The Forgotten Room: A Novel

by Lincoln Child

  For a long moment, Logan didn’t say anything. Then he nodded.

  The director put his hands on his desk. “Well. Anything else?”

  “Do you have that list I requested earlier? Of, ah, ‘affected personnel.’ ”

  “Yes.” Olafson unlocked a drawer of his desk, reached in, and withdrew a sealed envelope, which he handed to Logan.

  “Just one thing more. Did Lux ever do any radio research in the early part of the century?”

  Olafson thought a moment. “I don’t think so. I’ve never heard of any. Why?”

  “Because I found a vintage radio in Strachey’s rooms. Well, it looked like a radio from the outside, anyway. I thought maybe he’d picked it up around here from some abandoned project.”

  Olafson chuckled. “Will was always collecting strange bits of antique technology and mechanical curiosa. You must have noticed examples of it in his rooms. He loved to haunt flea markets for the stuff.” He shook his head. “It’s funny, really, because as brilliant as he was with software, he was terrible with anything mechanical or electrical. It was all he could do to screw in a lightbulb or sail his beloved boat.” He stood up. “Well, despite everything, I’ve worked up an appetite. Shall we go down to dinner?”

  “Why not?” And picking up his satchel, Logan let Olafson usher him out of the office.

  17

  Pamela Flood leaned over the drafting table in her office, both elbows resting on an overlapping assortment of plans and schematics, completely absorbed in the west elevation of a building she was sketching. Although, like almost all modern architects, she rendered her final drawings via software—her own choice was AutoCAD Architecture—Pamela preferred doing her initial sections for a project by hand, allowing ideas to flow naturally from the point of her pencil. And this was a very special project—the renovation, from footing to roofbeam, of an old cannery on Thames Street into a condominium complex. She had always wanted to do more commercial work, and this might well lead to a series of—

  She suddenly realized that—thanks to her absorption in the sketch and the Birth of the Cool CD playing in the background—she hadn’t noticed the doorbell ringing. Straightening up, she left her office, went down the passage beyond, through the parlor of the rambling old house, and into the front hall. She opened the door only to look into the gray eyes of a tall man with light brown hair, who, judging by his face, was perhaps forty years old. It was a nice face, she thought: reflective, with sculpted cheekbones and the faintest hint of a cleft in the chin, the skin smooth in the rays of the late morning sun. It looked vaguely familiar, somehow.

  “Ms. Flood?” the man said, handing her a business card. “My name is Jeremy Logan. I wondered if I could have a few minutes of your time.”

  Pamela glanced at the card. It read merely DR. JEREMY LOGAN, DEPT. OF HISTORY, YALE UNIVERSITY. The man didn’t look all that much like a history professor. He was a little too tanned, with a slender but athletic build, and he was wearing a bespoke suit instead of the usual hairy tweeds. Was this a potential client? And then she realized she was leaving him standing on the doorstep.

  “I’m so sorry. Please come in.” And she ushered him into the parlor.

  “This is a very attractive house,” he said as they sat down. “Did your great-grandfather design it?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did.”

  “The Victorian lines are refreshingly unique among so much Colonial and Italianate architecture here in Newport.”

  “Are you a student of architecture, Dr. Logan?”

  “To quote a line from an old movie, ‘I don’t know a lot about anything, but I know a little about practically everything.’ ” And the man smiled.

  “You must know a lot about history, at any rate.”

  “The problem with history, Ms. Flood, is that it keeps on happening whether you want it to or not. At least a Shakespeare scholar, say, can go about his or her work fairly confident that new plays aren’t going to turn up.”

  Pamela laughed. The man might be charming, but she had a condominium to design. The initial plans were due to be submitted in just two weeks. “How can I help you, Dr. Logan?”

  The man crossed one knee over the other. “As it happens, I’m here about your great-grandfather. His name was Maurice Flood, right? An architect like yourself.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And, among other grand residences, he designed the Delaveaux mansion in the mid-1880s. The mansion that came to be known as Dark Gables.”

  At this, the slightest tickle of alarm coursed through Pamela. She did not reply.

  “Now, of course, home to Lux.”

  “Are you in residence at Lux, Dr. Logan?” Pamela asked guardedly.

  “Just temporarily.”

  “And what is it you want, exactly?”

  Logan cleared his throat. “Since your great-grandfather was the architect of the mansion, and since this house was his office and residence—as, I believe, it is now yours—I was curious as to whether the original plans for the structure were still at hand.”

  So that was it. She looked at the man with sudden suspicion. “And what would your interest in the plans be?”

  “I’d like to examine them.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t go into specifics, but I can assure you that—”

  Pamela stood up so suddenly that the man stopped in midsentence.

  “I’m sorry, but the plans aren’t available.”

  “Is there some way in which they could be secured? I’d be happy to wait—”

  “No, there is no way. And now, I’d appreciate it if you would leave.”

  Dr. Logan looked at her curiously. He stood up slowly. “Ms. Flood, I know you were involved in—”

  “I’m very busy, Dr. Logan. Leave. Please.”

  The man continued to look at her for a moment. Then he nodded his thanks, turned, and walked through the front hall and out the door without another word.

  18

  It was just past four in the afternoon as Logan walked along the long fourth-floor corridor of the Lux mansion. Midway down, he turned toward two glass-paned doors that opened onto a lavishly appointed parlor. He stepped inside and glanced around. An elaborate tea service had been set out on a linen-covered table: rows of china cups, a tray of wheatmeal biscuits, a large stainless-steel urn full of tea. The tea was invariably Darjeeling, and the parlor was invariably empty; at this point in the afternoon, all the denizens of Lux were fully absorbed in their respective scholarly pursuits, or at least pretending to be, and too busy to stop for tea. And yet it was still laid out, day after day, year after year, too ingrained a tradition to be changed.

  Logan slid a few sheets of folded paper from his jacket pocket—the list Olafson had provided for him—and reviewed it briefly. Currently, Lux had eighty-two scholars in residence; seventy assistants to support them; an administrative staff of fifty-four; and an additional thirty cooks, guards, groundskeepers, dogsbodies, and assorted others who kept the place running. Out of this roughly two hundred and forty people, Olafson’s list numbered five.

  Logan reread the single-paragraph dossier of person number three: Dr. Terence McCarty. Then, replacing the list in his pocket, he looked around the room. The wall opposite the double doors was covered by a series of richly brocaded curtains. He approached the curtains, then followed them to the far corner of the room. A door was set into the wall here, small and almost hidden behind the last curtain. Opening the door revealed a narrow, dark passageway. Logan walked down this to a second door, which he opened in turn.

  It led to a revelation: a sprawling rooftop terrace ending in a balustrade of worn marble. Beyond were magnificent views of Lux’s lawns and gardens, and, beyond that, the perpetually furious sea, hurling itself endlessly against the rocky beach. The mansion fell away on both sides, leading at last to the long, dependent wings, east and west, that pointed toward the coast.

  A series of round glass tables and wrought-
iron deck chairs were arrayed across the faded brick. Only one of the chairs was occupied: a man in a brown suit, with a shock of black hair and piercing blue eyes, sat in it, staring back at Logan, a wary expression on his face.

  Logan took another moment to admire the view. Then he walked over and took a seat beside the man.

  “You’re Dr. McCarty?” he asked.

  “Call me Terence.”

  “I had no idea this place existed.”

  “No one does. That’s why I suggested it.” The man frowned briefly. “I know who you are, Dr. Logan. As you might guess, I’m not especially keen on this meeting. But Gregory pressed me to agree. He said it was for the good of Lux. When he put it like that, what was I to say?” And he shrugged.

  “Let me set you at ease, then,” Logan replied. “I’m looking into the details of Will Strachey’s death. Before it took place, a few other residents of Lux reported—shall we say—some anomalous occurrences. I’m not going to tell you who they were, or what they experienced, just as I wouldn’t tell any of them about you. What you tell me will be kept in strictest confidence. It won’t be published, it won’t be repeated. If, as you say, you know who I am, then you can appreciate that my job entails a great deal of discretion. The details of what you tell me won’t go beyond these rather beautiful surroundings.”

  As Logan spoke, the man named McCarty continued to eye him closely, the look of wariness slowly easing. When Logan fell silent, McCarty nodded. “Very well. Ask what you want.”

  “First, I’d like to know a little more about what you’re doing here at Lux.”

  “I’m a linguist.”

  “I’m told it’s an interesting profession.”

  When McCarty added nothing more, Logan said: “Can you be more specific?”

  “What does my work have to do with our conversation?”

  “It may be useful.”

  McCarty shifted in his chair. “You said you would be discreet.”

  “Completely.”

  “Because I’ve heard horror stories of cleaning ladies, bribed to collect trash from offices and labs and deliver it off campus. Not here at Lux, you understand, but at other think tanks and institutes. There’s a lot of competition out there—too many researchers, not enough ideas.”

  “I understand.”

  McCarty sighed. “Basically, I’m studying whether or not code talking—the use of little-known languages or dialects to transmit secret information—can be applied to digital cryptography.”

  Logan nodded.

  “Specifically, I’m comparing relatively well-known languages such as Navajo and the Philippine dialect of Maranao to truly obscure languages like Akurio and Tuscarora, each spoken by only a handful of people. I’m trying to determine whether the grammars, syntactical qualities, and other factors of such languages can be efficiently rendered into an encryption system that doesn’t rely on prime numbers, substitution, or the other digital schemes common in today’s cryptography.”

  “Sounds fascinating. But I’m surprised Lux doesn’t object.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it seems to me that such research, if successful, could be used by the military. Such a coding system could potentially be weaponized.”

  McCarty smiled thinly. “Anything can be weaponized, Dr. Logan, and it’s naïve to think otherwise. But the fact is, if my work is successful, the algorithms would form the basis of proprietary microchips—proprietary, to be patented jointly by Lux and myself—for use in such things as routers and cellular phones. Forget the military; forget conventional warfare. The Web is the real danger. It’s notoriously porous. Identities are stolen, bank accounts emptied, credit cards maxed out—and that’s just for individuals. Power companies, the core routers on the Internet backbone, air traffic control—not to mention the kind of classified government protocols that keep our nation safe: none of these are nearly as secure as they ought to be. That’s a huge problem for me. And for the Lux board of directors, as well.”

  Logan nodded again. It truly did sound like fascinating work. To be patented jointly by Lux and myself. Fascinating—and potentially highly remunerative.

  McCarty waved a hand. “But surely that’s enough about me. Let’s get on with it.”

  “Very well. Why don’t you tell me about the, ah, event in your own words.”

  McCarty fell silent. He was still for so long that Logan began to fear he’d changed his mind. Then he sat up in his chair and pointed. “Do you see that rock formation, there, beyond the Japanese garden?”

  Logan looked in the indicated direction. He saw a large black boulder with a smooth top, surrounded by a few smaller ones, rising out of the lush emerald grass. They lay in the late afternoon shadow of the West Wing.

  “I used to sit out there and think, after lunch, on warm days. It was quiet, peaceful. I’d stare out at the sea, think about what I had or had not accomplished that morning, collect my thoughts in preparation for the afternoon.”

  Logan nodded. He was careful not to take out his digital recorder or worn leather notebook.

  “My work is important to me, Dr. Logan. During the day, I’m totally absorbed in it. I’m not the kind to daydream or procrastinate. But one day, I found myself staring out at the sea. Just staring. I don’t know exactly how long it went on. Then I started rather abruptly. ‘Spacing out,’ for want of a better term, just wasn’t the kind of thing I did. But I shrugged it off. And then, the next day—the very next—it happened again. Except this time, I was aware of it. I simply could not take my gaze off the ocean. It was as if everything around me went dim and still. It must have lasted at least ten minutes.”

  “When was this, exactly?”

  “Maybe six weeks ago. A Tuesday. I ascribed it to lack of sleep, preoccupation. I was doing some rather difficult analytical work at the time. Anyway, I didn’t go back to the rock for a few days. But then, at the end of the week, I did.” McCarty went silent again, looking off in the direction of the rocks. “It was a Friday. I’d missed the place. And this time…this time…” He swallowed. “It happened again. Only it was worse. Much worse. I didn’t just want to stare at the ocean. I wanted to walk down to it. Walk down to the sea, walk into the sea, and keep on walking…I stood up. It was a terrible feeling. I knew what I was doing, I didn’t want to do it, but I could not help myself. It was like a strange compulsion.” Beads of sweat were springing up on McCarty’s forehead, and he brushed them away with the back of a hand. “And there was a voice, too. A voice in my head—that was not my own.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It said: ‘Yes. Yes. Go. Go, now.’ ”

  McCarty drew in a shuddering breath. “I took a step toward the sea. Then another. And then—I don’t know how I managed—I was able to master it. Not completely, but enough. I turned and dashed my hand against the rock. More than once.” He raised one hand, displaying knuckles still bandaged. “The pain helped. And then I…I yelled. I yelled to keep the voice out of my head, make it go away.”

  He lapsed into silence once again for several minutes before going on. “And then it was gone. Just like that. The whispering voice. That horrible need to drown myself. It was as if some iron will that had taken over my mind and my body was suddenly exorcised. I’ve never felt anything like it in my entire life. It was dreadful. Dreadful. I took a deep breath. Then I looked over and saw two people in the Japanese garden, staring at me.”

  Logan nodded. That was how the incident had become known: McCarty was observed beating his hand against the rock and yelling at the top of his lungs. He suddenly had an unpleasant thought. “Incidents” with five people at Lux had been reported. He’d talked with three of those so far, including McCarty. Only one had actually spoken to the Lux doctor about it; the others had been seen by witnesses. How many others, he wondered, might have experienced something strange, but had not been overseen, or had not chosen to report the incident?

  “And that was it?” he said aloud.

  “That wa
s it.”

  “There were no further recurrences? No voices, no compulsions, no feeling of being possessed against your will?”

  “No. Nothing. But I’ve never been back there.” McCarty nodded in the direction of the rocks. “And I never will.”

  “Plenty of other nice places around Lux for a postprandial meditation.”

  “That’s true.” McCarty turned toward Logan, fixing him once again with his gaze. “There’s something else you should know. I also have a medical degree. In fact, I practiced medicine for half a dozen years before going back for a doctorate in linguistics. I graduated from Johns Hopkins Medical School with the highest marks in my class. I did my residency at one of the busiest hospitals on the East Coast, on the surgical track. To call it a brutal experience is putting it mildly. Of the fifteen residents that started with me my first year, six dropped out. Another four switched hospitals. Another committed suicide. Another fell asleep at the wheel, exhausted, and died going off a bridge. Only three of us made it through. And do you know what? During all four years of residency, the only time my pulse went over sixty was when I was using a treadmill in the gym. I’m a tough, hardheaded son of a bitch, Dr. Logan. I don’t get stressed; I get focused. And I don’t scare easily. Remember to mentally clip that factoid to the story I just told you.”

  “I will.”

  “Are we done?”

  “We’re done.” Logan looked around again. “Mind if I sit here awhile, take in the scenery?”

  “As long as you don’t talk.”

  “And ruin such a pleasant view?” Logan settled back in his deck chair. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  19

  Logan liked the Blue Lobster the moment he stepped into the bar. It was pleasantly dark, beer fragrant, and unpretentious. Unlike many of the fussy, trendy restaurants in town, its bill of fare—scrawled in chalk on a blackboard hanging over the bar—consisted of only four dishes: fish and chips, cheeseburgers, lobster rolls, and clam chowder. The establishment was situated on the second floor of the Newport Commercial Fisherman’s Cooperative. It was just six o’clock, and through the west-facing windows, fishing boats could be seen chuffing up to the wharves, ready to unload the day’s catch.