by Brett King
“Stop playing with the dead,” Griffin called from above. “Find the helmet.”
Ignoring her, he studied the coffin’s velvet lining. He yanked, pulling it free from inside the lid. It revealed a wood-grain surface, nothing more. On his knees now, Brynstone examined the interior of the casket near the skull. He moved his fingers along the side lining, finding a small bump. A tingle of excitement ran down his spine. Maybe this would offer a clue about where to find the helmet piece.
He yanked back the lavender velvet. Running his hand along the wooden surface, his finger traced over a hole, a little smaller than the diameter of a pencil. Interesting. He thought it over, then glanced back at the boot.
Brynstone brought out a knife. Véronique looked frightened and backed away.
He grabbed the boot. Slashing it, he peeled back the leather skin above the toe, then stripped the insole. Nothing. He carved open the left boot then cut into the heel pad, revealing a hollow heel base.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“What did you find, Dr. Brynstone?”
No chance hiding it from Griffin. He removed a small golden medallion and held it in the light for her to see.
“Pitch it to me,” Griffin said.
Brynstone had another idea. Staying down, he snatched the monocle from the skull and examined the medallion. Interlaced Celtic knots encircled an embedded emerald protruding from a cross-shaped end. Was the medallion a sort of skeleton key?
“What do you see?” Véronique asked.
He didn’t answer. Pushing aside the corpse, he studied the small hole inside the casket. It had to be a keyhole.
Before Brynstone could insert the medallion into the keyhole, he heard a churning sound overhead. It was August, a time when Parisians slip away on vacation and the city night slowed to a hush. The cemetery had been still and somber until now.
He glanced at the sky.
It sounded like a single-engine light utility helicopter heading toward the cemetery. He guessed it was the French National Police running a security patrol.
“They have a spotlight,” Griffin cried. “Stay down there, Brynstone. If you dare signal the chopper, I’ll put a bullet through your skull.”
Griffin and her men scattered as the helicopter buzzed across the far end of the cemetery. Brynstone was trapped down in the grave.
“Will the helicopter spot us down here?” Véronique asked.
“Better not,” he said. “I don’t want the police involved.”
Fortunately, a network of century-old trees provided cover for the seventy thousand monuments crowded together inside the cemetery. Still, the pilot might spot mounds of dirt piled around the d’Arc gravesite.
Ignoring the helicopter, Brynstone slid the medallion’s cross-shaped end into the keyhole. It was a perfect fit. He turned the medallion. There was the sound of a dull click.
The coffin jolted.
Brynstone felt movement beneath his feet, and the floor shuddered.
The broken skeleton slid toward the foot of the casket, pulling Brynstone with it. He was sliding backward. His vestibular sense told him he was dropping downward. His eyes darted around, trying to make sense of the collapsing floor, but it was too dark, and everything was happening too quickly. Véronique screamed as she clung to the side of the grave. On instinct, he grabbed the casket’s edge. He swung his right foot up and over the side of the coffin. Before he could rise up, the bottom of the casket dropped out from beneath him.
The skeleton plummeted into the darkness below.
Brynstone’s left leg dangled beneath the open-bottomed casket. Cold air blasted his face from an unseen cavern below.
There was a cave beneath the grave.
He kicked his free leg to the side, trying to find a foothold. Suspended by only his fingertips and right foot, Brynstone looked like he was doing a one-legged push-up over the chasm. Véronique tugged on his right leg, trying to secure his foot on the side of the casket. Instead, she fumbled and he lost his footing as dirt slid out from beneath his boot. Brynstone clutched the edges of the casket as his right leg dropped into the empty cavity below.
Overhead, the police helicopter swept its spotlight across monuments and the surrounding trees.
Hanging from his hands now, he realized what had happened. Turning the medallion key in the lock had activated a mechanism that released the casket floor. Like a trapdoor, it had detached from three sides and now hung vertically below the grave. Only hinges attached the swaying floor to the casket’s front edge.
Moving hand over hand, he made his way along the edge of the casket. Loose dirt rained down into his face. He blinked it away. Biting in concentration, he crunched granules of earth between his teeth. A soft whoosh came from Brynstone’s mouth as he spit out dirt.
He couldn’t see the floor of the cavern. It had to be deep down there. No sign of the d’Arc skeleton, but he spied a small rock ledge about eight feet beneath the casket. With arms extended on his six-feet-two-inch frame, it was a short drop.
He let go.
Véronique screamed.
He fell into the darkness, but landed on his feet.
“It’s okay,” he called, catching his breath. “There’s a small ledge down here.”
The chopper roared closer. The sound surprised the woman, and she lost her footing and toppled into the grave. Brynstone reached for her, but she caught the edge of the casket and swung down. Véronique was a better athlete than he had expected. Grabbing a stalactite for balance, he grabbed her hand then brought her to safe footing. She curled onto the small ledge with him, seeming almost ready to cry.
Looking up, he used the headlamp to study the bottom of the casket. It was anchored on each side with beams embedded in the surrounding rock. From down here, the suspended coffin looked as if it were floating in the black air.
It was hard to hear, but it sounded like the helicopter had buzzed away from the gravesite.
He moved around the ledge toward the head of the casket. The floor hung straight down. He grabbed for it, pushing it up. A metal dowel was suspended from the bottom of the casket, designed to hold the floor in place. Raising his arms, he had a standing reach of over eight feet. He grabbed the dowel, then swung up the floor to reconnect the foot end to the casket frame. He repositioned the dowel, clicking closed the lock. It held the whole thing in place like it had never dropped open.
“God, don’t close it,” Véronique said in a panicked voice. “We’ll be trapped down here.”
“See this?” Brynstone said, holding the metal dowel. “It locks and unlocks the casket floor. We’re safe.”
The cavern was darker with the lid closed. Dust particles drifted in lazy patterns inside the glare of their headlamps.
“Listen,” Véronique said. “I hear voices.”
Although muffled overhead, the words made their way down through the casket. The helicopter had flown away and he heard Griffin’s voice in the stillness.
“What happened to Brynstone?” Griffin demanded. “Where’s the bloody skeleton?”
“Tried to watch the grave, but the helicopter was too close,” Torn Kane explained. “Brynstone and Véronique crawled out.”
“He found a medallion,” Griffin spat. “Where is it?”
Brynstone frowned. When the casket floor had swung open beneath him, he dropped to the ledge, denying him the chance to remove the medallion key from the lock. It was still up there.
“Search the coffin,” Griffin ordered. “Maybe he dropped the medallion when he escaped. The rest of you, come with me. We need to find him.”
Brynstone glanced at Véronique. In the illumination of his headlamp, he saw her crooked smile. She held up the medallion key.
“You have it?” he whispered in disbelief.
“That’s why I was worried about you locking us down here.”
“Like I said, we can unlock the floor with that mechanism.” He took the medallion. “Nice work.”
There was a loud thud overhead as one of Griffin’s men dropped into the casket. The impact caused a dark cloud of dust to billow around the pair on the ledge below.
Brynstone covered his mouth, suppressing a cough. Moving from beneath the grave, he made a discovery. Carved from limestone, a series of stairs descended about twenty feet down, melting into blackness.
He looked back.
Véronique reclined on a flat rock to shake pebbles from her shoes. Not waiting for her, he moved down the stairs and peered around the corner. He had to see.
He found a second ledge down here. It curved around the rock wall, but it was difficult to see without exploring. He knew something had to be down here. The casket had served as a trapdoor for a reason.
The ledge ran narrow and disappeared deep into the cavern. He heard footfalls behind him.
“You did not wait for me,” Véronique called, brushing dust from her hair. She hurried over, excited to see him.
“I was coming back.”
“How long should we hide down here?”
“Griffin’s men still searching the grave?”
“Oui. Nothing is safe as long as they remain up there.”
He glanced at the ledge. “Might be another way out. Don’t know. I’ll check.”
She clutched his hand. “I will not stay here alone.”
Brynstone studied her. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 2
New York City
3:15 p.m.
He was watching her.
Cori Cassidy was sure of it. She had first noticed the man after stopping to buy water from one of the many street vendors lining the Central Park Reservoir. She had spotted him lurking behind the drooping oak trees as she slowly unrolled dollar bills stuffed in her running shorts. He was super fit and bare-chested like some guy you’d see on the cover of Runner’s World. She placed him at around thirty. The stranger grabbed his right foot and pulled it behind his butt, doing a standing quad stretch.
Is he one of them?
She couldn’t tell and she wasn’t hanging around to find out. Cori tried to look casual as she capped her Poland Spring bottle and adjusted her sunglasses. Petite in build, she was dressed in high-cut black running shorts and a plain white T-shirt. Her short, sun-bleached blonde hair was pulled in a barely there ponytail that poked through the back of a pink baseball cap. She had been listening to her favorite “get pumped” running mix, but she pulled the earbuds out of her ears now and tucked them into her bra strap to stay better aware of her surroundings.
She hurried out from beneath the leafy canopy overhanging the bridal path and navigated around a chocolate-colored puddle. Summer rain had hit the city during the night. The early-August storm had bled muddy ruts in the track hugging the reservoir. Dodging tourists and locals, she weaved around them as she headed for the street. Despite all the people, she felt vulnerable here.
At the park’s edge, a dozen Girl Scouts headed her way, drawing attention with their exuberance. Three giggling blue-eyed girls took the lead, their hands interlaced. Two Scouts had straight, shimmering brown hair, and there was a curly blonde between them. Their perky Scout leader offered a warm smile as they passed. Moving alongside the troop, Cori turned and looked for the man. No sign of him.
As she sprinted to the edge of the park, she took another quick glance. The stranger hadn’t followed her. At least, not that she could see.
At twenty-seven, she was a graduate student at Columbia University. She had studied at Johns Hopkins before meeting John Brynstone and Edgar Wurm, two men who had changed her life. Her world was turned upside down after Wurm’s death. Against her father’s wishes, she’d dropped out of graduate school four years ago and had drifted from one soul-draining job to another, before deciding to return to psychology. To her relief, Columbia had taken a chance on her two years ago. She’d completed her master’s degree and was hard at work on a doctorate. Starting next month, she would become an extern at the university’s Clinic for Anxiety and Related Disorders for Children.
She’d turned her life around, big-time. Still, something kept pulling her back here.
Exiting on Ninety-Second Street and walking along the cobblestone sidewalk that lined the outskirts of Central Park, Cori headed down Fifth Avenue for several blocks before making a left on Eighty-Sixth. A feeling haunted her. She shouldn’t be here. It was a bad idea. That’s what she was saying to herself, but another part of her mind won the battle today, drawing her to this street. She was in a war with herself, thoughts and emotions colliding inside her head. But none of that made her stop—she had to see for herself.
Around the corner, a doorman in a gray suit watched her suspiciously from the Neue Galerie, and Cori thought he recognized her from other times. The man reached for his cell. Was he calling the police? Frozen on the sidewalk, she thought about running, until an elderly couple approached the doorman. He ditched the phone then opened the door. The couple entered the museum’s Café Sabarsky, no doubt to enjoy a Linzer torte with a nice cup of Viennese espresso.
Making it look like she belonged here, Cori headed for a hot-dog cart parked near the corner. Ducking beneath the cart’s yellow and blue umbrella, she stood behind an overweight guy, his stomach bulging in a gray Tribeca softball shirt, and a woman dressed in a fashionable black jacket with matching skirt.
Cori shifted her head, making a discreet glance at the museum. The man had moved inside. She heaved a sigh of relief. First the runner in the park. Now the doorman. Her paranoia was on hyperdrive today.
Peering around a row of soft drinks perched atop the silver cart, she glanced across East Eighty-Sixth. The Brandonstein Center for Gifted Children occupied a narrow four-story building in the middle of the block. With a distinctive brick façade, the building was wedged between a parking garage and a suite of dental offices. It didn’t look like a school. Most people probably didn’t know it was one. Pots of shrubs and flowers dotted the balcony. The Brandonstein Center operated year round and was dedicated to working with exceptional kids while charging their parents an exorbitant tuition. Only twelve children were accepted each term. The school had been anxious to recruit Shayna Brynstone. Throughout its twenty-year history, she had been only the third child to receive a full scholarship.
A few months short of her sixth birthday, Shayna emerged from the private school along with a handful of children and adults. Cori couldn’t explain it, but she knew the child was special, even though they hadn’t spoken since Shayna was a year old. More than anything, Cori wanted to spend time getting to know the little girl, but that wasn’t a possibility.
She searched for Shayna’s mother in the small crowd. Strange. Kaylyn Brynstone usually waited on the steps outside the school. Where was she today?
“What can I get ya?” the sidewalk vendor asked.
“Bottle of water.”
As she handed over cash, her cell rang. It was her brother, Jared. She grabbed the cold drink before answering his call.
“Guess what, Cori? I’m in town. Last-minute business trip.”
“I thought you were in Boston.”
“Finished early,” Jared Cassidy answered. “I’m at the airport.”
As her brother talked, Cori glanced halfway down the street and noticed a bald man standing outside a suite of medical offices. He wore eyeglasses and a suit, sporting a European dark-on-dark look. It was the third time she’d spied the man near the private school. He seemed to be watching Shayna.
“Cori?” her brother asked. “Did you hear me?”
“Hmm? Yeah,” she said, returning attention to his call.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Great. Kinda busy right now.”
She watched the bald man. There was no mistaking
it; he was looking at Shay. Was he a creepy child molester scouting his next prey? No. He wore an earpiece this time. He also had his cell out now. Was he running surveillance on the child?
“So, I need to ask something,” Jared said. “Be honest, sis. Are you watching that little girl again?”
The question shocked her back into the conversation.
“Um, no,” she lied.
“Cori, you need to stop it. I’m serious. You’re not a stalker or anything, but this is turning into an obsess—”
“It’s not an obsession.”
“Yeah, it is. You don’t go out anymore. You haven’t dated anyone in forever. I talked to Troy. He’s asked you out three times. He said another guy tried, too. You’re turning everyone down.”
“I’m a grad student. I don’t have a life. I don’t have time for a relationship right now.”
Cori studied the bald man, trying to memorize his features. Really, he looked no different from any other business guy outside a Fifth Avenue town house. Oval-shaped face with a narrow forehead. Pronounced cheekbones. Rectangular frameless glasses.
On the phone, Jared was saying, “Look, I know you feel responsible in some weird way for that Brynstone girl, but you shouldn’t.”
“I’m worried about her.”
“And I’m worried about you. Listen, I need to grab my bags and make another call. We’ll meet at your apartment in an hour or so. Get an early dinner or something.”
“’Kay, great,” she said, ready to end the call. “See you soon, Jared.”
Hanging up, she gulped a drink of water. The condensation-covered bottle almost slipped out of her hands. Steeling her nerves, she made up her mind to confront the guy who was watching Shayna. Cori had to know why he was here. Clenching her fists, she marched toward him. The man didn’t see her coming. She tried to work up a tough look. She played the conversation in her head, deciding what to say.
From behind, a hand grabbed her arm. Cori yelped in surprise.
