by C. M. Palov
And that’s when the killer did the completely unexpected.
Stepping over Dr. Padgham’s body, he set the gun on top of the desk and, bending forward, began clicking away on the computer keyboard. A few seconds later, Edie heard him softly swear under his breath as he yanked open the desk drawer.
He was looking for something.
Edie barely had time to wrap her mind around that thought when the killer reached under the desk and removed the digital memory card from the computer.
She held her breath, praying to God, Jesus, anyone who would listen, that the killer didn’t see her. It stood to reason that you couldn’t plead with a man who sneaked up on his victims and killed in unpitying silence.
Only able to see the killer from the waist down, she watched as he unclipped a cell phone from his belt. Then she listened, and heard seven digital beeps. A local phone number. He was calling someone in the Washington, D.C., metropolitan area.
“Let me speak to the colonel.” Several moments passed in silence before he again spoke. “Sir, I’ve got the breastplate. I’ve also got a problem.”
The breastplate, she belatedly realized. Dr. Padgham had been killed because of the bejeweled breastplate.
“I’m not sure, but I think the little English homo sent digital photos of the relic to someone outside the museum. I found a tripod on the desk, a memory card with photos of the breastplate, and an e-mail address.” Edie heard a sheet of paper being ripped from a pad. “C Aisquith at lycos dot com.” A short pause. The killer carefully spelled out the e-mail address. Another pause ensued. “No. I couldn’t find the camera . . . Yes, sir, I took care of the guards . . . don’t worry, sir, I’ll cover my tracks.”
Edie heard a digital beep as the call disconnected. She then heard the metallic whhsh! of a zipper. The killer was putting the bronze box with the bejeweled breastplate inside some sort of carrying case.
And then he was gone, exiting the office as unobtrusively as he had entered.
Edie slowly counted to twenty before she crawled out from under the desk. Forced to straddle Dr. Padgham’s corpse, she took one look at his bloody, mutilated eye socket . . . and promptly threw up. All over the Persian carpet. Not that it mattered; the carpet was already stained with blood and brain matter.
Still on all fours, she wiped her mouth on her sweater sleeve. She’d never liked Jonathan Padgham. But someone else had liked him even less. Enough to kill him in cold blood. Correction. Warm blood. Warm, wet, coppery-smelling blood.
Lurching to her feet, Edie picked up the telephone. Nothing but dead air. The killer had disabled the phone line. With a sinking heart she knew that her cell phone was still plugged into the battery charger on her kitchen counter. So much for calling the cops to come to the rescue. Since the killer “took care” of the two museum guards downstairs, Edie knew she was on her own.
Her goal being to get out of the museum as quickly as possible, she left the office and headed for the main corridor. The Hopkins Museum was housed in a four-story nineteenth-century Beaux Arts mansion located in the heart of the Dupont Circle area, a vibrant commercial and residential district. Once she was free of the museum, help was only a shout away.
Coming to a halt at the end of the hall that led to the main corridor, Edie tentatively peered around the corner.
Oh, God.
Stunned to see the killer, Edie caught herself in midgasp. A behemoth of a man in a gray janitor’s suit with a black ski mask pulled over his head was standing in front of the wall monitor attached to a security keypad. In order to gain access to the administration area, every employee, regardless of rank, had to key a personal ID number into the security system, repeating the procedure when they left the admin area. The code activated the lock on the intimidating steel door adjacent to the keypad through which one entered and departed the fourth-floor office suite. The computer system enabled museum security to monitor all employees’ whereabouts.
It occurred to Edie that in order to enter the office suite, the murderer had to have had a valid security code to unlock the steel door.
How did he get ahold of a valid code?
It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was stuck on the fourth floor with a murderer. To get to the elevator, she had to pass through the steel door. Meaning she’d have to wait him out. Once he left the premises, she could escape the building.
Wondering what the killer was doing, Edie watched his supersized hand move across the keypad with surprising dexterity. She knew from experience that it took no more than two seconds to key in a five-digit code and unlock the door, but by her reckoning the killer had been standing in front of the monitor and keypad a good thirty seconds.
So just leave already.
“Fucking shit!’ she heard the killer mutter as he removed a notepad and pencil from his breast pocket.
As she watched him scribble something onto the notepad, Edie went slack-jawed. Although the monitor was too far away to verify, she suspected the killer had accessed the computer security log. If true, that meant the name E. Miller had just popped up on the monitor. Beside her name would be the exact date—12/1/08—and time—13:38:01—that she had entered the fourth floor. Even more damning, there would be no date or time indicated in the DEPART column.
Edie had watched enough crime dramas on TV to know she’d been made.
She had to find a hiding place. Now. This very instant.
Terrified that the Neanderthal in the gray coveralls would somehow home in on her, Edie slowly eased away from the corner. She then ran down the hall, past the office with the sprawled corpse on the floor, grateful for the hideous maroon carpet that muffled her footfalls.
Turning right, she headed down another hall, this one dead-ending at the supply room. Lined with shelving units that were, in turn, stacked with boxes, it would make an excellent hiding place.
Or it would have made an excellent hiding place, had the door been unlocked.
Stymied, she stared at the locked door.
Now what?
If she could get downstairs to the exhibition galleries, she could yank an artifact off the wall, instantly triggering the museum alarm system. The D.C. Metropolitan Police would arrive within minutes. Maybe even seconds, if there happened to be a squad car in the area. But to do that, she’d have to first sneak past Dr. Padgham’s killer.
Too faint of heart to give the idea further consideration, Edie spun on her booted heel. As she did, she caught sight of a bright red sign with bold white lettering.
The fire escape.
With renewed hope at seeing the word EXIT, Edie rushed down the hall toward that welcoming red light. When she reached the door, she grabbed the bar handle and pushed, bracing herself for what she assumed would be a very loud alarm.
CHAPTER 3
“I think Isis is like the total embodiment of the wise woman. That’s why my magick circle practices a devotional ritual to invoke the power of Isis at each full moon.”
Caedmon Aisquith glanced at the pierced and tattooed reception attendee, an autographed copy of Isis Revealed clutched to her breast.
“Do you by any chance mention the Rites of Isis in your book?”
About to answer in the terse negative, Caedmon caught himself. His American readers tended to fall into two categories: the erudite and the asinine. Not that it mattered, as he’d been ordered by his publicist—who looked on with the stern prerogative of an English headmistress—to treat all questions, no matter how inane or idiotic, with due consideration. Particularly if the questioner had already purchased a copy of his book.
Caedmon schooled his features into an attentive expression. “Er, no, I am afraid there are no magical rituals detailed in the text. However, you are quite correct in that Isis, like her Greek counterpart, Sophia, represents wisdom in all its myriad forms.”
Apple polished, Caedmon thanked the young woman for her interest in ancient mysteries and cordially took his leave of her. A private man, he was uncomfortable in
the role of public author, finding the meet-and-greet segment of the book signings a tiresome exercise in the fine art of chin wagging—an art form he’d never quite mastered.
His belly ached from the cheap champagne, and his facial muscles ached from the fool’s grin he’d been forced to wear since entering the bookshop, so he was actually relieved when his mobile began to softly vibrate; the incoming call was a perfect excuse to turn his back on the nattering group crowded into the diminutive confines of Dupont Books. To lessen his publicist’s displeasure, he made a big to-do of raising his mobile to his left ear, silently signaling that he needed to take the call. This being the last leg of a twelve-city tour, they’d had their fill of one another, Caedmon anxious to return to the quiet monotony of pen and ink.
“Yes, hello,” he said, always feeling like a bit of an ass speaking into, essentially, thin air.
“Caedmon Aisquith?”
Politely correcting the man’s butchered pronunciation of his name, he said, “Who’s calling, please?”
The question met with a long, static silence, followed by a distinctive click as the call was abruptly disconnected.
“Bloody hell,” Caedmon muttered, yanking the mobile from his ear.. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly bristled. He didn’t give out his number. Hit with the unnerving sensation that he was being watched by someone who had no interest in discussing ancient lore or swilling free bubbly, he turned on his heel. Slowly. Calmly. A man with nothing to fear.
Only he knew such posturing was an outright lie.
With training ingrained from the eleven years he’d spent indentured in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, he calmly glanced about the bookshop, searching for the face that did not belong in the crowd, the telltale flush, the quick breakaway glance of the guilty. Seeing no suspect characters prowling about, he next glanced out the plate glass windows that opened onto Connecticut Avenue, at the city pavement teeming with holiday shoppers.
Nothing appearing out of the ordinary, he quietly released a pent-up breath.
All quiet on the western front.
Like most men with a price on his head, he didn’t know how it would end, if the day just lived would be his last. All he knew was that when the thugs of the Real Irish Republican Army did finally catch up to him, they would see to it that he died a barbaric death, indeed. An eye for an eye, and all that.
Five years ago he had avenged the death of his lover by tracking down an RIRA chieftain and killing the bastard in the streets of Belfast. Such deeds did not go unpunished. Forced to go to ground, he’d spent the last several years living in Paris. He’d spent the time wisely, writing his first book, a treatise on the esoteric traditions of the ancient world. Lulled into a false sense of security, he’d decided against using a pseudonym, foolishly thinking he’d fallen off the RIRA radar screen.
Only now did it dawn on him that that bit of arrogance might cost him dearly.
Ah, the folly of a firstborn son still trying to impress the long-dead father.
He rechecked the digital readout on his mobile, on which the words BLOCKED CALL were prominently displayed.
“Why am I not surprised?” he murmured. Again, he scanned the bookstore, certain he was being stalked.
His gaze fell on a volume of Byron propped on a nearby book shelf.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast.
As the long-forgotten line popped into his head, he bit back a caustic laugh, knowing he’d been that same dark angel. Once. A long time ago.
Still holding the mobile in his hand, he strolled over to his publicist. “My hotel just rang me,” he blithely lied, falling back on the lessons learned at MI5. “A bit of a sticky wicket with the billing. Something about my credit card being denied.” He pointedly glanced around the bookshop, the tops of the shelves littered with abandoned champagne flutes. “Seeing as how the festivities are winding down, you won’t mind if I dash out and take care of it?”
His publicist, a touchy woman with the ironic surname of Huffman, stared at him from behind the frames of her ruby-red spectacles. “Do you need me to call the front desk for you?”
“No bother,” he replied with a shake of the head. “I’m a big boy. Although perhaps I should fortify myself before battling the dragon.” He picked up a full champagne flute from a nearby tray, ignoring the fact that it had long since gone flat. “Cheers.”
Taking his leave of her, the champagne flute still clutched in his right hand, he headed to the back of the bookshop, veering down a hall marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Blatantly ignoring the admonition, he continued until he came to a room stacked with cardboard boxes, the sole inhabitant a lank-haired young man unpacking a shipping crate with the desultory air of an underpaid cog who didn’t much care if or when the wheel turned.
Caedmon nodded, acting as though he had every right to be there. “The exit, if you please.”
The young man jerked his head at the door opposite.
On the other side of the service exit, Caedmon found himself standing on a cigarette-strewn pavement behind the bookshop, the concrete walls covered in ribald graffiti.
No sooner did the exit door close behind him than he smashed his champagne flute against the wall.
Weapon in hand, he waited.
Come out, come out, wherever you are, he silently taunted, readying himself to do combat with his unseen nemesis.
A full minute passed in tense silence.
Realizing he’d given in to his fears, he derisively snorted.
“The ghosts of Irishmen past,” he murmured, tossing the jagged-edged flute to the pavement.
The moment of lunacy having passed, he flipped up the collar of his wool jacket, warding off the cold. He recalled having seen a coffeehouse several blocks away. In dire need of caffeine, he headed in that direction.
Although he knew he was being paranoid, Caedmon couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling that an Irish militant who refused to accept the peace had tracked him to the far side of the Atlantic.
Where he intended to settle a very old, yet still outstanding score.
Who else would have had the audacity to ring him on his mobile? As if to say, we can see you, but you can’t see us.
CHAPTER 4
To Edie’s surprise, no fire alarm sounded. There was only the reverberating clunk of the bar handle as she swung open the exit door.
The killer had disabled the alarm system.
Hit with a blast of cold wintry air, she found herself on the precipice between the open door and an external fire escape that zigzagged across the back side of the museum. Completely enclosed with black chain link, the escape was designed so that only those inside the museum had access to it, keeping vagrants and thieves at bay.
With no time to worry that it was lightly snowing, that she had no coat, or that she was afraid of heights, Edie stepped across the threshold into the caged stairwell as the exit door swung shut behind her. She kept her gaze on the alley below, knowing that if she looked anywhere else but down, she’d get dizzy, maybe even faint. Keeping a white-knuckled grip on the railing, she made her descent. The clanking sound of her boots hitting the metal grate of the steps echoed in the alley below. At the bottom, she opened a cage door, emerging into the alleyway. As with the emergency exit above, the door automatically closed and locked behind her.
Hurriedly she glanced around, disoriented, uncertain which direction to go. Like a weird netherworld, the alley was filled with garbage Dumpsters, SUV-sized air-conditioner condensers, and parked service vans. Against an adjacent building was a tall pile of discarded office furniture; the offices next door had recently been remodeled, and the outdated stuff was still waiting to be hauled away. Given that it was December, every window that looked onto the alley was closed. And because no one wanted a bird’s-eye view of big blue trash Dumpsters, the blinds were all pulled shut.
From above her, Edie heard a door suddenly swing open.
The killer had accessed the fire escape.
&n
bsp; Not wasting a second, she ducked behind an air-conditioning condenser, praying she hadn’t been spotted. If she hurried, she could escape the alley before he reached the bottom rung. But that was a really big if. Particularly because she couldn’t exit the alley without moving into the killer’s line of sight.
That left only one option—she had to hide before he reached the alley.
Keeping to the shadows, she dashed some fifteen feet to the heap of jumbled chairs, their wooden arms and legs jutting into the air at odd angles. Like so many broken bones. As far as hiding places went, it was pretty pathetic. The ungainly pile wouldn’t stop a bullet. Or prevent a big, meaty fist from closing in on her. But it was the best that she could do on short notice.
Spying a small opening at the bottom of the pile, she got down on her hands and knees and crawled into the chasm. The opening was no more than twenty inches high, so she had to navigate with care. One wrong move and the heap of furniture could well tumble to the ground. With her underneath.
Unable to crawl any farther into the pile, she came to a halt. Tucking her legs beneath her body, she made herself as small as possible. Invisible would have been better. Better because she knew with a sickening sense of certainty that if he found her, the man on the fire escape wouldn’t hesitate to kill her.
Hearing the rattle of a metal door, she peered through the jumble of furniture, keeping watch as the killer exited the fire escape. He’d removed his ski mask, and Edie could see that he sported a military-style buzz cut. His face mottled with rage, he looked to be on the verge of a steroid-induced rampage.
In hunting mode, the killer swiveled his head from side to side, perusing the alley. Edie saw a large bulge at the back of his waist. A gun. The very same gun that had killed Dr. Padgham.