Descent Into Madness (24 page)

              “You will want this,” he said as he stood, adjusting his tuxedo jacket. He took my purse and put the box inside it. “Open it when you get home. There should be a package coming to your house tomorrow night, by messenger, sign for it.”

              “If you are in trouble,” I told him, but he cut me off. Jody and Barbara walked through the door.

              “Of course we find you two here,” Barbara announced as she barged through the door. The twiggy, grey-haired elfish woman was resplendent in her Versace cocktail gown, the red silk hugging her body, but alcohol did not suit her. Jody’s constant vigilance was required.               “The donors from Northwestern want their tour, Peter.” She clung onto her husband, much to Jody’s relief.

              “I have tried stalling them, but they are insistent, sir,” Jody explained, apologetically.

              “It is not a problem.” he nodded toward me, smiling. “Save me a dance now, Bree, got it?”

“Who else would I dance with, Peter?” I laughed as we walked from the room. I clutched onto my purse as if guarding a bomb. “All my dances are for you, as long as Barbara’s fine with that.”

“Oh, Barbara’s not going to mind,” Jody whispered as the older couple walked in front of us.

“I have a feeling you are right,” I replied as we gathered on the elevator and ascended into the Field Museum main lobby.  

TWENTY-FOUR

J
ust open it.”

Wesley tossed the packaged onto the desk. It had arrived the next night, just as Peter promised. Aleksandra had signed for it, and she and Wesley had patiently waited for me to return from wandering the city with my mysterious box in tow.

              I had fingered that box as I walked down West Ontario. A group of female tourists passed, their purses clutched tightly to their exposed chests. Their stiletto steps screamed on the pavement. They paused before entering The Red Bar Comedy Club, and all three women glanced at me before opening the door. My hand moved from my pocket as I waved and walked away.

              A summer rain drizzled down, glistening Dearborn Park as I walked by. A couple huddled together walking a terrier, their oversized shared umbrella swaying in the lakeside breeze. Our State Street pent house was but a stone’s throw from here; the light from the Study filtered through the cracked drapes.

              I watched my apartment from a park bench, the rain beading against my vinyl raincoat, the lavender fabric melting into the graying Chicago sky. The study’s drapes slowly opened, Wesley stood behind them, easing them away from the glass. His mouth moved freely, laughing and forming a perplexing smile before turning away. Light from the television flashed in the room and I could see his feet peaking near the edge of the couch.

              I waited until the messenger rode away on her bike, the satchel now lighter from delivering my package. As her yellow jacket disappeared down State Street, I crossed at the crosswalk, the door attendant letting me in.

              “A package just arrived for you.” The attendant rushed past me and grabbed the padded manila envelope resting on the security counter. “I was just about to take it up.”

              “I have good timing then. Thanks, Bill.”

              Taking the package, I entered the elevator and ascended. The metal box swiftly climbed to the pent house apartment and I heard Aleksandra and Wesley talking in the foyer before the thick doors opened. They were arguing, which is something they seldom did.

              “This is not your decision to make!” Aleksandra was holding a ripped envelope, a letter inside. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

              “You could speak at the conference, as you are scheduled to do, and thank me,” Wesley replied in a huff. “North Western’s getting a generous grant for this.”

              “My research is not ready to be presented!” she stammered. “Mother,” she turned toward me as I stepped from the elevator, “talk some sense into your brother.”

              “Oh, I am not sure that is possible,” I chuckled. “I have never been able to talk much sense into him.” I walked into the study and she followed. “Just present your preliminary findings; that should be enough. And send a research assistant.”

              “They are expecting more than preliminaries, especially if we want to secure that grant funding,” Aleksandra said as she fell onto the settee. “Is that it, then?” Her eyes moved to my hands.

              Wesley came into the room and walked to the window, looking out on the busy street below. “What is in Peter’s mysterious package,” he asked. “Have you opened the box?”

              “No.”

              Slipping the rain slicker off and hanging it to dry near the door, I moved into the study and sat down, placing the package on my lap. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled the red box and traced the papal symbol with my fingers. 

              “Why would Peter risk his job for this?” I whispered. Dropping the box into my lap, I grabbed the envelope as Aleksandra and Wesley watched. “There is no sender identification and there should be.”

              I tore the serrated tab and found a single sheet of white paper inside. Taking it from the envelope, I rose and walked to the fireplace, my back to Aleksandra and Wesley as I read.

              The writing was in ink, smeared in spots where the writer had hurried or written with great emotion. My eyes began to water in the beginning as I read, “My dearest Bree,” and were nearly blinding me by the time I reached his name at the letters end.

              “Bree?” Wesley moved to my side but I shrugged him away as I moved to the sofa and retrieved the box.

              A portrait in my likeness lived within the velvet box – surrounded in opal and rich gilding, and blood stone set into the bottom of the amulet. I traced the face and saw him – watching the papal palace, observing strange rituals, observing the construction of this piece; observing as a skilled artisan painted my image on the jewel. Then I watched as he snuck into the Vatican and snatched the amulet, tucking it safely into the velvet box.

              As I slept, he researched. He watched.

              Wesley snatched the letter as it fell from my hand. I sat with the amulet, rubbing it repeatedly. As he stood by me reading, Aleksandra came near and read over his shoulder. She gasped. “What does this mean?”

              “I don’t know,” I told her. And it was the truth. The letter. The amulet. They introduced more questions than I had had the night Peter thrust the box into my hand. “But I know where to find them.”

              “Where did you get this?” I tossed the velvet box onto his desk. The box skidded across hitting a stack of papers before stopping. He looked up, exhausted.

              “We cannot talk about that,” he said grabbing the box, quickly standing, moving to my side and shoving it into my purse. “Put it away.”

              “Peter,” I glared at him as she returned to his chair. The man shook beneath his collared shirt, the top two buttons undone, the tie loosened and hanging gingerly around his neck. His hair was tasseled and unwashed. Bags collected under his eyes, the thick glasses not hiding them. And peppered stubble adorned his chin. The remnants of his last meal lay scatted on the desk. 

              “You need to sleep.” He shuddered under my touch as my hand rested on his shoulder.

              “I have too much to do still,” he said.

              “Why?” I asked. “It can wait till tomorrow. I want answers.”

              “No,” he replied. Glassiness crept into his eyes as he looked past me. “No.” He shook his head and returned to the computer. His fingers busied themselves at the keyboard.

              “What are you doing?” I asked. When he did not answer, I moved behind the desk to watch. He was moving files to the recycling bin. When he noticed me behind him, he opened a document and typed “they know,” then quickly deleted the words and then the file.

              Peter retired the next day and took his wife on a cruise around the world. The same party that sent me the letter and the box sent him a generous sum of money for his troubles. A registered letter arrived to each Board of Directors, mine including a personal note, insisting this decision had been in the making for ages. I knew better, though. The Vatican knew the amulet was never lost and they were seeking it. Peter knew this, and so he fled. They would be hunting for the sender and for Peter. And so would I.

              But Peter’s sudden absence didn’t go unnoticed after a string of fictitious and anonymous emails found themselves in a reporters inbox. The Chicago Tribune, not one to shy from a scandal, ran with the story of the curator’s mysteriously abrupt resignation and missing artifacts until all avenues of investigation were exhausted. We did what we could to silence the rumors, but it had to run its course. By mid-January 2006, when not even the paper’s best-hired private eyes could track Peter down, the story fizzled.

              The Field’s newly hired curator, Melanie Davies-Whitaker, a staunch defender of antiquities conservation from The British Museum, eased into her role and took up the efforts to eradicate any staff-bred rumors. She brought in her own staff from the British Museum to oversee the transition of the Queen’s Royal Jewels exhibit. They then left for the British Museum’s Tell el-Balamun dig site – with two Field anthropologists assisting. Davies-Whitaker had asked Aleksandra to go but she refused. When she called the second time, though, Aleksandra was mute, leaving Wesley to reject the Field’s offers. Science, Aleksandra said, did not dwell in the past. 

              Unlike Aleksandra and Wesley, I distanced myself from the museum during the investigation. Whatever secret the amulet held – whatever power it contained – I did not want Peter’s leaving to be in vain.

              Once, in my weakness, I ventured to the broad granite steps. But I dared not ascend.

              Not until I was invited back into those granite halls and rooms filled with ancient treasure.

              “Call me Melanie,” she said, “please. I insist. After all, the staff leaves the impression that my predecessor thought highly of you.” She waved her hand toward the chair. “Have a seat,” she urged. “Please, you must.”

              “How can I help you, Melanie?” I asked. It was gravely disconcerting being in his office –
Peter’s
office – with her seated behind his mahogany desk.

              “It’s this,” she said as she handed over a small rectangular box. It resembled a shoebox with Peter’s name scrawled on the top in black permanent marker. “I held on to his effects in case he returned for them. But since his instructions clearly state to do so, I’m releasing them to you.”

              I lifted the lid and began thumbing through the contents. Nothing important: a Harvard felt tip pen, moleskin journal, and miscellaneous office goods. “You could have couriered this to me,” I noted.

              “Yes, but the other board members thought a face-to-face would be best,” she replied. “You were absent from the welcome breakfast. And you
never
come in!”

              “I’ll make more of an effort to be here for the next gala,” I said as I stood and extended my hand. I clutched the box to my side.

              “Please do,” she replied as she escorted me out. “I speak for the Board of Directors; we don’t want you being a stranger.”

              “Of course,” I replied, smiling as I left.

              I would have stashed the box away had it not been for Aleksandra’s curiosity. Her hungry hands sifted through its contents. She removed each item, twirled it in her hand, and eventually plopped it next to her on the couch.

              “There is nothing here but desk clutter,” she said. “Why didn’t they toss it?”

              “He left it in my care,” I replied. I sat down at the desk and opened the laptop. The screen emitted a vivid neon glow as the machine woke from hibernation.   

              “Green this week?” I remarked, my fingers tapping at the keys.

              “Mother, what does this key go to?” she asked. She held up a tiny brass key. 

              “Safety deposit box?” I speculated as she walked the key over and placed it in my hand. The metal was cool.

              She pointed to the journal. “I would get reading,” she laughed. “Or hire an assistant to phone every bank in the city.”

              There had been no need for assistants or phoning banks, however. Peter had revealed the location within

three sentences:
I had a meeting today with a scholar at Union Station. We discussed Dante’s Inferno – the 8
th
Circle. Bree was a no-show.

              There had been no meeting, but we had discussed Dante. We had discussed, in length, the eighth circle – fraud. In graduate school Peter had painted a scene from Dante’s
Inferno
, where Dante and Virgil descend into the eighth circle of hell, riding upon the back of Geryon – a winged, shape shifting monster. He had given me that painting. He knew I would understand the reference.

              “I know what this key opens,” I told them. Wesley and Aleksandra were sitting together on the couch reading, as I entered the Study.

              “How?” Aleksandra asked.

              I held up the moleskin journal. “He left me clues!”

              “Going on a treasure hunt, then?” Wesley asked, his eyes not veering from the newspaper.