Justin turned the knob and, as expected, found it locked. He held the shotgun up to the lock, turned his head, and pulled the trigger. The force of the explosion blew the door wide open and, dropping the empty shotgun on the floor, Justin stepped through.
This was a formal dining room. One wall was dominated by a large fireplace and a carved dark wood mantel. No fire was burning, and its absence made the room feel cold and harsh. There was a heavy oak dining table with fourteen oak chairs around it. There were three place settings arranged at one end of the table. He checked the door he'd shot open, saw that there was no lock from this side of the room. It could only be locked from the outside.
At the end of the room was another door. Closed. He crossed to it, moving quickly now. He turned the knob and pulled, but the door was locked.
There was a rustling noise. He spun, handgun up, extended and ready.
He was pointing his gun at a middle-aged woman wearing an indistinct white uniform. She could have been a nanny or a nurse or a housekeeper or a waitress in a diner. Her skin was very pale with a touch of red in her cheeks, and her hair was white. She was trembling as she stared into the barrel of the gun.
"Where's Kransten?" he said.
"Not here," she managed to get out. She sounded vaguely Irish.
"Where is he?"
She shook her head tightly, as if too much movement would be dangerous.
"Who else is here?"
"No one."
"Nobody else in this whole place?"
She shook her head again. The same tight movement.
"What were they guarding, those two guys, if there's no one here?"
"Nothing. They weren't doing nothing."
"What's behind here?"
Justin said, indicating the locked door.
"Just another room," the woman said. "Open it."
"I don't have a key."
Justin moved the gun several inches closer to her head. "Get the goddamn key," he told her.
The woman, her expression revealing nothing, reached into the front pocket of her uniform shift, pulled out a key.
"Open it," Justin said.
She stepped around him, put the key in the lock, and opened the door. He waved her forward and he followed her inside.
The room made his jaw drop open.
It was like stepping from the Middle Ages into the twenty-third century. The room was two or three times larger than the foyer and the ceiling was at least as high. It was all decorated in sleek chrome, thick glass, and light, modern wood. There was a balcony that ran around the entire room, extending out uniformly about ten or twelve feet, beginning perhaps twelve feet below the ceiling. All the furniture was angular and minimalist. The lighting was modern and bright white. A giant flat-screen television hung on one wall. Stereo speakers were mounted in each corner of the room. Built-in shelves were filled with thousands of CDs, videotapes, and DVDs. On a chrome-and-glass desk sat a computer with an LDC flat screen. As he surveyed the space, Justin realized that the walls of the balcony above him were lined with books, from its floor up to the ceiling.
He motioned the woman to open the door that led to the next room. She went to a key ring that hung on the wall by the television, selected a key, went to the door, and opened it. Again, Justin waved her through and then followed.
They were standing in the first room of an enormous bedroom suite, the decor decidedly feminine. The sweeping quilted curtains were woven in lush flower patterns that matched the quilt, bolsters, and pillows on the king-size four-poster bed. The carved wooden headboard was also quilted with the same fabric. This floor was carpeted, a thick, deep burgundy weave. Fresh flowers filled brightly colored vases scattered throughout. Books were stacked high on both end tables by the bed and on the desk positioned in the middle of the room. Another large-screen television was mounted on a wall. At first glance, it looked like a room for a queen. But the more Justin stood there, he began to think there was something prisonlike about it. Despite the flowers and the bright colors, the room felt lifeless and stifling.
"Whose room is this?" he asked. "Who lives here?"
The frightened woman didn't answer.
"Who lives here?" he asked again, waving the gun in her direction.
This time there was an answer. But it came from the doorway that led to a bathroom off the second room of the suite.
"It's my room," the voice said. "I live here."
The speaker stepped out into view. Justin realized she had been hiding in the bathroom.
He also realized that she was a little girl, perhaps eight years old.
"Who are you?" the girl asked.
"My name's Jay," he said. "Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you." She was staring at him with a sense of wonder. He couldn't help but feel as if he were an alien whose spaceship had just crashed on a strange planet.
"It's okay," the girl said now to someone Justin couldn't see, and her voice was soothing and strangely adult, as if she was used to explaining things to people. "I think it's safe to come out now."
He heard another movement and then, from the bathroom, another woman timidly stepped out. She was also in a white uniform, also middle-aged with graying hair.
"Are you a new doctor?" the little girl asked Justin.
"No," he said. "I'm not a doctor. Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?"
"Don't talk to him," the first woman in white snapped at the girl. "Don't say nothing."
Justin waved the gun in her direction. He didn't have to explain to her what he meant. The woman stopped talking immediately.
"That's a gun," the little girl said and there was the sound of genuine astonishment in her voice. There was no fear. Just the opposite. Almost a feeling of joy at seeing something new and amazing. "Why do you have a gun?"
"Because people are trying to hurt me." Slowly, he stuck the gun back into his belt. "I've put it away now. I'm not going to use it anymore, okay?" To the women in the uniforms he added, "Unless I have to."
"Why are you here?" the girl asked. "To find someone."
"Me?"
"No," Justin said. He did his best to smile. "Not you."
"I thought everyone was looking for me," she said.
He started to say, No, don't worry, no one's looking for an eight-year-old girl, but before any words came out, his eyes narrowed and they gazed around the bedroom. The little girl's room. He saw the books on the table nearest to him. Manifesto of Surrealism by Andre Breton. Proust- Swann's Way. Next to her bed were copies of Madame Bovary and To the Lighthouse. And A History of Mathematics in America. The Structure of Evolutionary Theory and the Power of Myth. He turned back to the little girl, who now took her first step out of the doorway. She moved closer to him. Her movements were wary and tentative, as if directed toward an uncaged lion in the center of a circus ring. She was thin, he saw, with no hint of baby fat. Strongly muscled for someone so young. Her hair was dark and perfectly straight and hung down to her shoulders. Her skin was perfectly white and smooth, her eyes were strikingly blue and clear. She was wearing a light blue dress, a shift with thin straps over bare shoulders. The dress ended several inches above her knees. She wore no shoes or socks. It was all perfectly appropriate for her age, but Justin suddenly shivered. He stared into her eyes now, and in addition to her extraordinary beauty he saw something disquieting and disturbing. He saw a sadness there that belied her youth and a hunger that was frightening.