The Cloisters(59)
“Rachel, what—” I stopped. There was something worn openly on her face—determined and hard—that made me stop. Instead I stood, the sudden movement causing my vision to swim. The surreality of the scene—the body on the floor, the speed with which Rachel was looking through drawers—made me realize I needed to keep checking the door of the library for any sign of movement, keening my ears to hear the sound of sirens. When she got to Patrick’s bag, she dumped it out on the floor—its contents spilling across the room, Patrick’s address book coming to rest against his polished shoe.
Rachel was on her knees now, sorting through the items and shoving them back into the bag following an inspection, until I realized, through the haze of the scene, what she was looking for. I saw it, on the far side of the room, having skittered across the floor, its green ribbon slightly frayed and bleached. I moved to where it had come to rest, but my movements felt slow. Slow enough that there was time for Moira to arrive at the door, where she screamed—a high wailing noise. And while Rachel put Patrick’s bag back on his chair during the commotion, her eyes came to meet mine as I slid the box silently into my backpack, all while Moira crouched by the body and started weeping, repeatedly asking the same thing I had been silently asking myself since arriving that morning: What happened?
* * *
The police took our statements, and the coroner took the body. Moira had to be sedated. In front of the museum, the blue lights of police cars illuminated the gray stone of the building. And as I stood among the staff, I noticed that the entire building was eerily quiet. None of us knew what to do. I had never witnessed death, only lived its aftermath. And in its wake, I found myself adrift, knowing there were no good decisions, no good next steps, only the awful certainty that time would continue, no matter how much I wanted it to stop, rewind. The only thing that grounded me sat heavy in my backpack: the leather box, its green ribbon.
There was no opportunity, then, to ask Rachel how she found him or how her night, the evening before, had ended. But I was grateful that Rachel had found him before the museum opened, before visitors to The Cloisters walked from the lobby to the Mérode Altarpiece and back again, while Patrick’s unhearing ears lay just beyond the stone wall, unnoticed.
A heart attack, they seemed to think. At least he went quickly. Died in a place he loved. These were the platitudes that I knew meant nothing, and every time I heard someone repeat the sentiment, the humming in my ears grew louder.
“We need to call Michelle,” said Rachel quietly, appearing at my side. I had been standing at the edge of the entrance to the museum, watching people come and go, a crush of forensic and janitorial staff. Onlookers had begun to gather in the park.
I knew she was right, but I also knew that sharing the news would make it real. That in losing Patrick, I had also lost my benefactor, the person who had brought me to The Cloisters. Rachel was already holding the phone to her ear, and I realized that as much as I feared what Michelle might have to say, I was also desperate for someone to tell me what to do. Only after Rachel hung up did I realize that despite how it looked, we were the ones who had to find our own way.
“What did she say?”
“That she’s going to call me back in a little bit with instructions, but that we should close the building to visitors for the day and the staff should go home.”
“Do you think she’ll make me leave?” I finally ginned up the courage to ask.
Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you have to leave?”
“Because with Patrick gone—”
“With Patrick gone—” The words died on her lips, and I could feel Rachel’s exhaustion, the amount of effort it took her just to speak. It was a feeling I wished I didn’t remember, but I did. She tried again. “With Patrick gone there’s even more to do. You’ll be fine, Ann. We’re both going to be fine.” And then she paused, gripping my arm so tightly that I could feel the half-moons of her nails cut into my skin, and said in a hard whisper: “And now. And now, some things will be easier.”
I wished, then, that we were alone. But around us staff members huddled at the entrance, their faces periodically lit by the blue rotating lights of the police cars. All of it, a sudden, unwelcome intrusion—the contemporary world puncturing the peace of The Cloisters.
* * *
On the drive home, neither of us spoke, but the weight of the box in my backpack felt much heavier than it had previously. I was desperate for a shower, having come straight from Leo’s, the sweat from the night before still on my body, salty and rough. I didn’t remember seeing Leo after he pulled me out of the library. Even though he had taken me home, beyond the slice of cake and the harsh lights of the kitchen, I had no other memories from the night before. And Leo—where was he? I hadn’t seen him arrive at the museum that morning.
Inside Rachel’s apartment, I threw my bag on the table and went into the bathroom as much to shower as to think. I needed the hot water to scrub off the scene of the morning. Only when I got out did I realize that it was imprinted more deeply, against my bones and not along my skin, and was not so easily washed away.
By the time I returned to the living room, my hair wet and falling below my shoulders, Rachel had already stripped each card of its front and set it down on the table, next to its false twin. Beneath all the Major Arcana cards were iconographically complex cards that represented both Roman deities and the astrological signs and symbols. Already I could see patterns emerging among the cards, a dense web of symbolism that seemed to connect each card to its namesake constellation. Above Venus and the Lovers card, Taurus hung in the sky; the Pope card depicted a constellation of Sagittarius, with Jupiter, Sagittarius’s ruling planet, in the foreground. As quickly as I could make out connections, another set would emerge. I counted them silently; there were seventy-seven cards. The deck was complete, save for one: the Devil was missing. It might, I imagined, depict Hades with the sign of Scorpio. After all, Pluto was the Roman name for Hades, and also ruled the sign.