She hurried on as the woods grew thicker. She stopped to consult her map, a little puzzled, and discovered that she was in a place called the Ramble. It was a well-chosen name, she decided. Twice she had found herself turned completely around. It was as if the person who had designed this little maze of paths wanted people to get lost.
Well, Doreen Hollander was not one to get lost. Not in a tiny patch of woods in a city park, when after all she had grown up in the country, roaming the fields and woods of eastern Oklahoma. This walk was turning into a little adventure, and Doreen Hollander liked little adventures. That was why she had dragged her husband to New York City to begin with: to have a little adventure. Doreen forced herself to smile.
If this didn’t beat all—now she was turned around yet again. With a rueful laugh she consulted her map. But on the map, the Ramble was marked simply as a large mass of leafy green. She looked around. Perhaps one of the nice-looking men could help her with directions.
But here, the woods were darker, thicker. Nevertheless, through a screen of leaves, she saw two figures. She approached. What were they doing in there? She took another step forward, pulled a branch aside, and peered through. The peer turned into a stare, and the stare turned into a mask of frozen horror.
Then, abruptly, she backed away, turned, and began retracing her steps as quickly as she could. Now it was all clear. How perfectly disgusting. Her only thought was to get out of this terrible place as quickly as possible. All desire to see Monet’s water lilies had flown from her head. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but it was all true. It was just as she’d heard tell on the 700 Club on television, New York City as a modern Sodom and Gomorrah. She hurried along, her breath coming in short gasps, and she looked back only once.
When the swift footsteps came up behind her, she heard nothing and expected nothing. When the black hood came down hard and tight over her head, and the sudden wet stench of chloroform violated her nostrils, the last vision in her mind was of a twisted spire of salt glittering in the desolate light of an empty plain, a plume of bitter smoke rising in the distance.
TEN
THE EMINENT DR. Frederick Watson Collopy sat in state behind the great nineteenth-century leather-bound desk, reflecting on the men and women who had preceded him in this august position. In the Museum’s glory years—the years, say, when this vast desk was still new—the directors of the Museum had been true visionaries, explorers and scientists both. He lingered appreciatively over their names: Byrd, Throckmorton, Andrews. Now, those were names worthy to be cast in bronze. His appreciation waned somewhat as he approached the more recent occupants of this grand corner office—the unfortunate Winston Wright and his short-tenured successor, Olivia Merriam. He felt no little satisfaction in returning the office to its former state of dignity and accomplishment. He ran a hand along his well-trimmed beard, laid a finger across his lip in thoughtful meditation.
And yet, here it was again: that persistent feeling of melancholy.
He had been called upon to make certain sacrifices in order to rescue the Museum. It distressed him that scientific research was forced to take second place to galas, to glittering new halls, to blockbuster exhibitions. Blockbuster—the word tasted repellent in the mouth. And yet, this was New York at the dawn of the twenty-first century, and those who did not play the game would not survive. Even his grandest forebears had their own crosses to bear. One bent with the winds of time. The Museum had survived—that was the important, that was the only, point.
He then reflected on his own distinguished scientific lineage: his great-grand-uncle Amasa Greenough, friend to Darwin and famed discoverer of the chitinous monkfish of the Indochine; his great-aunt Philomena Watson, who had done seminal work with the natives of Tierra del Fuego; his grandfather Gardner Collopy, the distinguished herpetologist. He thought of his own exciting work reclassifying the Pongidae, during the heady days of his youth. Perhaps, with luck and a goodly allowance of years, his tenure here at the Museum would rival the great directors of the past. Perhaps he, too, would have his name graven in bronze, enshrined in the Great Rotunda for all to see.
He still couldn’t shake the feeling of melancholy that had settled around him. These reflections, normally so soothing, seemed not to help. He felt a man out of place, old-fashioned, superannuated. Even thoughts of his lovely young wife, with whom he had sported so delightfully that very morning before breakfast, failed to shake the feeling.
His eye took in the office—the pink marble fireplaces, the round tower windows looking out over Museum Drive, the oak paneling with its patina of centuries, the paintings by Audubon and De Clefisse. He regarded his own person: the somber suit with its old-fashioned, almost clerical cut, the starched white shirtfront, the silk bow tie worn as a sign of independence in thought and deed, the handmade shoes, and above all—as his eye fell on the mirror above the mantel—the handsome and even elegant face, if a touch severe, that wore its burden of years so gracefully.
He turned to his desk with a faint sigh. Perhaps it was the news of the day that made him gloomy. It sat on his desk, spread out in glaring newsprint: the damnable article, written by that same vile fellow who had caused so much trouble at the Museum back in ’95. He had hoped the earlier removal of the offending materials from the Archives would have quieted things down. But now there was this letter to deal with. On every level, this had the potential to be a disaster. His own staff drawn in; an FBI agent running around; Fairhaven, one of their biggest supporters, under fire—Collopy’s head reeled at the possibilities, all too hideous to contemplate. If this thing wasn’t handled, it could very well cast a pall on his own tenure, or worse—
Do not go to that place, thought Frederick Watson Collopy. He would handle it. Even the worst disasters could be turned around with the right—what was the trendy word?—spin. Yes. That’s what was needed here. A very delicate and artfully applied spin. The Museum would not, he thought, react in its usual knee-jerk way. The Museum would not decry the investigation; it would not protest the rifling of its archives; it would not denounce the unaccountable activities of this FBI agent; it would not deny responsibility, evade, or cover up. Nor would the Museum come to the aid of its biggest supporter, Fairhaven. At least, not on the surface. And yet, much could be done in camera, so to speak. A quiet word could be strategically placed here and there, reassurances given or taken away, money moved hither and yon. Gently. Very gently.
He depressed a button on his intercom, and spoke in a mild voice. “Mrs. Surd, would you be so good as to tell Mr. Brisbane I should like to see him at his convenience?”
“Yes, Dr. Collopy.”
“Thank you most kindly, Mrs. Surd.”
He released the button and settled back. Then he carefully folded up the New York Times and placed it out of sight, in the “To Be Filed” box at the corner of his desk. And, for the first time since leaving his bedroom that morning, he smiled.
ELEVEN
NORA KELLY KNEW what the call was about. She had seen the article in the morning paper, of course. It was the talk of the Museum, perhaps of all New York. She knew what kind of effect it would have on a man like Brisbane. She had been waiting all day for him to call her, and now, at ten minutes to five, the summons had finally come. He had waited until ten minutes to five. Letting her stew, no doubt. She wondered if that meant he would give her ten minutes to clear out of the Museum. It wouldn’t surprise her.
The nameplate was missing from Brisbane’s door. She knocked and the secretary called her in.
“Have a seat, please,” said a haggard older woman who was clearly in a bad mood.
Nora sat. Goddamned Bill, she thought. What could he have been thinking? Admittedly, the guy was impulsive—he tended to act before engaging his cerebral cortex—but this was too much. She’d have his guts for garters, as her father used to say. She’d cut off his balls, fix them to a thong, and wear them around her waist like a bola. This job was so critical to her—yet here he was, practically ty
ping out the pink slip himself. How could he have done this to her?
The secretary’s phone buzzed. “You may go in,” the older woman said.
Nora entered the inner office. Brisbane stood in front of a mirror placed at one side of his desk, tying a bow tie around his neck. He wore black pants with a satin stripe and a starched shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons. A tuxedo jacket was draped over his chair. Nora paused inside the door, waiting, but Brisbane said nothing nor in any way acknowledged her presence. She watched him deftly whip one end of the tie over the other, snug the end through.
Then he spoke: “Over the past few hours, I’ve learned a great deal about you, Dr. Kelly.”
Nora remained silent.
“About a disastrous field expedition in the Southwestern desert, for example, in which your leadership and even scientific abilities were called into question. And about a certain William Smithback. I didn’t know you were quite so friendly with this William Smithback of the Times.”
There was another pause while he tugged on the ends of the tie. As he worked he craned his neck. It rose out of his collar, as pale and scrawny as a chicken’s.
“I understand, Dr. Kelly, that you brought non-Museum personnel into the Archives, in direct violation of the rules of this Museum.”
He tightened and adjusted. Nora said nothing.
“Furthermore, you’ve been doing outside work on Museum time, assisting this FBI agent. Again, a clear violation of the rules.”
Nora knew it would be futile to remind Brisbane that he himself, however grudgingly, had authorized the work.
“Finally, it’s a violation of Museum rules to have contact with the press, without clearing it through our public relations office first. There are good reasons for all these rules, Dr. Kelly. These are not mere bureaucratic regulations. They relate to the Museum’s security, to the integrity of its collections and archives, and especially its reputation. Do you understand me?”
Nora looked at Brisbane, but could find no words.
“Your conduct has caused a great deal of anxiety here.”
“Look,” she said. “If you’re going to fire me, get it over with.”
Brisbane looked at her at last, his pink face forming an expression of mock surprise. “Who said anything about firing? Not only will we not fire you, but you arc forbidden to resign.”
Nora looked at him in surprise.
“Dr. Kelly, you will remain with the Museum. After all, you’re the hero of the hour. Dr. Collopy and I are united on this. We wouldn’t dream of letting you go—not after that self-serving, self-aggrandizing newspaper piece. You’re bulletproof. For now.”
Nora listened, her surprise slowly turning to anger.
Brisbane patted the bow tie, examined himself one last time in the mirror, and turned. “All your privileges are suspended. No access to the central collections or the Archives.”
“Am I allowed to use the girls’ room?”
“No contact with anyone on the outside involving Museum business. And especially no contact with that FBI agent or that journalist, Smithback.”
No need to worry about Smithback, Nora thought, furious now.
“We know all about Smithback. There’s a file on him downstairs that’s a foot thick. As you probably know, he wrote a book about the Museum a few years back. That was before my time and I haven’t read it, but I’ve heard it wasn’t exactly Nobel Prize material. He’s been persona non grata around here ever since.”
He looked at her directly, his eyes cold and unwavering. “In the meantime, it’s business as usual. Going to the new Primate Hall opening tonight?”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Start planning. After all, you’re our employee of the week. People are going to want to see you up and about, looking chipper. In fact, the Museum will be issuing a press release about our own heroic Dr. Kelly, pointing out in the process how civic-minded the Museum is, how we have a long history of doing pro bono work for the city. Of course, you will deflect any further questions about this business by saying that all your work is completely confidential.” Brisbane lifted the jacket from the chair and daintily shrugged himself into it, flicking a stray thread from his shoulders, touching his perfect hair. “I’m sure you can find a halfway decent dress among your things. Just be glad it isn’t one of the fancy-dress balls the Museum’s so fond of these days.”
“What if I say no? What if I don’t get with your little program?”
Brisbane shot his cuffs and turned to her again. Then his eyes flicked to the door, and Nora’s gaze followed.
Standing in the doorway, hands folded before him, was Dr. Collopy himself. The director cut a fearsome, almost sinister figure as he silently walked the halls of the Museum, his thin frame dressed in formal severity, his profile that of an Anglican deacon’s, his posture rigid and forbidding. Collopy, who came from a long background of gentleman scientists and inventors, had an enigmatic demeanor and a quiet voice that never seemed to be raised. To top it off, the man owned a brownstone on West End Avenue in which he lived with a gorgeous new wife, forty years his junior. Their relationship was the subject of endless comment and obscene speculation.
But today, Director Collopy was almost smiling. He took a step forward. The angular lines of his pale face looked much softer than usual, even animated. He actually took her hand between his own dry palms, eyes looking closely into hers, and Nora felt a faint and wholly unexpected tingle. She abruptly saw what that young wife must also have seen—a very vital man was hidden behind that normally impenetrable facade. Now, Collopy did smile—and when he did so, it was as if a heat lamp was switched on. Nora felt bathed in a radiance of charm and vigor.
“I know your work, Nora, and I’ve been following it with tremendous interest. To think that the great ruins of Chaco Canyon might have been influenced, if not built, by the Aztecs—it’s important, even groundbreaking stuff.”
“Then—”
He silenced her with a faint pressure to her hand. “I wasn’t aware of the cuts in your department, Nora. We’ve all had to tighten our belts, but perhaps we’ve done so a little too indiscriminately.”
Nora couldn’t help glancing at Brisbane, but his face had shut down completely: it was unreadable.
“Fortunately, we are in a position to restore your funding, and on top of that give you the eighteen thousand you need for those critical carbon-14 dates. I myself have a personal interest in the subject. I’ll never forget, as a boy, visiting those magnificent Chacoan ruins with Dr. Morris himself.”
“Thank you, but—”
Again, the faint squeeze. “Please don’t thank me. Mr. Brisbane was kind enough to bring this situation to my attention. The work you are doing here is important; it will bring credit to the Museum; and I personally would like to do anything I can to support it. If you need anything else, call me. Call me.”
He released her hand ever so gently and turned to Brisbane. “I must be off to prepare my little speech. Thank you.”
And he was gone.
She looked at Brisbane, but the face was still an opaque mask. “Now you know what will happen if you do get with the program,” he said. “I’d rather not do into what will happen if you don’t.”
Brisbane turned back to the mirror, gave himself one last look.
“See you tonight, Dr. Kelly,” he said mildly.
TWELVE
O’SHAUGHNESSY FOLLOWED Pendergast up the red-carpeted steps toward the Museum’s great bronze doors, convinced that every eye in the place was on him. He felt like a jerk in his policeman’s uniform. He let his hand drop idly to the butt of his gun, and felt gratified as a nearby tuxedoed man gave him a decidedly nervous glance. He further consoled himself with the thought that he was getting time and a half for this dog-and-pony show—and time and a half from Captain Custer was nothing to sneeze at.
Cars were lining up along Museum Drive, disgorging beautiful and not-so-beautiful people. Velvet ropes held back a small, discons
olate-looking of the group of photographers and journalists. The flashes of the photographers’ cameras were few and far between. A van with the logo of a local television station was already packing up and leaving.
“This opening for the new Primate Hall is rather smaller than others I’ve attended,” said Pendergast as he glanced around. “Party fatigue, I expect. The Museum’s been having so many these days.”
“Primates? All these people are interested in monkeys?”
“I expect most of them are here to observe the primates outside the exhibition cases.”
“Very funny.”
They passed through the doors and across the Great Rotunda. Until two days ago, O’Shaughnessy hadn’t been inside the Museum since he was a kid. But there were the dinosaurs, just like they’d always been. And beyond, the herd of elephants. The red carpet and velvet ropes led them onward, deeper into the building. Smiling young ladies were positioned along the way, pointing, nodding, indicating where to go. Very nice young ladies. O’Shaughnessy decided that another visit to the Museum, when he wasn’t on duty, might be in order.
They wound through the African Hall, past a massive doorway framed in elephant tusks, and entered a large reception area. Countless little tables, set with votive candles, dotted the room. A vast buffet heaped with food ran along one wall, bookended by two well-stocked booze stations. A podium had been placed at the far end of the room. In a nearby corner, a string quartet sawed industriously at a Viennese waltz. O’Shaughnessy listened with incredulity. They were appalling. But at least it wasn’t Puccini they were butchering.
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