Driscoll wondered what order #69732-B contained. Perhaps the Louis XVI desk would hold the answer.
He rummaged through the drawers, finding folders in alphabetical order. The Chelsea Chemicals folder was stuffed with receipts, invoices, product brochures, and letters of credit. Pierce was a frequent customer. Order # 69732-B revealed a large purchase of sulfur trioxide. He made a call on his cell phone. “Cedric, sulfur trioxide. I want to know what it’s used for. Call me on the cellular.”
Driscoll stomped on the marble floor. The reverberation, like the percussion of a snare drum, indicated a hollowness below. But where was the portal or a trap door, or steps that led downward? No architect would build a multileveled edifice without connecting passageways.
For the next forty-five minutes, he searched every room and every closet inside the house. There were rooms of different sizes, decorated by artful hands. But, in all, no sign of Margaret. He reached a hall more fit for the Palace of Versailles than a Long Island residence. At the end of it, his flashlight exposed a structure of carved wood and gold leaf. It was a confessional booth! Why would anyone have a confessional booth in their home? The sighting made him feel uneasy. He was reminded of his own shortcomings, and that it had been ages since he knelt inside such a booth. As he marveled at the sighting, the ray of his flashlight revealed friezes depicting scenes from the Old and New Testament: the expulsion from Eden, the beheading of Holofernes by Judith, the resurrection of Lazarus, the assumption of Mary, and the day of redemption.
Driscoll opened the door of the booth and stepped inside. It made no sound. It had been well used. His conscience stirred. This was sacred space he was trespassing. An inner voice complained, You’ve crossed the line. He had reconciled with his irreverence before, but this was sacrilege. He knelt begrudgingly and assumed the penitent position. What are you doing here? the voice clamored. He heard a clicking sound. Gears were engaging beneath him. The floor gave way, starting a slow descent. Prayers really are answered, he thought, as he came to a stop some thirty feet below.
Driscoll stepped out into a spacious wine cellar. His attention was drawn to his right, where a gallery of glass showcases was lit before him. Cranial orbits of birds’ skeletons stared at him. He returned the stare, gaping at the ghastly collection. He was filled with a sense of awe as well as a sense of horror. This was a macabre showcase. Its eerie silence was frightening. He read the names of each exhibit: PEREGRINE FALCON, THE BUTCHER BIRD, WHITE HELMET SHRIKE, CALIFORNIA CONDOR. All fierce predators. What purpose did these skeleton’s serve? Had Pierce skinned these birds? Like he skinned his prey? The exhibit also made him feel a sense of guilt. It had been months since the first body was found, and he still hadn’t caught the murderer. He was not proud of that. Thoughts whirled inside his head. Margaret! Where the hell is Margaret?
His cellular beeped. “Driscoll, here…Yeah, Cedric, wha’d ya find out?”
“That chemical you called me on, it’s an acid. It’s used by taxidermists to dissolve organic matter.”
“That fits,” said Driscoll.
There was a whooshing sound. It was as though a furnace had kicked in, or a sump pump, perhaps.
A boiler room? he thought. It’d have to be below this.
He returned to the confessional booth. As his knees hit the floor, the booth stirred once more. Sweat collected on Driscoll’s brow, searing his eyes, as the booth began its slow but steady descent.
The floor of the cell abruptly struck bottom. The jolt loosened the flashlight from Driscoll’s grip. It spiraled, smashing against the wooden floor. Retrieving it, he switched it on. A narrow beam of orange light flickered.
As he shuffled forward, the frail beam from his flashlight was no match for the blinding darkness all around him, yet it exposed a coaxial cable tacked to a stone ceiling. He followed the electrical line as it meandered toward a junction box with a toggle switch. He hit it. A succession of spotlights came to life.
Driscoll was not alone. Two skeletons, standing in individual glass coffins, stared back at him. There were shingles affixed to the coffins. They read MOM AND DAD, RESURRECTED.
Standing before the two skeletons was a mock cave constructed of artificial rock. Assembled around the cave were other skeletons, some erect in their own showcases, some in disarray on shelves. The lammergeier’s nest sat in the center lined with synthetic grass, twigs, and a heap of bones. As he stroked the surface of a slim bone, he knew the DNA analysis would corroborate what his sixth sense had already confirmed. He pocketed the delicate bone, wondering which one of the victims it belonged to, and raced to the confessional.
How the hell do I get up? he wondered. But as his knees met the kneeler, the lift began its ascent.
Chapter 87
It was a cloudless, star-studded night. The telltales were flush against the mainsail, gorged by the southwestern wind. The ocean buoys clamored, heralding incoming swells, as ridges of salt water crashed against the massive hull of The Ark, a thirty-eight-foot Catalina sailboat, its bow dipping deeply into the cascading tide. Liquid notes from Debussy’s La Mer ricocheted inside the aft cabin. Pierce was at his leisure, and Margaret was still keeping tabs on their number-one suspect. The way Margaret saw it, Pierce may have used the Internet to lure some boating enthusiast first lover out onto the Long Island Sound. As long as she was aboard, she figured she’d thwart that possibility. But she was no fool. The safety was released on her service revolver, and she was ready.
Her telephone purred. “My cellular,” she said.
“Go away, world,” said Pierce.
“I must,” she stated, as she reached for the phone.
“Yes?” Margaret gasped. “I’m not getting you, there’s a lot of static…what? Did you say a nest? A cellar? What? What about a cellar? Damn it, I’ve lost him!”
They had found his collection. Pierce was certain of it. “You’re out of cell range, and the water doesn’t help,” he muttered.
“Can you get me to port? I’ve gotta make a call!”
“What’s the hurry?”
“It’s my boss. He’s found something. I don’t know what it is. It sounded important.”
A chill entered the cabin, as if arctic air had seeped into the little room. Debussy’s melody faded, replaced by the slapping sound of sea waves crashing against the hull. Pierce’s gaze became icy, searching for what was concealed in Margaret’s eyes.
“I really have to go!” she pleaded, sensing imminent danger.
“You look like you’re about to throw up,” Pierce said, his face now starched with contempt.
“The rocking is making me seasick.”
Pierce forced a smile and headed topside. “It’s time to get you back to shore then. There’s some Emetrol in the medicine cabinet. Why don’t you help yourself while I turn the boat around?”
Chapter 88
Driscoll was certain the distant bells echoing in his cellular’s earphone were the sounds of buoys on a rough sea. There was no doubt about it. Palming the cell phone, he punched in Thomlinson’s number, forced the Chevy into gear, and pulled away from the estate.
“Cedric, check your dossier on Pierce. Does the guy own a boat?”
“Hold on a sec…Yeah. Here it is…A thirty-eight-foot Catalina sailboat…The Ark. Custom-built in Southwest Harbor, Maine. He keeps it moored at Judson’s Marina in Port Washington.”
“Hold the fort. I’ll call you from the marina.”
Driscoll arrived at Judson’s Marina just past 11:00 P.M. The place looked deserted except for a blond youth lounging atop the teak deck of a Criss-Craft cabin cruiser.