It was the vet’s office. Her beloved cat, Velvet, was having a fast-growing tumor removed. She was waiting to hear about the operation and whether it was successful. More importantly, she was anxious to learn whether the tumor was benign. When she answered, she was horrified to learn that the worst case scenario had become a reality. Velvet’s tumor was cancerous and had metastasized. The doctor, Sara Puhlman, calmly explained that the entire growth couldn’t be excised without doing fatal damage to the cat’s internal organs. In other words, they had left the malignancy inside her cat’s belly to spread.
Rachel felt herself give way. She felt helpless and wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Velvet, but according to the prognosis, that’s what she was going to have to do. Even with radiation treatments, Velvet was given only 3-6 months to live. The only good news was that Velvet was resting comfortably and that Rachel could bring him home tomorrow. Rachel reluctantly hung up – she had so many more questions. She doubted Dr. Puhlman would be able to give her the answers. Dr. Puhlman was a vet – not God. She’d done what she could – or had she? Rachel had always brought Velvet in for regular check-ups. It left a nagging concern as to why the tumor hadn’t been detected until it was too late. Incompetence and a complete disregard for her pet’s life was the only reason she could come up with. She hoped she was wrong.
She turned around and saw the foreman waiting for her. Christ, she’d been so distracted that she’d not only wandered off, but had turned her back on the crew. She had no idea what had occurred in the few short minutes that she’d taken her eyes off things. Why was he standing there with a clipboard in his hands? And why were the rest of the workers standing around talking as if they were done? Was he expecting her to sign off on a job before completion?
She rushed back to where she’d been standing before taking the call, tucking her phone back into her pocket.
“Ms. Abbott, if you could just sign here.”
“Sign? Sign what?” she grabbed the clipboard and saw it was the standard release form.
He did want her to sign-off on the entire shipment. Was he crazy? If she signed it, it would mean everything had been delivered and in proper order.
“Wait a minute! There were three more items that were supposed to be delivered!” she gruffly insisted as she looked through her checklist. “Yes, number 23, number 14, and 36.”
“Yes, ma’am, we saved the larger for last. They’re all in there,” he said pointing to the interior of the museum.
“You mean, you took them downstairs?”
“Yes, ma’am, just like we were supposed to do.”
“You were supposed to wait until I checked-off the numbers first! Remember? I was going to stand here and you were going to wait until …”
The foreman was clearly getting upset. He shifted his weight as she talked. He ran his thumb against the lines of irritation forming in his forehead.
“And that’s what we tried to do,” he interrupted. “But you weren’t where you were supposed to be, now were you? What were we supposed to do? Hold up the delivery? We had no idea when – or if – you’d decide to return.”
Rachel bit her lower lip and closed her eyes. He was right – she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She was taking a call – a personal call. Jake would be furious if he found out she’d done that. He could take calls from anyone he wanted, as well as come in late and leave early, but his employees? They were expected to have no lives – well, no lives outside of working for the museum. He even got angry when emergencies involved family members. She could imagine how he’d react to the dereliction of duty occurring because of a mere cat.
The workman seemed to sense the stress Rachel was under, or maybe he read it in her face. Either way, he softened his demeanor and smiled. He put his hand on her arm in a paternal way and not the way Jake did. With Jake it meant that either you were his property or that he was trying to cop a feel.
“Ms. Abbott?” he said as he looked into her extraordinarily large, dark blue eyes. They complemented her dark brown hair beautifully. He hated to see a young, nice girl like this under this much pressure. He was frankly surprised she was the only one handling such a huge project. He’d thought originally that someone must have called in sick leaving her to bear the brunt of this responsibility, but now? Now he thought someone had placed her in a very awkward position indeed. And she had done a yeoman’s job until she took one measly phone call and wandered away. He knew how it was with some places and how phone calls were frowned upon. Superiors thought the outside world stopped revolving during work hours. He’d worked under bosses like that. They didn’t want his wife and four children to exist during business hours. As if you can make families and personal lives appear and disappear on cue.
“Look, I’m sorry about being short with you. Life happens and I can see you’re under the gun. If you want, I’ll go downstairs with you. You can see for yourself that it’s all there,” he smiled looking into her still serious face. She looked so solemn and in such despair. He resisted the temptation to give her a pat on the back and tell her things would work out. How did he know? Maybe they wouldn’t.
He continued, “Unless you’d rather do it by yourself. I’ll wait right here.”
Rachel studied him – trying to discern friend or foe. An instantaneous judgment was formed – he was a friend and being genuine. She felt like crying. People with compassion were so few and far between in the business world. Yes, she played the role of museum warrior most days, but she really did care about things beyond the boundaries of what was required of a soldier. She was just never allowed the luxury of showing it.
“Thank you, …” she paused waiting for him to fill in his name.
“Pat. Pat Timmors,” he said. “Look, the packages were fine. Really. You’re going to find out anyway, so it wouldn’t make any sense for me to lie, now would it?”
She considered the hand being extended to her. She took it – firmly giving it a shake. She wanted to trust him, but couldn’t.
“Fine, I’ll just …”
She stopped short in what she wanted to say. Why couldn’t she? Why not just believe him? Another view of his face told her he was being truthful and honest with her. The shipment was delivered and waiting downstairs. She took the clipboard from him looking for where to sign.
“Right here,” he nudged patiently – pointing to the spot awaiting her name.
She was partially dissipated from the long day, and partially drained by the news about her cat. Whatever reserves she had were gone. She was ready to raise the white flag and surrender. Tears were forming in her eyes – and dangerously close to spilling down her flushed cheeks. She quickly added her flowery signature to the empty line. She handed the clipboard back to him.
He tore off her copy and handed it to you. She gave him a concerned smile.
“You have a nice evening, ma’am. And, don’t worry, everything will be alright. You just hang in there.”
“Thanks,” she answered wondering if she should tell him that his kind words did nothing to alleviate the situation. Her little four-legged friend was going to die and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Rachel stayed watching the vans drive away. The sun was setting and she felt a slight chill in the air that must have occurred from the daily routine of the night washing the sun away. She shivered and pulled her jacket around her. She waited until the vans were out of sight. She noted the landscape looked as lonely as she felt right now.
Rachel turned her back on it as life had done to her, and went inside.
CHAPTER 8
Rachel entered the interior of the museum using the back freight entrance. She glanced at her watch. It was a little past closing time. She saw two employees hurrying towards the employee’s entrance. At the last moment, they saw Rachel and gave her a wave good-bye. She responded with only a nod of her head. The way she felt, she couldn’t even summon up a smile. She passed a corridor which allowed her to see into the reception area of the mu
seum. The place was already deserted.
She trotted down the stairs that led to her basement office and the shipment of exhibits, letting thoughts of Velvet cloud her mind. Velvet was 12 years old. She’d adopted him when he was just a kitten; they’d been happily co-habitating ever since. She didn’t know what she’d do with Velvet – and didn’t want to dwell on those kind of morbid thoughts. All she knew was that Velvet was the only family she had. People found it strange, but what was strange was that they didn’t understand a human being’s need to bond. And who else was left for Rachel to love? Her immediate family had all been lost to a four-alarm fire. Her mother, father, and younger brother perishing in a fiery gas explosion and the resulting devouring blaze. They never stood a chance. She’d been notified and flew home to attend the funeral and put things in order, but things inside had changed. She no longer wanted to live alone. She needed – something. That something was Velvet. She’d found the scrawny little kitten in a shelter a short-time later. The tiny cat had helped stave off that immense feeling of loneliness. His playful antics soon elicited a laugh and helped draw Rachel out of her depression. The vigor it put into everyday living made Rachel feel less morose and eased her into the realization that being happy didn’t mean she was being disloyal to her deceased family.
When she reached the landing, a chill distanced Rachel from her thoughts. Cooler temperatures were normal. After all, the lower level was only a glorified cellar. It reminded Rachel of the catacombs under the streets of Paris. She’d visited Europe one summer and thought the comparison apt. This part of the building was dismal at best – and the freakish fluorescent lighting did nothing to alleviate the gloomy feeling. She always tried to be positive about it. She wondered how many other people had this big of an office. Not many – she would bet on that.
She’d left a good portion of lighting on. It was always better if the workers could actually see where they were going. She laughed to herself about the absurd suggestion Jake had made. He floated the idea that she keep the lighting to a minimum to save money. He was so dense at times. And if a priceless treasure on loan to them ended up broken and in shambles because someone tripped down the stairs, what then? She had no doubt that he’d deny responsibility and put the blame squarely on her.
She shook off thoughts about Jake. They were most nearly always negative and she was determined to stay positive this evening. She scooted across the large expanse of open space and made it to her office. While the whole area was pretty much open, there were a few walled partitions that divided up the immense amount of available real estate. Whether this was done for privacy or structural support she didn’t know. She was just glad that her office was walled off – especially now that Jake was here. He couldn’t see through walls although she was sure he would have liked to. She hung a right and kept going in the direction of her desk. She touched the crates as she passed them. She spotted the three missing numbers easily. Not surprisingly, the last to arrive were in the front. She had been right to trust Pat Timmors. He had been telling her the truth. She checked off the numbers – her eyes lingering on the last number – 23. A short description of the item was given alongside, but it had to be wrong. She looked from the paper to the huge rectangular crate and back to list. Number 23 was supposed to contain a pair of candlesticks. It must be some horrible mistake – a mistake that she was going to have to answer for. Damn it! Why hadn’t she gone downstairs and double-checked? She could have had them open up the crate and make sure there wasn’t a screw-up. Now what the hell was she going to do? She’d signed for whatever was in there.
She threw the papers she held on her desk. It was so like her to get fucked over just because she trusted somebody. She should have known better. She thought about it more and realized Timmors wasn’t lying. He’d only assured there was no damage and that everything was downstairs. That was all true. Besides, he wasn’t the one that shipped the crate. No, the mistake happened on the other end, but that wouldn’t excuse why she signed for it. She thought about putting in a call to London and asking. The only problem with that was that she’d be telling people she’d made a mistake, and if she were going to do that, she might as well announce it. Yeah, find a goddamned megaphone and stand on the rooftop, or take out full-page ad, or better yet, appear on TV and broadcast it. She ran her hands through her thick, coarse hair. She felt the waves fall back place around her face.
“Fuck!” she cried out loud to no one in particular.
She pulled the packing list off the crate and saw that the mistake was repeated. The description echoed the master list she was working from. It meant extra work for her. She’d have to open the huge wooden crate to make sure the candlesticks were in there. And if they weren’t, find out what was. Maybe it contained artifacts meant for another exhibit at another museum. Perhaps all that needed to be done was switch them. If that was the case, she hoped the exhibit was somewhere in America so the exchange could be quickly and easily accomplished. It didn’t matter, it still meant looking inside.
While opening crates was definitely not her job, it was now. She had no choice given the circumstances. She walked over to it and ran her fingers along the top. Something about touching it was giving her the willies. She didn’t like the feel of it. She knew she was being ridiculous, but her earlier thoughts about it containing a coffin returned.
A coffin with a body.
What was she thinking? It was from Miranda Perry of Perry Antiques and they didn’t deal in dead bodies.
She ran her hand around the edge. She inspected how securely the lid was fastened to ascertain how much effort would be needed to remove it. She ran her thumb over one of the nails and felt an icy cold from the metal shoot through her. It was like touching dry ice – or being flash frozen. She withdrew her thumb quickly and licked it with her tongue to bring warmth back to it. She now felt the odd sensation on the tip of her tongue. It was like licking snow – just like she’d done as a child. She wondered if the cold could be coming from this box. It was impossible and yet when she stood next to it, it seemed to be exuding an Arctic wind.
She dismissed the notion of the crate being the source of the cold air as being illogical. There had to be a different source and another reason lurking underneath it all. While it was always a few degrees cooler down in the basement than upstairs, it was never this cold –not in July. She ran to her desk and grabbed a shawl she kept in the bottom drawer. She wrapped it around her shoulders and neck several times. It was better, but didn’t completely ward off that chill that was now eating its way into her bones.
She decided to finish with the paperwork before tackling the physical labor of opening the crate. She booted up her computer and took the faxed list from the spot where she’d thrown it. The final paperwork consisted of transferring what was on the fax sent by Reginald Charles to the internal registry. To do that, she needed to input the data into an official Fairfield Museum spreadsheet. She’d give a signed printout of it to Jake in the morning. Getting it done wouldn’t be a problem. She was fast on the keyboard and the form was simple enough. She turned on her desk lamp and started inputting the entries. There was only one window in her office. It was a transom – located at the top of the wall behind her desk. The window was above ground level and allowed minimal sunlight to seep in during daylight hours. It made things a little more pleasant, but was far from ideal. Even in the daytime, the tiny opening didn’t allow enough light to see, and now that it was dusk, she needed the extra boost.
It didn’t take long for the cold to adversely affect her. She was having problems with her fingers hitting the keyboard properly. They were stiff and locking up. Shit! At the pace she was going, it was going to take her forever to finish, but she couldn’t do anything about it. Her eyes caught the foot of the couch that she sometimes used for late evenings. If things progressed at the present rate, who knew? She just might end-up doing it again. For right now, she put the idea of crashing on it aside. It wasn’t going to take that long. She�
�d be out of here before she knew it. She just needed to keep working.
She continued more slowly than usual because of the temperature, and because of something she was unwilling to acknowledge. The truth was that she felt uncomfortable – unsafe in her basement workspace. She never had before. She regularly worked overtime, and had always welcomed the solitude of the big dark basement, but tonight it was different. She looked up and saw that damned box. That’s what was doing it. Its presence was disturbing her. She had no idea why, but she decided to do something about it. She moved her computer to the right. She felt momentarily happy about not having to look at it anymore, but that good humor evaporated when she realized it didn’t help. She was still just as uneasy about being left alone with that stupid crate. Her nerves must be really getting to her. They were causing her to hear footsteps in the very room she was working even though she was alone. She’d confirmed that fact several times now. When she’d first heard the noises, she’d taken her eyes off the keyboard, to make sure she was still alone. She’d confirmed it – with her very own eyes – but it hadn’t alleviated the paranoia. Since then, she’d checked at regular intervals, intently surveying the room. Each and every time, she saw nothing. She did her best to focus on her work and ignore the unexplained sounds.
Adduné (The Vampire's Game) Page 11