The Fifth House of the Heart Read Online Free PDF Page A

her nose. She got her back against the wall and shoved herself along it, away from the Russian. She pulled a second weapon from its concealment behind the green curtain, a long-handled bludgeon with a spiked hammerhead. The Russian saw this thing and lurched for the window.
    The nurse charged with a hiss of rage and swung the weapon. Nilu could not see it strike the Russian from her skewed, upside-down angle. He hulked on the edge of her vision as a blur of struggling darkness. But she heard the brutal spike go into his back, and she heard his bubbling scream of agony. The window shattered. The Russian ripped the entire sash out of its frame and flung it into the room, tearing the curtain down. Traffic noise clamored in again, and exhaust fumes.
    Andronov was gone through the window. The nurse leaned out to see down into the street below. One of her feet rose into view as she flipped it up for a counterbalance: she was shod in military canvas boots with toothy rubber soles. Not proper footwear for hospital personnel. Then she was looking down into Nilu’s face, a finger to her blood-jellied lips.
    Silence , the gesture said. But Nilu understood what was really meant: Say nothing . Nilu saw that the woman was North Asian, Chinese perhaps, or Japanese. She had lost the small, stiff nurse’s cap. Her black hair was cut short.
    Moments later, the nurse crossed to the door and opened it, and doctors and orderlies rushed in. Questions were flung around, arms waved. A tremendous cacophony of voices filled the hot, blood-­stinking air. Several pairs of hands found Nilu at once and worked to stabilize her on the bed; through the gaps in the crowd she saw the nurse, bloody faced, against the wall, shaking her head as a doctor demanded to know what had happened. Then the crowd shifted, there was confusion, and when Nilu could see again, the doctor’s attention was elsewhere. The nurse had gone.

2
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    New York City
    Sax paid Wesson’s Auctioneers a visit, then Sotheby’s, Craine Bros., Swann Galleries, Christie’s, and a couple of others. It took him the entire day. He could have telephoned or sent e-mails, but his business was entirely based on personal relationships, upon which he sometimes put considerable strain. So he never missed an opportunity to appear in person, accepting a drop of tea or a splash of spirits, depending on the venue.
    The awful days when all the young, overgroomed assistants would ply him with bottled water were thankfully past now. Besides the cellular telephone and saddle shoes, Sax thought there was no more unpleasant accessory than water in a plastic bottle. Especially the bottles with pop-up nipples on the end. Ridiculous, a nation of adults suckling at polyethylene tits. What with the economy and the discovery that bottled water was identical to tap water, this indignity had fallen out of vogue, and he could get proper beverages again.
    Sax’s final visit of the day was to Woodbride, Barron Auctioneers, who specialized in European and Japanese collections. He was ushered in by an obsequious young fellow named Stoate dressed in horsey tweeds, a spotted ascot, and saddle shoes. One of those creatures that affected homosexuality to advance his career but would be frightened out of his wits at the touch of a real mustache. Tragic, Sax thought, but at least it would keep him out of the gene pool for a while.
    He followed Stoate down the dim corridor that ran along the upper floor of the Woodbride, Barron warehouse, past rows of dark, glass-fronted offices with Victorian racing prints on the walls. Business was terrible these days. Twenty years before, every one of these offices would have been occupied by valuation specialists, schedulers, insurance experts, and all the rest; now most functions were handled in the front office, into which Stoate ushered Sax.
    The place used to smell of cigars and leather. Now it stank of copy machine toner. The water cooler glugged dismally and