“That’s the outdoor sculpture garden.”
“And in this direction?” He pointed toward Constitution Avenue.
“Federal Triangle.”
“Am I correct in thinking there’s a tube station near at hand?”
“There’s a subway station a couple of blocks away. On the other side of the Archives.”
“Right.” Still holding her by the hand, Caedmon scurried past a coterie of beat cops attempting to hold back curious onlookers with a flimsy strand of yellow crime scene tape.
“In case you’ve forgotten, my Jeep is parked—”
“Not now!”
Knowing their first prerogative was to escape the sandy-haired cop she’d seen in the lobby, Edie held her tongue. They could hash out the specifics of the escape plan once they were free and clear of the museum.
Breaking into a run, they crossed Seventh Street, Caedmon leading the way to the sculpture garden. Through the sparse foliage Edie saw a steel sculpture on the right and a bronze sculpture on the left. Ahead of them was an outdoor skating rink, where a trio of skaters gracefully glided across the smooth ice, blissfully ignorant of the pandemonium on the other side of the street.
Still leading the way, Caedmon skirted to the right of the rink, turned right yet again, then made a sharp left. For a man unfamiliar with the city, he was doing an excellent job of maneuvering them through the garden maze.
It wasn’t until they emerged onto Constitution Avenue, some two blocks from the Seventh Street museum exit, that Caedmon slowed his pace.
Her lungs burning with the frigid December air, Edie came to a grinding halt, unable to catch her breath. When Caedmon put a steadying hand on her shoulder, she instinctively hurled herself at his chest.
“That c-cop would have killed—If you hadn’t—We would be—” She burrowed her head into his shoulder, fear causing her thoughts to incoherently smash together.
Caedmon wrapped his arms around her. “Ssshh. It’s all right. We’re out of danger,” he murmured, his breath warm against her cheek.
It took a good half minute before her breathing returned to something approximating normal. Self-conscious of the fact that she’d thrown herself at him, Edie pulled free from Caedmon’s embrace.
“Better?” he solicitously inquired. Other than the fact that his eyes had turned an iridescent shade of cobalt blue, he showed no outward sign of exertion.
Doing a good imitation of a bobble-head doll, she warily nodded. Warily because she could hear the blare of sirens in the near distance. A police net was being thrown around the National Gallery of Art. If the net was extended, they might yet be ensnared.
She glanced at her watch. Unbelievably, no more than fifteen minutes had passed since the three shots had been fired in the museum concourse. The expanse of lapsed time seemed both longer and shorter, as though time had sped up and slowed down all at once.
“I don’t know about you, but I feel like I just got sucked into a killer cyclone, with houses, cows, and farm fences spinning all around me.”
“I feel much the same.” One side of his mouth quirked upward. “Certainly, this was not how I envisioned spending my afternoon.”
“I hear you.” Still embarrassed by her earlier show of weakness, she wiped several wet flakes from her eyelashes. The snow had slowed to a desultory smatter, its wispy flakes blowing on a cold westerly wind.
From where they stood, the National Archives kitty-corner to them, they had an excellent view in either direction of Constitution Avenue. Spread along the famous thoroughfare were familiar citadels of sanity—hot dog vendors, concession stands, T-shirt-packed kiosks. Tiny punctuation marks haphazardly placed between ponderous block-style buildings.
Deciding to take charge, Edie turned to the right, intending to backtrack to her parked vehicle.
She’d taken no more than a step when Caedmon grabbed her by the elbow, preventing her from taking that all-important second step.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“We discussed this already. I’m going to the Jeep. Are you in or are you out?”
“Though there are advantages to having a vehicle at our disposal, there are certain disadvantages that must be considered.”
Desperate to get back to the Jeep, that being the quickest means of escaping the madness, she straightened her shoulders. No easy feat given that she was bundled in a leather jacket and an oversized trench coat. “On the count of three: rock, paper, scissors.”
His copper-colored brows drew together in the middle. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Since there’s just the two of us, we can’t put it to a vote. So, instead, we’ll use rock, paper, scissors to decide. You guys do that in England, don’t you?”
“I am familiar with the hand game. In fact, it was invented in the mid-eighteenth century by the Comte de Rochambeau as a means to settle—”
Edie held up a hand, stopping him in mid-discourse.
“More information than I need to know.” Sick and tired of being the follower rather than the leader, she met his gaze head-on. “On three.”
In unison, they each moved a balled right fist through the air.
CHAPTER 20
A cold wet rain fell upon the heath.
A line straight out of a Victorian novel, Caedmon moodily thought as he pulled back the drawn hotel curtain. Except it wasn’t a heath; it was an asphalt car park bounded by eight-foot-high brick walls and a twelve-story office building directly opposite.
“My, my, what a posh life we lead,” he muttered, releasing the rubber-backed curtain and stepping away from the window. Since paper beat rock, they’d left Washington via the subway, checking into a Holiday Inn across the river in Arlington, Virginia. That was two hours ago and he was still trying to muddle his way through the calamitous chain of events that had landed him in this monochromatic hotel room with its uninspiring view.
He glanced at his companion. Edie Miller was coiled in a ball on one of the double beds, her mouth slack, her eyes unfocused. His gaze lingered a few impolite moments; Caedmon thought she looked like a dahlia curled in the frost.
In dire need of a refreshing punch, he strolled over to the serving counter, the room equipped with a coffeepot, a microwave oven, and a diminutive refrigerator. He uncapped a green bottle, having purchased Tanqueray and tonic at the wine and spirits shop down the street.
“What are you doing?” A drowsy expression on her face, Edie lifted her head from the pillow.
“I thought I’d mix myself a G&T.”
The dahlia instantly revived. “Make mine a double.”
Tumbler in hand, he walked over to the bed. As though mocking their dismal plight, the ice cubes merrily clinked against the sides of the glass. “Sorry, but the bartender is fresh out of limes,” he said, handing her the half-full tumbler.
Swinging her bare feet over the side of the bed, Edie unlimbered into a seated position, the tumbler clasped between her hands. “The AWOL lime is the least of our worries.”
“Indeed.”
Safe for the moment, Caedmon suspected that they were being hunted by a very determined adversary. And though the adversary had possession of the prize, the Stones of Fire having been stolen from the Hopkins Museum, their enemy was very keen to erase all traces of the theft.
But why?
The question had been plaguing him for the last two hours. Neither he nor Edie Miller could identify Jonathan Padgham’s killer. Nor did they know the current location of the bejeweled breastplate.
So why launch a bloodthirsty manhunt?
The manhunt implied that their foe did not want it made public that after several thousand years, the fabled Stones of Fire had been rediscovered. If true, it spoke to motive. Clearly, their foe had an ulterior purpose for stealing the breastplate, one that had nothing to do with plunder and profit.