by Rowan Casey
“But you had your suspicions, didn’t you?”
“No, no suspicions.”
“Come on, don’t hold back. The man is dead. I’m trying to find someone else before they join him. I’m not the bad guy here.”
“We started receiving donations from Mr. Alonzo’s charitable foundation over a year ago. The amounts were generous, but not eye-catching. Then a few months ago, Mr. Alonzo began to show up. He told me he wanted to sponsor events.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He did, and we were grateful.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“No, just a feeling, really.”
“What kind of feeling?”
“That something was off. He spent a great deal of time in this room. He joked about how wrong so much of the information was. He would slip into a middle English accent and correct everyone’s pronunciation.”
“That’s not what bothered you, though.”
A deep breath, a shake of the head. “He asked to reserve the museum for a private tour one night, just a few days after the presentation on the future of body armor. Requested I give him a key. I told him of course he could invite a few friends for a tour and that I’d be happy to meet him and open the doors for him. He insisted he be given a key and not have any staff be here, lest it embarrass him in front of his guests. He had been such a generous benefactor, I obliged.”
“So, what happened?”
“I stopped by later that night—much later than I believed he and his party would have stayed—just to make sure he had locked up and everything was secure. The doors were locked, but I saw a light, faint, but unmistakable. It was being cast from this very room. I assumed he’d left something on, so I used my own keys to come in.”
“And?”
“And I found him on the floor, right over there.” He pointed to a spot a few feet away. “His clothes were in a pile nearby, and he was completely naked. And fast asleep.”
“I’m sure that was a surprise.”
“Quite. But when you’ve dealt with the very wealthy, as I have over the years, you learn a certain degree of…eccentricity is par for the course. I would have chalked the episode up to that, someone getting drunk, perhaps staying on to finish off a bottle after his guests had left, and not knowing when to stop.”
“Except…”
“Except the next day, I checked the security footage. We don’t have cameras for each room, but we do have a system that covers the front entrance. I was curious as to how many he had taken on his private tour, and suspected he may have been trying to impress someone in particular.”
“You mean, a woman. You thought he wanted to have a museum romp in the medieval room.”
“Something like that. Only it wasn’t a woman. It was a man who looked remarkably like Professor Kirk. The footage was from an angle and the resolution wasn’t great, nor the lighting, but that’s who it looked like.”
“Okay, maybe he’s not into women?”
“Well, perhaps, but that’s not what stood out. I fast forwarded to see if any others joined the party later but no one did. So I decided to indulge my curiosity a tiny bit more and kept forwarding it to see when the man—whoever he was—left. The next person recorded was me, when I showed up and walked in on Mr. Alonzo au natural, you might say.”
I had to let that sink in a moment, allow the implications to begin piling up.
“Is there a back entrance? A side door?”
“Of course, but those are alarmed. They can be disarmed, but that would take a key he wasn’t given.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I said, trying to convince myself.
“No, it doesn’t. I mean, obviously, the man left. I searched every inch of the museum, fearing the worst. But there was nothing. I mean, the whole idea was silly. There must have been a glitch with the camera, or one of the alarms on the other exits.”
“Yeah,” I said, swallowing. “Silly.”
“It did leave me a bit perplexed, though. Even rattled. I went back and watched the video several times. I mean, where could he have gone? There was no trace.” He looked around the room, a hint of something in his eyes approximating marvel. “It’s as if Alonzo ate the man.”
8
“This is a very positive development, Sir Regis. The fact you could find such important information so quickly is amazing! Picking that museum was brilliant!”
“Yeah, it’s fan-frickin’-tastic. Kirk is dead. And whatever he knew of the whereabouts of the artifact followed him into that freaky thing’s stomach. The freaky thing I happened to have killed.”
“It’s horrible, of course,” Pip said, curling her leg under her as we sat on the bench a few hundred yards down the street from the recording studio. “But I am certain you suspected as much from the beginning, given his complete disappearance.”
“There’s disappearing, and there’s disappearing. I wasn’t quite expecting this.”
“You mustn’t let this distract you, Sir Regis. Too much is at stake.”
I nodded vaguely. I had to admire Pip’s ability to remain stoic about the whole thing. Her initial reaction had been one of shock, her eyes expanding and her face twisting into a horrified expression. But she processed it quickly, accepting what I’d learned and analyzing what we knew so far. She compartmentalized a hell of a lot better than I did.
Honestly, it wasn’t the gruesome nature of what was implicated by the information I’d gathered that bothered me. It was disturbing, sure, but dead is dead, and I’d already figured the odds were fifty-fifty by the time I’d left Club Med with two bodies in my wake. What troubled me was the realization this could be—likely was—just the tip of the iceberg when it came to the sort of bizzaro, messed up lunacy I might come across. I couldn’t shake the feeling Alonzo was really somewhat of a bit player in this whole thing, or at least a street level one. What the hell did that say about those higher on the food chain, so to speak?
“I guess I should start heading over there,” I said.
“It is still sixteen minutes until your appointment. Don’t you want to watch the entrance? You were PDR’s first and only appointment of the day, from what I could gather. They may show up any moment.”
I contorted my lips into a sour frown. “Given what I’ve experienced the past few days, I would be very surprised if these are the kind of people who would just walk through the front door.”
No sooner had I finished the sentence than a black limousine pulled up to the curb near the entrance to the building and stopped. A large man in a black chauffeur outfit got out of the driver’s door and circled to the sidewalk where he opened a rear door. Three women stepped out, one at a time. I couldn’t make out features, but I could see legs and heels and hair and form-fitting dresses. They walked into the building like they owned it, and I got the impression they walked into every building that way.
“Huh,” I said. “I need to start talking about the odds against me winning the lottery.”
“Be careful, Sir Regis. The female of the species, though in humans far less prone to displays of violence, is almost always deadlier than the male. It is not a phenomena limited to dragons.”
“I’ll watch my step. Do you think they’ll try to mud wrestle me?”
“I’m being serious. We do not have much information about this group. You were part of the conversation. Mr. Grimm was unable to provide much guidance, other than to say he was familiar with them, but uncertain of their intentions. I think even he was surprised to learn of their involvement. He seemed very wary.”
“I hear you. Just being my colorful, jocular self.”
“Speaking of hearing me, Sir Regis, is your earpiece in?”
She pulled out her phone, ran a test. I gave her a thumb’s up and pointed myself in the direction of the building. She repeated the plan we’d discussed earlier, that she would stay close and monitor.
“I will retrieve your battle armament, of course. Then find a suitable
location nearby.”
I resisted the urge to mess her fiery hair as I stepped by—she was, after all, despite the freckles, a grown woman, not to mention an attractive, if diminutive one—and started walking.
After a few strides it occurred to me that maybe I was being less than honest with myself. Had that urge to touch her really been born of brotherly, playful condescension? Did I just congratulate myself for respecting her equality when all I was really doing was denying the actual reason I resisted?
The thought stewed in my head for a few more steps and I turned to glance back at her. The bench was empty and she was nowhere in sight.
The lobby of the building was cookie-cutter commercial. White tile floors, off-white walls. It was small. A reception desk sat in the middle, but it was unmanned. One backless bench of black imitation leather on a chrome frame for anyone forced to wait. A pair of elevators separated by a directory. PDR was on the second floor.
Thirty seconds of an instrumental cover through ceiling speakers and I was stepping into a hallway. There was only one way to go, and it led to a set of large glass doors with “PDR” etched across them in giant letters. When I opened them, I heard music. And it definitely wasn’t The Girl From Ipanema.
It seemed to run like fingers through my hair and tickle the curves of my ears before flowing into my head where it massaged my mood and gently struck some sort of tuning fork in my skull. I followed it, paying little attention to my surroundings as I walked. It didn’t grow louder as much as more intense the closer I got, its gentle touch more substantial as the distance grew shorter. I rounded corners searching for it, feeling almost a panic at the thought I may not find it. Which was silly, because I was obviously getting nearer to the source with each step.
The moment before I opened the door I knew it wasn’t really music I was hearing. I mean, it was, but not coming from any instrument or band. It was singing. The tender, three-part harmony of voices holding notes, transitioning on a scale. There were no words, at least, none I could discern, but it—they—seemed to be speaking to me.
“I’m in position, Sir Regis.”
Pip’s voice, tinny and suddenly shrill in my ear, jarred me out of my reverie. My hand was on the knob and I had already pushed it open and crossed the threshold.
There were three of them. The same three I’d seen leave the limo out front, as far as I could tell. They were on the other side of a wide glass panel, behind microphones. Staring at me with swaying eyes as I stood there. And, as stated, they were singing.
Not words, just sounds. Notes. The sound was louder now, much louder, but gentle in the way it cradled my head, soothing as a lullaby. The middle one was moving from low to high, ooh, la-la-la ooh, ooooooh, la-la-la ooh, ooh, oooooooh la-la-la. The ones to each side of her were humming in precise harmony, a series of throbs like stifled moans, building tension with a progression, releasing it after it built up higher than seemed bearable and held there, brimming with anticipation, only to start over.
The middle one held her arms out, one after the other, fingers articulating as she pulled them in succession, before reaching toward me again. Reaching and pulling, reaching and pulling.
“Sir Regis?”
The voice yanked me into myself. I was standing at the glass, practically pressed against it. I had crossed the room, circled the control array, and gotten as close as I physically could. All without realizing I had moved.
Under my breath and trying not to move my lips, I said, “Can’t talk now, Pip.”
The woman in the middle smiled, her lips curling ever so slightly at the edges. She held a note for several beats, waiting for the others to finish their progression, then they all climaxed in unison. No pun intended.
I had to shake my head one more time, as if shedding a web that had fallen on it.
“Hello, Mr. Bishop,” she said into the microphone. “You’re early. We were just doing an audio check.”
I swallowed and cleared my throat. “Sounds five by five out here.”
“There is some paperwork we’ll need to fill out. Will you be using the studio? Or just the mixer?”
It occurred to me I hadn’t really thought this through. I was going to have to grope myself into an interview strategy.
“Actually, I was hoping to get to know you—know your company—a little better first. Perhaps we could have a chat?”
“Come now, Mr. Bishop.” The woman’s lips tightened, dimpling at the ends. “Don’t you find this pretense exhausting? Or at the very least, boring?”
“You have me at a disadvantage, Ms…?”
“My name is Cassiopeia.” She gestured to her right, then her left. “This is Sheba and Carmella.”
I pinched the brim of my hat between the knuckle of my index finger and my thumb with a nod. “Ladies.”
The three of them were strangely attractive. I say, “strangely,” because none of them was what I’d consider a traditional beauty. They all had dark hair, Cassiopeia’s being jet black and the others more of a dark brown. Their eyes were wide set and I sensed layers of makeup. Their dresses were almost like uniforms, reminding me of something stewardesses in the 60s might have worn. I guessed they were all in their early to mid-thirties.
“We know why you’re here, Mr. Bishop,” Cassiopeia said. “I’m sorry to say, you’ve wasted a trip. We can’t help you.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“The difference, in this instance, is irrelevant.”
“Why did you send Veronica to stab me?”
Her expression, to the extent there was one, was deadpan. “Is that what you think we did? Sent her to stab you?”
“Isn’t it?”
“You don’t know anything, Mr. Bishop. You’re only embarrassing yourself by pretending you do.”
I let my gaze roam the studio, skimming over the equipment, the speakers, the glass. “Then, please, by all means, educate me.”
“If only that were possible.”
She stepped out from behind her microphone and approached a panel on a side wall. She pressed a button on it and I heard a distinctive thunk behind me.
“Well, that didn’t sound very good,” I said.
“What is it, Sir Regis? I detect a high degree of stress in your voice. Is everything okay?”
Stress in my voice? If I was feeling stressed, I hadn’t noticed it yet. Not anymore than normal, anyway.
“I’m fine,” I said, forcing the words through stiff lips.
“We would just like to sing for you, Mr. Bishop. Without interruption. I have a feeling once you hear this song, you won’t want to leave. Not for the rest of your life.”
“Uh, Pip? I have a feeling something bad is about to happen. Pip?”
Cassiopeia moved back behind her microphone. The three of them looked at me through the glass and I felt like a chubby fantail in a bowl. The door I came through was locked, that much was certain. What I couldn’t figure out was why. Or what was about to happen.
The gun. I remembered the Colt pistol tucked in the small of my back. For all its shiny stainless steel and intricate customization, it was still a .45 caliber that would pack a wallop. I was sure—okay, hopeful—that it could do a number on the lock, maybe blow the handle right off or punch through any deadbolt.
I reached for it and started to turn, but stopped cold in my tracks. I felt the tugging before I associated it with the sound. My eyes tracked right back to Cassiopeia. Her lips were parted and her head began to tilt back as her voice rose. It started as a low croon and ascended like an angel to the heavens, floating higher and higher. Then Sheba joined in, low at first, just like Cassiopeia, followed by Carmella.
It was ambrosia for my ears, an elixir for the very core of me. The tones flowed down my neck, spilled through my torso, swirled into my legs. I could feel my feet melting, then my ankles. But then I realized I wasn’t melting. The room was filling. Water was rising, the surface moving higher and higher, submerging my thighs, my hips, my abdomen. The bottom o
f my sports coat began to float. The higher the voices went, the higher the water. Chest, shoulders, neck.
Then I was completely submerged.
I didn’t panic. It was peaceful. The water seemed clear enough, but I found it difficult to see. I could still hear the singing, but it sounded distant, higher.
Above me, I could see the surface, pulling away. I was sinking. There was no floor beneath me. The sound was growing fainter. I could hear them calling me. I began to kick.
Long, reaching strokes with my arms. I still had the gun in my hand, but it didn’t seem to hold me down. I scissored my legs and thrashed down with my arms, over and over. The surface seemed to keep pulling out of reach, forcing me to kick harder, fan my arms more violently.
Closer, closer, almost…
I broke through, pushing up out of the water to about my chest before sinking back and working my feet and arms to keep my head above it.
I blinked, shaking water from my face, and looked around. What I saw made no sense.
The sky above me was a cerulean blue, with puffs of cotton like the suspended smoke of cannon fodder scattered in every direction. The sun shone down with a warm, smiling glow. I was adrift in an ocean. I could see to the horizon.
That sound, whispers of innocence exploring a clef of sin, each note making and fulfilling a promise, each promise reaching deeper into my psyche than the last. I still heard it. I glanced front and back and side to side, the curve of the sea in the distance encircling me like infinity.
There. I could see them. Three figures, far but just distinct enough. I began to swim, and swim, and swim. My arms and legs started to ache. The voices were like a beacon, and I followed the melodious lilt, homing in on it. Pain shot through my shoulders, my thighs, my hips. My joints howled in protest, needing to rest, but I pushed on, the louder the sound, the harder I swam.
It seemed like an eternity. There was nothing else. Only me, the water, and the song. Yes, the song. It kept me going. Kept me kicking and stroking through the stabbing aches.
Distance fell to time. Finally, I began to feel the song filling me, its volume greater than the water around me. I raised my head, exhaustion wrapping my body in a death grip.