He came upon a tall gate—cast iron with patches of rust, and cobwebs strung between its thick metal pickets. The gate swung ever so slightly in the wind, creaking as it made its way back and forth on ancient pins.
It was late, and the shadows had grown deep and long. The bright colors of the day had faded into gray.
He turned to head back the way he had come, but night had overtaken him. The path was now dark and uncertain.
He could feel his heart beating in his chest.
He had been here before, but he couldn’t remember what happened or which way to go.
He called out for help, but there was no reply. He was alone.
There was nowhere to go but forward.
The gate was ajar—the path beyond, uncertain.
The boy sat straight up in bed.
He tried desperately to hold on to the dream, but it slipped from his memory.
Faint images were all that remained, the afterglow of something real. It was like trying to grab smoke.
The doctor at the hospital had told the boy not to get frustrated. The memories would come back when he was ready, the doctor had explained. So the boy held on to his dreams. They weren’t much—and they were weird—but they were more than what he’d had yesterday.
He glanced over at the small clock by the bed—6:31 a.m.
It was strange. He still couldn’t remember his name, where he was from, or who his parents were. He knew nothing about himself. But he knew exactly where he was at this precise moment—the home of Mary Sullivan and her ten-year-old daughter, Camille. He remembered every detail from the night before. He remembered arriving at the home that Mary and Camille Sullivan shared—a narrow three-story white-brick house squeezed into the middle of a block of red-brick homes. He remembered listening to Camille go on and on about her pet turtle, Theo, as her mother prepared dinner. He remembered diving into a large plate of spaghetti, feeling as if he hadn’t eaten for days. He remembered the long, hot shower before bed. He remembered climbing into the tall bed in the guest room, sinking into the soft, thick mattress, and falling immediately to sleep.
And that’s what made it so frustrating. Everything from the past twelve hours was so vivid. But before that? Nothing but vague memories from a dream. It was as if he had simply popped into existence yesterday afternoon at the museum. He had no idea who he really was. Was he one of those kids—like Camille—who talked nonstop about everything? Or was he quiet and shy? Did he have a bad temper, or did things just roll off his back? Was he bothered by little things, like people chewing gum too loudly or the sound of potato chips crunching in a bag? Did he have lots of friends, or was he a loner? Was he a good student? Did he like sports, or was he more into video games? What type of music did he like?
There were so many questions—and absolutely no answers.
The boy lay down and tried to sleep, but it was useless. His brain was working overtime—his thoughts raced along at a mile a minute, trying to make sense of the small clues provided during his sleep.
He sat back up, turned on the lamp beside his bed, and listened for any sign that someone else was awake—he didn’t feel right about wandering around the house by himself.
It didn’t take long. Almost immediately he heard someone walking around on the first floor. The boy jumped out of bed and headed downstairs.
He found Mary pouring herself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. She seemed surprised to see him.
“You’re up early,” she said as she poured cream into her mug.
“I had a dream,” he said as he took a seat at the small kitchen table. “Couldn’t get back to sleep.”
“Bad dream?” Mary asked. The boy could tell she was concerned, but she hid it well.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Can’t really remember. There was something there, and then it was just . . . gone.”
“Dreams are like that. Don’t read too much into them.”
“I suppose,” he replied. But he also suspected that this particular dream did mean something.
“Hot chocolate?” she asked.
“Yes,” the boy said. “Thank you.” He was pretty sure he liked hot chocolate.
Mary filled a small saucepan with milk, placed it on the stovetop, and turned on the gas. She sat down at the table across from him.
“I have something to show you,” Mary said. She picked up her iPad, turned it on, and passed it across the table.
“This morning’s Post,” she said. “Look at the headline on the right side.”
The boy took the iPad and glanced at the right-hand side of the page. Mary had not told him what he was looking for, but it immediately became evident.
The headline read: “Police Seek Identity of Mystery Boy.”
He glanced up at Mary.
“Me?” he asked. “I’m the mystery boy?”
She nodded and took a sip of her coffee.
He tapped the headline with his index finger, and a new page quickly appeared. There—in full color—was the picture of him taken at the police station the previous night. He quickly scanned the article. It explained that he had been found at the National Gallery of Art and that he suffered from some form of amnesia. According to the article, the efforts to find his parents—or anyone who knew him—had so far proven fruitless. The police were seeking the public’s assistance.
Mary stood up and tested the milk on the stove. She turned off the gas, poured the milk into a large cup, and stirred in a packet of hot chocolate mix. She placed the steaming mug in front of the boy.
“Not looking good, is it?” he said.
“It’s still early,” she said assuringly.
“Early for what?” The question came from the far side of the kitchen. It was Camille, dressed in dark blue pajamas covered with tiny images of the TARDIS—the time machine from Doctor Who. Her red hair flew off in all directions. She made her way over to the kitchen table and plopped down beside the boy.
“Morning, Art,” she said. She glanced down at his image on the iPad. “Holy cow! Is that you? Mystery boy! How cool is that? You’re a freakin’ celebrity.”
“Morning, Camille,” he replied. “And I’m not a celebrity.”
“Hot chocolate?” Mary asked Camille. Art appreciated Mary’s effort to draw her daughter’s attention away from the news article.
“Absolutely,” said Camille. “And in my favorite mug?”
“Always,” replied her mother.
Mary poured more hot milk into a large mug, stirred in hot chocolate mix, and handed the beverage to her daughter. Camille turned the mug so that the image on it faced Art. It was a painting of a harbor, two boats loosely sketched in broad strokes on pale blue water. In the background was the sun—a small orange circle—its reflection rippling in the water below.
“Mom got this for me when she was in Paris,” said Camille proudly. “It’s my favorite. I’m going to Paris someday, ya know. I want to see the Eiffel Tower, eat croissants, and wear a beret. That sounds very French, doesn’t it? Mom says Paris is a great city.”
Art stared at the mug.
“It’s pretty, don’t you think,” said Mary as she sat down again at the breakfast table with her coffee. “And very famous. It’s a painting by—”
“Claude Monet,” said Art. His voice was calm. His eyes didn’t leave the image on the mug.
Camille sat up straight in her chair. She could see the wheels turning in Art’s head. Something was happening.
“Whoa,” she said as she turned the mug back around in an effort to see if she had somehow missed Monet’s name emblazoned upon it. Hot chocolate splashed on the table. “You know about the guy who painted this?” She was impressed.
“I know a lot about the guy who painted it,” replied Art. “Claude Monet is one of the most famous painters in history. The painting’s called Impression, Sunrise. The entire impressionist movement is named after that painting.”
“The impression what?” asked Camille. Art sounded more like a teacher than a twelve-year-old.
“The impressionist movement,” said her mother. “It was a style of art followed by a group of painters in the late nineteenth century. And he’s right—the movement was named after the painting on your mug.”
Mary turned to the boy. “So you know about the painting?” she asked. “Do you remember how you learned about it?”
The boy stared at the mug in silence.
“I know where I’ve seen that painting,” he finally said.
“Good,” said Mary. “In a book? Maybe a report you did at school?”
“No. I saw it in Paris.”
Dorchek Palmer jogged eastward along the pea gravel path of the National Mall. To his right was the Castle, the original Smithsonian Institution—a beautiful Gothic structure of red sandstone. To his left was the imposing marble façade of the Smithsonian’s Natural History Museum. Directly in front of him was the United States Capitol. It was still at least a half hour until sunrise, but the Capitol was, as always, brightly lit—a beacon at the end of the long grassy lawn that separated the majestic, ornate building from the simple marble obelisk at the far end. The Capitol Christmas Tree—a giant white spruce—stood between the reflecting pool and the Capitol.
There were only two more days before everything would be concluded. Yet, despite all their efforts, the spider—and the boy—remained hidden. Until the boy was found, the spider destroyed, and two more days had passed, the risk of failure still existed. Palmer thrived on risks, but he hated the feeling he might fail. He had to remain diligent. They would continue their pursuit. Perhaps the spider would stay in its hole, hidden from the world forever.
Perhaps.
But Palmer wasn’t taking any chances.
He had scrubbed the laptop and the cell phone for any sign of the spider but had found nothing. His team would have to be more aggressive. There was no other choice.
Just as Palmer reached the end of the mall, a large black SUV pulled alongside the curb. Palmer glanced down at his watch. It was exactly 6:45 a.m.—the driver was on time. Palmer opened the back door and got in. A large cup of black coffee was in the cup holder and the morning’s Post folded on the seat beside him.
Palmer took a sip of coffee as the driver pulled away from the curb. Palmer reached over, grabbed the morning paper, and casually turned to the front page. For one of the few times in his life, Dorchek Palmer was caught off-guard.
He quickly regained his composure. As bad as the situation appeared, there might still be some way to turn this to his advantage.
He pulled out his phone and called his team.
It was going to be an interesting morning.