Book Scavenger (29 page)

“So what are we looking for?” Matthew asked. He wore his new oversize Flush sweatshirt and hat, and he held a rolled-up poster signed by all the band members. They had also promised him VIP tickets to any future concert of his choice.

At the edge of the park, the silhouette of a miniature ship rose from the mist.

“Is that a pirate ship?” Emily asked.

Her feet squished in damp grass as she crossed to the statue, thoughts of treasure chests in her head. It was too dark to read the lettering on the face of the stone. Emily trailed her fingers over the engraving.

“Here.” Matthew whipped out his cell phone. He cast the light of the screen over the words.

Emily read them aloud: “‘To remember Robert Louis Stevenson'—” She gasped and clutched Matthew's arm.

“Watch the poster!” Matthew said, shaking her off.

“The map said
RLS—
Robert Louis Stevenson! He wrote
Treasure Island
.
This has to be it. Whatever we're supposed to find must be somewhere near here.”

Matthew continued reading the inscription aloud as Emily circled the monument, examining it more closely. James inspected the nearby benches.

“‘To remember Robert Louis Stevenson: To be honest, to be kind—to earn a little, to spend a little less—to make upon the whole a family happier for his presence—to renounce when that shall be necessary and not be embittered—to keep a few friends but these without capitulation'—what does
capitulation
mean?” Matthew pondered.

“I think he's saying be a good friend without expecting something in return,” James said as he poked a stick under a trash can.

Emily was crawling around the base of a tree, the knees of her jeans soaked and chilly, and felt a twinge of guilt remembering their fight.

Matthew finished reading the inscription: “‘Above all on the same grim condition to keep friends with himself. Here is a task for all that a man has of fortitude and delicacy.'” Matthew turned off his screen light. “Huh. Sounds like a serious guy.”

Emily's knee crunched against a hard object, and she yelped. She ran her fingers through the grass. Her fingertips brushed over something cold and smooth. She thought it was a pebble, but it wouldn't budge.

“Matthew, bring your light over here.”

“My battery's running low.” But he crossed to Emily anyway.

The stone was shaped like a beetle, flat enough to be concealed by the grass but bulky enough to catch a toe if you hit it the right way.

“It's like the story,” Emily said. “In
The Gold-Bug
a beetle marks the spot where the treasure is hidden.”

This had to be what Mr. Griswold wanted them to find. She'd been waiting for this moment since they'd first discovered Mr. Griswold's book. She thought she'd be jumping up and down with excitement, but instead she felt trepidation. Kind of like when you step on black ice and realize you're going to fall a second before you actually slip.

James tried to lift the beetle but couldn't. “Someone want to help me?”

Matthew held his phone aloft to light the ground, still protectively clutching his poster with his other hand. Emily and James tore at the grass and dug under the beetle until they could grasp it like a knob. It was attached to a stake in the ground. They seesawed the stake back and forth to loosen the dirt until they could pull it free. The bottom of the stake widened into a mini shovel.

“Dig!” James said. “We're supposed to dig.”

They used the shovel as well as cupped hands to scoop the dirt. They didn't have to dig long before they hit something solid, and soon a metal box was revealed. They pried the box from the ground. Emily undid the latch and opened the lid to reveal a yellowed stack of papers sealed in a clear bag. Taped to the front of the bag was a handwritten letter.

Greetings, Scavenger!

Congratulations! You have successfully completed my literary challenge and have proved yourself a master of riddles, puzzles, and navigating San Francisco and its rich literary history. You may be wondering about what you now hold in your hands. Allow me to indulge in a story:

In 1841, my great-great-great-grandfather Rufus Griswold made the acquaintance of a Mr. Edgar Allan Poe. Rufus Griswold was an accomplished editor, poet, and critic. In that day some may have argued that he was even more accomplished than Poe. Having similar aspirations and interests, you might assume that my great-great-great-grandfather and Poe would be fast friends. Sadly, you would be mistaken. Their relationship was professionally tolerant at best and a bitter rivalry at its worst.

Despite this, when Poe unexpectedly passed away in 1849, Rufus Griswold was named literary executor of his estate, to the surprise of many. Some claim he came about this by devious means and that Poe did not personally appoint him, but the fact remains that it was Rufus Griswold who was given access to the works of Poe and published a posthumous collection of his writings.

Several years ago, I was going through my family heirlooms when I came across a manuscript that was assumed to be a novel written by my great-great-great-grandfather. As I began reading it, the style reminded me of someone whose work I am quite familiar with. I kept my hunch a secret but had the manuscript authenticated by an expert. I am excited to tell you that the treasure you are holding in your hands is an undiscovered work by Edgar Allan Poe.

Bayside Press will publish this novel, and this letter certifies that you, dear Scavenger, will be awarded 10 percent of the royalties from the sale of this book on the condition that you agree to return the manuscript back into my care so it can be properly preserved and displayed in a public library collection.

I devised this scavenger hunt with the hope that anyone who made it to this point would appreciate my gift as the treasure it truly is and treat it as such.

Yours in pages and play,

Garrison Griswold

They stared at the letter in silence until the light from Matthew's phone snapped off. “There goes the battery,” he said.

Emily lifted the sealed papers from the metal box and stood. She knew she was holding a one-of-a-kind literary treasure and should be feeling something along the lines of awe or amazement, but all she felt was disappointment. She was glad the phone had died so James and her brother couldn't see her face. After everything they'd been through to get here, why wasn't she happier to have reached the end of Griswold's game?

“Do you think it's worth a lot of money?” James asked.

“I have no idea,” Emily said quietly.

“I do,” a voice said behind them.

 

CHAPTER

39

FOG CLOAKED
the three figures standing under the glow of a lamppost.

“Hand that over,” Mr. Remora said, extending his hand. Barry and Clyde stood behind him.

Matthew groaned. “You guys again?”

Emily hugged the bagged manuscript.

“How did you find us?” James asked.

“You didn't think you fooled me, did you? Hiding on that tour bus? I knew you must be near the end of Griswold's game or you wouldn't have shown up at my house, so desperate to get your hands on
The Gold-Bug
. It was only a matter of time before you led me to this manuscript.” He flexed his extended hand in a “gimme” motion.

“How did you know about it, anyway?” Emily asked. She scanned the park for an escape route. An iron fence enclosed the area. There was an opening to the street not too far away, but the question was whether they could outrun Mr. Remora and his goons for the second time that night. “Mr. Griswold's letter says nobody knew about it.”

“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.