Getting my fingerprints on it, I thought. I input the numbers he rattled off, and the deep click of the door unlocking indicated that the combination had been correct.
“Open it,” he commanded me.
I shot him a glare. Just to fuck with him, I pretended to struggle with it. I'm just a dumb girl, I thought at him, hoping to beam it psychically into his brain. I'm so weak. Now hurry up and make a mistake, you ass. After much theatrical grunting I finally slide the door open and we stepped inside. Don turned on the overhead lights and closed the door after us.
The warehouse spread out in front of me, ugly and stark in the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. All boxed up and arranged by type, Malcolm's amalgam of junk and treasure seemed a lot smaller than it had in his house. Again I was reminded of the things someone leaves behind after they die, and a weird sadness swept through me, cutting into the low-grade hum of adrenaline in my veins.
If I died here, my worldly effects would barely fill a closet. My friends would barely fill three pews. I worked too hard, was too bitter, burned too many bridges. A lump rose in my throat.
Stupid emotions, I thought to myself. Don't need you messing things up right now, thanks.
“Where are the files?” Don's voice behind me cut through my self-pitying melancholia. I had to think fast.
“I'm... I'm not sure,” I said. “He didn't actually tell me where, exactly...”
“Oh? If you aren't going to be of help to me then I'm afraid you won't be earning those one million dollars.” The rustle of his hand drawing out of his coat, exposing his gun, sent a bolt of fear through me.
“No!” I said. “I kind of know where they are.”
He was silent for a moment. “Well?”
I turned around and looked him in the eye. I wanted to make myself as human as possible to him, but the person that peered back at me was cold and hard as a reptile. “It's... I think they're hidden in or on one of his statues.”
I was gambling here. I had no idea if he had any statues. I'd only seen the bust by the student of Rodin, but I was willing to bet he had more.
My gamble paid off. An expression of exasperation passed over Don's face. “Damn,” he said. “I don't suppose you'd know which statue in particular?”
I tried to look contrite and shook my head.
He sighed and checked his watch. “Fine,” he said. “If you do not know where they are, you must find them, and do so in the next quarter hour, or I will shoot you.”
“What?” I cried. “That's not fair! I have no idea where they are!” I gestured at the boxes around me. “How the fuck am I supposed to find them in all... all this in fifteen minutes?”
He shrugged. “The clock is ticking, Miss MacElroy. I suggest you hurry.”
Enraged, I whirled away from him, my mind racing. If I'd been hired to move a crazy rich guy's stuff, what would I do? I'd label everything for starters, and I'd organize it in the warehouse. But would the movers hired have done that? There was only one way to find out.#p#分页标题#e#
Hands sweating, heart pounding, I darted away from Don. I heard him curse behind me as he made haste to follow, and I silently swore that the warehouse wasn't as terribly cluttered as Malcolm's house had been. I could have hidden, maybe... except there was only one way out. I decided to ignore what-ifs and could-have-beens for the moment and concentrate on forming a plan.
The harsh lights overhead gave the whole warehouse a weird, surreal quality. My orientation was thrown off and I found myself bumping into things as my panicked thoughts chased each other in and out of the labyrinths in my head. I jogged on, through the mountains of boxes and furniture, clipping corners with my hip, scraping my arm over rolled up rugs. My anxious eyes swept over the packages surrounding us, some piled high and neat, others lumped together haphazardly. The only saving grace was that each one was labeled quite clearly, and I found that there was a sort of order as I scurried between the groups while Don, larger and more ungainly than me, squeezed through the narrow aisles.
Here were the Dolls (Living Room) and there were the Accordions (Library). Collectibles. My hands floated out from my sides, brushing over the scratchy cardboard as I searched for the art section. I passed through a maze of bookcases, then through their neatly organized guts (fiction, fiction, atlases, history...) Large squares wrapped in brown paper—paintings, the descriptions of each floating across the surface of the paper like a pale ghost of the image inside—told me I was getting warmer. I shuffled through the phantom gallery, squeezing between Fox Hunt and Nude Homosexual Couple, making a beeline for the huge, shapeless lumps wrapped in paper and bubble wrap. Those would be the sculptures.