Circle of Bones - Kling Christine (полная версия книги txt) 📗
There were twelve of them and they called themselves the Patriarchs. In fact, in Bonesman terms, they all became patriarchs upon graduation, including Diggory. This group, however, did not include every Bonesman. They were a highly selective inner circle of the most prominent and powerful men in the country, and at the pub where they met, there was a circular table with twelve chairs. Dig was determined to get a seat at that table. In ordinary circumstances, if anything could ever be considered ordinary for men like these, they would never include a son of a waitress among their ranks. Every man at the table could trace a bloodline to one of the most wealthy and powerful families in the country: Whitney, Harriman, Vanderbilt, Bush, Kellogg, Goodyear. But Dig did not intend to give them any choice.
He signaled the driver to pull over when they were a quarter mile short of the pub. He gave the man specific instructions and dismissed him, then climbed out of the car and shivered. The freezing night air penetrated the light jacket and khakis he had put on that morning aboard the barbarians’ boat. After dropping off Riley, there had been no time to swing by his apartment to change into warmer clothes — not if he expected to get there before them. And if he wanted to hear what they were planning, that was what he had to do.
The last time he’d traveled this way was in summer and the trees had been in full leaf. The country houses set back from the road had not been visible. Now the ground shone white in the moonlight and the houses looked cheapened by their nudity. He took long strides along the shoulder of the two-lane road, his breath puffing white, his shoulders hunched up against the cold. When he reached the small intersection and came upon the now empty strip mall, he recognized the old brick building. The night of his last visit came back to him.
He’d been sent to pick up the old man at the Capital Yacht Club down on the Potomac in the wee hours of the morning. Yorick and a pair of congressmen had been out sailing on the river all afternoon on a racing sloop that belonged to the president of a company that manufactured body armor. They had been enjoying the owner’s hospitality at the dock half the night.
Dig remembered the smell of alcohol on Yorick’s breath, the rosy glow of the man’s cheeks, the cell phone call that led him to say that they weren’t going home after all. Dig would never forget a word of it, including the conversation Yorick started from the backseat where he always sat.
“I knew your father, you know.”
Dig glanced up at the rear view mirror and saw the white-haired patrician watching him with his one good eye. “Yes sir,” he said. “You’ve mentioned that before.”
“I met him in school at Choate. We weren’t the same year, mind you. He was older, but I knew him by reputation. Everyone did. Good-looking fellow. He claimed to have set the record for the senior with the most notches on his bedpost. Produced the most bastards, too. He liked to go slumming. I suppose you’ve got quite a number of brothers and sisters swilling beer in Connecticut’s trailer parks.”
Diggory had said nothing, but he opened his right hand and one by one closed the fingers and squeezed.
The restaurant was on the ground floor of an older brick building that stood alone at the corner of a large asphalt parking lot. Dig remembered how they had driven around behind the building to a delivery access door. He cut through the parking lot alongside a hardware store, a chiropractor’s office, and a Chinese take-out, then kept to the shadows as he approached the back of the brick building. He checked the few parked cars, watched the roof line, and checked his watch: 2:10. The last time they hadn’t met until four, however, that didn’t mean there was no security at this hour.
After watching the building for twenty minutes, he decided it was safe to take the next step. He followed the power and communications lines that hung low where they crossed the street. An outside staircase offered him access to the second floor offices as well as the junction box. Twenty minutes after he had cut the phone lines, he left the hiding place in the trees where he had been waiting across the street. Cutting the wires had not triggered any silent alarms; no security had arrived.
The upstairs office windows opened onto the bleached wood gallery that surrounded the second floor. He extracted a pair of thin plastic gloves from his wallet, then, without making a sound, he began to move from window to window, checking them to see if any were unlatched. Wasn’t it always the way, he thought, when the last window he tried slid upward an eighth of an inch — enough to slide a credit card under it and turn the old fashioned latch. He pulled the window up and the warm air spilled out from inside.
The last door he had passed outside bore the name of an accounting firm, so he was surprised when he found himself inside what appeared to be a linen room. Shelves lined the walls covered with folded white napkins, tablecloths, chefs’ aprons, and kitchen towels. An antiquated time clock was affixed to one wall along with a large metal rack filled with cards and a cork bulletin board. The cigarette-burned table with several chairs round it took up most of the center of the room.
Dig had been hoping merely to get into one of the building’s offices. He hadn’t realized that the restaurant had any facilities on the second floor, but here he was in the staff break room. After closing and latching the window behind him, he crossed the room and peered out the door. The hallway was lit by a red glow that flowed up the stairs from the restaurant below. To his left, two doors led to what looked like bathrooms, though it was too dark to see if the doors were marked. On his right and across the hall, the third door opposite the top of the stairs, sported a plaque he could read in the dim red light: Office.
Dig stood listening. He heard the muffled whoosh as the fan started up in the building’s heating system, but nothing more. He stepped into the hall. The wood floor creaked as he crossed to the office and he winced. He was, he figured, directly over the kitchen. Better not be anyone down there preparing food for the upcoming day. He tried the office door. The doorknob barely budged and he cursed under his breath. He hadn’t brought any tools.
Then, through the door, he heard the noise of a car pulling up outside the back of the restaurant. The office must have windows overlooking the rear of the building, he thought. He glanced down the staircase into the pub. From that vantage point, he could see most of the interior of the restaurant – the gleaming mahogany bar with leather capped stools and the round table with twelve chairs.
He had to get inside the office. It would make a perfect vantage point for watching and listening. He jiggled the knob again. Then the heating system fan shut down, and the restaurant interior grew so quiet, Dig could hear his own breathing.
From outside, he heard men’s voices and the thunks of car doors slamming. The noise of a second and third car’s engines carried through the door.
Dig dashed across the hall back into the staff break room. He glanced at the window, and for a brief moment, he considered leaving the way he had come. The Patriarchs would not be pleased if they found him there.
No. Luck was on his side. He was sure of it. He started round the room, searching the shelves, patting down the linens, feeling under the table, examining the time clock. There had to be something there he could use. He moved to the bulletin board and grabbed one of the push pins. No, too short; it would never work. He let the pin fall to the floor when he heard the sound of a door opening below him, and he felt the air pressure in the building change. They were coming inside.
Then he saw it. One of the time cards had a folded sheet of paper affixed to it with a paper clip. He yanked the card out of its slot. The torn card and note fluttered to the ground, as he stepped into the hall.
