The barrel rose toward him.
Diogenes leaped to his feet, absinthe sloshing over his shirt and spattering the front of his pants, and flung himself backward as she squeezed the trigger.
Nothing.
Diogenes straightened, heart beating madly. It dawned on him that she had never fired a weapon before-she did not know how to aim, she had not yet turned off the safety. He sprang at her, but even as he did so, he heard the click of a safety being released, and a shattering explosion filled the compartment. A bullet punched a hole in the skin of the train car above his head as he twisted and fell sideways.
He scrambled to his feet as the woman took a step forward, wraithlike in the billows of cordite and dust. Once again-with perfect, terrible composure-she leveled the gun, took aim.
Diogenes threw himself at the door to the adjoining compartment, only to find that the porter had not yet unlocked it.
Another deafening explosion, and splinters flew from the molding mere inches from his ear.
He turned around to face her, his back against the window. Perhaps he could rush her, knock her from the door… But once again, with a deliberation so slow it was unspeakably awful, she leveled the old pistol, took aim.
He jerked to one side as a third bullet shattered the window where just a moment before he had been standing. As the echoes of the shot died away, the clank of the train wheels drifted in. There were shouts and screams in the corridor of the train now. Outside, the end of the platform was in sight. Even if he overcame her, wrestled away the gun-it would be all over. He would be caught, exposed.
Instantly, without conscious thought, Diogenes whirled around and dived out through the shattered window, landing heavily on the concrete platform and rolling once, twice, a confused welter of dust amidst bits of safety glass. He picked himself up, half dazed, heart beating madly, just in time to see the last car of the train disappear beyond the platform and into the dark mouth of the tunnel.
He stood there, stunned. And yet, through his daze, through his shock and pain and fear, an image persisted: the terrible calm with which she-Constance-had corrected her aim. There had been a lack of emotion, expression, anything, in those strange eyes…
Except utter conviction.
Chapter 68
Anyone observing the gentleman going through security at terminal E in Boston ’s Logan Airport would have noticed a dapper man in his mid-sixties, with brown hair graying at the temples, a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, wearing a blue blazer with a white shirt open at the collar and a red silk handkerchief poking from his breast pocket. His eyes were a sparkling blue, his cheekbones broad, and his face open, ruddy, and cheerful. A black cashmere overcoat was slung over his arm, and he laid it on the security belt along with his shoes and watch.
Past security, the gentleman strode vigorously down the terminal corridor, pausing only at a Borders near gate 7. He ducked inside, perused the shelves of thrillers, and was delighted to find that a new James Rollins had been published. He took up the book, plucked a Times from the rack, and brought them to the cashier, greeting her with a cheery “Good day,” betraying in accent and diction his Australian origins.
The gentleman then chose a seat near the gate, seated himself, and unfolded the paper with a snap. He took in the world and national news, turning the pages with a crisp, practiced motion. In the New York Report, his notice fell on a small item: Mysterious Shooting on Amtrak Train.
A sweep of his eyes took in the salient details: a man had been shot at on the Lake Champlain out of Penn Station; witnesses described the shooter as an elderly woman; the would-be target threw himself off the train and disappeared in the tunnels underneath Penn Station; a thorough search failed to identify the assailant or recover the weapon. The police were still investigating.
He turned the page and scanned the editorials, a slight frown gathering over some point he apparently disagreed with, soon clearing up.
A meticulous observer-and, in fact, there was one-would have seen nothing more remarkable than a wealthy Australian reading the Times while waiting for his flight. But the pleasant, somewhat vacant expression on his face was no more than skin-deep. Inside, his head was a boiling stew of fury, disbelief, and savage self-reproach. His world was upended, his careful planning destroyed. Nothing had succeeded. The Doorway to Helclass="underline" ruined. Margo Green: still alive. His brother: free. And most unacceptable of alclass="underline" Constance Greene, undead.
Smiling, he turned to the sports section.
Constance, unsuicided. With her, he had miscalculated disastrously. Everything he knew of human nature indicated that she would take her own life. She was a freak, mentally unstable-hadn’t she been stumbling blindfolded along the cliff’s edge of sanity for decades? He had given her a push-a hard shove. Why hadn’t she fallen? He had destroyed every pillar in her life, every support she had-undermined her every belief. He had drowned her existence with nihilism.
With rude haste the bloomy girl deflow’r’d,
Tender, defenceless, and with ease o’erpower’d.
In her long, sheltered, uneventful life, Constance had always drifted hesitantly, uncertain what she was intended for, confused about the meaning of her life. With bitter clarity, Diogenes now saw that he had cleared up her confusion and given her the one thing no one else could have: something to live for. She had found a new, shining purpose in life.
To kill him.
Normally, this would not be a problem. Those who interfered with him-there had been several-hadn’t survived long enough to make a second attempt. He had washed away his sins in their blood. But already he could see that she was not like the others. He could not understand how she had identified him on the train-unless she had somehow physically followed him from the museum. And he was still unnerved from the utter self-possession of mind with which she had shot at him. She had forced him to leap out a window, flee in undignified panic, abandoning his valise with its treasured contents.
Fortunately, he had retained his various passports, wallet, credit cards, and identifications. The police would trace the valise and luggage back to Menzies; but they could not identify his traveling alter ego from them: Mr. Gerald Boscomb of South Penrith, Sydney, NSW. Now it was time to put aside all extraneous thoughts, all the little voluntary and involuntary mental tics and flourishes and whispered voices that made up his internal landscape-and identify a plan of action.
Closing the sports section, he turned to business.
No thought of right and wrong-only her fury
With all her being speeded toward revenge.
Constance Greene alone could identify him. She was an unacceptable danger. As long as she pursued him, he could not retreat to his bolt-hole and regroup. And yet all was not lost. He had failed this time, at least in part, but he had many years of life left to establish and execute a new plan, and he would not fail a second time.
But as long as she lived, he would never be safe.
Constance Greene had to die.
Mr. Gerald Boscomb picked up the novel he’d purchased, cracked it, and began reading.
Killing her would require a finely tuned plan. His thoughts turned to the Cape buffalo-the most dangerous animal hunted by man. The Cape buffalo employed a peculiar strategy when hunted: alone among animals, it knew how to turn the hunter into the hunted.
As he read, a plan formed in his mind. He thought it over, considered various locations for its execution, and discarded each in turn, before arriving-at chapter 6-at the perfect setting. The plan would work. He would turn Constance’s very hatred for him against her.