“Vincent, my friend.”
The new voice came from the foot of the bed and—keeping his head still this time—D’Agosta swiveled his eyes in its direction. Special Agent Pendergast was sitting there. D’Agosta blinked some more, utterly shocked by his skeletal appearance, gray circles under his eyes, skin pale beneath the dirt, his face covered with raw cuts and bruises. He was dressed in an FBI windbreaker too large for his emaciated frame.
They made a fuss over him, even as he began to subside back into a half world of semiconsciousness. He lay there with his eyes closed, trying to focus on the conversation. Pendergast was speaking to Laura.
“The helicopter took me to the Downtown Manhattan Heliport,” Pendergast was saying. “They told me what happened, and I came directly here. Was it you who found him?”
“When I couldn’t reach him on his cell, I sent a black-and-white to your house. They found him on the floor of the reception hall, facedown, unconscious.”
“I understand a large NYPD response has been mobilized.”
“Are you kidding? With a woman kidnapped and an officer attacked? They’ve called out the cavalry.”
D’Agosta found his voice again, his head clearing. “Pendergast!”
The FBI agent swiveled toward him. “How do you feel?”
“Never better. God, am I glad to see you…” He felt his voice choking up.
From his seat at the end of the bed, Pendergast waved this away impatiently.
“So…what happened?” D’Agosta managed.
“I’ve been…at sea. To make a long story short, the gentlemen who saved me from drowning decided to ransom me instead. I was held prisoner on their boat until it unfortunately sank. All irrelevant to the present situation. I wasn’t myself when I sent you into danger. I’m truly sorry.”
“Forget it,” said D’Agosta.
A pause. “Can you tell me, please…what transpired?”
“Don’t tire him out,” Laura said.
Even through the pharmaceutical fog, D’Agosta could see that his friend was, most uncharacteristically, agitated and worried. He cleared his throat, struggled against the almost overwhelming feeling of fatigue. The doctor had told him he might experience amnesia, as well, but thankfully that had not happened—although the exact details of the morning were a little vague.
“I entered the house, using the key code you gave me. I walked into the reception hall just moments before…before Diogenes did.”
At this Pendergast rose partway out of his chair. “Diogenes? Are you sure?”
“Yeah. He was coming from the rear of the house. I recognized him right away.” D’Agosta paused to think. “He had a suitcase in one hand.”
“And then?”
“He recognized me, too.” D’Agosta swallowed. “I drew down on him. Then Constance came into the room.”
Pendergast went even more pale. “Constance.”
“I told her to take a protective position behind me. I was covering Diogenes, getting ready to call for backup, when I was clobbered on the back of my skull…” He stopped. “Next thing, I was waking up in an ambulance.”
The look on Pendergast’s hollow face was terrible to behold. “Constance,” he said, as if to himself.
“It seems cut and dried enough,” Laura said. “Diogenes had an accomplice Vinnie didn’t see, who hit him from behind. We’re dusting the broken vase presumably used as a weapon for fingerprints now.”
“I thought Diogenes was dead,” D’Agosta said.
“We all did,” Pendergast said. He sat for a moment, very still. Then he spoke again. “How did Diogenes react when he saw you?”
“He was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.”
“And Constance. Was she handcuffed? Restrained in any way?”
D’Agosta thought through the haze for a moment. “Not that I saw.”
“How did she seem to you? Rebellious? Drugged? Coerced?”
“I never could read her. Um, sorry. She, she had a bag over one shoulder. Oh, and she was wearing a hat. I don’t remember what it looked like.”
“Did she struggle? Say anything?”
“Nothing. She got behind me when I asked her to. Didn’t say a word.”
“Did he have a weapon?”
The ringing in D’Agosta’s ears was getting louder. “Nothing visible.”
“I think maybe Vinnie’s had enough,” Laura said, with a note of finality.
Pendergast did not reply. His gaze seemed to go far away for a moment. Then he came back to the present again. The look on his face, the glitter in those silvery eyes, was as bad as D’Agosta had ever seen it.
He rose. “Vincent, I wish you a speedy recovery.”
“You look pretty bad yourself,” D’Agosta said. “Just saying.”
“I’ll get myself looked after. Captain Hayward?” He turned, gave her a curt nod, then swiveled to the door and walked quickly toward it. As he did, D’Agosta noticed—just before he drifted off once again—that underneath the FBI windbreaker, the agent was wearing a pair of filthy black trousers that had been sliced practically to ribbons.
36
DIOGENES PENDERGAST, IN his carefully curated identity as Petru Lupei, stepped out onto the private terrace of the tenth-floor suite of the Corcoran Hotel, then paused—as was his long habit—to scrutinize his surroundings with obsessive care. The Atlantic Ocean stretched from north to south in an unbroken line, its creamy breakers reflecting the pink of the evening clouds. The bustle of Miami’s South Beach neighborhood surrounded the hotel on all sides, salsa music floating up to him on the freshening late-afternoon breeze. Nothing appeared amiss.
He probed his own sixth sense for danger, the internal psychic alarm he trusted more than anything else. It was quiescent.
Except for the sudden appearance of the NYPD lieutenant at Riverside Drive that morning—an event Diogenes, compulsive planner though he was, had been utterly unprepared for—everything had gone well. Even that unwelcome surprise turned out to have a silver lining: he had been gratified by how quickly, and without hesitation, Constance had acted to neutralize the threat.
He glanced over at her now, sitting on a deck chair, wearing a knee-length white skirt and a pale lemon-colored blouse, large-brimmed straw hat obscuring her face and dark glasses. One slender ankle was crossed over the other, and an iced glass of tart limeade sat on a nearby side table.
It was the outfit he had suggested she wear when they checked into the hotel. He had chosen this location—Ocean Drive, the very heart of the South Beach Art Deco District—because of how easy it was to hide in plain sight among the chic, flashy, self-absorbed crowds. And he had chosen this hotel not only for its elegance and comfort—it was the old Vanderbilt Arms, done over, as had been most of the hotels on Ocean Drive, in Streamline Moderne, although thankfully with a degree of restraint—but because it was large. A cruise ship full of German tourists had just arrived and was occupying the staff’s full attention. He’d considered booking the penthouse, which occupied the hotel’s entire top floor and came with four bedrooms, a seven-foot grand piano, and an infinity pool, but he’d decided that might attract attention. Instead, he’d settled for one of the dozen grand suites, with three bedrooms, rainfall showers, Frette linens, and cedar saunas. It seemed a good stepping-stone between the austerity of Constance’s Riverside Drive rooms and the understated luxury of Halcyon.
Flying first-class to Miami had been straightforward. Thanks to the ironclad, unquestionable veracity of his Petru Lupei identity, it had not been necessary to “break his profile” for the flight. Everything was going according to plan—and yet, as he looked at Constance, he felt a tug of concern. Beneath the hat and behind the Bulgari sunglasses it was impossible to see her expression, but the stillness of her limbs, and the very way she was staring motionlessly out to sea, drink untouched, brought to mind the impenetrable stillness he’d noticed when he had watched her packing, preparing to take her final leave of 891 Riverside Drive.
Looking at her, he wondered if perhaps South Beach had been the right choice to stay during his harvesting of the cauda equina. After her ghastly, impoverished childhood, she had lived shut away from the world in the confines of the Riverside Drive mansion. Even after his brother had taken her under his wing, she had hardly ventured out into the world: only a few New York locations; Italy; England; New Orleans; and coastal Massachusetts. The gaudy Ocean Drive scene—all retro-chic neon and deco, steeped in preening narcissism—was perhaps even more outré than Las Vegas. Hiding in plain sight in such a trendy atmosphere had been part of the cover he’d chosen for them. But now he wondered if such a culture shock, coming as it did at a moment of galvanic change in Constance’s life, might have been ill chosen.
Constance took a sip of her limeade.
“Constance?” he said gently.
She turned to look at him.
“I wonder if you would mind coming inside for just a moment. I thought it would be a good idea if I went over the arrangements I’ve made for the next few days.”
After a moment, she rose. She appeared unsteady, because she placed one hand on the deck chair briefly before heading into the suite’s salon. Taking a seat on an overstuffed sofa, she removed her hat, smoothed its brow, placed it on the arm of the sofa, then took off her sunglasses.
Diogenes was shocked. Inside, out of the glare of the sun, her face looked pallid and drawn, and her eyes dark, as if slightly bruised. Could this be the result of the flight, or the shock of leaving her home of so many years? No: these manifestations looked systemic, not emotional. Was it possible that—now she was no longer in denial of the physical degeneration caused by Leng’s faulty elixir—she was succumbing to its effects? As he looked at her, pain and sympathy mingled with love.
“Are you all right?” he asked before considering his words.
She waved a hand. “A slight headache. It will pass.”
He took a seat on a chair across from her. “Here’s what will happen next. Lucius Garey is scheduled to die at nine PM tomorrow, in the Florida State Prison at Pahokee, about ninety miles northwest of here. The execution order has been signed and will not be rescinded. I’ll take the place of the medical examiner, who at the last minute will be suddenly indisposed—nothing serious, I assure you, but an issue that will keep him from performing his duties. The body should be delivered to the M.E.’s office by about ten. I’ll immediately remove and stabilize the cauda equina. Then I’ll make the examination of the body, as required by law. I’ll have to prepare a report and fill out the paperwork to have the body transferred to the next of kin. The incision I will make in the lower back will be small, and my report will give a medical reason for it. Nobody will be the wiser. Everything will be done by the book. My credentials and affiliation will pass muster.”
He swept a hand around the room. “Over the next thirty-six hours, while I’m gone, I would strongly encourage you to remain in the suite. The less we show of ourselves, the better. I’ve done all I can to make this a comfortable retreat. Choose whichever of the three bedrooms pleases you most. There are books, music, and a video library at your disposal: I’ve laid in a set of the complete works of Yasujirō Ozu, by the way, and recommend them if you’re not yet acquainted with his filmography. There’s twenty-four-hour maid and butler service, of course, and a full menu for in-suite dining at your disposal. You’ll find the refrigerator stocked with mineral water, fruit juices, and Dom Pérignon.” He tapped a cell phone that sat on the glass tabletop between them. “Should you need anything at all, please call me anytime.”
He stood up. “I should be back early the morning after tomorrow. My yacht is moored at South Beach Harbor. By that evening, we’ll be at Halcyon. I’ll have synthesized the arcanum—and you’ll be on your way back to health.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to leave in a moment. Is there anything else I can do for you, to make you more comfortable in my absence?”
“There’s nothing, thank you.”
“No meds? Muscle relaxants? Stimulants?”
She shook her head.
Suddenly, on impulse, he knelt before her and took her hand. “Constance, I make you a solemn promise: two days from now, we will already have begun our new life on my private island. Our private island. And I will devote myself entirely to your health and happiness.”
He gently turned her hand over in his, kissed her palm. Constance smiled.
He rose again. “Remember: call me anytime. I love you.”
And then he turned, picked up Petru Lupei’s elegant malacca cane, and silently left the hotel suite.
37
AT AROUND THE same time Diogenes was leaving the hotel suite, Pendergast—still dressed in the FBI windbreaker and ruined shirt and trousers—was entering his mansion at 891 Riverside Drive. Ignoring the crime scene tape set up across the reception hall, he stepped through and—after a quick reconnoiter—walked past the evidence tags and residual fingerprint dust into the library.
Nothing seemed out of set save for a letter that had been placed on a side table: a letter, addressed to the house at which no mail was ever received, except via a post office box. The letter was from Mrs. Trask, addressed to Proctor.
Pendergast tore it open. The letter stated that, due to her sister’s health, Mrs. Trask was forced to remain in Albany one or perhaps even two weeks longer than she had expected. She apologized, but she felt certain that looking after Constance would prove no imposition for Proctor.
Pendergast put the letter down. He remained motionless for a moment, listening to the empty house. Then, leaving the library, he made his way quickly through the upstairs area of the mansion, pausing first in Proctor’s and then—at greater length—in Constance’s sets of rooms.
The house appeared deserted. Proctor gave every indication of having left in a great hurry, and—judging by the very faint accumulation of dust over the surfaces of his furniture—had done so nine or ten days before. His bug-out bag was also missing.
Constance’s rooms, too, appeared not to have been occupied recently, with the exception of what was clearly a hasty packing job.
Standing there in the gathering dark of her room, Pendergast slipped a cell phone from his pocket, then dialed a number in the Cleveland suburb of River Pointe. It was answered on the third ring. Pendergast waited through the requisite fifteen seconds of silence while the identification process was completed.
“Is this my own Secret Agent Man?” came the familiar, breathy voice at last, speaking from a room illuminated only by the glow of computer screens and a single candle, burning in the gable window. “It seems you’ve got yourself a new number. And a new phone, as well: iPhone 6s, based on the internal hashtag. Very nice.”
“Mime, I need you to do something for me.”
“Isn’t that always the case? You never call just to chat anymore.”
“It is most urgent.”
“That’s the way it always is, too.” An exaggerated sigh. “Okay, what’s on your mind?”
“You know my chauffeur, Proctor?”
“Of course. Ex-military, in your unit at one time if I’m not mistaken, first name—”
“Very good. He’s gone missing from the Riverside mansion, as close as I can tell about ten days ago. I need you to track him down for me.”
“Hey, that actually sounds like fun. And when I’m done, maybe you can do something for me? There’s this new FBI toy that I’ve been coveting, a cellular duplexer that disguises—”
“Whatever you desire. Just find Proctor—and keep me informed. Thank you, Mime.” And Pendergast slipped the phone back in his pocket. Then he glanced around one more time.
Despite the deserted look of the room, D’Agosta had seen Constance in the house just this morning—in the presence of Diogenes. D’Agosta had told him Diogenes was carrying a suitcase. And Constance had been wearing a hat. This was something she rarely did—and only when traveling.
Diogenes. That he had survived the plunge into the volc
ano at Stromboli seemed impossible. But he had nevertheless been in this very house that morning, and he could have only one possible motive: revenge. Revenge on Pendergast, and especially on Constance, who had pushed him into the volcano almost four years ago.
But something wasn’t right. His questioning of D’Agosta that morning had raised certain discrepancies—curious, unsettling discrepancies that Pendergast found himself unable to account for.
He opened the door to Constance’s walk-in closet. Although she had an extensive wardrobe, it was obvious to Pendergast that a number of items were missing.
He stood quietly, thinking. It had been twenty-four days since the struggle in Massachusetts when he’d been swept out to sea. Clearly, a lot must have transpired in his absence—and all of it troubling. Why would Proctor have left the house, abandoning Constance? This was the one thing the man would never, ever do. Where had he gone? Why hadn’t he returned? Despite the request he’d made of Mime, Pendergast feared that Proctor might be dead at the hands of Diogenes. What had Constance been doing, alone, in the empty house?
But strangest of all: exactly what sort of scene had D’Agosta stumbled upon when he entered the mansion shortly after eight that very morning? His description of what transpired made little sense.
Two scenarios were possible. The first was that Diogenes had been caught in the act of abducting Constance for purposes of revenge, directed at her, or him, or both. But her demeanor, dress, and actions, as described by D’Agosta, didn’t fit this scenario.
The second scenario…the one that best fit the facts…was too perverse, and too terrible, even to consider.
He broke his reverie suddenly, going into action. He dashed from the room and began an intense, methodical search of the mansion. He climbed up into the rambling attic and from there moved thoroughly and rapidly down through the house, looking for information, any information, that could help solve the riddle of the empty structure. His mind was fixated on the fact that, even now, the clock was ticking, ticking down to her unknown fate…