I mapped streets and bridges in my head. There were hundreds, if not thousands of places to stargaze in and around the city. Riverfront parks, historic battlefields, ball fields, beaches . . .
But the last three ads reflected a pattern. They had one common denominator. Each of the victims had been people I knew. More specifically, people I’d tutored. I’d worked with dozens of students through the year, and I counted them off in my head, grasping for any connection. Where they lived, their interests, their hobbies, their classes. Nothing fit. I had no clue where I was supposed to find Sirius and I only had a few hours until dark.
I slogged to my locker, folding the newspaper into a tight square around the circled ad. I spun my combination and opened the door, dropping the newspaper on the shelf inside. Teddy’s drawing drew my attention like a bright yellow flare. My stomach dropped as I plucked it from my locker door. I turned it over. The flyer for the Smithsonian field trip was rimmed in clip-art planets and stars. It was dated today. My hands shook as I set it down on top of the ad.
Lie back and watch me shine.
Teddy Marshall was at the Air and Space Museum.
28
I shoveled all my loose change from my pockets into the machine and it spit a ticket into my waiting hand. I jammed it into the turnstile and bolted down the escalator, where the next train was already waiting. Departure lights flashed at the edge of the concrete, and I slipped between the closing doors, breathing hard.
The Yellow Line out of Huntington Station was mostly empty, heading into the city against rush hour. Full cars packed with standing passengers in suits rushed by in the opposite direction. I grabbed the handrail as the train picked up speed, leaning against the route map by the door. I ticked off the landmarks in my head, counting down the stops, and grateful every time we surfaced that daylight remained.
I changed trains at L’Enfant Plaza, pushing past suits and ties, bumping into briefcases at every turn. When my Blue Line train finally stopped at Smithsonian Station, I ran up the escalator, squeezing past slow movers. Early-evening sun filtered through the escalator shaft. I stepped out into a wall of humid city heat and jockeyed past a cart of hanging souvenir T-shirts that blew in my way, stopping briefly to orient myself against the National Mall.
The Washington Monument pierced the sky to my left. The Capitol Building stretched the horizon on my right, a mile of museums and galleries flanking the lawns between. I flew past them, crossing 7th Street and following the manicured perimeter. The dipping sun cast a long, narrow shadow before me like the second hand of a clock. Taxis blared horns when I jumped between two parked school buses, emerging before the sprawling white walls spanning an entire block of Jefferson Avenue. The National Air and Space Museum.
I stood on the steps, doubled over with runner cramps, sweat trailing down my shirt. When I straightened, I was staring up two stories of glass and stone. The sleek face of the building seemed to reflect the enormity of my mission. I turned back to the long line of yellow buses at the curb and found the small bus marked Fairfax County Public Schools sandwiched between countless others.
Teddy was still here.
I took the steps two at a time. I knew this museum, like I knew all the others from years of countless school field trips. The familiar sterile smell hit me as I pulled open the heavy glass doors. I walked right through the security checkpoint, carrying only my hoodie through the scanners and grateful I’d had the presence of mind to leave my backpack in my locker. A bag search would only slow me down.
I darted through the lobby to the welcome desk.
“Excuse me,” I said, breathless and damp. “I’m looking for a tour group from West River High School. Do you know where I can find them?”
The woman behind the counter looked at me, her face pinched and her posture rigid in her starchy Smithsonian blazer. Conscious of her stare, I withdrew my newsprintcovered hands from the desk.
“I’m sorry, dear.” She eyed me, taking in every detail of my appearance with a tight smile. “I have no idea where they might be. Would you like me to have someone paged?”
“No,” I said quickly when she reached for her phone. “That’s okay. I’ll find them.” I couldn’t have him paged. Couldn’t attract that much attention to myself.
I turned, pausing at two stories of thousands of people. The killer wanted me to find Teddy. He would make it easy. There had to be a message, a clue I wasn’t seeing.
I turned back to the clerk.
“Has anyone left a message? Maybe an envelope?” Doubt clung heavy to each word.
The woman opened a drawer. “Let me check. What’s the last name?”
I hesitated, remembering the visitor’s log at the hospital, my gut telling me it was pointless to lie.
“Boswell,” I finally said, turned away to scan the crowd.
“Here you are, Miss Boswell.” The woman slid a white envelope across the counter, my name printed in crisp blue letters across the front. “This must be for you.”
My arm was heavy as I reached across the desk. I drew a narrow ticket from the envelope.
“Oh, no.” She frowned over my shoulder. “You’re too late. That ticket was for the four thirty show.” She looked at her watch. “It’s already over. The planetarium is closed.”
I sprinted for the stairs, barreling through the descending wave of tourists. Shoving them aside, my sleeves clutched tight around my hands, I bumped past them like a pinball. When I reached the top, I looked out over the gallery wall and caught the high, agitated voice of Mrs. Smallwood, Teddy’s teacher. Mall security officers gathered around her in the lobby below, her arms gesturing wildly with her clipboard. My heart sped up. Teddy must already be missing.
Across the gallery, the double doors of the planetarium were closed, the ticket windows shut for the night.
Too late.
I slipped between the velvet ropes, checking over my shoulder as I tugged the handle. Locked. I leaned back against the door. There had to be a way in. Every theater has more than one exit. I looked right, then left. Another set of doors. I ducked under the rope, staying tight to the wall. I tugged the handle and it eased open with a quiet sigh.
Inside, it was night. The hall was narrow and close around me, dark except for tiny blue-white runners illuminating the way. A light glowed at the end, the hall opening into a high domed theater where hundreds of empty seats radiated from a projector in the floor.
There was no movement. No sound but the rush of blood in my ears.
“Teddy?” My voice cracked. “Teddy, are you in here?”
I took a tentative step, then another. The theater was cavernous and dim.
Beyond the doors, a muffled overhead speaker repeated, “Teddy Marshall, please meet your party at the welcome desk in the first-floor lobby.”
The projector cast a swirling pink-and-purple glow against the ceiling, but the rows and rows of folding seats were cast in deep shadow. I gripped the rails, following the diffused blue glow of the runway lighting through the room. Taking slow steps, I searched each aisle, and had almost given up when I caught a faint green glow near the floor. I walked toward it, tripping over something hard.