Masterpiece (22 page)

This would be the first exchange, Marvin thought, but not the endpoint of the journey for the drawing. It was so hard to remember what was supposed to happen, and yet so important to do so! Marvin hunched fretfully in his spot trying to concentrate, with what seemed like cardboard pressing against him. First, the FBI agent was supposed to give the drawing to an
intermediary—wasn’t that what Christina had told them? A contact in the underground art world. Then it would be handed off to the real thieves.

The FBI must be tracking the drawing’s path, right? Maybe everything would be okay. After all, the plan had been to follow the trail of the fake drawing and ultimately retrieve it. Marvin thought of Christina, of the dangers she’d mentioned, the chance that they’d never see his drawing again. He thought of James and his uncertainty when he looked at the drawing for the last time. Then, suddenly and in a flood of longing, he thought of Mama and Papa. A destination twenty minutes away would still be in the city . . . but what if the drawing was bound for someplace else? And what if Marvin was stuck here, its unwitting companion and helpless protector, unable to escape? He might never see his family again.

The risk he had taken became shockingly clear: His fate and
Fortitude
’s were one and the same. He shuddered, feeling the dull thrum of the car’s engine as it made its way through the busy, tired city.

M
arvin felt the car stop. The man rustled out and strode a short distance, purposefully and without hesitation. Inside the dark pocket, Marvin tried to guess what was happening. The man had asked for a room number on the phone: Were they now in an office? a hotel? He could tell from the falling sensation in his stomach that they’d boarded an elevator. Then the motion stopped and there were quick steps, followed by a muted knock.

A new voice, muffled but terse, asked, “Do you have it?”

Was this the go-between, ready to ferry the Dürer drawing to the real thieves?

“In here.”

“Show it to me.”

Marvin had no time to prepare. He tried to stay where he was, frozen, while the drawing was lifted from its protective sleeve. Just as
Fortitude
emerged into the
bright light of the room, a lip of fabric caught Marvin’s shell and knocked him from his perch. He grasped in vain for the edge of the matting, but missed. He found himself hurtling through the air, landing with a smack on the hard, smooth surface of a laminated table.

Tucking his legs beneath him, Marvin held perfectly still, hoping he hadn’t been seen. The wood surface was dark, fortunately. When he peeked around, he saw the bland decor of a hotel room, fully recognizable from all the soap operas he and Elaine had watched on television with Mrs. Pompaday: dark carpeting, floral bedspread, simple, shiny furniture. The FBI agent had set the Dürer drawing in the middle of the table, inches from Marvin. A thin, bearded man leaned over it with a magnifying glass, scrutinizing the details.

For a minute, Marvin felt a jolt of fear. But then he remembered that this was the real drawing, not his forgery. It was sure to pass inspection.

Neither man spoke.

“Okay,” the bearded man said finally. “I’ll take it to my contact.”

“What about my share?” the FBI agent asked.

“There, in the envelope.” The bearded man gestured to a flat brown package on the nightstand, which the FBI agent promptly slipped into his suit pocket.

The two men turned toward the door, and Marvin drew a deep breath. Here was his chance. He dashed across the expanse of table in the direction of the
drawing. But suddenly he heard a
thump
! A huge hand slapped the surface next to him, sweeping him off the table. He tumbled through the air and landed in a dense woven forest of green carpeting. It smelled faintly like cigarettes.

A shoe stamped the ground near him, then stamped again, closer. Marvin raced for the shelter of the table leg.

Far above him he heard the FBI agent ask, “What was it?”

“Some kind of beetle,” the bearded man answered. “This thing better not be infested with bugs.”

“Nah, it’s probably from the hotel. Bedbugs.”

Bedbugs! Marvin stiffened with indignation. Humans were so ignorant.

The thin man snorted in disgust, then followed the FBI agent to the door.

As Marvin watched the FBI agent leave the room—his last link to the museum and James and safety—he felt truly alone.

F
or Marvin, the prospect of spending the night in the hotel room was a grim one, but it quickly became apparent that the bearded man wasn’t going anywhere. He made two phone calls with a cell phone. During one, he spoke in a language Marvin didn’t understand. During the second, he said: “I have it.” Then: “Tomorrow at ten o’clock, where we discussed. Yes, I’ll make sure. See you then.”

While Marvin concealed himself in the dense carpet beneath the table, the man strode to the closet and removed a black leather satchel. He placed it flat on the floor a few feet from Marvin, unzipping it. Inside were several thick paper folders. After opening one of these, he lifted the drawing carefully from the table and settled it between the leaves of the folder. Then, deftly, he closed the entire bundle and zipped the satchel shut.

Marvin watched all this with mounting apprehension.
He had to make his way back to the drawing, but zippers were notoriously beetle-proof.

The man put the satchel back in the hotel closet. He bolted and chained the door, kicked off his shoes, and lay on the bed. A minute later, the TV came on, and Marvin heard the man tear open a plastic wrapper and begin crunching on something. The evening passed uneventfully, with the TV droning, the man snacking, and Marvin lulled into a fitful sleep in his hiding place.

When Marvin opened his eyes, the room was pitch-black, and the man was snoring. Marvin knew he had to figure out a way to get inside the satchel, but he was hungry, and morning was hours away. He crawled laboriously across the thick carpet to the nightstand, where the man was sure to have left the remains of whatever he was eating. And indeed, when Marvin reached the top, he found a crumpled red and yellow wrapper and a pile of hard shells.

Peanut shells, Marvin realized. He felt a pang of longing for his peanut-shell float, lost in the Pompadays’ bathroom drain. Oh, how lovely it would be to take a dip in his bottle cap–swimming pool right now! It had only been two weeks since his post-drainpipe bubble bath, but it seemed like centuries ago . . . before he made his first drawing, before he and James became friends, before he knew anything about an artist named Albrecht Dürer.

There was nothing left to eat on the nightstand, but
there
was
a half-filled glass of water. Feeling slightly cheered, Marvin tucked a piece of peanut shell under one leg and climbed up the side of the glass. He hesitated a moment on the rim, staring at the placid water below. Then he held his breath and dove, landing with a soft
plop!
A few feet away, the man stirred and rolled over. Marvin pushed the peanut shell in front of him and kicked his legs, swimming in widening circles, with the cool, clean water lapping over his shell. He felt better already.

Sometime later, refreshed from his midnight swim, Marvin climbed the wet wall of the glass and shook himself off. He found a crumpled tissue near the clock radio and carefully wiped off his shell. Then he crawled down to the floor, across the rug, and under the closet door, which took a considerable amount of time.

Marvin hesitated at the base of the satchel, trying to decide where best to secure himself. Eventually he chose the flap that covered the outside pocket, wedging himself under the leather buckle. Here, he had both a firm grip and a good vantage point for seeing what was going on.

He must have fallen asleep again, because he awoke jarringly to the bang of the closet door being thrust open and a bright wash of sunlight flooding over him. The thin, bearded man lifted the satchel and set it on the table. He moved about the hotel room quickly, gathering his things, then picked up the satchel again and hurried out of the room.

Minutes later, they were outside on the sidewalk, moving at a brisk pace through a steady stream of people bundled in winter coats and scarves. Marvin shivered under the buckle; it had been much warmer inside the FBI agent’s coat. Where were they going now? Another rendezvous. This was a part of the city Marvin had never seen before. Immense buildings shouldering against one another and reaching up, up, up to the sky. Broad avenues crowded with cars and buses. Vast shop windows filled with clothing, jewelry, electronics. After several blocks, they came to a massive gray building with spires—a church, Marvin decided. The man climbed the steps quickly and ducked inside.