Page 33 of Rooke
“Excuse me. Do you know what’s going on? Everyone’s talking—”
It’s almost as if they’ve been waiting for someone to ask them. The taller of the two women nods enthusiastically. “Some psychopath broke into the Natural History Museum this morning and killed one of the security guards. There could be more people dead inside, but the police are playing it safe. They aren’t letting anyone in until they’ve managed to search the entire building.”
The shorter, rounder woman with fogged up glasses nods, too. “They showed a picture of the dead security guard’s foot on the news. There was blood on the floor everywhere.”
She continues to talk, but I don’t really hear what she’s saying; it’s as though my ears are stuffed with cotton wool. The museum? Someone’s broken into the museum?Sasha’s Museum? Words bounce around inside my head. Words likeagentorange, andshooter, andterrorist, andblood. My hands are cold and stiff as I pat myself down, looking for the familiar shape of my cell phone in one of my pockets.
“Are you okay? Sir, are you all right? You look a little spooked.” The tall woman places a hand on my shoulder. I can’t even feel the contact through my thick down jacket.
“Yes, I, uh…I’m fine. Thank you.” I move out of the way, leaning against the railing as I shrug my backpack from my shoulders, continuing my search for my phone. I grip the butt of my cigarette between my teeth and I will my hands to function as I fumble with the zips. Finally I find it. I go to contacts and bring up Oscar’s number, then hit call. He answers on the fourth ring.
“They called about twenty minutes ago,” he tells me. “Said the museum was on lockdown and I wasn’t to come into work. I don’t have a clue what’s going on over there but the blasted news reporters are making out like the place is under siege or something.”
I’m so relieved he’s okay that for a moment it feels like I can’t breathe. “Do they know who else is inside? Do people normally go into work that early? Apart from the security crew?” It was just past dawn when I left Sasha to go home and shower, but she was dressed and looked ready to leave the house. She didn’t say if she was going straight to work, though.
“Not usually,” Oscar says slowly. “Some of the staff do like to go in and get work done before the place opens to the public. It’s so noisy during the day, you see. But I don’t think anyone would have been in there at seven this morning. I doubt that very much.”
“Oscar. What time does Sasha normally go into work? Is there any chance she could be inside that building?”
“Sasha?” I haven’t mentioned Sasha to my grandfather since the first day I met her at the museum. He must be really fucking confused right now.
“Yes. Sasha.”
The roar of silence on the other end of the phone is deafening.
“Oscar. C’mon.”
“Shedoesgo in very early sometimes,” he says. “If there is anyone in there, then…there’s a good chance that it’s her.”
SEVENTEEN
ESCAPE
SASHA
My body feels like it’s being tugged in five different directions. The marble floor is cold beneath me, but for some reason my body feels really hot. Scalding, in fact, like I’ve been laying out in the sun for too long. I really should remember to wear sunscreen. Andrew always says I’m going to really mess up my skin if I don’t take better care of…
Christopher.
Where’s Christopher?
I open my eyes, and my head feels like it’s splintering apart. I need a drink. Goddamn it, Ireallyneed a drink. My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and…copper? Why does my mouth taste of copper? I try to roll onto my back, but my body feels so incredibly heavy. I’m made of lead. I’m made of stone.
“Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty.”
I try to turn my head toward the voice, but I can’t seem to manage it. I open my eyes instead, wincing against the bright light that stabs at my eyes. The light flares and then dims, not so bright after all. In fact, the room I’m in is quite dark, and smells dry, like paper or cardboard.
“I was beginning to think you might be dead,” a voice says. I hear a scraping noise to my right, followed by a metallictinging sound. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him crouching there, his back against the wall, something bright and sharp flashing in dirty, calloused hands. I remember then. I remember glass smashing, and overwhelming, terrible pain. I remember climbing the stairs, and I remember the anger in his voice when he realized there was nothing up here to steal, nothing worth any real money to him. After that, everything is blissfully hazy.
“While you’ve been sleeping, I’ve been trying to decide,” the man says. He’s still wearing that ski mask over his head, but his gloves are gone now, and I can see the dark smudge of a tattoo on the back of his hand. Something large and black. A coat of arms? A shield of some kind? I can’t make out the design, but the shape of the tattoo is familiar to me.
“I’ve been trying to decide if I’m going to let you live,” he continues. His voice is measured and even. Calm almost, though a hint of madness lurks beneath the tone of his words. “Rich white bitches like you have big houses and plenty of money, though. I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps thiswasn’ta total waste of time.” He snorts, a wet, repulsive sound, and hawks phlegm into the back of his throat. He spits it onto the floor, then hums quietly to himself for a second. “You know that there’s a way out of here, right? A back door or something. You need to take me to your place. You need to give me your money, Doc. It’s the only way I can help you.”
“Help…me?” My voice is cracked. It feels like all of me has cracked into a million little pieces.
“Yes. There are rules in these situations. They exist in order to maintain a clear line between the person in charge, and…theotherperson.”
He doesn’t want to say victim? He knows that’s what I am, surely? He wasn’t so shy about this when he was smashing my head into a wall downstairs.
