The Book Of Secrets Part 4

Nick was trembling. He'd never done anything like this in his life.

The gunman took a half-step nearer and turned. Nick tensed his arm for the throw but now the killer was looking straight at him. If Nick moved he'd be dead before the keys left his hand. Even if he didn't move . . . He held his breath, feeling the pressure build in his lungs, pushing against his chest and throat. All he wanted to do was scream.

And then the gunman turned away and walked back to the door. Nick waited, still not daring to breathe. He squeezed the keys in his fingers and closed his eyes. Was now the moment? He'd never thought he could be so terrified.

He opened his eyes again. The gunman was kneeling beside an air-conditioning unit, glancing over his shoulder. He had his back to Nick if ever there was a time to take him, it was now, Nick told himself.

He drew a deep breath and tensed himself to spring. His muscles felt locked stiff with cold. What if he was too slow? What if the man heard him coming across the fake gra.s.s?

The killer stood up. He took one last look at the rooftop, straight over Nick's head again, then stepped inside the doorway and vanished. Nick heard him jogging down the stairs.

Nick waited until he was sure the man was gone, then picked himself up. The moment he was on his feet his whole body shuddered uncontrollably. He could hardly stand thank G.o.d he hadn't tried anything dumb with the gunman. He peeled off his coat and staggered across the wet gra.s.s to the door, keeping a nervous eye on the stairs in case the man came back. He almost collapsed on his knees next to the air conditioner as he tried to see what the gunman had been doing.

A dark crack showed where the maintenance flap hadn't been shut properly. Nick pulled it open. Inside, a black pistol nestled among the dials and tubes.

Nick reached in and picked it up. It was heavier than he'd expected; his stiff fingers almost dropped it. Was there a safety catch? He hadn't touched a gun since Scout camp, and this was very different from shooting .22 rifles at paper targets. Even holding the pistol in his hand he felt frightened by its power. This was the gun that had killed Bret.

He laid it down on the artificial gra.s.s and moved away. Blue and red lights flashed off the canyon walls of the apartment blocks, reflected ten-to-a-floor in the stacked black windows. Only then did he hear the sirens.

X.

Cologne, 14201

Through the autumn of that year, I made a number of discoveries about Konrad Schmidt.

He was a fair master, but a hard man to impress. I was a more than able apprentice. When he taught us the device for drawing out gold to make wire, my first length came through supple and straight. Pieter spent an afternoon and a considerable quant.i.ty of his father's gold producing length after length that stretched and bunched and snapped like wet dough. When we hammered gold between parchment sheets to make leaf, mine emerged airy and gossamer thin; Pieter's was lumpy as porridge. When Konrad showed us how to fire silver sulphide onto an engraving to make the lines leap out, mine were sharp as gla.s.s. Pieter's looked as if he had left it standing in the grate too long.

Yet Konrad Schmidt resisted my precocity. Whenever I showed him a piece of work, he merely grunted and gave me another task before going back to the laborious task of correcting his son. When I suggested after many hours' observation a way to improve the gold wire puller, he heard me in silence and then dismissed me with a shake of his head. At first I ascribed it to a father's love for his son but the more I watched them together, the less plausible that seemed. Konrad rarely criticised Pieter's work, but beat him for the most minor lapses: leaving a bucket of milk in the sun, forgetting to doff his cap to a customer, putting a hammer in the wrong place in the rack. Eventually I decided that the one was a subst.i.tute for the other that Konrad found so many other faults because he could not admit to himself that his son would not succeed him in his trade. That, I supposed, was why he had had to on take his own son as an apprentice, a practice frowned upon by the guild. And, perhaps, why he resented my skill.

Gerhard resented me too, though that I put down to obvious rivalry. His fat hands were surprisingly fine at working metal far more than I had credited but he did not have my instinct for gold. At first he tried to hold me back by giving me lesser tasks, flattering Pieter with responsibility, but this quickly rebounded on him when he had to take responsibility for Pieter's mistakes. Thereafter he decided it was better to take credit for my work than blame for Pieter's, and satisfied himself with thrashing me whenever I gifted him an excuse.

There were other things I learned about Konrad Schmidt and his household that year.

I learned that his wife was the third Frau Schmidt. She praised me often and extravagantly my diligence, my honesty, my artful skill and I was flattered, until I realised she did it only to humiliate Pieter, who was not her son.

I learned that Gerhard could not afford the gold he needed to produce his master-piece, and therefore could not gain full membership as a master of the guild. Rather than save, he spent what he had drinking out his frustrations in the riverfront taverns.

I learned that Konrad kept the key to his cabinet on a string around his neck and never removed it, except once a month when he visited the bathhouse. When I knew that, I followed him there, and while he bathed took an impression of the key between two wax blocks softened in the steamy air. That evening I cast my own copy in the forge, and after that would creep down at night when Pieter was asleep to fondle and caress the pieces inside.

It was not a happy household, but nor had been my home in Mainz, so I did not mind. I was happy in my work. Once I learned that my skill only fuelled envy and resentment I kept it to myself as much as possible, and took my delights in solitude.

The only person who admired my ability was poor, artless Pieter. Four years younger, he venerated me with the unthinking awe of a brother. It was a new feeling for me, always last and youngest growing up. Though it was sometimes a burden, more often it made me glow with possessive pride. I took to protecting Pieter, slipping him pieces of my work to pa.s.s off as his own, neglecting my own tasks to show him again and again how to perform some simple piece of skill. Though it sometimes earned me a beating, I did not care. Each time his knee brushed mine at the workbench, each time I cupped my hand over his to guide his graving tool, the demon inside me thrilled with delight. Of course I suffered agonies and shame but they were vivid agonies, the sweetest shame, raging like fire in my body. On Sundays in the cathedral I stared up at the cross of Our Saviour and begged for release, but I knew in my heart I did not mean it. At night we lay in our shared bed and I dug my nails into my palms until they bled like Christ's to resist the wild temptations that a.s.sailed me. Some nights, especially in winter, Pieter would burrow against me for warmth, half asleep, and I would have to roll away before my risen l.u.s.t betrayed itself. Eventually, I reasoned, the demon would see that he could not overcome me and would depart my body for a weaker vessel. Until then I basked in the heat of my l.u.s.t and the glory of my suffering, quivering in sublime stasis.

In spring, a year after the verdict in Mainz, I made another discovery. It was a warm day in April and there was little work to do, so Konrad decided to teach us a lesson. While Gerhard kept the counter and watched for customers, Konrad brought me and Pieter to the workbench and laid out a bottle, a small piece of paper, a saucer and a spindle of signet rings.

'All our skill and artifice where does it come from?' he asked.

'From G.o.d, Father,' said Pieter.

At the front of the shop I saw Gerhard smirking. Perhaps he thought as I did that G.o.d's glory was hard to discern in Pieter's craftsmanship.

'All art comes from G.o.d and we learn it as best we may.' A grimace at Pieter. 'The greatest tribute we can pay perfection is to perfectly imitate it.'

He took a ring off the spindle and slipped it onto his forefinger, just above the knuckle. Then he did something I had not seen before: he took the bottle, poured a little pool of ink into a dish and touched it with the ring. It came away black and sticky. He wiped a finger across its face, then pushed it hard with his fist into a sc.r.a.p of paper on the table. When he lifted his hand, the wet image of a running stag was pressed perfectly into the paper. Another touch, another wipe, another impression and a second, identical stag appeared beside the first. Konrad tore the paper in two and handed Pieter and me half each, together with blank rings from the spindle.

'There is your design. A penny to whoever produces the more perfect copy.'

The penny did not interest me: I knew I would win it. Something about what Konrad did had chimed false, though I did not know what it was. I pondered it while I worked on the ring. First, I took a flimsy piece of parchment that had been soaked to become translucent and traced the image on the paper with a leaded stylus. I washed a thin layer of wax over the face of the ring, and rubbed the back of my parchment with the lead. Then I put the ring in a vice, overlaid the parchment and retraced the image, bearing down hard with the stylus. When I took the parchment away, a light grey stag had appeared on the wax-coated ring.

I reached for the original ring and held up the two to compare. I saw what was wrong at once.

'Herr Schmidt,' I called. 'Which image did you mean us to copy?'

He turned away from his conversation with Gerhard and scowled at me like an idiot. 'The image on the ring.'

'It was just that . . .' I faltered under his gaze, but gathered strength to carry on. 'The deer on your ring is facing right, but the deer on the paper is facing left. A truly perfect copy . . .' I trailed off.

'The image on the ring,' he repeated, and turned away.

Now my mind was hungry with the challenge. I sc.r.a.ped the wax off the ring, erasing the wrong-headed deer, and started again. I took another, bigger ball of wax and worked it on the tabletop until it was flat and smooth. Pieter watched wide-eyed but said nothing; his own effort looked more like a lame dog than a stag.

I retraced the image onto the wax plaque. I carved it out with a burin, then I dipped the wax in the bowl of ink and pressed it out on the paper, as Konrad had done with the ring. When I pulled it away, I had a second copy of the stag, who now stood back to back with the first, facing left. Hot with success, I traced the new image and then transferred it back onto the ring with the stylus.

But the more I examined it, the more dissatisfied I became. The stag was facing the right direction now, but in every other respect he was inferior. His antlers were a muddied tangle. One leg was spindly and another like a ham, while his tail looked like a protrusion of his rump. His nose had completely disappeared.

I studied his lineage, strewn across the table on paper, parchment, wax and gold. The changes were apparent across every generation. With every copy the stag moved further from the perfection I sought, until it became the unrecognisable monstrosity I had on the ring, fit only for the pages of a bestiary.

Across the square the cathedral bell tolled the hour. Customers were beginning to gather at the counter; I knew that soon Konrad would call us away to some other task. There was no time to try again. I carved out the animal as he was, mending his deformities as best I could with the graver. It made him a little more like a deer, but further still from Konrad's prototype.

When I was finished, I took the ring to my master. He examined it briefly, grunted, and threw a penny to Pieter. Pieter's face glowed with rare success; my own was red with shame. I struggled to fight back tears. Konrad must have seen it for he told me, gently, 'True perfection exists only in G.o.d.'

But I knew I could do more.

XI.

New York City

Bret had never been so popular as he was in death. Nick stood in the corridor, a blanket around his shoulders, and watched an army of police officers and technicians go in and out of the apartment like ants picking over Bret's carca.s.s. How could it take so many people to figure it out when he'd seen Bret die himself? They wouldn't even let him in, but kept him in the corridor with only a cup of coffee and the blanket. A token strip of black and yellow tape barred the door.

He was exhausted he just wanted to collapse. He'd already told his story twice to two different officers. They hadn't looked as sympathetic as he'd expected. They'd told him a detective would want to talk to him soon but that had been half an hour ago.

Two men appeared in the doorway, one in uniform, the other in a grey suit that looked more expensive than anything Nick owned. The uniform pointed at him and muttered something that Nick couldn't hear. The suit nodded, ducked under the tape and walked over.

'Mr Ash? I'm Detective Royce.'

Detective Royce was lean and far too tanned for January; he looked like he ran marathons. He had close-cropped hair that was probably going grey, and pointed sideburns that crossed his cheeks like spurs.

'I hear you've got quite a story to tell.'

Nick leaned back against the wall and pulled the blanket closer around him. He felt faint.

'Is there any way of getting another cup of coffee?'

'It won't take long at this stage. If you could just tell me in your own words . . .'

Who else's words would they be? 'Bret-'

'You mean the deceased? Mr Deangelo?'

'He rang me on my cellphone.'

'Approximately what time was that?'

'About five, I guess. I can check my phone.'

'We'll check out the phone company records anyhow. You weren't in the apartment at this time?'

Was Royce even listening? 'I told you, he rang me on my cellphone. I was out.'

'Do you remember where you were?'

Nick thought back a couple of hours. It seemed forever ago. 'A coffee shop by Fifteen and Tenth. I had my phone switched off. When I-'

He stopped. Royce had turned to look down the corridor, where a man in a white boiler suit, white hood and facemask was walking towards him. He looked as if he'd just walked out of a nuclear reactor. In his gloved hand he carried the killer's pistol wrapped in a clear plastic bag.

'We found this on the roof. We'll get it checked for prints and ballistics.'

Nick started. 'Wait a minute. It'll have my fingerprints on it.'

Royce looked at him with more interest.

'I picked it up where it was hidden, behind the air conditioner. I told you.'

The technician jerked his head at the detective. 'Put it in the statement.'

He wandered off into Nick's apartment. Royce turned back to him with an out-of-my-hands grimace.

'I'm sorry. I know you think this probably isn't the best time for all this. Believe me, it never is. You've heard the line that ninety per cent of murders are solved in twenty-four hours or never?'

Nick nodded wearily. 'I guess.'

'It's bulls.h.i.t. But the more we get now, the quicker we can make it later.' There was a high-caffeine energy about Royce, restless and impatient. 'I'll get the rest of your story tomorrow at the precinct. For now, I just need to know: to your knowledge, was Mr Deangelo involved in anything of an illegitimate or criminal nature?'

Nick hesitated. What could he say about Bret that wouldn't condemn him? Sleazy, disreputable, maybe even offensive but not criminal.

Royce saw his uncertainty and drew his own conclusions. 'We need to know, Nick.' He was standing too close, staring down at Nick, his voice too loud for the cramped corridor. 'This wasn't an angry girlfriend or some crackhead thief who screwed up. The guy who did this had a motive. Was Bret into drugs?'

Nick squirmed, but at the rate they were dismantling the apartment they'd find out soon enough. 'He smoked some pot. A lot of people do.' He meant it to sound casual, no big deal, but it came out defensive.

'Do you?'

'No.' Nick pulled the blanket tighter across his shoulders. 'Not really.' How convincing did that sound? 'I don't think this was about Bret. I think it was me they wanted.'

'They?' Royce pulled out a slim notebook and flipped through it. 'The sergeant said you told him there was only one perpetrator in the room.'

'There was.' Nick felt overwhelmed with tiredness. His head ached and his eyes felt vacant. 'I meant they .. .' He flapped his hands vaguely. 'You know . . . Whoever.'

'Right.'

'Listen.' Nick grabbed Royce's sleeve. The blanket slid off his shoulder and fell to the floor in a heap. 'Last night I had a message online from my ex-girlfriend. She sounded desperate, like someone was after her. When I turned on the webcam all I heard was a scream and then a guy shut it off.' He saw Royce's look and realised how crazy he sounded.

Royce pulled his arm away and smoothed out the crease Nick had made. 'We'll look into it. Does she have a name, your girlfriend?'

'Ex. Gillian Lockhart. She works in Paris now for Stevens Mathison. The auction house.'

Royce put his notebook away without writing anything. 'We'll get a full statement from you tomorrow. Right now, I think you should get some rest.'

Nick stepped back as two more men in boiler suits came out of his apartment carrying a large silver box wrapped in plastic sheeting. It took him a second to realise what was inside.

'That's my computer.'

'Evidence,' said one of the technicians. The facemask deadened his voice. He thrust a clipboard into Nick's hands. 'Sign here.'

'Bret never touched that machine.' I'd have killed him if he did, Nick almost added but didn't. 'He was using his own computer when he . . . when it happened.'

'We've got that too,' said Royce. 'But if the killer was after you like you said then maybe it's got something to do with something. And it was in the same room as Bret when he died. If the camera was turned on or something . . .' Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the other officers beckoning him from inside the apartment. 'We'll see what we find.'

He nodded to the man by the door, then turned back to Nick and fixed him with a pitiless stare.

'We're going to get the guy who did it. I promise you that.'

Nick had never realised how much bureaucracy attended the taking of human life. It was midnight before they let him go. He spoke to a police artist, who took a description of the gunman. He saw the lab technician, who brushed his hands for gunpowder residue and stuck a cotton swab in his mouth to get a DNA sample. 'Just so we don't waste our time,' he rea.s.sured Nick. He got signed off by an earnest woman from Victim Support who gave him her card and told him to call any time. By the time it was over he was beyond exhaustion. It was all he could do to drag himself the few blocks to find a bed. There were friends he might have stayed with, but even the thought of the explanations he'd need to give made him feel ill. He checked into a hotel by Washington Square and collapsed into bed.