“Are you Derek Harrington?”
“Yes. Why?”
The man started for the steps, weary desperation on his face. “I just need to talk to you. Please. It’s about my son and your game.”
“If you’re upset your son’s playing Behind Enemy Lines, that’s out of my hands.”
“No, you don’t understand. My son isn’t playing your game. I think my son is in your game.” He pulled a wallet-sized photo from his pocket. “My name is Lloyd Webber. I’m from Richmond, Virginia. My son Zachary ran away a little more than a year ago. His note said he was going to New York. We never heard from him again.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Webber, but I don’t understand what that has to do with me.”
“Your game has a scene where a young German soldier gets shot in the head. That boy looks exactly like my Zachary. I thought he’d modeled for your artists, so I looked up your company. Please. If you have a record of the models you’ve used, please see if he was one of them. Maybe he’s right here, in New York.”
“We don’t employ models, Mr. Webber. I’m sorry.” Derek started to move away, but Webber sidestepped him, blocking his path.
“Just look at his picture. Please. I tried to call you but you wouldn’t accept my calls. So I got up this morning and bought a plane ticket. Please.” He held out the photo and with a sigh for the man’s pain, Derek took it.
And felt every breath of air seep from his lungs. It was the same boy. The exact same face. “He’s… he’s a handsome boy, Mr. Webber.” He looked up to find Webber’s eyes filled with tears.
“Are you sure you haven’t had him in your studio?” he whispered.
Derek felt light-headed. He’d known from the minute he’d laid eyes on Frasier Lewis’s work that it possessed an element of realism that crossed the lines of decency, but the thoughts that were running through his mind right now… “Can I take your son’s photo, Mr. Webber? I can show it around to the staff. We don’t employ models, but maybe one of them saw him somewhere. In a restaurant or maybe on a bus. We get our ideas for characters from so many places.”
“Please. Keep the picture-it’s a copy and I can get you more. Show it to anyone you think can help.” He extended a business card in a trembling hand and, his own hand shaking, Derek took it. “My cell phone number is on there. Please call me at any time, day or night. I’ll stay in town for a few days, just until you know one way or the other.”
Derek stared down at the photo and the business card. Frasier Lewis was still here, inside, talking to Jager. He could ask him point-blank. But he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. Be a man, Derek. Take a goddamn stand for something.
He looked up and nodded. “I’ll call you one way or the other. I promise.”
Gratitude and hope shone in Webber’s eyes. “Thank you.”
Tuesday, January 16, 12:05
P.M.
His simmering fury came to a full boil when he saw Derek Harrington waiting for him by the building exit. His fist clenched around the handle of his laptop case. He’d much rather his fist be engaged in more satisfying pursuits, such as breaking Harrington’s face. But there was a time and place. Not here, not yet. Without a word of greeting or acknowledgment of any kind, he walked past Harrington and out the door.
“Lewis, wait.” Harrington followed him out. “I need to talk to you.”
“I’m late,” he gritted out and started down the steps to the street. “Later.”
“No, now.” Harrington grabbed his shoulder and he teetered dangerously, nearly losing his balance and falling down the steps. He caught himself, leaning against the iron handrail. Fury erupted and he shoved Harrington’s hand out of the way.
“Get your hands off me,” he said, his roar barely contained.
Derek took a step back so that he was two steps higher. They now stood eye to eye. There was something new in Harrington’s eyes, something defiant.
“Or what?” Derek asked quietly. “What would you do to me, Frasier?”
Not here. Not yet. But the time would come. “I’m late. I have to go.”
He turned to go, but Derek followed, passing him on the steps so that he waited at the bottom. “What would you do to me?” he repeated, with more force. “Hit me?” He climbed one step and looked up out of the corner of his eye. “Kill me?” he murmured.
“You’re crazy.” He started down the stairs again, but Harrington grabbed his arm. This time he was prepared and stood steady, his good leg taking his weight.
“Would you kill me, Frasier?” Harrington asked in that same low voice. “Like you killed Zachary Webber?” He took a photo from his coat pocket. “The resemblance to your German soldier is amazing, wouldn’t you agree?”
He looked at the photo and kept his expression impassive, even as his heart began to beat more rapidly. For staring back from the photo was Zachary Webber’s face as it had been the day he’d picked him up off I-95 outside of Philly, hitchhiking. Zachary had been on his way to New York, to be an actor. His father had told him he was too young, that he should finish high school. Zachary had scorned his father. I’ll show him, he’d said. When I’m famous, he’ll eat every damn word.
The words had echoed in his mind that day. They had been his own, at Zachary’s age. Meeting Zachary was fate, just like Warren Keyes’s tattoo.
“I don’t see it,” he said carelessly. He got to the street and turned to look Derek in the eye once again, as the older man still stood on the steps. “You should be careful before making accusations of that nature, Harrington. It could come back to haunt you.”
Tuesday, January 16, 1:15
P.M.
Ted Albright was frowning. “You were flat today, Joan.”
Sophie glared at Ted Albright as she pulled the armored boots from her feet. “I told you to get Theo to do the knight tour. My back is killing me.” So was her head. And her pride. “I’m going to get some lunch.”
Ted grasped her arm as she walked away, his grip surprisingly gentle. “Wait.”
Slowly she turned, prepared for another argument. “What?” she snapped, but stopped when she saw the look on his face. Marta was right, Ted Albright was a very handsome man, but right now his broad shoulders were slumped and his face was haggard. “What?” she said, much more softly than she had the first time.
“Sophie, I know what you think of me.” One corner of his mouth lifted when she said nothing. “And believe it or not, I respect that you’re not denying it right now. You never actually met my grandfather. He died before you were born.”
“I read all about his archeological career.”
“But none of the books tell what he was really like. He wasn’t a dry historian.” His voice dropped low on the word. Then he smiled. “My grandfather was… fun. He died when I was a kid, but I still remember that he loved cartoons. Bugs Bunny was his favorite. He gave me pony rides on his back and he was a huge Stooges fan. He loved to laugh. He also loved the theater and so do I.” He sighed. “I’m trying to make this a place children can come and… experience, Sophie. I’m trying to make this a place my grandfather would have loved to visit.”
Sophie stood there a moment, uncertain of what to say. “Ted, I think I have a better idea of what you’re trying to do, but… hell. I am a dry historian. Asking me to dress up. It’s humiliating.”
He shook his head. “You’re not dry, Sophie. You don’t see the faces of the kids when you start to talk. They love to listen to you.” He let out a breath. “I have tours scheduled every day for weeks. We need that income. Desperately,” he added quietly. “I have everything I own invested in this building. If this museum fails, I have to sell the collection. I don’t want to do that. It’s all I have left of him. It’s his legacy.”