Blue Labyrinth

He found his patient once again asleep. A phone had slipped out of his hands and was lying next to his open hand on the sheets. He picked it up and checked it, wondering whom he had been trying to call, saw that no call had been made, then gently turned it off and placed it back on the bureau. And then he took up once again his position in the chair at the door, waiting for what he was sure would be a long night… before the end.

61

Margo realized that getting into the Museum after hours was going to be a major problem. She felt sure Frisby would have put her name on a watch list at the first-floor security entrance — the only way in and out of the Museum after closing time. So she decided to simply hide in the Museum until it closed. She’d get what she came for, then exit the after-hours security station as nonchalantly as possible, with a story about having fallen asleep in a lab.

As closing time neared, Margo, posing as a museumgoer, made her way into the remotest, least-visited halls. Her chest felt tight, her breathing constricted. As the guards were begi

The halls were more or less empty, and she could hear the guards’ shoes echoing distantly on the marble floors as they made their rounds. It was like an early warning signal, allowing her to evade them as she made her way to the one place she knew the guards would never check — the Gastropod Alcove.

Was she really going to do this? Could she follow through? She steadied herself by recalling Constance’s words: Those plants are vital if we’re to have any hope of saving Pendergast.

She ducked into the alcove and hid in the back, in a deeply shadowed corner. It gave her a shiver to realize this was probably where Marsala’s murderer had also hidden. The guards, as she expected, walked past the alcove roughly every half hour, not even bothering to shine their lights inside. No crime would play out twice in the same spot — they had returned to the status quo ante delicti. From time to time a staff member would also walk past on his or her way out, but as nine o’clock neared the Museum began to feel completely empty. There were, no doubt, some curators still toiling in their labs and offices, but the chance of ru

The thought of what she was about to do—where she was going to go — made Margo’s heart hammer in her chest. She was about to descend into the one place that frightened her more than anything; that woke her in the middle of the night, bathed in a cold sweat; that prompted her never to enter the Museum without a bottle of Xanax in her bag. She thought of popping a Xanax then and there, but decided against it; she needed to stay sharp. She took slow, deep breaths, forcing her mind to focus on the small, immediate steps — not on the overall task. She would take it one move at a time.

Another set of long, deep breaths. Time to go.

Sneaking out of the alcove just after a guard passed by on his rounds, she crept down the halls to the nearest freight elevator, inserting her passkey into the slot. Even though it was a low-level-access key, Frisby had already sent her an email asking her to return it; but she had only gotten the memo that afternoon and figured she had at least a day’s grace period before the pompous ass made an issue of it.

The elevator groaned and creaked its way down to what was technically known as Building Six basement storage — an anachronism, considering all the buildings comprising the Museum were now interco

But that was a long time ago, and these fears of hers should properly be classified as phobias. There was nothing down here to threaten her now, except perhaps a stray Museum employee demanding to see her ID.

Taking a few more steadying breaths, she stepped out of the elevator. Opening the door into the Building Six basement, she walked quietly through the long, dim passageways hung with caged lightbulbs, making her way toward the Botany collection.

So far, so good. She inserted her key into the dented metal door of the main botanical collection and found it still worked. The door opened on smooth hinges. The room beyond was dark and she took out a powerful LED headlamp she’d stashed in her bag, put it on her head, and stepped inside. The dark cabinets stretched out in front of her, vanishing into the darkness, and the stale air smelled of mothballs.

She paused, her heart thudding so hard in her chest she almost couldn’t breathe, fighting down the surge of irrational fear. Despite everything she’d told herself, the smell, the claustrophobic darkness, and the strange noises once again triggered panic and gulping terror. She stopped to take more calming breaths, overcoming the terror with a strong application of reason.

One move at a time. Bracing herself, she took a step forward into the darkness, and then another. Now she had to shut the door behind her; it would be unwise to leave it open. She turned and eased it closed, blocking out what little light came in from the hall.

She relocked the door and peered ahead. The Herbarium Vault lay at the far end of the room. Shelves containing preserved plants in liquid rose up into darkness all around her — the so-called wet collections — as narrow aisles led off in two directions, everything vanishing into murk.

Get going, she told herself. She started down the left-hand aisle. At least these specimens didn’t leer at her out of the darkness like the dinosaur skeletons or stuffed animals did in some of the other storage rooms. Botanical specimens weren’t scary.

Even so, the monotony of the place, the narrow aisles looking all the same, the gleaming bottles that sometimes looked like so many eyes peering at her from the dark, did little to allay her anxiety.

She walked swiftly down the aisle, took a hard right, walked some more, took a left and then another right, working her way diagonally to the far corner. Why did they design these storage rooms to be so confusing? But after another moment she halted. She had heard something. The echoing sounds of her footfalls had initially obscured it, but she was sure she’d heard something nonetheless.

She waited, listening, trying not to breathe. But the only sounds were the faint creaking and clicking noises that never seemed to go away, probably caused by the building settling or the forced air system.

Her anxiety increased. Which way? The scare had caused her to forget which turn was next in the grid of shelving. If she got disoriented, lost in this labyrinth… Making a quick decision, she went down one aisle until she hit the storage room wall, realized she was indeed going in the right direction, and then followed it to the far corner.

There it was: the vault. It looked like — and probably was — an old bank vault, converted to a different use. It was painted dark green, with a large wheel and a retrofitted keypad, currently blinking red. With a gasp of relief she hustled over and punched in the number sequence she’d memorized from Jörgensen’s office.

The keypad light went from red to green. Thank God. She turned the wheel and pulled open the heavy door. Leaning in, she flashed her headlamp around. It was a small space, perhaps eight by ten, with steel shelves covering all three walls. She glanced at the heavy door. No way was she going to shut it and risk being locked in. But she would, at least, partially close it. Just in case someone should come into the storage room — which seemed extremely unlikely.