Twilight Prophecy (18 page)

“B
ack in a Manhattan hotel room,” Lucy said softly. “I sure have come full circle. I was in a room just like this only—what? Less than a week ago? And yet my entire life has changed since then.”

James backed away from the window, letting the curtain fall back into place. The hotel had a direct line of sight to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where Lucy thought Utanapishtim’s ashes were secreted in an old and unremarkable statue. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from looking out at the museum every time he walked past the window. Talk about lives changing… Now that he knew his purpose, it was burning in him, driving him. But he knew she was going through as much as he was. Her life, too, had been turned upside down. And unlike him, it wasn’t her destiny.

He looked at her then. She had been on the computer they’d managed to borrow from the concierge, with a little power of suggestion. Just like they’d checked in with a nonexistent credit card and phony names. Lucy had also been on the phone, though he thought that was a very bad idea. She was on hold now, the cordless receiver anchored between her ear and her shoulder. The television set was on, the volume low. It was showing continuous footage of various conflagrations, weeping family members, burned bodies—human ones. Vampire bodies turned to ash when they burst into flames. They burned hot and fast. It was a miracle the girl on the island—Ellie—hadn’t just exploded in a flash when her skin had begun to burn. Her boyfriend, Jeremy, must have dumped her into the water almost instantly, or there would have been nothing left of her.

And she was young. Vampires’ weaknesses, their vulnerabilities, grew larger with age, just as their powers and strengths did. For most, fire would end them. There would be no remains for hype-hungry reporters to parade in front of a national audience. None to be confiscated for study by government scientists, either. No “alien autopsy” video, with a vampire playing the role of the little green man, would be showing up online anytime soon. Thank God.

And he was thinking all of that because it kept him from thinking about what was front and center in his mind. Lucy. Himself and Lucy.

He had no business focusing on that when his people were on the brink of extinction.

“I still think we should just break into the Met tonight and take the statue,” he said, hoping to distract himself. But it did little good. She was wearing clothes she’d found on the yacht. A pair of skinny black jeans, with high-heeled black boots that covered them all the way to her knees. A tank top that hugged her slender body closely. A button-down shirt of army green, heavy with military insignia on the breast pocket, over that. Her hair was in a ponytail that rode high on her head, and her tortoiseshell glasses were perched on her nose as she stared at the computer screen.

His bookish professor had taken a turn toward
Tomb Raider,
and he could barely keep himself from acting on the impulses that were burning through his body every time he looked at her. So he looked over her shoulder at the computer instead and saw what she was examining so closely: a live satellite shot of the Met. She was scrolling up and down, left and right, noticing windows, exits and the landscaping around the museum.

“They have state-of-the-art security. We’d never get away with it. We need to come up with some fake credentials, and then you can use your powers to get them to hand it to us.”

“Can we at least go look at the statue?”

“Statues. There are three. But I’m ninety-nine percent certain I’ll know which it is as soon as I see it.

And we’ll go soon,” she said. “James, this is my area.

Museums, collections, artifacts. These are my people, curators and translators. You need to trust me on this.

I’ll get us in there. Okay?”

He met her eyes, beyond those glasses of hers, and nodded. “I know you will.”

She looked at him again, and there was worry in her eyes this time. “You look like a wreck. You didn’t sleep last night, or all day today. You must be exhausted.”

“I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to.” He paced to the bed nearest him, sat on the edge, bounced up again. “Too much on my mind.”

“That’s an understatement. The weight of the world is riding right on your broad shoulders,” she said softly. “I don’t know how you’re even holding up under all of this—” She held up a hand as, apparently, someone came back on the telephone line. Then, nodding, she said, “Have him call me at this number as soon as possible, please.” And then, “Yes, it’s very urgent. The name? Ms. Enheduanna. That’s e-n-h-e d-u-a-n-n-a.” There was a pause. “Within thirty minutes? That would be perfect. Thank you so much for your time.”

She hung up the phone.

“En-who-whatta?” he asked, teasing just a little. “You couldn’t have gone with ‘Smith’?”

She smiled, as he had hoped she would. She had the most beautiful smile. It seemed healing to him, for some reason.

“Enheduanna was a Sumerian high priestess and the first author credited by name for her work. I’m her biggest living fan. Marcus will know it’s me.”

“And what’s to stop him from calling the authorities and giving them the number instead?”

“Loyalty,” she said. And then she shrugged. “And curiosity. He’ll at least phone me first to find out what’s going on and then decide how to proceed.”

James nodded slowly and felt a bit of jealousy that he told himself was entirely misplaced. Marcus had been a friend and colleague of her father’s, he reminded himself. So he must be at least fifteen or twenty years older than she was. “This guy—is he some…Indiana Jones type?”

Her smile was bright and wide, and it took his breath away for a moment, and then he wondered when he’d started reacting that way to her. Not only the breathless desire, not only looking at her and then getting stuck, unable to look away, but also this jealousy. What the hell was that about?

But he knew when. He knew exactly when. It had been on the yacht, when she’d sat across from him as he’d healed Pandora. It had been when he’d seen her crying over that damned cat, and when they’d shared in healing her. And it had intensified on the island, when she’d been weeping for Ellie, and then after the healing, when she’d looked at him as if she wanted to kiss him, as if he were some kind of a hero, or a god, and flung her arms around him and whispered in his ear that he was special. He’d realized then that he’d been dying for her to feel that way about him ever since he’d met her.

And now maybe he was starting to get why. He was falling for this bookish little mortal.

“A retired Indy, maybe,” she said, and laughed. “He’s almost seventy. He’s one of the few friends I’ve allowed myself in my life. But more importantly, he has a lot of influence in the antiquities community. And I have no doubt that a phone call from him will get us permission to take a closer look at those statues.”

“That doesn’t get the one we want out of the museum.”

“Well, if it gets it out of the case, into a quiet, private room and into my hands, we’ll be ahead of the game. Won’t we?” Then she tapped the computer screen, and he saw that she’d switched to the page for the museum’s gift shop. She clicked on a thumbnail of one of the items for sale, enlarging it, and he saw a small, rather crude statue of a nude man with his arms held close to his chest, elbows at his sides, thumbs pointing upward. Beneath the statue were the words, Sumerian Priest-King Replica—Actual Size. Gypsum Stone. $149.99.

He nodded. “You’re one smart woman, Lucy Lanfair.”

She tapped her head. “Professor, remember?” But then her smile died, and she frowned past him at the television screen.

And no wonder. A photo of her filled the screen, with the caption
Professor Lucy Lanfair
.
Wanted in connection with the Waters/Folsom Murders.

He reached for the remote to shut the thing off, but she grabbed it first and cranked up the volume.

“…I think the government is reaching, here,” said one of the journalists seated on the set of a popular Sunday morning news program.

“The woman’s family was murdered in front of her,” said another.

“Family and the entire team on that dig in Iraq.” The camera went close on the man on the far right, close-cropped black curls and thick glasses. A caption read Dr. Jarod Cunningham, Clinical Psychologist. “She was the sole survivor. That’s going to leave some scars.”

“So then you think it’s possible this book of Folsom’s—meeting him by chance in that greenroom—somehow triggered a violent break with reality?” asked the host.

“It’s entirely possible. All this vampire stuff, all wound up with Sumerian legend, the very thing her parents were studying. It has to be connected,” said the shrink.

“Right. But the question remains, where’d she get the gun?”

A third man broke in, identified as a congressman. “None of that is relevant right now. What we need is for Professor Lanfair to come in and talk to us. And in the meantime, I must reiterate my call for calm. People are panicking—”

“People are dying, Congressman,” the host interrupted.

The politician nodded and looked right at the camera. “These vigilante groups are murdering their own out of fear and ignorance. People, there’s no such thing as vampires. No such thing. This violence needs to stop, and the sooner this professor comes in and tells the truth about what happened in that studio that night, the faster that will happen. There is more blood on this woman’s hands than just that of the two people she shot in Studio Three.”

“Allegedly shot,” said the host.

The congressman went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “This was not a government sponsored execution, as some fringe internet sites are claiming. There is no conspiracy here. There’s no more than one deluded old man, one irresponsible publisher looking to exploit his delusions and one mentally scarred genius who suffered a break with reality.”

James took the remote control away from her and turned the television set off. Lucy looked…stricken. And stunned and horrified and…

He went to stand between her and the TV set, because she was still staring at it. “You and I both know that’s all bull.”

She met his eyes then. Hers were wet. “But what we know is irrelevant. Most people are going to believe it. I’m a reclusive brainiac. I have no family, almost no friends. If they ask my neighbors about me, they’ll say, ‘She keeps to herself.’ God, they couldn’t have picked a better scapegoat.”

“Lucy, we’re going to fix this.”

“How?
How
are we going to fix this?” She lowered her head and shook it slowly. “My career is over. My credibility is destroyed. And I know, James—believe me, I know—this isn’t anywhere near as devastating as the possible extermination of an entire race. If I had to pick one or the other, I’d choose helping to save your people over my own career—I hope you believe that.”

That was the thing. He
did
believe it.

“But it’s still devastating. Because I can’t go back home again. My life as I knew it…it’s over. It’s
over
.” Blinking back tears, she looked at the telephone. “My God, I don’t know if even Marcus will believe me now. What must he be thinking?”

The telephone rang, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. James was all too aware of her turmoil, her fear, her uncertainty about her own future, and he wished he could make things right, but he would be damned if he knew how.

The phone was still ringing. Lucy stared at it, and then, reluctantly, she picked it up. “Hello?”

James leaned close to her, so he could hear. She tipped the phone toward him slightly.

“Lucy, is it you?” said an urgent male voice. “Please, for the love of God, tell me it’s you.”

“It’s me. Hello, Marcus. Your phone’s not tapped or anything, is it?”

“Of course not! Lucy, are you all right?”

“Yes. But I didn’t do what they’re saying I did. I didn’t—”

“I know. It never even crossed my mind. Mental break? You’re the sanest person I know. Lucy, where are you? Are you all right? Can I do anything to help you?”

“Yes, actually. I need to get my hands on the three priest-king statues from that traveling Sumerian exhibit that’s at the Met right now. I just need to examine them. Can you get me through the red tape?”

“The Met? Yes, I think I can do that. You can’t go as yourself, though, not with all the press you’ve been getting. Could you…manage a disguise of some sort? I know it sounds over the top, but given the situation…”

“I was already thinking that, myself.”

“All right, give me some time.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have much time, Marcus.”

“We?”

“Yes, I’m, um…with a colleague. He’s helping me.”

“But you’re safe, yes?”

“I’m as safe as I can be, given the circumstances.”

The older man sighed. “I’m just glad you’re not alone. Can you hold off for an hour? I’ll call you back then—sooner, if I can manage it.”

“An hour. All right, Marcus. Thank you.” She hung up the phone, lifted her eyes to meet James’s.

“An hour, Lucy?” James asked. “You do realize that’s more than enough time for him to give the authorities this number, and for them to trace it and surround this place. Are you sure you trust him?”

“Yes. I do trust him. But I don’t trust them. They know I know him, so they could be tapping his phone and he wouldn’t even know it. Let’s see how far down the hall this cordless phone will work, shall we?”

He lowered his head, amazed yet again at her ingenuity. “All right.”

She turned to begin gathering up their things, not that there were many.

Reaching behind her head, he snapped off the scrunchie that held her hair in place, and as she spun to face him, surprised, the long strands flew around her shoulders. Smiling, he took off her glasses. “You look nothing like that buttoned-up professor in that shot they were showing on TV. Not now.”

“I feel nothing like that buttoned-up professor,” she said. “My entire worldview has been turned inside out, James. Everything I thought was real is on shaky ground. And so many things I thought were just fantasy are walking around in my reality now.”