He was too late.
Eric McClain was just getting out of his car when the boy and the girl sprinted away from the wreck. He tried to catch up with them, but he was quickly swallowed up in the gathering crowd. He made it through just in time to see the kids disappear around the corner at the end of the block. He thought about chasing them farther, but they had too much of a head start.
McClain knew he needed to act fast, but he also needed help. He made his way to the opposite side of the street to get away from the crowd and placed a call to the two other team members. Luck was on his side—the two had left the museum together but had been delayed in traffic. They were already headed in McClain’s direction and would be circling the block within minutes.
“Put in your earpieces,” McClain told them before he ended the call. From this point forward all communications would take place using the two-way radio earpiece communicators.
But there was one more call McClain needed to make.
To Palmer.
Art and Camille moved quickly away from the accident scene. As soon as they broke free from the crowd, they sprinted toward the end of the block. They made it around the corner at F Street before stopping along an iron railing. An oval sign on the railing read HOTEL MONACO: WASHINGTON. To their left, just down the sidewalk and less than a hundred feet away, was the entrance to the hotel. It occurred to Art that the car had actually crashed into the side of the hotel, which took up the entire city block. He glanced back down at the entrance to the hotel and saw the parking valets—two young men dressed in matching burgundy outfits—sprinting down the sidewalk directly at Art and Camille. The valets were followed close behind by a portly limousine driver, who seemed to be struggling to keep up the pace. Art’s heart jumped in his chest, and he gripped Camille’s hand tightly as he prepared to run.
“They’re not after us,” Camille said calmly. “They’re checking on the accident.”
She was right.
The valets sprinted past them without a word.
“Evening,” the limousine driver gasped as he trundled past the kids.
Art took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He needed to get his bearings. The smoky chemical smell of the air bags still lingered in his nostrils.
The boy looked around. Directly across the street was yet another massive stone building with tall columns. Washington, DC, was filled with structures like that. Large letters on the front identified the building as the National Portrait Gallery. On the far corner of the intersection was a large modern structure covered with glass—a sharp contrast to its stone counterpart across the street. To Art’s right, farther down F Street, was a large ornate gold clock that jutted from the side of an old building. The clock read 6:29.
Traffic continued to flow by at a steady pace, but the sidewalks were relatively empty. The sights and sounds of the wreck had drawn in most of the bystanders for a curious and perhaps morbid peek. Art exhaled for what seemed like the first time in forever.
“Are you okay?” he asked Camille.
She nodded. “Are you?”
The boy could hear the sirens in the distance. The police would be there any minute. His shoulder ached from the wreck, and he felt as if he had just run a marathon.
“I’m fine,” he replied.
A million different thoughts raced through his head. What did those men want? Where had they been taking him? Was there anyone he could trust? Art tried to push back against the flood of thoughts rushing through his brain, but the tactic wasn’t working. He felt as if his head were about to explode.
And that’s when Camille started laughing. Everything in his head came to a screeching halt.
Laughing?
“What’s so funny?” Art asked. Didn’t she understand how serious this situation had become?
Camille continued to laugh. “You . . . with . . . a . . . can of Coke,” she finally managed to gasp. “That . . . was . . . hilarious.”
“Listen,” said Art, “this is a very dangerous—”
“A Coke!” Camille exclaimed, and then doubled over in laughter once more. “How’d you think of that?”
“We don’t have time . . .” Art started to say—and then he paused. A slight smile crossed his face. It was ridiculous, he realized. The fact that it had actually worked made it even more so.
Art smiled wider. “How did the driver taste?”
“Terrible,” Camille said. “Like old socks.”
The phone call had gone just as Eric McClain had expected. Palmer had exploded when he learned that the boy had gotten away—again. But Palmer was Palmer—and after threatening to fire the entire team, he calmed down and formulated a plan. Palmer instructed McClain to stay and keep an eye on the accident scene in case the boy returned. The other team members would start searching for the boy and the girl. They couldn’t have gotten far—it was dark, starting to snow, and turning colder by the minute. Palmer figured the kids would probably try to make contact with the girl’s mother or the police. Palmer would monitor the mother’s phone and police communications. If the two called for help, the team would intercept before anyone arrived. There was still no indication that the boy knew who he was or why they were after him. But Palmer’s luck wouldn’t hold out forever.
“Find them,” Palmer had said to his search party. “Do whatever you have to do.”
McClain could hear the police sirens getting closer. He was staying near the accident scene, just as Palmer had told him to do. If the boy showed up again, McClain needed to be in a position to seize him. But from his vantage point in the middle of the block, McClain had a limited view of the surrounding area.
He pulled his coat tight and headed up the sidewalk.
“Now what?” asked Camille. “Wait for the police and let ’em know what happened?”
“No,” replied Art.
“No?”
“We can’t trust anyone,” he said.
“What does that mean?” asked Camille.
“It means that someone who claimed to be a detective just kidnapped us. He had a badge—didn’t you see it? How do we know he wasn’t a real detective? What if we walk back around that corner and get stuffed into another car? I don’t know who I can trust, and I’m not taking any chances.”
“You can trust my mom,” said Camille. “We can use the phone at the hotel to call her.”
“I trust your mom,” said Art. “And I trust you. But that isn’t the problem. Somehow the two guys in the car knew I was at the museum. Think about it—the detective said that you had left the café without telling your mom. How could he have known that? How long have they been watching us? How many of them are there? I’ll bet anything that they know where you and your mom live. They might even have followed us from your house, or tapped your phone, or both. You can’t call your mom while I’m around.”
The boy paused.
“Besides,” he finally said, “I’ve got something I need to do.”
“What?” asked Camille.
Art held out his backpack. “I now have a bunch of clues,” he said. “And I’m going to find out who I am and why those guys are after me.”