The Cartographers(17)

On her way home, anyone who had stepped too close or paused too long as she passed sent a bolt of fear through her—followed by an equal bolt of embarrassment. She was not in danger. No one was following her. No one knew she had the map. Despite the coincidences so far, she technically didn’t even know for sure if that was really the reason for the NYPL breakin. In the moment, standing amid the chaos, seeing the librarians huddled nervously together and hearing the chatter and blare from police radios, everything had seemed so dangerous, so urgent. But in the fresh evening air, kicking stray leaves on the sidewalk as she made her way to her apartment, it all seemed less certain and more circumstantial, at best.

Then Nell had seen another black Audi, idling at a stop sign on the street before her own. She had no idea if it was the same one—could that be rust on the wheel wells, if she squinted?—but it didn’t matter. The next thing she knew, she was upstairs in the dark, trying to figure out if her landlord would evict her for prying up a floorboard to hide her map beneath.

Her map. She was thinking of it as hers already.

Nell turned on the flashlight in her phone to see it better. Cold light crept across the pale, weathered paper, seeming to make the roads come alive. The thin lines danced, shifting one way and then another.

If the burglars had taken the Buell, or the Bingham Early Brooklyn map, which hung on the adjacent wall above the colonial artifacts, or even one of the atlases from the rare books shelf collection, Nell would have understood. The last time one of the Buell’s seven other precious copies had come up for auction at Christie’s upon the death of its private owner, generating a bidding war so frenzied it had come to blows in the gallery, was twenty years ago. The Chatham family’s copy hanging in the NYPL could be worth almost two million on the market, now. Maybe even a little more.

And rare maps were different from famous paintings in that if stolen, they actually could be resold. There could only be one Van Gogh The Starry Night, but the purpose of maps had always been exactly the opposite of paintings—after all, what good would a map of a place be if only one person had it? Thus, even for the rarest specimens, like the Buell, there was never just one of them out there. And as a result, it was that much harder to prove a map came from a dirty source—or not.

If the burglars had taken the Buell, within a few years and after a miraculous discovery of an eighth copy, they might be several million dollars richer than they were tonight.

Which is why Nell couldn’t understand why they’d done exactly the opposite.

What on earth could it be about this little, worthless map that could cause so much trouble?

What would drive someone to break in to a museum for it?

She shivered as a chill crept through her.

To kill?

A sudden burst of sound at the door made her jump.

“Nell?” a voice called through the wood. There was a pause. “It’s me.”

Nell peeked through the peephole, and then yanked open the door. “Why didn’t you buzz at the lobby?” she cried, her heart still pounding.

“I followed someone in,” Felix said, his voice rising defensively. “It’s after seven. Steady stream of people returning home from work.”

They stared at each other for several seconds, the adrenaline wearing off.

Seven years.

Seven years since they’d last seen each other.

Before she’d messaged him, it had seemed twice that long had passed, but now it felt like no time at all. He’d cropped his grad school afro into a modern cut, and the first fine line had started to thread itself across his deep brown brow, but otherwise, Felix Kimble looked exactly the same, the tall, dark, lean shape of him standing there in the doorway just as she remembered. He was still working out, clearly, and had traded his old student sweater and sneakers for a tailored charcoal blazer and warm brown Oxford shoes, polished to a shine.

Felix looked good.

Really good.

Nell was suddenly very aware that he was probably studying her in the same way. She wondered if she’d grown more tired or frumpy looking over the years. She resisted the urge to pull her stretched-out cardigan tighter around her like a protective shield.

Gradually, Felix’s eyes drifted down to her hands, and Nell realized that she was holding the half-empty wine bottle from the night before, its cork awkwardly jammed in.

“Hitting it hard already,” Felix said, and stepped past her into the apartment.

Nell let the comment go as she followed him. She didn’t want to tell him that she’d grabbed the bottle when his knock had startled her because it was the nearest thing to a weapon she could find in the moment. She winced in the sudden brightness as he flicked the lights in the kitchen on, giving her a strange look in the process.

This was such a bad idea, she thought. But it was too late now. She still could hardly believe she’d actually messaged him—even for Swann.

<It’s me. I know it’s been a long time,> she had written and deleted about fifty times. Finally, she just sent:

<Dr. Young died.>

Then:

<Swann asked me for help. I know I have no right, but it’s in your specialty. Just one last favor.>

She didn’t even know for sure if he had the same number. But a few long minutes later, her phone buzzed.

<I can stop by tonight.> Then: <For Swann.>

She thanked him and promised the bare minimum in one more message: there was a map in her father’s things, and all she needed was some context, nothing more. No arguments, no scandals, and especially, no professional reputations further destroyed.