Lincoln Child - The Forgotten Room

Olafson smiled. “As good as done.”

Leaving the director’s office, Logan made his way slowly down the elegantly appointed corridors and sweeping staircases. In the three days since the storm, the think tank had returned to normal — scientists speaking in hushed tones as they passed by, wide-eyed clients waiting for an audience in the Edwardian splendor of the main library. Passing the dining hall — the clanking of silverware and porcelain beyond its closed doors indicating that lunch would soon be served — he turned down a side corridor, went through a set of double doors, and stepped out onto the rear lawn.

The bright sunshine, and the unmistakable undercurrent of chill in the air, hit him immediately. He made his way past the small knots of strolling scientists and technicians, the painter at her easel, until he reached the long scatter of rocks that marked high tide, flung carelessly along the coast as if by a giant’s whim. Kim Mykolos sat on one of the larger rocks, hands in the pockets of a gray trenchcoat, staring out to sea. An ugly yellow bruise, just now beginning to fade, stood out on one temple.

“Hello,” Logan said, taking a seat beside her.

“Hello yourself.”

“I hear this sea air is great for convalescing.”

“It’s not the sea air I have to thank, Dr. Logan. It’s you.”

“Please — Jeremy.”

“Jeremy, then.”

“Why should you thank me?”

“You came to my rescue. Called nine one one. Practically drove me to the hospital yourself.”

“If anything, I should be apologizing for getting you involved in the first place.”

“Most excitement I’ve had in years.” Then, quite abruptly, the jocular tone faded. “Honestly, Jeremy. After what happened to Will Strachey... well, I needed to see this through, see things right. And that’s what you gave me. I wish I could do something in return.”

“You can. Did you bring them?”

Kim nodded. Then she pulled her hands out of the pockets of her trenchcoat. Cradled in each hand were two items, wrapped in tissue paper.

Logan took the two from her left hand. They were the small transmitting devices they’d discovered hidden in the flanks of the Machine, in Strachey’s radio, and behind a bookcase in Logan’s office.

“You remembered. Thanks.”

She looked at him. “Is everything good? I mean, has Lux swept all this crap away?”

“As well as they could, yes.”

“Then there’s just one thing left to do.”

As if with a single mind, the two rose. Tearing away the tissue paper and wadding it into his pocket, Logan hefted the devices, and then tossed them — one, then the other — into the sea. Kim followed his lead.

They remained silent a moment, watching, as the sea swallowed them greedily, the small plashes quickly covered over by creamy breakers, one after another after another, until even the memory of their sinking was gone.

“ ‘O spirit of love,’ ” Logan said almost under his breath,

How quick and fresh art thou,

That, notwithstanding thy capacity

Receiveth as the sea, naught enters there,

Of what validity and pitch soe’er,

But falls into abatement and low price

Even in a minute.

They stood together in silence for a long moment, staring out over the blue ocean.

“So it’s over, then,” Kim murmured.

“Walk me to my car,” Logan replied.

Within five minutes they were standing in the parking lot in the shadow of the East Wing. As the wind stirred the lapels of Kim’s shirt, Logan saw the lines of the ghost catcher pendant beneath. “I’ll take that off your hands, if you like,” he said.

She shook her head. “I’ve kind of gotten used to it.”

There was a pause. “What’s next for you?” Logan asked.

“It’s like I told you when we first met. I’m going to finish up Strachey’s work, secure his legacy. And then I’m going to continue my own work on strategic software design. Perry Maynard, the vice director, tells me that’s a discipline totally in line with Lux’s future plans.”

“Well, when you found the next Oracle, be sure to sell me some stock options,” Logan said.

They embraced. “Thanks again, Kim,” he said. “For everything.”

She smiled just a little sadly. “Mind how you go.”

As Logan fired up the Lotus Elan and made his way out of the parking lot, he saw a dark, late-model sedan pull away from a parking space and follow him down the long graveled drive. As he drove, slowly and thoughtfully, through the crooked downtown streets of Newport, the sedan continued to follow him at a discrete distance.

“I don’t know, Kit,” he said quietly to the spirit of his dead wife, who in his fond imagination was sitting in the passenger seat. “Do you think they’ll follow us all the way to New Haven?”

Kit was considerate enough not to respond.

“I hope these Ironhand operatives aren’t too dedicated in their surveillance,” Logan went on. “I’ve got a class in the medieval trade guilds of Siena to prepare for, and this kind of attention could cramp my style.”

And with that he pointed the car toward the Claiborne Pell bridge, Connecticut — and home.