Split Second - Catherine Coulter [50]
She kept looking. The half dozen duffel bags were mostly empty, one holding ancient snorkel equipment, another holding a box of condoms, unopened, and that was interesting.
She’d finally worked her way back to the steamer trunks. She could hardly stop now—steamer trunks had lots of compartments, lots of little zippered pockets that could hide—what? She wished she had a clue. She’d probably find more safety pins and loose change. Best to begin with the largest trunk against the wall.
She studied the steamer trunk, a huge light brown leather affair with black leather bands, banged up but still as solid-looking as the day it was rolled aboard its first luxury liner. It was covered with travel stickers from how many years ago? Maybe ninety? The largest was an Art Deco drawing of three huge passenger ships steaming toward you. There was a globe showing the western hemisphere, the proportions way off, for effect, and decals showing a dozen faraway destinations, no doubt status symbols in their day. She lightly laid her hand on a sticker that had PARIS printed on it and let herself be drawn back for a moment. She could easily picture rich Americans who traveled from New York to London or Paris or Cairo on opulent ships before the war, uniformed porters hefting their trunks onto big wheeled trolleys. They evoked an image of full moons shimmering on the bare shoulders of women in satin gowns, of men with pencil mustaches, of attar-of-rose perfume and magnificent jewels. She slowly worked the largest steamer trunk away from the wall. It was very heavy. She managed to tilt a corner of it away from the wall, and used her legs to push it farther askew, enough to open the lid. It smelled musty, old. She unclicked the four sets of latches, but the top wouldn’t open. She dragged the trunk out onto the open floor. Had someone not bothered to unpack, or forgotten to, just had the trunk dragged up here?
She saw a padlock tucked discreetly beneath a flap of leather at the very center of the trunk. Locked. She shook the padlock, but it was solid, didn’t come free. Lucy looked at it more closely. The padlock certainly didn’t date from the twenties; it was sturdy and pretty modern-looking. No way would she get that sucker open without the key.
She was suddenly aware that the fluorescent overheads were all the light there was, the windows completely dark. Full-on night had fallen, and she hadn’t noticed. She’d been up here much longer than she’d intended, her allotted twenty minutes long past. As she stared at the dark windows, she was suddenly frightened. But of what exactly? She didn’t understand it, but she was remembering something, something muffled and confused in her mind.
She saw herself, small, very small, crouched beside an ancient bureau, and there were voices. She couldn’t see who was speaking, but somehow she knew who the voices were—she knew—and her heart was pounding loud and her mouth felt dry and she was afraid, just as she was now.
Lucy shook her head. What was happening? Her heart was pounding, and that was stupid, she told herself over and over, but it didn’t stop her heart from galloping and her ears from listening to every creak and groan. She felt as if she were in a strange hollow of time where the past had superimposed itself over the present and brought her fear with it. She shook her head again. It’s simply dark, stupid. You are being ridiculous, remembering something out of context from when you were a really little girl. Get hold of yourself.
She kicked the steamer trunk, which did precisely nothing at all, and that pissed her off because she was afraid simply because it was dark outside, and yes, there were these odd memories, no, not memories, something inexplicable that her brain had suddenly dredged up to scare the crap out of her. She pulled her SIG from the clip on her jeans, and just as she’d opened the lock on the attic door, she struck the padlock, once, twice. The third time, she really whacked it. The padlock flew apart.
She heard something, a small scratching sound, and