Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

TWENTY-NINE

while Margo was in the kitchen preparing dinner, Nora took a moment to look around the woman's unexpectedly large and elegant apartment. An upright piano stood against one wall, with some Broadway show tunes propped up on the music stand; next to it hung a number of nineteenth-century zoological engravings of odd animals. A set of shelves against one wall was packed with books, and a second set of shelves contained an assortment of interesting objects: Roman coins, an Egyptian glass perfume bottle, a small collection of bird's eggs, arrowheads, an Indian pot, a piece of gnarled driftwood, a fossilized crab, seashells, a couple of bird skulls, some mineral specimens, and a gold nugget-a miniature cabinet of curiosities. Hanging on the far wall was what Nora recognized as an exceptionally fine Eyedazzler Navajo rug.

It said something about Margo, Nora thought-that she was a more interesting person than she first appeared. And she had a lot more money than Nora had expected. This was no cheap apartment, and in a co-op building, no less.

Margo's voice echoed out of the kitchen. "Sorry to abandon you, Nora. I'll just be another minute."

"Can't I help?"

"No way, you relax. Red or white?"

"I'll drink whatever you're drinking."

"White, then. We're having fish."

Nora had already been savoring the smell of salmon poaching in a delicate court bouillon wafting from the kitchen. A moment later, Margo came in carrying a platter with a beautiful piece of fish, garnished with dill and slices of lemon. She set it down, returned to the kitchen, and came back with a cool bottle of wine. She filled Nora's glass and then her own, then sat down.

"This is quite a dinner," said Nora, impressed not only with the cooking but with the trouble Margo had gone to.

"I just thought, with Bill away on assignment and the show coming up, maybe you needed a break."

"I do, but I didn't expect anything quite this nice."

"I like to cook, but I rarely have the opportunity-just like I never seem to have time to meet guys." She sat down with a wry smile, brushing her short brown hair from her face with a quick gesture. "So how's the show going?"

"This is the first night in a week that I've gotten out of there before midnight."

"Ouch."

"We're down to the wire. I don't see how they're going to make it, but everyone who's been through this before swears they always pull through in the end."

"I know how that goes. I have to get back to the museum tonight as it is."

"Really?"

Margo nodded. "To put the next issue of Museologyto bed."

"My God, Margo. Then you shouldn't be wasting time making me supper."

"Are you kidding? I had to get out of that dusty old heap, even if only for a few hours. Believe me, this is a treat for me as well." She cut a piece of salmon and served Nora, then served herself, adding some spears of perfectly cooked asparagus and some wild rice.

Nora watched her arrange the food, wondering how she could have been so wrong about a person. It was true Margo had come on rather strong in their first few encounters, brittle and defensive, but outside of the museum she seemed a different person, with a largeness of spirit that surprised Nora. Margo was trying hard to make up for her nasty comment in the staff meeting, going beyond the generous apology she had already made to treat Nora to a home-cooked dinner.

"By the way, I just wanted you to know that I'm going ahead with that editorial. It may be a lost cause, but it's just something I feel I have to do."

Nora felt a sense of admiration. Even with Menzies's support, it was a gutsy move. She herself had gone up against the museum administration, and it was no cakewalk-some of them could be extremely vindictive.

"That's awfully brave of you."

"Well, I don't know about bravery. It's sheer stupidity, really, I said I was going to do it, and now I feel like I haveto, even though the trustees have already ruled against me."

"And your first issue, too."

"First and perhaps last."

"I meant what I said earlier. Even though I don't agree with you, I support your right to publish. You can count on me. I think everyone in the department would agree, except maybe Ashton."

Margo smiled. "I know. And I really appreciate that, Nora."

Nora sipped the wine. She glanced at the label: a Vermentino, and a very good one. Bill, an inveterate wine snob, had taught her a lot over the last year or two.

"It's tough being a woman in the museum," she said. "While things are a lot better than they used to be, you still don't see a lot of female deans or departmental heads. And if you look at the board of trustees, well, it's basically made up of socially ambitious lawyers and investment bankers, two-thirds of them male, with little real interest in science or public education."

"It's discouraging that a top museum like this can't do better."

"It's the way of the world." Nora took a bite of the salmon. It was good, just about the best she'd tasted.

"So tell me, Nora, how did you and Bill meet? I knew him at the museum back when I was still a student. He didn't seem like the marrying sort. I was fond of him, despite everything-though I'd never let him know that. He was quite a character."

"Fondof him? When I first saw him, I thought he was the biggest jerk I'd ever met." She smiled at the memory. "He was in a limo, signing books in the god-awful town of Page, Arizona."

Margo laughed. "I can just see it. Funny, he tends to make a bad first impression, until you realize he's got a heart of gold… and the courage of a lion to match."

Nora nodded slowly, a little surprised at this insight. "It took me a while to figure that out, though, to cut through his 'intrepid reporter' pose. We're very different, Bill and I, but I think that helps in a marriage. I couldn't stand being married to someone like me-I'm way too bossy."

"Me, too," said Margo. "What were you doing in Page, Arizona?"

"That's a story. I was leading an archaeological expedition into the canyon country of Utah, and Page was our rendezvous point."

"Sounds fascinating."

"It was. Too fascinating, as it turned out. Afterwards I took a job at the Lloyd Museum."

"No kidding! So you were there when it folded?"

"It more or less folded even before it opened. Palmer Lloyd supposedly went off the deep end. But by that point I'd burned my bridges, and the upshot was I was out of work again. So I landed a job here."

"Well, the Lloyd Museum's loss is our gain."

"You mean, the diamond hall," Nora said jokingly. When the plans to open the Lloyd Museum fell apart, the New York Museum of Natural History had swooped down and-with the help of a huge donation by a wealthy patron-purchased Palmer Lloyd's world-renowned diamond collection for their own gem halls.

Margo laughed. "Don't be silly. I'm talking about you."

Nora took another sip of wine. "How about you, Margo? What's your background?"

"I worked here as a graduate student in ethnopharmacology. That was during the time of the museum murders-the ones Bill wrote up in that first book of his. Did you read it?"

"Are you kidding? One of the prerequisites of dating Bill was reading all his books. He didn't actually insist on it, but the hints came thick and fast."

Margo laughed.

"From what I read," Nora said, "you've had some pretty amazing adventures."

"Yeah. Who says science is boring?"

"What brought you back to the museum?"

"After getting my doctorate, I went to work for the pharmaceutical conglomerate GeneDyne. I did it to please my mother, really: she'd desperately wanted me to go into the family business, which I absolutely refused to do. Working for GeneDyne, making lots of money in a corporate environment, was like throwing her a bone. Poor Mom. She liked to say she couldn't fathom why I wanted to spend my life studying people with bones through their noses. Anyway, the money was great, but the corporate world just wasn't to my liking. I guess I'm not a team player-or an ass-kisser. Then one day Hugo Menzies called. He knew of my earlier work at the museum, and he'd come across some of my GeneDyne research papers on traditional Khoisan medicine. He wondered if I'd ever consider coming back to the museum. The position at Museologyhad just opened up and he wanted me to apply. So I did, and here I am." She pointed to Nora's plate. "Seconds?"

"Don't mind if I do."

Margo placed another piece of salmon on her plate, took a little more for herself. "I don't suppose you've heard about the Tano crosscountry march," she said, eyes on her plate.

Nora looked up sharply. "No. Nothing."

"The museum is trying to keep it under wraps, hoping it won't come off. But I think that since you're one of the curators of the show, you should know about it. The Tanos have begun a sort of protest caravan from New Mexico to New York to ask for the return of those masks. They plan to set up in front of the museum the night of the opening, perform dances, sing songs, and hand out leaflets."

"Oh, no," Nora groaned.

"I managed to speak to the leader of the group, a religious elder. He was a very nice man, but he was also extremely firm about what they were doing and why. They believe there's a spirit inside each mask, and the Tanos want to placate them-to let them know they haven't been forgotten."

"But on opening night? It'll be a disaster."

"They're sincere," Margo said gently.

Nora glanced at her, a retort already on her lips. Then she softened. "I suppose you're right."

"I really did try to talk them out of it. Anyway, I only mention this because I figured you might appreciate a heads-up."

"Thanks." Nora thought for a moment. "Ashton's going to have a shit-fit."

"How can you stand working with that man? What a dork."

Nora burst out laughing, amazed at Margo's directness. It was, of course, true. "You should see him these days, running around the exhibition, yelling at everyone, waving his hands, the wattle on his forearms flapping back and forth."

"Stop! I don't want to picture it."

"And then Menzies comes through, and with a quiet word here and a nod there, he gets more accomplished in five minutes than Ash-ton does in a whole morning."

"Now, there's a lesson in management." Margo pointed at Nora's glass. "Another?"

"Please."

She filled up both their glasses, then raised hers. "Too bad Menzies's soft-spoken approach doesn't yet work for us women. So here's to you and me, Nora, kicking ass in that fossilized pile."

Nora laughed. "I'll drink to that."

And they clinked glasses.

THIRTY

IT was exactly two in the morning when Smithback cracked open the door of his room. Holding his breath, he glanced out through the narrow gap. The third-floor corridor was deserted and dark. Easing the door open still farther, he ventured a look in the other direction.

Deserted, as well.

Smithback closed the door again, leaned against it. His heart pounded in his chest, and he told himself it was because he'd been waiting so long for this moment. He had lain in bed for hours, feigning sleep, all the while putting the finishing touches on his plan. Earlier in the evening, there had been the occasional hushed footfall outside; around eleven, a nurse had looked in on him and-seeing him motionless in bed-left him to sleep. Since midnight, there had been no sound at all outside the door.

Smithback grasped the door handle again. It was time to put his plan into action.

After his outburst with the director, Smithback had been summoned to dinner that evening as usual. He was shown to a seat and given a menu as if nothing had happened-it seemed that delusional outbursts were par for the course at River Oaks. After dinner, he'd put in his requisite hour of work detail in the kitchen, returning perishable goods to the walk-in refrigerators of the rambling kitchen complex on the mansion's first floor.

It was while on duty Smithback had managed to purloin a key to the basement.

Though he'd worked only two shifts, Smithback already had a pretty good sense of how the kitchen operated. Deliveries came in through a loading dock in the back of the mansion, and were then brought through the basement and up into the kitchen. Security at River Oaks was a joke: half the kitchen staff seemed to have keys to the basement, from the head chef on down to the dishwashers, and the door was always being unlocked, opened, and relocked during working hours. When the sous chef had gone down to get a piece of equipment, Smithback seized his chance and-when nobody was looking-pocketed the key that had been left in the lock. The chef had come back up, grunting under the weight of a vertical broiler, the key completely forgotten.

It had been that easy.

Now Smithback tensed, preparing to open his door again. He was wearing three shirts, a sweater, and two pairs of pants, and was sweating profusely. It was a necessary precaution: if everything went according to plan, he had a long, cold ride ahead of him.

While on duty in the kitchen, he'd learned that the first food service truck arrived at the loading dock at 5:30 a.m. If he could make his way through the basement, wait until the truck arrived, and then sneak into its rear compartment just before it departed, nobody would be the wiser. Two hours or more would pass until his absence was discovered-and by then he'd be well on his way back to New York, beyond the grasp of Dr. Tisander and his legion of creepy, black-uniformed nurses.

He cracked the door open again. Deathly silence. He opened it wider, then slipped out into the corridor and closed it noiselessly behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder, then began making his way cautiously down the corridor toward the landing, keeping close to the walls. He stood little chance of being spotted: the chandeliers were dimmed and their amber pools of light faint. The landscapes and portraits hanging on the walls were dark, indistinguishable rectangles. The soft carpeting was a river of maroon so deep it looked almost black.

It was the work of five minutes to reach the landing. Here the light was a little brighter and he hung back, listening for the sound of footsteps on the stairway. He took a step, then another, listening intently.

Nothing.

Gliding forward, hand on the banister, Smithback made his way down, ready to dart back up the stairs at the first sign of an encounter. Reaching the second-floor landing, he retreated to a dark corner, crouching behind a sideboard. Here he paused to reconnoiter. The landing widened into four corridors: one leading to the dining room, another to the library and west parlor, the others to treatment areas and administrative offices. This floor seemed as silent and deserted as the first, and Smithback, encouraged, began creeping out.

From down the administrative hallway came the sound of a closing door.

Quickly, he darted back to his hiding place, crouched down, and waited.

He heard a key turning in a lock. Then, for perhaps a minute, nothing more. Had somebody been locking himself insidean office? Or out?

He waited another minute. Still nothing.

Just as he was gathering himself to rise again, someone came into view from the darkness of the administrative corridor: an orderly, walking slowly, hands clasped behind him. The man was looking from left to right as he strolled, as if checking that all doors were properly closed.

Smithback shrank back farther into the darkness behind the sideboard, not moving, not even breathing, as the man walked across the far side of the landing and vanished down the corridor leading to the library.

Smithback waited, motionless, another five minutes. Then, keeping low, he made his way down the staircase to the first floor.

Here it seemed even gloomier. After making sure nobody was in sight, Smithback darted down the wide corridor that led to the kitchen.

It was the work of thirty seconds to reach the heavy double doors. Taking one last look over his shoulder, he pushed against the door, preparing to back into the kitchen.

The door didn't budge.

Smithback turned to face it, pressed harder.

Locked.

Shit.This was something he hadn't anticipated: a door that was never locked during the day.

He sounded his pocket for the basement key, hoping against hope it would open the kitchen door as well. No luck.

He glanced over his shoulder again, disappointment and a rising despair flooding over him. It had been such a good plan. And he'd been so close to getting out. To be thwarted like this…

Then he paused. There might-just might-still be a chance.

Cautiously, he made his way back to the landing. He peered up, straining for any sound, but the velvety darkness remained silent. Noiselessly, he crept up the stairway to the second floor, flitted across the landing, and entered the dining room.

The vast, ghostly space seemed sepulchral in its stillness. A few bars of pale moonlight slanted in through tall windows, bathing the room in an eerie, almost phosphorescent illumination. Smithback threaded his way quickly between the tables-already laid for breakfast-until he reached the rear. Here, a decorative partition ran parallel to the wall, concealing the service ports and waiters' stations behind. Smithback ducked behind the partition and-now in deeper darkness-moved carefully toward his destination: the dumbwaiter, covered by a four-by-three-foot metal panel set into the back wall.

Slowly, careful to make no noise, Smithback grasped the metal panel and pulled it open. Inside was an empty shaft. A heavy rope, mounted to a pulley mechanism on the chute's ceiling, vanished in inky depths below.

Smithback couldn't help but smile.

During his kitchen duty, he'd seen gray tubs of silverware and dirty dishes come down from the dining room via this same dumbwaiter. Now, with any luck, it would carry a very different cargo.

There were a series of buttons beside the access panel, used to raise and lower the dumbwaiter. Smithback peered at them in the faint illumination, then reached out to press the up button. He'd bring the thing up from the kitchen, clamber in, and descend…

Then he froze. The motor would make a lot of noise in the stillness. And there was the faintest chance somebody might still be inside the kitchen: the last thing he wanted was to betray his presence.

Leaning forward, he grasped the heavy rope, gave one or two exploratory tugs, and then-with a grunt-began to haul upward with all his might.

It took ages to hoist the dumbwaiter from the kitchen below. By the time he was done, Smithback was gasping and puffing, his triple layer of shirts soaked in sweat. He paused to rest a moment and look around. Still nobody.

Returning his attention to the dumbwaiter, he clambered inside, squeezing his long limbs into its narrow confines. He pulled the access panel closed behind him.

Utter darkness.

Sitting inside the dumbwaiter, knees up around his ears, Smithback realized there was no easy way to lower the device. Then he discovered that, by placing his hands against the front wall of the chute and exerting upward pressure, he could force the dumbwaiter down, inch by inch. It was blind, sweaty, exhausting work, but in a few minutes he felt his hands brushing against the steel frame of another access panel. He'd reached the first floor-and the kitchen.

He paused a moment, despite the stifling, claustrophobic space, to listen. Hearing nothing, he pushed open the panel.

The kitchen was empty. The only light came from the emergency exit signs, which threw a faint crimson light over the sprawling space.

Smithback climbed out, worked the kinks out of his limbs, and looked around. There, set into a far wall, was the door to the basement.

He stiffened with excitement. Almost there.Nothing could stop him now. River Oaks might be able to incarcerate slack-jawed wackos like Roger Throckmorton, but it couldn't hold the likes of William Smithback.

The kitchen was a strange melange of old and new. The soot-blackened walk-in fireplace was flanked by professional stainless-steel mixers large enough to hold a family. Long bunches of braided garlic cloves, peppers, and fines herbes hung from the ceiling: the head chef was a native of Brittany. The granite countertops gleamed with ranks of cookware. Dozens of top-quality German carving knives sat behind locked frames of steel and meshed glass.

But Smithback had eyes for only one thing: the heavy wooden door set in the far wall. He quickly walked over to it, unlocked it. A stone stairway led down into a well of darkness.

Gingerly, Smithback stepped down, careful not to slip on the clammy stone. He closed and locked the door behind him, shutting out the pale red glow of the exit signs and plunging the stairwell into utter darkness. He made his way downward with exquisite care, counting steps as he went.

At the twenty-fourth step he reached bottom.

He stopped to look around. But there was nothing to see: the surrounding blackness was, if anything, even more complete. The air smelled of mold and damp. For the first time, it occurred to him that he should have nicked a flashlight, made some discreet inquiries about the layout of the basement and the route to the loading dock. Maybe he should put this escape attempt off for a day or two, go back to his room, and try again another night…

He pushed these thoughts away. It was too late to go back: he could never force the dumbwaiter back up to the dining room. Besides, his job was at stake. And he wanted, needed,to talk to Nora. He had three hours until the first delivery of the morning: that was more than enough time to find his way.

He took a deep, steadying breath, then another, suppressing a faint susurrus of fear. Then, arms stretched out before him, he began to move slowly forward, sliding one foot ahead, then the other. After about a dozen steps, he made contact with a brick wall running perpendicular to his position. He turned right and began moving again, a little more quickly now, one hand brushing the wall.

There was another sound, Smithback realized, in addition to his steps: the low pattering and squeaking of rats.

His foot came in sudden contact with something on the floor, squat and heavy and immovable. He pitched forward, saving himself at the last minute from sprawling. He rose, rubbed his shin with a curse, then felt forward with his hands. Some kind of a slop sink, bolted to the brick face, barred his way. He moved carefully around it, then continued forward. The squeaking of rats died away, as if the rodents were fleeing at his approach.

The wall to his left ended abruptly, leaving him once again marooned in the black.

This was crazy. He needed to think this out.

Mentally, he went over what he knew of the layout of the mansion. As he reviewed his twistings and turnings from the base of the stairs, it seemed to him the rear must lie to the left.

The moment he turned, he saw it: a pinpoint glimmer in the distance. It was the faintest smudge of light, a mere attenuation of black, but he made for it with the greediness of a drowning man for terra firma. As he walked, it seemed to recede before him, miragelike. The floor level rose, then fell again. At last, as he drew close, he could see that the illumination was set at eye level: a set of small green display panels fastened to an automatic thermostat of some kind. They threw a faint glow over a strange room: groined and vaulted in dressed limestone, it contained a half dozen steam boilers of polished brass and copper. They dated back to the mid-nineteenth century, at least, and had been retrofitted to the thermostat controls by bundles of colored wires. The giant boilers hissed and rumbled softly, almost as if snoring in rhythm to the sleeping mansion they warmed.

Over the sound of the boilers came again the scampering and squeaking of rats.

And then, quite distinctly, the clump of a boot on stone.

Smithback whirled around. "Who is it?" he blurted out, his voice echoing among the vaults and boilers.

No answer.

"Who's there?" Smithback said a little louder. And, as he took a slow step backward, the only response was the thudding of his heart.