by Gregory Colt
“Here,” he said, holding his hands out. “Let me take those.”
I handed him the clothes. They weren’t mine anyway.
We walked back in silence as the storm raged outside, back the way we came, past the grand staircase to the other wing.
Another hall and several doors down was a lit room.
“Your room, madam.”
I went in first. The room was huge and much darker than I thought it would be. There was a single oil lamp beside the bed, on a nightstand thick with dust, giving just enough illumination to make my way there. The room smelled old. Not bad, just old and musty, with a hint of wood stain.
“I apologize. As I said before, we do not have guests, and I’m afraid this is the best to be done tonight. The bedding is all new, but there was not time for the rest of the room. Be careful you do not trip over something. The restroom in this wing is around the hall,” he pointed further down. “And off to the left. First door on your left. If you need to go, take the lamp with you, but please be careful.”
“Thank you, Djimon. I mean that. For everything. I…it’s been a bad day,” I said.
“I am certain. I am grieved to hear of your friends. I will pray for their souls.” I gave a small smile, unsure what to say.
“But tonight,” he said, putting a hand to my shoulder. “Tonight you will sleep well, with no fear in your heart. This door locks from the inside only, and Adrian is down the hall. I will be staying downstairs until morning,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Djimon smiled and left. I locked the door behind him and crawled into bed.
I lay awake a long while. The sheets and blanket smelled nice, and the pillow was soft. The bed was a monstrosity, larger than king size. I busied myself wondering how they found a mattress to fit until I realized I was stalling because I didn’t want to turn the lamp off and be left alone in the dark, seeing only what the lightning would reveal. Not scared, just—
I heard a noise, like something dropped; not in my room, but down the hall. I was paying more attention when it happened a minute later. Something metal dropping on the wooden floor down the hallway.
The best possible thing in the world to do was ignore it, cover up, go to sleep, and not worry about anything unless I heard the doorknob move.
Of course, the third time I heard the noise I hopped out of bed to investigate. It made me think of all those horror films where the stupid girl, knowing there’s a killer loose in the neighborhood, possibly even after her, seeing an open window and hearing a noise in the cellar, thinks, I totally need to wander down there half-naked, by myself, unarmed, without alerting anyone whatsoever. I knew it was stupid. But nothing is scarier than ignorance, than not knowing what’s out there, what’s in the dark. I hated myself by the time I’d slipped silently across my room barefoot and had the door open.
The sound came again, much louder in the hallway. It was coming from deeper in the house, and around the corner to the left, past where Djimon had said the bathroom was.
I walked around the corner and saw light coming from underneath a set of double doors. There wasn’t anyone else here, and Djimon wouldn’t have left a light burning. It must be Adrian’s room.
I tiptoed across the wooden floorboards, careful as I could, until I was at the door.
I peeked through a crack in the door and saw Adrian sitting in a carved, gilt wood framed, high-backed velvet armchair in front of a small fireplace burning low. He was leaning forward, shirtless, revealing a tapestry of old scars. It was hard to tell from here what they all were, but at one time he had been whipped. Hard. Repeatedly. Not to mention the lines of cuts on his shoulders and backs of his arms. He was handsome, in his own way, but pretty he would never be.
I heard the noise again as a pair of tweezers clattered to the floor. He leaned down and grabbed them again in anger. He tried to pick at his right hand, but his left kept shaking with a tremor, making him either miss or drop it completely.
He growled when they hit the floor again. I pushed the creaky door open, causing him to turn as I walked across the room. I don’t know why I did it, but I couldn’t leave him there struggling.
He didn’t say a word as I knelt and picked up the tweezers, took one of his hands, which was spotted with blood, and turned the palm in front of the fire to better find the glistening of each piece of glass that remained.
Slowly, carefully, I removed the tiny shards of glass from one hand and then the other. Neither of us said a word. He had a bottle of alcohol and some cloth I used to clean and disinfect the wounds.
His hands looked better than they had earlier, but still his knuckles were swollen and raw. His wrists were wrapped as well as his knees. Several more large old scars shone through the hair on his chest. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what had caused them. The toes on his left foot looked broken. He was a mess of calluses and scar tissue over muscle. Not the perfect sculptured kind you get from exercising, but the ugly hard sinew from hard use. I tried not to think of the events I now knew had made them.
I stood and grabbed the alcohol, the bandages, the tweezers, and set them over on a desk.
His bed was massive, and untouched. I thought I spotted a thin layer of dust on the bedspread. A blanket, bedroll, and pillow were folded on the wood floor between the bed and fireplace. Did he sleep on the floor?
I could feel him staring at my back and turned to face him. I thought I was going to say something, or maybe even sit and talk for a minute, but I smiled instead. My real smile. He cocked his head considering, but never spoke.
I was okay. I mean I really felt okay. Not great, not even good, but I was okay when, more than once that day, I thought I never would be again.
I turned away with a small grin and slipped back across the floor, leaving his chamber and returning to my own.
By the time I slid under the covers and turned down the lamp, the lightning had stopped, and I slept a dreamless sleep in the soft rain.
Chapter Thirteen
I reached for my alarm clock to check the time when I awoke the next morning. My arm didn’t even reach the edge of the bed.
I looked around and sat straight up. I’d spent the night at…at Adrian’s. What time was it? I saw a crack of bright light where the large curtains met the wall, and threw my legs over the side of the huge bed, stretching and rolling my wrists and ankles around to wake them up.
The house was silent except for something low. A noise, or a feeling, soft and strong, coming from the window. I stood and went to the curtains, pulled them aside, and filled the room with light. I unlatched the window and raised it to let in some fresh air. I closed my eyes and breathed deep the smell of flowers and trees and water. Lots and lots of water. A wide river, swollen from the night’s rainfall, dominated the western view four hundred yards from the house, the intervening distance covered in old growth over a once extraordinary courtyard and gardens. If not for the occasional piece of stone peeking out, it would have looked no different than the surrounding woods. It was beautiful.
There was only one large river nearby, the Hudson. Given its width here meant somewhere along the Tappan Zee. I still had no idea exactly where I was, but having an idea that was familiar comforted me.
I turned back from the window. I had work to do today, though I wasn’t sure where to start. At least not until someone heard something and called, assuming Adrian was up for it. We needed to talk about yesterday, about the calls I made, and about where he ran off too. We should compare notes and figure out where to go from there. As for the rest of the evening, well, I didn’t know what to think of that.
It took a minute or two to recall how to navigate the large house. And large it was, now that I could get a good look at it in the light of day. Most of the second floor was in a state of renovation. I passed another set of stairs leading to a third story before I found the grand staircase overlooking the front room.
It was gorgeous. Or would be with some effort. The wood stain was fad
ed and the banister riddled with chips and blemishes, but the carvings were in perfect condition.
I still didn’t hear anyone.
“Hello?” I called out. “Adrian? Djimon?” No answer.
At the bottom of the stairs was a small lacquered table with a notepad on it. I went down and found a note from Adrian saying he and Djimon ran into town and would be back soon. On the back was a hand drawn map of the first floor with arrows going from the front room, down the main hallway around, and under, the grand staircase, towards the back of the house. I looked out the window and, sure enough, the car wasn’t in the driveway.
My curiosity piqued, and I have to admit I liked following the map. Maybe that’s silly. I didn’t care. It led through the heart of the house, which I hoped was next on the list to renovate, and through the open doors leading to the kitchen.
The kitchen was clean and tidy, but on closer inspection was only fixed enough to be useable. It needed work. A small dining table sat in front of a series of tall slender windows that also looked out over the old courtyard and across the river. A plate and silverware, napkins, an empty glass, and a folded paper on a plate that read oven, were sitting on the table.
I noticed a used set of plates and silverware sitting in the soapstone sink when I went to check out the oven, which made me smile. It was an old, coal burning, cast iron monstrosity and fit perfect in this kitchen, in this house. I was willing to bet it was original.
Inside was a covered griddle that I pulled out with the mittens hanging above. I took the lid off and, much to my surprise, found a stack of pancakes still warm. I filled my plate, sat at the table, and enjoyed pancakes looking over the Hudson until the front door boomed closed.
“Claire?” Adrian called from the front room.
“Hrrrggh,” I said with a mouth full of pancake. I swallowed and tried again. “Back here.”
He came in wearing his double-breasted leather jacket, rips, scratches, and all. The buckled boots had seen better days, too. In fact, they were nicer yesterday. It highlighted the day we’d had. He had on a fresh pair of jeans and a clean, plain black t-shirt. He set a tray of four styrofoam cups of coffee down on the table.
“Four?” I asked.
“Sure. I mean I’d have gotten you the same as me, but figured a few more would increase my chances of hitting something you like,” he said, before going to wash his hands in the sink with a pitcher of water.
I grabbed the straight black. I needed it.
“Thanks. Which one is yours?” I asked as he came back and sat at the table drying his hands.
“I can’t convince them to order a good African blend so I just stick with—” he paused, looking at each of the cups. “Well that figures,” he sighed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Knight,” I said, grinning and picking out a different cup for him.
He shook his head and drank it, dramatizing how awful he found it.
“You know, Mr. Knight,” I said. “This is by far the most elaborate ruse a man has ever used to get me to spend the night.”
He jerked his cup away and clamped his mouth shut before he choked on his coffee. “It worked didn’t it? Who knew the secret was to have a near death experience followed by a psychotic episode. If only I had known this earlier,” he declared with profundity.
“Apparently,” I said.
He rolled his eyes. “Well, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did because the fun’s over. I got a call on my way back here from a friend in the medical examiner’s office. Says there’s something we need to see.”
He stood and picked out a different cup of coffee.
“Good,” I said. “The earlier the better. Do you know what it’s about?”
“Assistant M.E. is a friend. Sort of. Your friend Harris was there earlier and mentioned to keep us out of it. So she called as soon as he left,” he said.
That bastard.
“Get your game face on, Spurling,” he said.
“Right,” I stood and looked down at what I was wearing. “Do we have time to swing by my apartment?”
* * * *
We had a deal. I could come in with her to check her apartment and make sure it was safe and look for signs anyone had been inside, but I had to leave when it was clear. Oh, and she got to drive the rest of the day. Guess she’d decided she liked it.
I wasn’t thrilled about handing over my baby to someone that didn’t even own a car, but it’s not like she hadn’t had over an hour behind the wheel yesterday. She’d earned it.
By the time I’d regained my bearings last night I worried she’d break down. If that happened, she could have had me thrown off the investigation. Probably fired outright since Henry had been my only advocate. At the end of that tunnel would be special agent Bob. If my tenuous relationship with the FBI fell apart, the consequences would be…let’s just say federal prison would be a dream come true in comparison to the alternatives.
So, I let her drive. Maybe it would help keep her heartened and maintain this strange new working relationship that wasn’t the pain in the ass I thought it would be when she’d sat in my car yesterday. Like I said, she’d earned it. Getting me straight home last night saved my life in more ways than one. I was grateful. Now if only she’d hurry and get back down here.
She ran down the steps with bag in hand two minutes later. She’d changed into jeans and a thin, long sleeved white blouse covered in a dark brown vest with several lighter colored straps that buckled across instead of buttons, and one buckled up the side. It matched her triple buckle belt and shoes. She’d even done her hair in a loose updo, swept back with choppy locks hanging down to the middle of her back. I noticed she had on a clockwork and amber necklace, and a ring that matched, when she got to the car. She’d also put on some light makeup and a darker shade of lipstick. Color me impressed. I couldn’t have done that in seven or eight minutes. Not that I’ve tried or anything.
She ran across the street to the driver’s side, opened it, and tossed me the bag. I sat there as she stood staring until her head tilted. Oh. Right. I rolled my eyes and slid over into the passenger side. Claire gave me a smug smile and hopped in, shut the door, and put on her seatbelt.
“I have something for you. Something I think you might like to try, I mean. It’s in the bag along with the clothes I borrowed,” she said.
I reached inside and found two hard leather cuff bracelets with a thin layer of wool inside. Looked like they would match her adjustable buckles. Looked like they matched her vest, belt, and shoes, too.
“I noticed last night,” she looked over at me. “The wounds on your wrist. They keep reopening and will never heal like that. I thought maybe those would protect the wraps around them. At least they couldn’t make it any worse.”
That was a good idea. They looked like they might make my wrists sweaty and itchy, but the medicated wrappings Djimon put around them was already doing that.
“Thanks,” I said, sliding back my jacket to put them on.
“I know they’ve bothered you. I noticed at the museum. Not the morning, but the night before at the gala. Everyone thought you were joking about the handcuffs. But you weren’t. Were you?”
“Not so much, no. I thought Henry was the only one that believed me. It sure did cost him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, Walker bet him I invented the story to make it sound more exciting. He mentioned it during your speech and I didn’t defend myself. It wasn’t the time or place for that argument and Walker was half drunk and having a good time at Henry’s expense. It would have turned ugly so I didn’t participate. I didn’t know they had a wager on it. Henry paid him two hundred dollars.”
“Is that why you two were arguing over money while everyone was leaving?”
“Yeah. I tried explaining and wanted to pay him back, but he wouldn’t have it. Said he liked letting Walker take advantage of him in a bunch of small ways because it kept him from interfering in more serious ways l
ike he does with some of the other staff,” I said.
“That sounds like something Henry would do,” she said. “And Walker.”
“Say Spurling, you don’t happen to know who it was that asked the waiter to keep my dinner warm in the kitchen that night, do you?” I asked, buckling the cuffs on.
Claire grinned in a way I hadn’t seen on her before. Shyly.
“Buckle up, Knight,” she said without looking at me. She grabbed my belt strap and tightened it down in a swift jerk like I’d done to her the day before.
We made great time, and fifteen minutes later she whipped into an OCME parking space smooth and straight. I had to question whether or not she was, in fact, born a boy considering how natural she was behind the wheel.
Then she punched me in the arm.
We got out and headed around to the side door, as instructed on the phone, to see one of the assistant ME’s, my friend Irish. Dr. Page I suppose now.
That alone was an awkward enough situation to avoid. Had avoided since I’d returned, actually. The last time we spoke it ended with her chasing me and throwing rocks at my back as I ran. I only saw her once after that and she hadn’t even looked at me. If Irish thought it was important enough to talk to me then it was.
We waited outside the side door until someone that wasn’t Irish came to open it.
“You two don’t look like any consultants I’ve ever seen,” said a scrawny young guy in a white lab coat that was two sizes too big. He looked like a kid pretending to go to work with his dad. I made sure I didn’t say any of that out loud, though.
Claire spoke before I could think of anything better to say. “I’m Dr. Spurling, forensic archaeologist with the American Museum of Natural History. This is my colleague, Mr. Knight, an investigator for the museum,” she said, not faking the professionalism at all. She really was a forensic archaeologist. It said so, among a list of other titles, on the badge the museum had given her that she was showing to the little guy. I remembered the museum had given me a fancy new badge too and, not to be outdone, I whipped it out and handed it to him.
