I clamp a steely hand down upon Sara’s shoulder. “Is there news?”
He quickly shakes his head, eyes narrowing on the woman next to me. There’s anger there, disappointment, too.
“Do you have any books upon your person?”
His eyes fly back to meet mine. “Huh?”
“It does not matter which. Do you have one or not?”
He pats his trouser pockets and then those of the long knit sweater he wears. “I have—”
“Write a doorway.”
It’s not often that the A.D. is taken so aback. “But—”
“Now. Do not tell me which.” To Sara, I instruct, “Close your eyes.”
She does so with alacrity.
The A.D. tugs out a slim book and his pen. I crowd closer, ensuring Sara’s body is a shield blocking any view of what he holds. “Alice, I don’t—”
“Jack.” Sara’s whisper is hoarse. “Do as she says.”
Within seconds, a door appears. “You’ll have to come with,” I tell the A.D.
He nods, holding out a hand to allow us go to first. I shove Sara forward, leading us through the glowing doorway and into a rainy, filthy alleyway—a modern one, though, from the looks of it. Not too far away is a pair of crushed soda cans. The shaking woman keeps her eyes closed, tears leaking out as raindrops splatter against us until the A.D. announces the portal closed. She drops to the ground, not caring that there is a revolting puddle beneath her and heaven knows what else (I suspect it to be a mixture of rat droppings and decomposing food). Sobs wrack her shoulders as she covers her face in her hands.
The A.D. whistles. “What in the bloody hell did you do to her, Your Majesty?”
I ignore him. “Time is limited here, Mrs. Carrisford. I am needed back at the Institute.”
“Oh, God.” She’s desolate. “How did it all come to this?”
“Well,” the A.D. says, “I think it was because you chose to sit before looking.”
All right. I cannot help but roll my eyes at his efforts toward bringing levity to the situation.
“First, please tell me how Finn is doing.” His former partner’s wet face turns toward me. “I just want to know if he’s all right.”
“You hold no cards here,” I remind her. “You do not get to dictate how this goes. Instead, explain why it is you were certain we were overheard at the Institute. Whilst you’re at it, stand up. You cannot be comfortable in such filth.”
She slowly rises, her chest shuddering.
“Perhaps we ought to find somewhere a bit drier?” the A.D. offers.
I do not move, nor does Sara agree with him. She instead takes a deep breath and smoothes the wet strands of black hair from her face. And still, her words are unsteady when she speaks. “It is because the Institute is bugged.”
“What?!” The A.D. jerks forward. “That’s fucking impossible! We—we would have known that! Wendy would have—” He bites his words back, swearing softly. “Marianne would have discovered that during the overhaul of the security system.”
I just cannot seem to keep up with the words of the twenty-first century, can I? “What does this mean? Bugged?”
The A.D. rounds on me. “She’s saying that somebody has either been surreptitiously watching us or listening in on our activities without any of us knowing.”
I ask Sara, “How would you know this?”
Her lip quivers just as surely as her chest. “It’s because I put them there.”
“WHAT. THE. FUCK?!” The A.D. shoves her against one of the nearby walls. “Tell me I heard that wrong, Sara. Because there is no bloody fucking way one of our own would ever do that! Not even you, who ran away with her tail tucked between her legs!”
She doesn’t fight back. She doesn’t even try to defend herself except to say, “I didn’t—I tried to—” Black strands whip around her face. “It doesn’t matter. You’re right. I put them there.”
He jerks away from her, raindrops splattering his glasses. “How many are there?”
Her breath in escapes as a shudder. “Dozens. Each floor, each main workroom is bugged except the Museum. Auditory ones, not video, as far as I know. All the size of quarters but slimmer, stuck beneath common objects such as tables, desks, and chairs.”
I throw out an arm to prohibit the Artful Dodger’s lurch forward. “Why would you do such a thing?”
Long lashes sweep her wet cheeks when she closes her eyes. “I have no good reason other than I felt a strong, irresistible need to do so, one I could not ignore.” She swallows. “I cannot be sure, but in the time since, I’ve come to believe he made me.”
“He who?”
“The man you asked me about.” Her chin juts defiantly upward. “Gabe Koppenberg.”
The A.D. pushes away from me, releasing a roar as he crosses the width of the alley.
“He was my lover, in case you were wondering. Or boyfriend, if you wish for a more colloquial term. At least I thought he was.” And then Sara Carrisford tells me a most curious story.
She met Gabe Koppenberg at the New York Public Library during a visit on behalf of the Librarian. Smitten with his looks and flattered by his attention, they spent several hours talking. For the next several weeks, they serendipitously ran into one another all over town, often at the most surprising of places. A coffee shop, a bakery. On a crowded subway train, in Central Park. Slowly, over the course of many months, she found herself falling prey to his charms. A discreet dinner once a week eventually evolved into a trio of nights spent together when she wasn’t on assignment. They would regularly meet for lunch or for coffee. After he kissed her during a trip to a bagel shop, she believed herself in love. One thing led to another, and before she knew it, kisses transitioned into something more.
It was heady, she tells us. She began to crave Gabe, often resorting to anger or tears when they weren’t together. And yet, she never told anyone about him or their attachment—he was her secret, she claimed. He had nothing to do with books or stories or expectations.
“Finn wasn’t aware of this relationship?”
She won’t look me in the eye when she tells me he did not. But that one word is filled with regret and sadness that I do not need to see in her eyes. “I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore.” A bitter laugh soaks into the chilly air between us. “Early on during my tenure at the Society, I found myself developing intense feelings toward . . . a colleague. He was always so kind, so charming. So intelligent, so good. Not that he ever indicated reciprocal feelings, but it happened all the same. I was already skittish, having embarked upon an inappropriate relationship before.” She shakes her head. “I was determined to overcome my feelings, so when I met Gabe . . .” She bites her lip. “It was lovely in the beginning. The answer I thought I was looking for.”
“Are you fucking kidding me with this?” The A.D. tugs at his wet, greasy strands. “You’re saying that you basically screwed the devil because you had an unrequited crush on some guy at the Society?”
“No!” Her fists curl at her sides. “No, Jack. It’s not—” She lets out a frustrated sigh. “I’m merely attempting to explain the frame of mind I was in where I suppose I found it . . . flattering, alluring, if you will, that there was a good-looking, wealthy, charming, intelligent man, who was interested in me. One I would not risk losing everything over if we were to become intimate. I’d . . . made a mistake with Carrisford. Mistaking gratitude for love, allowing it to go too far, too fast, for far too long. I felt I owed him this, tricked myself into believing it was right.” She shakes her head, rubbing at her temples. “When I came to the Society, I wanted to erase it all, move on. But I couldn’t do it there, not with . . .” Her breath shudders. “It doesn’t matter. I traded one mistake for another, even though it was what I feared most. Once more, I moved too fast without thinking of the consequences.”
“You’re shitting me!” He juts a finger toward her. “She’s shitting us, Alice. Goody-two-shoes reputation aside . . . What is this? We’re not in
grade school, sweetheart!”
“I know that!” Her voice rings in the alley. “Believe me, I know that!”
Once more, it appears I must be the voice of reason. “As titillating as all this may be, I demand you both to table such pettiness until a different occasion. Sara, how is it that Koppenberg got you to betray your allegiance to the Society?”
“I don’t know.” She sags back against the wall, wincing as she continues to rub her forehead. “I really wish I did. It . . . it was a slow transition. Not the relationship, but my changing feelings toward work. He and I would have dinner, and afterward, when I came home, I would harbor irrational bitterness toward my job and not know why. I began to lose time outside of assignments. There were hours I could not recall. Feelings changed without reason. Resentments stirred. I would occasionally wake up in places I had no idea ever going to—in the basement, in the labs, one time even in . . .” A quivering breath escapes her lips as she squints in what appears to be pain. “Even in Brom’s office. I was frightened. I wanted to discuss it with Finn, but every time I opened my mouth to do so, nothing would come out. I’d get headaches if I tried, terrible ones that left me in tears.”
The A.D. picks up one of the crushed cans and throws it against the wall near Sara’s head. I’ll give it to her, she doesn’t even flinch when he bellows, “That’s shite, Sara! It’s not as if you have a headache right now, do you?”
“Actually,” she says plainly, “I do.”
“Did he play music for you?”
Her attention swivels back to me, brows knitting.
“On pipes,” I clarify.
“I don’t specifically remember that.” She chews on her bottom lip. “But we did listen to music often together—in his car, in his apartment. He took me once to a concert at a private school he was a benefactor to.” If I’m not mistaken, her eyes are now significantly redder, and not from tears. “There might have been pipes in that . . . but those were children. Not him.”
Children. How very, very interesting she says this. Even the A.D. goes still as this processes. He’s seen the surveillance footage. He knows who attacked the institute.
I step closer. “Tell me about this school and these children.”
Sara offers a tiny, confused shake of her head. “It was just a school. An elite one, secluded . . . I think it had boarders. I could be wrong.” Her greenish-gray eyes meet mine; they are so bloodshot the whites have turned pink. “It’s in Connecticut. Gabe said he was an alumni—it was all grade levels, I think. I wasn’t there for very long, just for the concert.” Her brow knits once more. “Well, it was more like a dress rehearsal, really. We were the only two in the theatre at the time. I thought it . . . sweet, to be honest. To know he supported children and their education.”
A long whistle trills from the A.D.’s lips. “Well, isn’t that a nice bit of connect-the-dots.” He holds a hand up for me, but I do not smack it.
I share his sentiment, though.
I press, “Do you remember the name of this school?”
“It was a pair of biblical names.” Her rubbing of her forehead turns vigorous, eyes squinting until tears leak out. “J—John—” Both hands press against temples as she falls silent, rocking, her mouth open in a wordless scream. A not-so-thin stream of blood trickles from one nostril.
“Sara.” I lay a hand on her raised arm. “You must push past the pain. Do not let it, or him, win.”
Shudders wrack her shoulders, tears mixing with rain. But she blurts, wails as if she’s physically tearing the word from her mouth, “John . . . and . . . Paul!” And then she doubles over, a cry of anguish ripping from her.
The A.D. mutters, softer now, “Sonofabitch,” before dropping down to lay a comforting hand upon her arm.
I do not allow myself to feel pity yet. I cannot dare to lower my defenses. There may be time in the future, but in this moment, in the heat of war, pity is a weakness I cannot bear to embrace. “You claimed Koppenberg made you install surveillance at the Institute? What was his reasoning?”
“I don’t remember.” Her voice cracks repeatedly. “I woke to discover the equipment in my bedroom. It took me . . .” A choking sound surfaces. “Weeks. He never mentioned it, but somehow . . . there was a sensation within my chest that it was for him. When I was done, I loathed myself, even though there was an urge to discover if he was proud of my accomplishments.” Wide, pleading eyes look up at me. The pink is gone, replaced by bright splotches of red. It is as if her eyes are bleeding, or have filled with plasma. “I didn’t speak to him, though. Instead, I immediately resigned from the Society. Couldn’t tell anyone there, even Finn. He was so worried about me—always asking questions, always trying to get me to talk. I pushed him away so many times. I told everyone I was done with the Society, that I wanted to go home. That I missed Carrisford and what we had, that the entire time I was in New York, I pined for him. I was utterly fearful I would wake one day and realize I’d done something even worse to people I cherished. I refused a pen or any form of communication—it’s why I could not contact anyone when Victor and Finn arrived at my home. I purposely cut ties with the liaison assigned to my Timeline; I even departed without a single word to Gabe. I went right back to Carrisford, right back to the relationship I’d run away from. My new husband was a sick man, requiring much tending.” Much quieter, “I rarely left the house unless absolutely necessarily. I trained in secret, ensuring I could defend myself and others if need be. But as the weeks and months passed, the urge to find Gabe grew to be nearly irresistible. Terrible dreams plagued me. I imagined I heard music playing when I knew no one else to be around. The sensation, the knowledge, that my insidious actions were somehow connected to the man I dated steadily solidified.” Her face falls. “I have no proof, just a gut feeling. There were times I hid away in rooms rarely used. A maid I trusted would restrain me until the urges went away.”
Muffled sobs tremor throughout her body, the blood streaming from her nose now more forceful. The A.D. squats next to her, his arm half-heartedly around her shoulders, appearing as frustrated and lost as I believe Sara must feel.
She whispers brokenly, “An unsigned note was delivered yesterday morning, saying, ‘You’ve been a bad girl, Sara.’ It only seemed reasonable that it had to do with Finn and Victor, as I’d never received such a note before. I couldn’t be sure, as I no longer had anything to compare it with, but I was certain it was Gabe’s handwriting. I instructed Groverley to refuse entry to anyone. We had no medicines except for what my trusted staff could fetch.” She wipes at her face; blood streaks alongside rainwater. “I didn’t know what else to do. I feared we were under surveillance. It was clear Victor wasn’t on his protocol and was spiraling faster than I’d ever seen him, so I couldn’t count on him to protect us. And Finn—” Another choking sound erupts from her chest. “He passed out the moment they arrived. I kept my gun with me the entire time, even though I feared I would wake one day to find I’d used it. I was hearing ghostly music daily by this point. When you arrived, I truly feared you might be associated with him.”
“How long was your relationship with this Gabe Koppenberg?”
She glances up at me, and it takes much control to not wince at the sight of such bloody eyes. “Half a year, maybe more.” Fists press against her temples. “I did this. I provided him access to the Institute.”
“You indicated you visited his home?”
“In Brooklyn, yes.”
The A.D. says, “You mean Manhattan.”
She shakes her head. “Brooklyn. It was an old, lovely brownstone.”
I ask, “Do you remember the address?”
“Not specifically, but . . .” Her nose scrunches. “I do remember the whereabouts.”
“Take down the details,” I instruct the A.D. “Also, where is our current location?”
He tugs his cell phone out and types what Sara relates. “I thought Your Majesty didn’t care about such names.”
I say nothing, but ther
e is no doubt my stare is meaningful.
“Fine.” He rises before helping Sara to her feet. “It’s my Timeline, just in the present. I like to keep my book close, if you know what I mean. I added a few recent pictures to make it more accessible.”
“Edit me back into the Institute. Before you return, locate a safe yet discreet location here for Mrs. Carrisford to recuperate within. It sounds as if it is in her best interest to remain out of sight for the time being.”
She is smart enough to not argue with me.
“I hope you will understand I simply cannot have you in a position to where you might further endanger those at the Institute or anywhere else. If you remain here, in a Timeline where your resources are severely lacking, you will be safe.”
Sara wearily offers her understanding.
“To answer your earlier question,” I tell her, “Finn is indeed at the Institute and is, as you may well imagine, not doing well. His brother has administered antibiotics and is closely monitoring the situation.”
Her gratitude is softly offered.
“I must return to check on him.” To the A.D., I say, “I expect you back shortly. It appears our hunting grounds have expanded.”
His nod is uncharacteristically solemn before he pulls out his pen and Institute book.
“What has Gabe done?” Sara asks quietly.
I do not soften the blow. “We believe he is the mastermind behind the destruction of far too many catalysts.”
Horror, so much horror, fills those bloody eyes of hers. The list of payments I must obtain from the fiend grows.
I am close to crossing the threshold of the glowing doorway he’s written me when I find myself unable to resist the urge to turn back momentarily. Compassion has demanded notice from me anyway. “If it is any consolation, I do not believe you acted of your own accord whilst betraying your colleagues. It appears your Gabe Koppenberg is talented in ways no man ought to be.”
“Wait.” Although she smoothes her skirt, standing a bit taller, she is still a terrible mess. And still, there’s a painful earnestness in her composure as she regards me. “Do you love him?”
The Forgotten Mountain (The Collectors' Society Book 3) Page 9