Brooklyn Knight (6 page)

As Knight paused, his assistant attempted to cheer him by reminding him of how large the museum still was. Snorting, his contempt still aimed at the long dead politicians and backroom deal makers who had scaled back Brooklyn’s original dreams of greatness, he said wistfully;

“True enough, and yet, even with what seems like a great deal of room, there are literally thousands of things stored in the various collections here that haven’t seen the light of day in decades. And not even for the obvious reasons one might first assume, like political correctness, or the current fad of deemphasization of Western culture … it’s just …”

Bridget wondered at the professor’s curious pause.

Having spent the better part of the day with him, if there was one thing she was certain she knew about Professor Piers Knight, it was that he had an inexhaustible set of opinions and a finely tuned vocabulary with which to express them. As the idea continued to take root in the young woman’s mind, she realized this was the first moment she had seen the professor at a loss for words
over anything. A further examination of his face, however, led her closer to the truth of the matter.

Knight was not struggling for a path down which to take their conversation.

He had abandoned it completely.

Although looking forward into the gloom-shrouded lobby of the Brooklyn Museum, he was not focused on anything within range of their vision. This worried the redhead slightly. Although she could not imagine what might have captured the director’s attention, Bridget Elkins was no fool. From the tilt of his head to the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers seemed to have frozen in mid-air, everything about the professor’s body language was screaming to her that something beyond her immediate comprehension was seriously wrong.

What it was that had captured Knight’s attention she could not say. Staring inside through the glass doors, scanning the building’s vast main pavilion and lobby, she saw nothing amiss. Dark as the area was, she still had a clear view of the entire area all the way to the visitor center and the first of the galleries. Nothing seemed out of place in the least.

At that point most people, even those with some sense of self-control, would have begun to blather, throwing useless questions out such as, “What is it?” “What’s wrong?” “What’s going on?” Time-wasting chatter that accomplished nothing more than making the speaker feel less inadequate.

Much to her credit, Bridget knew better. She had gone hunting with her father and two older brothers often enough to recognize the look that had come over Knight.

It was obvious to her that something was going on of which she had no clue—something about which the professor himself seemed to have no solid ideas. As his tension grew, she asked quietly, “What can I do?”

Without shifting his eyes from the shadows hanging throughout the front entrance’s massive foyer, Knight handed his assistant his cell phone along with a card he pulled from his wallet, whispering to her, “Take this; the number on the card is the direct number to the desk officer at the Seven One—that’s the local precinct house. Ask for a Detective Sergeant Dollins—”

“If he’s not there?”

Knight was not the kind of man who took kindly to interruption, but he realized Bridget was correct. Considering it far more likely Dollins might not be in the station, despite his self-centered assumption the detective would have to be there simply because he wished him to be there, the professor corrected himself, answering;

“As I was saying, ask for Dollins. No Dollins, ask for LaRaja. If you can’t find either of them, take whatever detective you can get. Tell whomever you get who you are, that I prompted you to call, and that there is something wrong in the museum. Do so while you walk back out to the plaza. Once the police are on their way, find a cab; get in it—leave.”

And then, Knight moved forward into the massive lobby, not giving Bridget the slightest glance. His attention was completely focused on the poorly lit interior before him, almost as if he were listening for something rather than looking for it. The professor stepped cautiously, moving from one display sculpture to another, not allowing his shoes to make a sound, even careful that, as he rounded one marble piece after another, he did not slide his hand across the stone too harshly. He knew even the slightest squeak could give away his position. To whom, he had no idea. But that there was someone inside his museum—someone who did not belong there—of that much he was certain.

All right
, he asked tersely within his mind as he moved across the wide lobby,
where are you?

As quickly as possible, Knight made his way to the main security desk. The fact that no museum personnel were to be seen at the post was the first thing that had aroused his curiosity. Of course, the desk was not manned every second of the day—sometimes those on duty were simply called away.

More important …

People were also human beings, he knew, not robots. They had to stretch, had to get an occasional drink of water, had to go to where they could relieve themselves of all their drinks of water—

Who are you?

But, the fact had caught his attention, prompting the professor to turn all his senses up to their full capacity. When he had done so, Knight instantly realized that he was hearing none of the usual background sounds of the nighttime museum. The tread of security rounds being made, the soft noise of the cleaning crew’s plastic wheels, the electric clatter of their radios, chatter of any other late-night employees—

And most important of all, just what in hell are you doing in my museum?

Of course, he realized, security could be in another part of the vast museum complex simply making their rounds. The cleaning crew might already be finished for the evening and on their way home. As for additional staff, perhaps no one other than himself had need to be in the building quite so late. Any of these explanations were possibilities. But not each and every one of them. In all its days as far as he knew, at no time had the Brooklyn Museum ever been completely empty.

And,
thought the professor as a sound finally came to his highly sensitive ears,
it seems it’s not all that empty tonight, either.

Listening intently, he quickly identified the sounds he was hearing. Gum-soled shoes—quiet, nearly completely silent. Four sets of them. Moving together.

No
, he thought.
Not quite in unison. Two sets of two. One scouting—the first clearing the way, opening doors. The last one following, watching the group’s back. And the central two, their attention is focused on something else. Those two, they’re going slower, moving with caution—
And then he snapped his fingers, suddenly not caring about the noise as he muttered;

“They’re carrying something—something heavy.”

Knight’s brow wrinkled at the thought—there were thieves in his museum. Focusing on the sounds he was sensing more than hearing, the professor determined that the quartet for whom he was searching were making their way up from the basement area. Checking his pockets, making certain he had at least one of the objects he was hoping would make the task before him easier, he headed directly for the back corridor that would take him to the stairs leading upward from Antiquities Storage.

Where everyone was, he had no idea.

How these intruders had managed to get inside the museum without setting off any alarms, or being noticed by either some member of the institution’s personnel, or any of the building’s hundreds of cameras and motion sensors, he also had no idea. Nor did he care.

At that moment, Professor Piers Knight had only two concerns. What was it that was being stolen and, could he stop the thieves without damaging their prize?

If he had known what they were taking, and why, however, instead of trying to stop the intruders, he would have done everything in his power to make certain that they got away with it.

The first person Knight discovered was Jerome Dribben, a fifty-three-year-old security guard who had performed that function for the museum for twenty-two of his fifty-plus years. The professor liked Jerome, for the man had proved countless times that he knew three things—every inch of the building complex, the contents of all of its vast collections, and, most important, his job. When the professor came across the guard, however, the man was crumpled in an awkward heap, sprawled out on the floor, sleeping peacefully.

There was no doubt in Knight’s mind the man was uninjured. Not only could the professor neither see nor smell any traces of blood, but also Jerome was snoring too loudly and too contentedly to be in any way damaged. Kneeling at the guard’s side, Knight first shook the man to see if he could be awakened. When he could not, the professor bent close to Jerome’s face, sniffing around his nostrils. Catching a distinctive scent Knight had not noted in the air anywhere
in the building so far, he began piecing together what must have happened.

Chloroform,
he thought as he arranged the guard’s body a bit more comfortably.
Too light a dose to have been forced on him. Besides, his clothing shows no signs of a struggle. His hair’s still combed.

Remaining at Jerome’s side for the moment, Knight puzzled over exactly how the man had been rendered unconscious. Thinking for a moment that the intruders might have employed something on the order of a water gun, Knight felt the guard’s face. There was no moisture to be found there, none trapped in the man’s less-than-well-trimmed moustache. Rubbing his fingers together, the professor felt not even a trace of residue. An uncomfortable look crossing his face, Knight bent low over Jerome once more, taking a second set of sniffs around the man’s nostrils.

Damn
, he thought grimly, feeling the fool for not having noticed the faint trace before.

Ozone… .

The slight burning scent, he knew, one ever so minutely different from any most people would ever encounter within their lifetimes, had come from an electrical spark generated in only one damnable fashion—magic.

Ozone. Oh, damn all the fools who plague me so… .

A thin chill ran the length of the professor’s spine. It was not the gelid fingers of fear; Piers Knight knew too much of the beyond realms to find terror in the news that some unknown force was toying with the arcane arts, aiming them toward his person, if even indirectly. He had studied both the white and black disciplines of hundreds of cultures. Indeed, when he had checked his pockets earlier, it was to make certain several of the various magical items he sometimes made use of were on his person.

His only discomfort came from the realization that those he
was hunting might be as familiar with such disciplines as himself. He had been counting on that knowledge as his edge. Now he felt somewhat less confident about confronting the intruders—uncertain.

What damn bunch of idiots is it this time
, he wondered,
that think they’ve got the goods to confront me in my own fortress?

Knight was not actually as confident as the confrontational thoughts flashing through his mind might have suggested, however. His rapidly growing problem resided in the fact that the professor had been assuming the few items he was carrying would make his task of stopping the intruders a simple one. His sending of Bridget to summon the police had merely been his way of not only getting her to safety but also of removing her from the premises where her continued presence would have hindered his freedom to use his abilities.

That, however, had been before our little discovery that our opponents are magic users themselves.

And, if his guess was correct, fairly competent ones. The ease of their entrance, the fact that they had most assuredly taken out everyone in the building with a hunter spell—an incantation designed to track down each individual within an area and render them unconscious without polluting the atmosphere its casters themselves were about to enter—these were people who knew what they were doing.

Then again,
he wondered,
do these fellows use magic themselves, or did they simply purchase their entrance?

Knight sighed in frustration, knowing he had no actual way of gauging what kind of power levels he would soon be facing. Assault spells or assault weapons? Maybe both. Sighing once more, knowing there was nothing more he could do for the security guard, and that his own time was running out as well, the professor stood once more, his eyes lifted slightly upward as he muttered quietly;

“For once, Lord, couldn’t things be easy? Just once?”

Not waiting for an answer, Knight pulled a round metal disc from the inside breast pocket of his suit coat and began making his way once more toward the sounds of the intruders. He could tell the quartet was drawing closer, their footsteps almost to the top of the stairwell from which he knew they would soon emerge. As the professor continued moving to intercept the foursome, he found himself silently applauding their professionalism. Despite the apparent weight of their prize, they had taken the stairs rather than risk the cameras in the elevators. Judging the amount of time he had to prepare for the arrival of the thieves, Knight gave himself no more than thirty-five seconds before the door at the end of the hall would open.

No idea of their power levels
, he thought.
Any one of them, possibly all of them, could be full-fledged practitioners.
Then, he dismissed his cautious approach, the other side of his brain snapping,
Doubtful. For one thing, top-drawer talent doesn’t lug booty. They don’t do scout work, either. They don’t creep—their kind stride. The four walking up the stairs, they might be competent, and they certainly might be dangerous, but ultimately they’re just somebody else’s muscle.

And then, as the doorknob began to turn, Knight’s mind focused on the one word he had thought, but of which he had not recognized the true significance—