The Forgotten Room (11 page)

Late that same afternoon, Logan steered his Lotus Elan coupe from Carroll Avenue right onto Ocean, downshifting smoothly as he made the turn. What had started out as a foggy, drizzly day had turned at least temporarily bright and warm, and Logan had the hardtop’s windows down: the breeze coming in from Hazard’s Beach on the left filled the car with a deliciously salty smell.

While Lux could provide just about everything in the way of edibles—their meals were first-rate, and a small café was open from 10 a.m. to 8 p.m. if anyone grew hungry in off hours—they did not serve PG Tips tea, a habit he’d developed while doing graduate work in England and never been able to shake. So he’d driven into town to pick up a box, and a few toiletries, from a gourmet food market on Pelham Street.

Now, as he drove back toward Lux, his thoughts returned to
what Carbon had said about Kim Mykolos.
If you’re looking for a scalp to collect, go chat up that Grecian assistant of his. She’s had her eye on his chair from her first bloody day in the place
. This directly contradicted what Kim herself had told him about her relationship with Strachey. Odd…

He was forced to slam on the brakes when a dark SUV pulled out of a side street and onto Ocean Avenue directly in front of him. Frowning, he suppressed the urge to give the vehicle a blast of his horn. The driver was almost undoubtedly a tourist—judging by the glacial pace at which the vehicle was moving, the occupants were either lost or else taking in the sights. And the sights were admittedly stunning: the road was running nearer the sea here, and was rising to the highest point on Ocean Avenue, almost one hundred feet above the beach.

Leaving the Elan in second gear, Logan’s thoughts went back to Carbon. His instincts told him that Kim Mykolos had been genuinely upset and shaken by Strachey’s death. Those weren’t the behaviors of somebody gunning for his job. And she herself had indicated there was no tension between them, no strain in their relationship.

The SUV was still ahead of him. Maybe it wasn’t taking in the sights, after all—perhaps the driver was having mechanical problems. The vehicle would slow down, speed up abruptly, then slow down again. At this rate, instead of getting back to Lux in one minute, it would take him ten. Logan drifted into the oncoming lane to look for any approaching traffic, but the road angled to the right up ahead and he couldn’t get a good enough view to pass. He settled back into place behind the bulky vehicle to wait.

Carbon might be a first-rate bastard
, Logan thought,
but why would he lie about such a thing? Was he trying to deflect my attention? If so, why? And then again, Strachey did attack Mykolos right before he killed himself
. That did add some possible weight to Carbon’s accusation…. But no, he decided; it just didn’t feel right to him.

Now the SUV had pulled over to the side, at an angle, still
partially blocking the lane. As Logan came to a stop behind it, the driver’s window slid down, and a gloved hand emerged, waving him on. With a reciprocal wave of thanks, Logan moved out into the other lane, ready to depress the clutch and shift into third…

Just as he did so, the SUV, which had been idling, suddenly roared into life, veering directly toward him. Logan’s heart began to race and he downshifted, braking in order to tuck himself back behind the SUV—but the dark, slow-moving vehicle was still lumbering sideways toward him, at speed now, as if with a stuck accelerator pedal. In another second it would impact his small sports car, push him off the road.

In desperation, Logan veered off to the narrow left shoulder. The Lotus spun on the sandy shoulder, tires shearing sideways. Out of control now, it hurtled toward the rocky cliff edge and Logan got a stomach-churning view of the long drop to the boulder-strewn breakers below. Heart hammering, he spun the wheel in the opposite direction to the turn. He felt a sudden dip as the left rear wheel dropped onto the rocks at the very edge of the cliff. Downshifting into first, feathering the brakes, Logan desperately gunned the car forward. At the last moment, the rear-wheel drive gained traction and the Lotus half lurched, half leapt back onto the shoulder. He killed the engine and sat there, breathing heavily, a faint cloud of sand and dust falling all around him.

A red mist that had fallen over his eyes slowly cleared. Logan glanced left again, at the dizzying, one-hundred-foot drop to the ocean just beyond the shoulder. Then, heart still thudding in his chest, he looked down the road. The plodding SUV was just barely visible ahead, at a gentle curve in the road. Then it turned onto a side street and disappeared from view.

It was nine o’clock in the evening when Logan rose from the desk in his quarters on Lux’s third floor and walked over to the nearest window. The bad weather had finally won out over the good and a storm had settled over Newport. Swollen clouds scudded before the moon, and sheets of wind-driven rain beat against the panes of leaded glass.

He stared out at the storm-lashed ocean—pounding fiercely against the coastline—for several minutes, lost in thought. Then he turned back to the desk. It was covered with notes he had taken following various interviews, along with brief dossiers on a dozen of the scientists and administrators at the think tank: Roger Carbon; Terence McCarty; Perry Maynard; Laura Benedict, the quantum computing expert. Life, he had learned, had been especially unkind to Ms. Benedict recently: in addition to losing her mentor,
she was doubly bereaved—her grandfather had died of cancer a few years before, and not long after she’d been tragically widowed. Her husband, an aviation enthusiast, had died in a midair crash with another small plane during a storm—perhaps a storm not so different from this one.

He flipped through the pages on his desk for a minute, then pushed the folders aside. Beneath them was another: a file on Kim Mykolos. He’d made a point to sit at her table that evening for dinner, and had found that—when the conversation did not turn to Strachey, obviously still a painful subject—she was witty and charming, an excellent conversationalist. She had also borne out the fact that Strachey had, in fact, been like a father to Laura Benedict. Logan’s empathetic instincts assured him of what he’d already deduced: that, whether out of misapprehension or spite, Carbon was wrong about Kim—she had not been after Strachey’s job.

Turning to his computer, he brought up his encrypted spreadsheet on “the others” and reviewed it one more time, just to be sure. But there had been no mistake in his deduction.

He paused, looking at the screen, for several minutes. Then he turned off the computer. It was time.

Picking up the printed phone directory for Lux, he turned pages until he found the number he wanted: Dr. Olafson’s private quarters. Picking up the phone, he dialed.

It was answered on the third ring. “Olafson.”

“Gregory? It’s Jeremy Logan.”

“Jeremy. I penciled a note on my calendar to call you tomorrow morning, discuss your progress.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I wondered if I could drop in for a few minutes.”

There was a pause. “Now?”

“If you’re not otherwise occupied.”

The sound of shuffling papers came over the line. “Of course. I’ll be expecting you.”

“Thanks.” Logan hung up the phone and, without bothering to grab his satchel, quickly exited the room.

Olafson lived in a large suite of rooms at the far eastern end of the Lady’s Walk. He answered the door, not in his usual dark suit but in a V-necked cashmere sweater over khakis. A tumbler of whiskey, poured neat, was in one hand. “Ah, Jeremy,” he said, shaking hands. “Come in.”

“Sorry for the short notice,” Logan said. “But I didn’t see why this should wait.”

Olafson led the way down a corridor and into the living room. In stark contrast to the mansion’s Edwardian appointments, the director’s rooms—as the abstract expressionist paintings in his office could have hinted at—were furnished in Bauhaus style. Chrome and leather chairs of smoothly curved and polished tubular metal were offset by glass-topped tables and strange, ziggurat-styled bookcases straight from the Marcel Breuer school. Large
windows set into both the east and south walls offered dramatic views of the storm.

“Scotch?” Olafson said, heading toward a wet bar.

“A couple of fingers, thanks.”

Olafson picked up another tumbler, splashed some Lagavulin into it, then brought it over to Logan and ushered him to a chair. He took a sip of his scotch, waiting for Logan to begin.

“The first stage of my work is complete,” Logan told the director. “I’ve reviewed all the reports and dossiers, watched the surveillance videos, done a thorough background investigation on Strachey, reviewed his work, spoken with everyone who interacted with him during the last seventy-two hours of his life. I’ve done everything, followed every avenue, a standard investigation would encompass.”

“And?”

“And I agree with what you told me when I first arrived five days ago. Willard Strachey was a man who had everything to live for. He’d had a highly rewarding career and was looking forward to an equally rewarding retirement. This was not a man who would commit suicide—and, as you said, he was a man whose temperament would be utterly opposed to such an act.” He sipped his drink. “Something happened to Strachey in the last few weeks of his life. Something that changed him utterly, that forced him to kill himself, and to do so immediately. And I’ve become convinced that something has to do with his work in the West Wing.”

“The West Wing,” Olafson repeated.

“Specifically, with the secret room. There’s a connection—I know there is. But in order to learn what it is, if I’m going to learn what happened to Strachey…I need to know the purpose of that room.”

There was a sudden crack of thunder; a moment later, the room glowed with the livid glare of lightning.

Olafson frowned. “I don’t know, Jeremy. That seems a bit of a stretch to me. What could his work on the renovation have to do with his suicide?”

“Strachey had the keys to the wing. He’d been working for months on its redesign and restoration. He knew it better than anyone else. And don’t you remember that small, hammer-sized hole in the wall of the room? It had been plastered over. You said it yourself: that means
he might already have discovered it
.”

Slowly, Olafson put his drink down on a nearby table. “That’s right. I did say that.”

“I told you I’ve done everything a standard investigation would cover. Now, it’s time for me to undertake a nonstandard investigation.”

“And what does that entail?”

“Learning the riddle of the forgotten room.”

“Riddle,” Olafson said. “Interesting word.”

“But that room is nothing
but
riddles. What was its purpose? Why doesn’t it appear on the architectural plans? Why was it secret in the first place? And why did Strachey happen to kill himself when he learned—or was about to learn—of its existence?”

Olafson didn’t answer.

“There’s something else. ‘The others’ Carbon spoke of—the Lux residents who had been seen, in recent weeks, acting in an uncharacteristic or unusual manner—they told me of seeing, hearing, or smelling things that weren’t actually there. They spoke of strange compulsions—in one case, a suicidal compulsion. But the most interesting fact is that the four individuals all either lived, or worked, in the shadow of the West Wing.”

“Are you sure of that?” Olafson asked.

“I’ve double-checked my observations. I’m sure.”

Olafson reached for his drink.

“If I’m going to solve this mystery, I need your permission to shift my focus: to the West Wing and, in particular, the forgotten room.”

Olafson took a long sip from his drink. He sighed. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m also going to need an assistant.”

Olafson frowned. “What?”

“I’m a historian, an enigmalogist—I’m not a mechanical engineer. I need somebody who possesses skills I don’t have if I’m to stand any chance of unlocking this riddle.”

“But we agreed the existence of the room was to be kept secret.”

“I know. But the more I’ve thought about it, the clearer it’s become that I can’t solve this alone.”

This was followed by a brief silence.

“I don’t know, Jeremy,” the director said at last. “Strachey’s death was bad enough, but that room…it must have been sealed for a good reason. We can’t afford any stain on Lux’s escutcheon.”

“I’ve heard that speech before. And I’m aware of how delicate the situation here is. But this is the only chance you have of learning what happened to Strachey.”

Logan watched as the director went silent, thinking. “It would have to be somebody on whose discretion we can utterly rely.”

“I’ll vouch for her utmost discretion.”

“Her?” Olafson said in surprise. “You’ve got somebody in mind already?”

“Kim Mykolos. Strachey’s assistant.”

“Why Mykolos? I mean, she’s not even a Fellow, for heaven’s sake.”

“She’s the perfect choice. She knows Strachey’s work better than anyone—and, with all the workmen scattered to the four winds, that goes for his work on the West Wing as well. She’s up to date on the people and politics of Lux—and she’s honest enough to give me straight answers. But most important, one of her specialties is reverse engineering. And I need someone who can help me ‘reverse engineer’ that room.”

“Jeremy, I’m not sure I can sanction that,” Olafson said. “I doubt if the board would approve.”

“Does the board know about the forgotten room?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, they don’t need to know about this, either.”

“But we’re such a private, insular organization…involving
Mykolos would go against all our principles of compartmentalization and secrecy.”

“Doesn’t suicide go against Lux’s principles, as well?”

Olafson didn’t answer.

“As I said—it’s the only way you’re going to get the answers you seek. And don’t forget: I’m here because you
don’t know
what happened to Strachey, or why. Look at those other four, and what happened to them. Can you afford to just wall up the West Wing and look the other way? Who knows what else might happen in the future? You’d be turning your back on a ticking bomb.”

Olafson sighed. “If you put it that way, I guess I have to agree.”

“Thank you, Gregory.”

The director looked around the room a moment before settling his gaze again on Logan. “When do you plan to start?”

“First thing tomorrow.” And Logan drained his drink.