Jimmy Fox - Nick Herald 02 - Lineages and Lies (26 page)

“Let it ring twice, then hang up,” Nick instructed. In the twitching glow of a buzzing streetlight, he tried unsuccessfully to make out the number from the phone’s display. Jillian flipped the phone open, illuminating the display. “Oh,” Nick said humbly and dictated the number for Hawty, who made a note of it.

“What if someone else calls?” Jillian asked.

“I’ll take a message,” Nick said, annoyed that he hadn’t considered that possibility, but not willing to give it much thought now.

He and Jillian unloaded the chariot and held it for Hawty as she skillfully pulled herself out of the back seat.

“This thing gets heavier every time I lift it,” Nick said.

“Kedric and I added a few new features. You’ll be impressed,” hawty replied.

“Yeah, well, come visit me in the hospital tomorrow after my hernia operation and tell me all about it.”

Nick and Jillian crossed the quiet street and climbed the steps to the library porch.

He produced a key.

“I worked my magic on Florita,” Nick said apologetically.

“Oh, really?” Her voice dripped jealousy and sarcasm. “You’re sure about the alarm code? Only a few people are authorized, and I’m not one of them yet.”

“We’re about to find out.”

Nick unlocked the door and they slipped into the darkened lobby. The keypad beside the door gave a shrill cry, demanding privileged data. After what seemed like years to Nick, he succeeded in punching in the correct numbers. The high-pitched noise stopped.

Jillian glanced at Nick with relief written on her face.

He grinned nervously. “Magic, I told you—even if I’m still an apprentice sorcerer.”

They approached the log-in computer terminal at the library door. Nick held back, self-doubt of his ability to get the better of all these microchips creeping in.

“Come on, Nick, you can do it, I know you can.” They both understood that they couldn’t just march right in. When Florita or a replacement wasn’t at the desk to log you in, this door wouldn’t open without a valid employee code. “They’re a little hung up on security, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’re not joking… . I’m okay,” Nick assured her.

“Just concentrate on what Florita showed you—about the log-in procedure, I mean.” She winked at him. “She hasn’t had a chance to show me how… . I don’t think she likes me, actually. She must have sensed we have the same taste in men. I’m competition.”

Nick decided not to elaborate on how easy it was to get to know Florita. He finally found the correct page after mistakenly clicking into several frustratingly obtuse areas for information and communication, Jillian at his elbow trying to coax him back on track. “Well, here goes, we’re about to steal second.” Holding his breath, he punched in Florita’s personal ID again.

“‘Access authorized.’ Good job!” Jillian said. The door made electro-mechanical noises.

“Hold it a second. I think I can turn on some lights from here, too. Goddamned computers. I hate these things. Now, what did Florita tell me?—”

“This is good enough,” Jillian said. “Too risky. We’re
breaking in
, remember? We’ll just use our flashlights. Let’s go.”

They entered the main reading room. To Nick it looked even more cavernous than during daylight hours, with infinitely more shadows that made him extremely nervous. This on-the-job training as a cat burglar was for the birds.

He had managed to turn on only the three spotlights above the heroic marble grouping; the frozen captain’s sword scintillated in brilliant whiteness, piercing a seemingly solid shaft of light from above. The only other helpful illumination came from the lighted signs over exits and fire extinguishers.

They made for the left spiral staircase and climbed to the second level. Then, following the beams of their flashlights, they ran down the hall, past the solemn busts on pedestals, to Nowell’s office door.

“I hope he hasn’t changed it,” Jillian said, suddenly worried, her hand poised to enter the code. “I’m sure he’s figured out who I am by now. I’m taking two weeks off, haven’t been here since Daddy’s death; but he must have seen my name among the family in the obituary. He wasn’t at the funeral, thank God. I might have slapped the bastard and scratched his eyeballs out.”

“He doesn’t know you know the code,” Nick said, reminding himself silently not to cross this vengeful woman. “You aren’t supposed to, anyway. So even if he were suspicious of your motives, he had no reason to change the code to his own door. Go for it.”

“One-seven-three-one.” The green light glowed. “Yes! We’re on third, now!” she said, grabbing Nick’s arm in glee.

In Nowell’s office, Nick shut the massive door behind them.

“It’s over here, behind the desk,” Jillian said, leading the way quickly to the panel with the Society’s emblem carved in relief.

“Gentlemanly sports,” Nick said, pausing as his flashlight played along the walls bristling with fencing weapons. There were many rifles and shotguns in glass cases, and wherever space allowed, mounted game stared with unblinking eyes. He guessed that each weapon was a valuable classic of its type.

“What?” Jillian asked impatiently.

“That’s what they used to call sports like riding, fencing, hunting, and sailing—whether played by gentlemen or not, it didn’t seem to matter. This place looks like the prop room for a Douglas Fairbanks movie.”

“Douglas who?”

“Never mind. Before your time.”

She moved the anchor on the ship, and the panel opened with a tight click that in the oppressive quiet of the windowless room sounded like a gun being cocked. The red light on the keypad inside blinked in warning at any unauthorized visitor.

“Go ahead, slugger,” Jillian said. “Hit it out of the park.” Training her flashlight on the keypad, she moved back to give Nick room.

“Three tries, huh? And then—”

“It just shuts down,” she answered. “You know, like an ATM machine or a credit-card terminal when you swipe your card wrong or enter your PIN wrong. That’s what happened during the day, anyway. But at night … I don’t know for sure. Maybe there’s an alarm on the fourth wrong try.”

From a pocket Nick took out a piece of paper with three sets of numbers printed on it. “I came prepared. We’ll give these a shot. 3-6-3-6-4.”

The keypad beeped and the word “INCORRECT” crawled across the display. His face burned with nervousness.

“What was that?” Jillian asked.

“The alphanumeric values for ‘En Foi.’ This keypad is just like the keys on a telephone. See the three letters on each one, two through nine? Now I’ll try ‘Invincible.’”

“Wow. I didn’t consider letters and words in my password tries, just numbers… . Hawty came up with this, didn’t she?” Jillian asked, seeing right through Nick’s smug explanation.

“Well, uh, yes—but I helped.”

“Do you really think that could be it, Nick? Look how long that code is. It’s probably something simpler, like Nowell’s name or the ship’s … in—in Soundex code. That would be just four characters. He wouldn’t want to stand here and type ten keys every time he wants to get in the safe.”

Nick liked her idea about the Soundex code, an essential genealogical tool for locating surnames in censuses; but it was too late to change the plan now. His mind was putty, operating at a nearly instinctual level. Figuring the Soundex code, normally something he could work out in his head, would take awhile; he didn’t carry around the Soundex table in his pocket.
Stick with your plan!
, an ancestral caveman’s voice commanded. Speed was of the essence. They would simply have to come back another night if this second attempt and the third failed.

Nick shrugged and started punching in the ten-number string for ‘Invincible.’ The keypad began beeping even before he finished: “INCORRECT.” His forehead was damp from tension.

“I think we may have to call in a pinch-hitter,” Jillian said. “I’m going to find a reference book and figure the Soundex for
Allégorie
”

“Wait.” Nick took a deep breath and prepared to punch in his last try: the numerical equivalent of “
True Faith
.”

He showed her the numbers and explained the rationale: “Only the members of the Society’s inner circle would know this one.”

“Three sets of three,” Jillian observed analytically. “A bit shorter, relatively easy to remember. And the part about special knowledge does something for me. What the hell, go ahead and give it a try. What’s the worst that can happen, we get arrested? Maybe they’ll put us in a cell together.”

The phone in Nick’s pocket warbled twice and then was silent.

“Oh God!” Jillian exclaimed. “Hurry, Nick! That’s Hawty warning us. Someone’s coming!”

“Yeah,” Nick agreed morosely, “Unfortunately, I don’t think it was a wrong number. I wouldn’t even mind a telemarketer, at this point.”

“Hurry!” Jillian insisted.

He began keying in the numbers, faster than he wanted to.
Don’t make a mistake, pal, and stop shaking while you’re at it. That’s right, easy does it. This’ll be your last try, one way or the other.

8-7-8-3-3-2-4-8-4.

One long beep, and the green light glowed.

Jillian slammed the safe handle down and pulled the door open. A puff of strange air hit them as it escaped from the dark
cubicle of the safe. She grabbed the heavy glittering case that appeared to be the safe’s only contents.

“It’s … some kind of a book. Big,” she grunted, doing her best to arrange the ungainly package on her hip for fleeing. A spiral notebook fell to the floor.

“Jillian, leave that thing here. It’s too heavy to carry. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“No!” she countered with indomitable fierceness. “Whatever this is will prove that they knew, prove that they were hiding the truth, that they had a reason to kill anyone who got too close! It’s why we came here and I’m not leaving without it!”

Nick didn’t argue further. He picked up the spiral notebook; a quick glance at the handwriting told him he now held the memoirs of Woodrow Bluemantle, his murdered old friend. Nick managed to trade loads with Jillian. Then they ran for the door.

“Where do we go?!” Jillian asked, her whispered words raspy with fear.

“The other staircase. If it’s Nowell, he’ll probably come up the one we did. Closest to his office.”

They started running down the dark hall. Jillian tripped on a wrinkle in the rug and careened into one of the pedestals. The bust of former Captain-Director Montenay, just missing his flesh-and-blood daughter, crashed heavily to the floor.

CHAPTER 25

P
reston Nowell stood in the tree-sheltered darkness of the walkway. He couldn’t remember such a trying period as the last few days had been. He looked up at the massive building before him; a feeling of contentment and certainty flowed through him. His imagination, aided by alcohol, reshaped the indistinct shadowy outlines of gables and eaves and shake-shingle siding into the
Allégorie
itself, riding proudly on the waves, invincible!

A noble lie, he thought, worthy of his great efforts.

He put his hand to his forehead; the gash from the horrible episode on the boat now required no more than a small bandage. What a mess this whole sordid spring had been! Even Vietnam had been preferable to this: at least one could attack a definite enemy with weapons of adequate, usually superior strength; one could know the outcome of the battle by counting the bodies lying around.

But this … well, there were a
few
bodies, but in general it was all so incorporeal that he never knew when he was safe, when some sniper was fixing him in the crosshairs. He had begun to feel he would never slay this many-headed Hydra that threatened the Society.

At the moment, though, he felt entitled to the indulgence he had allowed himself tonight. He was pleasantly drunk, just enough to feel the pressure of his anxiety lessened, as if some restricting piece of headgear—a combat helmet, perhaps—had been removed. Maybe, just maybe, things would get back to normal. There had been enough killing. Joscelyn had told him that Jillian wouldn’t be a problem anymore; he had found Mrs. Fleam’s price, in cash and threats. She would
make
her daughter come live with her, even if that required involuntary commitment to a mental facility or outright kidnapping. Otherwise, Joscelyn had explained to her, the consequences for her daughter would be dire. The family had ample evidence of the seriousness of Joscelyn’s warning.

Nowell fumbled with his keys. Strange … the deadbolt seemed to be malfunctioning; or, more likely, he had abstractedly relocked it instead of unlocking it.

“Okay, Preston,” he said, chuckling, “get it together. We’re not
that
drunk, now are we? Tired, most assuredly.”

All he wanted to do was sit quietly, alone in his office, his captain’s cabin now that his own boat was gone, surrounded by his toys, cloaked in the imagery of a counterfeit past.

And why shouldn’t it be real? he thought. Are we ever sure about the past? We must to a certain degree invent the real past just as we do the falsified past. History, we call it. It is impressionistic, subjective. Who can be sure he is painting an accurate portrait of a lost culture merely from a few pieces of stone? Facts and figures can be used to prop up any argument. The best liar wins.

Now he was in the lobby. He stared at the alarm keypad. Had he already deactivated it? He decided it must indeed be the alcohol, playing tricks with his short-term memory. Perhaps it was also the nasty bump to his head. Not to mention that he continued to be extremely preoccupied with the myriad details of the late cluster of dilemmas.

He switched on a lamp at Florita’s desk. On a Post-It he wrote: “Flo: Dropped by late. Have handyman call me about the front door situation, tomorrow. Time to replace, update.” An organization on the cutting edge of technology certainly needed the latest in front-door security.

Nowell had an onrush of intense pride in himself. He could turn lemons into lemonade, transform the smallest mishap or the most colossal snafu into something positive. No one really understood his brilliance, his resourcefulness, his strength. Through his will, all things redounded to the furtherance of his goals.