The Forgotten Room

Logan realized he couldn’t fight against the elements. The storm would sap all his strength before he even reached his destination…strength he would need for what lay ahead.

He veered out of the teeth of the storm and made his way back to the facade of the mansion. It seemed to tower endlessly over him, its crenelations and beetling gables invisible in the raging night. But here, under its eaves, the storm abated somewhat. Not much — but enough to allow him to continue forward.

One step, another, another. He soon lost track of time and, stupid with exhaustion, could not even begin to guess how far he’d come. The only way he was able to orient himself, to know that he was making any progress at all, was by sliding his right hand along the stonework of the mansion….

And then, directly ahead, something loomed up out of the darkness, black against black. At first, he sensed rather than felt it. And then, as he began to trudge forward yet another step, he walked straight into it. Half blinded by the wind-driven rain, he pressed his hands forward, feeling his way, trying to determine what it was that impeded his progress.

It was another wall of dressed stone, taller than he could gauge and perpendicular to the one he’d been following, dark and unlit and uninhabited, stretching away to his left into unguessable distances.

The West Wing.

Turning now ninety degrees to the south and leaning against this new support, Logan moved forward until he found what he was looking for: a small window, low, barely at knee height. Dropping to the ground, heedless of the pain in his leg, he applied numb fingers to the sash, tried pulling it upward.

Locked.

Taking shallow breaths, coughing out the rainwater that kept filling his mouth and eyes and ears, he took off his jacket, placed it against the glass, and then beat at it — first with his fists, then with his left shoe. On the third blow, the window gave.

Using his jacket for protection, he gingerly plucked away the remaining shards of glass. Then he slipped through the window, careful this time to slide down to the floor feetfirst.

He shook the glass from his jacket. A brief circuit with the flashlight showed him he was in a small storage room, apparently used by the workmen who’d been engaged in the reconstruction. There were wooden sawhorses; stacked cans of paint; boxes full of caulking tubes; carefully folded tarps covered with Pollock-like drips and sprays in a multitude of colors.

His flashlight made out an open door on the far side of the room. He’d grab one of the tarps and stuff it into the window, then close the door behind him as he left the room; that would mute the sound of the storm, conceal the fact that he’d broken into the wing.

Just as he grabbed the topmost tarp, he hesitated. No, he told himself. First, there was something he had to do.

51

Putting his flashlight aside, Logan reached into the pocket of his sopping trousers, searching for his phone. He found it, shook off the beads of water that had accumulated on its face, then pressed the button to wake it from hibernation.

Several rows of faint orange light appeared beneath its number keys: a good sign.

He examined the tourniquet on his right thigh. It was as sodden as the rest of him, but it seemed to have stanched the flow of blood.

Now, raising the phone, he dialed Kim Mykolos’s number. No answer. He tried once again with the same result.

Then he paused in the darkness, phone in hand, carefully thinking through his next move. Finally, he raised the phone once more and dialed another number from memory. It was the internal extension that had appeared on his phone when Laura Benedict dialed his Lux apartment, perhaps one hour before.

The phone rang five times before it was picked up. “Hello?” came the tense voice on the other end of the line.

“Hello, Laura,” Logan replied. He moved closer to the broken window, made sure that the storm could be clearly heard behind him.

“Who is this?”

“Who do you think it is?” Logan breathed raggedly, careful to add a manic, desperate tone to his voice.

“Dr. Logan?” Benedict sounded shocked, dismayed, uncertain.

“Right the first time. Want to come out and play? The water’s fine.”

There was a pause. “What happened?” she finally asked.

“What happened? Your boys led me on a merry chase. It took a lot of doing, and a lot of ru

“Where are you now?”

Logan let out a chuckle he hoped wasn’t too high-pitched. “I’m outside of the East Wing, near the parking lot.”

“Parking lot?” Alarm sounded in her voice.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. Actually, that’s not true — I am going somewhere.”

Silence.

“Care to guess where I’m going, Dr. Benedict?”

The silence continued.

“No? Then I’ll tell you. Why shouldn’t I? You may get me, but by the time you do it’ll be too late.”

“Too late—” the voice began.

“I tried to make you see reason. But you refused. You even sent mercenaries to kill me. So I’m going to do it myself.”

A brief pause. “Do what? Kill yourself?”

Logan chuckled mirthlessly. “Destroy the forgotten room.”

“Dr. Logan…Jeremy—”

“You said yourself that your work there isn’t complete. So I’m going to make sure your work never gets finished. I’m going to torch the whole goddamned room, and the rest of the wing with it if I have to. Just like your mercenaries torched Pamela Flood. And then I’m going to find the old notes and journals and lab reports — they’ll be around here somewhere, maybe in your lab, maybe in your private rooms — and I’ll torch those, too.”

“Jeremy, listen—”

“No. You listen!” Logan shouted against the roar of the storm. “That thing can’t be allowed to exist. Do you hear me? I’m going to make sure that weapon never sees the light of day — if it’s the last thing I do.”

Then he hung up.

Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he picked up the tarp again and stuffed it into the broken window. Then, plucking up the flashlight from where he’d placed it, he moved to the doorway, stepped through it, and closed the door behind him. Instantly, the sound of the storm grew muffled.

Almost the entire Lux faculty and staff had deserted the mansion ahead of the hurricane. This wing, he knew, would be utterly deserted.

Laura Benedict thought he was standing outside the East Wing. That meant time — if nothing else — was, for once, on his side.

But first he had to find his way back to more familiar ground. And, time or no time, he’d have to hurry: Benedict would already be on the phone again, rallying her men and telling them where to go. At least, he thought, that would take any heat off Kim. It was a calculated risk.

He shook the water off his shoes, squeezed the damp from his trousers. Then, pointing the flashlight ahead of him, Logan moved down the corridor, heading north in the direction of the West Wing’s entrance. He realized that, based on the height of the window through which he entered, he must be one floor below the main level. The hallway, which consisted of bare plaster walls, jogged left, then left again. Logan pushed away the pain in his leg and his head and tried as best he could to estimate his location by dead reckoning. Was he near the portal leading to the main building? Or was he lost somewhere in the maze of narrow corridors and rooms that filled the rest of the wing?

Ahead, the hallway ended at a circular metal staircase, its triangular rungs heavy with dust and the imprints of booted feet. Logan shone his light up the staircase, then climbed the treads carefully, one step at a time, dragging his injured leg behind him now. He stepped out into a side corridor that he didn’t recognize, full of timber and lath and the stacked detritus of demolition. Here he paused a moment to squeeze the blood and water from the improvised dressing, then reapply it to the gunshot graze across his thigh. And then he moved forward again.