Death Mask by Michael Devaney Page A

peddle, her arms flailed wildly behind her as though she were mimicking a swimmer doing the backstroke. Andria’s backward momentum carried her into the wall. It was more than a glancing blow but she didn’t remain there long. With her newfound energy, she slid her way along the wall toward the doorway. By now, her voice had returned to full capacity and she shrieked her way through the doorway and out into the hall. From there, she sprinted barefoot down the hallway out the museum’s emergency exit and into the cool darkness of the Summer’s night air.

Chapter 2
    When Atlanta police officers arrived at the museum a little over an hour later, they found no immediate incriminating evidence to go on.
    Andria, the museum’s curator, had been picked up by a patrol car some quarter of a mile away, sitting alone on a park bench rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped tightly across her shoulders and sobbing hysterically. The officers believed the distressed woman had obviously been given an awful scare but there was no proof to support her story that a haunted mask, or real person, had been inside the museum with her. A thorough investigation of the grounds, including tapes from surveillance cameras, had seconded the fact.
    Satisfied the grounds were secure, the lead officer on site pulled the radio from his belt clip and keyed the transmit button. After a few seconds delay, he sent his correspondence to an officer in the squad car parked outside.
    “There’s not much here. It looks like we’re going to need help with this one. Call over to headquarters and have the Captain arrange for investigative backup.”
    “10-4,” the squad car officer replied.
     
    ***
     
    Forty-five minutes later, a tall, dark haired gentleman wearing a navy colored trench coat draped astutely over a gray business suit entered the bustling chaos inside the museum’s lobby. He spotted a small crowd of policemen circled together as though they were working on a plan of action. Exuding an air of authority, he divided the crowd; like Moses parting the Red Sea and quickly covered the distance.
    He positioned himself close then cleared his throat, politely interrupting them. “I need to speak to Lieutenant Anderson.”
    A chorus of eyeballs simultaneously trained on him with dumb apathy. After a few seconds one of the men, a sergeant, pointed to a silver haired man standing at the back of the room speaking with several reporters from the media.
    “Thank you,” he said, then turned and walked toward the group of reporters.
    When the Lieutenant finished speaking, the tall stranger tapped him on the shoulder and introduced himself.
    “Excuse me, Lieutenant Anderson. I’m Detective Finnegan Winters. I believe you requested my assistance.

Chapter 3
    Two days later it was business as usual at the Museum of Curiosities.
    An obliging, young blonde woman of twenty-six years sat studiously attending to her duties at the information desk when she was interrupted by the sound of man’s voice.
    “Hello, Miss,” he said.
    “Oh, my,” said the startled receptionist, jumping back a few inches and covering her heart. “I’m sorry sir, I didn’t see you come in. How may I help you?”
    “No, no. Please excuse me for the intrusion,” he said, bowing his head. “I’d like to speak with the proprietor of this establishment please; a Mr. Victor Gaines.”
    “Do you have an appointment?”
    “No, ma’am. I’m here unannounced, but I’m willing to wait as long as necessary to see him.”
    “Very well. And whom may I say is here to see him?” she asked, smiling.
    “Mr. Andrew Game, from Boston, Massachusetts.”
    She wrote his name on a legal pad then asked him to take a seat in the lobby.
    Twenty minutes later the blonde receptionist approached as Andrew sat multi-tasking on his cell phone.
    “Right this way, Mr. Game,” she said, waving him toward her. “Mr. Gaines will see you now.”
    When Andrew stood, the receptionist spun around and