The Secret Keepers

  Another silence.

  Reuben heard the flick of a lighter, the faint popping sound of Righty puffing on his cigar to get it going. The lighter snapped shut, and Righty said, “I don’t think he heard you.”

  “Sure doesn’t look like it,” said Lookback.

  Reuben desperately wanted to reappear and peek around the trash can. But there were almost certainly several sets of eyes peering out windows right now. As quickly as he dared, he retraced his steps to the alley, listening with all his might.

  “You know what’s curious to me?” Frontman was saying. “It’s curious to me that someone like you, Officer Warren, someone who gets on the subway every week, going off to different neighborhoods and having private meetings with unknown persons—you know, the sort of unusual activity that very much draws the attention of our employer—it’s curious to me that someone like that would want to make things even worse for himself by doing what you’re doing at this moment.”

  “He looks surprised,” Lefty said. “Now, why would he be surprised?”

  Reuben had reached the alley. Out of view of the street, he reappeared, then scurried forward to watch around the corner.

  “I don’t think he looks surprised,” said Righty. “I think he looks angry.”

  “I don’t care how he looks,” said Lookback. “I’m tired of standing here in the street.”

  “That’s right,” said Frontman. “We are very interested in your private life, Officer Warren, and we intend to ask you some questions about it. Now, do you wish to discuss this here on the street, or shall we make an appointment to discuss it later, in private?”

  Another silence. Reuben shouted in his head, trying to will Officer Warren away. He was afraid of what was going to happen to him.

  “Stand,” Frontman growled, “aside.”

  Officer Warren stood rigidly under the awning, glaring at the Directions. The men were exchanging annoyed and uncertain glances. Then, just when it seemed that something had to happen, something did: Mr. Carver’s voice called out from within the hardware store. Reuben couldn’t make out the words—perhaps something about the day being too hot for standing around outside—but what the old hardware store owner said out loud didn’t really matter. Everyone knew what he meant. Let them come in, he was saying. Let them come. Don’t get yourself hurt over me. I’ll be all right.

  Finally, slowly, Officer Warren stepped to the side. He continued to glare at the other men. His eyes passed from face to face. Frontman only smirked, but both Lefty and Righty looked extremely uncomfortable under the police officer’s gaze. Righty dropped his cigar and ground it with his heel as if he hated it. Lefty was visibly squirming, tugging at his shirt collar, pulling up on his pants. Lookback was steadily ignoring Officer Warren, just looking straight ahead as if the policeman weren’t standing right there glaring. After a beat, Frontman sauntered into the store, and the others followed.

  For a few moments Officer Warren remained under the awning, clenching and unclenching his fists, looking disgusted, angry, and upset. Then, with a heavy tread, he walked away. He didn’t look back.

  Reuben, furious, stalked back to his apartment building. His anger was giving him a new idea to consider. It was probably even worse than the bank-robbing idea, he knew, but far more satisfying to contemplate.

  He was wondering what the Directions did with all those envelopes of money. He knew that the men went to the subway station every Friday morning, and based on years of rumor and hearsay, he’d deduced that this was when they made their weekly visit to the Counselor’s mansion to deliver the money and their reports, and to receive payment for their efforts. This meant that by every Thursday evening, they must have gathered their entire week’s worth of collections from around the Lower Downs. What if Reuben followed them and figured out where they stashed the money?

  He relished the idea of making those men report to the Counselor that they’d lost the money. He imagined the Counselor (Reuben pictured him as a tall, formidable, exquisitely dressed man) coldly informing the Directions that they could expect a visit from his employer, who would be most displeased. Oh, how they would quake in their boots at the thought of The Smoke coming for them, and how it would serve them right!

  But by the time Reuben had eaten lunch, it had occurred to him that the money he stole from the Directions would have come from people like Mr. Carver, or the young apartment building manager, or the friendly baker he had liked so much. It was also true that he had no idea what The Smoke might actually do to the men. He remembered Lookback mentioning his wife, his kids, his puppy. Reuben hated Lookback, but did he really want anything bad to happen to the man’s family?

  He grunted with irritation. Why couldn’t anything be simple? he thought as he headed out again. Why couldn’t he just steal from the bad guys and not worry about it? He was squeezing out through the storage room window when it hit him.

  The large reward.

  Mrs. Genevieve had warned him against calling that phone number in the classified ads. The advertiser was clearly eccentric and probably rich, and given the strange circumstances surrounding the watch, she’d suspected that such a person was not to be trusted. This was exactly what Reuben hoped. For if the advertiser meant to pull off a double cross, then Reuben would have no qualms about turning the tables. Did he not have a tremendous advantage over anyone intending such treachery? Of course he did. He could turn invisible!

  His mind flashed from idea to idea: meeting places, secret arrangements, sacred agreements. Briefcases filled with money. Sneaky entrances and exits. With a sudden, thrilling thumping in his chest, Reuben realized that he could do it. He really could. He’d be robbing a robber, thwarting a thief.

  That was the only way to go about it, really, for the thought of actually handing over the watch was no longer tolerable to Reuben. Not since he’d discovered what he could do with it. Accepting money for the watch would be like accepting a golden egg in exchange for a goose that laid such eggs every day. No, the surest path to fortune was to use the watch, not give it up.

  Reuben scurried down the back alley, feeling bolder by the moment. The first thing to do was to find out who this mysterious advertiser actually was. Then he could do some serious spying. He wouldn’t agree to meet until he knew everything he needed to know. What he needed right now was to understand the situation better. He needed information. He needed to call that number.

  Reuben’s feet were ahead of his mind. He’d been hurrying along all this time, and he arrived at the library just as he arrived at his decision. The library had everything he needed. Taking the front steps two at a time, he went straight to the magazines-and-newspapers section. Mrs. Genevieve had said the advertisement appeared “in all the papers,” so Reuben just snatched up the first local newspaper he found on the rack. He spread it out on a table and flipped to the classified ads. Sure enough, there was the ad, with its perfect description of the watch, its mention of a large reward—and the telephone number.

  Reuben dug into his pocket for change.

  A battered old pay phone hung in the library foyer. Reuben stood before it, taking deep breaths, struggling against his usual reluctance. He counted to three, dropped his coins into the slot, and punched in the number before he could lose his nerve.

  He’d already worked out what he was going to say—a version of the same uncle story he’d used before. We’re not sure, he’d say, but we think my uncle might have found the watch you’re looking for. Would you like to take a look at it? He would ask for a name and an address, and he would see what else he could get the person to tell him. Especially the amount of the award, but also any other information that might help him form a plan. He would ask question after question. The fact that he was only a kid was in his favor. Grown-ups weren’t worried about kids posing threats to them.

  The phone on the other end of the line began to ring. Twice, three times, half a dozen times. After the tenth ring, Reuben checked the number on the scrap of paper he’d writ
ten it on. He was sure he’d gotten it right. After a few more rings, he decided to hang up and try again. But just as he reached to replace the receiver in its cradle, he heard a tinny voice. He brought the receiver back to his ear.

  “Hello?” he said, his voice quavering a bit.

  The person on the other end was breathing hard, as if having run upstairs to answer the phone. After a short pause, Reuben said hello again. A man’s voice, still breathless, said, “Yes?”

  There was a fit of coughing. Reuben waited politely for it to subside, then said, “Hi, I’m calling to inquire about the newspaper ad. About the watch? We think my—”

  The man’s voice broke in. “Do you still have it?”

  Confused, Reuben said, “The ad? No. I, um, wrote the number down. I…” He trailed off, wondering if he had misunderstood.

  “The watch,” said the man, his voice every bit as breathless as it had been before. “Do you still have the watch?”

  Reuben’s stomach flopped. “Oh, no! It isn’t my watch. I don’t have it personally, myself. I mean, we’re not even sure it’s the same—”

  “You’re the boy,” said the man. “With the uncle. Do you still have the watch? What is your name?”

  Reuben began to shake. He swallowed dryly. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. The receiver had grown slippery in his hand.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said the man, his voice oily now, and the result was that Reuben became very afraid indeed. “Don’t be afraid. Just tell me who you are, and we can discuss the reward. You’d like a nice reward, wouldn’t you? Tell me, do you still have the watch? You do, don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry, there’s been a mistake,” Reuben said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. His heartbeat boomed in his ears. “I don’t have it. My—my friends put me up to calling. I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  “DO YOU STILL HAVE IT!” the man screamed, his voice cracking wildly.

  Reuben slammed the receiver into its cradle and burst out of the library doors at full speed. He ran all the way home, through the lobby, up flight after flight of stairs, never stopping until he had locked the apartment door behind him. Even then, he felt as if the man were in the room with him, still screaming.

  “Oh no,” he panted, his chest heaving. “Oh no, oh no.”

  For Reuben understood now that he had gotten himself into something enormous, something terrible. How could he have been so foolish? An ancient watch that could turn you invisible? There must be people who would stop at nothing to get it. Dangerous, wicked people. Reuben had no doubt that he’d just spoken to one, had in fact called him right up on the telephone.

  And he had thought himself so clever.

  Reuben had fallen into an entirely different life. A dangerous one. Yesterday’s ideas of fun suddenly seemed babyish and ridiculous, and today’s grandiose plans of outwitting devious watch collectors seemed positively absurd. What had he been thinking? What had he done?

  But I’m just a kid, he thought, and he kept thinking it, as if somehow it could change what had just happened. I’m just a kid! I’m just a kid!

  He had a powerful impulse to call his mom, to be comforted, to ask for help. Twice he even picked up the phone. But what would he say? He would have to tell the whole story—the secrets he’d been keeping, the lies he’d told her, the risks he’d taken—which was awful enough. But it would also terrify her. That something bad might happen to him was her greatest fear.

  Reuben paced the apartment. Who could help him, then? Officer Warren? No, too risky. The Directions were already keeping an especially close eye on him—Frontman had just said so. Whom else did he trust?

  There was only one answer, and it came to him quickly. Mrs. Genevieve. Yes. He knew he could trust the watchmaker. Yet he couldn’t just call her. To help him, she would need to know all the facts, the most important of which he’d never be able to convince her of over the phone. She would have to see it for herself.

  The mere thought of venturing outside now was unnerving, and far worse to return to Middleton. Reuben stared at the apartment door for a full minute, gathering himself. Then in a violent rush he unlocked the door, wrenched it open, and flew.

  By the time the train pulled into the Brighton Street station, Reuben was sweating in his hooded sweatshirt as if he’d run all the way there. Inside its right front pocket his clammy fingers squeezed the key, ready to tug on it if necessary. He followed the small crowd of disembarked passengers up the steps from the platform, out of the station, and into the sunlight.

  The first thing he saw was a group of Directions across the street. They were not the same ones he had seen walking past that sad little park. These men he’d never seen before. They were obviously Directions, though, four men standing on the sidewalk in a loose diamond shape. The one in front was questioning a middle-aged couple; one of the flankers was jotting down notes. Reuben attached himself to a group of bickering teenagers (who didn’t notice him at all), walked with them a few paces, then peeled off down an alley. He broke into a run.

  A minute later he was alone on an empty side street.

  A minute after that, he was nowhere to be seen.

  So began Reuben’s stealthy journey to Mrs. Genevieve’s shop. He moved fast, almost at a trot, his ears attuned to the sounds of the street. Whenever possible, he trailed a finger along walls and fence railings to help keep his path straight. Every now and then he reappeared briefly in the shadows of a cross alley or an empty doorway, got his bearings, scanned the sidewalk ahead for obstacles, and vanished again. Occasionally a vehicle went by on the street, which caused him no end of distress—he kept expecting to hear a screech of brakes, a door flying open, an angry voice shouting out. Once, he was given a shock by a sudden voice beside him, only to realize that he was passing an open window. A woman was talking on the telephone.

  “Hello?” she called out, interrupting herself.

  Reuben froze in midstep, one foot suspended in the air.

  “No, no, I can hear you,” the woman said, her voice even closer now. She had thrust her head out the window. “I thought I heard somebody gasp. Yes, gasp. How should I know why? I think it must have been a cat. Oh yes, you’re very funny—a gasping cat.” Her voice faded as she moved away from the window.

  Eventually he came to Mrs. Genevieve’s block. He circled it twice, peeking out from alleys and then disappearing again. The block was fairly deserted. Few pedestrians, no Directions. From an alley across the street, Reuben watched the front of Mrs. Genevieve’s shop. He strained his eyes, trying to see through her display window, but the dazzle of reflected sunlight prevented him. He waited several minutes. No one entered or exited.

  Reuben scanned the sidewalks once more. Empty. He took a deep breath, fixed the nearest parking meter in his mind’s eye, and vanished. The parking meter, which he found with his outstretched hand, alerted him to the curb. He stepped down carefully, then hurried across the street. He had estimated that it was ten crouch-steps wide, but on his eighth step he hit the far curb and stumbled, banging his knee. Somehow he kept quiet and held on to the watch. Regaining his feet, he crept forward until his fingers touched the glass of Mrs. Genevieve’s display window.

  Reuben listened. No voices, not even a murmur. He readied himself. To get a glimpse inside the shop, he would have to reappear for a second or two—a very risky couple of seconds if anyone besides Mrs. Genevieve was in there. This time he was smart, though. He remembered how bright the sun was, remembered the dazzle, and so with his free hand he shielded his eyes and pressed his nose right up against the window. He pulled out on the key.

  The watchmaker sat at her counter, writing in a ledger, teacup close at hand. She was alone.

  Reuben’s relieved exhalation fogged the glass.

  At the sight of him darting in through her doorway, Mrs. Genevieve seemed to wilt. “Oh no,” she said, shaking her head. “Oh, you foolish boy. You’ve come back.” But despite her apparent displeasure, she lost no time go
ing over to lock the door, briefly laying a hand on his shoulder as she passed.

  Reuben had never felt more grateful for a simple, gentle touch. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he said nothing for fear his voice would break.

  Hanging on the back of Mrs. Genevieve’s shop door was a clock-shaped sign that read Check your watch—we’ll be back soon! The sign’s clock hands could be adjusted to indicate when the shop would reopen. Mrs. Genevieve set the time for an hour later and flipped the sign around to be visible from outside.

  “Quickly,” she said, shooing Reuben toward the door behind the counter. “We must go into my rooms.”

  Soon he was sitting on Mrs. Genevieve’s miniature sofa, hands in his sweatshirt pockets, looking up at the watchmaker with pleading eyes. He wanted somehow for her to have a solution to his dilemma, but as he tried to explain what had happened, she only stood before him, holding her teacup over a saucer, shaking her head.

  “Why did you not tell me this?” she asked the instant he stopped speaking. “That you went first to these other places? That you showed these others the clock watch?”

  Reuben shrugged miserably. “I didn’t think about it. I realize now how stupid that was, but I honestly didn’t. It didn’t occur to me that it would matter.”

  “It matters,” Mrs. Genevieve said curtly. “Very much, it matters. The four men—the Directions—they returned that very afternoon, do you know? They wished to hear if a boy had visited me. From others in the neighborhood they had heard reports of you and this watch, so naturally they thought to ask me about it as well. You may guess what I told them.”

  “Thanks,” Reuben mumbled.

  “And now,” Mrs. Genevieve went on in her angry tone, “because this monstrous individual, this ‘Smoke’ is aware that a boy like you was seen with the watch, the neighborhood has lived in dread, for all of his Directions, from everywhere in New Umbra, have come every day to knock on the doors of every home and business, asking about this boy. About you, Reuben. I alone know whom they seek. Think of all the parents in Middleton who do not know the truth, who fear to discover that it is their own child The Smoke wishes to find.”