by Sean Easley
4
The Man in the Pin-Striped Suit
Outside the hospital, the cold night air sinks its teeth into me. I wrap my arms around my body, trying to ignore the hiss of the wind and the flutter of the grackles’ wings as they gather in the trees.
A murder of grackles: WWTD number 52.
“Okay,” Nico says as we round the back of the hospital, “here’s the thing: Don’t go asking a bunch of questions. Trust me, there are some things you don’t want to know.”
That doesn’t sound promising. I fold my arms and clutch my sweatshirt tight to guard against the vampiric wind. “Who is this guy we’re meeting, anyway?”
Nico stops at a plain metal door hidden in the shadows. “Someone who knows the Hotel’s secrets.”
“You keep making it sound like the Hotel’s a bad thing.”
He pauses, and the look on his face tells me that might not be too far off.
Nico pulls the peg from its loop on his shirt.
“Hinge-pin,” he says, holding up the peg. Then he raises a separate, gun-shaped device with brass barrels on both the top and bottom of the grip. A little iron spike protrudes from the top of the lower barrel, curled in a shiny spring. “And this is a plug.”
I reach out to touch the smooth brass.
“Pins and plugs are two tools every staffer should be familiar with,” Nico continues, kneeling next to the door. “Hinge-pins—‘pins’ for short—are bound with binding magic to a specific place. When a pin is put in the hinge of a door, it turns that door into a shortcut to the location connected to the pin. Plugs aren’t magic though . . . they’re just a little mechanical tool we use to insert and remove the pins.”
He lines up the plug around the center hinge. The spring-loaded spike fits perfectly underneath. He pulls back the hammer, and . . . flick! The spike punches the original metal pin out, and it clatters to the concrete.
“Just a touch.” Nico spins the wooden peg—his pin—in his fingers. “Now, we install the new pin”—he slides the peg into the hole, flips the plug so the spike faces downward, and hammers the pin into place—“and we have a new door.” He waves his hands like a game show host. “Ta-da!”
The door crackles like it’s charged with electricity.
“Aren’t those kind of pins usually metal?” I ask.
He clucks his tongue and pulls a shiny, silver skeleton key from his pocket. “Hello? This is magic, buddy. Gotta do things a little different.”
Nico sticks the key into the door, just like before. Silvery foam blooms up from the new keyhole as he turns and pulls. The door opens to a deep, cold darkness that’s not at all like the warm, welcoming lobby from before.
I clench my teeth. I do not want to go in there. “This doesn’t look like the Hotel.”
“It’s not,” he says. “Stripe isn’t in the Hotel.”
“I thought you said he knows more about the Hotel than anyone?”
“That doesn’t mean he stays there.”
“But—”
“I told you, it’s complicated. The Hotel isn’t the only place with magic.” He disappears into the dark hall.
I lean over the threshold to see inside. A tiny jolt buzzes in my head, and my ears pop. “It’s so dark,” I say. No response. “Where’d you go?”
“Hey.” Nico’s voice, inches from my face, makes me jump. “Come on. I’ll turn on the lights.”
He shuts the door behind us and flips a switch.
Doors line both sides of the straight, checkerboard-tiled hallway. Scarlet wallpaper with twisting silver designs curls off the walls in sheets, revealing dirty brown beneath. The doors are all the same—simple wood with tarnished brass hinges and crystal handles. There’s at least fifty, extending to a single door at each end of the hallway—one with a swirling, silver M, the other with a crooked, wooden H.
“Follow me, and no matter what, don’t wander off.” He laughs. “Always wanted to say that.” This is not at all what I expected.
Nico marches, shoulders squared and tense, toward the M door.
“What does the M stand for?” I ask.
“Museum,” he says. “Stripe’s Museum is one of the great old Houses, like the Hotel. It uses the same magics and all—like the doors—but it’s got a different purpose. Stripe’s kind of like a . . . curator there. A collector of history. This Corridor is a hidden back door that connects his Museum to the Hotel.”
Hidden? Why would it be hidden?
I stop and press my hand against one of the in-between doors. A shock of static zips through my fingers to my elbow, warm and tingly, like steam from a cup of hot tea. Dad could be on the other side. He could be right there, waiting for me.
I grab the crystal handle, and turn.
The door opens to a riot of flashing lights. Blaring rock music assaults my ears. Neon greens and pinks and yellows and reds scream for attention. “It’s like a giant arcade.”
Nico pulls me back and slams the door. “What are you doing?”
“I—where was that?” I ask as the noise and lights vanish.
“Vegas.” He checks his pocket watch before marching on down the hall.
My shoes squeak on the tile as I jog to keep up. “Las Vegas? Nevada?”
“Yeah.” He points at the doors as we pass. “And that one leads to Baghdad, and Nairobi, and . . . look, we don’t have time for this. Stripe’s waiting.” He leads me to the end of the hall and rests his knuckles on the M door. “He’s a great man, you know. Meeting him . . . it’s a big honor. Don’t mess it up.”
Great, like I needed any more pressure.
Nico knocks, and a boy in a gray suit opens the door.
“Orban,” Nico says, giving him a slight bow.
Orban bows back. He looks a little older than me, but not by much. A big patch of furry hair rests under his right eye like a giant birthmark. “Stripe’s coming,” he says, adjusting his red satin pocket square.
I stand on tiptoes to look past Orban through the door. The hall beyond is carpeted royal blue, and lined with glass cases displaying ancient weapons, pottery, and scrolls of parchment. Paintings and tapestries hang from the walls. The air inside smells sweet, like moldy paper.
At the end of the hall, a man passes through an arch flanked by suits of armor. He’s dressed similar to Orban, in a gray pinstriped suit with a red satin tie and feathery brown hair. The man hobbles with a wooden cane carved to look like a twisted rope, gathered up in a knot where his hand grips it. He leans on the cane with every step.
“Nico!” the man says, holding his free arm wide in greeting as he passes Orban on his way into the Corridor. “So good to see you!”
“You too, Mr. Stripe.” Nico shakes his hand. “Thank you for meeting us.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Mr. Stripe leans in to fake a whisper in Nico’s ear. “I hear we have a development.”
Nico turns to me. “Stripe, this is Cameron. . . .”
“Kuhn,” I finish my name for Nico, before gripping Stripe’s warm hand. “It’s good to meet you.”
“So polite!” Stripe laughs. “You could learn something from him, Nico.”
Nico laughs nervously. “Yes sir, I’m sure I could.”
Stripe motions Orban to shut the door. “So,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder and leading me back down the Corridor, “Nico tells me you’re looking for someone.”
“Yes sir.” It’s hard not to believe this guy can help me find my dad as he squeezes my shoulder encouragingly. There’s something so certain and powerful about him.
“Nico showed me your father’s coin.” Stripe stops and turns me to face him. “I think I am in a very unique position to help you. You see, I knew your father.”
Nico gives me a big grin, and it takes all I’ve got to hold back the burn in my eyes. Don’t get emotional, Cam. Not now.
“Reinhart was a good friend,” Stripe continues. “We worked together. He collected valuable artifacts for my museum. We had plenty of . . . unusual adve
ntures.” He pulls a photo from his breast pocket and hands it to me. “How I’ve missed him these long years.”
I lose myself in the picture. It’s Dad, all right. He’s young—just a few years older than I am now—dressed like Nico was when I first met him. And beside him stands Mr. Stripe, one arm around Dad’s shoulder, tipping his hat with the other.
I trace Dad’s grinning face with my finger. I can’t believe it. It’s all true. “Dad really traveled the world?”
“More than that,” Stripe says. “Your father hopped doors like few others. Never could keep track of him properly. I’d wondered what happened to you and your sister after Melissa . . . ” He trails off.
“It’s okay,” I say, handing the photo back. “I know she’s gone.”
He smiles warmly. “Then surely you know I would do anything for Reinhart Kuhn’s son. Of course I’ll help you.”
A thought niggles at the back of my mind. How do I know this guy wasn’t the one Dad was hiding us from? The one who was chasing him? But that doesn’t seem right. Dad looked so happy in that picture with Stripe. And Stripe’s a museum curator, who Dad worked for and went with on adventures. He doesn’t seem like he’d hurt anyone. What harm could he do, put me to sleep with a boring history lecture? And I need help. I’m never going to be able to get Dad back without them.
Stripe claps his warm hand on my shoulder again. “Are you okay, my boy?” The way he says the words “my boy” makes me melt. I always imagined Dad calling me that. Good job, my boy. I’m proud of you, my boy.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s just a lot to take in. I mean, thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Stripe says in a serious tone. “You don’t know what I’m about to ask you to do.”
I look to Nico, who gives me a shrug.
“This isn’t easy business.” Stripe leans close to whisper confidentially in my ear. “Only the Hotel can reveal what happened to Reinhart. Which means someone bound to him must go there to find out.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
Stripe points to my necklace. “The answer’s right there, around your neck.” He straightens up, leaning on his cane once more. “Let me guess: You’ve recently had dreams. Dreams of doors that lead to places you’ve never been. Of banquets and—”
“And trees?”
Stripe smiles. “You have!”
“What do they mean?”
“It’s the coin.” Stripe says. “That coin was bound to your father. Objects bound to a person contain a piece of them. The Museum is full of such artifacts. Like owning a piece of people who existed long ago. Their memories and dreams. That coin is a key—the key to Reinhart’s memories from his days working at The Hotel Between.”
“Dad . . . worked there too?”
“Yes. And the Hotel was his downfall.” Stripe takes a slow breath. “The Hotel guards its secrets well. It’s why I asked him to go inside and bring its secrets back to the Museum. But Reinhart was deceived by the promises of the Hotel. He couldn’t see how it would destroy him. In the end I tried to save him, but I . . . failed.”
I gulp. “What happened to him?”
“Only the coin can answer that.” Stripe draws me close. “The coin always wants to return to its owner. But not just anyone can access his memories. Only those bound to him by blood—his family—can learn Reinhart’s secrets.”
I grip Dad’s coin tight. So Oma was right, there is something special about it.
Stripe leads me to the door at the far end of the Corridor, with the crooked letter H. “ ‘The Vacation of Your Dreams,’ they call it. Ha! If only those who stayed in the Hotel knew how they were manipulated—”
“Sir,” Nico says, “are we really taking him . . . inside?”
Stripe grits his teeth. “I’m afraid so.”
“What’s so bad about that?” I ask.
“I would think you of all people would know the answer to this,” Stripe says. “Many enter those doors, but not all return. And many who are invited end up . . . changed.”
I shudder. “Why? What does the Hotel do to them?”
Nico joins me at the door. “The mission of the Hotel is its most closely guarded secret,” he says. “Even those who know can’t share.”
Stripe looks down at me, eyes sparkling. “Mr. Cameron, I want to know what happened to your father too. He was my friend, and I failed him.” He touches the coin at my neck. “You came to me for help, but it’s your help we need. Will you brave the Hotel to find your father?”
I hesitate. “If it’s so dangerous . . . ”
“It’s only dangerous if you get taken in by the Hotel’s sheen. What happened to Reinhart happened because he got distracted. Focus on finding your father, and you’ll be fine.” Stripe places a hand on Nico’s shoulder. “Besides, you will have friends—allies—like Nico here. He’ll introduce you to those you can trust.” He looks long and hard at the boy who brought me to him. “You will take care of Cameron, won’t you?”
Nico bows. “Yes sir.”
“Good.” Stripe gives me a pleading smile. “Son, are you up for this challenge?”
“I—of course.” I smile back, struggling to contain the emotion bursting from my chest like some alien in the movies. Death by exploding-chest-alien . . . not really one I want on the list, I don’t think.
Stripe places a hand over his heart. “I am so glad to hear it. We may save Reinhart after all.”
• • •
Nico and I step through the door to the Hotel, leaving Mr. Stripe behind to return to his Museum. The smell of dust and paint remover washes over me as soon as Nico closes the door.
The cramped, short hall on the other side is littered with junk. Dirty shelves covered with rusty tools and paint cans. Rolling tray tables with broken wheels. Cobwebs hang from every dim, gray corner, giving the alcove a creepy, horror-movie feel.
“It looks like a janitor’s closet,” I say.
“Well duh.” Nico weaves his way through the junk. “Can’t exactly walk through the front and say, ‘Hey, looking for my missing dad. Seen him?’ We’ve got to sneak you in.”
“I just thought the Hotel would be . . . friendlier than this.”
“It is. Mira, there are two sides to the Hotel. The lobby you saw before was part of the facade. Front-of-house stuff. Staff keeps the facade shiny and clean and warm for the guests.” He waves a hand. “These are the back halls. The dingier parts. It ain’t glamorous, but at least down here the Alcove Door stays secret.”
I glance back at the door to the Corridor, filing it away as the Alcove Door.
“You will keep it secret, right?” Nico says, grabbing my shoulders. “No matter what, you won’t tell anyone about the Corridor?”
“Who would I tell?”
“Things tend to go wrong in the Hotel.” He looks over my shoulder, as if making sure the door’s still there. “You should consider this hostile territory now.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “Really, though, what’ll happen to us if we’re caught?”
“We get the beef.”
I picture a herd of stampeding cows trampling us underfoot. I know that’s not what he means, but it would sure be an awful entry to the list.
Nico leads the way around the corner and under a wooden arch. A snapping sound pops in my ears as we pass from grungy linoleum into a hall of ancient, pockmarked stone and tamped earth. Caged vintage bulbs tinge the crumbling walls with warm yellow light. The smell of dust and damp makes me cough. If there ever was a place where greedy spirits stole kids, this would be it.
“Who is he, anyway?” I ask as we pass under another archway. “Stripe, I mean.”
“I told you, Stripe’s the Curator. He collects magic from all over the world, and displays it in his Museum.”
“But why? And what does that have to do with the Hotel?”
Nico shrugs. “Why not? If you’d known all your life that magic existed, wouldn’t you collect it too?”
�
�I guess.” I try to piece it together. “But museums don’t typically just take things they want, do they?”
“It’s not just taking things.” he says, continuing down the dark hall. “The Hotel has some grand ideas about what’s good and what’s not. It seems all right and all, but a lot goes on behind the scenes. Stuff that’d make your nose hairs curl. That’s why you need to leave all that what’s-the-Hotel-up-to to me and Sev, who you’ll meet in a bit. That’s our job. Yours is to find out what that coin says about your dad. Do that, and we might make it out of here with our bindings intact.”
As we round another dusty corner, I can’t help but think something’s off about the layout of this place. Like one of those brain-melting optical illusions where stairs lead to nowhere and halls turn in on themselves. The passage splits like tines of a fork under three wooden arches, with a wall between each. But as we enter the far right hall, it curves left and through the others. Windows that should look into the adjacent passages instead overlook rolling hills, as if the other halls didn’t exist.
“The halls cross but never touch,” I wonder out loud. “How can they both be in the same space?”
“The Hotel’s just a mishmash of places magically stitched together. These halls look like they’re in the same place, but like I said earlier, you’re actually moving from one spot on the globe to another with each arch or door.”
We spiral down a staircase that should take us below ground level, but when we pass through the next arch the windows show us being higher than before. Sunny hills give way to snowy mountains. We cross another threshold, and the snow turns to rocky desert.
“So, the Hotel isn’t just one building?”
“Nope,” Nico says. “The Hotel is everywhere. A lobby in Dubai, guest rooms in Naples . . . most of our closets are somewhere in Portugal, I think. Even these back halls are hidden under sections of the Great Wall of China.”
“That’s why they look so old.”
“Yep.” He leans to look through the window. “And it’s why you’ve gotta stick with me. The back halls are a labyrinth. Last thing we need is you running into a maid.”
I trace the stones with my fingers as we walk. The Great Wall of China. Cass would love this. When I get back and tell her . . .
