Linda Fairstein - Lethal Legacy

Beneath the neatly carved names and dates were the numbers: 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66.

“They were obviously buried here originally, before the reinterment,” I said.

“And Minerva must know what’s in Millbrook-and what isn’t. She’d certainly have access to the family digs up on the property.”

“So maybe when they moved the bodies, nobody gave any thought to whether there was anything in these other two vaults they owned-whether any books were interred with the Hunt bones. There was certainly no record of other descendants on this plaque.”

“Wait here with Mercer,” Mike said.

“What are you going to do?”

“There’s got to be a way to get below to the vaults.”

“Mike, let’s get help.”

“And if something bad’s going on right now? You going to live with yourself if somebody’s down there, left for dead?”

Mercer was motioning to Mike. “Check out that corner.”

The dim light filtering in from the street and wind blowing the bushes played tricks with my vision. It looked like Mercer was right-that there was a hatch open in the southwest end of the enclosed area, a wooden door of some sort, against the far wall of the garden.

Mike sprinted forward and I followed, practically slamming into him when he stopped short just ten feet from the spot.

He was fixed on something on the ground.

I knelt beside him and saw the body of a man-short, over-weight, middle-aged-slumped beneath a small evergreen bush, his feet protruding into the pathway from beneath the branches.

“He’s alive,” Mike said.

I looked up to see Mercer and Shalik standing over us. Mike was already dialing 911 to ask for an ambulance and backup.

“Move the kid, Mercer. Get him out of here.”

There was something white on the ground, next to the man’s head. It was a handkerchief, and when I picked it up-ignoring all crime scene protocol-it reeked of sickly sweet chloroform.

I told Mike and stuffed the cloth in my pants pocket, then reached for the card in the man’s outstretched hand. It identified him as a caretaker of the New York Marble Cemetery.

“Figures,” Mike said. “They’d need a guide to find the old Hunt property. Also useful for Travis Forbes, the chloroform kid, to be in a cop’s uniform to get close enough to knock the guy out, probably before Minerva stepped out of the car.”

Mercer was on the ground, trying to do CPR on the fallen man before the medics arrived. He took a pen-size LCD flashlight from his pocket and passed it to Mike, who was on his way toward the opening. I hurried after him.

“You’re not gonna like this, Coop. I’ll go alone.”

We had been in claustrophobic situations often enough for Mike and Mercer to know they were a problem for me. But I couldn’t imagine letting Mike, who had covered my back more times than I could count, go down without a partner.

He took his blazer off and threw it on the ground, unholstering his gun as he put his hand on the top of the hatch.

Mike started down into the entrance shaft of the burial space and cleared the short staircase. I listened for voices, but heard none.

I put my foot on the top step and, afraid to lose the light that Mike was leading with, hurried down ten more until I touched the earthen floor.

I stood up straight and looked around the grim necropolis. On either side of me were narrow passageways that led between enormous stone vaults. Long slate shelves supported some of the coffins, mostly made of stone, which were stacked on top of one another.

I stayed as close to Mike as I could get while he moved the light over the dirt, then up and down among the coffins, looking for names of the dead and numbers of their vaults.

We had passed the forties, seen the markers for Deys and Cruikshanks, Wetmores and Wheelocks-adults and far too many infants, typical of the mortality rates of that century.

As we came to the intersection that marked the divide between the vaults numbered in the fifties from those in the sixties, Mike’s flashlight framed a woman’s face.

Minerva Hunt was seated on the ground, her hands tied behind her with a length of rope. A silk scarf-probably her own-served as a gag between her teeth, wrapped around the back of her head.

Next to her, Travis Forbes was holding a taxidermist’s skife-the sharp tool designed to skin dead animals.

“Forget it, Forbes,” Mike said.

“No, you forget it.” He pressed the edge of the blade to Minerva’s slender neck and the first drops of blood spurted out. “I can end it for her much faster than you can shoot.”

“I have no doubt you can. I’ve seen your work.”

I could picture the deep, gaping wound in Tina Barr’s neck.

Minerva Hunt’s eyes were opened wide with fear, flitting between Travis Forbes’s hand and something behind me.

I turned to look but saw only the massive outlines of stone caskets and slate shelves.

Travis pulled at Minerva’s arm to get her to her feet. “Give me the gun, Detective, or I’ll cut her throat.”

“Did you get what you wanted?” Mike asked. “Can’t kill her before she lays the golden egg, can you?”

Again Minerva Hunt’s eyes darted from Forbes to the staircase through which we had entered. I glanced back, hoping to see Mercer and the cops he had summoned, but no one was there.

“Make yourselves comfortable, Mr. Chapman,” Forbes said, positioning the terrified woman between himself and Mike. If Mike had considered firing his gun at Forbes, he had missed his brief opportunity.

“Ms. Hunt and I have to go,” Forbes said, pushing Minerva to take baby steps forward. “We haven’t finished our conversation. Pick yourself out a slab and get some rest while we find a less crowded place to talk.”

Minerva looked to the staircase again, then jerked back her head, just as I heard the hatch crash to a close.

This time, Mike flashed his light in that direction. Against the blackness of the wall, it caught Alger Herrick’s shiny chrome hook.

“There’s a shaft at the other end, Forbes,” Alger Herrick said, coming down the steps. “You’ve got to take her that way. There’s another detective outside here.”

Forbes was focused on Mike’s gun. He tried to move Minerva around and drag her away from where we stood. Strapped to him was a backpack, open at the top, which appeared to have a large book-the size of a double folio-sticking out of it.

“Hurry, Forbes.”

“I want his gun.”

“We can do better than that,” Herrick said, coming up directly behind me. “We’ll take his girl.”

Mike pointed his pistol at Herrick, but it was too late. The man was upon me, the cold steel of his prosthesis gripping my forearm.

“Let go of me. I’ll walk,” I said, trying to shake myself loose.

He held me tight, angling so that I was always between him and Mike, and led me around the central burial chambers to an earthen path parallel to the one on which Mike stood, inches away from Minerva Hunt and Travis Forbes.

“Shoot, Mike!” I yelled. “Shoot Forbes.”

The stark confines of this dungeonlike underground chamber smelled of death.

Forbes responded with a laugh, a loud, guttural laugh. What was Mercer doing up above that he couldn’t hear us? Probably helping to load the injured man into an ambulance.

Hunt tried to speak-or maybe she was crying. All that emerged from behind the gag was a muffled noise.

Herrick turned the corner, and for the first time I could see that the fieldstone cap had been removed from vault 65, marked with the name Jasper Hunt II. Books were strewn about, no doubt the result of this unusual break-in undertaken by Herrick and Forbes. The old eccentric had in fact gone to his grave-the first time-with some of his beloved treasures.