Camille turned to her mother. “See,” she said triumphantly, “he doesn’t know everything.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said. “Then feel free to bring him up to date on sixteenth-century Danish astronomers and their weird pets. I’ll be right back.”
Mary gathered her purse and headed toward the restroom on the far side of the café.
Camille wasted no time.
“You see,” she said, “Tycho Brahe was an astronomer a long, long time ago, and he had this pet moose . . .”
The boy listened patiently as Camille explained—in her own unique, rambling manner—about Tycho Brahe the Danish astronomer and his pet moose, and how Brahe had died when his bladder exploded, which Camille thought was an incredibly gross way to die. She then started to discuss what a bad pet a moose would make.
But the boy was no longer paying attention to Camille. Something else suddenly had his attention: an old woman sitting at the table behind Camille had just pulled a small black piece of plastic from her purse and placed it on her table. Art immediately reached into his coat pocket and dug around until his fingers settled on the object he was looking for. He pulled it out. It was the black rectangular piece of plastic he had found in his jacket earlier that afternoon. It was identical to the piece of plastic sitting on the table behind Camille.
“Hey,” said Camille, who had finally noticed that the boy was no longer paying attention to her. “I’m talking, here—little education for you.”
Art motioned for her to be quiet. “Shhh,” he said. He wondered, should he just ask the woman what the little piece of plastic was?
Camille leaned across the table. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Did you remember something?”
The boy shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m just trying to . . .”
His words trailed off as he tried to decide what to do.
Just ask her, he told himself.
But before he could act, a gray-haired man in a bright yellow sweater approached the woman. They appeared to be about the same age—perhaps it was her husband.
The woman handed the older man the piece of plastic. “Get our jackets,” she instructed, “and I’ll meet you up by the exit. I need to go by the gift shop. I promised Sal I would pick something up for the kids.”
The husband took the small piece of plastic, shrugged, and, without a word, started shuffling across the café toward the exit. The boy stood to follow, but Camille immediately grabbed him by the arm.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “We’re supposed to wait here.”
The boy held up the rectangular piece of plastic for Camille to see, as if that clarified everything.
“I have to . . .” he started to explain. Camille stared at him as if he were crazy, but what more could he say?
Maybe I am crazy, he thought.
He pulled his arm free from Camille and hurried to catch up with the man in the yellow sweater.
Camille stared at the boy as he quickly made his way across the café. She knew that if he went into the hallway and back into the main part of the museum, she would lose him completely.
Mom told me to watch out for him. And I promised I would.
She glanced in the direction of the restrooms, but there was no sign of her mother, and Camille had no means of letting Mary know what was going on. Despite months of pleading, Camille had still not convinced her mother to get her a cell phone, even though every other kid in her class had the latest iPhone or Android. Her mother could be very old-fashioned sometimes.
Camille knew she had no choice. She sprinted across the café to catch up with Art.
When the Sullivan woman had gotten up and headed for the restroom, Palmer had a feeling that the three of them would be leaving the museum soon. He had alerted his team to be ready. He was caught off-guard, however, when the boy got up and left the table in a rush, immediately followed by the girl. Palmer had been pretending to read his iPad while stealing occasional glances at the boy so he wasn’t sure what prompted the hasty departure. He glanced over at the women’s restroom, but the girl’s mother was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t exactly how Palmer had planned it, but the team had to act.
“Heading toward the west entrance,” Palmer said.
“West entrance in place,” responded a voice in his ear.
“Roper’s on the way,” another voice said.
Palmer pulled up the video feed for the west entrance on his iPad and settled back to watch.
Chapter 16
5:35 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
West Building, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
The boy followed the older gentleman down a short hallway, through two large rooms lined with antique furniture, and into a wide gallery filled with modern art. The man passed quickly through this room and up a short set of stairs. Art was amazed at how quickly the man was moving. However, just as the man reached the top of the stairway and was about to enter the next room, he paused to catch his breath. The sudden change of pace caught Art off-guard, and he stumbled as he stopped short of the stairway—his sneakers squeaking loudly on the polished marble floor. The older man glanced back over his shoulder at the unexpected sound. Art turned his head just in time to avoid direct eye contact and pretended that he was staring at a large bronze sculpture of a woman and a deer that stood in the middle of the hallway. By the time Art had turned back around, the old man had resumed walking and was headed toward the far corner of the next room. A moment later, he was out of view.
Art cautiously began mounting the stairs and peeked over the top of the steps into the next room. He could see a wide desk, a pair of security guards, and a set of large bronze doors leading to the outside. He moved to the top of the stairs, paused for a moment, and then entered the space. The older gentleman was nowhere to be found.
Art’s heart started beating furiously.
How could he have lost him?
Where did the old man go?
Art felt himself starting to panic. The small piece of plastic that he held tightly in his right hand might have been the first real clue to who he was—and he had just blown it.
Calm down, the boy told himself. The old man didn’t simply disappear into thin air.
Art took a deep breath. The pounding in his chest started to slow down. His thoughts became clearer. He noticed an open passageway on the far left side of the room.
That must be where he went.
The boy headed across the room toward the corridor, glancing over at the security guards near the entrance as he walked. One of the guards caught his eye and nodded at him. The boy nodded back, acting as if he knew exactly where he was heading and why. He reached the passageway and glanced inside. The older man stood at the end of a short hallway in front of a long counter made of gray granite. There was a black sign with white lettering above the man’s head:
WEST BUILDING
WEST ENTRANCE CHECKROOM
Art could see racks filled with coats behind the counter. A moment later, a young lady appeared on the opposite side and handed the older gentleman two large winter coats. He thanked her, turned around to leave, and almost ran headlong into Art.
“Sorry,” said Art.
The old man mumbled something and moved past the boy toward the exit.
Art looked down at the small chip of plastic in his hand. A piece of the puzzle fell into place.
Camille was almost out of breath by the time she caught up with Art. She found him standing near an exit and staring down a short hallway.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “Mom’s going to be so mad.”
Art pointed to the counter at the far end of the corridor and to the lady standing behind it. He held up the small plastic object for Camille to see.
WB
WEST
28
“WB,” he said. “It means West Building, which is where we are. And ‘west’ means the west entrance.”
&
nbsp; “So?” said Camille.
“Don’t you get it?” the boy said. “It’s a checkroom—people leave all sorts of stuff here that they don’t want to carry around the museum—coats, umbrellas, bags, those kinds of things. They give these little plastic chips to people when they leave something.”
“You think you left something here?” Camille asked. But Art didn’t respond—he was already making his way over to the checkroom counter. Camille glanced around for any sign of her mother. Nothing.
Camille briefly considered heading back to the café. She knew her mom would freak when she discovered they were missing. But Camille had promised her mom that she would keep an eye on Art. She turned and followed him down the short passageway.
“They’re at the west entrance checkroom,” said Palmer.
“I have visual,” said a voice in his ear.
“Roper ready?” asked Palmer.
“Fifteen seconds,” replied another voice.
“Don’t mess this up,” said Palmer.
No one responded. They all understood the consequences.
Camille hustled to catch up with her wayward charge at the checkroom counter.
“May I help you?” the young lady behind the counter was asking Art.
Art handed her his small plastic chip. The lady smiled politely, took the chip, and read the small number printed on it.
“Just a second,” she said as she disappeared into the back of the checkroom.
The boy pointed to the checkroom sign. “Five minutes ago I had no idea what that plastic chip was.”
He paused.
“I left something here,” he finally said, to Camille or perhaps to himself.
Any concerns Camille may have had about her mother vanished.
“A clue,” she said. “About you.”
The boy nodded. “Yes,” he said. “A clue about me.”
Mary Sullivan made it to the middle of the café before she realized something was wrong—there was no sign of Camille or Art at the small table at which she had left them just a few minutes prior. She stopped for a moment and surveyed her surroundings. The café was located in the middle of the ground floor of the West Building. To her left and right were long hallways leading to the west and east entrances to the museum. Directly in front of her was the entrance onto Constitution Avenue.
Calm down, Mary told herself.
Perhaps she was simply confused.
Perhaps she was looking at the wrong table.
She took a deep breath and carefully examined the small café once more.
She quickly realized, however, that she had been looking at the right table. She could see Camille’s empty plate and Art’s barely touched piece of pie.
Mary tried to push the simmering sense of panic to the back of her mind, but it was difficult. Did this have something to do with the boy? He had simply appeared at the museum the day before—no name, no memory. Mary wanted to kick herself. Why had she thought it was a good idea to bring him back here? Why had she left the kids alone for even a minute?
She looked around for Camille’s bright red explosion of hair. It was always the best way to find her in a crowd.
But there was nothing. No red hair. No red jacket with white polka dots. No Camille. No Art.
Mary stepped to the hallway to her left. It led to more galleries and to the west entrance. There was no sign of her daughter.
She moved quickly back across the café to another long hallway—this one leading to the gallery shop and east entrance. Nothing.
Mary’s heart beat furiously in her chest. It took everything in her power to keep from screaming out Camille’s name.
She made her way over to the small foyer just inside the exit to Constitution Avenue. Nothing. She looked around the foyer as if Camille and the boy might be hiding in a corner somewhere.
A security guard standing near the entrance app-roached her.
“Are you okay? The museum is closing, and we’re asking everyone to leave,” he said.
Mary realized that she must have looked frantic—standing in the foyer and turning in circles.
“I . . . m-my daughter . . .” she stammered. “I can’t find her.”
“It’s okay,” the security guard assured her. “We’re here to help. Everything will be fine.”
But Mary Sullivan was not convinced that everything would be fine.
Chapter 17
5:45 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
West Building, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
The girl in the checkroom seemed to be taking forever. She had disappeared into the recesses of the backroom for more than a minute and had yet to reappear.
Art leaned over the counter and tried to see what she was doing.
“Maybe you didn’t leave anything,” suggested Camille. “Maybe you just found that plastic thing on the floor.”
Art shook his head. “No,” he said.
There was a shuffling noise from the back of the checkroom.
“Found it,” they heard the girl call.
She appeared a moment later carrying a small brown backpack. She double-checked the number on the plastic chip against the paper tag tied to the backpack.
“Here you go,” she said as she handed over the backpack to Art. “Sorry it took so long.”
The boy took the bag and immediately headed back toward the entrance foyer.
“Thank you,” Camille said to the cloakroom attendant before she turned to follow Art. “He’s a little excited.”
Camille found the boy sitting on a marble bench in the large foyer. He was looking at the back of the backpack. She took a seat beside him.
“My name’s Art,” he said.
“I know,” Camille replied. “I liked that better than Arthur.”
“No,” he said. “It really is Art. Look.” He pointed to a white label on the back of the backpack. It had a place to fill in a name, phone number, and address. Only the name was filled in. “Art H.,” it read in black magic marker.
“Wow,” said Camille. “So your last name begins with an H. Do you know what the H stands for?”
The boy shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. He turned to Camille and smiled. “But we’re finally getting somewhere. Things are definitely getting better.”
“Can you describe your daughter for me?” asked Dexter Poss.
Poss had served as a security guard for more than ten years at the National Gallery of Art. In that time, he had seen hundreds of parents just like the lady standing in front of him—panicked and emotional. He always tried to assure them that everything was fine—the children were inevitably found, usually much calmer than the parents looking for them.
“Ten years old,” replied the lady. “Bright red hair—you can’t miss her. Her name’s Camille. Camille Sullivan. I’m her mother, Mary.”
Poss scribbled down the information as Mary spoke.
“And the boy?” he asked.
“Blond,” she replied. “A couple years older than my daughter and much taller. He’s wearing a blue jacket.”
“Don’t worry,” the security guard assured her. “We have a standard procedure in these situations. It’s very effective—we haven’t lost a child yet. We’ll track them down in no time.”
Poss was just about to suggest that Mary return to the café—in case the kids showed up looking for her—when they were interrupted by a short middle-aged lady wearing thick glasses.
“Excuse me,” the woman said, “I couldn’t help but overhear you say that you’re looking for a young girl with red hair?”
“Yes!” said Mary excitedly. “Have you seen her?”
“Was she wearing a bright red jacket?” asked the lady. “White polka dots?”
“That’s her!” exclaimed Mary. “Where?”
“Ground floor gift shop,” the lady said as she pointed toward the center of the museum. “Back right corner near the children’s section—not more
than a minute or so ago. She really stands out.”
Dexter Poss smiled. Case closed.
Regina Cash watched as the security guard and Mary Sullivan hurried toward the gift shop. Cash had just bought the roper a little more time. Now she needed to disappear before the security guard and Sullivan returned, having found no kids. Cash pulled on her jacket and headed out into the cold winter day.
Chapter 18
5:52 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
West Building, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
“So?” asked Camille. “Are you going to open it?”
The question caught the boy off-guard.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he said.
He had been so excited to discover that his name really was Art that he had forgotten to open the backpack and actually see what was inside. He had noticed, however, that the bag did not seem particularly heavy.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Camille said. “Open it.”
Art examined the backpack, which appeared perfectly normal if a bit ragged around the edges. He unzipped the top, reached in, and pulled out a baseball cap—a well-worn, sweat-stained dark blue baseball cap with the initials NY on the front.
Camille looked at him. “A Yankees fan?” she said. “Seriously?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders. “I guess,” he said. But as soon as he had seen the cap, he’d known. He was a Yankees fan. He put the cap on his head. It fit perfectly—the kind of fit a person gets only after a hat has been worn a thousand times.
The boy reached into the backpack again and pulled out a can of Coke.
“I prefer Coke Zero,” said Camille. “All the flavor and none of the sugar.”
Art wondered if she would be offering a running commentary throughout this entire exercise.
Next was a set of black winter gloves, which he placed on the bench. The gloves did not have the slightest hint of sparkles—a good thing.
“Anything else?” Camille asked.
The Van Gogh Deception Page 8
