The girl in the checkroom seemed to be taking forever. She had disappeared into the recesses of the backroom for more than a minute and had yet to reappear.
Art leaned over the counter and tried to see what she was doing.
“Maybe you didn’t leave anything,” suggested Camille. “Maybe you just found that plastic thing on the floor.”
Art shook his head. “No,” he said.
There was a shuffling noise from the back of the checkroom.
“Found it,” they heard the girl call.
She appeared a moment later carrying a small brown backpack. She double-checked the number on the plastic chip against the paper tag tied to the backpack.
“Here you go,” she said as she handed over the backpack to Art. “Sorry it took so long.”
The boy took the bag and immediately headed back toward the entrance foyer.
“Thank you,” Camille said to the cloakroom attendant before she turned to follow Art. “He’s a little excited.”
Camille found the boy sitting on a marble bench in the large foyer. He was looking at the back of the backpack. She took a seat beside him.
“My name’s Art,” he said.
“I know,” Camille replied. “I liked that better than Arthur.”
“No,” he said. “It really is Art. Look.” He pointed to a white label on the back of the backpack. It had a place to fill in a name, phone number, and address. Only the name was filled in. “Art H.,” it read in black magic marker.
“Wow,” said Camille. “So your last name begins with an H. Do you know what the H stands for?”
The boy shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. He turned to Camille and smiled. “But we’re finally getting somewhere. Things are definitely getting better.”
“Can you describe your daughter for me?” asked Dexter Poss.
Poss had served as a security guard for more than ten years at the National Gallery of Art. In that time, he had seen hundreds of parents just like the lady standing in front of him—panicked and emotional. He always tried to assure them that everything was fine—the children were inevitably found, usually much calmer than the parents looking for them.
“Ten years old,” replied the lady. “Bright red hair—you can’t miss her. Her name’s Camille. Camille Sullivan. I’m her mother, Mary.”
Poss scribbled down the information as Mary spoke.
“And the boy?” he asked.
“Blond,” she replied. “A couple years older than my daughter and much taller. He’s wearing a blue jacket.”
“Don’t worry,” the security guard assured her. “We have a standard procedure in these situations. It’s very effective—we haven’t lost a child yet. We’ll track them down in no time.”
Poss was just about to suggest that Mary return to the café—in case the kids showed up looking for her—when they were interrupted by a short middle-aged lady wearing thick glasses.
“Excuse me,” the woman said, “I couldn’t help but overhear you say that you’re looking for a young girl with red hair?”
“Yes!” said Mary excitedly. “Have you seen her?”
“Was she wearing a bright red jacket?” asked the lady. “White polka dots?”
“That’s her!” exclaimed Mary. “Where?”
“Ground floor gift shop,” the lady said as she pointed toward the center of the museum. “Back right corner near the children’s section—not more than a minute or so ago. She really stands out.”
Dexter Poss smiled. Case closed.
Regina Cash watched as the security guard and Mary Sullivan hurried toward the gift shop. Cash had just bought the roper a little more time. Now she needed to disappear before the security guard and Sullivan returned, having found no kids. Cash pulled on her jacket and headed out into the cold winter day.