“Where do you live?” asked the boy. It seemed a reasonable question. He didn’t know what else to say, and he felt as though he needed to say something.
“North of here, near Dupont Circle—not far,” Mary Sullivan said as she opened the rear passenger-side door of her vehicle—a dark blue Honda CR-V—and pushed a large pile of clothes, schoolbooks, and papers to the middle of the row.
The boy took a seat next to the mound of items in the back. “How long will I be staying with you?” he asked as he buckled his seat belt.
“Let’s start with tonight and go from there,” said Mary.
“Okay,” the boy replied. That seemed fair.
Mary started the car and headed toward the exit of the parking lot.
“Just one quick stop before we get home,” said Mary. “I need to pick up my daughter from my sister’s house.”
“How old’s your daughter?” asked the boy.
“Ten,” she replied. “But she thinks she’s thirty.”
“What’s her name?”
“Camille,” said Mary.
“Camille,” the boy repeated. “Nice name.”
“Thanks,” replied Mary. “I’m partial to it myself.”
The vehicle pulled out of the lot and onto the street. A light snow was starting to fall.
“Supposed to get cold tonight,” said Mary. “I bet the snow sticks.”
The boy did not respond. He simply stared out the window at the snow flickering through the glow of the streetlights.
After driving for about twenty minutes in silence, Mary pulled up in front of a small brick home and beeped once. A tall woman with jet black hair peeked out the front door of the house and waved at the car. Mary rolled down her window and waved back.
“Sorry for being late,” she called. “How’s she been?”
“She’s been Camille,” the woman called back.
“Sorry!” Mary replied.
The tall woman opened the front door wide, and a short girl carrying a large pink book bag and bundled up in a thick jacket, rubber boots, and a wool cap exploded out of the house and ran toward the car.
“Thanks, Aunt Judy,” the girl hollered over her shoulder.
She opened the rear door, tossed her book bag onto the floorboard, and plopped into the row with the boy. The large mound of clothes, schoolbooks and papers separated them.
“Hello,” said the girl. “Who are you?”
Mary interrupted before he could respond. “He’s staying with us tonight,” she explained.
The girl took off her wool cap, and a large mane of red woolly hair exploded out. The boy didn’t think she looked anything like her mom, who had dark brown hair pulled neatly into a bun on the back of her head. The girl extended her hand to the boy over the pile that divided them. “I’m Camille,” she said. Her voice was friendly and welcoming.
The boy shook her hand. “Hi.”
“And what’s your name?” prompted Camille.
“I’m not sure,” said the boy.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Camille. “You gotta have a name.”
“He has amnesia,” said Mary. “That means he can’t—”
“I know what amnesia means,” Camille replied sharply.
“Just give him a break from Hurricane Camille, okay?”
“But that is so cool!” exclaimed Camille, completely ignoring her mother. “I’ve never met anyone with amnesia. We’ve had lots of kids stay with us, but nobody with amnesia. I forgot my locker combination one time at school, but it was only the second week of class so that’s probably why. I don’t think it was amnesia, but you never know. So what’s it like? Can you remember anything?”
She held up three fingers before the boy could answer. “Do you know how many fingers this is?”
She paused for a second, then leaned over the pile between them and stared intently at the boy.
“Do you even know what fingers are?” she asked. She wiggled her fingers in front of his face. “Or numbers?”
“I know what fingers are,” the boy said. “And you held up three of them.”
There was a slightly defensive tone in his voice.
“Christmas is almost here,” said Camille. “Do you remember Christmas?”
“C’mon,” interrupted Mary. “Give him a break—he’s had a rough day.”
Camille once again ignored her mother. “Well, what am I supposed to call you?” she asked. “I could call you Theo. I once had a turtle named Theo. He wasn’t very exciting but I liked him. He died. Mom said it was because I didn’t change his water, or feed him, or something like that. He smelled real, real bad. We took him out to a pond and tried to set him free, but when I put him into the water, he just sank. Plop. Straight down. To the bottom. No bubbles or anything. Just plop and down. But I liked him.”
“You can’t name him after your dead turtle,” said Mary.
Camille turned to the boy. “But you don’t know what your name is, do you?”
“No,” he conceded.
Camille turned then to her mother. “And I can’t just call him nothing, can I?” she said. “And his name might be Theo—or Bill, Buster, Scooter, or Red. It could be anything. Red would also be kinda cool—or Hank. I’ve always liked that name. Hank.”
“There’s a name on my jacket,” the boy said. “Arthur.”
“Arthur?” exclaimed Camille. “What kind of name is that? Sounds like a butler or some old man.”
The boy’s face turned red with embarrassment. “I don’t even know if it’s my name,” he said quietly. “I can’t remember.”
Camille paused and considered the situation.
“Don’t get me wrong—Arthur’s not that bad,” she finally said. “And maybe we could call you Artie, or Art. That’s short for Arthur, isn’t it?”
“I guess so,” he replied.
“Well?” Camille asked her mother. “Can I call him Art?”
“It’s up to him.”
Camille turned to the boy. “How ’bout it?”
“I guess it’s better than being named after a dead turtle.”
Camille burst out laughing.
“Fine,” said Mary. “Art it is. Now let’s get on home and eat supper. I’m famished, and it’s late.”
Camille looked across the back seat at the boy. “It’s spaghetti night,” she said excitedly. “I love spaghetti night.”
A slight smile creased the boy’s face. “I like spaghetti. At least I think I do.”
Dorchek Palmer stood in the dark in the middle of the living room of the small carriage house apartment. He was twenty-eight years old but could have easily passed for sixteen. He had a mop of unruly light brown hair and stood just five feet five inches tall. People tended to look past him, assuming he was just some high school or college kid, which was fine by him. By the time he had turned twenty-five, he had made tens of millions of dollars developing game apps for smartphones and consulting for some of the largest technology firms in the world. But developing game apps and consulting—as rich as it may have made him—was not exactly the life he had envisioned for himself. Palmer was a thrill seeker, and he used his millions to finance a life of adventure—mountain climbing in Nepal, running the Marathon des Sables, swimming with great whites in Australia, BASE jumping from Angel Falls. He tried everything at least once—the more dangerous, the better. But eventually he grew bored—risking life and limb simply wasn’t enough. He needed something big—something beyond anything he or anyone else had ever attempted. And then, one day in Paris as he was walking along the Rue de Rivoli next to the abandoned palace of Louis XIV, the scheme had come to him in a flash. He immediately rejected the idea as crazy—too risky for even his tastes. But he eventually realized that it was exactly what he needed—something so risky that it scared even him. And it was this new undertaking—an experience unlike anything he or anyone else had ever conceived—that had brought him to this small apartment in the dark of night.
Palmer pushed the button on the side of his watch to illuminate the time. It was getting late, but he knew that there would not be any sleep tonight. Events had taken an unexpected turn the night before, and the stakes had increased significantly—the spider was loose in the city.
This was not, Palmer had reminded his team, the time to panic. The mission had to proceed—obstacles had to be overcome. But the fact remained that unless they could locate the spider within the next two days, years of effort would prove worthless.
Palmer did not intend to let that happen.
A member of Palmer’s team had spent the entire day watching the small apartment from across the street. To Palmer’s surprise, no one had shown up. Palmer knew it was risky, but they had to search the apartment. Time was running out, and, although there was no guarantee that they would even find what they were looking for, they had to make sure it wasn’t here. Maybe they would get lucky, but Palmer doubted it.
“Windows secure?” Palmer said aloud.
A short, thin man dressed entirely in black used a small flashlight to check the seal on the thick cloth that covered the window in the kitchen. The edges of the cloth were backed with a strong adhesive that attached securely to the wall surrounding the casement. Similar cloths covered the rest of the windows in the apartment.
“All secure,” the man said.
“Doors?” asked Palmer.
“Secure,” another man said.
Palmer and his team had made it inside the apartment and secured the windows and doors within three minutes. His team consisted of only five members, but they were the best money could buy. They were professionals from across the globe who had been highly trained in covert operations. Specialists in electronic surveillance, computer technology, alarm systems, and night operations, they broke into places that were never supposed to be broken into. Every member of his team spoke at least three languages, three were pilots, and all were experts with a wide variety of weapons. They could blend into almost any environment and survive almost any challenge. They were dangerous people who had spent their careers in dangerous situations. And they were also highly paid, which ensured a reasonable measure of loyalty.
“Lights on in three,” said Palmer as he removed his night-vision goggles. The two other men followed suit. At the count of three, Palmer flicked the switch in the living room. Bright light flooded the room.
“Any light bleed outside?” asked Palmer. The small communication device in his ear transmitted his question to another team member stationed outside as a lookout.
A moment later a woman’s voice crackled through the device. “No bleed,” the voice said. “All dark.”
“Clear?” asked Palmer.
“Residents of main house have not returned,” said the voice in his ear. “No sign of anyone else. All clear.”
“We’re secure,” said Palmer. He checked his watch again. “Top to bottom. Five minutes, no longer.”
The two members of the team who had accompanied Palmer inside proceeded to search every drawer in every room in the small nondescript apartment. They did so quickly and precisely, disturbing nothing and leaving no trace. Every book and magazine was opened, examined, and returned to its original location. The small area rug in the living room was pulled up, turned over, and then put back in place. The covers of every light switch and electrical outlet were removed and the boxes examined. The mattress on the bed and the pillows on the couch were patted down. Everything in the small apartment was opened up, turned over, and otherwise thoroughly examined. And everything in the small apartment was returned to the exact location in which it had been found.
Palmer slowly made his way through the house. He ran his hand across the top of every door. He removed every floor vent, wall vent, and ceiling vent. He checked the refrigerator. He checked the freezer. He checked the small closet that served as a pantry and every can, bottle, and bag in it. He tried to think of everywhere and anywhere it could be hidden. His job was to make sure every single part of the search protocol was followed and that nothing was missed. And despite his youth, the two men on his team—both at least a decade older than he was—knew he was good at his job. He had to be. The business at hand did not allow for mistakes.
“Report,” Palmer called out.
“Negative,” both of the men replied.
They located a laptop in the bedroom. It did not prove terribly difficult to get into—it had taken Palmer all of about thirty seconds to find a back door around the password. A quick glance at the files on the hard drive did not reveal anything particularly interesting—mostly personal stuff. His team would, of course, take the computer, and Palmer would examine it more thoroughly on his own time, along with the smartphone they had retrieved the previous night. But Palmer didn’t have high hopes for what he would find on either the phone or the laptop, and the rest of the apartment did not appear any more promising.
Palmer knew that searching the apartment had simply been an effort to cover all their bases. The truth was, they knew who could bring the spider to them.
Find the boy, and they would find the spider.
But the boy had already slipped through their fingers once. And now he had managed to elude them for almost twenty-four hours. As far as they could tell, the boy had not gone to the police, which had been surprising given the circumstances of his escape. Palmer, however, had arranged a contingency plan in the event the police became involved.
Two days to find the spider.
Palmer checked his watch. It was time to go. He placed a small video transmitter above one of the windows in the living room so he could continue to monitor the apartment. He then called the two men into the living room. One of them handed him the laptop.
“Everything still clear outside?” Palmer asked.
“All clear,” the voice in his ear responded.
“Lights out in ten,” said Palmer, “then clear the covers and let’s get out of here.”
The men nodded. They put their night-vision goggles back on and prepared for the darkness.
Palmer took one last look around the apartment. He sensed that something wasn’t right about the whole setup. The apartment was too normal, too neat.
He turned off the light switch.
The small apartment was dark once again.
“Time for bed,” said Mary Sullivan. “It’s getting late.”
Camille placed her book on the nightstand. She loved reading mysteries, and this particular mystery about Shakespeare was great. But there was no sense in arguing with her mother. It was already well past her normal bedtime, and besides, she could feel herself starting to drift.
Mary sat on the edge of Camille’s bed. “So what do you think?” her mother asked. “Of the boy?”
“He’s nice,” said Camille. “Doesn’t talk much, though. He barely said anything all night.”
Mary paused. “He’s lost,” she finally said. “He doesn’t know who he is or where he came from—and it’s almost Christmas. That has to be hard.”
Camille nodded. She couldn’t imagine being away from her mother at Christmastime. “Maybe he’s a spy,” Camille suggested. “You know, some sort of secret agent or something. There’re all kinds of those people in Washington, DC.”
Mary smiled. “Don’t let your imagination get the best of you. He’s just a kid, like you. And he has parents out there somewhere who are worried about him.”
“I suppose,” Camille said as she snuggled deep under her covers. “But being a spy would be way cooler.” She could feel her eyelids growing heavy.
“He needs a friend,” said Mary. “Someone who will look out for him. Can you do that for me?”
“I always do,” replied Camille sleepily.
Mary kissed her daughter lightly on the forehead. “I don’t know what happened to him,” she said, “but he needs to know that he’s safe with us.”
“I’ll watch out for him,” said Camille. Her words were faint and slurred—her eyes closed. “I promise.” A moment later she was deeply asleep.