He turned a corner, continued making his way down the endless corridors. The noises, the cries, the smells and sounds of the secure ward barely penetrated his consciousness as he mulled over the mysteries of the case. There was, first, the question of the young woman's identity. Despite a diligent search, court administrators had been unable to find a birth certificate, Social Security number, or any other documentary evidence of her existence beyond a few genteel and intentionally vague records from the Feversham Institute in Putnam County. The British passport found in her possession was real enough, but it had been obtained through an exceedingly clever fraud perpetrated on a minor British consular official in Boston. It was as if she had appeared on the earth fully formed, like Athena sprung from the forehead of Zeus.
As his footsteps echoed down the long corridors, Felder tried not to think too much about what he would ask. Where formal questioning had not penetrated her opacity, spontaneous conversation might.
He turned a last corner, arrived at the meeting room. A guard on duty unlocked the gray metal door with a porthole window and ushered him into a small, spare, but not entirely unpleasant room with several chairs, a coffee table, some magazines, a lamp, and a one-way mirror covering a wall. The patient was already seated, next to a police officer. They both rose when he entered.
"Good afternoon, Constance," said Felder crisply. "Officer, you may remove her handcuffs, please."
"I'll need the release, Doctor."
Felder seated himself, opened his briefcase, removed the release, and handed it to the officer. The man looked it over, grunted his assent, then rose and removed the prisoner's handcuffs, hooking them to his belt.
"I'll be outside if you need me. Just press the button."
"Thank you."
The cop left and Felder turned his attention to the patient, Constance Greene. She stood primly before him, hands clasped in front, wearing a plain prison jumpsuit. He was struck again by her poise and striking looks.
"Constance, how are you? Please sit down."
She seated herself. "I'm very well, Doctor. How are you?"
"Fine." He smiled, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. "I'm glad we've had a chance for another chat. There were just a few things I wanted to talk with you about. Nothing for the record, really. Is it all right if we speak for a few minutes?"
"Certainly."
"Very good. I hope I don't seem too curious. Perhaps you could call it a liability of my profession. I can't seem to turn it off--even when my work is done. You say you were born on Water Street?"
She nodded.
"At home?"
Another nod.
He consulted his notes. "Sister named Mary Greene. Brother named Joseph. Mother Chastity, father Horace. Am I right so far?"
"Quite."
Quite.Her diction was so... odd. "When were you born?"
"I don't recall."
"Well, of course you wouldn't recall, but surely you know the date of your birth?"
"I'm afraid I don't."
"It must have been, what, the late '80s?"
A ghost of a smile moved briefly across her face, passing almost before Felder realized it was there. "I believe it would have been more in the early '70s."
"But you say you're only twenty-three years old."
"More or less. As I mentioned before, I'm not sure of my exact age."
He cleared his throat lightly. "Constance, do you know that there's no record of your family residing at Water Street?"
"Perhaps your research hasn't been thorough enough."
He leaned forward. "Is there a reason why you're concealing the truth from me? Please remember: I'm only here to help you."
A silence. He looked into those violet eyes, that young, beautiful face so perfectly framed by auburn hair, with the unmistakable look he remembered from their first meeting: haughtiness, serene superiority, perhaps even disdain. She had all the air of... what? A queen? No, that wasn't quite it. Felder had seen nothing like it before.
He laid his notes aside, trying to assume an air of ease and informality. "How did you happen to become Mr. Pendergast's ward?"
"When my parents and sister died, I was orphaned and homeless. Mr. Pendergast's house at Eight Ninety-one Riverside Drive was..." A pause. "Was then owned by a man named Leng. Eventually it... became vacant. I lived there."
"Why there, in particular?"
"It was large, comfortable, and had many places to hide. And it had a good library. When Mr. Pendergast inherited the house, he discovered me there and became my legal guardian."
Pendergast.His name had been in the papers, briefly, in regard to Constance's crime. The man had refused all comment. "Why did he become your guardian?"
"Guilt."
A silence. Felder cleared his throat. "Guilt? Why do you say that?"
She did not answer.
"Was Mr. Pendergast perhaps the father of your child?"
Now an answer came, and it was preternaturally calm. "No."
"And what was your role in the Pendergast household?"
"I was his amanuensis. His researcher. He found my language abilities useful."
"Languages? How many do you speak?"
"None but English. I can read and write fluently in Latin, ancient Greek, French, Italian, Spanish, and German."
"Interesting. You must have been a clever student. Where did you go to school?"
"I learned on my own."
"You mean, you were self-educated?"
"I mean I learned on my own."
Could it be possible?Felder wondered. In this day and age, could a person be born and grow up in the city and yet remain completely and officially invisible? This informal approach was going nowhere. Time to get a little more direct, press her a little. "How did your sister die?"
"She was murdered by a serial killer."
Felder paused. "Is the case on file? Was the serial killer caught?"
"No and no."
"And your parents? What happened to them?"
"They both died of consumption."
Felder was suddenly encouraged. This would be easy to check, as tuberculosis deaths in New York City were meticulously documented. "In which hospital did they die?"
"None. I don't know where my father died. I know my mother died on the street and her body was buried in the potter's field on Hart Island."
She remained seated, hands folded in her lap. Felder felt a sense of increasing frustration. "Getting back to your birth: you don't even remember what year you were born?"
"No."
Felder sighed. "I'd like to ask you some questions about your baby."
She remained still.
"You say you threw your baby off the ship because it was evil. How did you know it was evil?"
"His father was evil."
"Are you ready to tell me who he was?"
No answer.
"Do you believe that evil is inheritable, then?"
"There are suites, aggregates, of genes in the human genome that clearly contribute to criminal behavior, and those aggregates are inheritable. Surely you have read about recent research on the Dark Triad of human behavior traits?"
Felder was familiar with the research and very surprised at the lucidity and erudition of the response.
"And so you felt it necessary to remove his genes from the gene pool by throwing your baby into the Atlantic Ocean?"
"That's correct."
"And the father? Is he still alive?"
"He's dead."
"How?"