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  “Who do you think authenticated the manuscript?” Mr. Remora said. He shoved both hands deep into his pockets, pulling his jacket closed against the misty night. “I’ve worked for that man for a long time. I deduced his connection to Rufus Griswold within my first year of working for him. And he didn’t find the lost Poe manuscript. I did. But there’s no credit to me in that charming letter of his, is there? Of course not. We should have been partners. A fifty-fifty split. He never would have known what he had under his own nose if it hadn’t been for me.”

  Mr. Remora paced in front of Barry and Clyde, his hands out of his pockets now, flinging in all directions as he talked.

  “Then Garrison planned this cockamamie game without consulting me. You know what he said when I called him on it?” Mr. Remora jabbed a finger at Matthew like he expected him to respond. Matthew shook his head and stepped back. “He said, ‘Oh, but you will be a partner, Leon. All you have to do is play the game—and win!’ And he laughed.”

  Emily frowned. Mr. Griswold wouldn’t have been that mean.

  “When he told me his idiotic plan to give the manuscript away as a prize, like it was a honey-baked ham or plastic trophy, I was horrified. That work deserves to be in a museum! Not buried in the ground like a bone, free to any dog that digs it up.”

  “Mr. Griswold agrees with you—he says so in his letter,” Emily insisted.

  “Ha!” Mr. Remora barked. “If he agreed with me, then it wouldn’t be in your greasy hands right now. You’re probably getting peanut butter all over it!”

  “It’s wrapped in plastic,” Matthew said.

  “And my hands are clean,” Emily added nervously.

  “You’ll cut it up for paper dolls!” Mr. Remora waved his arms, the strands of his hair flopping erratically.

  “Hey now, Uncle Leon,” Barry said.

  Mr. Remora whipped a finger toward him. “You don’t get a say in this. I trusted you with entirely too much. This child has been more resourceful than you, Barry. You’re worthless. You lose money that’s not yours on horse races. I’m bailing you out with bookies left and right, and then I ask you to take care of one simple thing. And you screw that up, too.” His shrill voice rang in the night.

  Emily’s eyes flicked from Mr. Remora to the fog-shrouded park in hopes of spotting someone coming to see what the noise was about. Barry shifted from side to side, eyeing Mr. Remora. Clyde yawned.

  “Garrison Griswold was a fraud! He touted a deep love and respect for literature, but did you know he once used a first-edition Dashiell Hammett as a coaster? A coaster!”

  Emily took a step back, tripping on the metal box, and stumbled in the hole they’d dug. She fell on her bottom, the manuscript clutched to her stomach. Her sudden movement alarmed Mr. Remora, and he shouted, “Don’t move!” The next thing Emily knew, Clyde pulled a gun out of his pocket and pointed it at them.

  “Dude,” Matthew said.

  “I thought you threw that away!” Barry cried.

  “I told you that to get you off my back,” Clyde sneered. “You think I want this to wash up and connect me with Griswold’s shooting?”

  From where she sat on the ground, Emily said, “You shot Mr. Griswold?” All this time she’d never questioned that it had been a random mugging in the BART station. She thought of how many times she’d refreshed the Book Scavenger forums for news on how Mr. Griswold was doing, how worried she’d been that he wouldn’t recover. And she wasn’t the only one who’d been affected by such a thoughtless, violent act—the mounds of flowers and books and stuffed animals left in tribute to him around the city were proof of that. The presence of Clyde’s gun should have terrified her, but a wave of grief swelled for Mr. Griswold’s current uncertain state, followed by a tsunami of anger.

  “You shot him over a book? How could you do that? He did nothing but positive things! He might die now, and for what? How could you be that shallow and mean?”

  The fury rising in Emily propelled her up from the ground and forward. With every step and every word the three men shrank back as a group, though Clyde didn’t lower the gun.

  “This isn’t how it was supposed to be!” Emily shouted her words into the night sky, but it didn’t make a difference. Mr. Griswold’s game was over. He was still in critical condition. It didn’t matter if the prize had been a valuable manuscript or a million dollars or a stuffed walrus. Mr. Griswold might die, and Book Scavenger might die with him. Nothing would change any of that. James and Matthew stood behind her, and Matthew placed a hand on her shoulder. Emily leveled her eyes at the three men. “You are pathetic.”

  “He shot him, not me.” Mr. Remora pointed to Clyde. “But it had to be done. I certainly can’t go publicizing that Poe manuscript if Griswold’s still around. As it stands now, nobody knows it exists. It can be my discovery. Well…” Mr. Remora rumpled his hair, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Nobody knows it exists other than you three.”

  Out of the darkness behind Clyde, a voice growled, “Make that four.” There was a loud whack and Clyde dropped to his knees. The gun flew out of Clyde’s hand and skidded across the concrete. Mr. Remora dropped to a crouch, covering his head, then peeked up scanning the ground.

  “There!” Matthew pointed his Flush poster at the gun, and James ran to retrieve it. Unfortunately, Barry did, too, and got to the gun first.

  Clyde’s attacker stepped under a lamppost, bending over Clyde to make sure he was knocked out. The dreadlocks would have been recognizable anywhere.

  “Hollister?” Emily asked.

  “I hoped I’d see you kids here, but not under these circumstances,” Hollister said.

  Emily didn’t have time to dwell on all the questions Hollister’s presence raised. Barry swung the gun back and forth.

  “Don’t stand there, idiot. Do something,” Mr. Remora hissed.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Barry shouted.

  “You’re supposed to get me that manuscript, by any means possible,” Mr. Remora said. Mr. Remora jabbed a finger in Emily’s direction, punctuating every word. “Get. Me. That. Manuscript.”

  Hollister remained crouched next to the unconscious Clyde. He used one hand to clamp together Clyde’s limp wrists while the other hand dug in his own pocket. “Leon, get a hold of yourself,” Hollister said.

  “You stay out of this!” Mr. Remora didn’t even look Hollister’s way. “Hand me the gun, Barry.”

  “They’re just kids,” Barry said.

  “Don’t let him talk to you like that,” Matthew piped up. Barry swung the gun toward Matthew.

  Emily pressed the manuscript even more tightly to her chest.

  “He’s using you, man,” Matthew said. “He doesn’t care about you. All he cares about is getting some stupid old manuscript.”

  “That is all you care about.” Barry swung the gun back to Mr. Remora.

  “Barry,” Mr. Remora said in a calm, even voice. “That’s not true. You’re my flesh and blood. Give me the gun and I’ll pay you double.”

  “How much is he paying you?” James asked.

  “Five hundred dollars,” Barry muttered.

  “That’s all?” Matthew said. “You know he’s going to make bank on that musty old stack of papers my sister’s holding, right? He wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble if he was only going to make a couple thousand dollars.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Mr. Remora said. “He’s just a kid.”

  But what Matthew had said sunk in.

  “You don’t care about me,” Barry said. “All you care about are books!”

  Faintly, in the distance, Emily heard the wail of sirens.

  “I called the police.” Hollister removed his hand from his pocket to reveal a lit-up phone. “They’ll be here any minute.”

  “Good,” Barry muttered, his gun trained on Mr. Remora. “I’m sick of this gig.”

  CHAPTER

  40

  EMILY, JAMES, and Matthew sat under the pagoda awning with Hollister. They’d give
n their reports to the police, who were now finishing dealing with Barry, Clyde, and Mr. Remora.

  At the moment, Mr. Remora knelt on the grass and wailed, “I had no choice! Griswold had no respect for literary treasures. He was a savage! He buried that manuscript in the ground! It’s probably not even in an acid-free container!”

  As they waited for an officer to escort them home, Emily finally had a chance to ask Hollister why he was there.

  Hollister hunched on the bench, his dreadlocks draped forward over his shoulder. “It wasn’t until the yelling got going that I woke up.…” He’d been in the sleeping bag that they’d spotted when they first arrived at Portsmouth Square. He seemed more shaken from everything that had happened than Emily, James, and Matthew were. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get to you kids before. Things could have gone much worse than they did.”

  “It’s okay, Hollister.” James patted his back. “We’re all fine now.”

  “Do you always sleep here?” Emily asked.

  “Fairly often. Ever since you brought that book in my shop, actually.”

  “The Gold-Bug?” Emily asked incredulously. “Did you know about the game? You knew it ended here?”

  “Yes and no,” Hollister said. “You see, as I told you before, Gary and I go way back. Decades ago there was a treasure hunt revolving around a picture book called Masquerade. It became quite the phenomenon, and Gary was inspired. This was about forty years ago, but even that far back he planned on starting his game with The Gold-Bug and ending it right here with a nod to Robert Louis Stevenson. Those were the pieces of his plans that I knew. So when I saw your copy of The Gold-Bug, I recognized Gary’s handiwork. I figured he’d decided the time had come to put the game in motion. I didn’t know about the manuscript—and it doesn’t sound like he knew about that himself until more recently. But it doesn’t surprise me. I knew he wanted to give away something big, something that would get people talking. I decided to keep an eye on the place. Honestly, I’d been trying to figure out where he hid the treasure myself so it wouldn’t end up in the wrong hands.” Hollister nodded toward Mr. Remora, Barry, and Clyde to indicate the type of wrong hands he referred to.

  “I have to apologize to you kids,” Hollister said. “I thought this would be a harmless game. I didn’t realize Mr. Remora or anyone else was involved. Not that I would have expected this from Leon—he’s a prickly fellow, but I never would have guessed downright rotten. I wouldn’t have sat by and watched you kids play if I thought you were walking into trouble. But Gary would be tickled to know you were the ones who solved his game. You get what he was all about. You understand the spirit of the game and have true love for books. That’s Gary.”

  * * *

  Before school the next morning, Emily walked into the kitchen to face her parents for the first time since seeing their pale, shocked faces when police officers had knocked on the door with her and Matthew in tow. She felt miserable for storming out the way she had. She knew her parents must have thought she’d overreacted to their news. She already knew what they’d say about that: “We have plenty of time left in San Francisco.” But however long they had left could never feel like enough. Six months, nine months, a year. It never felt like enough time when you knew you’d be saying your good-byes soon. And how do you open yourself up to hellos when you’re already preparing to say good-bye?

  Her mom and dad sat at the kitchen table with family albums open in front of them. They were looking at a spread of pictures from a day spent in Estes Park in Colorado.

  “Remember this, Em?” her dad asked.

  A herd of elk had walked down the mountain road onto the main street in the village, meandering past stores as if they were souvenir shopping.

  “So many good memories,” her mom said.

  “Only in Colorado,” her dad said.

  Emily knew where this was going. All the experiences and adventures they’d gained from the different states they’d lived in, and how lucky she was. How other kids memorized state capitals from a map while she visited them in person, or how she walked around Mount Rushmore instead of only reading about it, or how she recited the Gettysburg Address from Cemetery Hill, where President Lincoln gave the speech himself.

  Her dad cleared his throat. “We didn’t finish our conversation last night.”

  “I already apologized,” she said.

  Her mom flipped another page of the album. “Well, we feel like we owe you one, too.”

  “You do?”

  “The lifestyle we’ve created for our family—your mom and I know it’s unconventional. That’s part of what appeals to us about it. And we feel like you and your brother are getting a type of education that can’t be bought or found by attending the same school year after year.”

  “I know,” Emily said. So far she was missing the apology part of her parents’ apology.

  “We realize we’ve been a bit selfish,” her mom said. “And you and Matthew are getting older. You’re developing your own independent dreams and aspirations, and they may not sync with ours. Last night made us realize that we want the whole family on board for our next move. You know we love our surprises, but it never occurred to us what kind of stress that might cause for you, not knowing when and where we might move to next. So we’ll stay in San Francisco indefinitely and make the decision to move on as a family when we’re all ready, whether that’s a year from now or five.”

  “Seriously? But what about your book deal?”

  “What about it?” her mom asked.

  “Your book is about us living in all fifty states. We have a lot more to go before we’re done. If we stop now, you won’t be able to write your book.”

  “Our book is about our quest to live in all fifty states. We have plenty of material to work with.”

  “You mean we’re not moving again?”

  Her dad stood from the table and swung an arm around her shoulders. “We’ll keep it open for family discussion, but for now we’ll call San Francisco our home for as long as you and Matthew want it to be. Once you guys go to college, your mom and I can resume our nomadic ways.”

  Emily put one arm around her dad’s waist and the other around her mom, still seated at the table, and brought them together in a group hug. “You guys are the best!”

  CHAPTER

  41

  ONE WEEK LATER Emily and James returned to the Bayside Press building, this time with Matthew in tow, to meet with Mr. Griswold’s assistant, Jack, and discuss their prize for winning Mr. Griswold’s scavenger hunt. The Poe manuscript had been turned over to the police at Portsmouth Square, and Emily had no idea what to expect from the meeting. She knew she should be excited—she’d dreamed of playing a Griswold game, let alone winning one—but she’d felt deflated about the whole thing ever since the run-in with Mr. Remora. The elevator doors opened to the wine-and-silver-blue lobby.

  “Did a giant barf cotton candy in here or what?” Matthew said.

  Jack leaned against the receptionist’s desk, waiting for them. Just like the first time they met him, he was wearing an argyle sweater-vest. Jack greeted Emily and James with hugs and a handshake for Matthew.

  “Follow me,” Jack said, ushering them down the hall. “He’s eager to talk with you.”

  “He who?” Emily asked.

  Jack stopped in front of a set of double doors. It had only just registered that this was Mr. Griswold’s office when Jack pushed the doors open and there was Mr. Griswold himself. He sat in a wheelchair, striped in Bayside Press colors, and admired the golden hare medallion still on display around the bust of Poe. Was she hallucinating?

  “No way,” James said.

  “Old book dude!” Matthew called out.

  Emily slugged her brother and then fiddled with the pencil in her ponytail. Her palms felt sweaty, and she wiped them on her jeans.

  Mr. Griswold wheeled himself closer and smiled, his bushy mustache lifting up at the edges. He looked exactly like his photo in the newspaper clipping, but les
s gray.

  “You must be Emily, James, and Matthew. A pleasure to meet you three! Emily, I understand you have been a loyal Book Scavenger user over the years.”

  “You’re not in a coma,” Emily blurted, then mentally slugged herself. She’d daydreamed about this moment forever, and that was how she greeted her idol?

  Mr. Griswold chuckled. “Come in, come in.” He wheeled back and gestured to the couch nestled between bookcases. “We have a lot of catching up to do, don’t we?”

  As Emily, James, and Matthew seated themselves in Mr. Griswold’s office, Jack perched on the arm of the couch and launched into an explanation.

  “The police suspected from the beginning that the BART station attack was premeditated,” he said. “Largely because none of Mr. Griswold’s personal belongings were stolen.”

  “Except one important one,” Mr. Griswold added with a wink.

  While Mr. Griswold had been in a coma, there had been a security breach at the hospital, and people feared his life was still at risk, so he had been secretly relocated. Hospital staff noticed that he was missing, and a rumor spread that he had died, which his team decided not to address until his health stabilized. Hearing this, Emily realized that the Book Scavenger user CaptainOverpants, the one who’d claimed to work in Mr. Griswold’s hospital, hadn’t been making up the rumor he’d gossiped about.

  “I remember encountering those two men in the BART station, and then the next thing I know, I’m waking up a month later in a strange place with an incredible headache and no recollection of how I got there, or any awareness of how much time had passed.Jack has been filling me in on all that transpired. And, boy, has a lot transpired.”

  Mr. Griswold’s eyes crinkled with kindness as his gaze settled on Emily. “I’m setting the record straight about my, er, vitality this afternoon, but after all you’ve been through I wanted you to hear the news directly from me first.”

  Emily’s mouth hung open. She wasn’t sure if she’d closed it once or even taken a breath the entire time Mr. Griswold and Jack had been talking. A mixture of relief and awe swirled inside as she processed that Mr. Griswold was sitting right in front of her. It all seemed a bit dreamlike.