She turned back to her briefcase, pulled out a notepad and a pencil. “We need to go upstairs,” she said, picking up one of the papers.
“Why?” Logan asked, surprised.
“Light the way for me, will you? I won’t have a free hand.” And she pulled something else out of her briefcase: a small device, encased in a protective housing of bright yellow rubber, with a small backlit display and half a dozen buttons.
“What’s that?” Logan asked.
“Laser distance measurer.” And, holding it up, Pamela gestured in the direction of the improvised doorway.
The three made their way along the unfinished hallway, heading in the direction of the staircase. They made slow progress, Pamela stopping several times to measure distances with the handheld device and make notations on her pad. Reaching the staircase at last, they ascended to the third floor. Logan had not been here before and he shone his flashlight around in curiosity. The crews had not yet reached here—at least, the part of the floor not devoted to Delaveaux’s disquieting henge of standing stones—and it was more or less intact. There was no furniture or equipment of any kind—it had obviously been removed in preparation for the renovation—and the old, richly textured wallpaper was frequently defaced by scrawled notations in white marker, no doubt indicating where demolition would take place.
Their progress was even slower here, as Pamela took frequent readings with the measuring device and labored over her notepad. Glancing at the pad, Logan saw that the architect had made remarkably careful sketches of both the second and third floor, and that she now seemed at pains to accurately overlay the third floor onto the second. Kim watched the proceedings from a few paces back. She had not said a word, and Logan sensed—for what reason he did not know—that there was some tension between the two women.
They had made their way across a landing, down a short passage, through two large chambers stripped of all furnishings, and into a larger hallway, before Pamela finally came to a stop. “There,” she said, pointing to a door on the right.
Logan tried it. The door was locked.
A moment of consternation passed before he thought to try the key that unlocked the main doors to the West Wing. It turned in the lock, and he opened the door.
Beyond, the shadow of his flashlight revealed what had once evidently been a storeroom. There were no windows, since the room was situated well within the massing of the wing, and a few old boxes sat in a far corner, covered in dust. In the very center of the room—bizarrely—stood one of the large, marble Solomonic columns, with the familiar corkscrew pattern, that were an omnipresent feature in the architecture of Lux. It must, Logan realized, be a load-bearing structure, and tucking it away within a storage room was as good a way as any of concealing it.
Now Pamela slipped the notepad and distance measurer into a pocket, removed her flashlight, and approached the column. She examined it closely, then placed both hands on it, pressing here, feeling there. After several moments, there was an audible click.
Pamela turned toward Logan. “Your front door.”
He looked at her in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Ecce signum.” And, raising her hands toward the column again, she opened it the same way someone might open an armoire.
“Tu es mira,” Logan murmured in turn, shining his flashlight toward the column in astonishment.
It was not—as he’d expected—a load-bearing member that stretched from foundation to roof. Nor was it made of marble. Instead, it appeared to be of metal, its exterior painted to resemble marble. Its two curved, full-height doors, hinges cleverly disguised, opened onto a hollow vertical cylinder with a round floor and a large wheel, such as one might find on the hatch of a naval vessel, set into the rear wall.
Pamela broke the moment of paralysis by stepping inside, shining her flashlight around, then motioning for the other two to approach.
Logan did so, stepping a little gingerly into the hollow column. A moment later, Kim did the same. There was barely room for all three.
Grasping small metal knobs on the insides of the two curved doors, Pamela pulled them tightly shut. The space became a closed cylinder again. Then she undogged a retaining bolt on the winch and gave it a turn.
An odd feeling came over Logan. And then he realized what was happening: the “column” was descending through the floor in a gentle, spiral motion.
“It operates by weight,” Pamela explained.
Sixty seconds later, their descent was stopped by a gentle bump. Pamela opened the doors again to reveal the brilliant white light of the forgotten room. She stepped out, Logan and Kim following.
The column had come to rest in the empty section of the room between the Machine and the back wall, close to where roman numerals had been etched into the floor. Pamela shut the doors again and pressed an almost invisible button on the column’s flank. It began to ascend again, spiraling back up into the ceiling. Watching it, Logan realized that, in this case, the spiral design of the column was not just decorative; it operated in the manner of a corkscrew, working its way back up into the third-floor storeroom. When it stopped, it was flush with the ceiling: reduced to nothing more than the round disc with decorative chasing that Logan had always assumed covered a hole left over from a previously installed chandelier.
He stared at the ceiling for a minute. Then he turned to Pamela. “You must have known about this in advance,” he said. “You can’t have figured it all out just now.”
Pamela laughed. “You’re right.”
“Well, then why the hell didn’t you say something?”
“Because I wasn’t sure. I came across plans for just such a device among my great-grandfather’s papers. But they weren’t filed with the Dark Gables documents, so I had no way of knowing whether or not it was Delaveaux who implemented them. That’s why I needed to see this wing—and this room—to be sure.”
“So how do we bring it back down again?” Kim asked.
“I don’t know,” Pamela told her. “No doubt there’s a retractor, hidden away somewhere around here, probably spring-loaded as it winds down into the room.”
Logan looked back again at the ceiling. He shook his head. To think that the answer had been there, all this time, literally right above their heads. Just another puzzle of the forgotten room.
“Amazing,” he said. “Thank you. Pam, you’ve just earned yourself the best dinner in Newport.”
“We already had the best dinner,” she replied. “Joe’s, remember?”
“The most expensive dinner, then.” And he squeezed her hand. Kim, he noted, was watching them silently.
“Come on,” he told Pamela, motioning toward her briefcase. “Get your things together and I’ll see you to your car.”
32
When he stepped back into the forgotten room, Kim Mykolos was standing on a stepladder she’d appropriated from some nearby work space, examining the decorative circle in the ceiling.
“I’d never in a million years have guessed the door to this room would be some kind of gravity-fed elevator,” she told him. “Disguised as a structural column. I have to hand it to old Pamela.”
“Is there some problem between you two?” Logan asked her.
Kim waited a moment before answering. “I didn’t really like the way she interacted with Willard. Early on, anyway, when they were first discussing ideas for revising the wing. I got this feeling that she was the architect, and he was only a computer scientist, and any design suggestions coming from him had to be taken with a huge grain of salt.”
So that’s it? Logan asked himself. Still protective of her old mentor…despite what Carbon’s been insinuating?
“Amazing,” Kim breathed, still examining the circle that formed the base of the elevator.
Logan had to admit that it was. Perhaps, in some way, this was a failure of his own. All this time, he’d been thinking in two dimensions…forgetting that there was also a Z axis to be considered. It had been there all t
his time, in that dusty room just overhead….
Dust.
Suddenly, a thought hit him—a chilling thought that arrived with a visceral punch.
“Kim,” he said abruptly.
Hearing something in his tone, she turned toward him immediately. “What is it?”
As she descended the stepladder, he scooped up one of the flashlights, tossed the other to her. “Come with me.”
By the yellow beam of the lights, Logan retraced the journey they had just made, up the stairs and through the abandoned rooms of the third floor. It was still fresh in his memory, and the path was relatively easy to retrace. Within five minutes they were back before the door to the storage room. Logan unlocked it again, and—instead of stepping in—probed the room with his light. There, in the center, was the large, decorative column. There, against the far walls, were the old boxes, covered in their mantle of dust.
Now he turned his light to the floor—to the space between the doorway and the column. It was thickly covered in overlapping layers of footprints.
Following his beam, Kim caught her breath. “My God,” she said in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.
“I’d been so caught up in what Pam was doing, I hadn’t noticed it earlier.”
“What does it mean?”
Logan stepped into the room—to the far left, to avoid the herd path of footsteps—then knelt to examine them. There were a great many; too many to make out any individual prints. One thing he could tell, though—they were fresh.
He stood up again. “Somebody has been this way dozens of times,” he said.
“How recently?”
“Very.”
Now he walked up to the column itself. Reconstructing Pamela’s actions from memory, he opened the two matching doors leading into the elevator itself. His beam swept the circular floor. This, too, was covered with the dust of multiple overlapping footsteps.
“But there’s no dust in the room below,” he said, almost to himself. “Barely a speck.”
“I don’t understand,” Kim said.
In response, Logan stepped inside, then beckoned her to follow. Closing the doors, he undogged the bolt just as Pamela had done, gave the winch a turn, and the mechanism spiraled slowly down into the room beneath.
Logan opened the doors, stepped out, waited for Kim to do the same, then sent the device back up to the floor above. And then he examined the floor. There were faint tracings of dust from their own shoes—but nothing more.
He took in a deep breath. “It seems,” he said, “that this room hasn’t been abandoned for decades, after all. Somebody has been accessing it—very recently, too—apparently on a regular basis.”
“You mean, all these years? Is it possible the room was never forgotten to begin with?”
“No. I believe the room was rediscovered—and not that long ago.”
Kim stopped, taking this in. “Accessed on a regular basis. Do you mean, studying the room, as we’ve been doing? Studying the Machine?”
“Studying it…or using it.” Logan looked around. “Isn’t it surprising, when you think of it, that there are no books anywhere? No papers, files, notes? I’d always assumed the files had been removed; sealed away; or, God forbid, burned when the project was halted. But I’ll bet if we brought a forensic analysis team in here, they’d discover that the paperwork had been taken out quite recently. Removed, with care taken to make the room look spotless, unused. But that same care wasn’t taken with the third-floor entrance—they never guessed we’d find that.” He glanced around—at the worktable, the empty file cabinet, the shelves without books. “There’s only one logical conclusion: somebody, or some group, has begun to resurrect the old, abandoned research. And that same somebody stripped this room of evidence when Strachey and his workmen’s approach threatened to expose its existence.”
“You’re scaring me,” Kim said. “Because…”
“Because you’re wondering if they stopped at just emptying the room,” Logan said grimly. “You’re wondering if they also stopped Strachey.”
Kim did not answer this. She took a seat on the lowest tread of the stepladder and looked down at her hands.
“There’s another possibility,” Logan said after a long silence. “Dr. Strachey himself first discovered this room. He could have begun resurrecting the research himself. Maybe that’s why he dismissed all the workers so summarily—he wanted time alone with it.”
“Unlikely,” Kim said. She was looking up now; looking at Logan directly. “Dr. Strachey was terrible with anything mechanical. He’d have been lost in here. Besides, from what you’ve told me, it seems he’d just discovered the room—or, at least, broken through its wall—before he…” She didn’t finish.
“Yes. I know he wasn’t good at mechanical things. But, Kim, that doesn’t mean he didn’t tinker with the Machine.” And, he thought to himself, become haunted by whatever he accidentally released…until he was driven insane.
The room settled into a tense silence: Kim sitting on the stepladder, Logan leaning against the worktable, gazing off at nothing. Then, suddenly, he pushed himself to his feet. Quickly, he began moving along the walls, probing, prodding.
“What are you doing?” Kim asked.
“I think we’ve been looking for answers the wrong way,” Logan replied as he continued probing at the walls. “We’ve approached this place as if it’s a normal room. But it’s not—and, given its contents, I should have guessed as much. But it took Pam’s discovery to make me realize.”
For a moment, Kim just watched Logan as his fingers moved around the walls, searching for a hidden seam, concealed button, anything that might yield up additional secrets. And then, wordlessly, she joined in, examining first the far wall, then the floor, and then the large central instrument itself.
Moments later, Logan joined in her examination of the Machine. And within a minute, he achieved success: pressing at the polished wood, just below the two manufacturer’s placards, activated a hidden detent. With a click, a narrow, spring-loaded tray slid out into view. It seemed to be lined in lead.
“Kim,” he said. “Take a look at this.”
She came around from the far side of the Machine and knelt beside him. He slid his find back into the closed position—the rectangular lines of its front panel becoming totally obscured by the surrounding wood grain in the process—and then, with a press of his fingers, opened it again.
“Puzzles within puzzles,” Logan murmured.
Inside the compartment were four smaller trays. Two were empty, while the others held identical devices. They were small, with a profusion of wires—some yellow, others brown—and contained three vacuum tubes each. Something about them looked familiar to Logan, but exactly what he couldn’t determine. His headache had returned with a vengeance, and he was having difficulty in both concentrating and in ignoring the music that always seemed to sound in his head when he was near the forgotten room.
“Any idea what their function might be?” he asked.
“No. They appear to be receivers of some kind. But then again, maybe they’re transmitters. The technology is very old.”
Logan stared at the devices. There was something maddeningly familiar about them…and then, quite suddenly, it came to him.
He reared back, almost as if from a galvanic shock. Oh, my God…
Heedless, Kim carefully removed one of the devices—unlike the rest of the room, it was coated in a thin mantle of dust—and peered at it. “One way to find out what it does. Fire up the Machine and see what happens.”
Logan looked at her blankly for a moment before replying. “I’m sorry?”
“Clearly, its function is related to the central machine—otherwise, why would it be stored in here? If we activate the Machine, perhaps I could find a way to connect this device to the field generator or the EVP recorder.”
“No,” Logan said.
Kim stood. “We could speculate and theorize until we’re blue in the face. At some poi
nt, we’re going to have to do some actual experimentation. I say, turn it on and let’s observe the result. Otherwise, I’ve got—”
“No!” Logan said. He too was on his feet now, and—as if from far away—he realized he was shouting. “We’re not going to do that!”
An abrupt silence fell over the room. Logan raised a hand, trembling slightly, to his temple. His headache had spiked abruptly.
“I was about to say,” Kim went on, quietly and evenly, “that otherwise, I’ve got work—real work—back in my office.”
Logan took a deep breath. He needed time, time alone, to think this through. “That’s probably a good idea,” he said quietly. “Let’s call it a night.”
Kim replaced the device into its tray and Logan hastily closed the drawer. Then, turning out the lights and closing the tarp behind them, they made their way out of the West Wing in silence.
33
“Let me get this straight,” Olafson said. “You let Ms. Flood into the secret room.”
Logan nodded. It was the following morning, and they were standing in the parlor of Willard Strachey’s set of third-floor rooms. The curtains were drawn wide, yet the space remained dim: a large tropical depression had formed over Bermuda, and already clouds were starting to veil the coast as far north as New Hampshire.
“And this was after telling her about the room—and about Will Strachey—when you’d been explicitly told of the need for discretion.” The director’s face looked pinched, his lips pursed into an expression of extreme disapproval.
“I needed information, and she was the obvious candidate. Look. She’s the great-granddaughter of Dark Gables’s architect. She worked with Strachey on the plans for the redesign. She refused to help unless I gave her physical access to the room.”
“My God, man! Didn’t it occur to you that she was just using you, leveraging this request of yours as a way of getting into the room?”