C. Palov - Ark of Fire

And then he was gone, exiting the office as unobtrusively as he had entered.

Edie slowly counted to twenty before she crawled out from under the desk. Forced to straddle Dr. Padgham’s corpse, she took one look at his bloody, mutilated eye socket . . . and promptly threw up. All over the Persian carpet. Not that it mattered; the carpet was already stained with blood and brain matter.

Still on all fours, she wiped her mouth on her sweater sleeve. She’d never liked Jonathan Padgham. But someone else had liked him even less. Enough to kill him in cold blood. Correction. Warm blood. Warm, wet, coppery-smelling blood.

Lurching to her feet, Edie picked up the telephone. Nothing but dead air. The killer had disabled the phone line. With a sinking heart she knew that her cell phone was still plugged into the battery charger on her kitchen counter. So much for calling the cops to come to the rescue. Since the killer “took care” of the two museum guards downstairs, Edie knew she was on her own.

Her goal being to get out of the museum as quickly as possible, she left the office and headed for the main corridor. The Hopkins Museum was housed in a four-story nineteenth-century Beaux Arts mansion located in the heart of the Dupont Circle area, a vibrant commercial and residential district. Once she was free of the museum, help was only a shout away.

Coming to a halt at the end of the hall that led to the main corridor, Edie tentatively peered around the corner.

Oh, God.

Stunned to see the killer, Edie caught herself in midgasp. A behemoth of a man in a gray janitor’s suit with a black ski mask pulled over his head was standing in front of the wall monitor attached to a security keypad. In order to gain access to the administration area, every employee, regardless of rank, had to key a personal ID number into the security system, repeating the procedure when they left the admin area. The code activated the lock on the intimidating steel door adjacent to the keypad through which one entered and departed the fourth-floor office suite. The computer system enabled museum security to monitor all employees’ whereabouts.

It occurred to Edie that in order to enter the office suite, the murderer had to have had a valid security code to unlock the steel door.

How did he get ahold of a valid code?

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was stuck on the fourth floor with a murderer. To get to the elevator, she had to pass through the steel door. Meaning she’d have to wait him out. Once he left the premises, she could escape the building.

Wondering what the killer was doing, Edie watched his supersized hand move across the keypad with surprising dexterity. She knew from experience that it took no more than two seconds to key in a five-digit code and unlock the door, but by her reckoning the killer had been standing in front of the monitor and keypad a good thirty seconds.

So just leave already.

“Fucking shit!’ she heard the killer mutter as he removed a notepad and pencil from his breast pocket.

As she watched him scribble something onto the notepad, Edie went slack-jawed. Although the monitor was too far away to verify, she suspected the killer had accessed the computer security log. If true, that meant the name E. Miller had just popped up on the monitor. Beside her name would be the exact date—12/1/08—and time—13:38:01—that she had entered the fourth floor. Even more damning, there would be no date or time indicated in the DEPART column.

Edie had watched enough crime dramas on TV to know she’d been made.

She had to find a hiding place. Now. This very instant.

Terrified that the Neanderthal in the gray coveralls would somehow home in on her, Edie slowly eased away from the corner. She then ran down the hall, past the office with the sprawled corpse on the floor, grateful for the hideous maroon carpet that muffled her footfalls.

Turning right, she headed down another hall, this one dead-ending at the supply room. Lined with shelving units that were, in turn, stacked with boxes, it would make an excellent hiding place.

Or it would have made an excellent hiding place, had the door been unlocked.

Stymied, she stared at the locked door.

Now what?

If she could get downstairs to the exhibition galleries, she could yank an artifact off the wall, instantly triggering the museum alarm system. The D.C. Metropolitan Police would arrive within minutes. Maybe even seconds, if there happened to be a squad car in the area. But to do that, she’d have to first sneak past Dr. Padgham’s killer.

Too faint of heart to give the idea further consideration, Edie spun on her booted heel. As she did, she caught sight of a bright red sign with bold white lettering.

The fire escape.

With renewed hope at seeing the word EXIT , Edie rushed down the hall toward that welcoming red light. When she reached the door, she grabbed the bar handle and pushed, bracing herself for what she assumed would be a very loud alarm.

CHAPTER 3

“I think Isis is like the total embodiment of the wise woman. That’s why my magick circle practices a devotional ritual to invoke the power of Isis at each full moon.”

Caedmon Aisquith glanced at the pierced and tattooed reception attendee, an autographed copy of Isis Revealed clutched to her breast.

“Do you by any chance mention the Rites of Isis in your book?”

About to answer in the terse negative, Caedmon caught himself. His American readers tended to fall into two categories: the erudite and the asinine. Not that it mattered, as he’d been ordered by his publicist—who looked on with the stern prerogative of an English headmistress—to treat all questions, no matter how inane or idiotic, with due consideration. Particularly if the questioner had already purchased a copy of his book.

Caedmon schooled his features into an attentive expression. “Er, no, I am afraid there are no magical rituals detailed in the text. However, you are quite correct in that Isis, like her Greek counterpart, Sophia, represents wisdom in all its myriad forms.”

Apple polished, Caedmon thanked the young woman for her interest in ancient mysteries and cordially took his leave of her. A private man, he was uncomfortable in the role of public author, finding the meet-and-greet segment of the book signings a tiresome exercise in the fine art of chin wagging—an art form he’d never quite mastered.

His belly ached from the cheap champagne, and his facial muscles ached from the fool’s grin he’d been forced to wear since entering the bookshop, so he was actually relieved when his mobile began to softly vibrate; the incoming call was a perfect excuse to turn his back on the nattering group crowded into the diminutive confines of Dupont Books. To lessen his publicist’s displeasure, he made a big to-do of raising his mobile to his left ear, silently signaling that he needed to take the call. This being the last leg of a twelve-city tour, they’d had their fill of one another, Caedmon anxious to return to the quiet monotony of pen and ink.

“Yes, hello,” he said, always feeling like a bit of an ass speaking into, essentially, thin air.

“Caedmon Aisquith?”

Politely correcting the man’s butchered pronunciation of his name, he said, “Who’s calling, please?”

The question met with a long, static silence, followed by a distinctive click as the call was abruptly disconnected.

“Bloody hell,” Caedmon muttered, yanking the mobile from his ear.. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly bristled. He didn’t give out his number. Hit with the unnerving sensation that he was being watched by someone who had no interest in discussing ancient lore or swilling free bubbly, he turned on his heel. Slowly. Calmly. A man with nothing to fear.