possible.
Once they were within ten feet of the heavy steel door to the property room, Knight caught hold of the detective’s arm. Pulling on it hard enough to signal he wished the big man to stop, the professor drew Dollins close, then whispered to him;
“That sound, that hissing sound—do you recognize it?”
The detective gave over a few seconds to intent listening, then whispered back;
“I know it’s somethin’ I’ve heard before, but I don’t know what. What’re you thinkin’?”
“It reminds me of a campfire,” answered Knight. “But, not when there are flames. I’m talking about when it’s at its hottest, when it’s all coals, that burning sound heat makes as it dries the very moisture out of the air around it.”
Dollins’ eyes went wide. He recognized the sound immediately, knowing the professor’s deduction was correct … but how could that be? Unlike some of the rooms on the station’s upper floors, which still retained much of their wood from the old days, the basement rooms were mostly stone, brick, and poured concrete. The property room was lined with nothing but metal shelves and cabinets. There simply was not enough flammable material within it to feed a fire of such intensity.
All right, let’s say you’re right about that, Jimmy , the detective’s mind responded to him. Fine—it’s impossible. But if that is the case, then just what the hell do you think that is that you’re hearin’?
Before Dollins’ brain could offer him anything in the way of an answer, however, suddenly both men began to notice the one thing they had been dreading since they began their descent. At first each of them had believed or at least sincerely hoped that the sensation they were detecting was only a result of nerves on their part. Taking another few steps forward, they both knew such was nothing more than wishful thinking.
“It’s starting to get warmer,” hissed Knight. “Too warm. There has to be something on fire in there.”
“Any ideas what?”
“What do you mean?”
Dollins turned to stare the professor square in the eye. Something was not right about their situation; of that the detective wascertain—the same kind of something that had been off-kilter every time he and Knight had ended up in the same place. During each of those occurrences things had gotten just a bit stranger, just a little more twisted. This time, however, as far as Dollins was concerned, he had stumbled into the Twilight Zone, and he had dragged his own personal Rod Serling along with him.
His eyes locking with Knight’s, his years of on-the-job experience watching for any attempt to mislead him, the big man snarled, “You and me, we ain’t got no more time for shittin’ around. Now tell me, straight-out and honest—just what the goddamned hell is in there?”
The professor was taken aback a trifle by the question. It was not, after all, his job to be there. He had accompanied Dollins out of concern for the Dream Stone. Knight would have done so even if he possessed no other relation to it outside of the fact that it was the property of the Brooklyn Museum. Considering his family connection to the piece, however, let alone Ungari’s revelations of its sudden, possibly history-shattering importance, and then its attempted theft, Knight simply had to know what was happening to the antiquity that, less than twenty-four hours previous, was considered utterly worthless.
Knight found the detective’s question, coming at the moment it did, not so much a request for help, but a challenge bordering on accusation. Dollins did not fully trust him, but then, considering the fact he was hiding a great number of things from not only the officer but the world in general, Knight could not very well take offense. Indeed, over the years he had grown used to such things. Although, like most of those who dabbled in magic, he strove to appear merely a harmless eccentric, the pose was no longer working with the
Once they were within ten feet of the heavy steel door to the property room, Knight caught hold of the detective’s arm. Pulling on it hard enough to signal he wished the big man to stop, the professor drew Dollins close, then whispered to him;
“That sound, that hissing sound—do you recognize it?”
The detective gave over a few seconds to intent listening, then whispered back;
“I know it’s somethin’ I’ve heard before, but I don’t know what. What’re you thinkin’?”
“It reminds me of a campfire,” answered Knight. “But, not when there are flames. I’m talking about when it’s at its hottest, when it’s all coals, that burning sound heat makes as it dries the very moisture out of the air around it.”
Dollins’ eyes went wide. He recognized the sound immediately, knowing the professor’s deduction was correct … but how could that be? Unlike some of the rooms on the station’s upper floors, which still retained much of their wood from the old days, the basement rooms were mostly stone, brick, and poured concrete. The property room was lined with nothing but metal shelves and cabinets. There simply was not enough flammable material within it to feed a fire of such intensity.
All right, let’s say you’re right about that, Jimmy , the detective’s mind responded to him. Fine—it’s impossible. But if that is the case, then just what the hell do you think that is that you’re hearin’?
Before Dollins’ brain could offer him anything in the way of an answer, however, suddenly both men began to notice the one thing they had been dreading since they began their descent. At first each of them had believed or at least sincerely hoped that the sensation they were detecting was only a result of nerves on their part. Taking another few steps forward, they both knew such was nothing more than wishful thinking.
“It’s starting to get warmer,” hissed Knight. “Too warm. There has to be something on fire in there.”
“Any ideas what?”
“What do you mean?”
Dollins turned to stare the professor square in the eye. Something was not right about their situation; of that the detective wascertain—the same kind of something that had been off-kilter every time he and Knight had ended up in the same place. During each of those occurrences things had gotten just a bit stranger, just a little more twisted. This time, however, as far as Dollins was concerned, he had stumbled into the Twilight Zone, and he had dragged his own personal Rod Serling along with him.
His eyes locking with Knight’s, his years of on-the-job experience watching for any attempt to mislead him, the big man snarled, “You and me, we ain’t got no more time for shittin’ around. Now tell me, straight-out and honest—just what the goddamned hell is in there?”
The professor was taken aback a trifle by the question. It was not, after all, his job to be there. He had accompanied Dollins out of concern for the Dream Stone. Knight would have done so even if he possessed no other relation to it outside of the fact that it was the property of the Brooklyn Museum. Considering his family connection to the piece, however, let alone Ungari’s revelations of its sudden, possibly history-shattering importance, and then its attempted theft, Knight simply had to know what was happening to the antiquity that, less than twenty-four hours previous, was considered utterly worthless.
Knight found the detective’s question, coming at the moment it did, not so much a request for help, but a challenge bordering on accusation. Dollins did not fully trust him, but then, considering the fact he was hiding a great number of things from not only the officer but the world in general, Knight could not very well take offense. Indeed, over the years he had grown used to such things. Although, like most of those who dabbled in magic, he strove to appear merely a harmless eccentric, the pose was no longer working with the
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