Split Second

Lucy eyed the stacks of luggage in the far corner. Suitcases of all sizes and more than a dozen carry-ons, most of them older, without wheels, were all piled on top of one another in the front, the oversized luggage and duffel bags behind. Against the wall were a half dozen old-fashioned steamer trunks, all quite large, with an Art Deco feel of the twenties and thirties, looking like aging sentinels guarding all the assorted smaller pieces piled in front of them. She wasn’t all that hopeful about finding anything that would shed light on her grandfather’s death, but it sure beat going through boxes labeled OLD SILVERWARE, and besides, people always left stuff in suitcases. There was only one way to find out.

She lifted the first carry-on off the top of the pile, unzipped it, and found one stray safety pin, nothing else. The second carry-on was black, part of a set of luggage. She found an ancient toothbrush in a side pocket, and an old quarter. She flipped the quarter in the air and stuck it in her jeans pocket. She opened a dozen more of the small pieces and found nothing more than a dried-up bottle of red nail polish, an ancient hairnet that looked like a decaying spiderweb, some more change, and two old Sidney Sheldon novels from the seventies. She still had hope when she moved to the larger luggage, the great bulk of it black. The first of the larger suitcases held nothing more than a single pair of women’s cotton panties, a man’s black sock, and a stick of old deodorant. Her hope was nearly gone when she reached the third suitcase from the bottom of the pile and nearly dropped it, it was so heavy. Her heart began to pound. She unzipped it, threw back the top, and stared down at neatly folded men’s clothes—pants, shirts, suits, underwear, shoes, handkerchiefs, socks, belts. She picked up the handkerchief on top. It wasn’t monogrammed. Lucy looked over at the long clothes pole at the opposite end of the attic crammed with clothing in plastic bags. Why not hang these clothes as well? Why fold them in a suitcase? She’d seen a good half dozen boxes labeled MEN’S CLOTHES. Why were these clothes folded in a suitcase?

She opened the large suitcases that were left. More men’s clothes, mostly vested suits and dress shirts but also a beautiful Burberry coat, gloves, several men’s hats, three pairs of dress shoes. They were well made but hardly up-to-date—like clothes from an old movie set, in fact. She remembered her grandfather wearing clothes like this when she was a young child. Had his clothes been hidden away in these suitcases to make it appear he’d taken them with him?

She kept looking. The half dozen duffel bags were mostly empty, one holding ancient snorkel equipment, another holding a box of condoms, unopened, and that was interesting.

She’d finally worked her way back to the steamer trunks. She could hardly stop now—steamer trunks had lots of compartments, lots of little zippered pockets that could hide—what? She wished she had a clue. She’d probably find more safety pins and loose change. Best to begin with the largest trunk against the wall.

She studied the steamer trunk, a huge light brown leather affair with black leather bands, banged up but still as solid-looking as the day it was rolled aboard its first luxury liner. It was covered with travel stickers from how many years ago? Maybe ninety? The largest was an Art Deco drawing of three huge passenger ships steaming toward you. There was a globe showing the western hemisphere, the proportions way off, for effect, and decals showing a dozen faraway destinations, no doubt status symbols in their day. She lightly laid her hand on a sticker that had PARIS printed on it and let herself be drawn back for a moment. She could easily picture rich Americans who traveled from New York to London or Paris or Cairo on opulent ships before the war, uniformed porters hefting their trunks onto big wheeled trolleys. They evoked an image of full moons shimmering on the bare shoulders of women in satin gowns, of men with pencil mustaches, of attar-of-rose perfume and magnificent jewels. She slowly worked the largest steamer trunk away from the wall. It was very heavy. She managed to tilt a corner of it away from the wall, and used her legs to push it farther askew, enough to open the lid. It smelled musty, old. She unclicked the four sets of latches, but the top wouldn’t open. She dragged the trunk out onto the open floor. Had someone not bothered to unpack, or forgotten to, just had the trunk dragged up here?

She saw a padlock tucked discreetly beneath a flap of leather at the very center of the trunk. Locked. She shook the padlock, but it was solid, didn’t come free. Lucy looked at it more closely. The padlock certainly didn’t date from the twenties; it was sturdy and pretty modern-looking. No way would she get that sucker open without the key.

She was suddenly aware that the fluorescent overheads were all the light there was, the windows completely dark. Full-on night had fallen, and she hadn’t noticed. She’d been up here much longer than she’d intended, her allotted twenty minutes long past. As she stared at the dark windows, she was suddenly frightened. But of what exactly? She didn’t understand it, but she was remembering something, something muffled and confused in her mind.

She saw herself, small, very small, crouched beside an ancient bureau, and there were voices. She couldn’t see who was speaking, but somehow she knew who the voices were—she knew—and her heart was pounding loud and her mouth felt dry and she was afraid, just as she was now.

Lucy shook her head. What was happening? Her heart was pounding, and that was stupid, she told herself over and over, but it didn’t stop her heart from galloping and her ears from listening to every creak and groan. She felt as if she were in a strange hollow of time where the past had superimposed itself over the present and brought her fear with it. She shook her head again. It’s simply dark, stupid. You are being ridiculous, remembering something out of context from when you were a really little girl. Get hold of yourself.

She kicked the steamer trunk, which did precisely nothing at all, and that pissed her off because she was afraid simply because it was dark outside, and yes, there were these odd memories, no, not memories, something inexplicable that her brain had suddenly dredged up to scare the crap out of her. She pulled her SIG from the clip on her jeans, and just as she’d opened the lock on the attic door, she struck the padlock, once, twice. The third time, she really whacked it. The padlock flew apart.

She heard something, a small scratching sound, and turned into Lot’s wife. Silence. She’d simply heard the house settle, maybe a mouse in the wall.

Stop being a wuss; open the blasted trunk. There aren’t any bogeymen to leap out and cut off your head. Besides, you’d shoot them. You’re frightened of a memory, but that was then, and everything here is now.

She looked away from the dark windows and the shadowed corners of the attic, drew a deep breath, and pushed the steamer trunk’s lid back. It hit with a sharp clunk against the trunk behind it.

An old musty smell welled out to hit her in the face. It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was thick enough with a smell she recognized, something dead, and she sneezed as she lurched back. She sneezed again, wiped her nose, and leaned forward over the trunk, her hand over her nose. A thick white towel was spread over the top, and on top of the towel were at least a dozen room deodorizers, solid, giving off nothing now. She felt her heart began to hammer hard again.

Stop it; get it together. You’re an investigator—investigate. But why the deodorizers?

She shoved the hard deodorant cakes away and lifted the edge of the white towel. Something caught on it, then broke free with a loud crack. She stared down at a hand, but there wasn’t any flesh on it. It was a skeleton’s hand, still attached, except the one finger that had snapped off when the towel caught it. She scuttled madly back on her hands, and barely managed to swallow the scream poised to burst from her throat. She sucked in her breath, swallowed a couple of times, trying to control her sudden terror.

You’re FBI; you’ve seen bodies. Stop it.

She reached down, ripped the towel away, and looked at the skeleton that filled up the trunk. She couldn’t recognize him, not anymore—

Lucy got to her feet, picked up her SIG, which was ridiculous, and forced herself to stand over the open trunk. She stared down at the skeleton of a man dressed in casual clothes nearly rotted through. She looked at the skull, at the empty eyeball sockets, at the rictus of shock on the skeleton’s wide-open mouth.

The skeleton didn’t date back to the twenties.

The skeleton dated back exactly twenty-two years.

Lucy backed away from the trunk as she pulled her cell from her shirt pocket and punched in Savich’s number.

One ring, two, then, “Savich.”

“Dillon, it’s me, Lucy. I found a skeleton in a steamer trunk.”

There was a beat of silence, then, “Where?”