C. Palov - Ark of Fire

Accelerating, she jerked the Jeep over one lane. Then another, exiting the traffic circle at Mass Avenue.

“You want to talk? Fine. Here’s the only thing I have to say to you—” Although it was hard, she dragged out the silence for several seconds. Then, her voice at screech level, she screamed, “Go to hell!’”

Pulling the wireless headset out of her ear, she flung it in the direction of the tote bag.

Shaking—not like one leaf, but a whole pile—she kept her eyes glued to the road, the familiar equestrian monuments passing in a blur as she drove around Scott Circle and under Thomas Circle. She then turned right on Eleventh, drove a few blocks and made a left-hand turn onto Pennsylvania. In the distance loomed the U.S. Capitol.

The snow started to fall a bit heavier. Driving on autopilot, she turned up the defrost.

At Fourth Street, she turned right; the East Building of the National Gallery of Art was on her left, the West Building on her right. Not bothering to signal, she made a sharp turn into the circular drive next to the museum, pulling the Jeep into the first available parking spot she could find, right behind a snow-covered Lexus. It was a primo parking spot, mere steps from the museum entrance. It also required an NGA-issued parking decal.

“So sue me,” she muttered. It was snowing and she didn’t have time to find a legal parking space; the Mall was crowded despite the foul weather.

Yanking the keys out of the ignition, she tossed them into her tote bag and got out of the Jeep. The National Gallery of Art was the most public place she could think of to hide. One of the largest marble buildings in the world, it exuded a sense of strength and security. Not to mention there were guards everywhere. Tons of ’em. As she rushed toward the oversized entry doors of the West Building, she tried not to think of the two dead guards back at the Hopkins.

Opening the glass door, she glanced at her watch. Two-thirty. The museum would be open for another two and a half hours. Enough time to figure out her next move. Hopefully, C. Aisquith had received her e-mail and was on his or her way to the museum.

At the front guard station, Edie opened her tote bag for inspection; the guard gave the contents only a cursory glance. If he noticed the box of spinach, he gave no indication. Edie slung the tote bag back on her shoulder, unimpressed with the museum’s post-9/11 security measures.

Well acquainted with the layout, having spent hours perusing the museum’s collection since first moving to D.C. nearly twenty years ago, Edie rode the escalator down one flight to the underground concourse that connected the two wings, east to west. Passing the Henry Moore sculpture at the base of the escalator, she headed into the museum gift shop. The muffled echo inside the concourse was nonstop. People chatting. People talking on cell phones. People waxing poetic about the beautiful boxed Christmas cards. The commingling of all those voices was a comforting sound, reassuring Edie that she was finally safe.

Reaching the Cascade Café, the museum’s version of a food court, she took up a position next to the gushing waterfall that gave the café its name. Enclosed behind a giant screen of glass, pumped water continuously flowed over a wall of corrugated granite. One story below ground, the protective glass wall was the only source of natural light in the concourse; Edie could see the wintry gray sky above.

For the next fifteen minutes, she carefully scrutinized every museum patron who entered the concourse. Teens garbed in Gap. Ladies-who-lunch garbed in Gucci. Museum staff garbed in drab gray. Everyone. And then she saw him: a tall redheaded man, fortyish, who had about him a discernible air of self-assurance. From the cut of the clothes—expensive navy wool jacket, cream-colored cable-knit sweater, black leather shoes paired with blue denim jeans—she pegged him for a European.

The redheaded man came to a stop in the middle of the crowded concourse. Turning his head, he glanced at her, held her gaze, then looked away.

Edie stepped away from her post and purposefully strode toward him. Having spent a summer selling timeshares in Florida, she wasn’t afraid of approaching strangers.

The redheaded man swerved his gaze back in her direction, a questioning look on his face.

“C Aisquith at lycos dot com?”

He nodded, blue eyes narrowing. “And you must be Edie one-oh-three at earthlink dot com. I would normally say ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ but given the dire content of your electronic missive, that may be a bit premature.” Like Jonathan Padgham, he had a cultured English accent. “I’m curious. How did you recognize me? There must be a hundred people milling about.”

“Lucky guess,” she replied, shrugging. “That and the fact that you have the same British ‘I’m so superior’ air about you that Dr. Padgham had.”

One side of the man’s mouth quirked upward. “Had? I can’t imagine old Padge has changed all that much.”

Edie swallowed, the moment of truth having arrived much too abruptly.

“I said ‘had’ for a reason . . . he’s dead. Jonathan Padgham was killed a little over an hour ago. And just my luck, I’m the only witness to the murder.”

CHAPTER 9

“. . . And if they find us, we’re both going to wish we’d had the foresight to prepurchase a headstone and burial plot.”

For several moments Caedmon Aisquith stared at the paranoid, Pre-Raphaelite beauty standing before him. Like a raving-mad maestro, she used her hands to punctuate the nonsensical words issuing from her chapped, bloodstained lips.

“Why contact me? Why not go to the authorities?” He spoke calmly, not wanting to tip the scales from raving mad to stark-raving mad .

“Because ‘the authorities’ were in on the kill, that’s why. As in dirty cops and FBI infiltrators. They mistakenly believe that Dr. Padgham sent you an e-mail right before he died,” she answered, clearly unable to speak in coherent sentences. “That’s why they want to kill you. And trust me, killing you would be child’s play for these guys. Like the Grim Reaper pulling the Energizer Bunny right out of the ol’ top hat.”

“Mmmm.” He wondered if she had taken some sort of hallucinatory drug.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“I could say that you have a penchant for mixed metaphor.”

“Look, I’m dead serious. Emphasis on the word dead , just in case you’re too dense to get the message. You still don’t believe me? Fine. I’ve got the proof right here.”

“Indeed.”

She began to rummage through the tote bag hanging off her leather-clad shoulder. Peering inside, Caedmon caught sight of what looked to be a manila file folder and a box of frozen vegetables.

It was plain as a pikestaff; the woman was absolutely bonkers.

With a determined look on her face, she removed a khaki-colored waistcoat from the tote bag and brandished the garment in front of his face. “I was wearing this when Dr. Padgham was murdered. When I had to crawl over his body”—her chest visibly heaved—“that’s his blood smeared on the front of my vest.”

“May I?” Caedmon touched the bloodstain, surprised to discover that it was wet.

Were it not for the still-damp bloodstain and the faint smell of vomit, he would have dismissed the woman outright. Instead, he removed his mobile phone from his breast pocket.

“What are you doing?” Edie Miller frantically grabbed him by the arm, preventing him from raising the mobile to his ear. “If you call the police, we’re as good as dead.”

“If you would be so kind as to unhand me, I’m going to ring Padgham.” And, hopefully, get to the bottom of this lunacy.