The insistent tone had become irresistible. He needed to obey. Herb’s right hand tensed. He pulled both numbered tags off the silver holders. He stared at them wondering why he would do something that insane. The numbers needed to stay on the items. He’d heard Sy say that. Then why had he ripped them off?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know that anymore than he knew why he’d picked up the candle and was headed towards the wall. Herb fought against lifting his right hand and pressing against the large chunk of mottled stone tinged with pink. It gave the impression that it had been washed in blood. His shivering left hand held the candle. He wished he could control it. He wished he could steady it and make it …
Against his will, he pressed into it. A rumbling sound occurred as a hidden door swung to the side by means of an old hinge. Herb looked into the black tunnel wondering how he’d known it was there. And how he’d determined what stone to press. He didn’t know the answer to either of those questions. He only knew that he had to follow his master’s voice – and do as he said. He was waiting.
Herb raised the light and tried to see how far the tunnel went. The light wasn’t strong enough to pierce the darkness and so Herb started walking, not sure how far his journey would be. It was even colder in the tunnel. His lips were trembling – his face tensed. He walked slowly – deliberately – towards the voice that beckoned him. In the entire world, there was only one thing left to do, and that was to find the voice, and set his master free.
Herb continued to walk taking care not to hit his head on the low overhanging ceiling. The tunnel veered to the left. As he made the soft, graceful arc, the light of the candle exposed an ugly truth. There in the center of a hidden room was a single wooden box. It was propped up by means of a meager skeleton frame. Herb approached it unsteadily. He didn’t want to, but had no choice. He was compelled – his will was no longer his own. He ran the light down the length of it, taking a closer look at the box that contained his master. He recognized it now for what it was – a coffin. It was the kind used for peasants – to intern them in a pauper’s grave. The wood looked aged – as if it had been unearthed after years of being buried deep underground.
He stroked the knotty, discolored wood with his free hand. Although made of cheap pine, it was beautiful. It was the most beautiful coffin he’d ever seen because of what it contained. It contained him – the only one that mattered. Herb would never have to worry about making a living again. He wouldn’t have to worry about jobs ... or a wife … or feeding and caring for his children. He wouldn’t have to worry about growing old … or dying. He’d live … forever.
The knowledge brought tears to his ears. He took hold of the hammer hanging from the loop on his belt. He had to get these nails out. He had to get them out … so his master could be freed … so they both could be …
“Herb! Herb! Where are you!”
Herb awoke from the wonderful dream with a start. He was standing in a darkened room that he’d never seen before. He didn’t even know for sure how he’d gotten here. He was in the other room and the other room was where?
He saw a faint light coming from the tunnel. Maybe the lights in the workroom had finally come one. He looked down at the coffin. Whose was it and why did he have a hammer in his hand? Was he going to open a coffin? Why? Why would he do something so crazy? What in bloody hell had gotten into him?
“Herb!”
He tucked the hammer quickly in his belt loop and ran his hands together. Christ! What was he going to do now? He recognized the voice – it was Sy. Sy had come back and Herb was soddin’ off on the job. He’d fire him – on the spot. He heard the footsteps. Pacing back and forth looking for him. He’d have to think fast. Herb put one of the tags on top of the coffin – pocketing the other. He called out to Sy.
‘In here, sir!”
Herb stood with his hand on the coffin. Sy peeked his head in and unsuredly entered.
“Herb? What in blazes are you doing here? What is this place?”
“Just another storage area, Mr. Charles came down himself and told me about it. He left it out of his talk that he had with you this morning.”
Sy was no fool. He put his hands on his hips staring into Herb’s face – just waiting for something to give away the fact that he was lying to him. Herb didn’t fold. He had to pull this off. He wasn’t a very good liar, but this time he needed to find it in him to be a consummate one.
“Now why would he do that? I mean, come to you and not to me?”
“He was lookin’ for you, but all he found was me … Justin had run upstairs on a break.”
“Yes, I noticed Justin wasn’t there, but what is this? A coffin? Why on earth would they want us to ship a coffin?”
“Not a coffin, sir. Not anymore. They just used it for packing is all. It’s what’s inside that’s important – too important for us to see. That’s why it’s nailed shut.”
“They’ve never done that before. Why this time? And why here? It’s freezing in here – even worse than out there!”
“That’s why, sir. He said they put pictures in here.”
“Pictures? Pictures wouldn’t fit in here! The frames would be too big … “
“Not framed, sir. Just canvases. They’re very old and delicate. They can’t have light on them. And heat makes the colors fade. They packed ‘em up because they can’t be handled and they didn’t trust us to not damage them.”
Sy rubbed his chin with his hand. He didn’t know about this. It didn’t sound right and yet it did. He had the gut feeling Herb was lying to him, but why? And why was a coffin in a tunnel? He had it. He loudly snapped his fingers in Herb’s face.
“Oh, really? Well, if they’re that old, then why would they be in a 19th century collection? That’s what Mr. Charles told me this was when I was talking to him. Paintings old enough to disintegrate have got to go back farther than that! Admit it, you’re making this all up! Why, I don’t know, but … Hey, wait a minute! Justin left and you came back here to catch a nap, you lazy bugger! Wait until I tell …”
“No, these aren’t part of that collection, sir. They’re sending it with the collection, but to be restored. Someone at the museum does that kind of work and is doing it for them.”
Herb kept his eyes ahead – trying hard not to blink. He had a nervous habit of rapidly blinking his eyes when he was lying. He was glad his wife wasn’t here. She’d have known just by looking at him he was telling a big fat one.
Sy listened to what he said and again, it made sense, but was it true? Why would they have started doing things differently? They always had implicit trust in Blanding’s and … that was it! Arthur Perry wasn’t running things anymore! Frank Blanding had been right. The new owner was using this to test them, but still it wouldn’t explain Mr. Charles leaving out that they were shipping a coffin.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t sound right to me. I think I need to go up and ask Mr. Charles about this. You wait right here until I return,” he said leaning into Herb’s face, “And Lord help you if he doesn’t back your story, young man. You’ll be in big trouble! Big trouble indeed!”
Sy turned to leave. He took a step away. Herb needed to do something – and fast. If Sy checked with Reginald Charles, Sy would know he’d made the whole thing up. He couldn’t have that. Not now … not when he’d come so close.
“Right you are, sir. Except he’ll be real mad about you not following instructions.”
Sy stopped and looked at Herb over his shoulder.
“What are you talking about? What instructions am I not following?
“The instructions to send everything that was tagged,” Herb said using his hand to quickly smooth down the tag he’d placed on top of the coffin. Number 23.
Sy whirled around. Herb withdrew his hand and tried hard to appear nonchalant. Sy walked up to the coffin and saw the tag affixed to it. This was a test. If Sy went and asked Reginald Charles to clarify instructions he’d already given, it would look bad for Blanding’s. I
t would mean that Sy couldn’t be trusted to interpret instructions and that Sy’s team couldn’t be trusted to pass on simple information.
“Sorry, Herb. It’s just that this is most unusual.”
“I understand, sir. No offense taken. I was a bit surprised myself. It being so dark in here and all.”
They heard footsteps in the other room.
“That you, Justin?” Sy called out.
“Yes, it is, sir!”
“Well, get in here and give Herbie and me a hand. We got a coffin to load! It’ll be put in one of our boxes first though.”
Justin’s young face appeared around the corner. He stood scratching his head. He let out a long whistle. “Don’t think we brought one that big.”
“Sure we do. That big rectangular box in the back of the second van. Should fit it just fine,” Sy countered.
“But why we packin’ it? Isn’t it already packed?” Herbie asked. He wondered if he should be questioning anything since it was all built upon a lie.
“It ain’t packed until it’s packed by us, Herb!”
Sy gave Herb a wink and a pat on the shoulder.
Justin looked suspiciously at Sy. “But it’s a coffin, sir. Don’t those usually just get buried and not shipped?”
Sy looked at Herb as they both broke into hearty laughter.
“Indeed they do, son. Indeed they do!” roared Sy as Herb breathed a sigh of relief.
He saw nothing wrong with the old coffin taking a trip abroad if it meant saving his job. In fact, a trip might just do it a world of good for both of them. The farther he was away from that thing, the better.
CHAPTER 7
Rachel Abbott stood like a sentry – notebook in hand – on the steps outside Fairfield museum. She was poised to assiduously check-off the newly arrived exhibit pieces before they entered the ornately carved doors. She watched, scrupulously making sure each piece was carefully unloaded by the workers dressed in white. The skilled, specially-trained movers knew the importance of what they were handling and took great pains to lift, and set-down the testaments to history with as little jostling as possible. It was the Perry’s moving company, and the Perry’s only dealt with the best. From what Rachel knew, they were also the most expensive.
Rachel was happy to have this insider’s knowledge. It made her job that much easier. Any onlooker ignorant of their qualifications might have mistaken them for run-of-the-mill movers routinely hired to transport pots and pans. A viewing of the shipment wouldn’t have told them any differently. Packaged in their austere wooden casings, the treasures hid their celebrity and appeared as common attic clutter. The special wrappings required to make this trip stripped the priceless artifacts of their beauty, and relegated them to being lumped in with the worthless junk that every family, too busy with the daily grind, allowed to accumulate. When the family relocated, the clutter went right along with them proving the old adage, “It’s easier to move junk than it is to throw it away.”
Rachel well knew the hidden price tag attached to these valuable objects and was making damned sure every item on the list that Reginald Charles had supplied was there. More importantly, she had to confirm that the exhibit pieces had survived the journey intact. She knew that once she signed-off on the delivery, it would be the museum’s responsibility to replace any missing or damaged items. While insurance would cover the cost, she didn’t intend to take it that far. Familiar with the concept about an ounce of prevention being worth a pound of cure, she was insisting that more than a soupÇon of finesse was used. While this was partly due to her applying a professional yardstick, it was more wedded to the fact she worked for a boss that was a loose cannon. He became positively unhinged by the slightest jarring. Having the museum’s insurance rates rise because she overlooked a partially unwrapped package was just the sort of thing that would cause him to go ballistic. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, imagining the brutality of such an upbraiding were it to occur. She’d seen him chew out fellow employees for much less, and Rachel could feel her turn was next. He was just looking for an excuse to tell her off. She didn’t know where the friction between them had started, but it seemed to be present from the beginning. She had been hired by his predecessor, but only just. She’d been onboard for two short months when Jake Monroe took over. It was hardly time for her to have developed loyalty to the outgoing administration. Still, she couldn’t come up with any reasonable explanation for the hostility. She gave up looking for a cause and now only accepted it as a reality – she knew she was being watched. She was a meticulous and detailed worker and didn’t deserve his evil eye. Rather than dwell on life’s unfairness, she took extra pains to ensure he found nothing wrong. She left no openings for him to wedge his toe in. She intended to stay in the category marked “beyond reproach.”
Rachel watched the process unfold and grow into the proportion of a giant beehive. It made her job of monitoring the increased activity tricky. She didn’t want to slow them down all because she needed more time to assimilate and document what was taking place. She knew the breadth and scope of the duties she had been assigned and also knew that it was a two-person job. Jake was being an ass in letting her handle the entire affair. It was just another way to set her up for failure, but she wouldn’t let him get to her that easily. While she took her responsibilities as museum archivist seriously, she was single-handedly being ordered to oversee and catalog the largest exhibition that Fairfield Museum of the Arts had ever presented. It was well beyond her job description and duties, but here she was doing it anyway – carrying all the pressure. There was so much riding on this. Some of the biggest names in the art world had been invited to the premiere which was less than a month away. That meant that unusually attentive care needed to be taken in archiving every item so that the museum technicians could get on with constructing the displays. The short of it meant that she not impede the progress by restraining it. She’d just have to keep up with the blistering pace. She wondered if that was what Jake really wanted – to push her to the point she was forced into making a mistake. He’d made remarks about her being a “slow, methodical plodder.” She didn’t appreciate the disparaging assessment. She used care in dealing with things. Was that really so wrong? It seemed it irritated him and perhaps now was the chance for him to use a cattle prod on her. Rachel determined it didn’t matter. She’d agreed to this and she was going to make sure nothing – not one little insignificant smidgen of anything – got lost in the shuffle.
The jumpsuited movers paused for a moment in front of her before entering the building. While it looked as if they were paying homage to a queen, they were only allowing her to inspect the labeled hangtags that had been attached to each of the packing crates. While it was her job to be particular, it was also her way of saying, “Thank you,” to Miranda Perry for giving Fairfield this honor. If Rachel – and Fairfield – lived up to Miranda’s expectations, it would pave the way for other small museums to receive the same kind of honor. Rachel was not about to disappoint anyone. She let her suspicions about the young Perry’s intentions creep into her mind. Would her whole philosophy about making art available to the world change if something were to happen? She suspected that it would. Miranda Perry seemed like nothing more than a spoiled heiress that would get her mind spun around by much less. She wondered if she were being unfair – and at the moment – didn’t care. Her mind wandered back to Jake.
She’d heard rumors that Miranda had a different outlook and temperament than her father. The same could be said about Jake Monroe. He thought differently from any of his predecessors, and most of the employees at Fairfield Museum. Jake was young, bold, and determined. It was Jake that had contacted Miranda Perry, and it was Jake that let out the whoop and holler when he read her approving reply. At the time, Rachel wasn’t sure what to think. While she was thrilled about the opportunity, she was uneasy about the tactics used. She had a queasy feeling that something more lascivious had forged the agreement. She knew Jake and had
heard all the stories about his lecherous adventures. She’d witnessed first-hand his taking certain advantages of his extraordinarily good looks to get what he wanted. It included putting a hand where it didn’t belong. She had hoped those types of liberties didn’t extend to Miranda Perry, and that it was business and not pleasure that had sealed the deal. She hated to think that all this occurred because of a frivolous sexual dalliance.
She checked off number 33 from her list. She was curious about the large crate six workmen were carrying towards her. She didn’t remember any items requiring that sort of packaging. It was big enough to hold a coffin – the workers bearing an eerie resemblance to pallbearers. She scanned her list. She quickly sought out an item that would account for the inordinate size of the outer crating. She couldn’t find anything that would be considered a match. Perhaps several smaller items were inside, but that didn’t make sense either. There weren’t that many unchecked items left. She’d have to refer to the packing slip. She felt a buzzing against her hip. It was the cell phone she had tucked into her pocket. She’d left it on vibrate. She knew she should ignore it, but peeked at the caller ID. She hurriedly accepted the call.
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