Chapter 7

The Primis—Ignazio, Cristiano and Eusebio—were Italian nationals and brothers, according to Sam DeLisle, Murphy's researcher and analyst. Current residence: unknown. Current occupation: unknown. Birthplace: Fontanigorda in the province of Genova, Liguria.

With the telephone's handset cradled between her cheek and shoulder, Laura jotted the information down in her neat, rapid script. "Give me their father's name again, Murph," she said. "And their mother's maiden name…? Got it. We'll let you know if it pans out…Thanks…I will...You, too."

"Well?" Remington asked as she hung up and joined him on the sofa in the guest house's sitting room. "Any connection between the Primis and Malatesa?"

"Beyond the fact they were raised in a Ligurian town and their parents still live there? Nothing. No family ties on their father's side. Their mother's maiden name is Giardina." She sighed. "Another dead end. I guess it's one of those days."

She sounded deflated, Remington thought, if not downright dejected. Fleetingly her tone revived memories of Twin Pines after their world had first fallen apart. She could hardly be blamed for feeling less than optimistic just now, though. Not when they'd spent the last seven hours in the castle library, combing shelf by shelf through the collection for George Beverley's name plate. With a quarter of the stacks still to search, they'd found near on two hundred books so marked. None of them remotely resembled a private journal in which the eighth Earl of Claridge might've recorded details of a 1931 expedition to Egypt.

And to think the morning had started so auspiciously! He, Remington, had arranged a final surprise to cap their impromptu anniversary celebration: breakfast in bed complete with strawberries at the peak of ripeness. Imported, and they'd cost the earth, but he'd comforted himself with the rationalizations that one's first anniversary only happened once, and his wife was worth every penny and more besides. What a fine time they'd had, feeding each other the fruit, using its juice in creative ways to stir passion to fever pitch. He'd emerged from her embrace a thoroughly sated and satisfied man.

She'd satisfied another of his passions, too. At four a.m. he'd awakened with such a powerful urge to capture her likeness in this worthiest of settings, he'd immediately jumped out of bed, thrown his jeans on and run the entire distance to the guest house to retrieve his sketchbook. After their bath she'd posed for half an hour, until restlessness overcame her, too obvious to be ignored. Their hiatus from real life had gone on long enough for her. She was champing at the bit to return to the case. A trifle disappointed but unsurprised, he'd laid the drawing aside to be finished at a more opportune time.

Now he did his best to rally her. "It was long odds from the start, eh? The idea that George would've stored private records out in the relative open, where anyone might've stumbled across them? And don't forget, we've yet to tackle the private study. He spent a good deal of time in it whenever he visited, according to Mikeline."

"Mikeline also said it's been off limits to the staff since James Beverley's death by order of Roderick Smithers, and he's not sure why, and anyone caught disturbing it is liable to be prosecuted."

"When has that ever stopped us before? As soon as all's quiet at the hotel tonight, we'll make our move."

And they did, at close to one in the morning. Slipping from their hiding place in the most shadowy corner of the library, they stole along the silent corridor that led to the east wing. This was a part of the castle with which they were less familiar, so they'd allotted extra time to locate the room that once served as James Beverley's personal sanctuary, and his father's before him. The upside was, it was tucked away on the third floor, some distance from the nearest guest rooms.

As always, the stout lock was no match for Remington's dexterity with the pick. Paneled in dark wood, its windows swathed in heavy, floor-length crimson damask, the study was stuffy and lightless as a cave. It seemed safe to turn on a couple of lamps, one on the ponderous mahogany desk, the second on a table between the windows. They illuminated bookcases ranged along three walls, a tall secretary, and a couple of low, glass-fronted cabinets. All were crammed full of written material of one kind or another.

Much of which resembled what he and Laura had found in Sotherton Manor's muniment room, Remington thought as they got to work. During this search, however, he managed to keep awake. Two hours in his concentration paid off in the first major discovery of the night. Extracting a file from a drawer in the secretary, he exclaimed, "Laura, have a look at this."

She crossed from the desk to peer around him. "What is it?"

"Contracts, invoices and work orders for the construction of an additional room here, at the castle. No blueprints, though. Damn."

"What do you think it means?"

"Nothing, unless you take the furnishings into account. Over a score of custom-built display cases, specially constructed to protect against damp and cold." He passed several sheets to her. "Notice the signature? And the date?"

Quickly she leafed through the papers. "Sotherton. The courtesy title designated to the heir to the earldom. Maxwell Beverley said his cousin James was a stickler for using it. These were signed in 'fifty-one, so it has to be him." She glanced up. "A treasure room, Mr. Steele? That's what it sounds like to me."

"Why go to the expense otherwise?"

"But in doesn't necessarily follow it was built to hold Egyptian art. Old George was quite the world traveler. He could've wanted to show off any number of collections. Dinosaur bones. Souvenirs from the Orient."

"Except none of the rooms we've seen answers that description. And I believe we thoroughly explored the public rooms while we were here on honeymoon."

"You're right. A secret room, then. And James Beverley was in on the secret."

"Appears that way, doesn't it?"

Laura nodded, but rather absently, and began to pace. "1951," she said. "Twenty years after that expedition, the one Claudio Malatesta was part of. The timing could be a clue."

"Putative expedition. There's no proof it went any farther than the planning stage."

"It did. I'm convinced of it. If only…There has to be something, somewhere…"

An idea was brewing in that lovely head of hers; Remington recognized it from experience. That was why he kept quiet while she strode back and forth in the little open space there was. It didn't do to derail her train of thought at this juncture, not when it might produce the brilliant deduction that would tie the loose ends together in a twinkling.

"George was a dedicated scholar, and detail-oriented to a fault," she was saying. "He kept everything: research notes, letters from colleagues, first and second drafts of his papers. Remember those files at Sotherton Manor?"

Truth be told, a sleep-fogged blur had effectively blotted out Remington's memory of the contents of said files. But he knew what was expected of him, and nodded an affirmative.

"Translations…classics…" Laura's voice had sunk to a low mutter. Suddenly she stopped short, swinging to face him with a sparkle of triumph and a puzzling non sequitur. "The Rich are Different."

"On the whole I'd have to say I agree, but do you really think that sort of value judgment is helpful to the case?"

"Susan Howatch, published by Ballantine Books, 1977. A Wall Street millionaire who's a closet classics scholar hides copies of his correspondence with his mistress in the works of his favorite poet. Was it Ovid? No, Catullus…"

She darted past him towards the bookshelves. He followed. "It's become a habit with you, you realize, drawing inspiration for our work from fiction. 'Four Ghosts in Shakespeare'? The Buccaneers? Where's it going to end?"

"Are you implying that books are a less legitimate resource for solving crimes than movies? Or jealous I'm stealing your thunder?" From the top rung of the stepladder that allowed access to the upper shelves, she challenged him with raised eyebrows.

"Don't be absurd, Laura. It's just that film annotations are so—so-"

"So much more up your alley than mine? Here." She began to heave a series of heavy volumes into his outstretched arms: The Literature of the Ancient Egyptians. Ancient Records of Egypt, Volume I: The First to the Seventeenth Dynasties. Ancient Records of Egypt, Volume II: the Eighteenth Dynasty. Ancient Egyptian Literature Volume II: The New Kingdom. Ancient Egyptian Literature Volume III: The Late Period. Each made a solid thump as it landed on the top of the stack he was holding.

"So much more stylish," he said, finishing his thought. "Original. They lend a detective a certain je ne sais quoi."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Steele. I think that's everything that pertains to Egypt. Put them on the desk."

Having done what she asked, he turned back to her and offered his hand; she put hers into it and jumped lightly to the ground. Together they bent their heads over what on the surface resembled the prized possessions of a man of letters, handsome books with tooled leather bindings and titles done in gilt.

They had only to work their way to the middle of the pile to discover that Laura's flight of fancy was on target. The three volumes that comprised the Ancient Records of Egypt were actually receptacles for documents. So cleverly did they camouflage their purpose, whoever had commissioned them hadn't bothered to include locks in the design.

Concealed in Volume I was a paper trail that confirmed what the Steeles had already partially surmised. George Beverley was an organizer and major subsidizer of an Egyptian expedition that had departed Bristol in February of 1931 by privately owned steamer. So was Claudio Malatesta. The group had sought and received the imprimatur of the British and Egyptian governments.

And that was where the sordid taint of criminality began to manifest itself, at least for a man who knew how to read between the lines.

Remington did. He also knew what to look for. After all, he had years of experience behind him; smuggling had once been as much his métier and milieu as art theft. When he found the proof he wanted, he lined it up side by side. "My, my, my. What have we here." It wasn't a question.

"Something interesting?" asked Laura.

"Something incriminating." He beckoned her closer. "This is the ship's manifest, the one prepared for official inspection prior to departure from Egypt. "This"—he gestured towards the papers on the right—"is the real list of the cargo The Bombay Queen was carrying."

"It's a lot shorter."

"Compare them item by item, and you'll understand why."

There was no need for him to fill in the blanks for her. After rapidly skimming the manifests, real and faked, she glanced up at him with eyes alight. "So they were tomb raiders," she breathed.

"Extraordinarily successful ones, by the look of things. It's not everybody who can spirit a solid-gold ritual bed, complete with headrest, as well as an entire throne, out of the Sahara."

"Blatant theft, all right. But how did they sneak it past the authorities?"

"Any number of ways. Bribery is the likeliest. It's virtually a way of life in that part of the world."

"So they plundered a foreign country's heritage, greased an official palm or two, and got away with it scot-free." She paused. The faraway look was back in her eyes, Remington saw, displacing the spark of a moment ago. "Or did they?"

"Did they what?"

"Get away with it. We know they brought contraband back to England, Mr. Steele. But who exactly made the return trip?"

He couldn't have claimed he could intuit what she was thinking. She had, as so often happened, outstripped him with regard to her skill in weaving logical connections between a handful of disparate clues. But he could happily take direction from her, and apply himself to the task of finding a confirmed roster of the passengers The Bombay Queen had carried from Port Said to Bristol in March of 'thirty-two.

In the meantime she was tackling the papers housed in Volume III. Well before she spoke, her abrupt indrawn breath alerted him that she'd made a significant discovery. "It's a draft of a letter James Beverley wrote to the Egyptian Ministry of Culture," she said. "As far as I can tell, it was never sent."

Remington proceeded to read it—and had to suppress his own astonishment. For James Beverley's reason for contacting the ministry was to confess guilty knowledge of stolen antiquities, which he offered to restore to their rightful owner, i.e. the Egyptian government. The draft was dated March of the previous year.

But that wasn't all. "Brace yourself," Laura warned him, and handed over another letter.

Dear Mr. Steele:was its opening line. He met Laura's eyes. "What is this?"

"Just read it."

The letter continued:

I am writing to inform you of a recent change I have made to my will—a change that will affect you directly, as you shall see in a moment. I should as well like to secure your services for an indeterminate date in the future.

Rest assured that this is not an attempt to be cryptic or mysterious. I cannot tell you the date because I do not know it myself, not yet. It will be the moment of my death.

There is a sensitive matter that I trust no one but you to handle, the exact nature of which I cannot—will not—divulge at this time. That it involves family is as much as I will say. Above all my concern is for my dear wife, Catherine, and any children she may bear me. During my lifetime I will do all I can to see that this does not touch them. I hope that you, Mr. Steele, will protect them when I have, as they say, "'passed on"'.

Perhaps it will come as a surprise that I should entrust an affair of such extreme delicacy to a young man in whose company I have spent scarcely a quarter of an hour. To that I can only reply, I flatter myself that I am an excellent judge of character. Your prompt relinquishment of any claim to the identity of my poor son as soon as it became clear you could not be him impressed me enormously, as did the skill with which you found me in the first place. My admiration extends to your wife, whose good sense, courage and discretion were of immeasurable help in the unpleasantness surrounding my brother-in-law a year ago. You have my permission to relate the whole of this letter to her. I can think of no two people so deserving of my confidence than you and she.

Now, as to my will. I shall render payment for your services in the form of Ashford Castle, a property in Ireland that has been in my family for over two hundred years. Sadly, we've never valued it as we should have done. I believe it a fitting recompense for an Irishman who seems through his talent and ability to have made something extraordinary of himself, despite growing up fatherless. And who knows? Perhaps it will lead you to your father.

Further details will be forthcoming through my solicitor who, needless to say, is not privy to the secret. Until then, Mr. Steele, I remain,

Your obed't servant, etc.,

James Beverley, Earl of Claridge, Viscount Sotherton, Lord Finross

Praise for his good deeds hadn't become so routine that Remington could absorb it blithely and then move on. Especially when it was from a toff like the Earl, someone he'd have robbed in the old days if given half a chance. He sat quiet, collecting his wits. Though he never glanced in Laura's direction, he felt her eyes resting on him, loving, supportive.

Finally he raised his head. "I don't understand."

"I don't either. But it does answer a lot of questions, the important ones. How much he knew about his father. Why he left you the castle."

"Yes, of course it does, but that's not what I meant." He motioned towards the letter. "We should've heard all this a year ago. Why didn't we? Eh? It certainly would've made life a little easier."

"I think I know. Roselli got to him before he could finalize his plans. The letter's dated a few weeks before he died. It really is-" There she broke off, flushing pink.

"What?"

"I was thinking, it's really a request from beyond the grave." Compulsively she shivered and then sent him an apologetic smile. "Sorry. It spooks me."

"No…no. You've described it perfectly. It is a summons from the grave—an irresistible call, as it were. Strange, I've been so obsessed with Roselli, I'd almost forgotten."

"That the Earl is dead?"

"That I owe him a little something." He paused to gaze at her fondly, his moral center, his good angel. "I even forgot the reminder you gave me not so long ago. But you didn't. Did you?"

"You give me too much credit, Mr. Steele. I can be selfish, too. And more focused on what's happening to you…to us…than on other people."

"It'd be an enormous undertaking, Laura, provided we survive Roselli. That is, if we've assumed correctly what it is the Earl meant us to do."

"Restore the treasure to its rightful owners. Make restitution somehow."

He nodded. "Shall we do it, my love? For his sake?"

"And Catherine's."

"And Catherine's."

Soberly they gazed at each other. That this was bigger than they'd expected was a given, but it was also an opportunity to help two people whose life together had been brutally ripped apart. And wasn't that what he and Laura were in it for? Remington asked himself. To light a single candle whenever possible? The triumph of good over evil?

She wanted to do it. He could see it her eyes. So he held out his hand to her as he had earlier; once again she laid hers in it, and laced her fingers with his.

"Yes?" he said softly.

"Yes."

It was Laura's idea that they go their separate ways, the better to speed up the investigation.

She put it to Remington over a late breakfast in the guest house that morning—and in terms not altogether flattering to him. "Legwork, Mr. Steele. Need I remind you it's not one of your favorite activities? And that's what checking the newspaper database at the National Library of Ireland for references to Claudio Malatesta will be. Legwork."

Considering that, he rubbed his hand along his jaw. Scratchy with stubble, it was; he hadn't yet bothered to shave. He was also in a touchy mood. Short sleep always did that to him, rendered him easily annoyed and petulant. Not to mention rather resentful that he could detect no corresponding ill effects in his wife, who was as bright-eyed and energetic as ever.

Those were the reasons why the criticism stung him more than it should have, temporarily overshadowing the real issue. "I'm perfectly capable of handling legwork, Mrs. Steele. It's just you're unwilling to give me the benefit of the doubt."

His surliness hadn't dented her good mood in the least. "You hate it and you know it."

"Nevertheless." He took a gingerly sip of his tea and pulled a face. "This is horrid, by the way. Remind me one of these days to show you how it's done, brewing a proper cup."

She didn't take up that gauntlet, either. "Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed today," she observed, helping herself to a muffin.

"Ah, wonderful. I suppose that's a prelude to a lecture on my bad attitude?"

"Just making conversation."

She ate in silence, but with evident enjoyment; he watched her morosely for a moment or two. "How do you propose I occupy myself, if I'm to be left behind?"

"You could start by hunting for the secret room."

"What, in broad daylight?"

"Why not?"

"The hotel's not exactly empty. I may be seen."

"So?"

"So don't you think it'll look rather odd, if not downright suspicious?"

"Who cares? You own this joint, Mr. Steele. If you decided to take a stroll through the halls naked, that's your prerogative."

On another day the image, and the fact that she was the one who'd conjured it up, probably would've tickled his funny bone. Now he scowled at her. "Always on the lookout for ways to undermine my dignity, eh, Laura?"

Over the rim of her cup she rolled her eyes at him, but said nothing.

After she'd gone off to take her bath, though: that was when he began to ask himself the serious questions. The National Library was in Dublin, on Kildare Street, if he recalled. Did she actually intend on undertaking the journey alone, without him to watch over her? Was it too late to persuade her from it?

If he offered an objection, would she even give him a hearing?

That was the nub of the matter. Today was the first time since Roselli had ransacked their hotel room in Boston, and she'd divined his and Murphy's plan to erase their nemesis from the picture without her knowledge, that this particular dilemma had reared its head. Laura still held the upper hand, as well as the high moral ground. He'd acted on his overwhelming desire to protect her; it had backfired spectacularly. How could he press the point, gain the advantage, without igniting the old quarrel?

He couldn't. He had to face it. Come hell or high water, Laura would do what she was determined to do. Woe to the husband who attempted to stop her.

Worry was an excellent cure for a bad mood. By the time Laura appeared, dressed and ready to leave, his snappishness had dissipated. On the contrary, it was with almost a sense of shame that he trailed her about as she donned her jacket and picked up her handbag. "I don't like you going off to Dublin by yourself, you know," was the sole protest he lodged.

"I'll be fine."

How often had he heard that from her? Indeed, it was almost her mantra. He could've parroted it word for word and saved her the trouble.

Instead he handed her the agency gun. "Here."

She accepted it without comment. "I'll be back as soon as I can. And I'll call if I find anything." No doubt the squeeze and pat she gave his rear was meant to substitute for a good-bye kiss. "Happy hunting, Mr. Steele," she added, and was out the door, headed for the garage to pick up one of The Ashford's estate cars.

It was stupid to stew over it, he decided immediately; it would only increase his frustration and wouldn't solve a thing. Besides, he was basically a man of action, at his best when his skills were engaged in some contest. In that respect seeking the elusive secret room—a room that might not even exist- was as good an occupation as any.

The first step was a thorough exploration of the castle's exterior. Here his excellent eye for proportion and photographic memory served him well. At the end of his circuit of the entire perimeter, he could visualize the exact position of every room he knew, including the placement of windows and doors. Now it was a question of pinpointing the discrepancy in dimensions between the outside and the inside.

That took a little longer, and drew the attention of guests and employees, just as he'd predicted to Laura. To cover he dispensed a smile and wave and a cheery "good day" to whomever crossed his path. Playing the lord of the manor, he was. It was rather amusing, and an effective means for lulling a truly suspicious mind into complacency.

He found what he was looking for on the second floor of the west wing: a corridor that ended in a blank wall. It was a lapse in symmetry with the first and third floors, which terminated, he realized, in windows. Sure enough, a knock on the wall yielded a hollow sound. By his calculations a good ten feet stretched between here and the outer wall.

But running his hands over every inch of plaster failed to reveal a way in, no hidden door, no sliding panel. Baffled, he stared at the ceiling without seeing it. And then he murmured: "Of course!"

Five minutes later, he was directly overhead in His Lordship's private study, displacing furniture and rolling back rugs. The trap door was let so cleverly into the floorboards that only an expert could've spotted it. It wasn't very difficult to lift, either, after he studied it long enough to comprehend the mechanism. He propped the wooden square against the desk and shined his torch into the hole.

A sturdy ladder extended downward seven or eight feet. It looked safe enough to him. He wouldn't have resisted the temptation in any case. Removing his shoes—it didn't do for someone to overhear him tramping around down there-he made the descent.

His first impression was that the air was surprisingly dry, probably the result of a ventilation system. Advancing a few steps from the ladder, he stopped and directed the beam of his torch along the walls.

The light glinted on the glass of twenty-odd showcases. And from inside them, the soft luster of alabaster, the gleam of gold, the glitter of colorful gems. There were bracelets and anklets, scarabs and amulets, pendants, collars and pectorals. Shrines, chests, daggers, statuettes, fans, lamps, vases, jars, walking sticks, caskets and chests, more than he could count. He stood open-mouthed, awed, dazzled.

It was the Egyptian treasure.

He had to conceal his elation and excitement over the discovery he'd made. And he had to get to Laura. Those were the only goals worth a damn to Remington as he crossed The Ashford's lobby en route to the guest house.

It seemed he was destined to defeat on both counts when Mikeline blocked his path.

Or perhaps not. For in his breathless eagerness to please, Mikeline was the bearer of good news. "Your Ladyship on the phone for you, Your Lordship. Urgent, she said it was. I'm to find you however long it takes."

"And so you have, Mikeline, so you have. Lead me to her, there's a good man."

Nothing could've rated urgency on Laura's part except a breakthrough on Claudio Maltesta: that was what Remington thought, picking up the phone. He was completely taken aback to hear her say, "Remington, Roselli's here, in Dublin. I've tracked him-"

"What?"

"Roselli. I tracked him to the Port of Dublin, and I've been sitting outside this warehouse for the past hour in case he comes back, but he hasn't. It's our chance to check it out."

Remington shook his head, trying to clear it. Events had sped up without warning; he felt as if he couldn't keep up. "Wait, wait a minute. You saw Roselli? Where?"

"On the street near the library-"

"Did he see you?"

"No. Remington, listen, you have to get down here, now. There's no time to lose-"

He grabbed the nearest pencil and paper while she dictated the address. "Port Tolka Quay Road, the last warehouse on the left hand side, just before Terminal 2. And Remington? Hurry."

"On my way." At the last minute he couldn't help adding what he knew he shouldn't: "And don't do anything reckless in the meantime, will you?"

"I'm not the reckless half of this team, remember?" she said crisply, and rang off.

It wasn't until he was well on the road to Dublin that it occurred to him that he hadn't told Laura about the treasure.

Well, never mind that; he'd plenty of time. Meanwhile the journey that normally took half an hour, tops, was prolonged by an additional twenty minutes, thanks to the ancient Fiesta that lurched out in front of him just outside Glen Creagh and proceeded at a sedate pace for the next fifteen kilometers. Circumstances made it impossible to pass on the two-lane track. Resisting the urge to lay on the horn, but only barely, Remington drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and cursed softly through his teeth.

He'd known the Port of Dublin fairly well, back in the day. It was little changed, crowded, bustling, with warehouses, offices, the harbormaster's quarters and terminals crammed cheek by jowl along the quays. To be safe, he left the estate car he'd commandeered in his turn one street over on Alexandra Road and walked to the warehouse. He scrutinized the environs from a discreet vantage point for signs of Roselli before approaching Laura's car.

From the looks of things the delay in his arrival was just as detrimental to Laura's patience as it was to his. "Nice of you to join me," she commented as he slipped into the passenger side. "I was just about to go ahead without you."

She was being uncharacteristically snide. He didn't care for it at all. "Without me?" he echoed. Drawing the Colt from his jacket pocket, he began to inspect the clip.

"Well, what do you expect? For me to wait around for you all day?"

"Actually, Laura? That's precisely what I do expect. You're the one who's drilled it into me over and over, ad nauseam. 'We're a team'. 'You don't go into dangerous situations without me'. Unless, of course, we're operating by that bloody double standard again, do what I say, never what I do, because God forbid anyone should second guess-"

She cut him off. "I'm going to repeat it once more, Remington, and that's it. I mean it. I…can…take…care…of…myself."

The last sentence was enunciated with maddening, exaggerated slowness. As a fresh assault on his temper, it was too much. Aggrieved, insulted, he abandoned the day-long battle he'd waged to bridle his tongue. At last he was going to speak his piece, and, by God, she was going to take notice.

"Splendid," he said. "Go ahead. Have at it."

That stopped her in her tracks. Expressionless, he locked the Colt's safety and returned it to his jacket pocket. Then he crossed his arms and sat unmoving, arms folded, eyes front.

It was clear he'd stymied her. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Taking you at your word."

"You mean-"

"That's right, Mrs. Steele. Here's where your wish is granted at last. From now on, it's—what's the expression? Hands off? It's completely hands off when it comes to looking out for you. As far as I'm concerned, you're on your own."

There was a brief interlude during which neither of them said anything. Then she opened the door on her side and climbed out, only to hesitate again. "Aren't you coming?"

"I believe you already know the answer to that."

To her credit she didn't waste another second, but slammed the door and headed towards the warehouse with her usual confident stride. Watching her surreptitiously, he had to admit that it did surround her, the aura of a woman who could take care of herself. It was visible in every move she made. It was there in the way she reached for and handled her gun, flicking the safety off, poising her forefinger around the trigger. It was there, too, in the way she paused as she eased the entrance open, sweeping the area with a keen gaze. With a final glance over her shoulder at him, she stepped inside the warehouse, and was swallowed up.

He would commit that backward glance to memory more fervently than either of them could've dreamed.

Truly his plan was to sit tight until she walked back out of that door. After that, who knew? But he hadn't accounted for the self-reproach that smote him as soon as she disappeared from view. He fumbled for the door handle. Of course he couldn't let her go in there alone! What the devil was he thinking? So fast did he tumble from the car, he tripped over his own long legs and went sprawling. Up in an instant, he sprinted for the warehouse.

When he fell the second time, he wasn't sure what had caused it. The ground trembling beneath his feet, the concussive roar of ten thousand thunderclaps multiplied by ten, the blood-red-and-orange fireball shooting towards the sky, the acrid stench of smoke: those had to register with him first.

It was the sight of the inferno raging where the warehouse once stood that set him to screaming Laura's name.

Any hope of coherence deserted him at that point. A crowd of onlookers gathered quickly, he was aware of that much. At the same time he was charging the warehouse—he had to get to Laura! He had to save her!-but a dark-haired figure that incredibly turned out to be David Flannery in a boiler suit leapt on him from out of nowhere to pinion his arms and hold him back. "You can't, Mr. Steele!" Flannery was shouting. "It's too dangerous! You can't go in there!"

Swung around and knocked the daylights out of him, Remington would have, if Flannery and another man weren't gripping his arms. He fought and raved like a lunatic against those restraints for what felt like hours. The two men didn't let him go.

And then physical exhaustion took over, numbing him as efficiently as a sedative. Dazed by a nameless emotion deeper than horror, struck dumb by abject disbelief—how could this be happening?—he watched from a distance, through clouds of roiling smoke, as the engines of the Dublin Fire Brigade raced towards the scene and screeched to a halt. Men poured off the sides and out of the doors, uncoiling hoses, unleashing powerful jets of water, combating the fire with an unflappable professionalism that was equal parts comfort and affront.

Remington watched and waited, still unbelieving.

The warehouse roof stove inward and collapsed in a shower of deadly sparks.

Two walls shivered, slowly, noisily disintegrated, and sank into ashes.

The fire brigade toiled four hours, five, six, to quench the last of the flames, and began the painstaking task of shifting the still-smoking debris.

Laura never came through the door.

TO BE CONTINUED