Singleton was nodding slowly. "How much time do you need?"
"The doctors don't know. A week, maybe two."
Singleton nodded again, even more slowly. D'Agosta felt himself flushing all over. He wondered what the captain was thinking.
"She doesn't have much time left," he went on. "You know how it is. I haven't exactly been a model son. I just feel I need to be with her, right now, through this… Just like any son would," he concluded lamely. "You could rack it up against future vacation and sick leave."
Singleton listened closely, but this time he didn't nod. "Of course," he said.
He gazed at D'Agosta a long time. His look seemed to say: A lot of people have sick parents, personal tragedies. But they're professionals. What's so different about you? Breaking eye contact at last, he turned away, picking up the sheaf of papers that lay on his desk.
"I'll have Mercer and Sabriskie coordinate the stakeouts," he said crisply over his shoulder. "Take whatever time you need, Lieutenant."
SIX
A dense FOG lay over the stagnant marshlands of Little Governors Island. From out of the murk came the mournful blast of a tugboat drifting down the East River. Manhattan was less than a mile across the icy black waters, but no lights from the cityscape pierced the veil of mist.
D'Agosta sat in the front passenger seat, holding grimly to the door handle as Laura Hayward's unmarked pool car bounced and swayed over the rough one-lane road. The headlights stabbed into the gloom, twin shafts of yellow that caromed wildly up and down, briefly illuminating the rutted drive and the skeletal chestnut trees that lined it.
"I think you missed one pothole back there," he said.
"Never mind about that. Let me get this straight. You told Singleton your mom has cancer?"
D'Agosta sighed. "It was the first thing that came into my head."
"Jeez, Vinnie. Singleton's own mother died of cancer. And guess what? He never missed a day of work. Had the funeral on a Sunday. Everybody knows that story."
"I didn't." D'Agosta winced, thinking back over what he'd said to his captain that morning. You know how it is. I just feel I need to be with her, right now, through this. Just like any son would. Nice going, Vinnie.
"And I still can't believe you're taking a leave of absence to hunt for this brother of Pendergast's, based on a letter and a hunch. Don't get me wrong: nobody respected Pendergast more than me, he was the most brilliant law enforcement officer I ever met. But he had a fatal weakness, Vinnie, and you know what it was. He didn't respect the rules. He thought he was above the rest of us schmucks who are bound by the regulations. And I hate to see you picking up that attitude."
"I'm not picking up that attitude."
"This search for Pendergast's brother is so far beyond the rule book it isn't even funny. I mean what, exactly, are you planning to do if you find this Diogenes?"
D'Agosta didn't answer. He hadn't gotten that far yet.
The car shuddered as the front left tire sank into a rut. "Are you sure this is the right way?" she asked. "I can't believe there's a hospital out here."
"It's the right way."
Ahead, vague shapes were gradually becoming visible through the fog. As the car approached, the shapes resolved themselves into the pointed bars of a wrought-iron gate, set in a ten-foot-high wall of moss-covered bricks. The sedan pulled up before the closed gate, an ancient guardhouse beside it. A plaque on the gate read Mount Mercy Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
A guard appeared, flashlight in hand. D'Agosta leaned across Hayward, displaying his badge. "Lieutenant D'Agosta. I have an appointment to see Dr. Ostrom."
The man retreated into the guardhouse, checked a printed list. A moment later, the gate creaked slowly open. Hayward drove past and up a cobbled drive to a rambling structure, its battlements and towers half obscured by drifting mist. Along its upper edge, D'Agosta could see rows of crenellated stone, like broken teeth against the blackness.
"My God," Hayward said, peering through the windshield. "Pendergast's great-aunt is in there!"
D'Agosta nodded. "Apparently, this place used to be an expensive sanatorium for tubercular millionaires. Now it's a loony bin for murderers found not guilty by reason of insanity."
"What did she do, exactly?"
"Constance tells me she poisoned her whole family."
Hayward glanced at him. "Her whole family?"
"Mother, father, husband, brother, and two children. She thought they'd been possessed by devils. Or maybe the souls of Yankee soldiers shot dead by her father. Nobody seems to be quite sure. Whatever the case, be sure to keep your distance. She's apparently skilled at acquiring razor blades and concealing them on her person. Put two orderlies in the emergency room in the last twelve months."
"No kidding."
Inside, Mount Mercy Hospital smelled of rubbing alcohol and damp stone. Beneath the drab institutional paint, D'Agosta could still glimpse the remains of an elegant building, with hand-carved wood ceilings and paneled walls, the hallway floors of well-worn marble.
Dr. Ostrom was waiting for them in a "quiet room" on the second floor. He was a tall man in a spotless medical coat who, even without speaking, managed to convey the air of having several more important things to do. Glancing around the sparsely appointed space, D'Agosta noticed that everything-table, plastic chairs, light fixture-was either bolted to the floor or hidden behind steel mesh.
D'Agosta introduced himself and Hayward to Ostrom, who nodded politely in return but did not offer to shake hands. "You're here to see Cornelia Pendergast," he said.
"At her grandnephew's request."
"And you're familiar with the, ah, special requirements necessary for such a visit?"
"Yes."
"Keep well back at all times. Make no sudden movements. Do not, at any time, touch her or allow her to touch you. You'll only be able to spend a few minutes with her; any longer and she's likely to become excited. And it's of paramount importance she not become excited. When I see any such indications, I'll be forced to conclude the interview immediately."
"I understand."
"She doesn't like receiving strangers and may not see you, and there's nothing I can do to force the issue. Even if you had a warrant…"
"Tell her I'm Ambergris Pendergast. Her brother." This was the name Constance Greene had suggested.
Dr. Ostrom frowned. "I don't approve of deception, Lieutenant."
"Then don't call it deception. Call it a white lie. It's important, Doctor. Lives may be at stake."
Dr. Ostrom seemed to consider this. Then he nodded brusquely, turned, and left the room through a heavy steel door set in the back wall.
All was silent for several minutes. Then-at what seemed a great distance-the voice of an elderly lady could be heard raised in querulous complaint. D'Agosta and Hayward exchanged glances.
The raillery grew louder. Then the steel door opened again and Cornelia Pendergast was wheeled into view.
She was sitting in a wheelchair whose every surface was encased in thick black rubber. A small needlepoint pillow sat in her lap, on which rested her two withered hands. Ostrom himself pushed the wheelchair, and behind him came two orderlies wearing padded protective garments. She was wearing a long, old-fashioned dress of black taffeta. She looked tiny, with sticklike arms and a narrow frame, her face obscured by a mourning veil. It seemed impossible to D'Agosta that this frail-looking creature had recently slashed two orderlies. As she came into view and the wheelchair stopped, the string of invectives ceased.