Next he looked to see if the refrigerator would be worth raiding, come lunchtime. The contents were minimal, consisting very largely of three-fourths of a large pizza that someone had providentially frozen a month or two ago. Right now the icy chunks didn’t look all that appealing inside their plastic wrap.
His first act on reentering his private room was to turn on his computer. After checking for e-mail, and answering a few messages that seemed deserving of attention, he paused, trying to think of the most effective methods for searching the web for people’s names. If he had somehow let Uncle Matt down Tuesday night, he would now try to do whatever he could to make amends.
And now, seemingly for no good reason, there popped up a sudden memory of something that he had dreamt during his strange sleep at Uncle Matt’s. A dream of running, trying to escape pursuers, through a strange environment that now made Andy think of Egypt—a place that he had never visited.
The more he thought back to that Tuesday evening at Uncle Matt’s, the stranger the whole scene grew in Andy’s memory. It seemed that something very odd had happened, but nobody was going to tell him what.
Andy sat down on the edge of his bed. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that for most of his life he had been aware of some nagging oddity regarding the rarely seen presence in his life of the man named Matthew Maule. There was mystery, beyond the accepted fact that he was really no blood relative. As if there was something important and vaguely worrisome about him that neither Andy nor his sister had ever been told. Their parents knew all about the secret bit of business, whatever it might be, but the older generation, Lenore and Andrew, Kate’s parents, probably did not.
He thought he could remember Dad telling him, years ago, that Uncle Matt had been a close friend of his, Andy’s, great-grandmother Clarissa Harker. But that didn’t make a whole lot of sense, for Uncle Matt couldn’t be more than about forty, and Andy remembered hearing from the family that great-grandma Harker had died more than twenty years ago, back in 1979, before Andy was even born. People talked vaguely about the awful snowstorm of that year, which had come, like a bad omen, just at the darkest hour of family trouble.
That was also the time when, among other things, his Mom, Kate, had been mistakenly reported dead, her body in the morgue. And at the same time the kidnappers of teenaged Uncle John had torn a finger from each of his hands, as a demonstration that they really had him in their power.
But now, a generation later, with the world solidly into the twenty-first century, no one in the family ever talked much about those episodes of nightmare. At least no one spoke of them when Andy was around. Dad and Mom even seemed to have forgotten about the kidnappers—though as far as Andy knew, those dirty bastards had never been caught, or even accurately identified.
Nor did Andy’s mom and dad ever have much to say about Uncle Matt, despite the fact that they were always willing to do anything they could to help him out.
But he’d worry about that later. Right now there was a little task, something possibly useful, to be done. If he could take care of one detail that Uncle Matt had asked him to look into, that might help straighten things out.
Flamel. All right. Probably it was spelled just like it sounded. Anyway, he’d try that spelling first.
Moving out to the kitchen, he tried the enormous Chicago phone book, which gave no help. Of course Uncle Matt would have thought of looking there himself.
He was back in his room now. There were a number of web sites connected in one way or another to the student organizations and clubs at TMU. If you knew how to look for things, it shouldn’t take you long to find them; Andy thought he knew better than most. In this matter he was already a step ahead: last week he had had some fun figuring out, just for the hell of it, a way to get a look at the full roster of student and faculty names, all the addresses and home phone numbers that the university thought they were keeping confidential.
In just under a minute he had succeeded in calling that privileged roster up again. Bingo! Right away, just as easy as that, he had discovered one, and only one, possibility: Flamel, Dolores, student. No e-mail address, but there was a phone number. She was listed as living in apartment 2A, at an address not many blocks from Andy’s. It was an area where a lot of students lived.
Andy’s next step was to see if, using her name, he could find her anywhere on the web. In that attempt he came up blank. He rocked back in his chair, whistling tunelessly between his teeth. What now? Call the unknown Dolores on the phone, just to see what she was like? But he had not the foggiest idea of what he ought to say to her, if anything. Of course he couldn’t be sure that this was the right Flamel, and besides that he didn’t know if Uncle Matt was trying to contact her or avoid her. Obviously his next move was to let Uncle Matt know what he had discovered.
The only response Andy got from Uncle Matt’s number was an answering machine, his uncle’s voice saying it was ready to accept messages for Matthew Maule. Andy dutifully delivered the name and address he’d discovered, adding a few words of explanation.
After that Andy scrounged in the refrigerator for lunch, still eschewing the frozen pizza, and just about wiping out the remaining possibilities, which consisted of stale bread, a small package of processed cheese, and a tired apple. Then, telling himself sternly he needed to get some studying done, in anticipation of next semester’s intense demands, he regretfully put his computer to sleep.
Fortunately the books he had on hand provided some interesting content, and the hours went by rapidly as he read.
He had opened several windows, and by late afternoon a little breeze was blowing in, making the world feel more like spring than summer. Andy started to grow restless and went out for a walk.
Presently, remembering the apartment’s notable lack of provisions, he treated himself to an early dinner at a hamburger joint whose chili and french fries he found somewhat above average. Coming out on the sidewalk again, into the slanting sunlight of late afternoon, he felt too restless to return immediately to his apartment, and decided to walk some more. It seemed like he’d been lying around a lot the past couple of days, sleeping too much.
When Andy realized that his feet were carrying him toward the address listed for Dolores Flamel, he yielded to the impulse and continued in that direction. He could simply walk past her building and look it over, with the vague idea of somehow picking up another morsel or two of information to pass on to Uncle Matt.
Her building turned out to be not much different from Andy’s, or a thousand others in the city: three stories, brick, rectangular, and generally dull.
A vague impulse to seek excitement suggested that he ring Dolores’s doorbell, just to see, if he could, what she looked like, or at least hear her voice. He envisioned, first, a slinky European-type woman whose age seemed as indeterminate as Uncle Matt’s; next an old crone, whose relationship to Matthew Maule was hard to imagine; and then a sexy young secret agent, in the employ of some foreign government. But the closer he got to her building’s front door, the more unwise seemed the idea of calling on her. Hell, though, he could at least take a look at the list of tenants’ names sure to be posted in the lobby. From that he might be able to tell if anyone was sharing her apartment. That would provide another nugget of information for Uncle Matt.
As Andy approached the front entrance of the building, he noticed an older man, somewhat undersized, arrayed in dark glasses and a straw hat with a colorful band, loitering as if waiting for someone in one of the long, comfortable late-afternoon shadows cast by curbside trees. The man’s arms, below the short sleeves of his sport shirt, gleamed pinkly as if they had been sunburned before being lathered with some kind of lotion or sunblock.
The fellow was red-cheeked, as if with excitement or embarrassment. He might not be waiting for anyone, Andy thought, but trying to get up the nerve to ring a doorbell.
The dark glasses seemed to focus on Andy as he approached, as if something about Andy made the man decide he w
as the one he had been waiting for.
Andy would have walked right past him, ignored the building, and gone right on down the street, but the man moved hesitantly into his way. The approach was almost cringing rather than aggressive, but the man making it seemed too well-dressed for a panhandler. And his first words had nothing to do with money.
His voice was soft and hesitant, touched with an accent that struck Andy as vaguely European-sounding. “Excuse me, sir, but if I am not mistaken, I believe I recognize you as a relative of Mr. Matthew Maule?”
That brought Andy to a surprised, reluctant halt. “Ahh, yes. I am.”
“I thought so, I thought so.” The soft voice sighed relief. “Oh, this is a happy discovery! You and I were both present Tuesday night in Mr. Maule’s apartment. Perhaps he has mentioned me to you? My name is Dickon?” The rising inflection seemed to make it a question. At the same time the speaker nodded encouragingly, like a salesman who dearly wanted the potential customer to agree with him.
“Mr. Dickon,” said Andy, and stalled there, wondering what else to add. He didn’t want to admit that much of Tuesday night was still a blur. And the more he looked at Mr. Dickon’s face, the more he began to think he ought to recognize it—had anyone else been in Matthew Maule’s apartment Tuesday night?
As soon as Andy asked himself the question, he remembered—sort of. Before falling asleep in front of the computer, he, Andy, had been deep in concentration, and Uncle Matt and one or two other people had walked by him, talking.
Had this man been one of them? Andy couldn’t say; it was certainly not impossible.
Meanwhile Mr. Dickon continued to be the fawning salesman. “Were you—if it is not an imposition to ask—were you by any chance on your way to call on Ms. Flamel?” He inclined his head toward the apartment building.
“Well, ahh—”
It was evident that Mr. Dickon had some kind of problem, and whatever it was, it was making him very nervous. His jaw twitched, as if he wanted to ask more questions, but was afraid.
Something suddenly clicked in Andy’s memory. He said: “This may not make much sense, but—I seem to remember someone in Uncle Matt’s apartment, Wednesday morning, saying something about you—someone of your name—being on the roof of the public library? I’m sorry if that sounds crazy.”
Mr. Dickon looked alarmed, then managed to recover. “No, no, just a little joke, I assure you.” Now one of the questions he had been keeping back burst out. “And how is your—uncle?—today? That is, I believe, your exact relationship with Matthew Maule?”
“Yes, that’s right.” This didn’t seem like the time to go into any involved explanations. “Far as I know, Uncle Matt’s okay. He was fine Wednesday morning.”
Dickon made a little moaning sound, hard to interpret. It might have expressed relief. He had clasped his hands in front of him. “I am glad to hear it. Did your esteemed uncle—did he say anything in particular about me?”
“Not that I remember.” This fellow seemed harmless enough; maybe he could provide more information about Dolores Flamel.
Dickon seemed excruciatingly in need of more information himself, but for some reason just asking for it required all his courage. “I do not believe I caught your name?”
“Sorry. I’m Andy Keogh.”
“Ahh.” It was as if a sudden light had dawned. “Is it possible that Mr. Joseph Keogh is your relative—?”
“He’s my dad. You know him?”
“Regrettably, not really. We may have met briefly, once, years ago. I trust that he is well? Excellent.” Dickon clasped his hands prayerfully. “Tell me, Mr. Keogh, do you remember my companion, Mr. Tamarack, who was with me on Tuesday in the apartment of your uncle?”
“Tamarack. No. Sorry, I never heard of anyone by that name. I guess I was really concentrating on the computer thing that night.”
“I see.” Dickon nodded slowly. It was hard to tell if the information left him downcast or relieved; at least some of the tension had gone out of him.
~ 8 ~
Though Andy hadn’t asked for any accounting, Dickon began a nervous explanation of his presence outside Miss Dolores Flamel’s apartment building. It seemed that Dickon and her grandfather, Nicolas Flamel, were partners in a business arrangement of great importance. It was vital that he, Dickon, be able to talk to Miss Flamel, and soon, because it seemed that something bad must have happened to her grandfather.
“Sorry to hear that.”
But, alas, he, Dickon, had never actually met the young lady. “We have conversed briefly on the phone, but that is all. It would be so helpful if you could introduce us. On the phone it is so hard to prove one’s identity!”
Suddenly Andy was intrigued by the prospect of introducing to each other two people he had never met before—and, while he was at it, probably gaining some more information for Uncle Matt. “I can take a shot at it, if you like.”
A few moments later, he and Dickon were standing inside the narrow lobby. It reminded Andy strongly of his own building, with the two side walls lined with a score or more of inset mailboxes. The inner door, paneled entirely in small panes of glass, was locked, of course, a barrier to everyone but residents with keys. Looking over the rows of buttons next to the mailboxes, the visitors took note of the fact that number 2A had “Flamel” lettered in fresh-looking pencil on the paper insert just beside it. There was no other name.
Dickon’s long-nailed, pointing finger hesitated, and it was Andy who finally pushed the button. In a moment a voice had answered over the scratchy intercom, sounding female, clear, and ready for business.
“Yes?”
The nervous one cleared his throat. “It is Mr. Dickon here, Ms. Flamel. It is urgent that we talk.”
A moment later the doorlock buzzer sounded, granting visitors brief access. A minute after that, Andy (with Dickon sticking to him like chewing gum, murmuring encouragement) was knocking at the door of apartment 2A, and wondering exactly what he was going to say when it opened.
His first thought when the door did open was: She’s much too young to be Uncle Matt’s girlfriend.
Dolores Flamel’s chin was up, and her demeanor wary. No slinky secret agent here, and certainly no crone. A little on the short side, and sturdy would be a better description than shapely—though definitely not fat. Andy thought her age must be very close to his own, maybe a year or two older. Clear skin showed a lot of established tan, as if she spent a lot of time outdoors. Wide-spaced hazel eyes, with the beginning of fine sunwrinkles at the corners. A few locks of sun-bleached hair tried to escape from under a kind of turban improvised from a faded towel. Besides the turban, she was wearing jeans, gym shoes, and a fairly new-looking pullover shirt emblazoned with the standard TMU emblem. Here was a practical young woman, just interrupted in the midst of some physical job, packing or housecleaning. Whatever was keeping her busy today, it had nothing to do with trying to look glamorous.
The apartment behind and around Ms. Flamel had an unsettled look, as if someone was in the process of coming or going. Books and boxes were scattered about on tables and the floor, and the walls were bare of decoration except for a couple of old posters. The faded and undistinguished furnishings looked tired, as if accustomed to being rented with the rooms. A sink in the background held a modest stack of dirty dishes.
Mr. Dickon spoke first, nervously introducing himself again. He seemed to have forgotten his earlier intention of having Andy perform that office for him.
Dolores Flamel examined the small man coolly. “Come in, then. I wondered what had happened to you.” Opening the door wider and standing out of the way, she addressed Andy. “I suppose you’re Mr. Tamarack? I thought you’d be older.” Her voice was certainly not native Chicagoan—maybe, thought Andy, from somewhere in the west.
He shook his head. “No, I’m not Tamarack. Things are a little more complicated than that—my name’s Andy Keogh. Matthew Maule’s my uncle.” If Uncle Matt knew this woman’s name, he could hope th
at she knew his, and that they were on favorable terms.
But the effect was not exactly what Andy hoped for. For a moment Dolores looked elegantly dazed. “Really? Matthew Maule? I don’t know if that makes things any simpler. What brings you to my door?”
They were all three standing inside the apartment now, and she had closed the door. With two people staring at him, Andy tried to explain. “Well, actually my uncle seemed to want to get in touch with you.” Having met the young lady, he couldn’t imagine that Uncle Matt could see her as a bitter enemy.
“About my grandfather, I suppose.”
“That may have been it. I don’t know.”
She nodded wearily. “How’d you find me?”
“Not too hard. I looked on-line in the TMU student directory and there you were. Ms. Flamel.”
“People who know me call me Dolly,” Dolores said mechanically. She looked dubious, but after a moment she gestured her visitors to chairs. “I didn’t think that directory was publicly accessible. I haven’t gone to any classes yet, but I did register for the fall. Now I doubt I’ll be here. Bought some clothes and books. I wanted to learn some things. Now …” Her words trailed off, in a resigned way.
“Well, it wasn’t really the public version of the directory that I looked at. And ‘Flamel’ is an unusual name.”
Her hazel eyes were fastened on him, probing, testing. “Not as unusual as Matthew Maule. With an ‘e’ on the end? Did you know that comes from Hawthorne?” She seemed half puzzled and half amused.
“I’m sorry?”
“Don’t be sorry. The author, Nathaniel Hawthorne. Nineteenth century. In The House of the Seven Gables. Matthew Maule is a kind of wizard. He puts curses on people.”
A Coldness in the Blood Page 12
