Forty-eight

Rik calls at eight the next morning. “Did you see today’s Globe?” he demands.

My heart sinks. “I avoid all news sources.”

“Claire, don’t be such a baby. It’s good. Or at least it’s ironic.”

“I’ve never been a big fan of irony.”

“Call me after you’ve read it.”

I go downstairs to the tiny foyer, if you can call a metal-lined cubicle with a couple dozen mailboxes a foyer. There are always extra newspapers lying around on the weekend when the artists who have enough money to live elsewhere don’t come into their studios. I pick up a Globe from the mud-caked floor, curse the messiness of winter, then scan the headlines. Iran. Afghanistan. Another killing in Dorchester. A brave little girl who beat cancer. What’s Rik talking about? I flip the paper over. And there, beneath the fold, is the narrow headline: FBI BOMBARDED WITH DEMANDS TO OPEN MARKEL G FOR ROTH SHOW.

I walk up the stairs reading the article. Finish it on the couch. Read it again. It’s the fulfillment of my dreams. And the manifestation of my nightmares. Evidently, the petitioners argue that when Markel G released promotional materials detailing the specific paintings and prices, the gallery entered into a legal contract to sell them, which the FBI is impeding. All the collectors interviewed claim their interest is solely in my windows, that they fell in love with my work when Aiden advertised it, that my 4D and After the Bath infamy is irrelevant.

But no one’s fooled. Least of all me. The last paragraph of the article points out that despite comments to the contrary, it appears that everyone wants to “own a painting by the woman who’s good enough to fool the most prestigious art experts and hoodwink one, perhaps two, of the greatest museums in the world.”

I call Rik back.

“They think you’re fabulous,” he cries, before I can say hello. “That your windows are fabulous. What—”

“They think my notoriety is fabulous.”

“It’s not just that. You know it’s not. And they’re talking as if they’re acknowledging that you did paint 4D. The media’s never gone there—”

“I don’t know anything, and I don’t want to talk about it. Lyons said I could go down to the sub-basement this morning.”

“Really?” Rik says. “ ‘Why would he do that?”

“Because I asked him. He said the equipment’s already blasting through the concrete.”

“When’d you talk to him?”

I hesitate. “Yesterday afternoon. In Mike’s office.”

“What’d he want?”

“Just to catch us up. To ask me for some help understanding Rendell’s sketches.”

Rik doesn’t say anything, then clears his throat.

“Don’t.”

“Okay, okay. It’s good you’re thinking positive. I’ll call you later.”

I pick up Lyons’s card from my desk. SPECIAL AGENT JONATHAN LYONS, BOSTON DIVISION, FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION. I think about Mike’s theory that Lyons believes Aiden brought me the original and figure it’s smarter not to spend time with him. Then I think about how fabulous it would be to watch as they break through the wall and open those double doors. To be a part of the historic discovery of Degas’ real After the Bath. To know at the first moment that Aiden will be spared. I punch in Lyons’s number.

THE DUST IS thick and the noise deafening. Upstairs, a guard gave me a hard hat, ear plugs, and a surgical mask before Lyons brought me down. I thought this was overkill at the time, but now I’m glad I’ve got all three. Floodlights are strung over the opening to the sub-basement, and two men work with what appear to be jackhammers. But instead of being driven into the floor, the hammers are aimed horizontally at the outside edges of two large holes in the wall. All of the junk that was once a jumble is now neatly laid out on the basement level.

I kneel down to take a closer look, white-gray dust blowing up into my face, my brow already damp with a century of humidity. Each hole is roughly three feet in diameter, with about three feet of solid wall between them. I can’t see how deep the holes go because of all the dust, but it appears that they extend through the wall. The holes are bigger than I expect, given Lyons’s estimate for reaching the chamber.

Agent Lyons motions to me, and I follow him to a corner where the noise isn’t quite so jaw-breaking. “We’re going to get the wall down faster than expected,” he yells.

I pull out an ear plug. “What?”

“Curators got all the crap out, and we brought in some new equipment. Smaller and about ten times as powerful. It’s cutting right through.” He slices his hand from side to side. “Like butter.”

I only catch a few of the words, but I get the gist. This could be it.

He leans in close and yells in my ear. “We might reach the chamber today.”

“Today?” I lean against a dusty pole for support. Within Aiden’s window.

“We’ll bring in lunch, dinner if we need to,” he yells. “You want turkey or roast beef?”

Seven hours later, a gaping hole in the concrete frames a set of double doors. It’s well after six, and the jackhammers and workmen are gone. Lyons and I stand in the sub-basement, watching a janitor clear the last of the debris from the bottom of the doors. Alana, who has refused to look at or speak to me all day, a woman with a video camera, and two other FBI agents watch, too. The silence is deafening.

It’s been a long afternoon, and I’m sweating in the cool room, longing for this torture to end. As I’m sure everyone else is. We’re all exhausted, but no one considers leaving.

The janitor hits the lock holding the doors together with a hammer. It doesn’t budge. He grabs a chisel and hacks at the rust immobilizing the lock. For a moment, I’m thrown back to the afternoon Aiden and I used chisels and hammers to open his box. Pandora’s box.

The janitor is at it for a long time. Alana paces in the small space and asks if he wants more help, better tools. He says he’s got what he needs, that it’s a one-man job. She paces some more, then asks again. Same answer.

Finally, between the chiseling and hammering, the lock breaks open. Lyons and the other agents climb through the hole; between the three of them, they manage to pull the doors apart.

There’s silence as they stand before the open doorway, their shoulders and heads blocking our view.

“What?” Alana cries. “Is it there?”

I try to speak, but nothing comes out.

The men exchange a glance, then separate and move to the edges of the room.

Now it’s our turn to stand in silence. Aside from some rocks and piles of dust, the chamber is empty.