Текст книги "The Forgotten Room"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

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8

An hour later, Logan made his way down the central corridor of Lux’s third floor, canvas satchel slung over one shoulder. This hallway, familiarly known as the Lady’s Walk, retained almost entirely the look it had sported when the mansion was a private residence. It was fantastically ornate, with wide, polished oaken floorboards; elaborate wainscoting; coffered ceiling; gilded sconces; and huge oil portraits in golden frames. It was also the longest unbroken hall in the mansion: running the entire length of the main building, it stretched nearly three city blocks’ worth from the East Wing to the West Wing. And yet despite its magnificence, it was almost never seen by visitors. This was, in part, because the third floor was given over to the private offices and apartments of the think tank’s Fellows. Another reason, Logan thought, could be the hallway’s nickname itself. Awkward questions might arise.

The lady in question was Ernestine Delaveaux, wife of the original owner of Dark Gables. By all accounts, she had been a beautiful and accomplished woman, the product of one of Boston’s finest families and Europe’s best finishing schools. But she was also possessed of a nervous temperament and weak constitution. When the couple’s only son died of smallpox, the shock proved too much for Mrs. Delaveaux. Uncontrolled weeping, lack of appetite, and insomnia followed. The doctors brought in by her husband, Edward – himself of an eccentric cast – could do nothing, save prescribe nostrums for what they pronounced to be neurasthenia. Then, one night in 1898, Ernestine Delaveaux saw, or thought she saw, her dead son, standing in this same hallway, hands outstretched toward her. After that, she wandered the hallway every night, tirelessly calling her son’s name. She never saw him again. Finally, on a stormy December evening two years later, Mrs. Delaveaux left the mansion, walked down to the sea, and threw herself into the Atlantic.

Edward Delaveaux never recovered from the double loss of his son and his wife. He spent the rest of his life and fortune in seclusion, trying one scheme after the other to contact his family on the other side. He finally died himself, nearly destitute, in 1912. Dark Gables remained shuttered and unoccupied until Lux relocated from Boston to Newport and purchased it. Ever since Lux took possession of the mansion, however, rumors had circulated that, on certain stormy nights, the ghost of Ernestine Delaveaux could be seen roaming this long, extravagantly appointed corridor, holding a linen handkerchief and calling her son’s name.

Logan had never seen her. Nor had he spoken to anyone who had. But the legend persisted nevertheless.

Now he stopped before a large wooden door, windowless and gleaming, set into the wall to his left. It bore a brief legend:

382

W. STRACHEY

K. MYKOLOS

Logan paused a moment, then knocked. A female voice from beyond immediately called out, “Come in.”

Logan entered. The room he found himself in was fairly small, evidently an outer office, judging by the open door in the far wall leading to a much larger room. Nevertheless, the bookshelves here were stuffed full of technical journals, textbooks, boxed and labeled manuscripts; the lone desk was covered with notated papers and monographs. And yet the crowded space managed to look orderly rather than messy. The room had no windows, and there were no pictures or photos on the walls, but there were half a dozen glass frames full of butterflies: large and small, some monochromatic, others as iridescent as a peacock.

A woman in her midtwenties sat at the desk, fingers resting on a workstation keyboard. She had short jet-black hair, an upturned nose, and – although she was slender – was possessed of a rounded, dimpled chin that reminded Logan of Betty Boop. He recalled seeing her in passing at dinner the night before, talking animatedly at a table with other young people. She was looking up at him now with an expression of expectation.

“You’re Kimberly Mykolos?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “But that’s quite a mouthful, isn’t it? Please call me Kim.”

“Kim it shall be.”

She smiled. “And I’m terribly afraid I know who you are.”

Logan gave a melodramatic sigh. “In that case, would you mind if I sat down?”

“I would insist.”

Logan began to sit down when he caught sight of a brief Latin quotation, framed simply in black and set upon the wall beside the desk: Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. He froze.

“What’s wrong?” the woman asked. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“An occupational hazard in my line of work,” Logan replied. “But it isn’t that.” He sat down and pointed at the framed quotation. “Virgil, Aeneid. Book One, line 203.”

“That’s a remarkable bit of erudition to have at one’s fingertips.”

“I’m no savant. It’s just that I have the same quotation hanging over my desk.” And he quoted: “ ‘Perhaps some day it will be pleasant to remember even this.’ ”

Mykolos raised her eyebrows. “I guess that means we’re going to be the best of friends.”

“Maybe so. I like butterflies, too.”

“I don’t just like them. I’m passionate about them. Have been ever since I was a kid. When I’m not working, I’m out collecting. Look at this one.” She pointed to a relatively small butterfly in the nearest frame: brown with black eyelets and orange-colored terminal bands on its wings. “A Mitchell’s satyr. Very rare. I caught this at age thirteen, before it was considered endangered.”

“Beautiful.” Logan looked from the butterfly back to Mykolos. “You say you know who I am?”

“I remember seeing you on a PBS documentary. It was about an excavation of the tomb of a very ancient pharaoh – the first pharaoh, if I remember right. You stood out because of your occupation.” She frowned. “They had an unusual word for it. An…an…”

“Enigmalogist,” Logan completed the sentence for her. He decided that Betty Boop was an unfair comparison. This woman’s chin more closely resembled Claudette Colbert’s.

“Yes, enigmalogist.”

“Well, I’m glad you saw the documentary. It saves me a lot of time in introductions.”

She glanced at him curiously. “Are you here to investigate the Lady’s Walk?”

“Unfortunately not. I’ve been asked by the board of directors to look into the death of Willard Strachey.”

Mykolos’s eyes slowly drifted down toward her desk. “I was afraid of that,” she said in a very different tone.

“Ms. Mykolos, I know this must be difficult for you. I’ll try to keep my questions as brief as possible. But you were as close to Dr. Strachey as anybody. I hope you’ll understand why it’s necessary I speak with you.”

She nodded wordlessly.

“First, tell me a little about yourself. How you came to Lux, how you came to work for Strachey.”

Mykolos paused to take a sip from a cup of tea that sat on the desk. “I don’t know how much you know of the way Lux goes about hiring its staff. They’re quite selective.”

“That’s probably an understatement.”

“It’s not unlike the way the Brits recruit potential spies to MI6. Lux has talent spotters at several of the best universities. If they see somebody who shows a certain kind of promise, along with the right temperament and intellectual curiosity – Lux has entire profiles for the spotters to use – then the foundation is contacted. An inquiry is convened and, if the results are positive and there’s a suitable opening, an offer is made. In my case, about four years ago I received my MSE in computer science from MIT. It was my plan to go on directly for my doctorate. Instead, I won the Advanced Computing Society’s Obfuscated Software Award. And then I got a visit from a Lux recruitment officer.” She shrugged. “And here I am.”

“What was your specialty at MIT?” Logan asked.

“Strategic software design.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s a rather new field. It deals with how to protect programs from today’s threat-filled digital environment: worms, tunneling programs, reverse engineering, intrusions by hostile corporations or governments. Of course, one learns how to write one’s own reverse engineering algorithms, as well.” And she smiled almost slyly.

“And were you hired specifically to be Dr. Strachey’s assistant?”

Mykolos nodded. “His previous assistant had to leave to become a full-time mother.” She paused. “Funny how married women tend to get pregnant from time to time, isn’t it?”

“I’ve often wondered about that.” Logan sat back in the chair. “But were you a good fit for the job? With Strachey, I mean. His specialty was relational databases, after all.”

Mykolos hesitated. “I’m not sure how familiar you are with them. They’re much more powerful and versatile than flat file or hierarchical databases. And Strachey’s database management system, Parallax, was a revelation when it appeared. He was a phenomenal coder. Really phenomenal. The language he wrote it in, C, is tight to begin with, but he was able to make each line do triple duty. Still, Parallax was…well, a product of its time. Lux was looking for a way to market it to a larger, less demanding market.”

“And that meant bringing in fresh blood.”

“These days, programs that large corporations once paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for in site licenses don’t necessarily need to be shelved as they age. They can be repurposed for the use of smaller companies that will pay a lot less per seat, but whose needs are more limited. But that also means, in effect, releasing the program into the wild – and so it needs to be protected by antitampering technology. That’s where I came in.”

“And the result?”

She glanced at him. “Sorry?”

“Well, a person like Strachey, nearing the end of his career, might become resentful…if he felt his life’s work was being ‘repurposed’ by someone young, lean, and hungry.”

There was a pause during which a change slowly came over Mykolos. From a friendly, open, even playful young woman, she became visibly distraught. She pushed herself back from the desk. Logan felt her pushing back from him, as well.

“May I take hold of your hand for a moment?” he asked.

She frowned in surprise.

“If you don’t mind. It helps me get a better sense of the person I’m talking with. Sometimes I can understand things on a deeper level than with language alone.”

After a moment, she extended her hand. He took it gently in his.

“I know,” he said after a moment. “I know you’re trying to deal with a terrible thing in the best way you can. One way to do that is to pretend: act and speak lightly, avoid the issue. It’s a valid defense mechanism – for a time, anyway.”

Mykolos’s eyes filled with tears. Logan withdrew his hand. She turned away, reached into a tissue box, dabbed at her eyes. Perhaps a minute passed. Then she took a deep, shuddering breath and turned around to face him again.

“I’m all right,” she said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve been through something awful.”

“It’s just that…” She paused again, and for a moment Logan thought she might begin to weep. But she pulled herself together. “It’s just that Willard was such a kind man, such a gentle man. He loved his work. He loved Lux. And he loved me, too, I think – in a way.”

“So he wasn’t resentful – didn’t see you as someone who wanted his job.”

“No, no, nothing like that. I was a little afraid he might be, at first – it would be a natural enough reaction.” Mykolos sniffed, dabbed at her nose with a fresh tissue. “But he was genuinely interested in retasking Parallax for a broader market. And I think he felt that…well, that he’d done enough. He’d made several breakthroughs in relational database theory, created a very successful RDBMS of his own – that’s more than enough for any career. So while he remained interested in the work, remained dedicated to keeping Parallax the best it could be, he became less actively involved.”

“And what did the work consist of, exactly?”

Mykolos paused again. “It gets technical. Obfuscation, for example.”

“You mentioned that term before. What is it?”

“It’s a subset of reverse engineering. Making software difficult for competitors to decompile and figure out. Lux likes to get paid for Parallax – they don’t want to give it away. But really, much of what I ended up doing was code review. That, and helping him document his theories as they had developed and matured.”

“In other words, playing Boswell to his Johnson.”

Mykolos laughed softly despite the red eyes. “We were both playing his Boswell. Willard was proud of the work he’d done – really proud. So he wanted to chronicle it, not only for himself but for posterity. Or at least what passes for posterity here at Lux.”

“I see.” Logan thought for a moment. “So what about this other work he began a few months back? Overseeing the reconstruction and redesign of the West Wing?”

For a moment, a cloud passed over Mykolos’s face. “He didn’t say anything about it at first. Nothing negative, anyway. But then, that’s not his way – he’d never bad-mouth anyone or anything. But I could tell he wasn’t especially pleased. By that point, all he wanted was to complete his work, maybe reduce the number of weekly hours a bit so he could get in some sailing. But as time went by, he grew more and more interested. It involved a lot of architectural planning and design – he really enjoyed that.”

“I understand he was working closely with the firm that originally built this structure.”

“Yes. Flood Associates.”

Logan took a deep breath. Now came the hard part. “Just one more question. Can you please tell me about the events leading up to Dr. Strachey’s attack on you?”

Mykolos remained silent.

“Take your time. Tell me in your own words.”

She plucked a fresh tissue from the box. “It came on so gradually I didn’t notice it right away. I guess it was the irritation first – he’d never acted irritated, ever; he was always the kindest person you can imagine. He’d never once raised his voice in the more than two years I worked for him. But he started to snap at people – secretaries, attendants – even me, once. And he began developing odd mannerisms.”

“Odd in what way?”

“Waving his hands before his face, as if to push something away. Humming, the way you might if you were a kid, and someone you didn’t like refused to stop talking. And then…then there was the muttering.”

“I heard he was talking to himself. Did you hear any of what he said?”

“Until the last day or two it was pretty much under his breath. I don’t think he was aware of it himself. And what I did catch was nonsense, mostly.”

“Try me.”

Mykolos thought for a moment. “Things like: ‘Stop it. Stop it, I don’t want it. Go away. I won’t, you can’t make me.’ ”

“And then?” Logan prodded gently.

Mykolos licked her lips. “The last couple of days, things got abruptly worse. He closed the door to his office, began yelling, throwing things around. He wouldn’t speak to me. I’d see him walk by, abruptly clapping his hands over his ears. And then, last Thursday…he looked so agitated, so troubled, I came up, put a hand on his shoulder, asked if I could be of help in some way. He turned on me suddenly….” She paused. “Oh, my God, his face – it was so unlike him, purple, enraged, eyes wide and staring…but it wasn’t only rage, it was also despair, maybe helplessness…. He knocked my hand away, grabbed my shoulders, pushed me onto the desk…grabbed my neck, began choking me…. I picked up my keyboard, flung it in his face….”

She stood up. “He let go then. I ran behind my desk, picked up the phone, dialed the front desk, then Dr. Olafson’s office. A minute later, three lab assistants burst in and hauled Willard away. He was yelling and screaming at the top of his voice, kicking violently…and that was the last I ever saw of him.”

She turned back now and sat down again at her desk, breathing heavily.

“Thank you,” Logan said.

She nodded. A brief silence descended over the room.

“Please tell me something,” Mykolos said at last. “They say he committed suicide. But I don’t believe it.”

Logan said nothing.

“Please tell me. How did he die?”

Logan hesitated. The information, he knew, was being kept as quiet as possible. But this woman had helped him, to her own discomfort. “It isn’t supposed to be known.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Logan looked at her appraisingly. Then he said, “He used the heavy windows of the visitor’s library to decapitate himself.”

“He—” Mykolos’s hand flew to her mouth. “How awful.” Then she balled the hand into a fist. “No,” she said. “No, that couldn’t have been Willard.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something was obviously not right with him. He might have been sick – I don’t know. But he would never, ever have killed himself. He had too much to live for. He was the least rash person I’ve ever known. And…dignity was important to him. He would never have killed himself – especially not in that way.”

This brief speech was remarkably similar to what Olafson had said – and it was delivered with the same passion. “That’s why I’m back here,” Logan told her. “To try to understand what happened.”

Mykolos nodded a little absently. Then she glanced at him. “What do you mean: back here?”

“About ten years ago, I spent six months at Lux, doing research of my own.”

“Really? Six months is an odd length of time. Usually, research terms are measured in years.”

Logan regarded her again. Something about this young woman convinced him he could trust her – and that, in fact, she might be able to help him in ways he could not yet know. “I was asked to leave,” he said.

“Why?”

“You know Lux’s record as the nation’s oldest think tank. The respected position it holds among its peers.”

“You mean, we’re all a bunch of tight asses.”

“Something like that. My work was adjudged to be inadequate. Not true science. Not intellectually rigorous enough. It was seen by some as hocus-pocus, smoke and mirrors. A cadre of Fellows, headed by Dr. Carbon, had me forced out.”

Mykolos made a face. “Carbon. That prick.”

“Well, I’m back here now. This time, as an investigator instead of a Fellow.”

“Dr. Logan, I want – I need – to know what happened. If I can help in any way, let me know.”

“Thanks. You can start by letting me putter around in Dr. Strachey’s office, if you don’t mind.” And Logan indicated the far office.

“Of course. It’s a bit of a mess, though. Let me go in ahead of you and clear things up a bit. I wouldn’t want you to do an Alkan on me.”

“A what?”

“Charles-Valentin Alkan. French composer. Wrote some of the strangest music you’ll ever want to hear. Supposedly died when a bookcase fell on top of him.”

“Never heard of him. You’re quite the Renaissance woman.”

“I guess the Lux talent spotter thought the same way.” And Mykolos rose from her desk with a wan smile. “Come on – follow me.”

9

Willard Strachey’s private apartment – his “rooms,” in Lux parlance – was on the third floor of the mansion, just a dozen or so doors down the Lady’s Walk from where his office was located. Logan let himself in with a key provided by Dr. Olafson, closed the door behind him, let his bag drop to the floor, and stood still a moment, taking in the feel of the space beyond. It was just past nine p.m., and the chamber was dark, its furnishings mere dull shapes. After about a minute, Logan turned on the lights.

He hadn’t known what to expect, and the room he was standing in – apparently a combination library and parlor – was a pleasant surprise. The furniture was upholstered in mahogany-colored leather, well lived in and equally well cared for. One wall contained recessed bookcases which – Logan noted – were devoted to a wide variety of subjects: nineteenth-century English novels; Latin classics in translation; a few recent whodunits; biographies; and numerous books on sailing, architecture and design, and the history of computing. The books were not just for display: Logan pulled a few from the shelves and found them to be lovingly read. Several displayed marginal glosses in Strachey’s small, meticulous hand. The Edwardian trappings of the mansion had been tastefully accentuated in this room by a hundred additional touches – vintage sconces, Astrakhan carpets, oil paintings of the English romantic school. There was an old mechanical doll; a vintage wooden radio; a worn sextant – apparently, Strachey was a collector of antique technology. A rolltop desk sat in one corner, with several old fountain pens lined up at one side. Another corner was monopolized by a Steinway Model B, its glossy black finish shining in the mellow light. The room exuded the warm, welcoming feeling of a London gentleman’s club from the turn of the last century. It had taken money to create this atmosphere – Olafson said money wasn’t a problem for Strachey. But it had taken more than that: it had taken time, and patience, and loving care. It was subtle; it was refined; it was delightful. Logan could imagine himself living in a place such as this.

He moved through the rest of the apartment. It was not especially large – a dining room, a compact but expensively supplied kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom – but each space displayed the same care and consideration as the library had. Nowhere did Logan find any evidence of Strachey’s work: that was left in his office, down the hall. Rather, these rooms were devoted to private relaxation with the man’s many avocations: sailing, art, industrial design.

Logan had spent almost the entire afternoon in Strachey’s office, going through his papers, notes, manuscripts, sometimes on his own and sometimes with the assistance of Kim Mykolos. It had been as expected: there were clear signs that the pace of Strachey’s research had been slowing. But as Mykolos had told him, the man had been in essence sealing the cap on a lifetime career, and greatly enjoying the process. Nowhere among the man’s various notes and writings was there any indication of disappointment: just quiet satisfaction at having made significant accomplishments in his field. Logan now felt certain that, whatever might have prompted Strachey’s suicide, it had nothing to do with the twilight of his career.

There had also been several large folders in the office relating to the West Wing renovation, and – feeling overwhelmed – Logan had packed these up and sent them back to his own rooms for later examination. He had then gone to speak with Lux’s doctor in residence. The two spent twenty minutes going over Strachey’s physical and psychological history. As Olafson had indicated, all tests and examinations showed Strachey to have been in excellent health for a man of his age, emotionally stable, with no indications of either preexisting conditions or future complications.

Now he returned to the parlor. He’d held out mild hope that Strachey had kept a diary or private journal, but there was no sign of any. So instead he reached into his duffel, removed the video camera, and made another tour of the apartment, filming each room. Replacing the camera, he took out a small notebook and a rectangular device about the size of a police radio, with a control knob centered at the bottom and a large analog gauge monopolizing the top: a trifield natural EM meter. He made yet another tour of the apartment, carefully watching the needle of the meter and making occasional jottings in his notebook. Finally, he pulled another handheld device from the duffel, studded with knobs, toggle switches, and a digital readout: an air-ion counter. He took several readings, but found the air ionization to be no different from that of the other areas of the mansion he’d sampled already.

His eye drifted around the room, stopping at the antique radio. It was a cathedral-style tabletop model of rose-colored wood. Absently, he turned the power knob to the on position. Nothing happened. Curious, he picked up the radio, turned it over in his hands, opened the back. There was a jumble of old brown and yellow wires and machinery, but the vacuum tubes had been replaced with what at a brief glance appeared to be more modern equipment. He shrugged, replaced it on its shelf, and turned away.

Placing the tools and the notebook back in the duffel, he glanced around again, selected the most comfortable-looking armchair – judging from the nearby book stand and the well-used footrest, Strachey’s favorite chair as well – settled into it, closed his eyes, and waited.

At quite a young age, Logan had discovered he was an empath – someone with a unique, almost preternatural ability to sense the feelings and emotions of others. At times – if those feelings were strong enough, or if the person had resided in one place for a sufficient length of time – Logan could still sense them even after the occupant had departed.

He sat in the chair, in the dim amber light, emptying himself of his own feelings and preoccupations and waiting for the room to speak to him. At first, there was nothing save a vague, dissociated sense of security and comfort. This was not surprising: there were clearly no smoking guns, no hidden skeletons, no emotional issues, that would have prompted Strachey to…

And then something odd happened. As Logan sat there, eyes closed, relaxed, he began to hear music. At first it was soft – so soft it was barely audible. But as he waited, growing attentive, it began to grow clearer: lush, deeply romantic.

This had never happened before. As a sensitive, Logan was used to receiving emotional impressions, strong feelings, occasionally bits and pieces of memories. But never any sensory stimuli such as music. He sat up in the chair and opened his eyes, looking around, to see if perhaps the music was coming from an adjoining set of rooms.

Immediately, the music stopped.

Logan got up, shut off the lights, then returned to the chair. Once again, there was nothing at first. The sense of comfort was gone; so was the music. Gradually he began to be aware that, instead of the well-being he’d felt earlier, he now felt a faint – very faint – sense of uncertainty, perplexity, unease.

And then the piano music returned: once again, softly at first, then louder. The lush, romantic melody was still there – but as Logan listened, it slowly changed. It grew strange, haunting, maddeningly complicated: long rushes of rising arpeggios in a minor key, played faster and faster. There was something disturbing and ineffable in the music – something interwoven into the complex passages, almost below the threshold of comprehension, that seemed to Logan, as he listened, to be almost diabolical.

And then, along with the music, he began to smell something – a smell that was somehow part and parcel of the music itself – an increasingly strong and nauseating reek of burning flesh. A memory came to him suddenly, or perhaps it was precognition: an old house, flames billowing ferociously from its windows…

Suddenly, he jumped up from the chair. His mouth had gone dry, and his heart was hammering in his chest. He staggered through the darkness to the light switch, snapped it on, then leaned against the wall, gasping in breaths, shaking his head to clear away the terrifying music.

Within a few minutes his breathing had returned to normal. Gathering up his duffel and slinging it over a shoulder, he stepped out of the door and into the hall – reaching inside to switch off the lights again – and then, locking the door, pocketed the key and made his way back down the elegant corridor to his own rooms, careful as he did so to keep his mind as blank and as empty as possible.