Blood Sun by David Gilman Page B

have to do with his mum?
    “Danny was trying to tell me something about my mother. But she was nowhere near Peru, where Danny was studying. She was in Central America.”
    “Is this about your mother?”
    “I think so. I hope so.”
    “Where is she now?”
    “She’s dead.”
    Dr. Miller grunted. “Oh, I see.”
    Max pulled out the photos taken of his mother in the rain forest. “These are the only clues I have.”
    The professor settled his glasses and quickly thumbed through the pictures, then handed them back to Max. “Right, come on. I’ll show you something.”
    He ushered Max back into the corridor, up the stairs that led out onto Montague Street and through the room Max had crossed to get to the library. It was dark now, except for the exhibits’ distorted shadows looming grotesquely up the walls.
    The interleading doors to each of the galleries left Max’s head spinning. He was losing all sense of direction. Even though he followed Dr. Miller’s rapid footsteps, it felt as though he was being led into a labyrinth. A moment of regret tugged at him. He wished he’d picked up a museum mapfrom the visitors’ desk. Don’t go blindly into a place of danger. Wherever possible, know your ground —Dad’s words as he once pointed out a difficult route on a map. That’s what maps are for . Max’s thoughts swirled. His dad hadn’t needed a map when he ran away and left his wife to die!
    Dr. Miller stopped. Breathless, he tapped his chest. “Indigestion. Too many cakes,” he said, then fumbled a small bunch of keys. The doors to the next room were bolted by a heavy-duty chain and padlock. Max heard a movement behind him as the clanking chains rattled through the door handle. A shaft of light caught them both like animals blinded on a country road.
    “Hey!” a voice commanded. “What the hell are you doing?” The torchlight barely wavered as the figure moved quickly toward them. Dr. Miller turned. Waved and rattled his keys.
    “It’s Dr. Miller. I need to get into room twenty-seven for a few moments. Sorry to disturb you.”
    The night security guard was right next to them but refused to take his torch from Miller’s face until he was certain of the curator’s identity. Finally he lowered the beam.
    “You should tell us when you’re working late, Dr. Miller,” the man said officiously. “I’ll have to make a note of this in the log.”
    “Of course you will. Quite right too. Don’t worry, we won’t be long. Good night to you.”
    There was no mistaking Dr. Miller’s dismissal. The man turned away, switched off his torch and faded back into the shadows.
    “They get a little jumpy at night. Imagination is what does it mostly. Things tend to take on a life of their own.I don’t blame them, of course. I’ve worked late here myself and definitely seen statues shift position.”
    “You’re not serious?” Max asked.
    “That depends on one’s imagination.”
    There was sufficient light to see the old man’s face crinkle into a smile. He pushed open the doors and led the way into a room full of Central American artifacts.
    Max gazed into the emerald-green eyes of a black beast. Misshapen, but unmistakably a big cat, it glared back as if Max had just come face to face with the black jaguar in the dense undergrowth of the rain forest.
    It was an ancient carving hewn from black volcanic rock. The ragged edges gave the beast a sense of movement, as if its fur was being brushed by the breeze or a low-lying branch. The open jaws displayed white bone teeth, carved to match the shape of incisors and canines. It was powerful and ferocious. It loomed, ready to strike, ears flattened, fixing its glare on him.
    The dim light in the room seemed to fade even more. Max smelled the musky cat fur and the carnivore’s stale breath, and heard the resonant growl from somewhere deep within the predator’s chest. It was frightening. Frightening and glorious. Max felt the sigh escape from his lips as he reached