Shadows in the House With Twelve Rooms

by J. Price Higgins

  He plummeted downward.

  Sudden pain jammed through his legs, folded his knees, and pitched him forward into grayed space. The lamp beam splayed into one corner of a small room.

  Munoz lay spread-eagled, face pressed against rough rock, and listened to his thudding heart. His legs smarted, but there was no real pain and no bones broken. He sniffed, then swiped at wetness trickling across his mouth. His nose was bleeding. With quick, jerking movements, he wiped his hand across his shirt. Pinching his nostrils tight between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, he grabbed the crew light with the other and clambered to his feet.

  Now he could see that the walls of the shaft flared like an upside down funnel, forming a small room. He judged it to be not more than six feet high as he bent his knees to keep his head from scraping against the rock roof, and no more than five feet in diameter. Beneath his feet, the floor vibrated with the same rhythmic sound he'd heard before. It has to be the ocean waves, he thought, and yet, not a trace of moisture anywhere.

  Turning in a slow circle, he played the beam across each wall. A shimmer flashed then disappeared. He swung the light back. A small door flush to the wall gleamed with a satined patina. His mouth stretched into a wide grin of expectation. He had found the hiding place of the Cloister treasure.

  Examining the smooth door, he could find no evidence of a key lock. He ran his hands down each flush side then across the top and bottom. His searching gaze found no out-of-place obtrusion on the wall area around the door. Not even a crack that would accommodate the tip of his fingernail was available.

  His gaze fixed on the frustrating door, his thoughts raced through possibilities. His face brightened. "Of course! Clever, Guardian Mother. Clever indeed."

  "Your Eminence? Your Eminence, are you all right?"

  Someone had started down the ladder.

  "I'm okay. I fell, but I'm okay." He glanced back at the small door. He could do nothing now, too many were watching. He needed to be alone when he opened that door and brought to the surface whatever it concealed. Grabbing hold of the ladder's bottom rung, he began to climb.

  "I'm coming up," he yelled. "Go back, the wood is dangerous." He listened. "Did you hear me? The wood is rotten."

  A piece of mortar clattered down the sides of the shaft. Fools! he thought. They were probably standing around the edge. If one of them slipped, the Bishop himself would be down here poking around.

  "Get back," he screamed. "I'm coming up."

  As Munoz climbed out of the shaft, a tittering swept through the gathered men. Looking down, he winced at his blood stained shirt, the voluminous sleeve ripped from its seam, and the soiled pant legs. An uncontrollable urge to sniff wrinkled his nose as his head tilted down. A dribble of moisture tickled his lip; he sniffed it back. From the corner of his eye, he saw elbows nudging ribs.

  A rush of anger punched through his stomach. How dare they make fun of a man of the Church. His jaw tightened—then relaxed. He who hesitates . . .

  His gaze traveled from man to man, lingering on each face just long enough to bring a tinge of embarrassment into the cheek. He said, "There's work to be done here. I would suggest you get to it." He motioned toward the shaft. "Set up barriers and stay clear—it's dangerous. I'll decide what to do about it later." He brushed his way through foot-shifting workers and climbed into the Church limousine. "Diocese House," he commanded the driver. Pinching his nostril tight, he stared straight ahead.

  Chapter 6

  George Kayman

  George Kayman, President of Kayman Media Specialists, leaned back in his chair and studied the fiftyish man sitting across from him.

  "I don't usually prepare the beginning campaigns myself, Mister Franklin, but in your case, I think we can bypass the normal channels. You realize, of course, that my fees are much higher than those of my associates." It was a statement more than a question.

  "We know your reputation for running a successful campaign—the committee is prepared to pay."

  "It's settled then. We'll begin first thing tomorrow." George frowned as his secretary's voice interrupted the meeting.

  "Mrs. Kayman is holding on line two, Sir. She says it's important."

  "Find out where she is—I'll have to call her back." His frown drew into a scowl as he watched line two continue its blinking reminder. His client rose and extended his hand.

  "I believe we have concluded our business, Mister Kayman." The man's gaze flicked to the blinking light and back to George.

  "Yes. Until tomorrow then—Senator Franklin."

  "That has a nice ring to it. You're that certain?"

  "President Franklin if you prefer," George said. His smile was confident with just the right tinge of joviality.

  The client emitted a short, barking laugh. "Senator will do nicely this time around. Perhaps we'll try out President at a later date."

  Watching the man saunter from the room, George's eyes glittered. He was certain, all right. How he would accomplish this feat might not be exactly legal, but it would produce guaranteed results. The man would be elected Senator for his state when voting time came. The power of subliminal coercion would see to that. Although such advertising was closely regulated by the five governing nations known as the Transnationals, he had found an obscure loophole in the law, one he didn't advertise. Sub-subliminal was the name of this game and only he knew how deep the layers went.

  His gaze strayed to the on and off reminder. That insistent blink had robbed him of the appreciative banter generally forthcoming from gratified clients. Damn her. He lifted the phone.

  "Your timing was perfect, as usual," he said without preamble. "Didn't Patricia tell you I was with a client?" As he listened, his hand clenched the phone tighter and tighter. "Sonuvabitch, Cathy, how many times have I told you to keep the doors locked on that Jaguar? Maybe you'd like to pay for the next one yourself. No, I don't want to hear your story. I'll pick you up in thirty minutes." He wanted to throw the phone across the room. Instead, he slammed it down onto the cradle. She could never do anything right. Sometimes, he was hard-pressed to understand why he'd married her in the first place. Grabbing his jacket, he strode from his office.

  "I won't be back this afternoon, Patricia. My wife's car was stolen and I have to drive her and my son home."

  Fighting the traffic on Lyndon Boulevard, he tried to remember why he had married at all. Being voted Washington's most eligible bachelor three years in a row had assured him of female companions, many with backgrounds more glamorous and exotic than Cathy Lamont's. It wasn't her wealth that attracted him either. Of that, he was certain, although more money in the pot never hurt anything. It was her cool sophistication, he thought. That and some indefinable quality that reminded him of his mother.

  With eyes the gray of a cold winter sky and skin as pale as the pearled marble facade of his mansion, she was a perfect complement to its sweeping drive and elegant arched portico. After years of hardship and struggle, he had finally acquired the trophies that proclaimed success in a man's life—including a wife and a son. He could feel the grimace twisting his face. She's lucky I'm not like my father, he thought. Damn lucky.

  Not that his father wasn't capable of giving the same things to his family. He was. They could have had it all if he hadn't been so wimpy—so priggish about what was right and what was wrong. That trait kept him from being the sought after structural engineer that he had dreamed of being and he ended up a yard man. After all, who could afford to pay for perfection?

  All he had to do was bend a little, George thought, and we wouldn't have been so poor. He brushed his hand across his face as if he could brush away the surging memories. At seven, he had believed in everything. At eight, he had believed in nothing. That's when his mother died, despite his prayers.

  Without signaling, he made a left turn onto DeMarcy Lane, indifferent to the screeching brakes behind him. Ahead, he could see a hunch-shouldered groundskeeper weeding an expanse of green. His lips drew into a thin line. H
ow many times had he watched his own father weed the lawns of the rich while the owners of those huge houses swam or drank or talked big business? How many times had he slipped away and wandered into rooms filled with magnificent paintings, touched sparkling silver trays, and smoothed his hands over tumbled silk sheets? Those sensations fostered his acquisitive drive, but it was the odor of succulent foods never seen on his own table that shaped his goals for the future.

  That's when he discovered that it was money—lots of it—that bought power and happiness. He studied hard, listened, and watched. At twenty-five, he knew that politics was the arena in which to fight. Coupling his creative flare with his knowledge of what drove political candidates, he formed Kayman Media Specialists. He had found his niche in society.

  The hunch-shouldered groundskeeper passed from his sight. The world is filled with such men, George thought. Beaten down, defeated by life before they can crawl. But not me, by God. I'll never be one of them.

  He pulled into the underground parking garage of Lamont Towers and rolled to a stop at the service curb. A soft-spoken valet stepped forward and opened the car door.

  "Nice to see you again, Mr. Kayman," he said as George stepped from the vehicle.

  Ignoring the pleasantry, George handed the man the keys to the Mercedes, pocketed the valet receipt, and hurried toward a glass-walled elevator. While waiting for the descending cab to reach the parking level, he watched uniformed personnel stroll up and down the drives and around the parked vehicles. How the hell Cathy's car could have been snaked from this garage was beyond him. There were damned near as many security guards as there were parking spaces, and it wasn't as if she and that Jag were unfamiliar. The soft ding of the elevator broke his studying gaze. Seconds later, he entered the quiet plushness of the seventy-sixth floor.

  Standing in front of heavy mahogany doors, George almost gave way to the impulse to fog the gold engraving with his breath and polish each letter until it glistened with a life of its own. Beyond this door, Doctor Frederick Lamont, Cosmetic Surgeon, reigned supreme. Cathy's father was the best in the business and George always felt like a groundskeeper's son when he stood before this door. Straightening his tie and smoothing his jacket, the political specialist took a deep breath and opened the door.

  The soft whispering of voices drew his attention to the far side of the room. His son and a young girl were deep in conversation, the girl pointing at marks on a piece of paper as they talked.

  "What are you two whispering about?"

  "Nothing," Trevor said, looking up at his father with a nervous smile.

  "It isn't nothing," the girl said quietly. "When you look at it just right, it looks the same as those funny squiggles I saw on that vase in the museum." She held up the paper for George to see. "It does, doesn't it?"

  George peered at the printed words and the stroke marks penciled below each letter. She was right. There was a striking resemblance to certain hieroglyphic patterns he had seen many times on pottery shards. His glance flicked to his son, then back to the girl.

  "I'm not sure I've seen the vase you're talking about, but those marks do look like some language patterns I've seen before." Again his gaze went to his son. A tic of annoyance jerked at his upper lip when the boy kept his head bent. Where the hell were his manners?

  "I don't believe I know your friend, Trevor," he said.

  "Sefura Honeycutt," the girl said, thrusting her small hand forward.

  "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Sefura Honeycutt." George shook the girl's hand, surprised by the firmness of her grip. "I'm George Kayman. I apologize for my son's rudeness."

  "He isn't rude, Mr. Kayman. He didn't know my name until right this minute and I didn't know his. We were so busy talking, we both forgot about names, I suppose."

  George stared down into mint-green eyes. Spunky little thing, this one. He wasn't used to being corrected. "Trevor, go tell your mother I'm here. I'll keep Miss Honeycutt company while you're gone." When the boy disappeared down the hallway, he turned back to Sefura. "Are you here for any particular changes or simply checking out alternatives?" His smile bore witness to a joking question.

  "My mother. We come twice a week. Last time, we had to come almost every day."

  "Last time?"

  "Uh-huh. That was two years ago, though. Doctor Lamont always had candy in a dish then." She looked around the room as if she might yet see the familiar dish. "I guess when you get to be a teenager, they think you don't like HardPops anymore."

  George laughed. He remembered the time when his father-in-law always kept a crystal bowl filled with candy sitting on the English sideboard. He also remembered when Frederick Lamont had decided that candy was too bourgeois for the likes of his clientele. It was that same period of time when Cathy had moved her own practice to Washington General's trauma center. She needed the experience, she'd said. Beneath her status, her father had argued. But, like the candy dish, she had disappeared from this office. George gave her credit for that.

  Holding out her paper, Sefura said, "Would you mind writing something down for me? Everyone writes a little different. I try to figure out why, you know."

  George took the paper and quickly wrote "Money is POWER." Handing it back to the girl, he watched her study the words. "That's a good slogan to remember, Sefura," he said. "You're never too young for that one."

  Her head tilted to one side, her gaze was solemn. "I don't think so, Mister Kayman. People treat you differently if they think you have lots of money. When I tell people my real name, they act as if my ideas are more important than theirs. I don't like that."

  "Your real name? Sefura—or Honeycutt?"

  "Well, Honeycutt used to be my name, but that was a long time ago when I was still a baby. My real name is Raborman. Sefura Raborman. Of the Connecticut Rabormans. Tobacco, you know. Lydia is my mother." In precise, clipped sentences, Sefura said all that needed to be said.

  George swallowed hard. Yes, he had no doubt people acted with a lot more deference when they heard that name. Hell, there was a time when he had played with the idea of branching out into tobacco just to have a go at signing a media contract with Lydia Raborman. He still played with the idea, really. The Raborman millions were legendary throughout the New England states and probably just as famous in every other state in the Union. The money well seemed to be bottomless despite Lydia's brave attempts to drain it dry. He remembered now. She had married a ne'er-do-well gambler several years her junior. The sleaze had churned out IOU’s faster than the mint could print thousand dollar bills. One day, he packed a suitcase and left for parts unknown, leaving her to pick up the tabs. It was the cocktail gossip around Washington for months.

  "That's the way of it, I guess." He tried to keep his voice casual as he briefly explained how such wealth affected those around it.

  Intrigued by Sefura's solemn demeanor and her total concentration on what he was saying, George found himself telling her about his home, about his father, and about being a child. At first, he thought only to let her know that he, too, sometimes wanted to escape from a name, but he found that he enjoyed her obvious intelligence and her penetrating questions. Most of all, he found himself drinking in her undivided attention to what he was saying like a man too long denied water. She had a quality that was hard to define: gentle and yet firm, forthright but not rigid. He hoped these qualities would rub off on his son, for he would make sure Trevor saw her at twice a week at least.

  The soft click of a door being opened interrupted his thoughts. Sefura's face lit up. He looked toward the hall. A stunningly beautiful woman came toward them. Her hair was dark and her eyes the blackest he'd ever seen. It was only when she stopped before him that he could see the gleam of age shining out of those eyes. Her hand hovered near the faint creases around her mouth as she looked at him.

  Speechless, he acknowledged her soft greeting with a nod. Lydia Raborman was an impressive woman—thanks to Doctor Frederick Lamont. Walking side-by-side, she and her dau
ghter left the room. As the door closed behind them, he heard the warmth coloring Sefura's voice as she told her mother all about her new friends.

  Hearing other voices, he turned and watched Cathy and Trevor walking hand-in-hand down the wide corridor.

  His son was a source of continual amazement to him. He had never seen himself as a father and had found it far more difficult to be such than he'd imagined it would be. As a child, he'd always felt that his own father should have stayed home more, should have played more, should have loved more. Now, as an adult, he could never seem to find that same kind of time for Trevor. That would change, he vowed. Just as soon as this campaign for Franklin was over, that would change. With light steps, he ushered his family through the door.

  Not once did he say a harsh word about Cathy's car as they left the building. She, too, did not broach the subject. However, he caught her sidelong glances as he deftly maneuvered the Mercedes through traffic. She was waiting. Not this time, he thought. There will be no fights today.

  He parked the car beneath the portico and smiled indulgently as Trevor charged up the steps and into the house, leaving the door open behind him.

  "I've accepted a position in San Francisco, George."

  "You did what?" He could hardly believe his ears.

  "Berkstan ask me to join his staff. I accepted."

  "Just like that—no what about, no if you please, just I've accepted a position!"

  "I talked to you about it several times. You didn't listen. You never listen. I'm going to San Francisco."

  He could feel the anger rumbling into his throat. Not today, he thought. No fights today.

  "What about me? Divorce?"

  "You know I don't want that, George. You've always wanted to open a west coast branch. Now is your chance. San Francisco is a beautiful city, and a hotbed of political intrigue. You've said so many times."