He replied, “You think you know me, don't you, Jessica? But if you really knew me, you'd never ask such a question.”
Something chilling in his remark told her that he meant to do as his father had attempted, to take Jessica with him into eternity, be it heaven or hell.
Given the full-page ad for the Field Museum's night opening of the bone show, Jessica assumed the place would be overrun by people. Capturing or killing Giles Gahran, or dying in the process herself as Otto before her, one way or another, this life and death struggle between them was going to happen here and now. It would end at the Field Museum, his chosen venue.
She felt the bulge of her holster and gun below her armpit as she drove. She felt the heft of her second weapon on her ankle. If Matisak was indeed his father, she'd need both weapons.
“Well, Doctor? Which is it to be? Execution tonight or the asylum? You think there's an asylum that can hold a Matisak?”
“No… on that we agree.”
“How lovely a spine you must possess, Jessica. Come alone.”
TWENTY-THREE
The blood of the moon steeps through me. but you cannot find me. as I have disappeared into your darkness.
The Chicago Field Museum had a long and distinguished history as one of the original buildings of the famous White City of 1893, created for the Chicago World's Fair Columbian Exposition of that year. It had stood sentinel at 1400 S. Lake Shore ever since, and millions annually flocked to its doors to see the wonders of the natural world.
Ironic, Jessica thought, that her chasing down Giles Gahran, the son of her worst nightmare, should end here in this palace devoted to all things natural-its other name being the Museum of Natural History. But then there actually was something natural about the development of the criminally insane, too… How natural it all was, despite what people wanted to believe to the contrary. The criminal mind was as old as man himself, and like an ancient, persistent, resistant virus, it resided-sometimes dormant, sometimes active, but always present-within every developing human brain, the paterfamilias of evil. Like a new layer or patina over an old deck, the rotted original boards remained.
Still, a part of Jessica recognized the role that Larina Gahran had played in creating the monster Giles. No matter his genetic makeup, no matter the mark of Cain on his soul, no matter his predisposition toward blood and violence and that which could not be predicted, his sick fascination with spinal fluid, bone marrow and bone, fed as it were by the rare esoteric volumes he'd collected over the years. Despite all of it. Despite what he may or may not have done as a child to make Larina believe him the spawn of Satan himself, Mother Gahran could have gotten him help, she could have shown an inch of compassion, she could have shown a modicum of love at least for that part of the child that was good and innocent, but she chose instead to pour poison over poison.
It reminded Jessica of a story of child abuse written decades before it became commonplace news and TV and radio talk fare. The tale entitled Born of Man and Woman was penned by the master storyteller Richard Matheson. Matheson's monster, too, was created of poor parental attitudes and behaviors as much as the boy's birth defects.
These thoughts swam about in Jessica's mind even as she keenly and warily watched her every step now that she'd entered the museum. She was suddenly barred from going farther by a hefty black woman in security guard uniform. When she flashed her badge, the woman didn't budge from her path. “Everybody pays same here, cops, no different.”
“I'm on the job here, in pursuit of a fugitive.”
“How do I know that?”
“Fucking… Christ lady look…” She read the woman's nameplate, “America? Is that your name?”
“That's right. Mama was a marine, first lieutenant.”
“Well, listen, America, I need your help on this case.”
“My help?” “That's right.” Jessica pulled forth a folded sheath of papier. “Wanted poster,” she added.
“This looks like just a kid,” she replied.
“His high-school photo. It's all we've got to go on. Look, America, I want you to make copies of this picture on your museum copier and get it out to every security guard in the place for me. Can you do that? And can you let me have your radio in order to keep in touch with all your personnel?” Jessica pointed to the state-of-the-art earphones and mouthpiece.
America nodded and handed over the radio and said, “Does it rain in a rainforest? I'm a law-and-order woman.”
“But no one is to go near this guy. He's armed and dangerous.”
“No way he got through our screening with a gun,” she countered.
“Perhaps not, but he is a multiple murderer.”
“I see.”
“Point me in the director of the Lovely Bones exhibit. I'll start there.”
“Straight ahead. That big mess, you ain't gonna miss.”
Jessica started out alone save for the headphone hookup. She wondered how quickly and efficiently America might act or fail to act. She entered the huge, marbled concourse of the Field Museum, the lights turned down for effect over the simulated dinosaur boneyard created for the exhibit at the center of the concourse rear. Instead of a museum, she had walked into the Mojave Desert. Leading up to the bone yard itself a simulated dusky red earth trail. On all sides, an impressive illusion, created masterfully with Hollywood effects and lights made Jessica feel herself in a strange desert filled with people in black tie and evening gowns toasting the museum's latest major opening, celebrating an enormous find in the Mojave. From what she gathered, the find had come of a vision. This vision had led the chief archeologist in charge, a millionaire named Abraham Stroud, to the exact spot and layer below the surface, and aside from the dinosaur find, it had also uncovered evidence of an early race of forgotten people, the Mojaves, Stroud named them.
Jessica meandered through the desert on the Field Museum marble floor, and she wondered what the effect had had on Giles, and where he might be at this moment. Certainly, he hadn't donned white shirt, coat and tie. He should, like herself, stick out in this crowd. But she could not find him.
Her phone rang, annoying people closest to her, milling about the complex recreation of the dig.
It must be him. Still playing games.
She let it ring until other patrons showed their annoyance. The man of the hour, Abraham Stroud-a bifocaled elderly Kirk Douglas look-alike, in need of a good tailor- looked ill at ease with unkempt hair and a scraggly beard at odds with his baggy tuxedo. He addressed the crowd in a warm and unpretentious manner, folksy in his approach, befitting the string tie, Navajo jewelry and western boots he wore with the tux.
“The find at Mojave is perhaps the most important single…”
Jessica answered the phone and heard Richard's voice, angry at her sudden disappearance. He did not disguise his anxiety. “Are you mad? You've gone after him alone, haven't you? Where are you?”
She pointed the camera and panned the museum. “Field Museum,” she said. “He's here someplace, Richard, and he insisted I come alone.”
“Damn you, Jess! You have no bloody right to endanger yourself in such a way, not now, now that you've made me love you.”
“He's close, Richard, and he thinks we have some sort of connection due to-”
“Foolish, Jess! He's a mad hatter, and you are following his lead! Harry Laughlin and I are on our way now. Stay put. Stay close to that crowd there.”
“I'll be careful, of course.”
“Don't hang up, you! Keep this line open, and keep the camera filming. I swear this will not be our last conversation. After what this monster did to Amanda Petersaul, Cates, all the others… how could you be so foolish as to go off after him alone, Jess?”