‘There’s a subway station a couple of blocks away. On the other side of the Archives.’
‘Right.’ Still holding her by the hand, C?dmon scurried past a line of cops attempting to hold back onlookers with a flimsy strand of yellow crime scene tape.
‘In case you’ve forgotten, my Jeep is parked —’
‘Not now!’
Knowing their priority was to escape the sandy-haired cop she’d seen in the lobby, Edie held her tongue. They could thrash out the specifics of the escape plan once they were free and clear of the museum.
Breaking into a run, they crossed 7th Street, C?dmon leading the way to the Sculpture Garden. Through the sparse foliage Edie spotted a steel form on the right and a bronze shape on the left. Ahead of them was an outdoor skating rink, a trio of skaters gracefully gliding across the smooth ice, apparently ignorant of the pandemonium on the other side of the street.
Still leading the way, C?dmon went to the right of the rink, turned right yet again then made a sharp left. For a man unfamiliar with the city, he was doing an excellent job of manoeuvring them through the garden. It wasn’t until they emerged onto Constitution Avenue, some two blocks from the 7th Street museum exit, that C?dmon slowed his pace.
Her lungs burning with the frigid December air, Edie came to a grinding halt, unable to catch her breath. When C?dmon put a steadying hand on her shoulder, she instinctively hurled herself at his chest.
‘That c-cop would have killed… If you hadn’t… We would be…’ She burrowed her head into his shoulder, fear causing her thoughts to collide incoherently together.
C?dmon wrapped his arms around her. ‘Ssshh. It’s all right. We’re out of danger,’ he murmured, his breath warm against her cheek.
It took a good half-minute before her breathing returned to something approximating normal. Embarrassed that she’d thrown herself at him, Edie pulled free from C?dmon’s embrace.
‘Better?’ he enquired solicitously. Other than the fact that his eyes had turned an iridescent shade of cobalt blue, he showed no outward sign of exertion.
Doing a good imitation of a bobble-head doll, she nodded warily. Warily because she could hear the blare of sirens in the near distance. A police net was being thrown around the National Gallery of Art. If the net was extended, they might yet be ensnared.
She glanced at her watch. Unbelievably, no more than fifteen minutes had passed since the three shots had been fired in the museum concourse. It seemed both longer and shorter, as though time had sped up and slowed down all at once.
‘I don’t know about you, but I feel like I just got sucked into a killer cyclone, houses, cows and farm fences spinning all around me.’
‘I feel much the same.’ One side of his mouth twitched up. ‘Certainly, this was not how I imagined spending my afternoon.’
‘I hear you.’ Still embarrassed by her show of weakness, she wiped several wet flakes from her eyelashes. The snow had slowed to a desultory smatter, wispy flakes blowing on a cold westerly wind.
From where they stood, diagonally opposite the National Archives, they had an excellent view in either direction along Constitution Avenue. Spread along the famous thoroughfare were familiar citadels of sanity — hot dog vendors, souvenir stands, T-shirt kiosks — tiny punctuation marks haphazardly placed between the ponderous block-like buildings.
Deciding to take charge, Edie turned to the right, intending to backtrack to her parked vehicle. She’d taken no more than a step when C?dmon grabbed her by the elbow.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘We discussed this already. I’m going to the Jeep. Are you in or are you out?’
‘While there are advantages to having a vehicle at our disposal, there are also certain disadvantages that must be considered.’
Desperate to get back to the Jeep, that being the quickest means of escaping the madness, she straightened her shoulders. No easy feat given that she was bundled in a leather jacket and an oversized trench coat. ‘On the count of three: paper-rock-scissors.’
His copper-coloured brows drew together in the middle. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me. Since there’s just the two of us, we can’t put it to a vote. So instead we’ll use paper-rock- scissors to decide. You guys do that in England, don’t you?’
‘I am familiar with the hand game. In fact, it was invented in the mid-eighteenth century by the Comte de Rochambeau as a means to settle —’
Edie held up a hand, stopping him in mid-flow.
‘More information than I need to know.’ Tired of being the follower rather than the leader, she met his gaze head on. ‘On three.’
In unison, they each moved a balled right fist through the air.
20
A line straight out of a Victorian novel, C?dmon thought moodily as he pulled back the hotel curtain. Except it wasn’t a heath; it was an asphalt car park bounded by eight-foot-high brick walls and a twelve-storey office building directly opposite.
‘My, my, what style,’ he muttered, releasing the rubber-backed curtain and stepping away from the window. Since paper had beaten rock, they’d left Washington via the subway, checking into a Holiday Inn across the river in Arlington, Virginia. That was two hours ago, and he was still trying to muddle his way through the chain of events that had landed him in this monochromatic hotel room with its uninspiring view.
He glanced at Edie Miller, coiled in a ball on one of the double beds, her mouth slack, her eyes unfocused. His gaze lingered a few impolite moments, C?dmon thinking she looked like a dahlia curled in the frost.
In dire need of refreshment, he strolled over to the counter, the room equipped with a coffee pot, microwave oven and a diminutive refrigerator. He uncapped a bottle of Tanqueray purchased at the shop down the street.
‘What are you doing?’ A drowsy expression on her face, Edie lifted her head from the pillow.
‘I thought I’d make myself a G and T.’
The dahlia instantly revived. ‘Make mine a double.’
He obliged and, tumbler in hand, walked over to the bed. As though mocking their dismal plight, the ice cubes merrily clinked against the sides of the glass. ‘Sorry, but we’re out of lemons,’ he said, handing her the half-full tumbler.
Swinging her bare feet over the side of the bed, Edie levered herself into a seated position, the tumbler clasped between her hands. ‘AWOL lemons are the least of our worries.’
‘Indeed.’
Safe for the moment, C?dmon suspected that they were being hunted by very determined adversaries. And while their adversaries had possession of the prize, the Stones of Fire having been stolen from the Hopkins Museum, they also seemed very keen to erase all traces of the theft.
The question had been plaguing him for the last two hours. Neither he nor Edie Miller could guess the identity of Jonathan Padgham’s killer. Nor did they know the current location of the breastplate.
The manhunt implied that their foe did not want it made public that after several thousand years, the fabled Stones of Fire had been rediscovered. So, their foe had an ulterior purpose for stealing the breastplate, one that had nothing to do with plunder and profit.
Lost in thought, he belatedly realized he’d depleted his glass.
Needing to pace himself, C?dmon set his tumbler on the dresser. Drink was a tempting mistress that beckoned when one least expected it.
