between Henry and the circus across the street—probably to make sure nothing distracted him, as clearly it just had. His eyes went back to the streetlamps. Warm and . . .

  The heart . . . the heart is where the home—no, no, it’s not that. It’s the other way around, right?

  Henry scrunched his brow. “The home is where the . . .”

  His voice fell silent. He barely heard the sudden cheers in front of the Depot, where the beat cop’s words finally had convinced the clock-climber to start heading back down.

  “Where the what, Henry?” Ernie quietly nudged him.

  “The man who follows the track to . . . to . . . TO HIS OWN HEART!”

  That’s it!

  “Home is where the HEART IS!” Henry’s eyes grew bright. “IT’S VANDERBILT!” he shouted. “It’s gotta be Vanderbilt. I think we’ve got game on here!”

  Jack clamped his hand over Henry’s mouth, angrily whispering to him, “Holy smokes, Babbitt! What are you, the town crier? And what the heck does ‘game on’ mean? You think that’s what this whole thing is? A game?”

  Jack looked around to make sure no one had overheard anything before turning back to quietly ask, “Now, what do you mean, it’s Vanderbilt?”

  Henry couldn’t get the words ou
t quickly enough. “The man who follows the track to his own heart. Ernie, you were right. I mean, not completely right, but close to right.”

  “Shhhh,” Jack had to remind him.

  But Henry was already plowing ahead. “The only reason the word ‘track’ is in there is to throw everyone off.” He nodded toward the dozen hunters across the street and the British-bobby-looking New York cop. “That’s what Skavenger wanted to do, but it’s the rest of it that’s the real clue!”

  He stopped to catch his breath. “A man’s heart is his home. Vanderbilt’s home! Once there, we’re supposed to seek out the greatest of these, right?”

  Ernie had to admit, “Well, Vanderbilt’s home is pretty great. It’s one of the mansions on 5th Avenue. Bigger than most of the buildings in the whole city.”

  Henry nodded and picked up right where he’d left off. “There your journey shall be unlocked, but only by a second! And only before midnight!”

  “Which,” Ernie shook his head and admitted, “makes no sense to me. I get that we gotta solve it by midnight or we might be out of this whole thing, but . . . our journey’s gonna be unlocked? And only by a second? What’s that mean? One second before midnight?”

  Henry’s breathing had calmed down a little, but his excitement was still running high. He turned to Ernie. “You told me Vanderbilt died a few years ago. Who lives there now?”

  “His grandson does,” Jack said with what sounded like a fresh supply of impatience. “Do you even live in this city, Babbitt? Everybody knows that.”

  “Just . . . just . . . tell me his name,” Henry demanded.

  “Vanderbilt’s grandson?” Even Ernie’s tone of voice was now moving into Jack territory. “You mean the grandson who owns this Depot right here? Who owns every railroad in town? That grandson? Yeah, his name would be Cornelius Vanderbilt the Sec—”

  Ernie’s voice slammed to a stop. Frantically he dug his hand into his pocket for the journal, his fingers finding the clue quicker than he expected.

  “There your journey shall be unlocked,” he read, shaking his head at the words to follow. “But only by a second.”

  The three boys looked at each other, not wanting to jinx anything with a smile.

  “You”—Jack looked toward Ernie—“keep your voice down. And you”—he turned to Henry—“you really keep your voice down.”

  TEN

  The Mansions of 5th Avenue

  HENRY GUESSED IT was a little after 9:30 p.m. by the time the boys reached Vanderbilt’s neighborhood—a neighborhood where not one of them fit in, given the look of their shabby clothes and the gaudy structures all around them.

  It was actually darker than Henry figured it might be. The towering streetlights sprayed tight, perfect circles of dim light onto the ground, but those circles were surrounded by even larger patches of sheer darkness.

  This whole neighborhood should be dark, he thought to himself. Every mansion here’s so big, there’s no way you could ever light up any one of ’em. Do all these guys own railroads?

  Saying the colossal mansions were “grand” was kind of like saying St. Patrick’s Cathedral was a “nice little church.” These houses were seriously spectacular—each designed and built to be slightly more spectacular than the next. And just as Ernie had suggested, the “grandest of these” was the one belonging to Cornelius Vanderbilt the Second.

  The mansion took up an entire city block. It was four stories high with amazingly designed gables that reached even higher. Sturdy marble decking wrapped all around most of the second level, with porthole windows providing just enough light. Not too much, not too little. And the stonework was like nothing Henry had ever seen before. It put the so-called mansions from his own time to shame.

  Henry, Jack, and Ernie had set up shop in the darkest patch of sidewalk they could find, which was helpful, because of the lone policeman walking the sidewalk a half block away.

  At first glance, Henry thought he looked like a slightly better-dressed version of the cop at the Depot. He wore a rounded hat, a crisp dark coat with four buttons, and bright white gloves; very appropriate for the area he was patrolling.

  Right now, though, the only thing Henry was thinking about was that the cop was walking toward them.

  The policeman stopped mid-stride at a nearby corner, cocking his head toward the thirty-foot-tall oak tree the boys were hiding behind. The night air had fallen completely still.

  “Nobody move,” Ernie whispered an unnecessary warning as the officer strolled into the street that separated them, looking in one direction, then turning to look in another, before finally choosing to look straight in their direction.

  For way, way too long.

  If it hadn’t been for the sound of someone else’s footsteps a block away, Henry was pretty sure they would have been spotted. The policeman gave one more long look before slowly wandering off to see who was walking in the darkness behind him.

  “Well?” Ernie asked after the cop had disappeared around the corner. “Is he gone?”

  “I think so,” Jack replied.

  It was right then that a nearly imperceptible sound caught Henry’s attention from up above. Jack and Ernie seemed to have noticed it as well, considering that they were both looking up into the tree. The only thing they could see up there, though, were branches and oak leaves. And all they could hear was the sound of the policeman’s steady, but now fading, footsteps.

  Must have been the wind. Had to be the wind. Or a squirrel, maybe. Sure. Could be a squirre—

  Creeeaaaak.

  Okay, so maybe a really big squirrel. Could be a cat. Cats go up trees all the time.

  Creak . . . crrrrr . . . scruuufff . . . thhhhh . . .

  With the quietest whisper in the history of quiet whispers, Henry meekly suggested to both Jack and Ernie, “Y’know, maybe we should just try and find a new tree to hide behind.”

  “Good idea. You want to go ask that cop for a recommendation?” Jack’s voice was somehow even quieter.

  Good point.

  Whatever it was, Henry knew it was right up in the tree, only a few feet above them. Even though he couldn’t see anything.

  The moonlight, what little there was of it, wasn’t much help. Had they been lucky enough to have a full moon, it probably would’ve helped that curious cop more than it was helping them right—

  The something moved again.

  Something large.

  A light breeze blew and the leaves rustled enough to reveal a dark shape holding on to the biggest of the lower branches. Until . . .

  Crack!

  Henry’s heart thumped loudly. At least he thought it was loud. So loud he didn’t think he’d be able to hear anything else because of it. Jack shot him a look and silently mouthed, “What is wrong with you?”

  Henry shook his head and pointed up to the shape above them.

  Scuuuuffff . . .

  Chuh . . . chuh . . .

  Craaaaaaaaaack . . .

  Whatever-it-was-up-in-the-tree was now slipping and falling fast, frantically reaching for every branch on its quick trip to the ground.

  Kuh-thumppppp!

  The something landed right in front of the three boys. Even though it was dark, Henry could see the something was a “who,” not a “what,” and the who was wearing a cape. A cape draped over the shoulders of someone scrambling to his feet to run away.

  Henry felt Jack shove him out of the way, catching just enough of the silhouette’s heel to trip him up.

  “Ummmmphhh!” The figure hit the ground again, and Jack was on him in a heartbeat.

  “Oh no, no, no! You’re not goin’ anywhere, pal.” Jack rolled the runaway onto his back and demanded, “Not until you tell us what—”

  Jack whipped back the cape’s hood, and all three looked into the frightened, wincing face of a young girl.

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she cried out, then held her breath, unsure of what might happen next.

  A girl? Is that a girl?
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  “What the heck?” Jack sat back on his heels. “What . . . you . . . ? Up there in the tree? You were up there watchin’ us the whole time?”

  “I wasn’t watching you,” the girl answered defensively, getting up on her own and wiping the dirt off her black knee-length dress, covering a pair of equally dark pants. “I was waiting for you to leave.” She pulled an oak leaf off her cape and flicked it to the ground to help make her point.

  “Huh,” Ernie said as he smiled and scratched his head. “Whatta ya know?”

  “Hi,” the girl said, having noticed Henry.

  “Hi,” he said back to her.

  “You almost broke our necks just now. You know that, dontcha?” Jack still looked upset. “Whatta ya even doin’ around here? All by yourself?”

  “What are you doin’ around here?”

  “I asked you first,” Jack countered.

  “Same thing you are, I’m guessing.” She shrugged. She looked to be thirteen or so, maybe the same height as Henry, with freckles that were framed by long, curly hair that was brownish but closing in on light red. A few strands, but not all of them, fell halfway down her back, suggesting she may have cut it herself. “Track to his own heart? Greatest of these?” she stated matter-of-factly. “You prob’ly have that much figured out if you’re in this neighborhood. Not that you don’t look like you might own one of these shacks.”

  Ernie broke into a smile.

  “Ernie Samuels.” He held out his hand. “This is Henry. That’s Jack.”

  “Mattie,” she replied, wiping off her right hand before taking each of theirs. “Mattie McGillin. Nice to meet most of you,” she pointedly said to Jack.

  “Yeah, you too.” He nodded dismissively, before turning to Henry and Ernie. “All right, let’s go.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Mattie shook her head, then scratched the side of her button nose. “You really think I’m just gonna stand around until the three of you are done lookin’? I was here before you! And there’s a midnight deadline, remember?”

  Jack put his hands on his hips. “What? Ya think ’cause you’re a girl ya get to go first?” he asked.