Art pressed the folded-up piece of paper into Camille’s hand.
“Promise me,” he said.
Camille nodded as she stuffed the paper deep in her pocket. “I promise.”
“I have to do this,” he said. “I have to do it my way.”
“I know,” she said
She wanted to cry, but she held back the tears. He didn’t need to see her cry. He needed to believe in what he was going to do. Camille wondered whether she would ever see him again, but she kept those doubts to herself. The quiet boy she had met the night before no longer existed. Art was now Art—focused, intense, and incredibly determined.
The boy stepped out of the shadows of the alleyway and into the heavy snow that was falling. He glanced up and down the street while putting on the gloves from his backpack—Camille still wore his blue jacket—and then looked back at her.
“Wait five minutes,” he said.
Camille didn’t respond. A moment later Art disappeared into the thick white cover of the snow.
The temperature hovered just above zero, and the snow was dropping in thick sheets. It was the wind, however, that was truly brutal. It roared down the street and straight into his face. It didn’t matter which way the boy turned or which street he took, the wind always seemed to find him. His eyes watered, and his cheeks burned. Art could feel his jaw growing sore as the cold set in, deep in his head. He couldn’t bury his hands far enough into his jeans pockets. His whole body felt stiff and unnatural. The shoulder he had injured in the car wreck throbbed in pain. But none of that mattered. Although he had plenty of money for a cab, he had made the decision to walk. He wanted to be out in the cold.
Art had taken this walk before—with his father. After two days of not knowing his own name and not remembering anything about who he was, the boy now clung fiercely to every memory. Since his mother’s death, Art had spent almost every waking moment with his father. Art didn’t have any friends to speak of—he was never in one place long enough to really get to know anyone. Instead, he had traveled the world with his father, going from city to city and museum to museum. He had probably spent more time around great works of art than any other twelve-year-old on the planet. Art had seen things and visited places very few kids his age ever got to see—all thanks to his father.
It seemed strange, but the boy finally understood why his mind had shut down for the past two days. The doctor at the hospital had called it dissociative amnesia—a loss of memory from a traumatic event, to put it simply. Believing his father had died and then barely escaping with his own life probably fit the description of a “traumatic event.” Art now understood that his mind had simply been protecting him—his father was all he had.
The boy was still putting together some of the missing pieces from the past couple of days, and the hours following his father’s disappearance remained fuzzy. He vaguely remembered waking up in a maintenance closet at the museum. He had a faint memory of taking his backpack to the coat check and leaving it there. He remembered making his way to the room where he was found by the docent—a room filled with paintings by Vincent van Gogh. It was as if something deep inside of him had been pushing him along—guiding him down a path he was now determined to follow.
Ignoring the wind, he made his way down Seventeenth Street and past the Old Executive Office Building. President Harry Truman, his father had once explained, despised the building—Truman thought it was ugly. Art thought the structure was beautiful and majestic, particularly at night. Continuing down Seventeenth Street, the boy passed the impressive stone façades of the buildings occupied by the Red Cross, the Daughters of the American Revolution, and the Organization of American States, all lit up beautifully. He continued south to Constitution Avenue and took a left. Directly across the street stood the Washington Monument, barely visible behind the thick wall of falling snow. Despite the cold, Art lingered there for a moment.
And that’s when the phone in his pocket started ringing.
It was about time.
Art slipped off a glove, removed the phone, and pushed the button on the screen. Someone started speaking before the boy had a chance to say anything.
“You were supposed to report in,” a voice said. “You’re late.”
The voice was much younger-sounding than Art had expected.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Art said.
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Art was tempted to say something else, but he knew he had to be patient. Even though his bare hand was freezing, he had to stick to his plan.
“I don’t make deals,” the voice finally said.
Art ignored that assertion. “My father for the journal. That’s the deal.”
Again there was silence.
“I don’t make deals,” the voice repeated.
Art knew the person on the other end of the phone was bluffing.
“You don’t have a choice,” Art said.
Silence.
Art had him.
“You have a deal,” the voice finally responded. “When? Where?”
“The Pantheon,” replied Art. “At exactly midnight. And if my father isn’t with you, I’ll know.”
“The Pantheon?” said the voice. “What are you talking about?”
Art ended the call, and the line went dead. He removed the battery from the phone and dumped both the device and battery in a nearby trash can. His hand was shaking from the cold as he slipped his glove back on. Pulling the Sullivans’ thick sweater tightly around him, the boy buried his hands in his pockets again and headed down Constitution Avenue toward his destination.
Officer Pat McCarthy took his time preparing his coffee.
A little sugar.
A little cream.
Stir.
Sip.
Repeat until perfect.
He had time to get his coffee just right. With the exception of the incident at the Hotel Monaco, it had been a quiet night in his part of the city.
McCarthy took another sip.
Perfect.
He fixed the lid on his cup and was headed for the door when he remembered the other reason he had stopped in at the Starbucks on Fifteenth Street. He made his way back to the counter. A thin young man with a nametag that read RICK stood behind the register.
“Can I get you something else?” asked Rick.
“Nah,” said the officer. “Just forgot to ask something. We have an alert out for a couple of missing kids. One’s a boy, age twelve or so, blond hair. The other’s a girl, ten years old, with bright red hair. Seen anyone matching those descriptions tonight?”
“You’re kidding me, right?” asked Rick.
“Listen,” said the officer. “Don’t bust my chops over this—I gotta ask. Kids went missing from the National Gallery a few hours ago, so everyone’s having a fit, particularly with the snow falling like it is.”
Rick shook his head. “Not what I meant,” he said. “Look behind you.”
The officer turned around. Standing directly behind him was a girl who appeared to be around ten years of age, with bright red hair.
“My name’s Camille Sullivan,” the girl said. “And I want to go home.”