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Do the noble thing. End your u
Ever your
Diogenes
P.S. I was surprised to see how juvenile your earlier attempt at suicide was. Surely, you now know not to slash willy-nilly across your wrists; the knife is arrested by the tendons. For a more satisfactory result, cut lengthwise, between the tendons: just one cut: slow, forceful, and above all, deep. As for my own scar: isn’t it remarkable what one can do with a bit of greasepaint and wax?
A long, unfathomable moment passed.
Then, Constance turned her attention to the small present. She picked it up and unwrapped it, slowly, gingerly, as one might a bomb. Inside was a hinged box of beautifully polished rosewood.
Just as slowly, she opened the box. Within, nestled on purple velvet, rested an antique scalpel. The handle was of yellowed ivory; the blade itself was polished to great brilliance. Extending an index finger, she stroked the handle of the scalpel. It was cool and smooth. Carefully she drew the scalpel out of the box, balancing it in the palm of her hand, turning it in the light, staring at the mirrored blade that flashed like a diamond in the firelight.
Chapter 61
When the lights went out, Smithback paused, a raw oyster halfway to his mouth. There was a millisecond of utter darkness before a deep clunk sounded somewhere and the emergency lights came on, rows of fluorescent tubes in the ceiling, bathing everything in a hideous greenish-white light.
He looked around. Most of the VIPs in the crowd had gone into the tomb, but the second shift remained, with plenty of serious drinkers and eaters, standing around or sitting at tables. They remained calm, taking the power failure in stride.
Shrugging, he tipped the oyster shell into his mouth and sucked in the briny, still-living slithery bolus, smacked his lips in enjoyment, and plucked a second oyster from the plate, readying it for the same operation.
And then he heard the shots: six muffled reports from the darkness beyond the far end of the hall: a heavy-caliber handgun firing in a measured cadence, one shot after another. With a dying crackle, the emergency lights went out-and Smithback knew immediately that something big was going down, that there was a story happening. The only light in the hall now came from the hundreds of tea candles spread out on the di
Smithback looked in the direction of the gunshots. He recalled seeing various technicians and staff going in and out of a door in the rear of the hall as the evening progressed, and he figured it must lead to the control room for the Tomb of Senef. As he watched, somebody he recognized-Vincent D’Agosta-came through that door. Not in uniform at the moment, but still looking every inch the cop. With him was somebody else Smithback recognized: Randall Loftus, the well-known director. He watched them make their way toward the small knot of television cameras.
A stab of uneasiness struck Smithback as he realized his wife, Nora, was inside the tomb. Probably stuck in utter darkness. But the tomb had a full complement of guards and cops, so she was certainly safe. Something was happening here, and it was his job as a reporter to find out just what it was. He watched D’Agosta cross the hall, break the glass in an emergency fire station, and remove an axe.
He pulled out his notebook and pencil, noted the time, and jotted down what he was seeing. D’Agosta walked over to a cable, positioned the axe, and brought it down with a clunk, eliciting a roar of protest from Loftus and the PBS technicians. Ignoring them, D’Agosta walked calmly back, axe in hand, to the small door in the rear of the hall, which he then closed behind him.
The tension in the hall increased by an order of magnitude.
Whatever was happening, it was big.
Smithback swiftly followed in D’Agosta’s wake. Reaching the door to the control room, he put his hand on the knob. Then he paused. If he barged in there, he was likely to be ejected. Better to hang back, mingle with the crowd, and wait for the other shoe to drop.
It didn’t take long. Within minutes, D’Agosta, still carrying the axe, and Captain Hayward burst out the door, jogged down the hall, and disappeared out the main exit. A moment later, Manetti, the director of security, came out, climbed onto the darkened podium, and addressed the remaining partygoers.
Again, Smithback noted the time and began to take notes.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he cried out, his voice barely penetrating the vast murky interior.
A hush fell.
“We’re experiencing some power problems, some technical problems. Nothing to be alarmed about, but we’re going to have to clear the hall. The guards will escort you out the way you came in and up to the rotunda. Please follow their instructions.”
A murmur of disappointment rose up. Someone shouted out, “What about the people in the tomb?”
“The people in the tomb will be escorted out as soon as we open the doors. There’s nothing to be concerned about.”
“Are the doors stuck?” Smithback yelled.
“Momentarily, yes.”
More restlessness. It was clear people did not want to go, leaving their friends or loved ones behind in the tomb.
“Please move toward the exit!” Manetti shouted. “The guards will escort everyone out. There is nothing to be alarmed about.” There were some murmurs of protest from guests clearly unused to being told what to do.
Bullshit, thought Smithback. If there was nothing to be alarmed about, why was there a quaver in Manetti’s voice? There was no way in hell he was going to allow himself to be “escorted” out of the building just as the story was breaking-and especially with Nora still stuck in the tomb.
He looked around, then ducked outside the hall. The velvet ropes ran down the basement corridor, lit only by the battery-operated exit signs. Another corridor sat at right angles to the main hallway, roped off, ru
Smithback sprinted on ahead to where the corridor branched off, vaulted the velvet rope, ran through the darkness, and ducked into an entryway marked Alcoholic Storage, Genus Rattus.
He flattened himself against the shallow door frame and waited.
Chapter 62
Vincent D’Agosta and Laura Hayward sprinted between the velvet ropes, down the front steps of the museum, and along Museum Drive. The entrance to the subway stood at the corner of 81st Street, a dingy metal kiosk with a copper roof, perched on the corner. Parked near it, just beyond the seething crowd of rubberneckers, D’Agosta spotted the PBS television van, cables snaking from it across the lawn and through a window into the museum. A white satellite dish was set atop the van.
“Over here!” D’Agosta began to push his way through the crowd toward the van, gripping the axe. Hayward was at his side, hand up displaying her shield.
“NYPD!” she cried. “Make way, please!”
When the crowd seemed reluctant to part, D’Agosta raised the axe over his head with both hands and began to pump it up and down. The crowd parted before them, exposing a thin path to the van.