Mr. Remora’s apartment was a flurry of flying books and crashing objects as Matthew, James, and Emily raced out the door, The Gold-Bug still in Emily’s hand. Mr. Remora spun this way and that, uncertain where to go. He ducked from one of Clyde’s hurled magazines and cried, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”
The three darted into the inky night and across the trafficless street. Streetlamps illuminated their feet as they pounded down the sidewalk toward the Fillmore auditorium. Emily concentrated on the slap of their feet, the weight of her backpack bumping against her, urging her faster, faster, faster. She gripped The Gold-Bug tightly in her hand and tried to think of it as a baton in a relay she was desperately trying to win.
“Thief!” Mr. Remora’s voice rang out.
Emily didn’t think it was possible to go any faster, but his voice prompted an extra jolt of speed. Soon they reached the crowd lined up for the concert. They charged through, dodging people.
“Where’s the fire, Crane?” one of Matthew’s friends shouted.
“Stop the old dudes!” Matthew yelled back, throwing his thumb over his shoulder.
They passed the main doors of the Fillmore. Angry voices flared behind them. Emily dared a look back. A cluster of people clogged the sidewalk. She could hear Mr. Remora’s nasally voice shouting, “Let me through! Let me through!” Barry’s head was visible over the crowd, and Emily was sure he watched them round the corner. A gleaming black-and-gold bus was parked along the curb with the front sliding doors open. A man leaned against the bumper, taking a drag off a cigarette.
“Up here,” James shouted, and the three raced up the stairs and onto the bus.
The inside was more like a giant motor home than a regular bus, with two diner-style booths on either side of the aisle and a mini kitchen. A velvet curtain concealed the back of the bus. Emily, James, and Matthew went straight to the tinted windows to see if anyone had followed them.
“What do you kids think you’re doing?”
CHAPTER
37
IT WAS THE MAN who’d been leaning against the front of the bus. A toilet flushed from somewhere in the back, and a voice from behind them said, “Hey, Mikey. You had one responsibility—keep groupies off the bus. How hard is it?”
“Sorry, Trevor,” Mikey sputtered. “They flew around the corner. It happened so fast I didn’t even realize.”
Matthew made a gerbil-like chirping sound. The color had drained from his face, and he was staring at Trevor with his mouth open.
“Trevor? As in … oh my gosh!” Emily clapped both hands over her mouth and completely forgot there had been a madman book collector on the hunt for them. This was Trevor, the drummer of Flush.
“Sorry we crashed your bus,” James said. “We’re not groupies or anything, er—” He looked at Emily and Matthew. “At least I’m not. I mean, no offense. I’m sure your music is great and all, my grandma is kind of strict about what I listen to and—”
James collapsed into the booth behind him. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s been a long night.”
He let out a sigh and dropped his head back against the red pleather of the booth.
Trevor chewed on his lip piercing while he studied them. “Do these two talk?” he asked James.
Emily dropped her hands from her mouth. “Sorry,” she said meekly. “I’ve never met anyone famous before.”
Matthew let out another gerbilish chirp.
“My brother is seriously your number one fan. He’s not normally like this.”
Matthew sputtered, “Five … FiveSpade. I’m FiveSpade.”
Trevor raised his eyebrows. “No way! You’re FiveSpade? I thought you’d be older. No offense, man, but that LEGO Domination video was sick. I thought for sure you were in college at least.”
Trevor dropped his guarded stance and shook Matthew’s hand, pulling him in for a back pat, too.
“Man, this is a trip!” Trevor said. He went to the curtain and called behind it. “Zeke! Liam, Neil! Check out who’s here.”
A guy with a stubbly beard and tousled brown hair slid aside the velvet curtain and walked out, barefoot and in jeans and no shirt.
“Zeke!” Matthew said.
“’Sup.”
Trevor gripped his arm. “Zeke—guess who this is.”
Zeke looked Matthew up and down. “Liam’s cousin?” he said.
“No, man. FiveSpade. Can you believe it?”
“LEGO Domination?” Zeke nodded. “Sweet.”
Emily knew her brother was as shocked by this as she was, because he hadn’t yet taken the opportunity to say “I told you so” and rub it in her face that the members of Flush really did know who he was. She dropped her backpack to the floor and sank into the booth next to James. Trevor’s enthusiasm and cheer helped temper the stress from dealing with Mr. Remora.
James stared out the window. “See anything?” she asked.
He shook his head. “They haven’t come down the street. We lost them.”
They’d gotten away. Emily puffed her cheeks up and blew the air out slowly. They were safe now, on a tour bus with Flush, of all places.
All the members of Flush were in the front of the bus now, greeting her brother, aka FiveSpade. Neil opened the mini fridge and tossed around sodas. Liam hopped on the counter and started playing with a Zippo lighter, flipping it open and spinning it in his hand so it closed. Trevor was saying, “So ’Frisco’s your home base, FiveSpade?”
Matthew nodded. “For now. But don’t call it ’Frisco. Locals hate that.”
Emily released her grip on The Gold-Bug, flexing her fingers. She’d been gripping it hard for so long the linen cover had left an impression on her palm.
Gently, she ran her fingers over the top. She tilted the book this way and that, watching the light play off the golden beetle. The last clue had been scarab, but so far she couldn’t spot anything unusual about it.
“What do you see?” James whispered.
Emily shook her head. “Nothing.” She opened the cover and scrutinized the inside scarab. A tinier version than the cover beetle, drawn in black ink. No numbers or letters or symbols printed around either one or hidden inside. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe the scarab clue had nothing to do with the book. Emily sagged at the thought of this. To have gone through all that drama for nothing … What if she’d gotten her brother or James hurt, and all for a book that didn’t hold the answer she assumed it would. What would Mr. Remora have done if they hadn’t escaped?
These thoughts spiraled in Emily’s mind while she zoned out, watching Liam flick open his Zippo with a lit flame, then whip the top closed. The flame reminded her of the gold-bug story, where a message is revealed when parchment is heated up. Emily looked down at the black beetle and back to Liam.
“Could I borrow that?”
Liam looked scandalized. “You can’t smoke!”
Emily blushed. “No, it’s for an experiment.”
Liam somewhat reluctantly held out the lighter. She tried rubbing her thumb against it like she’d just watched him do to make the flame appear, but she couldn’t make it work. “Can you light it for me and wave it over this page?”
Matthew was still carrying on a conversation with the other Flush members. He’d relaxed into his normal self now and was describing the new stop-motion video he was in the middle of making.
Liam waved the lighter over the white page with the black scarab. “Like this?” he asked her.
“Maybe a little closer,” she said when the page remained white.
“Too close!” Trevor yelled, noticing what Liam was doing. Liam jerked his hand back in surprise. The guys in the bus erupted in laughter.
“Sorry,” Liam said with a grin.
“It’s okay,” Emily said. “It was probably a dumb idea any—”
“Look!” James pointed to the page. Lines, the color of weak tea, began to appear around the black beetle.
“I was right!” Emily waved Liam back to the book. “Do more! There must be invi
sible ink on this page. The heat makes it visible.”
The group huddled around the book to watch as line after line slowly began to appear, revealing a map of San Francisco. The beetle marked a spot on the map labeled PORTSMOUTH SQUARE, RLS.
“That’s it! We have to go there!” Emily said.
“Right now?” Matthew asked.
“I don’t know, Em,” James said.
In a low voice to James, she pleaded, “It’s the end of the game. It must be. This is the treasure map that marks the spot. We lost Mr. Remora. He doesn’t have The Gold-Bug, and he doesn’t know about this map or have any idea where we’d be headed. If we do this tonight, we solve Mr. Griswold’s game. We can call Jack at Bayside Press tomorrow, and we’ll tell him about Mr. Remora, too.”
James tugged thoughtfully at Steve, considering all this.
“Don’t you want to see what Mr. Griswold’s treasure will be?”
Finally he nodded.
She stood up from the booth. “We’re leaving now,” she said.
“Tonight?” Matthew asked. His face looked pained, like she was telling him he couldn’t have a puppy.
“You don’t have to go,” Emily said. “I know you have your ticket.”
Matthew gnawed on his lip, staring at the map. Finally, he shook his head. “Meeting you guys was cooler than anything I could have imagined,” he said to the members of Flush. He turned to Emily. “But I’m not letting you two go off by yourselves. There’ll be more concerts. I’m on your scavenging team whether you like it or not.”
Trevor clapped Matthew on the back. “You’re a good bro, bro. We’re heading backstage in a minute here. You guys can borrow Mikey, and he’ll drive you over, but you’ll have to get your own ride home.”
“And don’t worry, FiveSpade,” Trevor said. “We’ll hook you up.”
CHAPTER
38
EMILY, JAMES, and Matthew stood in the dark and deserted Portsmouth Square. The only light came from the dull orange glow of lampposts and the high-up windows of surrounding buildings. A fog had descended on this part of the city. It wrapped around trees and crept through bars of the playground.
“Do you know anything about this place?” Emily asked James.
“They call it the heart of Chinatown. A lot of elderly people hang out here during the day. My uncle comes here to play cards.” He pointed toward the pagoda-style awning that sheltered picnic tables. A lump of sleeping bag was curled up on one of the benches, its dark form bold against the white fog. “I guess it’s also a hot spot for homeless people.” They’d stay away from that area if they could help it.
“So what are we looking for?” Matthew asked. He wore his new oversize Flush sweatshirt and hat, and he held a rolled-up poster signed by all the band members. They had also promised him VIP tickets to any future concert of his choice.
At the edge of the park, the silhouette of a miniature ship rose from the mist.
“Is that a pirate ship?” Emily asked.
Her feet squished in damp grass as she crossed to the statue, thoughts of treasure chests in her head. It was too dark to read the lettering on the face of the stone. Emily trailed her fingers over the engraving.
“Here.” Matthew whipped out his cell phone. He cast the light of the screen over the words.
Emily read them aloud: “‘To remember Robert Louis Stevenson’—” She gasped and clutched Matthew’s arm.
“Watch the poster!” Matthew said, shaking her off.
“The map said RLS—Robert Louis Stevenson! He wrote Treasure Island. This has to be it. Whatever we’re supposed to find must be somewhere near here.”
Matthew continued reading the inscription aloud as Emily circled the monument, examining it more closely. James inspected the nearby benches.
“‘To remember Robert Louis Stevenson: To be honest, to be kind—to earn a little, to spend a little less—to make upon the whole a family happier for his presence—to renounce when that shall be necessary and not be embittered—to keep a few friends but these without capitulation’—what does capitulation mean?” Matthew pondered.
“I think he’s saying be a good friend without expecting something in return,” James said as he poked a stick under a trash can.
Emily was crawling around the base of a tree, the knees of her jeans soaked and chilly, and felt a twinge of guilt remembering their fight.
Matthew finished reading the inscription: “‘Above all on the same grim condition to keep friends with himself. Here is a task for all that a man has of fortitude and delicacy.’” Matthew turned off his screen light. “Huh. Sounds like a serious guy.”
Emily’s knee crunched against a hard object, and she yelped. She ran her fingers through the grass. Her fingertips brushed over something cold and smooth. She thought it was a pebble, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Matthew, bring your light over here.”
“My battery’s running low.” But he crossed to Emily anyway.
The stone was shaped like a beetle, flat enough to be concealed by the grass but bulky enough to catch a toe if you hit it the right way.
“It’s like the story,” Emily said. “In The Gold-Bug a beetle marks the spot where the treasure is hidden.”
This had to be what Mr. Griswold wanted them to find. She’d been waiting for this moment since they’d first discovered Mr. Griswold’s book. She thought she’d be jumping up and down with excitement, but instead she felt trepidation. Kind of like when you step on black ice and realize you’re going to fall a second before you actually slip.
James tried to lift the beetle but couldn’t. “Someone want to help me?”
Matthew held his phone aloft to light the ground, still protectively clutching his poster with his other hand. Emily and James tore at the grass and dug under the beetle until they could grasp it like a knob. It was attached to a stake in the ground. They seesawed the stake back and forth to loosen the dirt until they could pull it free. The bottom of the stake widened into a mini shovel.
“Dig!” James said. “We’re supposed to dig.”
They used the shovel as well as cupped hands to scoop the dirt. They didn’t have to dig long before they hit something solid, and soon a metal box was revealed. They pried the box from the ground. Emily undid the latch and opened the lid to reveal a yellowed stack of papers sealed in a clear bag. Taped to the front of the bag was a handwritten letter.
Greetings, Scavenger!
Congratulations! You have successfully completed my literary challenge and have proved yourself a master of riddles, puzzles, and navigating San Francisco and its rich literary history. You may be wondering about what you now hold in your hands. Allow me to indulge in a story:
In 1841, my great-great-great-grandfather Rufus Griswold made the acquaintance of a Mr. Edgar Allan Poe. Rufus Griswold was an accomplished editor, poet, and critic. In that day some may have argued that he was even more accomplished than Poe. Having similar aspirations and interests, you might assume that my great-great-great-grandfather and Poe would be fast friends. Sadly, you would be mistaken. Their relationship was professionally tolerant at best and a bitter rivalry at its worst.
Despite this, when Poe unexpectedly passed away in 1849, Rufus Griswold was named literary executor of his estate, to the surprise of many. Some claim he came about this by devious means and that Poe did not personally appoint him, but the fact remains that it was Rufus Griswold who was given access to the works of Poe and published a posthumous collection of his writings.
Several years ago, I was going through my family heirlooms when I came across a manuscript that was assumed to be a novel written by my great-great-great-grandfather. As I began reading it, the style reminded me of someone whose work I am quite familiar with. I kept my hunch a secret but had the manuscript authenticated by an expert. I am excited to tell you that the treasure you are holding in your hands is an undiscovered work by Edgar Allan Poe.
Bayside Press will publish this novel, and this letter c
ertifies that you, dear Scavenger, will be awarded 10 percent of the royalties from the sale of this book on the condition that you agree to return the manuscript back into my care so it can be properly preserved and displayed in a public library collection.
I devised this scavenger hunt with the hope that anyone who made it to this point would appreciate my gift as the treasure it truly is and treat it as such.
Yours in pages and play,
Garrison Griswold
They stared at the letter in silence until the light from Matthew’s phone snapped off. “There goes the battery,” he said.
Emily lifted the sealed papers from the metal box and stood. She knew she was holding a one-of-a-kind literary treasure and should be feeling something along the lines of awe or amazement, but all she felt was disappointment. She was glad the phone had died so James and her brother couldn’t see her face. After everything they’d been through to get here, why wasn’t she happier to have reached the end of Griswold’s game?
“Do you think it’s worth a lot of money?” James asked.
“I have no idea,” Emily said quietly.
“I do,” a voice said behind them.
CHAPTER
39
FOG CLOAKED the three figures standing under the glow of a lamppost.
“Hand that over,” Mr. Remora said, extending his hand. Barry and Clyde stood behind him.
Matthew groaned. “You guys again?”
Emily hugged the bagged manuscript.
“How did you find us?” James asked.
“You didn’t think you fooled me, did you? Hiding on that tour bus? I knew you must be near the end of Griswold’s game or you wouldn’t have shown up at my house, so desperate to get your hands on The Gold-Bug. It was only a matter of time before you led me to this manuscript.” He flexed his extended hand in a “gimme” motion.
“How did you know about it, anyway?” Emily asked. She scanned the park for an escape route. An iron fence enclosed the area. There was an opening to the street not too far away, but the question was whether they could outrun Mr. Remora and his goons for the second time that night. “Mr. Griswold’s letter says nobody knew about it.”
Book Scavenger Page 20
