by Al Ruksenas
“He said some of the sponsors couldn’t make it, so he asked me to fill in. Alvin knows how steeped I am in Old European folklore— thanks to you,” Laura explained as she teasingly tweaked his cheek.
“The Devil’s Museum,” he said musingly.
“Yes. Which reminds me: How is your project coming along?”
“Fine. Just fine.”
“You’ve been working on it a long time. You have more than five hundred pages. From what I’ve read, you could publish it right now.”
“I’d trade most of those pages for a couple of missing pieces,” he said somberly. “Factual pieces. Yes, I could publish it now—but it would be just another fantasy. I’m looking to do a history—so people will believe it. Maybe do something about it.”
“I know, Uncle Jonas,” she said solicitously. “I’m sure you’ll get those pieces. Especially now that Russia’s more open.”
“Archivists, professors, bureaucrats. They opened all kinds of vaults, Laura. For gifts. For cash. For fresh air after a stifling, terror‐filled century. What I need is in secret police files. Those that are even deeper and more inaccessible in the new, more open Russia.”
Laura felt his frustration. She was laboring on a series of lectures herself in preparation for a book on the French Revolution, and material for her was boundless.
“Listen,” he said tentatively. “When you’re there—at the Smithsonian. Can you see who has more than a casual interest in that devil display? You know what I mean?”
“Uncle!” Laura replied with theatrical exasperation. “You and your conspiracy theories.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” he answered with resignation. “I’m grasping at straws.”
“You shouldn’t. Then you will drift into fantasy.”
“I’ve got to get out of the library more,” he said, anticipating what his niece was about to suggest. He shuffled idly through some papers on his desk.
She smiled then kissed his cheek. “I’ve got to run. Let’s have dinner tomorrow. I’ll treat.”
“Okay. But it’s on me. You pick the restaurant.”
“I know just the place in Georgetown.”
”And don’t forget what I asked you!” he said as she disappeared through the door.
“I won’t,” her voice trailed back through the stacks of books surrounding his office.
Chapter 4
Thunderhead clouds, unannounced in the day’s forecast, were looming over Washington as Colonel Caine sped his dark red Viper from Arlington back to the heart of the city. A slow, choking stream of traffic, heading in the opposite direction, signaled the end of the work day. Government functionaries and other bureaucrats were leaving the nation’s capital for their homes in the burgeoning suburbs of Maryland and Virginia. Thousands of headlights pricked the April sky turned prematurely dark by the heavy rain‐laden clouds.
He had driven his general back to the Pentagon and returned to his apartment in nearby Arlington to prepare for the reception at the Smithsonian. Caine was dressed in a light gray suit with subtle pinstripes instead of his military dress uniform. He did not want to appear too official in getting information from Victor Sherwyck. It also gave him an advantage to better conceal his .38 caliber pistol, a seven‐round Sig Sauer P232 that he habitually carried as a back‐up weapon.
The clouds released a violent torrent of rain just as he pulled up to the curb near the National Museum of Natural History on Constitution Avenue. He had planned a leisurely stroll across the Mall to the Old Castle, but now had to wait out the cloudburst.
He tuned his car radio to a news broadcast. It included an update on the item he had read that morning while waiting for General Bradley at the White House—a rural sheriff in Ohio investigating animal mutilations and suspected devil worship. There were additional details of a similar discovery of animal mutilations near the Appalachian Trail in the Shenandoah Valley.
Authorities dismissed it as a cruel prank and found no connection to the discovery in Ohio.
“These things happen now and then,” a park official stated. “They look like rituals for shock value. Malicious hoaxes. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of sick minds around.”
Caine wondered about these kinds of stories reported as oddities from various parts of the country. They appeared with periodic regularity. How many were undiscovered or unreported? The main concern seemed to be the loss of farmers’ stock. No one ever suggested the perpetrators may be following a text of some standardized, bizarre ritual.
The heavy rain was dissipating. Caine turned off the radio and decided to make a dash across the Mall during the lull. He climbed nimbly out of his roadster and hurried toward the expansive stretch of greenery framed in the distance by the Capitol Building on his left and the obelisk of the Washington Monument on his right.
A striped alley cat—black and gray—crouched low in some bushes as he jogged along the sidewalk next to the museum building. The cat bobbed its head several times as Caine approached, crouched low and twitched its tail as if to pounce. The moment passed as Caine’s hurried footsteps receded and the stray cat diverted its attention to other movement in the area.
The red sandstone mansion was an impressive Gothic Revival structure reaching into the past—seemingly out of place among the other official buildings whose light hues and linear designs set the Old Castle apart in the lineup along the Mall. It was the first building erected there and carried that distinction with ageless style.
As he neared the Castle, Caine noticed a derelict sprawled awkwardly under a budding elm tree. The man must have been sleeping off a bottle of cheap wine and at first glance might even have appeared dead. Satisfied by a quick glance that the man’s unkempt face was not blue, Caine continued on his way. He was inured by the occasional sight of street people who for reasons of their own, or as a deliberate statement of their condition, frequented the areas around the White House, Capitol grounds and the Mall. Sprawled out as he had been, it was surprising to the Colonel that the derelict’s clothes did not seem to be wet from the rain.
Moments after Caine passed him, the man stirred, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, and as if driven by his own sense of time and place, shuffled off in his ragged clothes in the direction from which Colonel Caine had just come.
Chapter 5
Caine joined a small line of guests filing up the stairs of the brick canopy entryway. Others exited limousines that had backed up on Jefferson Drive in front of the building during the downpour. Standing at the door was a plain‐faced doorman who seemed at first glance to be out of place in his red service jacket that was more than a size too big. The doorman looked indifferently at Caine’s invitation and returned it upside down, motioning him inside.
He gave the same uninterested look to other guests; a look that appeared to say he would prefer to be somewhere else. In each case he returned invitations upside down. Most of the guests did not pay attention, while several gave the doorman a sideward glance at this apparent lack of grace.
“Some way to save a buck,” Caine thought, presuming one of the maintenance crew was doubling as a greeter.
He passed the vestibule where the crypt of James Smithson stood eternal watch over the historical wealth he had presented to America. The English benefactor had been buried in Italy in 1829, but his remains were brought to the United States in 1903 by then Regent Alexander Graham Bell and interred in the vestibule. Caine nodded unconsciously in the direction of the crypt and wondered whether the man really would have wanted to become an artifact in his own museum. He couldn’t help but think that Smithson was just like one of those human sacrifices ancient cultures placed in edifices of new buildings to appease the supernatural.
The vestibule opened into a cavernous hall with prominent deep brown pillars supporting a ceiling two stories above. Caine lingered near a pillar where several socialite friends of his family noticed and engaged him in conversation. All the while he was tuned to hear the voice or see the presence
of Victor Sherwyck.
“Chris, my dear boy,” said a distinguished looking woman. “We haven’t seen you for such a long time. Samantha’s been asking about you.”
“Mrs. Davis. You look as charming as ever,” he replied, adjusting the front of his jacket slightly to avoid exposing the holstered pistol at the small of his back.
“Oh, Chris, you’re always so flattering. I only hear about you when your folks are visiting. That nasty Army keeps you away all the time,” she said with mock indignation.
“I’ll visit soon, Mrs. Davis,” Caine replied with a polite smile. “I promise.” He knew the lady from his childhood, but felt constrained lately by her efforts to pair him up with her youngest daughter, Samantha.
“You’re such a fine young man. You ought to settle down,” she continued with friendly and familiar concern.
Caine glanced at either side of him. He was growing a little embarrassed by her good‐natured but ill‐timed advice and took a little longer to gaze around the hall for Sherwyck.
“Mrs. Davis. Did you hear about Jeannie McConnell?”
“Why, yes, I did. Poor thing. She seems to be missing. Why I would never let our Samantha be so long out of sight, never mind living alone nowadays.”
“I know, Mrs. Davis,” he replied, realizing the question was futile. “I know. You take care of yourself, now.”
“I want to see you at our home soon, y’hear?” She pressed his hand and smilingly turned to her circle of companions.
“Soon, Mrs. Davis. Give my best to your family—and to Samantha,” he added as an afterthought.
The reception hall was filling, but Colonel Caine had not noticed Victor Sherwyck. He took a glass of champagne from one of the caterers mingling among the guests with serving plates of drinks and hors d oeuvres. This one was a woman with heavy makeup and hard looking eyes. She seemed preoccupied, not bothering to offer the champagne as she passed. Those with a taste for a glass either asked her for one or—as Caine had just done—deftly grabbed a glass as she jostled not too politely among small groups of the Washington notables positioning themselves to see or be seen in the reception hall.
Snippets of conversation included references to Jeannie McConnell, but few people knew even the sketchiest details: only that she had not been seen for more than a week.
“Crime is just so rampant…” said one woman he passed.
“Do you think she’s a jogger?” asked another. “They never caught the attacker in the parks, did they?”
Caine took a hefty gulp from his champagne glass as he sauntered by, wishing it was bourbon, while his eyes kept scanning the hall for a glimpse of Victor Sherwyck. There was no sign of the well‐placed financier and seemingly hereditary confidant of presidents. No one could miss his slim, even gaunt features that presented a commanding, aristocratic air and whose position and influence—no less his wit and cynical wisdom—magnetized people.
He expected to spot the man among the guests who were there to preview a cultural exhibit highlighting the historical and national character of states formerly submerged within the Soviet Union, but now members of the NATO alliance. Sherwyck would most likely be among some ambassadors or other dignitaries present.
Then he saw her; a tall, well‐proportioned woman, speaking with several guests. With her was his friend, Alvin Carruthers, assistant curator of The Smithsonian. The woman was in quarter profile and even from a distance attracted Caine’s interest.
The young woman shifted slightly and caught the Colonel’s eye.
She looked at him for the briefest of moments then turned back to her circle of companions. There was something familiar about her. He worked his way in her direction, exchanging greetings and clipped comments with acquaintances.
As Caine approached, the woman stepped to a nearby exhibit, while Carruthers chatted with a silver‐haired gentleman and his wife.
“Chris, how are you?” Carruthers invited as the Colonel neared. “We don’t see you in Washington too much.”
Caine joined them still looking in her direction, while the assistant curator introduced the couple. “Mr. and Mrs. Knowlton are two of our very generous benefactors, Chris. We pamper them as best we can.”
Everyone smiled a jovial, social smile.
The Knowltons politely dismissed Carruther’s comments, but were nonetheless pleased by his flattery in front of this urbane looking stranger with closely trimmed hair.
“We’re firm believers in maintaining our national institutions,” Knowlton said. “We’re happy to be able to do so.”
“A very noble gesture,” Colonel Caine replied sincerely.
“The Nation’s Attic!” the assistant curator intoned, repeating with pride the standard colloquial description of the Smithsonian Institution.
“Well, it certainly is and I’m glad,” Knowlton said emphatically. “It’s good to have a place where we can display everything we are as a nation. It’s a symbol of ourselves and a real treasure for generations to come.”
“As you can see, this particular exhibition is not quite us,” the assistant curator said. “It’s a special presentation from the nations of the former Soviet Union that have since joined NATO.”
“A wonderful idea,” Colonel Caine said politely.
“I don’t think so,” Mr. Knowlton replied authoritatively. “Why irritate the Russians at a time like this? Surrounding them with their former satellites as members of an organization that was specifically created to challenge the Soviet Union? Those new republics are chaotic, corrupt.”
“That sounds a little arrogant, don’t you think, Mr. Knowlton,” Colonel Caine replied with a stiff smile. “They’re no more corrupt— and I dare say a little less so—than Russia itself. Besides, it seems the new Russia is getting harder to distinguish from the old Russia.”
“That’s a very naïve sentiment, Mr….Mr….”
“Caine, Colonel Christopher Caine.”
“A military man, no less,” Knowlton spluttered, as his wife looked on indignantly. “Those people have no tradition of democracy. Look what happened in Iraq after all those years of our involvement. They were better off before, if you ask me. There was peace and stability. Just like in the former USSR.”
“We had no tradition of democracy either, Mr. Knowlton,” Caine replied firmly, but politely. “Many of our founding fathers were smugglers for profit and we weren’t too enlightened either. Let’s remember that Cotton Mather had a degree from Harvard University when he incited the hanging of innocent men and women in Salem. It seems our Anglo‐Saxon tradition evolved from absolute rule of monarchs and a belief in witchcraft.”
Knowlton was momentarily nonplussed while a startled look came over Mrs. Knowlton.
“You can’t disallow democracy on the grounds that it’s untested,” Caine continued. “It was untested in every place it took root.”
“So?” Knowlton managed to say.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Carruthers chimed in, but to no avail.
Knowlton, refined and distinguished in his black tie, took on an air like he had just been sullied. Colonel Caine had violated the etiquette of this reception, which was so outwardly defined by the dress and social demeanor of the guests.
Mrs. Knowlton looked sternly at the Colonel, as if he had dared penetrate some private domain. She wordlessly took her husband by the arm and briskly led him away.
“Damn it, Chris!” Carruthers fumed. “What’s gotten into you? They’re two of our major benefactors!”
“Seems the guy’s a little too sensitive. So’s his wife.”
“They donated two million towards the redesign of the Hope Diamond Exhibit and the Gem Hall. You could have been a little more civil with them.”
“Wasn’t I?” Caine took a quick gulp of his champagne and wondered why the couple reacted so forcefully. “He seems too apologetic of dictatorships.”
“He’s an industrialist. He’s used to giving orders. Companies are autocratic.”
“And I
suppose he thinks governments should be too,” Caine concluded. “He forgets autocracies fail, just like rigid companies.”
“I don’t care what he thinks, Chris. That’s probably a good couple of million dollars scratched off the donors list.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Al. I’m the one he’s perturbed about. Not you. Not the Institution. I’m just passing through.”
“They’ll probably think I’m unfit because I’m a friend of yours. Not fit for their beloved Smithsonian. They have influence. They’ll have me fired.”
Caine smiled at his friend, enjoying his theatrical display of concern. “Don’t worry, Al. It takes more than that to get you fired.”
“I’m in a precarious business. A lot of my perceived talent and my position depends on rich patrons.”
