The Forgotten Mountain (The Collectors' Society Book 3)

by Heather Lyons

  “This room is . . .” She whistles. “It’s pretty much destroyed. The woman is a librarian; these are rare books and documents! I cannot believe she would destroy them so willingly. It’s a miracle nobody heard the ruckus.”

  “She knew our true identities, Mary.”

  My friend squats down next to me, her fingers flying across the cell phone in her hand. “Should we take her back to the Institute for further questioning?”

  Before I can answer, the doors crash open. There stand a pair of security guards, weapons drawn.

  Mary jerks up, extending her hands and phone. “Thank God! My friend and I were here to look at some books for research, and the woman at the desk went crazy! She started shooting at us!” She waves the phone. “I was just calling 911!”

  One of the men pulls out what I think is called a walkie talkie and issues a statement for backup. The other guard inches forward, his gun pointed unsteadily at us.

  I could knock it out of his hands with a single kick. How utterly annoying. Even still, I reluctantly hold my hands up, slowly, purposely rising to my feet.

  Mary’s voice turns shrill. “What kind of library is this? Since when do librarians carry guns with silencers? Look at that thing.” She motions toward the weapon, now several feet behind us. “Somebody better call the police! I want this woman arrested—you better believe I’m going to press charges!”

  The security guard stares down at Jenn Ammer, his brow wrinkled. It’s then that she mumbles, “Kill . . . you filthy . . . little pigs . . .”

  “See?” Mary screeches.

  What I see is further proof that Lygari’s associates are terrifying in their ability to keep on going when others would fall or yield.

  “My God,” the security guard whispers. “Miss Ammer has lost her damn mind. What were you two doing that set her off?”

  “Nothing!” Mary’s eyes are comically wide. “We asked her about a donor, that’s all. And she pulled out a gun and shot at us . . . a bunch of times! Thank goodness Alice here has a black belt in karate, or who knows what would have happened to us?” She promptly bursts into tears.

  Well, now. Mary is a much better actress than I think I’ve given her credit for.

  “Ma’am?” The security guard lowers his gun, tucking it in his belt. “Are you all right? Your shoulder is bleeding.”

  I glance down at my arm. “One of her bullets grazed me.”

  The other security guard says from across the room, “What a fucking nightmare.” And then, when Mary wails louder, “Pardon my French, ladies.”

  The police are summoned. We give our statements. The Society is notified and a barrister is sent to assist us. An ambulance arrives to tend my wounds. Thankfully, an examination of the silent security footage proves our story—Jenn Ammer attacked us, unprovoked. A long-time employee of the library willfully destroyed priceless property.

  Her ass, as Mary mutters gleefully later, is grass, whatever that means.

  I am commended by a supervising police sergeant for my quick thinking and ability to subdue our assailant. A library administer who listened in on our questioning and recollection of events apologizes profusely. The Society’s barrister threatens legal action, and before long, we are escorted home in a police car.

  By the time we arrive, it is well after midnight. My blood boils at all the wasted minutes spent trying to explain yet cover up Ammer’s true motives. It is now well over twenty-four hours since Finn and Victor disappeared, since 1905/06Sōs-IAAC was destroyed within our walls.

  Sleep and I, I grimly decide, will not be friends for some time.

  “YOU SHOULD GET SOME rest.”

  I glance up from strapping a pair of daggers to a holster strapped to my thighs to find the A.D. leaning against the doorframe of the weapons room. I tug my hem of my dress down before I respond. “What have you learned about Jenn Ammer?”

  He sighs quietly at my change of subject. In his hands is a tablet. “We’ve got someone still looking into it, but the basic gist is that, until today, her life has been uneventful. I mean, almost like she hasn’t even existed until just recently. She has no police record, not even a parking ticket to her name. I can’t even find a birth certificate. She’s unmarried and tends to keep to herself according to those who know her. Her colleagues are in shock right now. Nobody can believe that she shot up part of the library.”

  I slip a small blade inside the sole of a special pair of boots Kip, the Society’s trainer and weapons specialist, gifted me recently. “How long has she been with the New York Public Library?”

  “Almost a decade—and she nabbed the rare book’s specialist position as her first job. Other employees were pretty surprised that someone so green got such a specialized position.”

  I tug on a coat. “Where’s Van Brunt?”

  “He’s coordinating with an asset we have inside the NYPD so we can question Ammer under the radar.”

  Good. I slip the straps of my bag over my head so it crosses over my body. “And Mary?”

  Van Brunt’s assistant is more subdued than normal as he warily regards me. “She said to let you know she’ll meet us downstairs.”

  “Us?”

  “I’m going with.” He straightens. “Can’t let you ladies have all the fun, can I?”

  Just when I was worried he’d gone and matured, he says something like this. “Don’t get in my way.”

  “Wouldn’t dream about it, Your Majesty.” A flourished bow is offered before he swipes across his tablet. “Marianne says that the apartment building has a fairly standard yet highly dependable security system. Every floor has cameras, and there is a doorman in the main entrance and a security guard on duty. Now, the guard has a specific route he takes throughout the building every evening. He isn’t scheduled to come back to his office until four-thirty a.m., and typically monitors floors three and four during the three o’clock hour. All other entrances are locked at all times except for emergencies. According to the file you and Mary brought back from your trashing of the museum—”

  I heave out a disgruntled sigh as I push past him, into the hallway.

  “—Gabriel Pfeifer lives on the twelfth floor, in 1202. Schematics show it’s an average apartment for the building.”

  “Meaning?”

  He hurries to catch up with me. “Meaning, when there are several penthouses in the upper floors, Pfeifer’s digs aren’t as splashy as they could be. Current property values show his to be worth around one-point-two million dollars, as opposed to ten million plus for the swanky ones. You’d think a dude who has a place like Bücherei could afford a better apartment.”

  I head toward the elevator. “What else do the blueprints show?”

  “It’s a standard three bedrooms, two baths, just under two thousand square feet. Pfeifer paid cash for it about twenty years ago and owns it free and clear. No renovation permits have been filed since purchase.”

  A ding sounds; the elevator doors open. I step inside and press the button for the lobby. “Anything else?”

  The A.D. glances down at the tablet. “Marianne says that there is an additional security system installed within his unit, one similar to that found at Bücherei. Since she’s already figured out the coding to override it, we’ll have no trouble tripping anything once we’re inside. She can deal with it remotely. It’s just getting into the building that’s going to be a challenge.”

  “I’m sure you have an idea about how to overcome such odds, don’t you, Master Thief?”

  Another flourished bow is offered. “Of course. Marianne has made us a little bomb of sorts.”

  “As much as I want Lygari’s head,” I say coldly, “I will not risk innocents.”

  He titters nervously. “You’re always so literal, Your Majesty! Marianne has whipped up a virus that we can install into the building’s security system that will render the monitors useless for approximately fifteen minutes. It ought to give us enough time to get up there and have a look around. I’ve got a flash driv
e with it in my pocket right now.”

  I watch the lights on the buttons count down. “Fifteen minutes is not much time.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” he says, “is more than zero.”

  “How will we get this virus into the security system?”

  “Leave it to me.” He clicks off his tablet and tucks it beneath his arm. “All you and Mary need to do is take care of the doorman while I do the rest.”

  The elevator dings once more, announcing our arrival. As the door slides open and I step into the hallway, I ask, “Anything else I ought to know?”

  “Just that the Society lawyer who was at the library with you guys advises against this. He thinks you two ought to lay low, especially as you were asking about Pfeifer at the library.”

  “And Van Brunt?”

  “The boss man trusts you to do what it takes.”

  The Librarian is with Mary when we enter the battered lobby. Whilst most of the rubble has been swept away, there are still holes in the walls and white powder coating the paint. I make sure to look at every blemish, at every gap and every space where art once stood, to remind myself what Gabriel Lygari/Pfeifer is capable of.

  It is nearly three o’clock in the morning. A debriefing with the barrister (whose name I honestly did not care to remember or notice), Van Brunt, and a handful of others took longer than I’d hoped. Exhaustion thrashes my bones and muscles, but the determination burning in my veins is much stronger. Every minute I allow Lygari/Pfeifer to get away makes it all the more difficult to find him.

  I have not seen Finn in well over a day. He was stabbed. Hurt.

  I must close my eyes at the last image I have of him. An explosion sent my beloved flying back against a wall and the door before me winking away before I could do anything to help. His pen came with me, breaking upon contact. He and Victor had no way to edit, no way out.

  He cannot be dead. He cannot.

  When I open my eyes, I focus on the Librarian. “Did you know Jenn Ammer?”

  “Yes,” she says simply.

  “Have you met her face to face?”

  Her lips twist ruefully. “No. We’ve spoken over the telephone before, though.”

  “Did you consider her to be an asset?”

  “No.”

  “Why?” Before she can answer, I press, “One would think that you would want to cultivate a relationship with the head of the Rare Books Division.”

  “I did not need her as an asset because there are other assets within the organization who were more useful.”

  Mary scoffs. “You mean Bianca Jones?”

  “Bianca Jones,” the Librarian says, “has great promise. But no, she is not who I speak of.”

  I wait, but she offers no further clarification. Mary, instead, makes a pointed comment beneath her breath about what great promise means.

  I have not the temperament for the Librarian and her riddles at this moment. I turn toward the door, but she stays me with a hand. “Alice, a brief word before you go?” She nods at both the A.D. and Mary, who then exit the building quickly.

  I’m curt. “Yes?”

  “You must trust your instincts.”

  My eyebrows lift upward. “So you keep saying.”

  Her bright eyes are somber as she tilts her head, studying me. A delicate hand reaches out and gently smoothes a wrinkle on the sleeve of my coat before patting my arm. Without another word, she turns around and walks away.

  She’s simply, utterly creepy.

  I emerge from the building to find the A.D. and Mary huddled close together. Tiny flakes of white fall from the sky, sticking to the sidewalk and our hair and coats. Frabjous. It would have to go and start snowing.

  “Ready?” the A.D. asks.

  A sleek black vehicle rests at the curb before the Institute. Inside is a sleepy older agent whose name I believe might be C. Auguste Dupin.

  “Best not to rouse suspicion with cabs,” the A.D. explains. And then he adds to my pleasant surprise by holding the door open for us.

  Mary pats his cheek before she slips in.

  Dupin doesn’t say a word or even acknowledge us when he begins driving. The ride to the building is not long at all, not at this hour. Music fills the space between us, melodies far too upbeat for such an hour. And still, it helps keep my eyes open, my senses alert.

  It’s at times like this I wish I’d given coffee a better try.

  Once we arrive, Dupin shuts off the car and pulls out a book, silently dismissing us. The building in front of us isn’t as tall as many others in this city, but it is beautiful. Graceful arches and carved stone decorate the face; above us, gargoyles perch as mute sentries.

  Van Brunt’s assistant turns to Mary. “You’re a sloppy drunk, okay?”

  She shows him a finger that is rather all too impolite.

  It doesn’t faze him one whit. Chuckling, he presses a button outside the door, underneath an awning. A sleepy voice cackles over a speaker next to it. “Hello?”

  “Um yes, hi.” The A.D. sounds entirely unlike himself and more American than anything else. “We’re here to go to Kristina Floreatetona’s apartment, number 1204?”

  The speaker hisses quietly as we wait. Seconds later, the voice says, “I’m afraid Miss Floreatetona is not in residence right now.”

  “Yeah. Yeah! She’s on a cruise right now, down in the Bahamas, lucky girl.” The A.D. titters a bit more. “We work with her at Smith and Peterson. She’s asked us to feed her fish while she was gone. We just got out of a nightclub, and it’s late, but . . . even fish need to eat, right?”

  “I have no such—” The speaker falls silent. “Oh. I see here. Miss Floreatetona left a note about this. Hold, please.”

  A buzzing sounds, and then a click. The A.D. offers us an impish smile as he holds the door open. I whisper as we pass, “How did you know all that?”

  He whispers right back, “It’s called the internet.”

  The lobby of Pfeifer’s building is delightfully warm. It’s clean, with decent artwork on the walls and comfortable-appearing furniture mixed amongst plants. A man in a suit and nametag perches upon a stool behind a small stand, proffering a clipboard. “You’ll need to sign in before heading up.”

  Mary takes the clipboard from him. “God, this must be the most boring job ever, right?” Her voice is unnaturally loud and chipper.

  A quick glance shows a camera to the right, angled toward the main doorway. Nearby, just to the left of the doorman’s post, is a closed door marked SECURITY.

  Not even a hint of a smile surfaces on the man’s face at Mary’s comment.

  She stumbles over to the window, peering out. “Can you believe it’s snowing? I wish I were with Kristina, on that cruise. I’m utterly over winter, aren’t you?”

  He watches her without the smallest bit of interest. Behind him, the A.D. quietly makes his way to the marked door. He slips a funny-looking tool out of his pocket, his back angled just right toward the camera so nothing will be caught on film. Leaning against the door, appearing as if he’s doing nothing other than waiting, one hand eases a sharp point of the tool into the lock.

  Mary promptly drops the clipboard, stumbling. “Oh! Oh!” She laughs merrily. “I might have had a lot to drink tonight.”

  In the mild chaos, the A.D. briefly wiggles his tool. The door opens quietly.

  The doorman steps away from his stand, as if he will pick the clipboard up for her. The moment he bends down, she does, too. Their heads smack together, leaving Mary profusely apologizing and giggling and the poor doorman utterly exasperated with her shenanigans.

  I make my way over to them, blocking the direction of the office. “It appears I cannot take you anywhere without you acting the fool, can I?”

  Her smile is appropriately disheveled.

  The doorman tries once more to pick up the clipboard, and once more, Mary clonks her head to his. She falls to the ground, giggling even harder. “I am so sorry! How embarrassing!” She grapples at the clipboard, only to qu
ickly drop it. “My fingers are a little numb.”

  “I’m afraid she’s drunk,” I say to the doorman.

  He snorts quietly. “I would have never guessed.” And then, a little louder, “Perhaps you ought to be the one to feed Miss Floreatetona’s fish. And fill out the form.”

  Mary passes me the clipboard right when the A.D. slips back out of the office. I cough loudly when he clicks the door shut. “Any day now, ladies. Some of us have to work in a few hours.”

  Mary is up off the ground within a second. I scrawl three random names upon the sheet and pass the clipboard back to the doorman before we make our way to the elevator.

  Inside, we say nothing. It takes well over a minute for us to climb to the twelfth floor, but once the doors open and we find no one in the hallway, we sprint toward 1202. The A.D. has his special tool out once more, jiggling it in the lock. It takes him only moments before we’re able to push into the flat.

  He flips on the light. Unlike Bücherei’s current state, this abode is fully furnished. There are couches and chairs, lamps, and a few framed paintings on the walls. Mary tugs three pairs of special Society-issue glasses out for us that have cameras attached, issuing the instruction we are to document all that we see. The Artful Dodger immediately heads into one of the bedrooms whilst I locate an office. A rather large desk rests against a curtained window. Unfortunately for me, the majority of the drawers are filled with boring items such as pens, scissors, and rubber bands. One drawer has a stack of envelopes within, but a quick scan of the contents presents utility bills nearing their due date.

  I fling open the closet; a singular wool coat hangs within. Nothing is in the pockets. A second bedroom is searched: beneath the bed, in the nightstand, in the closet. Only a few suit coats, dress shirts, and slacks folded neatly over hangers are present. A lone pair of highly shined shoes sit on a shelf. The A.D. appears, shaking his head in frustration. He’s found nothing, as well. Mary emerges from the third bedroom, also empty-handed. Whilst the A.D. heads to one of the bathrooms, I tackle the sitting room. There is nothing on the coffee table and only a pair of candles upon the end tables. No television, no knickknacks to hide anything beneath. I am close to shouting when Mary announces quietly we have seven minutes left.