The Book of Secrets

by Cynthia Voigt

  It was then that he realized he was being followed, and being followed by someone the people walking toward him didn’t like the look of. He studied the street ahead, looking for an open door, checking to be sure there was someone else in sight. These houses had small yards, for children to play in. It was a neighborhood where families could enjoy a summer evening sitting on their own front steps, conversing with friends who passed by. The streets were cobblestoned like the others, but almost empty now. Too empty, Max thought, listening to the footsteps behind him—more than one pair?—and unable not to notice that the three or four other people approaching him also kept their distance, and kept their eyes on the ground right ahead of their own feet, as if worrying over getting safely by him.

  Were the footsteps coming nearer? Max wondered, when he was closed in on.

  Somebody crowded him from behind and somebody came at him from the left, to walk right at his side, almost forcing him into the center of the road. Max had already turned to look at the person crowding into him on his right, a boy, an older boy—Max took it all in in a swift, troubled glance—broad-shouldered and muscular, a nose that had been broken at least once, with dark hair and a whistling mouth.

  Why was he whistling? He hadn’t been whistling a minute ago, had he?

  Max couldn’t stop to think, or to ask what was going on, because he was being kept moving forward by the three other bodies, as if they were a gang of four boys out together, not one boy walking alone in the custody of three strangers.

  Max glanced quickly to his left. That boy was younger, probably his own age, or no more than a year or two older, and he was the stocky boy Max had seen earlier, mistaking him for Tomi. That boy, too, did not look at Max, but his expression—as he watched an approaching businessman who moved to the other side of the street—was alert and intelligent. He had bright blue eyes and his eyebrows were as corn-yellow as his hair. And who was crowding up against Max’s back? Didn’t he feel slighter? Smaller?

  Max saw and wondered all of this in the first seconds that flashed by, as he realized just what was going on. He tensed his muscles to just stop. Dead. In his tracks.

  Then the boy on his right stopped the whistling long enough to mutter, “I’ve got a knife,” before he went back to his lively melody.

  Is he whistling a hornpipe? Max wondered stupidly as he felt something sharp pierce through the cotton shirt covering his upper arm. His left arm flew protectively across his chest, but he kept on walking, although more slowly, now resisting the pressure at every step—as he tried to think.

  Panic, he was discovering, is not the best soil to grow clear thinking out of.

  Four blocks ahead, Park Lane came to an end at the little square in front of the Starling Theater. Two chattering women approached the boys, heads bent together, and Max wondered what would happen if he cried out for help. The whistler didn’t lose any breath worrying about that; he just dug the knife a little deeper into Max’s upper arm.

  Probably, they could cut his throat and run off before either of the women figured out what was going on. So Max concentrated on the greenery ahead, where the fountain sprayed water up and a fine mist drizzled down. If he could pretend to trip, there, at the fountain, and make a run—leaving the boys momentarily taken by surprise—and reach his bicycle? On a bicycle he could get away. On a bicycle he was much faster than anyone on foot. Max had played a stumbling suitor in The Adorable Arabella, whose clumsiness made him sympathetic to the audience, although not so sympathetic that they hoped he’d win her heart. The clumsy suitor was more a clown than a lover, but that experience, Max hoped, would come in handy. In his imagination he practiced the stumbling fall.

  Three blocks to go. The street ahead was briefly empty and a bag was put over his head and Max stumbled for real. They caught him from both sides.

  He could see nothing. Everything he could hear was muffled by the same thick material that kept all light out. The air inside the bag was stale and smelled of—what?—of straw, and ashes, and something acrid as old smoke.

  Max’s boots slipped on the cobblestones now, and he heard the boys laughing, as if they were all involved in some rough game together, the kind of shoving and pushing game boys like to play. He tried to keep his bearings, tried to make a mental map, because wasn’t it always better to know where you were? They were still holding his arms. From outside, it would have looked as if they were helping him stay upright.

  Max was having trouble getting enough air into his lungs, but they held his arms too tightly to allow him to lift the bag off his head.

  They turned sharply left and walked on for a while—how long? Fifty steps? Seventy-five? He didn’t think to count until it was too late. They turned him right and walked him along, then again right, and after a while left, and after another while left again, and quickly left, and he was totally confused. He gave up trying to do anything more than stay on his feet.

  At least the knife no longer pricked into him.

  Disoriented, consumed by anxiety, Max heard a metallic rattle, like chains—was he going to be chained up? Like a dog in a cage or a prisoner in a dungeon?—but before he could finish any of those fears he felt himself being shoved down two shallow steps until he fell, fell hard, down onto a wooden floor.

  The Mayor’s Job

  • ACT II •

  SCENE 2 ~ THE CELL

  Hands grabbed Max’s arms and he was jerked to his feet, then pulled along—how far? He had no idea, he could only feel: feel fear, feel blind, feel choked for breath, feel off balance. With his head in a thick cloth bag, he couldn’t even sense any difference in the air around him. He thought he was inside, but if he was in a large empty space or a narrow one, he couldn’t tell. All he could tell was that the three bodies continued to crowd close around him, forcing him to keep moving forward.

  Finally—after what had seemed only minutes but could have been much longer, he couldn’t keep track, he couldn’t think—they jerked him to a halt, and hands shoved at his shoulders. He was forced down, onto hard ground—wood? stone? dirt?

  His arms were pulled forward and his wrists tied tightly together.

  Max couldn’t even find two words in his head and he had no idea what he might say if he could say anything. His heart was hammering in his chest and he was glad to be sitting because his legs were shaking. Everything was blank, and stank of—something, something acrid and nasty as turpentine, and maybe it was turpentine? But the voices were clearer here, inside, wherever here was. There was a disagreement going on and for some reason—why should it be so?—this quarrel between his captors cleared Max’s head. Maybe he would hear something helpful as the two voices argued.

  “Aren’t we going to take the bag off before we set him loose?” asked a blue voice, as calm as Grammie’s baked custard.

  The question was answered by a jagged dark voice. Purple, Max decided. “I’ve maybe changed my mind about doing that.”

  “Hang on, Kip,” said the blue voice. “We’re just going to scare him off. That’s what we said, that’s the plan. He’s plenty scared by now, I’m sure of it.”

  The purple voice, Kip, said, “Not so scared he can’t hear you telling him my name, thank you very much.” When he was angry his voice got sharper, and heavier, more dangerous.

  “You changed the plan,” said the blue voice. “I was so surprised, I didn’t think.”

  “No, you didn’t, did you, Colly.” Kip’s voice was suited to meanness. “I can see his ears flapping inside the bag, Colly.”

  “I said I was sorry. But do we leave the bag on? Just because he hears what might be only our professional names.”

  Kip laughed. “You’re not stupid, I’ll say that for you. I’m thinking now—maybe we’ll keep him prisoner a day or two, a week. Let him know we mean business.”

  “We can’t kidnap him. That’s what it is, Kip, kidnapping, and that’s a serious crime.”

  “More serious than arson? Than taking protection money? Who’re you kidding
, Colly? Because it’s not me, I promise you that.”

  “And besides, what would we feed him?” the blue voice asked, a little sullen now. Colly and Kip, Max repeated to himself, as if he was in danger of forgetting those two names, or their voices. But why was the third boy silent?

  “Who says we’d feed him?”

  “Even you have to admit murder is serious.”

  “I know that even the word frightens you. But think for a minute, Colly. Use that famous brain of yours. If we just leave him here and he dies, it’s not like we killed him. But if it happens to happen? Think about it. Anyone else who’s getting the idea of horning in on our little business will know better without us having to even raise a finger.”

  The blue voice said, “I couldn’t let you do that.”

  The purple voice laughed. “Why don’t you turn me in right now, then? Turn Blister in, too, and—oh yes …” His voice grew even heavier with mock surprise, as if he had just realized this. “And of course yourself, too. See what happens to your life if you do that. See if you ever get to do anything better than work in an ink factory. Give back all those coins you’ve been saving up—you may pretend you’re spending like me, but I’ve been watching. You don’t fool me. Not for a minute. Nobody fools me, do they, Blister?”

  “Nosirreebob,” said a third voice, a wobbledy, watery, colorless one. “Nobody couldn’t never. Not you.”

  Could Blister be anybody’s name?

  “We’ll leave him here for the night,” Kip announced. “And the reason I know you won’t do anything, my softhearted friend, is that you want to get away from Queensbridge more than you care about what happens to someone you never even met. Who was trying to shove you aside and take earnings out of your pocket, and you might think about that. Because it was a pretty stupid thing for anybody to try to do,” the purple voice said, and a finger ground deep into the muscles at Max’s neck. “I bet you’re sorry now.”

  Max debated not responding but decided that would be foolish. He didn’t trust his voice, however, so he only nodded his head within its stinking bag. Although, he realized, nodding, it wasn’t entirely true. He’d smoked out the gang, hadn’t he?

  “Leave him?” Colly sounded surprised. “Here?”

  Where was he, Max wondered, that the one person who sounded … normal, or maybe just uncriminal, in the gang was surprised at the thought of leaving a prisoner alone there?

  “Why not? His hands are tied and we can tie up his ankles. He should be safe enough.”

  “With a bag over his head?” demanded Colly. “And no water?”

  “You have a better idea? You agreed he needed some scaring off.”

  “With no way even to take a piss? For how long, Kip?”

  Max was beginning to think that this Colly boy was an all-right person.

  “Why not leave him in the bathroom, at least? There’s only that one window nobody could escape out of. The door has a key and nobody will hear him if he shouts.”

  “If I do that, will you shut up?” Kip demanded. He was out of patience.

  “Hands tied,” Colly answered. “And no bag.”

  “Great. So he can identify us.”

  Colly said, in his blue voice as bright and expectant as an actor onstage, giving a cue to another actor, “He won’t look. He’s too scared to look. Aren’t you?”

  Max knew what to respond. He nodded.

  “What’s your name, prisoner?” Kip demanded.

  Max said nothing.

  “You’ve got a name, don’t you?”

  Without thinking, Max shook his head, and if he had thought he would have known that that would make Kip angry.

  “If you try to identify me I really will have to kill you.” The voice was a dark, infuriated purple and its words were greeted with a silence that must have meant looks exchanged between the three of them.

  Max waited.

  “You don’t think I can do it,” Kip muttered.

  “I do. I know you could,” Blister said quickly. “You can do anything. You can do whatever you want, Kip.”

  Colly was less sure. “I’d hope you wouldn’t be so stupid. I’d think you’d prefer prison to the gallows.”

  “And you’d know about the gallows, wouldn’t you?” Kip answered, sarcastic and purple-voiced, like a king on his throne, so sure that he can do whatever he wants that he lets himself do anything. “Oh, sorry, Colly. I forgot she was your mother. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings.” Kip sneered the last three words, and then Max was knocked against so roughly that he fell over sideways. Noises flowed around and over him.

  “Colly, stop,” pleaded Blister. “You know you never can never”—thumping sounds—“you know he’s”—grunts now, umpphh sounds, and cursing—“he’s got a knife, Colly! Remember!”

  Silence. Max was jerked up onto his feet.

  “We’ll mount a guard over him for the afternoon,” Kip’s voice announced. He was panting a little.

  “You know I work the evening shift,” said Colly, also panting.

  “That’s why you’ll be the first guard. Blister will be here just before four-thirty, plenty of time to get to your big, important job, stirring turpentine into soot.”

  There was another silence. Then Kip gave another order: “We meet back here at seven tomorrow morning.”

  “You know I can’t get away that early,” Colly said, and he sounded tired, a faded blue voice.

  “At nine, then. Understood?” Kip demanded.

  Colly didn’t speak, but he must have nodded because Max was pulled up onto his feet and then pushed, stumbling, forward until he tripped over a low doorsill and could barely keep his balance, while the bag was jerked off his head. He got only a brief glimpse of three boys—their shapes, their faces—before the wooden door was slammed shut and he heard a key turn in the lock.

  He almost—in the relief of seeing again, in the relief of breathing clean air—gave it away. He almost turned to grin at the three faces as the door closed behind them. Because the bathroom into which they had locked him was in the Starling Theater, a tiny room that had one narrow window, high up on a wall, one stained sink, and one porcelain toilet, with a water tank above and a flush chain hanging down.

  He knew where he was. He knew the building around him and the streets around the building. They had walked him in circles to confuse him, but in fact he was not that far from where they had grabbed him.

  Max sank down onto the toilet seat, his legs watery with relief. Not that he knew of a secret passage out of this tiny room. Not that there were weapons concealed in the water tank. Not that he could climb up, somehow, to reach the window, which was in any case too small to squeeze through. Not, in fact, that there was any reason to think he would escape. But he knew where he was and, for no good reason, that enabled him to remember who he was.

  He was the Solutioneer, in search of a way to report his discoveries to the Mayor. And he was Lorenzo Apiedi, the young hero of A Patriot’s Story, unafraid of anything his captors might do to him. (This last was not strictly true, but Max had had a lot of practice being someone else, so it was partly true.) But mostly, right then, he was Max Starling, boy captive, and he needed to use the toilet the Colly boy had kindly made available to him.

  Afterward, he flushed and went to the sink to wash his hands as best he could with his wrists lashed together. Then he bent over to drink from the faucet. Finally, he sat down on the floor, his back against the door, to try to form some kind of a plan.

  All he needed was for the gang to set him loose. Unless Kip was serious about killing him, both to silence him and to rid them of what they supposed was competition, he would be set free in the morning. So all he had to do was wait.

  Maybe.

  Because while Max thought that Colly and the third boy—Blister? Was his name really Blister?—had no desire to hurt him at all, he wasn’t at all sure about Kip. Kip was the wild card. Like Important Banker Hermann in The Worldly Way, Kip cared only about what he wanted, an
d he didn’t care how he got it. Kip was dangerous.

  In The Worldly Way it had taken the combined efforts of the truehearted sawmill manager (played by William Starling), the sympathetic old bank teller (played by Bartleby Nye, their character actor), and a clever young carpenter (Max Starling) to defeat Important Banker Hermann (also played by Bartleby Nye). In this production, however, Max would have to play all three parts.

  Drama involved both words and action, but Max couldn’t do anything. As far as action was concerned, his hands were, literally, tied. But he could talk—if only he could think of what to say.

  Whatever he said, he would speak as the truehearted manager, sure of the rightness of his cause (and Max was that) and confident of his courage (even if Max wasn’t). His question came as much from curiosity about what the answer would be as from the desire to speak in character. “Where am I?” he called out.

  There was no answer.

  Max thought for a few minutes, then called again, “Colly? If you’re there, tell me: Why is it that you have a job but you also extort money from these shopkeepers?”

  Colly’s answer was muffled by the closed door. “Can’t hear you.”

  Max put his face next to the door. “You have a job, right? But you still force people to pay you for protection. Why are you doing that?”

  “Why do you?” Colly’s blue voice answered quickly.

  “How do you know I do?” Max asked right back.

  Colly was silent.

  Max waited.

  Colly’s voice laughed. “I never see the coins from ink-making. They’re paid to my grandfather. You could say, looking at it a certain way, that I’m a slave.” There was no self-pity in Colly’s voice; he was just making an observation.

  Max was finding this boy quite interesting. “So this protection income …,” he began, and let his voice trail off.

  “Escape money,” Colly said. “If I can get away—maybe even out of Queensbridge? If I could go back to school—I don’t care if I’m older than the others. What do I have to be proud about? But an educated person has a better chance at a job and I’m good with numbers, I always have been. I could have a good life.” He was silent for a minute, then, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” Colly said.