Caedmon directed his gaze first one way, then the other, determining how best to navigate through the melee. To the right was a tunnel-like hallway. To the left was the adjacent gift shop. With its dimmed recessed lighting and numerous display counters, the gift shop offered the best cover. Grabbing Edie by the hand, he ran in that direction.
“Where are we going?” she demanded, huffing as she kept pace with him.
He sidestepped around a museum employee who was actually attempting to direct the frenzied horde, much like a traffic cop directing motorists after a crash-up.
“We’re going as far from the madding crowd as possible,” he informed her, having to shout to be heard over the din. Spying a black trench coat hanging from a countertop, the owner having abandoned it in the rush to escape, he grabbed it as they ran past. He then dodged behind an oversized column. Out of sight, he came to a halt.
“Quickly! Put this on!” Unceremoniously, he shoved the coat at his companion’s chest.
“Why would I want to—”
“Your outfit is preposterous. As such, it makes an easily discernible target.”
Removing her tote bag from her shoulder, somehow managing to have kept the bag on her person during the rumpus, Edie shoved her arms into the trench coat. “With your red hair, you kind of stick out yourself.”
“Point taken.” As he spoke, Caedmon plucked a knit cap from a bespectacled Asian teenager who ran past, too terrified to do anything other than keep on running. Having lived through several RIRA terrorist attacks on London, Caedmon knew that chaos had a way of making even the most truculent uncharacteristically pliant. He shoved the green cap with the gold-lettered emblem that read PATRIOTS onto his head. Cap donned, he reached over and yanked the two sides of the much-too-big trench coat across Edie’s waist, hurriedly cinching the belt around her.
Camouflaged, he led them through the gift store in a zigzag pattern, the most difficult for the human eye to follow. Hand in hand they darted from sales counter to column to yet another sales counter.
A few seconds later they emerged into a well-lit antechamber that housed a Henry Moore sculpture. Quickly, Caedmon assessed their three choices: escalator, lift, or staircase.
Always execute the least likely maneuver, that being the only way to escape a determined enemy.
A lesson well learned at the hands of his MI5 masters. Caedmon grabbed Edie by the shoulder, spinning her toward the stairs.
“But it’s quicker to take the escalator.”
“Quicker, perhaps, but far more dangerous.”
Side by side, they ascended the steps, the staircase deserted, unlike the crowded escalator on the opposite side of the antechamber, people packed onto it like frantic sheep being led to slaughter.
At the top of the stairs, they found themselves in a large vestibule where two matched bronze pumas stood sentry. On the far side of the vestibule the lift opened and a half dozen owl-faced patrons hurriedly spilled out. A few feet away, he sighted the public facilities marked with their respective male and female symbols. Just beyond the pumas was the Fourth Street lobby; the area was a veritable mob scene, with frantic museum goers running to and fro and harried guards attempting to corral them through the exit door.
Like doomed fish in a glass bowl.
Easy pickings for a hungry cat.
Having evaluated the situation, Caedmon grabbed Edie by the hand and dragged her toward the WC. Shoving his shoulder against the swinging door, he pulled his companion into the ladies’ loo.
“What are you doing?” she screeched, the shrill sound echoing off the stark white tiles.
“Saving your life, I daresay.”
“But you’re a man! You’re not allowed in here!”
Ignoring her, he scanned the facilities.
Six stalls. Five sinks. No occupants.
He pushed open one of the middle stall doors.
“Did you hear me, Caedmon? I said that you’re not allowed—”
“Do calm down, will you?” He shoved her inside the stall, following on her coattails. “And while you’re at it, lower your voice. Getting into a dither will only make things worse than they already are.”
An adamant look on her face, she continued to protest the trespass. “But this is the ladies’ room.”
“Precisely why I chose it over the little boys’ loo. Mind you, it’s only a guess, but I seriously doubt our testosterone-driven assailant will think to look for us in here; the word Ladies will act as a natural deterrent. For the moment, at least, we’re safe.”
“Not to mention cramped like peas in a porcelain pod,” she muttered, awkwardly twisting her upper body as she straddled the toilet; the stall was barely wide enough to accommodate one person, let alone two.
After locking the stall door, Caedmon removed a visitors’ guide from his coat pocket, having picked up the map when he first arrived at the museum.
“Now what?”
“Now, we figure out how best to outwit our nemesis.” Unfolding the map, he held it in front of his chest. Edie, forced to stand on tiptoe, peered over his shoulder. “According to the map, there are five possible exits from the museum.”
“The nearest exit is no more than fifty feet away. That being the one we just passed.” Reaching over his shoulder, she jabbed her index finger at the nearby exit. “Right there. The Fourth Street exit. My Jeep is parked outside the door. We can be out of here in seconds. As in ‘Gentlemen, start your engines.’”
Caedmon negated her suggestion with a brusque shake of the head. “I have reason to suspect you were followed to the museum. Which means the Fourth Street exit will undoubtedly be manned by either the gunman or an accomplice. Our point of egress should be the most distant exit from our current position.”
She grabbed him by the upper arm, awkwardly turning him toward her. “Are you crazy? You’re talking about the Seventh Street exit!” she hissed in a highly agitated whisper. “That’s all the way on the other side of the National Gallery of Art. It’s three city blocks from where we’re at right now. If you think that’s a good plan, you’re totally insane!”
“Ah, I see my reputation precedes me.”
His mind made up, he refolded the map and replaced it in his breast pocket. Not bothering to ask permission, he searched the pockets of Edie’s pilfered trench coat. Discovering a black canvas rain bonnet, he handed it to her.
“Here, put this on.”
“Unh-uh.” She shook her head, brown curls buoyantly bouncing about her shoulders. “You might not care if you get a case of head lice, but I—”
“Don the cap,” he ordered, thinking her adamancy yet again misplaced. “Head lice can be cured with a bit of medicated shampoo. Resurrection is trickier to manage. As I speak, the gunman is searching the museum for two targets: a redheaded bugger and a curly-haired maiden. Trust me. We have danger in spades.”
“Not to mention hearts, clubs, and diamonds,” she muttered, stuffing her curls into the canvas bonnet.
“Much better,” he said, nodding his approval. “Come. We’ve tarried long enough.” He unlocked the stall and swung it open.
Edie stared at him, refusing to budge, her obstinacy now replaced with a look of fearful dread.
“Do you think we’ve got a chance of getting out of here alive?” she whispered.
Rather than make an empty promise he might not be able to keep, he said, “We shall find out soon enough.”
CHAPTER 15
A fiddle fuck.
That’s what he had on his hands, a goddamned fiddle fuck.
Uncertain how things turned so bad so quickly, Boyd Braxton shoved his arms into his black turtleneck sweater. The unconscious Walter Jefferson was still sprawled on the floor of the janitor’s closet. Having retrieved his bundle of clothing from where he’d earlier stowed it, he’d returned to the closet, needing to reconnoiter. In a big-ass hurry, he yanked his black pants over the top of the blue pair he already wore. He didn’t give a rat’s ass how he looked. He just needed to not look like a janitor. Too many people had seen a janitor firing into the crowd. No way in hell would he be able to get out of the museum decked out like some numbnuts custodial worker.