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  They climbed the front steps of their building, which had once looked so starved and severe to Emily. Now it welcomed her like a familiar friend, the contrasting trim above the top windows like raised eyebrows surprised to see her again.

  She invited James over to hang out, and as they walked up her stairwell, her apartment filled with skateboard thunder and Matthew chanting Flush lyrics.

  “Sorry about that,” Emily said. “Matthew’s going to a concert tonight—” Emily was interrupted by whooping even louder than Matthew’s singing.

  Her parents burst from the kitchen, racing down the hallway toward them. Her dad held a carton of orange juice overhead, and her mom hollered behind him.

  Emily and James pressed against the wall to let them run by.

  “What’s going on?” Emily shouted.

  “It’s a celebration!” her dad said. “All we had was orange juice. But I don’t care! This is the most celebratory orange juice ever!”

  Matthew rolled out of his room and dug his heel into the skateboard to flip it up to his hand. Freshly shaved swirls dotted his skull.

  “Celebrating me going to the Flush concert? Aww, you shouldn’t have.”

  “It sold!” Their mom clapped her hands. “50 Homes in 50 States sold! Our agent just called us with the news!”

  “It sold?” Emily repeated.

  Her parents passed out plastic cups of juice, but Emily was too shocked to accept one. Everyone but Emily hopped around, orange juice splattering the floor, and chanted with her parents, “We sold a book! We sold a book!” Even Steve got in on the party with his bobbing back and forth. Her dad swung her ponytail like he was conducting an orchestra.

  “C’mon, Em! This is a great day, great news!”

  She remained in a firmly non-bouncy state. A feeling something like dread was overtaking her.

  Emily yanked her ponytail from her dad’s hand and marched to her room. The whooping and hopping dulled as her family and James watched her go. Why was she being such a Scrooge? She knew she was ruining the moment for her parents. How hard would it be to hop around, drink some orange juice, and pretend she was as excited as everyone else?

  What an idiot she’d been. She sat on her bed, her backpack still on. She’d let down her guard and gotten herself attached to people and a place when she knew it would be inevitable that they’d move again. Her parents were publishing a book about living in fifty states, for Pete’s sake.

  James pushed open her door. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  A horn honked repeatedly, and Emily heard her brother yell, “Showtime!” Of course he was totally unfazed. He leaned into the adventure and all that. No Jack Kerouac quote could help her now. There was something to be said for stopping to enjoy your surroundings, too, instead of always looking ahead to what came next. She didn’t care what was waiting around the next bend. She knew it wouldn’t be another puzzle-loving computer nut with a cowlick sidekick.

  James shifted from foot to foot. “If now isn’t a good time, I can go.…”

  Emily grabbed her backpack and stood up.

  “Now is the only time. Come on.”

  Her parents stood where she’d left them, leaned together in conversation.

  “Emily,” her mom said.

  “We know you’re not happy about our announcement,” her dad said.

  Emily thundered past them and down the stairs with James at her heels. She slammed the front door behind them. A station wagon full of Matthew’s friends backed into the street, and Emily waved for them to stop.

  She pulled open the back door. “Scoot over,” she said to Matthew.

  “What are you doing?” Matthew said. “You don’t have tickets!”

  “Just move,” Emily said.

  There must have been a don’t-mess-with-me tone to her voice because Matthew nudged his friend and they slid over. Emily wedged herself on her brother’s lap and James squeezed in next to the door.

  “Where are we going?” James whispered.

  “Mr. Remora’s. I need to finish Mr. Griswold’s game. Or at least try.”

  “You know where he lives?”

  “He told Hollister he lives by the Fillmore.” She nodded to her brother. “That’s where they’re going.”

  “But…” James plucked at Steve. “There are a lot of places to live around the Fillmore,” he said carefully.

  “I remember his address.”

  James raised his eyebrows.

  “Well, I remember most of it. It’s sevens and ones, like 1177 or 7171.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  She could tell James was dubious about her impulsive plan, but she was determined to find Mr. Remora and ask him for The Gold-Bug back, even if she had to knock on every 1/7 combination address around the Fillmore.

  They circled the neighborhood of the music venue looking for street parking. With every loop, Emily scanned street numbers. She knew Mr. Remora lived close enough to complain about the Fillmore, and 1717 was the closest possibility. That had to be it.

  They finally found parking down a side street, and everyone piled out. Emily swung her backpack on and hurried ahead of Matthew’s group. James was right beside her. When they got to the Fillmore intersection, Emily and James turned up the street, away from the music venue, running to cross in time before the light changed.

  “Where are you guys going?” Matthew called.

  Emily walked more quickly. She was determined to do this, and stopping to explain herself to her brother would just slow her down.

  Matthew left his friends and caught up to them, panting. “What’s going on?”

  “She’s going to get a book,” James said.

  “You came all this way for a book? Can’t it wait?”

  Emily spun on her brother.

  “No, it can’t, Matthew. If you had Flush tickets and then someone took those precious tickets away, and this was your one chance to be a part of the Flush experience, what would you do? Would you be happy about it? Would you just say, ‘That’s cool. No biggie’? Or would you at least try to get your tickets back?”

  Matthew stood with his arms crossed, eyes squinted in concentration like he was really imagining himself in this scenario.

  “I’d get my tickets back, obviously.”

  “Well then, pretend my book is a pair of Flush tickets. That’s how important this is to me.”

  Emily resumed walking, her backpack slapping against her with the forcefulness of every step. She assumed her brother would go back to his friends. Instead, she heard him yell, “Hey, guys, I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” Then he jogged past Emily and James, clapping his hands like a football coach.

  “Let’s move, people. We’ve got a book to rescue!”

  CHAPTER

  36

  EMILY HAD her doubts, staring up at 1717 Fillmore. She’d expected something shabby and brown, like Mr. Remora’s briefcase, but this was a tidy Victorian with a bright purple shop on the ground level and green stairs with prim white banisters leading up to the front door.

  “So this is the home of the book thief?” Matthew said as the three stood at the base of the stairs. “What do you want me to do? Scale that tree? Break a window?”

  “He’s not a book thief, Matthew.” Emily gripped her backpack straps and looked up to the front door. “He’s a rare-book specialist.”

  She walked up the stairs.

  “What are you doing? What is she doing?” Matthew said to James.

  “It looks like she’s ringing the doorbell.”

  “That’s your plan?” Matthew said as he and James joined her on the front stoop. “You’re going to ring his doorbell and just ask him to give you this book?”

  Before she could second-guess herself, Mr. Remora opened the door.

  “I don’t eat cookies,” he said, and was about to close the door on them when Matthew stuck his foot in the way and held the door open.

  “Hold on. We’re not selling cookies. My sister has something to ask you.�
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  “Mr. Remora, I’m the student who posted about The Gold-Bug on Book Scavenger. I know Mr. Quisling gave it back to you, but I was wondering if I could look at it again.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mr. Remora said.

  “Don’t you remember us?” James piped up. “We saw you in Mr. Griswold’s office and Hollister’s store.”

  Emily added, “We know you’re a rare-book collector, and we know Mr. Griswold is one of your clients.”

  “Well. Good for you,” Mr. Remora snapped. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps you should check again with your teacher.”

  “Didn’t Mr. Quisling call you?”

  “What part of ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ do you not understand?”

  James and Matthew looked to Emily, waiting for her direction, but she was stumped. Mr. Quisling had been adamant that Emily give up the book, that it was returned to Mr. Remora ASAP.

  “Emily?” James asked. “Are you okay?”

  A sickening feeling overtook her. She’d told Mr. Quisling about the game. He’d said he didn’t want to look at the puzzle because he wouldn’t be able to resist solving it.

  “I need to sit down,” she croaked.

  Mr. Quisling never saw the Maltese Falcon cipher, but it would be easy enough for him to open The Gold-Bug, find the typos she’d marked, and put the pieces together himself.

  Matthew swung an arm around her side, letting her lean on him, and pushed Mr. Remora’s door with his free hand. Mr. Remora pushed back.

  “What are you doing?” Mr. Remora sputtered.

  “Can we come in for a second?” Matthew asked. “I don’t think my sister feels well.”

  “No, you cannot—”

  Matthew overpowered Mr. Remora, and he and Emily tumbled inside the house.

  “I’m fine,” Emily gasped, although her vision was spinning. There were books piled on every seating option, so she sat on the floor, not bothering to take off her backpack, and put her head between her knees.

  “Emily?” That was James crouching next to her.

  Raven had hidden forty-nine more copies of The Maltese Falcon across the city. Plenty for Mr. Quisling to find, and surely he’d solve the Pigpen clue in no time. And then it was just a matter of time before he solved the entire game and uncovered the grand prize.

  “How could I have been so dumb?” she moaned. Confiding in Mr. Quisling, of all people. Mr. Quisling. Babbage. Once a poacher, always a poacher.

  She lifted her head trying to find something to focus on. The room they were in was half family room, half kitchen. Piles and stacks and towers of books were everywhere. Only a sliver of sunlight cracked through the closed drapes, making the room feel dreary. A dark hallway led to the back of the house.

  “Can she have a glass of water?” James asked.

  Mr. Remora had picked up his phone. “Get over here,” he snapped into the receiver. “Right now.”

  Matthew crossed to the kitchen and opened cupboards by the sink until he found a glass. Mr. Remora threw his hands in the air. “Make yourselves at home, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Emily said. “I made a mistake.”

  From somewhere down the hallway, a door squeaked open. Mr. Remora closed the front door and flipped the dead bolt. The clomp of footsteps drew nearer until a tall, lanky man stepped out of the hallway.

  “Uncle Leon, what’s going on?”

  The man speaking was one of the BART station men. Barry, Emily remembered from when she’d tricked him into taking Hollister’s Poe collection. Barry looked from Matthew in the kitchen to Emily on the floor to James crouched next to her to Mr. Remora.

  “What’s he doing here?” Emily said at the same time Barry asked, “What are they doing here?”

  Emily stood. Across the room on the kitchen island, under the glare of pendant lights, lay The Gold-Bug.

  “You do have it!” she cried. Forgetting everything else, Emily ran and lifted the book from the island. The golden beetle greeted her, shining in the rose-hued light. So Mr. Quisling hadn’t tricked her. But then …

  “Why did you lie?” She faced Mr. Remora. James and Matthew flanked her on either side. Barry hovered across the room, looking as wary as she felt.

  Mr. Remora remained by the front door, his arms crossed and scowling. “It’s none of your business. Why does it interest you anyway? I didn’t think Edgar Allan Poe was popular with children these days.”

  The doorbell rang. Mr. Remora twisted the dead bolt and tugged the door open.

  “Took you long enough, Clyde,” he snapped.

  The short, burly man who’d been with Barry the other day stepped inside.

  “What are they doing here?” Clyde crooked his thumb in their direction. “Who’s the new one with the spiderwebs shaved on his head?”

  “They’re swirls,” Matthew said.

  Barry stepped forward. “I thought you said we were done with the kids.”

  “Well, I was wrong,” Mr. Remora said impatiently. “It seems they’ve come to help us.” Mr. Remora was small and wiry and balding, and at first glance he looked anything but intimidating. But the look in his eyes when he stepped toward them made Emily step back. “Let’s drop the charade. We are both interested in that book for the same reason: Mr. Griswold’s ridiculous game.”

  “You know about the game?”

  “Of course I do. Not the specifics, per se. But he’s been babbling about armchair treasure hunts for years, asking me to locate this or that book so he’d have a complete collection of the genre.”

  Barry cleared his throat. “Why don’t you let these kids go? We can just chalk this up to a mix-up. You finish doing whatever you’re doing with that book, and they can forget any of this happened.”

  “Why should I waste my time solving Garrison’s game when I’m fairly certain this girl has already done so? Or is close to completing it, at the very least.” To Emily he said, “That’s why you’re so desperate to have the book back, isn’t it? So let’s work together. I’ll even let you have The Gold-Bug as a keepsake. You wouldn’t be interested in the prize anyway. It’s nothing a kid would like—no toys or candy.”

  “You know what the prize is?” Emily asked.

  “Why else would I go to this trouble? Who’d want to do this for the fun of it?” Mr. Remora shuddered. “I hate games. What do you say? Care to share your secrets?”

  If Emily could get the men away from the door they might be able to make a run for it. The kitchen was in the farthest corner of the room. That was where everybody needed to move to give them the best chance of breaking away.

  “Well, you’re right. We have practically solved it,” she said. Her voice shook as she spoke. “But we’re stuck on the last clue. It’s a cipher.”

  James stared at her, mouth hanging open. He knew she was lying. They’d solved the last clue. Emily tightened her grip on The Gold-Bug.

  “And what is this last clue you need to figure out?” Mr. Remora said “clue” with a little shiver, as if he were talking about snakes instead of a game.

  “Do you have a pencil and paper?” She had her pencil tucked in her ponytail, of course, but she was hoping Mr. Remora would have to move somewhere else to retrieve one for her. And he did.

  Just as she hoped, Mr. Remora walked into the kitchen. She noted that he hadn’t relocked the door after he let in Clyde. Hopefully that would help, as long as they could cause a big enough distraction to get to the door first. Barry and Clyde shoved aside books and magazines on the couch and sat down. Clyde chewed at a hangnail; Barry watched Mr. Remora. They weren’t as far from the front door as Emily had hoped, but it would have to do.

  She turned to James. “You remember the last cipher, don’t you? I may need help remembering the whole thing.”

  James nodded slowly, trying to play along with Emily but unsure what she was planning.

  As Mr. Remora rummaged through an overstuffed
drawer, Emily mouthed to her brother door. He gave an almost imperceptible nod and took the slightest step away from her and toward the front door.

  “Have you read all these books?” Emily asked Mr. Remora. Even the kitchen counters and top of the refrigerator were covered. Part of her was stalling and part was genuinely curious. Even if she didn’t have to limit herself to one suitcase full, it would take her decades to collect this many books, let alone read them.

  “No chitchat.” Mr. Remora steered a notepad and pencil around a stack of American Revolution–themed novels.

  Emily started to write and then faked a small coughing attack. “Could I have that glass of water?”

  Mr. Remora sighed and picked up the full glass her brother had left by the sink. She took a small sip and smiled.

  “Thanks.”

  Mr. Remora waved his hands in an impatient “get on with it” way.

  Using her and James’s secret code, she wrote out her plan, but made an effort to act like she was trying to recall the pretend cipher she was conjuring up. James caught on and chimed in, saying things like, “I think it was T-A, not T-X.”

  Her note read: “Make book chaos. Run.”

  It wasn’t a genius plan, but it was the best thing she could come up with.

  Barry’s head dropped back on the sofa, eyes closed. Clyde flipped through a magazine so roughly it was amazing the pages didn’t rip out. Matthew had inched about a foot closer to the door now.

  “I thought you had the clue memorized,” Mr. Remora said, sounding more disappointed than suspicious.

  “You forgot this,” James said. He glanced briefly at Matthew to make sure he was paying attention. Then in their cipher language James wrote Now! and many things happened at once: Emily threw her water at Mr. Remora, getting the American Revolution books wet in the process. Mr. Remora shrieked “No!” while James toppled tower after tower of books. Matthew leaped to the front door and swung it open, then turned back to kick a pile of books in Barry and Clyde’s direction.

  “What the—” Barry sputtered, startled from his nap. Inexplicably, Clyde started flinging magazines across the room like he was throwing boomerangs.