Ollie made his way back home in a daze, sidestepping pedestrians on the Greenway. This was insane. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t even think about doing this.
He couldn’t just pack up and leave based on the word of some acrobat panhandler in Faneuil Hall. He had no idea who this Laszlo Kravchenko was, or even if that was his real name. He had no reason to trust the man. Ollie didn’t even know where he was supposed to be going, or how he was going to get there. Or what he was supposed to do once he arrived.
He stopped at the carousel, letting his vision blur as the animals spun past. Kids squealed from the backs of lobsters, squirrels, turtles, and other whimsical creatures, most bobbing up and down in a smooth, mesmerizing rhythm as they revolved. The combination of music, motion, and mirrors made him sway unsteadily.
The whole idea was ludicrous. Of course, it was.
And yet.
Something else was pulling him, as well: Another, less rational thought, competing for his attention. It waved its little hands from the dark, lumpy recesses of his mind, jumping up and down with frantic enthusiasm.
What if this was it? His frozen-river moment?
That’s what his mother had called it, anyway. According to Francie Delgato, everyone has a frozen-river moment at least once in their lifetime. In Francie’s scenario, the metaphorical “you” is walking along, minding your own business, when suddenly you see a child flailing in a frigid, running river. The child is moving quickly past, speeding with the current. You have no rope or life jacket. You are completely unprepared for the situation.
What do you do?
After setting the scene, his mom used to tick the options off on her fingers. If you jump in, you might drown, too. If that happens, two people will be lost. You might jump in and try to save the child but fail. Or you might jump in and save the child, but find that he emerges with permanent brain damage.
In the best scenario, you jump in, save the child, and both of you crawl out onto the other shore, healthy and alive. A happy ending for everyone.
Lastly, you could do nothing. No one would blame you. The current is fast, the water is icy cold. The child is far from shore. And you are afraid. So, you just watch him float by and hope for the best. When it’s all over, his fate was his fate: You didn’t alter it in any way, for better or for worse. It was just as if you had never been there at all.
Francie would drill through the various options and then ask Ollie: What would you do? Usually this happened when they were sitting around a campfire in New Hampshire or trapped in the apartment during a winter storm. He would always respond, of course, by saying he would jump in. No hesitation. Save the child! His mom never smiled or agreed. Instead, she would say, “Know who you are, before it happens. There might not be one right answer. But there will be a right answer for you.”
Once, Ollie had asked his mother what she would do her in her frozen-river moment.
“It’s not what I would do, Bambino,” she had answered. “It’s what I did.” Then she got a faraway look in her eye, glassy and regretful, and he was sorry he had asked.
Ollie chewed the inside of his cheek. If Laszlo was telling the truth—a big if—then Nell had been seeking a “fix” for her situation, and had planned to leave for only a short time. What could she possibly have been doing? And since she was supposed to be back home already, but wasn’t, something must have gone wrong.
A few terrifying possibilities wormed their way into Ollie’s consciousness: a sad-faced newscaster on TV, sharing grim news of a discovery in the woods. Trial coverage sprinkled with phrases like “history of abuse” and “restraining order.” Nell’s smiling face peering out from the front page of the Boston Globe. “The victim in happier times,” the caption might say.
Ollie sighed. He had never liked his mother’s frozen-river scenario. When you looked at the math, jumping into the water was, by far, the worst choice. It came with so many more probable negative outcomes: one death, two deaths, brain damage, failure, and ridicule, just to name a few. Standing on the sidelines was a much simpler calculation. Do nothing, and the child would either live or die. Fifty-fifty odds. And you would live, regardless. A gambler would know instinctively which one to choose.
Now, though, Ollie wasn’t seeing an anonymous, floating child in the river. He was seeing Nell. Her arms, flailing. Her bruised face, crusted with ice. Bloated and pained. Her hand, reaching out for his.
The carousel was slowing. A seal glided by, then a gargantuan grasshopper, and, finally, a peregrine falcon. As it came to a stop, the falcon’s gaze seemed to rest on Ollie, its wings spread in frozen preparation for a flight that would never come.
Ollie stared into the bird’s shining, dark pupils, mesmerized. And as he watched, the sharp beak lifted. The head, impossibly, turned.
It must be you.
The words echoed inside Ollie’s skull. Startled, he stumbled backwards. The falcon’s exposed belly lifted and dropped with each breath. Its talons twitched. The gray-and-white feathers shook with an invisible rushing wind. And then, just as suddenly, its head twisted back to its original position, facing forward. Its body went still. The knowing eyes returned to their original blank state, staring across the Greenway at nothing.
Shaking, Ollie looked left and right. Who else had seen it? But the parents and kids seemed oblivious to the changes. And when he looked back at the carousel, the falcon’s body was as hard and lifeless as ever.
I’m losing it, Ollie told himself.
He’d had plenty of bad ideas in his life, but this had to be one of the worst. The sheer number of possible disastrous outcomes were as plentiful as jellybeans in a jar: He might say the wrong thing. Do the wrong thing. Take a wrong turn. Make an ass of himself. Lose one of his only friends by interfering, uninvited, in her business.
He could also make a bad situation even more volatile by jumping into the middle of it. He already knew from experience what that looked like, and how it usually ended up. He could do something stupid, even criminal, and wind up losing his job—or worse, losing his scholarship and all of his fragile future plans. He could stumble, and falter, and fail in any number of creative ways. In other words, just be the usual Ollie.
There were a hundred reasons not to do this. And yet he knew, as sure as he suddenly knew the sound of the falcon’s sharp, high cry in his head, that he was going to do it anyway.
His mother had flailed in that river once. More than once. And he had been too young, too small, and too scared to do anything about it. But he wasn’t small anymore. Oddly enough, he wasn’t even that scared. His vision felt uncommonly sharp. His mind, clear.
This was his chance—maybe his only chance. And goddammit, he was going to take it.
He would do for Nell what he was never able to do for his mom.
He was going to save her.
The voice came again, quieter this time: Yessss. It must be you.
A new crop of children hoisted themselves onto the animals’ backs. No one chose the falcon. Alone, it soared into the cold wind as the next ride began. Ollie stayed rooted to the pavement as the music played, the creatures rose and fell, and the carousel spun around and around in an endless, extraordinary loop.
* * *
The sun was halfway through setting when Ollie appeared, backpack on his shoulder, at the Boston Common Visitor Center. The building looked like a life-sized gingerbread cottage, complete with cross-hatched windows, green moldings, cornices, and a multicolored roof. He blew a few hot breaths into his hands, looking up and down busy Tremont Street and then turning to peer at the bare trees of the Common behind him. Laszlo was nowhere in sight.
In the end, it had almost been too easy. Mr. Bonfiglio had been unsurprisingly accommodating about the last-minute request for time off. Next, Ollie had texted Lorraine to let her know he’d miss a few meetings. Then he stuffed a backpack with random clothing items, a toothbrush, and granola bars and made his way to the Common.
Now he was standing alone outside the small Visitor Center cottage, patting his pockets. Cash. Credit card. Cell phone. He didn’t have a passport, so he hoped he wouldn’t need one. He had never traveled out of the country. Hell, he had never traveled much farther than New England.
“You come!” said a booming voice behind him. Ollie turned to see Laszlo Kravchenko, arms outstretched. He had ditched the Lycra bodysuit for a pair of tight jeans and a black parka. His long hair seemed slightly frozen, as though he had left the house while it was still wet from a shower.
Ollie smiled warily. What was with the opened arms? Were they supposed to hug, like old pals? After a moment’s hesitation, he moved forward to embrace the big man, resting his hands lightly on Laszlo’s shoulders and then backing away.
“You come, you come!” Laszlo said again, clearly delighted. “I am so glad. You will help your friend.”
“I have more questions.”
“Yes.” Laszlo clapped his gloved hands together. “Of course. I understand. But here we do first things, okay? They will be closing soon.” He jutted a thumb toward the small building.
“The Visitor Center?” Ollie asked, confused.
“Yes. We go in there.”
“Why?” His brow furrowed. That didn’t make any sense at all. He thought they were leaving Boston.
“It is start. The first thing.”
“But—”
“We have only few minutes. We must go in now. Then your questions. I promise.”
Ollie sighed. “Fine.”
“Good,” Laszlo said. “So, first things. We go inside. You say nothing. Just do shopping, yes? Maybe buy something. I will do talking. Okay? You are understanding?”
Ollie nodded again. “Go in, buy something. Say nothing.”
“Yes. Good.” The large man seemed satisfied. “Okay. Now we go.”
They walked around to the entrance, which faced the busy street. Laszlo pulled on the glass doors and walked confidently inside. Ollie trailed behind, toting his backpack.
Though he had spent all his life in the city, he had never stepped inside this building. He’d never had a reason to. He wasn’t surprised to find that it was set up like a touristy gift shop. When they walked in, he saw two female employees and a handful of visitors.
“Can I help you?” asked the clerk, a fifty-something woman wearing a quarter-zip green fleece and an insincere smile.
“Yes, hello!” Laszlo said. “How are you? Beautiful day.”
Ollie plucked a keychain off the rack and examined it. It was shaped like a Boston terrier and emblazoned with the words, “Bahk, bahk, bahk.”
“I’m looking for Johannes Miller guidebook,” Laszlo continued. “Historian’s Guide to Freedom Trail. First edition.”
Ollie returned the dog keychain to its hook and moved on to a small display of postcards. As he walked, he glanced up at the counter to see both employees looking from Laszlo, to him, and then back again to Laszlo. Their expressions were unreadable. He reached out to choose a postcard, pretending to be fascinated by a generic image of the city skyline.
Laszlo added, casually, “Elizabeth recommended I get it here.”
As soon as he said it, Ollie felt a change in the room. He didn’t even have to turn around to know that both women were now staring at him. He could feel their suspicion boring a hole through the back of his neck. Wishing he had a sip of water, he swallowed dryly and reached out to run his finger across the engraved glass of a Sam Adams beer mug.
“We might have one copy.”
Ollie moved his eyes without turning his head. He watched her reach under the counter and pull out a thin, paperback guidebook.
“Oh, that is wonderful, thank you!” Laszlo said. “Exactly what I wanted.”
He reached out, but the woman seemed hesitant to hand it to him. They stood like that, locked in a silent power struggle, for what seemed like several minutes. Finally, she stretched her arm far enough to place it in his hand.
Ollie had stopped at a display of blinking-light key chains, arranged alphabetically. He spun the rack. M, N, O…until he found his name. The keychain flashed on and off, on and off. Oliver. Oliver. Oliver. He grabbed it off the hook
“That’ll be seven ninety-nine,” the cashier said.
“Of course. My friend, here—” Laszlo turned to beckon Ollie. “My friend here has the money.”
Ollie looked up, surprised. “Oh, right,” he said. He carried the keychain to the counter. “I’ll take this, too.”
The woman stared down at the blinking name, then at Ollie’s face. She looked as if she were memorizing his features. Then she took his money and asked, “Would you like a bag?”
“I’m good, thanks,” Ollie answered, dropping the keychain into the front pocket of his jeans.
Laszlo flashed a high-wattage smile. “Thank you for book,” he said. “I will start reading tonight, right away.”
At this strange comment, the younger woman stepped forward and gave Laszlo a nod.
“Thirty-two, nineteen, twelve,” she said softly.
Laszlo nodded back, then started moving toward the door. “Thank you, ladies!” he said. “You have wonderful night!”
But the clerk had already turned her attention toward another customer. Ollie stood there, rooted in confusion, until Laszlo led him out the front door into the cold.
“What the hell was all that about?” Ollie asked.
Laszlo waved a hand in the direction of the Visitor Center, as though dismissing everything that had just happened inside. “That was nothing,” he said. “Just the way things are done.”
“What things?”
“Things, things. You know. Nothing for you to worry about. We have now what we need,” he said, lifting the meager paperback and giving it a wiggle in the air.
“A book?”
“Not just a book,” Laszlo said. “A key.” He looked around, spotted a bench nearby, and said, “Here. Come, come. Sit.”
Ollie followed him to the bench. As he sat down, the cold seeped through his jeans and chilled his skin. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and stared down at the book’s cover: Historian’s Guide to the Freedom Trail, by Johannes Miller.
Ollie didn’t remember the women handing Laszlo a key. Maybe they had done it when he wasn’t looking. Or maybe they had hidden it inside the book? He looked at the guide, which was flimsy and slight. Hardly big enough to hide anything in, even a key.
“Do you remember numbers she gave us?”
Ollie looked up at him in a panic. “No. Was I supposed to?”
Laszlo laughed. “No worries, my friend. I remember them. But you will need to start paying better attention. From here…” he paused. “From here, you will need to rely on yourself. Yes?”
“Yes,” Ollie said, his heart starting to pound.
“The first number was thirty-two,” Laszlo said, flipping the book’s pages. About a third of the way in, he stopped and pointed at a page number.
“Page thirty-two,” Ollie said.
“Yes. And the second number was…” Laszlo began to count the lines of text running down the page, first in his head, then out loud. “Seventeen, eighteen, and…there. Nineteen.”
“So, the first number is the page, the second number is the line, and the third number is…” Ollie stared at the black-and-white text. “The word in the line?”
“That is right,” Laszlo said, sounding pleased. “See? You are fast study. Smart behind the eyes. I knew it.” He grinned. Then he slid his finger along the line, counting the words out loud.
When he landed on the twelfth word, he tapped his finger on it and looked up.
“Tombs,” said Ollie.
“Tombs,” Laszlo repeated. “That is it.”
“I don’t understand.”
Laszlo reached for his arm and pulled him up from the bench. “The word is your key. Is all you need to get inside. And that,” he said, pointing at the row of red bricks that started just outside the entrance of the Visitor Center, “is your door.”
Ollie looked down at the bricks blankly. “That’s the Freedom Trail.”
“Yes. And no,” Laszlo answered.
Ollie blinked. It was starting to dawn on him: This guy was bonkers. Genuinely ready for a rubber room. “It’s not the Freedom Trail?”
“Yes, of course, but is also something else. Something…older. Much older. And bigger.”
“Ah,” Ollie said. He took a tiny step backward, then asked, “So, we’re not going to go to the airport?”
Laszlo looked up at him, puzzled. “Airport? No. Who said anything about airport?”
“Or a bus?”
“No bus,” Laszlo answered, shaking his head. “You need to listen to me. Are you listening? This is very important things. Do you want to find your friend, or not?”
“Yes,” Ollie said, trying to keep his voice steady. What was he doing? What had he been thinking?
“Trail is marked with medallions, you see here?” Laszlo was still talking in a normal and reasonable tone, as though what he was saying made any sense at all. “Each one marks historical spot. Church, statue, whatever. And people stop, they take the pictures…” He paused, pantomiming a person snapping a photo. “One of these spots, these medallions, is the one you are looking for. But I am afraid, in this case, I cannot tell you which one.” At this, he looked genuinely troubled.
“Why not?”
“It changes every day, you see. Location. Normally, they would tell me. People at center. But this one is a little…” He dragged out the last word with exaggerated flair: leeeetle. “It is off books, you could call it. Right? Because they do not know I help you. They do not know I bring you here, to find her. And they can never find out. No one can. You understand what I mean? Big trouble for me. Big trouble.”
“Right,” Ollie said.
“So you must try key at every door. It will work at one. But it might take a while.”
Ollie rubbed his jaw.
“So, what I am saying is, you must get going,” Laszlo continued, pointing at the line of bricks.
“What, right now?”
“Yes. No time like now, am I right?” Laszlo said with a shrug. “Is getting dark. Best to do it before then. Here,” he added, pressing a folded wad of colored paper into Ollie’s palm.
“What’s this?”
“Money.”
Ollie opened his hand and looked at the paper. It was cut into squares and covered in unrecognizable symbols. Most of the pieces were either yellow or red.
“Look, Laszlo, I…” He didn’t know how to finish his sentence.
Behind them, the employees of the Visitor Center were emerging through the large front doors. “Shit. I must go,” Laszlo said, glancing at the women over his shoulder.
“Wait, what?” Ollie said, leaning closer and lowering his voice. “Where are you going?”
“You will be fine,” the big man said. “You will find your friend, and you will bring her back home, and all will be good. And then you will come find me, and we will have party. Big party, to celebrate. Yes? You see it?”
Ollie didn’t answer.
One of the women was jingling a noisy loop of keys, looking for the right one. When she found it, she inserted it into the lock and closed up the Visitor Center for the night.
“You take that,” Laszlo whispered, closing his hands around the wadded-up paper in Ollie’s palm. “When you get to docks, you give it to driver. All of it. And you tell him to take you to Herrick’s End. You will remember that? Herrick’s End. You pay him with that money. Is more than enough. Even if he…” he paused. “If he says no, you just show him how much money. And then he will say yes.”
“Herrick’s End,” Ollie repeated.
“Yes. That’s where your Nell will be. I am sure of it.” Laszlo looked over his shoulder. “Ollie, this place…” his voice faltered. “As I say, is not an ordinary kind of place. You must trust this—” he tapped on Ollie’s forehead. “And this—” he tapped on Ollie’s chest. “Only those. Forget your eyes. Your eyes do not know as much as those. Yes? All right?”
Ollie gave a bewildered shrug. His eyes, at the moment, were seeing a man who might very well have just escaped from an asylum. What on God’s green earth was this lunatic talking about?
The wiry man turned again, watching the two women hoist their bags and say their goodbyes. “I must go,” he said. “You start the walking, and you try key at every place. Each one. Just say word. You remember word?”
“I…yes.”
“Just say word. You will know right place when you find it. Then you enter key, and that is it. That is all you need to do. Yes? You will remember?”
“Yes. I mean, no. No! Wait. Just wait a second. Listen, this is crazy. I don’t… I can’t—”
“You can,” Laszlo insisted. “You can do this, Ollie Delgato of the North End Delgatos. You can make your mother proud.”
At the mention of his mother, an icy jolt ran through Ollie’s limbs.
Laszlo Kravchenko of the Famous Ukraine Kravchenkos gave a jaunty, two-fingered salute over his eyebrow. Then he took a few backward steps, ducked behind the gingerbread cottage, and disappeared into the dusk.