The Forgotten Room

44

Half an hour later, Logan pulled his Lotus Elan into the long, curving drive that led to Lux’s parking area. The normally fastidiously tended greensward ahead was a riot of twigs, leaves, and — strangest of all — seaweed and spindrift, blown all the way from the coastline a quarter of a mile away. He had to negotiate around heavy branches that had fallen across the drive; he could make out at least half a dozen trees uprooted from the greenery that stood before the encircling brick wall. The main massing of Lux itself reared up against a black and furious sky, its battlements winking ominously in the flashes of livid lightning.

He managed to gain the relative safety of the near-empty parking lot in the shelter of the building’s East Wing, turned off the engine, and then paused a moment to catch his breath. The entire journey back from Fall River had been tense — with the traffic, howling wind, and lashing rain — but the final ten minutes had been the worst. When he’d turned onto Ocean Avenue for the last leg of the drive, the full, unconstrained brunt of the hurricane hit: merciless buckets of rain, and a straight-line banshee wind that threatened to pick up his car and fling it into the surf. More than once, he’d thanked the automotive gods he owned a hardtop Elan; a canvas top would have been ripped away hours before. And he’d made it back just in time; the guard in the security house by the front gate informed him that the governor had just declared a state of emergency and instituted a curfew, effective immediately, and that the National Guard was being mobilized.

Logan waited another moment, then — peeling his fingers from the steering wheel and taking a deep breath — grasped the handle and opened the door. A screaming gust of wind forced the door right back at him, and he had to manhandle it open again with all his might. He gathered his strength, then rolled away toward the rear of the car as the wind flung the door closed. And then, bent forward until his head was almost level with his waist, he bulled his way toward the mansion’s side entrance through air so thick with seawater he was almost drowning in it.

Just as he reached the door, he heard the buzzing sound of a motor cut through the wind. There was a light behind him, and he turned to see Ian Albright, the Infrastructure Supervisor, pulling up in a large golf cart, two men seated behind him. The cart stopped beside Logan and the three got out, all wearing identical sou’westers.

Albright stared at Logan as if he was from another planet. “Dr. Logan?” he asked. “You’ve just arrived? Don’t tell me you’ve been motoring through this dirty great storm?”

“Something couldn’t wait.” Logan pointed at the cart. “What’s your excuse?”

“A dozen slate tiles have blown off the kitchen roof, and the water’s pouring in. We’ve got to get a tarp over it before...” The rest of his sentence was cut off by a shattering peal of thunder, followed by the crash of another tree falling over.

“Well, now that you’re here, you’d better get inside,” Albright said. “Dr. Olafson, Dr. Maynard, they cleared out hours ago, along with almost everyone else. There’s just a skeleton crew now, a handful of security and maintenance and a couple of stubborn eggheads that refused to leave. But the storm’s just been upgraded to a category three, and the worst is—”

A sudden shriek of wind staggered the four men, and the golf cart promptly turned over onto its side. “Sweet mother of fuck!” Albright cried in dismay, making for the cart as he simultaneously motioned Logan toward shelter.

Inside, the thick walls of the mansion dulled the roar of the hurricane to a constant, low-pitched moan. Logan made his way through the strangely deserted halls to his rooms. Save for the never-ending boom of the weather, the entire place seemed cloaked in a watchful silence. He placed his duffel on the desk, sat down, and transferred the notes he’d taken during his meeting with Sorrel to his laptop, along with some observations and questions that had occurred to him during the exhausting drive back. And then he glanced at his watch. Almost half past nine. He shut the laptop and stood up from his chair. It was high time he checked on Kim.

As he turned to exit his rooms, the internal phone rang. He glanced back, saw the caller’s four-digit number on the LED display. It was a number he didn’t recognize.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end of the line sounded breathless. “Dr. Logan? Dr. Logan, is that you?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Thank God you haven’t left. It’s Laura Benedict. We met in my office a few days ago. You might not remember me.”

The young, rather shy quantum computing expert. “Of course I remember you. I’m surprised you’re still here.”

“Believe me, I wish I weren’t. The bank of hotel rooms Lux booked in Pawtucket filled up hours ago. There’s no place left to go.” A pause. “But as long as I have to be here, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Logan took a seat behind his desk once again. “Go on.”

“It’s about Roger.” Benedict’s breathless voice grew softer, almost a whisper. “Roger Carbon.”

“What about him?”

“I know why you’re here. You’re investigating the death of Willard Strachey. That was obvious when you interviewed me. And you think... you think that it was something other than suicide.”

Logan went quite still. “What makes you say that?”

“It’s hard to keep a secret in a place like Lux. Nobody knows exactly what’s going on, but there’s been speculation...” Benedict went silent for a moment. “The thing is, Carbon’s been acting a little... frightening the last couple of days.”

“Frightening.”

“Maybe a better word is ‘suspicious.’ I can make out some of his phone conversations — through the wall, I mean. The things he’s been talking about... hinting at... are very alarming.”

“Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”

“I wanted to. But the fact is that I’m...” Another pause. “Well, I’m afraid of him. It was all I could do to gather the nerve to call you. But I haven’t seen him around today. I think he may have left the island, and... and if what I think is true, then I shouldn’t keep it to myself. I have to tell you — because I think you may be in danger.”

“I may be in danger?” Logan repeated.

“I think so.”

“Would you like to come by my office so we can talk about it?”

“No!” This came out in a frightened rush. “No, this storm... Please, let’s meet in the basement. I have a lab here. We’ll be safer.”

Logan rubbed his chin. He really ought to check up on Kim.

I think you may be in danger...

“Please, please,” Benedict said in a voice like a supplicant’s. “Before I lose my nerve.”

“Very well. How will I find you?”

“Do you know the basement layout?”

“Not well. I’ve only been to the archives.”

“That’s sufficient. Take the elevator or the main stairway down, then head in the direction opposite from the archives. I’ll be waiting for you by the barrier.”

“I’ll come immediately.”

“Thank you, Dr. Logan.” And she hung up.