through the museum. Maybe his plan, like the wheelchair, would prove a good call after all.
Within seconds they had passed the American painting gallery, eclipsing George Bellows’s famous pair of boxers in a darkly hued blur.
A few seconds after that, they entered the East Court Garden and the cloying, humid air inside the cavernous space. Even more cloying were the winged cupids astride a giant scallop shell dead center in the middle of the courtyard, water merrily tinkling over their chubby feet. Caedmon veered to the right, bypassing the fountain. As he wheeled the chair around the columned perimeter, Edie caught sight of a homeless man sound asleep in a wrought-iron chair, oblivious to the alarm and automated message blaring on the PA system.
Exiting the courtyard garden, Caedmon increased his speed as they traversed the long, barrel-vaulted sculpture hall. On either side of her, Edie saw familiar flashes of color in the adjoining galleries—Toulouse-Lautrec, Renoir, Inge—the history of nineteenth-century French art reduced to a colorful blip.
Straight ahead of them, like mighty old-growth trees in a virgin forest, loomed the huge black marble columns of the main rotunda.
“We can exit at the rotunda,” she said, turning in her seat to look at him, clasping her hands together in a beseeching gesture.
Her proposal met with a whirring silence, the wheelchair advancing full speed ahead.
It’s like entering one of Dante’s lower circles, Edie thought as they entered the domed rotunda a few seconds later. Everywhere she looked, swarms of people were haphazardly congregating in undulating lines that meandered in the direction of the main entrance. In front of the exit doors, a handful of uniformed guards quickly patted down every museum patron before permitting them to depart the premises. Edie assumed they were searching for the armed gunman.
“It would appear that all roads lead to Rome,” Caedmon remarked as he steered the wheelchair away from the disorderly crowd.
Like the courtyard garden they’d earlier passed through, the rotunda was jungle humid on account of all the potted plants. Afraid Padgham’s killer might be lurking in the vicinity, Edie tucked her chin into her chest, making herself as unobtrusive as possible.
No sooner did they clear the rotunda than Caedmon took off running.
Bronze sculptures. Flemish still lifes. Della Robbias.
Famous works of art passed at such a dizzying speed, Edie feared she would upchuck the contents of her stomach.
“Slow down, will ya? You’re giving me a bad case of motion sickness.”
If Caedmon heard her, he gave no indication, the man fast proving himself a well-spoken hard-ass.
Having covered three-fourths of the distance of the museum in less than two minutes, Caedmon wheeled her into the West Garden Court, a mirror image of the courtyard at the opposite end of the museum. Swerving sharply to the left, he somehow managed to maintain control as the chair took the turn on two rubberized wheels.
A few seconds later, Edie could see the marble wall that marked the end of the main hall.
“Quick! Put on the brakes!” she screeched, a full-length statue of St. John of the Cross standing sentry directly in front of her. She grabbed hold of the padded arms and held on tight as Caedmon brought the wheelchair to an abrupt halt mere inches from the stern-faced saint.
“Bloody hell.” He turned his head from side to side. “There’s supposed to be a lift at the end of—Ah, yes, there she be, starboard bow.” Caedmon rolled the wheelchair to the elevator that was tucked away to the right of them.
Edie reached out and pushed the button; the metal doors instantly slid open. With no room to turn the wheelchair around, she sat facing the back wall of the elevator. Within moments, they’d be free of the museum, via the Seventh Street exit located on the lower level.
Readying herself for the last cavalry charge, she opened her tote bag. Quickly, she rummaged
Within seconds they had passed the American painting gallery, eclipsing George Bellows’s famous pair of boxers in a darkly hued blur.
A few seconds after that, they entered the East Court Garden and the cloying, humid air inside the cavernous space. Even more cloying were the winged cupids astride a giant scallop shell dead center in the middle of the courtyard, water merrily tinkling over their chubby feet. Caedmon veered to the right, bypassing the fountain. As he wheeled the chair around the columned perimeter, Edie caught sight of a homeless man sound asleep in a wrought-iron chair, oblivious to the alarm and automated message blaring on the PA system.
Exiting the courtyard garden, Caedmon increased his speed as they traversed the long, barrel-vaulted sculpture hall. On either side of her, Edie saw familiar flashes of color in the adjoining galleries—Toulouse-Lautrec, Renoir, Inge—the history of nineteenth-century French art reduced to a colorful blip.
Straight ahead of them, like mighty old-growth trees in a virgin forest, loomed the huge black marble columns of the main rotunda.
“We can exit at the rotunda,” she said, turning in her seat to look at him, clasping her hands together in a beseeching gesture.
Her proposal met with a whirring silence, the wheelchair advancing full speed ahead.
It’s like entering one of Dante’s lower circles, Edie thought as they entered the domed rotunda a few seconds later. Everywhere she looked, swarms of people were haphazardly congregating in undulating lines that meandered in the direction of the main entrance. In front of the exit doors, a handful of uniformed guards quickly patted down every museum patron before permitting them to depart the premises. Edie assumed they were searching for the armed gunman.
“It would appear that all roads lead to Rome,” Caedmon remarked as he steered the wheelchair away from the disorderly crowd.
Like the courtyard garden they’d earlier passed through, the rotunda was jungle humid on account of all the potted plants. Afraid Padgham’s killer might be lurking in the vicinity, Edie tucked her chin into her chest, making herself as unobtrusive as possible.
No sooner did they clear the rotunda than Caedmon took off running.
Bronze sculptures. Flemish still lifes. Della Robbias.
Famous works of art passed at such a dizzying speed, Edie feared she would upchuck the contents of her stomach.
“Slow down, will ya? You’re giving me a bad case of motion sickness.”
If Caedmon heard her, he gave no indication, the man fast proving himself a well-spoken hard-ass.
Having covered three-fourths of the distance of the museum in less than two minutes, Caedmon wheeled her into the West Garden Court, a mirror image of the courtyard at the opposite end of the museum. Swerving sharply to the left, he somehow managed to maintain control as the chair took the turn on two rubberized wheels.
A few seconds later, Edie could see the marble wall that marked the end of the main hall.
“Quick! Put on the brakes!” she screeched, a full-length statue of St. John of the Cross standing sentry directly in front of her. She grabbed hold of the padded arms and held on tight as Caedmon brought the wheelchair to an abrupt halt mere inches from the stern-faced saint.
“Bloody hell.” He turned his head from side to side. “There’s supposed to be a lift at the end of—Ah, yes, there she be, starboard bow.” Caedmon rolled the wheelchair to the elevator that was tucked away to the right of them.
Edie reached out and pushed the button; the metal doors instantly slid open. With no room to turn the wheelchair around, she sat facing the back wall of the elevator. Within moments, they’d be free of the museum, via the Seventh Street exit located on the lower level.
Readying herself for the last cavalry charge, she opened her tote bag. Quickly, she rummaged
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