The Forgotten Room: A Novel

by Lincoln Child

  There was a single message. “Jeremy? It’s Pam. Listen, I’m really looking forward to our dinner this evening. And, hey, I’ve been digging deeper into my great-grandfather’s papers, and you won’t believe what I’ve found.” A pause. “Just kidding! I haven’t found anything else. But I did find the business card of that creepo who showed up on my doorstep last winter. Turns out I hadn’t thrown it away after all. I’ll bring it with me. Anyway, the reservation for Sub Rosa is at nine thirty. I know it’s kind of late, but if I hadn’t been a local, we wouldn’t have gotten in at all. It’s a great place, you’ll love it. And after dinner, maybe we can have coffee at my place?” A shy laugh. “So why don’t you pick me up at quarter after, okay? I’ll see you then.” A click as the phone went dead.

  As Logan hung up the phone a second time and rose from his desk, the world rocked briefly around him. He grabbed for the chair back in order to steady himself.

  Over the past forty-eight hours, he’d been feeling steadily worse. The headaches were almost constant now, and strange new whisperings in his head—along with the demonic music—threatened at times to overwhelm him. Just the night before, he’d found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, playing with the penknife from his medicine kit—blade open—and unable to account for the last fifteen minutes.

  Something would have to be done.

  Taking a pillow from the bed, he placed it in the middle of the floor, then sat down carefully upon it in the kekkafuza, or full lotus, position of zazen.

  In times of great agitation or emotional unrest, Logan relied on Zen meditation, along with his skill as an empath, to calm his mind. He had never needed it more than now.

  He pulled out the amulet and looked at it briefly. Then he let it drop gently onto his chest and lowered his hands to his lap, palms up, right over the left, in the dhyāna gesture of meditation. He began breathing very slowly and deliberately: inhaling, exhaling, clearing his mind of all extraneous thought, focusing on nothing but the breaths themselves; imagining that, with each inspiration, he was taking in pure, cleansing air and that with each expiration he was ridding himself of physical and emotional poisons. At first, he counted the breaths; after several minutes, this was no longer necessary.

  A sense of calm began to steal over him. The headache receded, along with the whisperings. But the music—the unsettling, devilish music—remained.

  Now he tried isolating the music in his mind, compartmentalizing it, so that he could study it simply as a phenomenon, rather than as an intruder to be feared. With effort, he managed to slow it down until only one note sounded at a time. As each note sounded, he mentally introduced another, opposite note of his own creation. One at a time, as each new note intruded into his consciousness, he quite deliberately added another, attempting to cancel out the first.

  Logan did this for perhaps ten minutes, trying as he did so to retain the sense of inner stillness at the heart of zazen. It was not a perfect process—he did not have the mental discipline for that—but when he rose again, his headache had temporarily receded; the whisperings were stilled, and—most mercifully—the music was quieter.

  He tossed the pillow onto the bed; slipped the amulet back into his shirt; paused to take one more deep, cleansing breath—and then, picking up his satchel from the desk, opened the door and exited his rooms.

  36

  In the old, wood-timbered Victorian on Perry Street, Pamela Flood sat in the small upstairs space she liked to call her dressing room, self-conscious before a mirror, applying makeup. She rarely did this, and even tonight applied only the bare minimum, but it felt an effort worth making. She had no siblings, and after the death of her father she had the house—with its strange crooked corridors, its back stairs and somnolent rooms of obscure functionality—to herself. The benefit of this—perhaps the only benefit—was that she could assign any number of spaces to her personal whims: hence, the dressing room.

  It was quarter to nine in the evening, just about her favorite hour, windows open to the cool night breeze and the sleepy residential street, quiet save the soft droning of insects. A glass of iced tea with a sprig of peppermint sat at her right elbow, and a Charles Mingus CD was playing.

  She was looking forward to her date with Jeremy Logan, and to what would no doubt be a marvelous dinner. She was also looking forward—as she privately admitted with a faint tingle of anticipation—to what might happen afterward. It wasn’t easy, meeting people in a place like Newport. In a resort town, you always felt like a bug under glass. She wouldn’t allow herself to get mixed up with clients and, living here all her life as she’d done, she felt she knew all the eligible bachelors too well, as former schoolmates and current neighbors, to ever consider them romantic material. Tourists, or the dot-com billionaires who showed up to display their yachts and pretend to drop in on the Jazz Festival…? Forget it.

  That left a pretty small field of opportunity.

  …What was that noise? A rap at the front door, perhaps?

  She stood up, turned down the CD, and made her way to the head of the stairs, listening. But there was nothing. She glanced at her watch: Jeremy wouldn’t be here for another twenty minutes, at least.

  Look at her: nervous as a high schooler about to attend the junior prom. Even so, she had a habit of turning up music until it was just loud enough to miss the phone or the doorbell. Not good for somebody who relied on clients and referrals for her livelihood. She returned to the makeup table and turned up the volume again, just not quite so much this time.

  As she sat down, she reminded herself not to forget to bring along the business card she’d promised Jeremy. After rediscovering it, she’d been careful to put it away where she’d remember it: the rambling house, with its piles of books, drafting paper, and architectural drawings, had a way of sucking things in and hiding them away.

  As she began applying lipstick, her thoughts turned again to Logan. Funny how her first impressions of him had been so colored by suspicion and alarm. And then, after learning whom he was, she’d gone to the Blue Lobster, determined to meet but not to like him. That, she knew in retrospect, was probably a reaction to his high profile: her New England puritanism would never allow her to date somebody who’d been on the cover of People, especially given a profession so tailor-made for publicity as his. But despite everything, he’d won her over. Not that he’d tried—and maybe that was part of it. No: he’d come in with no attitude, friendly, modest, even self-deprecating, a little reserved when it came to discussing his own work. And he was entertaining, in a droll sort of way. The fact he was good-looking only helped wear down her natural defenses.

  But it wasn’t until their dinner at Joe’s that she’d really begun to take him seriously. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He was clearly intellectual: you got the sense that, every time he spoke, a lot more thought had gone into his reply than you could glean from just the words. What you saw on the surface was just the tip of a very intriguing iceberg. But there was more than that: it was the way he looked at you when you spoke, almost as if he comprehended your feelings better than you did yourself—and as a result she had never felt judged that evening…only understood.

  At least, that’s how it had seemed to her. And she felt certain that, after a long candlelight dinner at Sub Rosa, she’d know for sure whether…

  Was that a bump she’d just heard? Standing once again, she turned off the CD. It seemed to have come from downstairs. But then, with the music on, she couldn’t be sure—it might have come from the street.

  She stood in the dressing room, listening. She glanced at her watch again: still not quite nine. There had been a rash of burglaries over the past few months, but they’d always taken place in the early hours of the morning.

  As she hesitated in the soft golden light, there came another noise: the squeak of an old floorboard somewhere in one of the rooms below.

  Pamela took a quick, appraising glance at herself in the mirror: Jeremy didn’t seem the type to just let
himself in, but she wanted to look good just in case. She glanced around for her cell phone, found it, held it at the ready—also just in case.

  She returned to the landing, descended halfway down the stairs. “Jeremy?” she called out. “You know it’s bad form to enter a woman’s boudoir without getting an invitation first.”

  No answer.

  Now she descended the rest of the stairs and walked past the parlor, past the dining room, turning on lights along the crooked passages until she reached the kitchen. Here she stopped and frowned. The back door was open. That was odd. Newport was a friendly place, but she knew enough to always keep her doors locked after dark.

  She closed and locked the door. Then she glanced at her cell phone, made sure the 911 speed dial was ready, and moved silently into the kitchen, switching on the light as she did.

  Everything seemed to be in order: the new refrigerator; the old stove that her mother had made so many wonderful meals on; the kitchen table, the day’s mail at one end and the single place setting at the other. It was just as she’d left it after cleaning up from lunch.

  It was then that she smelled smoke.

  It was faint, but acrid, and she’d learned to take that smell seriously. The wiring in the house was very old, but she’d put off updating it because of the cost. One of the fuses was probably overheating. Because of the power-hungry equipment in her office, she’d put in a couple of 20 amp fuses into the 15 amp circuits. Since the fuses were the old T type, this was possible. She knew it was potentially dangerous, but she’d only had problems once, and ever since she’d been careful not to run the office equipment while the air conditioner was on. There didn’t seem too much load running in the house that evening. But just to be sure, she’d check the fuse box and replace any 20 amp fuses with those of correct size. She didn’t need to be warned three times: next week, she’d bite the bullet and get an electrician in for an estimate.

  Preoccupied with these thoughts, she had opened the door to the basement, preparing to open the fuse box that was set into the wall at the top of the stairs. Then she stopped, rooted in place by shock.

  A fire was raging in the basement: black smoke roiling furiously up the stairs, yellow tongues of flame curling and darting toward her in a way that, despite the violence, was almost caressing. As she watched, a second gout of smoke and flame suddenly appeared by the wiring junction on the far basement wall.

  She whirled around, fumbling with the phone, preparing to call the fire department. As she did so, a dark figure darted out from behind the pantry door and wrapped a tweed-clad arm around her head, immediately cutting off her screams. Pamela’s arms shot up reflexively and her cell phone went shooting across the room.

  The figure began dragging her out of the kitchen, away from the windows and deeper into the house. For the briefest of instants, Pamela was too surprised to struggle. But then she began to fight in earnest, yelling through the fabric that pressed over her mouth, biting, beating at the figure with her fists.

  For a moment, the fury of her attack seemed to surprise the intruder. The grip loosened and Pamela twisted around, preparing to counterattack. But just then, a damp cloth was jammed hard against her mouth and nostrils. A sour chemical stench assailed her. Blackness began crowding in from the corners of her vision. She twisted again, kicking desperately, trying her utmost to cry for help, but with every intake of breath her limbs grew heavier and more stupid.

  One lurch at a time, she was dragged farther away from the back door, and freedom. The last thing she saw before darkness overtook her was an orange tracery of flame, now eating its way across the kitchen wall, consuming the old wooden house with incredible speed.

  37

  Jeremy Logan maneuvered his vintage Lotus along Ocean Avenue, the sea breeze ruffling his hair. It was a fine evening; the sun had set, and the still-gathering clouds high in the darkening sky were suffused with a pink afterglow. He felt better than he had in days. No doubt he had Pam Flood, and their impending date, to thank for that.

  “You’d like her, Karen,” he said, speaking to his dead wife, whom he imagined was sitting in the passenger seat beside him.

  This was a habit he’d fallen into—talking to her now and then, when he was alone—and after the shock of unexpectedly seeing her on the expansive Lux greensward the day before, the imaginary interaction was something he was eager to have returned to a pleasant, controlled basis.

  He turned onto Coggeshall Avenue and headed north, toward downtown. “She doesn’t have your subtle wit,” he went on, “but she’s got your spunk and a self-possession I think you’d approve of.”

  Sirens were sounding in the distance. Logan glanced at his watch: quarter after nine. He’d be there in just a couple of minutes now.

  He drove on, the tall, manicured hedges that lined both sides of the road forming leafy walls in the gathering darkness. Ahead, in the sky, the afterglow was brighter now; more orange than pink. “I find myself letting down my guard with her,” he said. “And there’s something else—she’s made me realize, quite unconsciously, that life can be pretty lonely. Even when you’re juggling two careers.”

  Abruptly, he fell silent. What, exactly, was he trying to say to Karen—and, by extension, to himself?

  Coggeshall turned into Spring, and the road narrowed a little. The charming old houses grew denser. Ahead on his right, he could just make out the vast, genteel lines of the Elms.

  The sirens were louder now, urgent blatts overlapping in a hysteric fugue. He could make out a column of smoke ahead, roiling upward. As he stared, he realized that the bright orange glow illuminating the undersides of the clouds wasn’t afterglow anymore: it was the reflection of flame.

  He drove on, past Bacheller Street, past Lee Avenue. The shrieks of sirens grew louder still. And then, quite abruptly, he could go no farther. The way ahead was blocked by police cars and emergency vehicles.

  Pulling the Lotus up onto the curb, he got out and began walking. Now he could hear voices: cries, shouts, barked commands.

  Some instinct told him to run.

  The entrance to Perry Street was cordoned off, and a crowd was gathering: gasping, pointing, stretching to see past the police cars. Heart racing now, Logan ducked behind an ambulance, skirted the cordon, and began running once again down the street. A moment later, he stopped abruptly.

  The charming old Victorian house was consumed by flame. Huge tongues of fire were licking out of every front window—first floor, second, round attic oriel—blackening the wood even as he stared. He took a step forward, staggered, took another. He could hear the crackling of flames, the groan of timbers. It was almost as if the house were moaning in pain. He could feel the heat even at this distance. Three fire trucks were parked outside, jets of white water pouring uselessly onto the conflagration. He’d never seen a fire so furious, so angry. Smoke stung his eyes, dried the back of his throat to chalk.

  Another rending of timber; the old structure gave out a scream.

  Suddenly, without thinking, Logan dashed forward, making for the front door. He ran ten feet before being restrained by a policeman.

  “No!” Logan said, struggling furiously.

  “It’s no good,” the cop said, tightening his hold.

  Just then, the roof of the house collapsed in an inferno of sparks. Embers, ash, bits of fiery matter rose in a mushroom cloud of ruin. And—as the policeman relaxed his grip—Logan collapsed as well, sinking slowly to the pavement, staring on in grief and horror, the death of the house reflected on his face in streaks of yellow, orange, and black.

  38

  Early morning light streamed through the windows of Gregory Olafson’s spacious office, illuminating the dust motes that hung in the air. Olafson was bent over his desk, scratching out a note with an expensive fountain pen on cream laid paper. While he was quite comfortable with computers, he still preferred to send personal memorandums by hand; he found more attention was paid to them that way.

  As he was writing,
he heard the door to his office open and somebody step in. Without looking up, he said, “Ian, I would appreciate it if, when my secretary isn’t yet in, you would knock before entering.”

  A voice replied: “Ian?”

  Olafson glanced up quickly. Jeremy Logan stood in the shadows just inside his office, one hand still on the doorknob.

  “Ian Albright,” he said. “Maintenance chief. He’s due here for a meeting about the approaching storm. It’s strengthened into a hurricane, Hurricane Barbara, and we have to take precautions against—”

  Logan held up a hand to interrupt. “You need to open that safe,” he said.

  Olafson blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “You heard me, Gregory. We have to see what’s inside.”

  “I thought I was quite clear about that,” Olafson said. “Opening that safe prematurely would be breaking my promise to the Lux charter. Going against seventy years of compliance.”

  “And I think I was quite clear. If you refused, more lives would be lost.” And Logan approached Olafson’s desk.

  Now Olafson saw Logan clearly for the first time. The enigmalogist’s clothes and face were streaked with what appeared to be soot, and his eyes looked red and raw, as though he hadn’t slept at all. Though he appeared exhausted, his mouth was set in a firm, determined line. Olafson quickly connected the dots. “Good God. You aren’t implying that last night’s disaster—that the fire at the Flood residence…” He fell silent as the soot on Logan’s clothes suddenly made sense.

  “Do you think it’s a coincidence, Gregory? Strachey, the calmest of men, abruptly going psychotic and killing himself. The general contractor for the West Wing job, retiring suddenly immediately afterward, current whereabouts unknown. And Pamela. Pamela told me she’d been harassed months ago by somebody trying to get their hands on the Lux blueprints. Now, she helps us discover how to access the room…and the very next evening, she’s killed.”

  “In a tragic accident.”