The Book Of Secrets Part 13

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'Excuse me?'

Nick looked up so fast he almost knocked the laptop onto the floor. A sales a.s.sistant was looking down at him with a pile of revision guides stacked in her arms. He leaned over the laptop screen to shield it.

'Can I help you find something?'

Nick snapped the laptop shut. 'I'm fine.'

'There's an Internet connection in the cafe,' the girl said helpfully.

'Thanks.'

He walked slowly back up the stairs to ground level, hugging the laptop to his chest. Already, the elation of breaking the pa.s.sword had been overtaken by confusion. When the phone in his pocket vibrated against his hip, he almost didn't notice it.

The screen announced two missed calls, both in the last ten minutes. There must have been no signal in the bas.e.m.e.nt. He checked the numbers. One was Seth, the other a local number he didn't recognise. He rang Seth.

'Nick?' He answered almost at once. 'Thank G.o.d.'

'What is it?' Seth must be in a car. Nick had to shout to make himself heard over the rumble of traffic in the background.

'Bad news. The kid's changed his story.'

Something that sounded like a rocket roared past Seth's phone.

'Now he's saying he maybe didn't see you in the hallway when the gun went off. Maybe it was just before, or just after.'

'What do you mean? It was the gunshot that made him run for cover. He- h.e.l.lo?'

A blare of silence cut him short. When Seth came back, his voice was disjointed, almost unintelligible.

'You need Royce Gillian arrest you '

'I can't hear you,' Nick shouted. 'I'm just heading into the Holland Tunnel. Traffic's pretty bad. I'll call-'

The signal died in a flat drone. Nick stared at the handset. Feeling numb, he hit REDIAL, just in case. Seth's voicemail answered at once.

His head was beginning to ache again; his whole body shivered with fatigue. Why would Max change his story? Was it his mother trying to protect him? Getting revenge for all the nights she'd complained of Bret's pot smoke creeping out from under their door. It was so unfair he wanted to hit something.

The phone rang again. Shoppers browsing the tables of discount paperbacks shot him disapproving glances. He looked at the number displayed on the phone a local number. What if it was Royce?

The ring forced him into a decision. He answered. 'Nick? It's Emily.'

'How are you?' The words were reflexive, an unthinking verbal handshake. It was only as he said it that he realised something seemed wrong.

'I'm terrified.' She sounded it. 'Nick, someone's following me.'

Her voice was barely louder than a whisper, the words tumbling over themselves in her anxiety. He thought he could hear a hiss like running water in the background.

'Where are you now?'

'The ladies' room at the public library.'

'Is that the one with the lions outside?'

'Yes. Fifth Avenue and Forty-Second Street. '

'OK.' Nick's mind raced. 'The man who's following you, what did he look like?'

'I didn't see his face. He had his hood up. He-' A small gasp. 'Someone's here. I-'

He heard the bang of a door, then a rushing clatter that ended in silence.

'I'm coming,' said Nick. But he was speaking to an empty phone.

New York is an unforgiving city if you don't have money. Nick didn't have enough for a cab: he ran to the subway on Washington Square Park and dropped his last token in the slot. Would it have been faster to walk? He stood on the platform and stared into the tunnel, willing the train to come. The seconds ratcheted round on the grimy station clock.

There'd been no more calls on his phone when he came up at Forty-Second Street. He sprinted the block from the station to the library, pushing against the wind and the cramp in his side. Two stone lions, Patience and Fort.i.tude, watched him race up the steps. He found an information desk on the first floor.

'Where are the restrooms?'

He choked the words out through gasping breaths. The woman behind the desk must have thought he was deranged, a drug addict maybe. She glanced over his shoulder at the security guard, then raised her eyes to the ceiling.

'Third floor.'

He took the steps as fast as he dared, trying not to attract attention while he scanned the faces he pa.s.sed. He had his hood up. But it was a cold day, and half the people on the stairs wore hooded coats. Up ahead, he saw a man in a white shirt and jeans coming round the second-floor landing; his mind flashed back to the rooftop and the gun. He almost slipped on the stairs. But the man was a Nordic type, blond and fair, not the man from the roof.

He reached the third floor. Through a wood-panelled rotunda that he barely noticed, down a sparkling white corridor signposted for the restroom. He stopped outside the door.

What now? He couldn't just burst in to the ladies'. Royce would love that.

The door swung in. The blast of a hand dryer intruded on the quiet of the library. He tensed, but it was only a pair of college-age girls.

'Excuse me.'

They slowed but didn't stop. 'I wonder if you could help me. I lost my girlfriend can't find her anywhere. Do you think one of you could check . . .?'

'Sure.'

One of the girls gave him a brisk, happy-to-help smile and poked her head back inside the door. 'There's n.o.body in there,' she announced.

His heart sank. 'Thanks anyway.'

The moment they were out of sight he slipped inside the restroom. It was empty. No trace of Emily, just white tiles, white handbasins, white lights reflected in stark white floors.

One of the cubicle doors hung shut, not locked. Still gripped by a sense of unholy trespa.s.s, he nudged it in. The stall was empty, but in the toilet bowl something gleamed. He peered in. Just where the bowl funnelled away into darkness, he could see a corner of a silver cellphone poking out of the waste pipe like sunken treasure. Was it Emily's?

An electric trill broke the silence. He stared at the sparkling phone in the water for a second, stupefied, before he realised it was coming from his own pocket.

'h.e.l.lo?'

'Nick?'

His whole body seemed to unclench as he heard Emily's voice. Weak with relief, he sank against the stall part.i.tion. 'Where are you?'

'The payphone in the stairwell.' An embarra.s.sed pause. 'I dropped my cellphone in the toilet.'

'I just found it. Are you OK?'

'I think so. I think the man lost me. Where are you?'

'Heading over to you now. Stay on the line.' He shouldered through the door, glad to be back on legitimate ground. A well-dressed woman walking up the corridor shot him a nasty look: he grinned and tapped the cellphone against his head like an idiot.

'Wait a minute.' Panic rose in Emily's voice. 'I think he's coming back. I'll meet you in the Salomon room on the third floor.'

Nick started running. As he came around the corner he saw a flash of red disappearing into the gallery off the main rotunda. Was that her? He slowed his pace for a second, watching. Five j.a.panese tourists followed her in. An elderly couple came out. A short, well-built man in a black parka hurried past them, almost tripping on the old man's stick. His hood was down, revealing a shaved head with a row of gold glinting from his left ear. A face Nick had seen before.

He ran.

The Salomon Gallery was a dim room lined with bookshelves and display cabinets. A single gla.s.s case stood in the centre of the room like an altar or a tabernacle; inside, reverential lights played over an enormous spreadeagled book. The creamy pages shone back off the gla.s.s case, while the black print created holes in the reflection allowing a mosaic view beyond. A small figure in red shimmered in and out of sight behind. Nick wondered if she could see the man in the parka striding through the shadows towards her.

A guard sat in the corner keeping a lazy eye on the visitors. Nick crossed to him.

'Excuse me, but that man over there, I think I saw him carrying a gun.'

The panic in his voice gave truth to the lie. The guard hauled himself out of the chair, unclipped the flap of his holster and advanced across the room, murmuring something into his radio mic. Nick followed, splitting off around the display case. There was Emily, pretending to peer at the open book while darting nervous glances around the room. She was so frightened she didn't see him until he was almost on top of her.

'Nick!' She flew across to him and wrapped her arms around him. Her thin arms gripped him surprisingly tight. 'I was terrified.'

'You're not safe yet.'

Nick put his hand on her shoulder and steered her to the exit, skirting the edge of the room. In the centre, a second guard had arrived, both deep in conversation with the man in the parka. Nick gestured towards them.

'Was that him?'

Emily nodded.

They slipped out of the door and hurried to the elevator. None of the men in the room seemed to notice them go, and Nick didn't look back. Only when they were out on the front steps in the stiff wind coming down Forty-Second Street, did he dare relax.

'I'll take you home.'

They caught a cab. Nick let Emily pay. Home for her turned out to be a tidy street in Midtown, whose closely planted trees and plain facades didn't quite disguise the quiet wealth behind the windows. Emily saw Nick taking it in.

'The museum owns it.' An apologetic smile. 'Just an apartment. I get it for six months, then I have to move into the real world. My time's almost up.'

He scanned the street for danger while Emily fumbled with the front door. It led into a gloomy hallway, full of stairs and doors. He followed her up to the second floor. He wasn't sure if he was invited, but she didn't object. Their footsteps padded on the carpeted stairs; the whole house seemed to be asleep.

A cry from Emily broke the silence. Two steps behind her, Nick looked up. She was standing in front of the door to what must be her apartment, staring at something. She stood aside so he could see.

The door was open. Only fractionally, but wider than any door should ever be left open in New York city. A nest of splinters around the lock showed where it had been forced.

For a long moment they both stood there, frozen like dust in a beam of light. Then they turned and ran. Down the stairs, out the door, along the street past the long row of grey trees. It was only when they reached the intersection that they paused and looked back. The street was empty.

'Call the police.' Nick leaned forward, resting his hands on his thighs. 'Don't go inside until they arrive. Does anyone else live there?'

Emily shook her head. She looked close to tears. 'One more thing. Please don't tell the cops I was here. They already think I'm guilty as h.e.l.l.'

Emily was horrified. 'Aren't you going to wait with me?'

'It won't do you any good if they find me here.'

'Please.' Emily half-stretched out an arm, like a bird with a broken wing. 'I won't tell them you were with me.'

Nick glanced across the street. From halfway down the block, the aroma of grilling hamburgers wafted out of a Burger King.

'Let's go somewhere warmer.'

Emily perched on the edge of the plastic seat among the screaming kids on their way home from school and sipped a bottle of water. She didn't take her coat off. Nick played with an empty paper cup left on the table.

'Do you know who it was in the library?' she asked.

'No.'

'The last time I saw you, you warned me you weren't the sort of person I should be helping.'

'Not shouldn't help. Wanted to.'

'I wondered what you meant by that.'

Nick thought for a moment. 'The card's like a virus. Everyone it touches . . . First Gillian, then Bret. Now you.'

'And you?'

She turned the question round with a flick of her head. Her eyes were as dark as a summer storm.

'My apartment's been broken into; I was almost killed and my friend was shot dead. Someone's managed to cancel my credit card. The police have confiscated my pa.s.sport, my computer, and they're probably about to arrest me for murder. And robbery, if they find out I was here.'