Watching the cars carefully, I tossed both phones off the roof. Then I picked up the knife and scurried across the rooftop, joining Graham on the far side of the concrete structure.
As I slipped into the shadows, I wondered about the phones. Had they stuck to one of the armored cars? Were they now setting forth across the city? Or were they lying on the pavement, smashed beyond recognition under the weight of those heavy tires?
Metal smashed against metal and I felt the concrete structure vibrate gently against my back. Gravel crunched as several sets of shoes walked onto the roof. I steeled myself, ready for battle.
“What the…?” The voice, angry and frustrated, belonged to Saul. “No!”
“What’s wrong?” someone asked.
“It’s Malware. She says those two pricks got outside. They’re heading down Madison Avenue.”
“No way. Gerald and the others would’ve seen them.”
“There must be another exit.” Saul exhaled. “That’s our two million, guys. Nobody’s taking it from us. Nobody. Come on.”
Gravel crunched again. Then the door slammed shut. Seconds later, I heard faint footsteps as the rioters descended the stairwell.
Then silence.
Exhaling a deep breath, Graham slid to the ground. I did the same and we sat on the gravel-covered roof for a couple of minutes, surrounded by flashing lights and blaring sirens.
“We can’t go home,” Graham said.
“I know.”
“And we can’t go to a hotel either, not without leaving an electronic footprint for Malware to track.” He looked thoughtful. “There is one place we could go…”
A frown creased my visage as I realized what he was talking about. “You can’t be serious.”
“You don’t have the keys?”
“No, I have the keys. It’s just…”
“It’s just what?” He gave me a piercing look. “You never go there. Hell, it’s not even in your name. There’s no way anyone could connect you to it.”
He was right. Maybe I didn’t like it, but that didn’t really matter. At that moment, the multi-story brownstone was our best chance of surviving Malware’s wrath. “Fine,” I stood up. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 31
The five-story brownstone towered before me, a painful reminder of all the losses experienced by those who’d lived within its walls. Indeed, the building, more than anything else, embodied my family’s cursed name.
Justin Reed had purchased the building shortly after the end of World War II. It was meant to serve as a home for him, his wife, and my dad. A short while later, he took a trip to the Appalachian Mountains with some old Army buddies. He never returned.
Years later, Dad inherited the building. He married my mom and they gave birth to me. I spent my childhood in that brownstone, exploring all the curiosities it had to offer. But my pristine life was shattered by Dad’s suicide. Mom stuck around for a few more years before she took a page out of Justin’s playbook and disappeared as well.
After that, I was alone. I’d moved out and taken up quarters with Dutch Graham. He was a family friend and the closest thing I had left to actual relatives. Still, he wasn’t family, a fact I was never able to forget.
Life went on, but I never again set foot in that old brownstone. In fact, the property was still in my mom’s name. Not entirely legal, but I’d never been one to care too much about that sort of thing.
I lingered outside for a moment, sweating profusely in my soiled and ripped tuxedo jacket and pants. Judging by the light, I guessed it was just after midnight, maybe 1:00 a.m. or so. The riot had largely ended, although I could still hear distant sirens and the faint sounds of rushing water and crackling flames.
Images of Beverly, living and dead, floated through my mind as I hiked up the staircase. The building’s Triassic-Jurassic sandstone exterior looked immaculate. The windows were free of smudges. The flower boxes featured a variety of colorful daisies.
“Looks well-kept,” Graham whispered. “Way better than I remember it.”
“It’s my cleaning service. Costs a crapload, but it keeps the neighborhood association off my back.”
I stopped outside the front door. Looking over both shoulders, I checked my surroundings. Then I pulled out my key. I had carried it with me for years, all over the world. Force of habit, I guess.
I stuck the key into the lock and wiggled it, feeling the familiar stickiness. The key turned and the lock clicked.
“Why do you still have this place?” Graham asked. “You could’ve sold it. Used the money to fund your excavations.”
I struck my best uptight-snob-in-a-tuxedo pose. “Do I look like I need the money?”
“Actually, yes.” He appraised my tattered and torn outfit. “I hope you’ve got insurance for that.”
“Me too.”
Truthfully, there was a good reason I hadn’t established ownership in the building or attempted to sell it. I wanted nothing to do with the place. It wasn’t mine.
It was Dad’s.
I turned the knob and opened the door. Darkness and hazy shadows greeted us. I hardly ever read the reports sent by my cleaning company, but I was pretty sure I remembered something about the lights running on timers.
With a deep breath, I stepped into the foyer. Instantly, a cold wind washed over me, sucking the air right out of my lungs. Had the place always been this drafty? I couldn’t remember.
Graham followed me inside and I shut and bolted the door. I walked to the wall and flipped a light switch. Soft light blazed overhead from a brass chandelier.
A few feet away, I saw a small device. It featured an LCD display control screen and a keypad. Digits on the screen were counting down from sixty.
Ah, an alarm system. The cleaning service had installed it after an attempted break-in. In fact, there were alarms at every entrance, all with different codes. I recalled some of the codes, but not all of them. Fortunately, my cleaning service had insisted on adding a very personal shortcut.
I pressed my left thumb against a boxed-off portion of the screen. The area around my thumb turned yellow. Then green.
“Okay, I think we’re good.” I yawned with such force I was compelled to stretch my arms out to either side.
“I’m famished,” Graham said. “Say, you don’t suppose your cleaning crew keeps any food around here, do you?”
I looked around, reacquainting myself with the place. A long hallway lay before me, leading to the dining room, family room, and kitchen. To my right, a gleaming circular staircase stretched up five floors, providing access to bedrooms, offices, and about a dozen closets.
“Don’t know.” I nodded at the hallway. “But the kitchen’s that way.”
Gleefully rubbing his hands together, Graham strode down the hallway and out of sight.
I walked across the foyer to a cherry wood dresser. A couple of black-and-white photographs, encased in silver frames, sat upon its surface. I picked one up. It depicted my dad as a baby, being held by Justin. His eyes were closed and he looked peaceful enough. Justin, on the other hand, sported a toothy grin. Like he’d just won the lottery. Ah, simpler times. Before everything went wrong.
I ran a finger across the glass. No dust. The dresser was dust-free as well. Looking around, I realized there wasn’t a single speck of dust in the entire foyer.
Wow, those cleaning people are good.
It was a far change from how I remembered it. In my youth, the foyer looked much the same as it did now. Yet, signs of life abounded, from the wet shoes lying on the doormat to the smell of Mom’s delicious baked bread to the ever-changing piles of real estate documents Dad kept at the foot of the stairs. Without those little touches, the place felt more like a hospital than a home, complete with the faint scent of disinfectant.