“Grape or strawberry jelly?”
“Strawberry.”
“Wrong. Grape’s way better. Favorite movie?”
“Star Wars, I think.” It was the first movie that popped into the boy’s head.
“Yuck. Any of the Harry Potter movies is so much better. Favorite food?”
The boy sat at one end of the couch, Camille at the other. Camille’s mother had decided that they would go to the National Gallery of Art at some point after lunch. She said it might help the boy remember. For the time being, however, he had to hang out with Camille while Mary finished up a couple of small projects for work.
The show Adventure Time played on the TV in the background, but Camille did not seem interested. She had questions—lots of them—and she was shooting them at Art in rapid fashion.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe spaghetti?”
“You’re just saying that ’cause we had spaghetti last night,” she said dismissively. “I think pizza’s the best, but we only have it once a month. Mom says it’s way fattening—but I know she likes it too.”
“Pizza’s good,” the boy replied.
Camille rolled her eyes.
“Favorite animal?” she asked.
The boy paused for a moment. “I like dogs.”
“Big dogs or little dogs?”
“Big, I suppose.”
“Too messy,” she said. “Cats are better. Have you been anywhere other than Paris—like London?”
He paused once more.
Good question. Had he ever been to London?
An image immediately popped into the boy’s head with startling clarity. Two men dressed in clothes from the Middle Ages standing by a table that was filled with all sorts of things—books, two globes, a sundial. And floating in front of the men was a weird white and black image—a hologram, almost, of a contorted and stretched skull. It was a painting—a painting the boy had once seen in London. It was called The Ambassadors by a man named Hans Holbein the Younger, and it was almost five hundred years old. The boy remembered being fascinated by the skull. Why, he wondered now, could he remember that he had seen this bizarre painting in London, but couldn’t remember a single thing that really mattered about his life?
“Yes,” he said. “I think I’ve been to London.”
Camille shrugged. She was no longer impressed by his world travels.
“Ketchup or mustard?” she asked.
“Ketchup.”
“Hmm, maybe. Favorite color?”
“Red.”
“Apples or oranges?”
“Oranges.”
“Wrong,” she replied. “Apples are better ’cause—”
“Where’s your dad?” the boy blurted out. He knew that the question was probably inappropriate, but it had just occurred to him that he had not seen any photos of Camille’s dad—and no mention of him either. He knew that families did not always have two parents. He wondered about his own parents—his own family. Did he live with his parents? Maybe he lived with his grandparents, or an aunt or uncle. Did he have a brother or a sister? Did he come from a big family? He just didn’t know. It suddenly, however, seemed important to know about Camille and her family.
“Don’t know,” said Camille nonchalantly. “I think he lives in California, but I’ve never met him.”
“Never?”
“Never,” replied Camille.
“That doesn’t make you sad?”
“Why should it?” she said. “Mom said he didn’t want kids. So it’s just been me and Mom my whole life.”
Camille did not seem the least bit upset about the situation with her father.
“Your mom’s great.”
It seemed like the right thing to say, and the boy meant it.
“Yeah,” said Camille. “I just wish we could have pizza more than once a month.”
She paused for a moment as if deep in thought. He worried that he may have overstepped his boundaries with the questions about her dad. Finally Camille looked at him. She had a serious expression on her face.
“Pool or beach?” she asked.
Dorchek Palmer made his way through the front door of the narrow stone building while two members of his team assumed their positions outside the small coffee shop. He ordered an americano at the counter and then headed to a small table at the rear of the establishment. Taking a seat with his back to the wall, he placed his messenger bag on the floor next to him and waited. A little after nine o’clock, his appointment arrived. The man, perhaps thirty years older than Palmer, wore a tweed jacket and sported a large, unruly mustache. He ordered a cup of coffee and nervously made his way across the café, taking a seat at the table with Palmer.
“Well?” the man whispered. “Have you found it?”
“No,” Palmer replied. “Soon.”
“Soon?” said the man incredulously. “We need results now. Do you know what could happen if the wrong person gets their hands on it?”
Palmer nodded. “You’ll have results,” he said. “We’ve located the boy.”
“You’ve found the boy?” the man said, a bit louder than intended. He caught himself immediately and lowered his voice. “Why didn’t you say so? Problem solved, right? Surely the boy will get us what we want?”
Palmer reached into his messenger bag and retrieved the morning news. He opened the paper and spread it in front of him. “I take it you have not read the Post this morning?” he said beneath his breath.
The man sneered. “I only read the Times . . .” he started to say. And that’s when he caught sight of the photograph on the front page of the Washington Post. Palmer glanced up at the man, who looked as if he’d taken a punch to the stomach.
“The police?” the man finally said. “The police have the boy? How could you let that happen?”
“The boy has amnesia,” Palmer assured him, casually taking a sip of his americano. “He remembers nothing.”
“But . . . but,” the man sputtered, “what if he remembers? What if he’s faking? What if he has . . . ?”
“We’ll have the boy soon,” Palmer said confidently. “The spider will follow.”
“But your men lost him once,” the man said.
“It was an unexpected turn of events,” Palmer replied. “Just like the spider.” He looked at the man over the rim of his coffee cup. It was clear Palmer had hit a nerve. Belette had been responsible for ensuring that any evidence of the spider had been destroyed. Had the man sitting across from him done his job as required, the spider would no longer exist.
“It is what it is,” Palmer continued. “We deal with events as they exist, not as we wish them to be. I need you focused for this afternoon, not worried about what’s already happened.”
The man nodded. “I’ll do my part.”
“And I’ll do mine,” said Palmer.
The man paused. Palmer could tell there was something else the man wanted—needed—to ask.
“And what happens to the boy when you find him?” the man finally asked in a low voice.
Palmer carefully folded up the newspaper and took a final sip of his americano. Before he stood to depart, he reached down to pick up his messenger bag and looked the man directly in the eyes. “There are questions, Dr. Belette, that you should not ask.”