Did you know this, Constance? That Antoine killed and vivisected your sister? Surely you must have. Perhaps at first it was just a supposition, a strange twinge of dark fancy. No doubt you ascribed it to your own perverse cast of mind. But over time-and you two had so very much time-it must have come to seem, first a possibility, then a certainty. Yet no doubt this was all subconscious, buried so deep as to be almost undiscoverable. And yet you knew it: of course you did.
What a deliciously ironic situation. This man, Antoine Pendergast, killed your very own sister-for the furthering of his own mortal life… and ultimately yours as well! This is the man to whom you owe everything! Do you know how many children had to die so that he could develop his elixir, so that you could enjoy your abnormally extended childhood? You were born normal, Constance; but thanks to Uncle Antoine, you became a freak of nature. That was your word, wasn’t it? Freak.
And now, my dear, duped Constance, you can no longer shove this idea aside. You can no more dismiss it as a flight of imagination, or a dark irrational fear on those nights when the thunder rumbles and you cannot sleep. Because the worst is, in fact, true: this is precisely what happened. Your sister was murdered to prolong your life. I know, because before he died, Uncle Antoine told me so himself.
Oh, yes: I had several chats with the old gentleman. How could I not seek out a dear relative with such a colorful history, with a worldview so similar to my own? The very possibility that he might still be alive after all those decades added excitement to my search, and I did not rest until I at length tracked him down. He quickly sensed my own true nature, and naturally became most anxious that your path should never cross mine-but in return for my promise never to meet you, he seemed happy enough to discuss his, shall we say, unique solution for a broken world. And he confirmed everything: the existence of his concoction for the prolongation of life-although he withheld from me the manner of its preparation. Dear Uncle Antoine, I was sorry to see him go; the world was a most interesting place with him in it. But at the time of his murder, I was too closely involved in my own plans to help him escape his fate.
So I ask one more time: what was it like for you to live in this house for so many, many years as helpmate to your sister’s killer? I can’t even begin to imagine it. No wonder your psyche is so frail-no wonder my brother fears for the soundness of your mind. Together, alone, in this house: was it possible that you even grew to become, shall we say, on intimate terms with Antoine? But no, not that: I am the first man to become master of that shrine, dearest Constance: the physical evidence was incontrovertible. But you loved him-no doubt you loved him.
And so what now is left for you, my poor pitiable Constance? My precious fallen angel? Handmaiden to fratricide, consort to your sister’s murderer? The very air you breathe you owe to her, and to Antoine’s other victims. Do you deserve to continue this perverse existence? And who will mourn your passing? My brother, surely not: you would be a guilty burden to him no more. Wren? Proctor? How risible. I shall not mourn you: you were a toy; a mystery easily solved; a dull box forced and found empty; an animal spasm. So let me give you a piece of advice, and please believe this to be the one honest, altruistic thing I have ever told you.
Do the noble thing. End your unnatural life.
Ever your
Diogenes
P.S. I was surprised to see how juvenile your earlier attempt at suicide was. Surely, you now know not to slash willy-nilly across your wrists; the knife is arrested by the tendons. For a more satisfactory result, cut lengthwise, between the tendons: just one cut: slow, forceful, and above all, deep. As for my own scar: isn’t it remarkable what one can do with a bit of greasepaint and wax?
A long, unfathomable moment passed.
Then, Constance turned her attention to the small present. She picked it up and unwrapped it, slowly, gingerly, as one might a bomb. Inside was a hinged box of beautifully polished rosewood.
Just as slowly, she opened the box. Within, nestled on purple velvet, rested an antique scalpel. The handle was of yellowed ivory; the blade itself was polished to great brilliance. Extending an index finger, she stroked the handle of the scalpel. It was cool and smooth. Carefully she drew the scalpel out of the box, balancing it in the palm of her hand, turning it in the light, staring at the mirrored blade that flashed like a diamond in the firelight.
Chapter 61
When the lights went out, Smithback paused, a raw oyster halfway to his mouth. There was a millisecond of utter darkness before a deep clunk sounded somewhere and the emergency lights came on, rows of fluorescent tubes in the ceiling, bathing everything in a hideous greenish-white light.
He looked around. Most of the VIPs in the crowd had gone into the tomb, but the second shift remained, with plenty of serious drinkers and eaters, standing around or sitting at tables. They remained calm, taking the power failure in stride.
Shrugging, he tipped the oyster shell into his mouth and sucked in the briny, still-living slithery bolus, smacked his lips in enjoyment, and plucked a second oyster from the plate, readying it for the same operation.
And then he heard the shots: six muffled reports from the darkness beyond the far end of the halclass="underline" a heavy-caliber handgun firing in a measured cadence, one shot after another. With a dying crackle, the emergency lights went out-and Smithback knew immediately that something big was going down, that there was a story happening. The only light in the hall now came from the hundreds of tea candles spread out on the dinner tables. There were murmurings from the remaining crowd, a rising sense of alarm.
Smithback looked in the direction of the gunshots. He recalled seeing various technicians and staff going in and out of a door in the rear of the hall as the evening progressed, and he figured it must lead to the control room for the Tomb of Senef. As he watched, somebody he recognized-Vincent D’Agosta-came through that door. Not in uniform at the moment, but still looking every inch the cop. With him was somebody else Smithback recognized: Randall Loftus, the well-known director. He watched them make their way toward the small knot of television cameras.
A stab of uneasiness struck Smithback as he realized his wife, Nora, was inside the tomb. Probably stuck in utter darkness. But the tomb had a full complement of guards and cops, so she was certainly safe. Something was happening here, and it was his job as a reporter to find out just what it was. He watched D’Agosta cross the hall, break the glass in an emergency fire station, and remove an axe.
He pulled out his notebook and pencil, noted the time, and jotted down what he was seeing. D’Agosta walked over to a cable, positioned the axe, and brought it down with a clunk, eliciting a roar of protest from Loftus and the PBS technicians. Ignoring them, D’Agosta walked calmly back, axe in hand, to the small door in the rear of the hall, which he then closed behind him.
The tension in the hall increased by an order of magnitude.
Whatever was happening, it was big.
Smithback swiftly followed in D’Agosta’s wake. Reaching the door to the control room, he put his hand on the knob. Then he paused. If he barged in there, he was likely to be ejected. Better to hang back, mingle with the crowd, and wait for the other shoe to drop.
It didn’t take long. Within minutes, D’Agosta, still carrying the axe, and Captain Hayward burst out the door, jogged down the hall, and disappeared out the main exit. A moment later, Manetti, the director of security, came out, climbed onto the darkened podium, and addressed the remaining partygoers.