The Van Alen Legacy

Finally she reached the intersection.

But the light was from the torch Jack had been carrying before they were attacked.

And there was no one there.





TWENTY-EIGHT

Bliss


It was the last week of August, and Cotswold had finally sold after the price was reduced another hundred thousand, give or take. A Russian oligarch bought the Hamptons house and everything in it, down to the last nautical cushion and including the car collection. The new family wanted possession right away, so there was a very short escrow period. And ever since the day Bliss had overheard the conversation in Forsyth’s study, the Visitor had retreated for his longest absence yet. Saturday, their first day back in New York, made it the fifth straight day that he had been gone. Almost an entire week.

It was a relief to be back in the city again. She had gotten tired of the Hamptons, as everyone ultimately does. And while she had her freedom, Bliss tried to find out what was going on. She had called the Force household, not sure of what she could say exactly—not that it mattered anyway since their maid told her that no one was around. Charles was gone, Trinity was in D.C., and the twins were away as well. Then she called Schuyler’s cell, but her service had been disconnected. She called the house on Riverside Drive, and Hattie told her Schuyler was . . . away. The housekeeper sounded too frightened to tell Bliss anything else. The Hazard-Perrys were spending the summer in Maine, but when Bliss called that number, no one picked up. There wasn’t even an answering machine. It was all very strange and not promising.

She had raided Forsyth’s study before it had been packed up and had tried to call Ambrose Barlow. She had decided that if Forsyth and the Visitor had mocked him, then maybe Warden Barlow was one of the good guys. But when she called the Barlow residence, the warden wasn’t there. And she didn’t know what kind of message to leave that wouldn’t find its way back to the Visitor. She had to make sure he was kept in the dark about what she was planning as well.

Finally she decided she would mail an anonymous note. Not an e-mail that could be traced back to her computer, but a note on some nice stationery so that the Barlows would pay attention to it and not think it was junk mail. BobiAnne had kept a nice collection of card stock, and Bliss selected one.

Dear Warden Barlow,

You don’t know me, but I have to warn you about something. Beware of Forsyth Llwellyn. He is not who you think he is.

—A friend

God that sounded lame. But what else could she do without giving herself away? It had as much teeth as a beware of dog sign on an unguarded lawn, but Bliss had no idea what else to do. She couldn’t risk the Visitor being aware of her actions, and if anyone from the Conclave came around asking for her, Forsyth would know what had happened.

It was better than doing nothing.

Maybe it would even help. She hoped so.

After posting the note, she walked aimlessly up Fifth Avenue past the Guggenheim Museum. The weather was sticky and hot, one of those fry-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk New York days, but Bliss didn’t care. She was just glad to be home. Back in the city she had grown to love so much.

Then she wandered back down to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She walked up the grand steps, dodging picnicking crowds of tourists sitting out under the bright sun. As she entered the grand marble foyer and passed the security bag check, waiting patiently as a bored security guard poked at the contents of her handbag with a baton, she felt a pain in her heart.

This was where Dylan had taken her on their first date.

It was too keen to be anything but grief, as she remembered how Dylan had paid the entrance fee for the two of them with a dime. But as she walked up to the ticket counter, she found she did not have his audacity, and surrendered the entire “suggested” fee.

It had been almost two years ago when he had brought her to the museum. He had been so excited to take her to the Egyptian wing, and unconsciously Bliss began to walk toward it, passing by glass display cases of scarabs and car-touche jewelry. She passed the display of sarcophagi. She remembered how Dylan had asked her to close her eyes and led her through the passageways, and when she had opened them she was standing in front of it. The Temple of Dendur. A real Egyptian temple rebuilt in a room at the Metropolitan. It was like having a piece of history come alive.

So ancient and beautiful.

And so romantic. She remembered how Dylan had stood in front of it, his eyes shining like bright stars. Bliss walked softly in front of it, remembering. . . . The light slanted into the room, making shadows on the memorial. She was struck by a sadness so overwhelming she had to steady herself or she would have fallen.

“Are you all right?” a girl asked.