Stones of Fire

17

Edie and Cædmon emerged from the ladies’ room. As they did so, an alarm blared overhead, the teeth jangling sound accompanied by a continuously repeated prerecorded message. Surreally calm, the disembodied voice stated the obvious: ‘The museum alarm has been activated. Immediately make your way to the nearest exit lobby. Thank you.’

‘You heard the man. He said “the nearest exit lobby”. That would be the one right over there.’ Nudging her companion in the ribs, Edie pointed to the 4th Street lobby on the other side of the vestibule, the hall still jam-packed with people clamouring and jostling as they headed towards the oversized glass doors.

Intractable, Cædmon simply said, ‘I think not.’ Grabbing her by the upper arm, he pulled her towards the staircase on the right.

‘What are you doing?’

‘We’re going to take the stairs to the upper level of the museum.’

Jerking her arm free, Edie stared at him.

The main floor of the museum? Was he nuts? They’d have to navigate their way through umpteen art galleries and a couple of sculpture halls.

She shook her head, vetoing the idea. ‘It’ll be faster if we stay on the lower level of the museum. The main floor will be a mob scene.’

‘Yes, I assume that it will. However, a mob scene will serve us well if the beast should again rear his ugly head.’

Refusing to budge, Edie folded her arms over her chest. ‘How many times have you visited the National Gallery of Art?’

‘This is my maiden voyage.’ Again, Cædmon took her by the arm, his grip this time noticeably more firm. ‘While you are no doubt well acquainted with the museum floor plan, you are also suffering from delayed shock. Not the best frame of mind for making a decision.’

‘Look, I might be losing it, but I still have a mind of my own.’

Ignoring her last remark, Cædmon pulled her towards the staircase. As they ascended, Edie twice stumbled on the steps and he had to catch hold of her.

At the top of the steps she turned to him. ‘Now what?’

Rather than answer, Cædmon strode towards an abandoned wheelchair, PROPERTY OF THE NGA stamped across the brown leather back support. Her eyes narrowed as he took hold of it by the handles and wheeled it towards her.

‘Bum in the chair,’ he brusquely ordered.

She baulked. ‘Two fumbles does not an invalid make.’

‘The gunman will be searching for a female so high.’ Holding out his hand, Cædmon raised it parallel to the top of her head. ‘The gunman will not be looking for a wheelchair-bound woman.’

‘How do I know that —’

‘Seat yourself! Before I put a boot up your Khyber!’

Edie did as ordered, it belatedly dawning on her that she was doing a first-rate job of antagonizing the man who had earlier saved her from a gunman’s bullet. At great risk to his own life.

Craning her head to peer at him, she said, ‘Look, I’m sorry for being a bitch. I’m just really, really scared.’ And unaccustomed to relying on anyone other than herself. Particularly for her safety and well-being. Over the years too many people had let her down.

‘You have every right to be frightened,’ Cædmon replied, once more the courteous Brit. Releasing the brake, he shoved the wheelchair forward.

Edie removed the bag from her shoulder and clutched it to her chest. Inside its canvas depths was everything she would need to escape this madness.

As Cædmon navigated his way through the crowd, she realized that the wheelchair was an inspired idea, the hordes parting before them like the Red Sea parting before the Israelites. She’d been leery of Cædmon’s plan to take the long route through the museum. Maybe his route, like the wheelchair, would prove a good call after all.

Within seconds they had passed the American paintings gallery, George Bellows’ famous pair of boxers eclipsed in a darkly hued blur. A few seconds after that they entered the East Court Garden, the humid air in the cavernous space cloying; even more cloying, the winged cupids astride a giant scallop shell in the dead centre of the courtyard, water merrily tinkling over their chubby feet. Cædmon veered to the right, bypassing the fountain. As he wheeled the chair around the columned perimeter, Edie caught sight of a homeless man sound asleep in a wroughtiron chair, oblivious to the alarm and automated message blaring on the PA system. Exiting the courtyard garden, Cædmon increased his speed as they traversed the long, barrel-vaulted sculpture hall. On either side of her, Edie saw familiar flashes of colour in the adjoining galleries — Toulouse-Lautrec, Renoir — the history of ninteenth-century French art reduced to blips.

Straight ahead of them, like mighty old trees in a virgin forest, loomed the huge black marble columns of the main rotunda.

‘We can exit at the rotunda,’ she said, turning in her seat to look at him, clasping her hands together in a beseeching gesture.

Her proposal met with a whirr, the wheelchair advancing full speed ahead.

It’s like entering one of Dante’s lower circles, Edie thought, a few seconds later, as they entered the domed rotunda. Everywhere she looked swarms of people were haphazardly congregating in undulating lines that meandered in the direction of the main entrance. In front of the exit doors uniformed guards were patting down each and every visitor before permitting them to leave the premises. Edie assumed they were searching for the gunman.

‘It would appear that all roads lead to Rome,’ Cædmon remarked as he steered the wheelchair on.

Like the courtyard garden, the rotunda was jungle humid on account of all the potted plants. Afraid Padgham’s killer might be lurking, Edie tucked her chin into her chest, making herself as small as possible.

No sooner did they clear the rotunda than Cædmon started running.

Bronze sculptures. Flemish still lifes. Della Robbias.

Famous works of art passed at such a dizzying speed, Edie feared she would lose the contents of her stomach.

‘Slow down, will ya? You’re giving me a bad case of motion sickness.’

If Cædmon heard her, he gave no indication, the man fast proving himself a well-spoken hard ass.

Having crossed three quarters of the museum in less than two minutes, Cædmon wheeled her into the West Garden Court, a mirror image of the open space at the opposite end of the museum. Swerving sharply to the left, he somehow managed to maintain control as the chair took the turn on one wheel. A few seconds later Edie could see the marble wall that marked the end of the main hall.

‘Quick! Put on the brakes!’ she screeched, a full-length statue of St John of the Cross looming directly in front of her. She grabbed the padded arms and held on tight as Cædmon brought the wheelchair to an abrupt halt mere inches from the stern-faced saint.

‘Bloody hell.’ He turned his head from side to side. ‘There’s supposed to be a lift at the end of… Ah, yes, there she be, starboard bow.’ Cædmon rolled the wheelchair to the elevator, which was tucked away to the right of them.

Edie reached out and pushed the button, the metal doors instantly sliding open. No room to turn the wheelchair around, she sat facing the back wall of the elevator. Within moments, they’d be free of the museum, the 7th Street exit located on the lower level.

Readying herself for the last cavalry charge, she opened her bag. She rummaged through it, her hand finding the now soft-sided box of melted spinach.

‘What are you doing?’

Edie spared Cædmon a quick glance. ‘I’m searching for the car keys.’

‘Driving your vehicle would not be a good idea.’

Placing her arm over the back of the chair, she twisted her upper body so she could look him in the eye. ‘You’re kidding, right? The Jeep is our only means of escape.’

‘How do you think the gunman found you? I’ll bet it was no guess.’

‘Maybe it was an educated guess. And let us not forget about the old lucky guess,’ she retorted, then, realizing how childish she sounded, ‘Okay, he followed me here. But I can promise you that he won’t be following us when we leave. I know this town like the back of my hand. Trust me, Cædmon. I can get us out of here.’

She watched as he mulled over her proposal. He was tempted, she could see it in his eyes.

‘There’s a back service alley one block away at Federal Triangle. If we’re being followed, it’s the perfect place to lose a tail.’

The elevator door opened with a melodic ping. Cædmon backed the wheelchair out and turned it towards the 7th Street lobby, the scene almost identical to what they had witnessed in the rotunda.

Seeing all the hustle and bustle, the mass confusion, the absolute chaos that reigned within the marble-walled space, Edie breathed a sigh of relief.

The end was in sight.