Douglas Preston - The Cabinet of Curiosities

The Federal Bureau of Investigation has taken an interest in the case. Special Agent Pendergast, from the New Orleans office, has been observed on the scene. Neither the New York nor the New Orleans FBI offices would comment. The exact nature of his involvement has not been made public, but Pendergast is known as one of the highest ranking special agents in the Southern Region. He has worked on several high-profile cases in New York before. The New York City Police Department, meanwhile, has shown little interest in a crime that occurred more than a century ago. Captain Sherwood Custer, in whose precinct the remains were found, says the case is primarily of historical interest. “The murderer is dead. Any accomplices must be dead. We’ll leave this one to the historians and continue to devote our resources to crime prevention in the twenty-first century.”

Following the discovery of the letter, the New York Museum removed the Shottum Cabinet collection from the museum archives. Roger Brisbane, First Vice President of the Museum, called the move “part of a long-scheduled, ongoing conservation process, a coincidence that has nothing to do with these reports.” He referred all further questions to Harry Medoker in the Museum’s Public Relations Department. Mr. Medoker did not return several telephone calls from the Times.

The story continued on an inside page, where the reporter described the details of the old murders with considerable relish. Fairhaven read the article to the end, then turned back and read the first page once again. The dry leaves of the Times made a faint rustling sound in his hands, echoed by the trembling of the dead leaves clinging to the potted trees on the balcony outside the atrium.

Fairhaven slowly laid down the paper and looked out once again over the city. He could see the New York Museum across the park, its granite towers and copper roofs catching the newly minted light. He flicked his finger and another cup of tea arrived. He stared at the cup without pleasure, tossed it down. Another flick of his finger brought him a phone.

Fairhaven knew a great deal about real estate development, public relations, and New York City politics. He knew this article was a potential disaster. It called for firm, prompt action.

He paused, thinking who should receive the first telephone call. A moment later he dialed the mayor’s private number, which he knew by heart.

DOREEN HOLLANDER, OF 21 Indian Feather Lane, Pine Creek, Oklahoma, had left her husband twenty-six stories overhead, mumbling and snoring in their hotel room. Gazing across the broad expanse of Central Park West, she decided now was the perfect time to view Monet’s water lilies at the Metropolitan Museum. She’d wanted to get a glimpse of the famous paintings ever since seeing a poster at her sister-in-law’s house. Her husband, service technician for Oklahoma Cable, hadn’t the faintest interest in art. Chances were, he’d still be asleep when she returned.

Consulting the visitor’s map the hotel had so generously volunteered, she was pleased to discover the museum lay just across Central Park. A short walk, no need to call for an expensive taxi. Doreen Hollander liked walking, and this would be the perfect way to burn off those two croissants with butter and marmalade she had unwisely eaten for breakfast.

She started off, crossing into the park at the Alexander Humbolt gate, walking briskly. It was a beautiful fall day, and the big buildings on Fifth Avenue shone above the treetops. New York City. A wonderful place, as long as you didn’t have to live here.

The path dropped down and soon she came to the side of a lovely pond. She gazed across. Would it be better to go around it to the right, or to the left? She consulted her map and decided the left-hand way would be shorter.

She set off again on her strong farmgirl legs, inhaling the air. Surprisingly fresh, she thought. Bicyclists and Rollerbladers whizzed past as the road curved alongside the pond. Soon, she found herself at another fork. The main path swerved northward, but there was a footpath that continued straight, in the direction she was going, through a wood. She consulted her map. It didn’t show the footpath, but she knew a better route when she saw it. She continued on.

Quickly, the path branched, then branched again, wandering aimlessly up and down through hillocks and little rocky outcrops. Here and there through the trees, she could still make out the row of skyscrapers along Fifth Avenue, beckoning her on, showing her the way. The woods grew more dense. And then she began to see the people. It was odd. Here and there, young men stood idly, hands in pockets, in the woods, waiting. But waiting for what? They were nice-looking young men, well dressed, with good haircuts. Out beyond the trees a bright fall morning was in progress, and she didn’t feel the slightest bit afraid.

She hurried on as the woods grew thicker. She stopped to consult her map, a little puzzled, and discovered that she was in a place called the Ramble. It was a well-chosen name, she decided. Twice she had found herself turned completely around. It was as if the person who had designed this little maze of paths wanted people to get lost.

Well, Doreen Hollander was not one to get lost. Not in a tiny patch of woods in a city park, when after all she had grown up in the country, roaming the fields and woods of eastern Oklahoma. This walk was turning into a little adventure, and Doreen Hollander liked little adventures. That was why she had dragged her husband to New York City to begin with: to have a little adventure. Doreen forced herself to smile.

If this didn’t beat all — now she was turned around yet again. With a rueful laugh she consulted her map. But on the map, the Ramble was marked simply as a large mass of leafy green. She looked around. Perhaps one of the nice-looking men could help her with directions.

But here, the woods were darker, thicker. Nevertheless, through a screen of leaves, she saw two figures. She approached. What were they doing in there? She took another step forward, pulled a branch aside, and peered through. The peer turned into a stare, and the stare turned into a mask of frozen horror.

Then, abruptly, she backed away, turned, and began retracing her steps as quickly as she could. Now it was all clear. How perfectly disgusting. Her only thought was to get out of this terrible place as quickly as possible. All desire to see Monet’s water lilies had flown from her head. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but it was all true. It was just as she’d heard tell on the 70 °Club on television, New York City as a modern Sodom and Gomorrah. She hurried along, her breath coming in short gasps, and she looked back only once.

When the swift footsteps came up behind her, she heard nothing and expected nothing. When the black hood came down hard and tight over her head, and the sudden wet stench of chloroform violated her nostrils, the last vision in her mind was of a twisted spire of salt glittering in the desolate light of an empty plain, a plume of bitter smoke rising in the distance.

THE EMINENT DR. Frederick Watson Collopy sat in state behind the great nineteenth-century leather-bound desk, reflecting on the men and women who had preceded him in this august position. In the Museum’s glory years — the years, say, when this vast desk was still new — the directors of the Museum had been true visionaries, explorers and scientists both. He lingered appreciatively over their names: Byrd, Throckmorton, Andrews. Now, those were names worthy to be cast in bronze. His appreciation waned somewhat as he approached the more recent occupants of this grand corner office — the unfortunate Winston Wright and his short-tenured successor, Olivia Merriam. He felt no little satisfaction in returning the office to its former state of dignity and accomplishment. He ran a hand along his well-trimmed beard, laid a finger across his lip in thoughtful meditation.