Fire the Depths

by Peter Lerangis

  “Verne was a famous guy,” Max said, his fingers reaching for the keyboard. “So his friends were probably famous too.”

  As he searched the name Bartholdi, Alex leaned over his shoulder, waiting to see the search hits.

  “‘Bartholdi, Frédéric-Auguste, architect/sculptor,’” Max read. “It’s a last name!”

  He clicked on Images, and Alex let out a deafening whoop.

  Max stared at a giant image of Bartholdi’s factory from the late eighteen hundreds. Where he was building the Statue of Liberty.

  “His lady lived on the water,” Alex said with a smile. “In New York Harbor.”

  “I should have known this—we visited there!” He pointed to the refrigerator photo of his family at the giant statue.

  “Well, buddy, looks like we’re going back!” Alex said.

  “We can’t. I have school.”

  “We’ll only be gone for a few days. A week at most. How much can you miss?” Alex turned and pulled the photo off the fridge. Max was a couple of years younger, grinning from ear to ear and proudly showing off a T-shirt with the words NEW YORK CITY. “Look how happy you are here. New York is cool. It’ll be an adventure.” She drew a big star over the words “New York City” and a flurry of exclamation points.

  “What are we supposed to do when we get there—ask around for a treasure?”

  Alex glanced at the translation again. “‘ . . . the portion of the voyage as traced out by Srem Sel Suos Seueil Ellim Tgniv.’ That’s the part in the other language. I don’t know . . . use Google Translate?”

  Max typed the words quickly into the Detect Language box. “Just spits back the same thing.”

  “On the way, we’ll figure out what the rest means. We’ll have nine or ten hours.”

  “I feel very uncomfortable about this,” Max said.

  “First thing tomorrow,” Alex said, “we head for the Big Apple!”

  Before he could protest, she wrapped him in her arms. He couldn’t say much, even think of much, when he was overwhelmed by the scent of sweaty feet.

  When the doorbell rang, Max was asleep in his bedroom with his head in his backpack. He hadn’t meant to doze off, but the change of clothes was so soft and comfy. He jolted awake and checked his watch. 10:15 p.m.

  “I’ll get it!” he cried out to Alex, who was somewhere in the house gathering some supplies for their trip. “It’s probably Smriti! I texted her we were going. She said she’d come say good-bye!”

  Max quickly checked his pack to make sure Vulturon was tucked in there. He’d designed it to fold up to the size of a thick book. Hooking the pack over his shoulder, he raced down to the door and yanked it open.

  It wasn’t Smriti. This was, in fact, the un-Smritiest person he had ever seen. In an instant the fish smell was back, big time. Tinged with a little ammonia.

  A tall, smiling white guy stood on the porch, wearing a black jacket, gray pants, and extremely shiny shoes. His face was tanned to a deep bronze, his fingernails shone, and his teeth were as even and white as piano keys. A streak of silver ran down the middle of his shoe-polish black hair, and he gave a small bow. “I am looking for the chest belonging to Jules Verne,” he said.

  “Hi!” Alex called out, pushing Max aside. “Come in! Come in! You caught us just in time. We’re going away tomorrow morning!”

  The man stepped inside. Behind him, a black Mercedes van idled by the curb. Max knew by the shape of the taillights that it was brand-new.

  Inside, a man whose face was bandaged like a mummy sat at the steering wheel. His two small eyes peered out from within the bandages, and Max felt a shiver run up his spine.

  “Bring in your partner!” Alex said cheerily.

  Max could see the man stiffen. He turned to the car, made eye contact, and snapped his fingers.

  The bandaged man pushed open the car door and nearly fell out in his eagerness.

  “His name is Rudolph,” the skunk-haired man said. “And he guides my sleigh.”

  12

  MAX watched the man peer inside the old chest, and for some weird reason he saw himself slamming the top down on his head.

  He had to get a hold of himself. They were just . . . people.

  The man was taking his time, as if inspecting every grain of wood. “Pretty cool, isn’t it?” Alex called out from the kitchen.

  “Pretty empty, isn’t it?” the man growled.

  “There’s a trapdoor,” Max piped up. “You can put stuff in the bottom.”

  Skunky stood up instantly. “Oh?”

  “Here we go!” Alex walked into the living room holding two glasses of water. She set them down on the coffee table in front of the men. “Let me know if it tastes funky. It was nearly black after the electricity came back on, but I think most of the microbes are gone.”

  Rudolph grabbed the glass of grayish-brown water and slugged it down, but Fix waved it aside with a sneer. “May I ask if you happened to have found anything beneath this . . . er, trapdoor?”

  “Y—” Max began.

  “No!” Alex elbowed him in the side. “Nothing. But just imagine the possibilities. You could have secure storage of your treasured valuables, Mr. . . .”

  “Fix,” he said, training his eyes on Max. “So which is it, yes or no?”

  The man reached out and patted him on the head as if he were a pet. Max recoiled, gasping. He felt himself sliding down out of his chair. He didn’t stop until he was on the floor, hiding under the coffee table.

  Max knew he was supposed to be polite to visitors and respectful to all adults. But there was something about this guy.

  “What’s with Junior?” Rudolph mumbled.

  “He doesn’t like to be touched,” Alex said cheerily.

  “Of course,” Fix said. “And neither do I.”

  “We take cash and money orders, no credit cards,” Alex said. “Sorry to be in a hurry, but we have to go. On . . . vacation.”

  Max pulled himself into a tiny ball under the table, small as he could get, invisible to the adults. All he could see were feet now. He couldn’t help but notice that for all of Fix’s neatness, his shoelaces were loose. In fact, one of them was nearly untied.

  Max smiled. Growing up, he had spent a lot of dinners under the table like this. And he’d gotten really good at pranks.

  He reached toward Fix’s shoelace.

  “I propose an even better deal,” Fix said, taking a tightly rolled wad of twenty-dollar bills out of his pocket. “Now, I admit I may be asking for the impossible. And I don’t mean to be rude. But if—just if—anything were inside this hidden compartment, I would certainly offer a great deal of money for it. Say, a thousand dollars.”

  “Really?” Alex exclaimed, taking the money to examine.

  “Two thousand,” Fix said. “There’s another thousand waiting once we get it in the car.”

  “Two grand is a lot for a kid,” Rudolph mumbled.

  Fix turned his foot and jabbed Rudolph with the point of his shoe. As the bandaged man squealed in pain, Max pulled his hand away.

  “I—I—” Alex stammered. “That’s very generous!”

  “I know,” Fix said. “I have a weakness for children.”

  “But like I said, there was nothing in the chest at all. So thank you for the generous offer . . .”

  “Nothing? Really?” Fix purred.

  “R-R-Really,” Alex replied.

  “Do I detect nervousness, little lady?” Fix leaned back in his chair, idly crossing his ankles. “Because if you are keeping anything from us, we may have to take action.”

  Rudolph snorted. “Right. Action.”

  “Did you just call me ‘little lady’?” Alex said.

  The feet were still again. The men were inches away from each other.

  Perfect.

  Quickly Max untied Fix’s shoes and then tied them to each other. Rudolph’s shoelaces were a little tighter, but he managed to loosen them and tied his feet together too. Leaving one lace free, he tied Rudol
ph to Fix.

  Stifling a giggle, he slid back to his chair and emerged from below the table. “I feel better now.”

  Fix stared at him. His features softened. “Good lad,” he said. “Your cousin and I have reached a bit of an impasse.”

  “I didn’t know imps had them,” Max said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Fix replied.

  “Asses,” Max said. “Which is what you’re about to feel like.”

  “Max?” Alex said.

  Max pushed back his chair and began running to the door. “Let’s go, Alex! Now!”

  The two men jumped up from the table. As Rudolph turned toward the door, his foot pulled on the tied laces. Fix let out a scream. He fell straight back onto the sofa, upsetting a pile of papers. Both men tumbled to the carpet, cursing at the top of their lungs. “My Italian silk shirt is ripped!” Fix shrieked.

  As Alex bolted out of her seat, Rudolph stood and lunged for her. Max ran to her side, but Alex snatched her backpack off the floor. “And the little lady takes a big swing!” she announced, whapping the big man in his bandaged face.

  Rudolph recoiled with a howl of pain. But his reflexes were quick enough to wrap one beefy hand around Max’s throat. “One of you will suffer for this.”

  “Rudolph, what are you doing—this is a child!” Fix shouted.

  The skunk-haired man yanked on Rudolph’s foot. The big man released Max and lost his balance, falling to the floor. His head smacked against the solid-steel edge of the Tilts’ coffee table.

  Max was free. Alex pulled him toward the door.

  “Hasta la vista!” he called over his shoulder.

  On his way Max stooped to grab his backpack too, then he followed Alex out the door and into the night. A few paces ahead of him, she was headed for the Kia with her key in one hand.

  With the other hand, she stuffed Fix’s money in her pocket.

  13

  HUMILIATED wasn’t the word for it.

  In fact, there was no word for this wretched and wretchedly beautiful feeling that had overcome Spencer Niemand.

  Shoelaces! It was so simple as to be brilliant. He let out a soft, barking laugh as he paced the living room. On the sofa, Rudolph lay splayed among the papers, out cold after knocking his thick head against a coffee table.

  Did the boy know that the shoelace material was from the secretions of a rare silk moth from Uzbekistan? That by toppling the two men, he had ruined a shirt that cost more than the yearly paycheck of dear old Rudolph?

  Of course not. Max was a child.

  And Spencer Niemand had a soft spot for children. So innocent. So impulsive. So many dreams.

  He knew about dreams.

  Niemand held up his left hand to the ceiling light. He’d lost the pinkie finger when he was the age of the Tilt boy. It happened in the office of Oliver Niemand, his father, because little Spencer had been operating equipment he’d had no business touching. But touch he did. Go ahead, the elder Niemand had said. You think you’re so smart? At the memory, Spencer Niemand winced. He could see his father’s mocking face later that day as Spencer lay in a hospital bed. Why so sad? You still got nine more, don’tcha, boy? That’s what you get for playing with things you’re too stupid to operate.

  Dear Mum had wrapped the severed finger in tissue and brought it home. She’d had a plaster cast made in the finger’s shape, which Niemand now wore around his neck on a sterling-silver chain. It became his best friend. His reminder of the past. His muse.

  Dear little Kissums.

  Spencer Niemand lifted Kissums to his lips. The old man was gone now, and Niemand Enterprises was his. In his world, he would make sure children could dream and dream big.

  But, of course, they could not stand in his way.

  Passing by the cheap, ratty sofa, he kicked Rudolph’s legs back up onto the cushions. He checked his phone but there were no messages from the office. Tracking a decrepit, old red Kia should not be too hard with the resources of his company. But it would be a lot easier if he had some idea—some clue—of their direction.

  He would give Rudolph five more minutes. The old soldier had coffee burns on his face and a head injury—a rough day.

  Walking into the kitchen, Niemand stopped short. Leaning down, he picked something up off the table.

  A photograph. The boy and two attractive adults, who must have been his parents. They were standing in front of the Statue of Liberty. Circled in red were the words “New York City.”

  The red marker lay next to the photo. The circle, apparently, had just been drawn.

  A grin grew slowly across Niemand’s face. He whipped out his phone and called headquarters. “Yes, Mr. Niemand,” a voice chirped.

  “Alert every station, position every satellite on major roads between this location and New York City. Red Kia, at least ten years old, driver a dark-skinned female approximately eighteen, passenger a Caucasian or Latino boy of around thirteen, left these premises forty-five minutes ago.”

  “On it,” the voice replied.

  Spencer Niemand hung up the phone, grabbed a glass from a cupboard, and yanked open the freezer. A foul, rotten smell blasted outward, and he grabbed a few yellowish lumps of ice. Dumping the ice in the glass, he filled it with water.

  The thought of drinking it turned his stomach. But this glass was not intended for him.

  “Rise and shine—time to go!” he called out, walking into the living room.

  He emptied the glass onto Rudolph’s head and headed for the front door.

  14

  MAX was in no mood to die that day. Or to be stopped by the police. Both of which seemed equally likely given the way Alex was driving.

  “Slow down!” Max said, managing to crane his neck to look out the back window. “Those guys are nowhere near us.”

  “This is always how I drive when two strangers have just viciously attacked me for a note about a secret treasure!” Alex snapped.

  Max rolled down the window and tried to gulp in fresh air. Alex yanked the steering wheel onto the entrance to the State Highway. At this hour of the night, traffic was pretty sparse. Alex’s eyes darted toward the rearview mirror, and she began taking deep, slow breaths. “Sorry. I should slow down—and I should say thank you. You saved us, Max.”

  “Did you see the way they fell down?” Max said.

  “‘My Italian silk shirt!’” Alex shouted.

  Max snorted, which made Alex cackle. And then they were both laughing so hard, she nearly drove off the road. “How much did he give you?” Max asked.

  “Count it,” she said, pulling a stack of twenties out of her pocket.

  Max quickly tallied up the total. “Two hundred sixty. He lied to us. He said it was a thousand.”

  “So he’s a cheapskate too—on top of being a liar and a thief.” Alex groaned. “Anyway, we have all night. Literally. I am too wired to go to sleep. My tablet’s in my backpack. Read that message again.”

  Max loosened his seatbelt, spun around, and grabbed the tablet from her pack. As he swung back to his seat, he glanced at the message:

  the portion of voyage as traced out by Srem Sel Suos Seueil Ellim Tgniv

  “Okay, we’re ruling out another language,” Max said. “So I’m thinking it’s a code.”

  Alex nodded. “A substitution thing? Like a is really b and b is really c . . .”

  “Maybe,” Max said. “Or a word scramble?”

  “What does it say backward?” Alex asked.

  “Vingt . . . mille . . .” Max said, sounding it out. “Nothing.”

  Alex jammed on the brakes, drove onto the shoulder, and stopped the car. “That’s not nothing! Give me that.”

  As she took the tablet, Max looked nervously at the passing traffic. “Vingt Mille Lieues Sous Les Mers . . .” she said. “That’s it, Max! That’s the title of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea in French!”

  “Okay, so what does it tell us?” Max said. “We trace out the route he took in the book?”

  “Ex
actly!” Alex agreed.

  “Where did the voyage start?” Max asked.

  Alex’s face fell. “Japan, I think. Or close to it. The hero is shipwrecked, and that’s where he’s captured and forced into the submarine.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. All that stuff about the Statue of Liberty. He’s telling us New York, not Japan.” Max stared at the words. He imagined a world map. Then imagined a line tracing their route—starting in Japan, streaming across the ocean . . . “Alex, where did the voyage end?”

  “I’m thinking . . .” she said. “The captain of the Nautilus was this show-offy egomaniac. He takes this crazy route from the Pacific to the Atlantic, up through the Mediterranean, veering west, south, north . . .”

  “Was New York City anywhere on that path?” Max asked.

  “Yup. I think so. Toward the end.”

  Max nodded. “He’s giving us two clues. The starting point, and the map of the journey. He means for us to take the voyage in the book—but only after it passed New York City. We get to skip the first part!”

  Alex jumped in her seat, nearly smashing her head against the ceiling. “Max, you are awesome, and I love you!”

  As she jammed the car into drive and pulled back onto the highway, Max let out a sigh. “Thank you,” he said, “for not hugging me.”

  The morning sun glared into their eyes as the Manhattan skyline emerged over the entrance ramp to the Lincoln Tunnel. Max could barely sit still. “The one with the pointy, shiny top is the Chrysler Building,” he said. “Its crown was assembled in secret and hoisted to the top at the last minute—in order to win a contest for tallest building in the world! The runner-up was Forty Wall Street, which I bet you never heard of, right?”

  Alex shook her head and let out a yawn. “History is written by the victors.”

  “Victor who?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I love facts like that,” Max said. “Did you know Jules Verne was a stockbroker? Or that he would disappear for months to travel? Or that Manhattan has so many skyscrapers because the island is made of granite? Or that a plane once crashed into the Empire State Building? New York is factoid heaven. I just memorized about a hundred of them.”