He placed a bookmark in the novel, shut it, and tucked it under his arm. The first part of the plan was to show himself to her, to be intentionally seen-if she had managed to follow him here. But he could take no more chances, make no more assumptions.
He rose, slung his coat over his arm, and strolled down the terminal, glancing casually left and right, observing the masses of humanity as they ebbed and flowed on their futile business, a tidal flow of grays and more grays: layers of gray, an infinitude of gray. As he passed the Borders once again, his eye paused fleetingly on a dowdy woman buying a copy of Vogue; she was dressed in a brown woolen skirt of African design with a white shirt, a cheap scarf wrapped around her neck. Her brown, unwashed hair fell limply to her shoulders. She carried a small black leather backpack.
Diogenes passed slowly by the bookstore and went into the Starbucks next door, shocked that Constance had made such a poor effort to disguise herself. Shocked, also, that she had managed to follow him.
Or had she?
She must have. To find him any other way would take a mind reader.
He purchased a small organic green tea and croissant and made his way back to his seat, taking care not to look at the woman again. He could kill her here-it would be easy-but he would not be able to escape the layers of airport security. Would she make an attempt on his life in this exposed place? Did she care enough about her own life to take greater care-or was her sole aim to end his?
He had no answer.
Mr. Gerald Boscomb finished his tea and croissant, brushed the crumbs off the tips of his fingers, dusted his coat, and resumed reading his newly acquired thriller. A moment later, the first-class cabin of his flight was called to board. As he proffered his boarding pass to the gate attendant, his eye swept the terminal aisle again, but the woman had disappeared.
“G’day,” he said cheerily, as he took the ticket stub and entered the jetway.
Chapter 69
Vincent D’Agosta entered the library of 891 Riverside Drive, pausing in the doorway. A fire blazed on the hearth, the lights were up, and the room was a hive of concentrated activity. The chairs had been pushed back against the bookcases, and a large table covered with papers dominated the center of the room. Proctor was at one side, murmuring into a cordless phone, while Wren, his hair even wilder than usual, pored over a stack of books at a desk in the corner. The little man looked pinched and ancient.
“Vincent. Please come in.” Pendergast called D’Agosta over with a curt gesture.
D’Agosta complied, shocked at the agent’s uncharacteristically haggard appearance. It was the only time he remembered ever seeing Pendergast unshaven. And, for once, the man’s suit jacket was unbuttoned.
“I got the details you wanted,” D’Agosta said, holding up a manila folder. “Thanks to Captain Hayward.” He dropped it on the table, flipped it open.
“Proceed.”
“Witnesses say the shooter was an old woman. She got on the train with a first-class ticket to Yonkers, paid in cash. Gave the name Jane Smith.” He snorted. “Just as the train was pulling out of Penn Station, while it was still underground, she entered the first-class berth of a passenger named… Eugene Hofstader. Pulled a gun and fired four shots. Forensics recovered two.44-40 rounds embedded in the walls and another on the tracks outside. Get this: they were antique rounds-probably shot from a nineteenth-century revolver, a Colt perhaps.”
Pendergast turned to Wren. “Check to see if we’re missing a Colt Peacemaker or similar revolver from the collection, along with any.44-40 rounds, please.”
Wordlessly, Wren stood up and left the room. Pendergast glanced back at D’Agosta. “Go on.”
“The old woman vanished, although no one saw her get off the train, which was sealed almost immediately following the shooting. If she was wearing a disguise and discarded it, it was never found.”
“Did the man leave anything behind?”
“You bet: a valise and a garment bag full of clothes. No papers or documents, or even a clue to his true identity. All labels had been carefully razored off the clothing. But the valise…”
“Yes?”
“They brought it into the evidence room, and when the warrant came down, they opened it up. Apparently, the evidence officer took one look and, well, whatever happened next he had to be sedated. A hazmat team was called in, and the stuff is now under lock and key-nobody seems to know where.”
“I see.”
“I guess we’re talking about Diogenes here,” said D’Agosta, slightly annoyed that he’d been sent out on the assignment with less-than-complete information.
“That is correct.”
“So who’s this old lady who shot at him?”
The agent gestured toward the table at the center of the room. “When Proctor returned here last night, he found Constance missing, along with a few articles of clothing. In her room, he found her pet mouse, its neck broken. Along with that note and the rosewood box.”
D’Agosta walked over, picked up the indicated note, read it quickly. “Jesus. Oh, Jesus, what a sick fuck…”
“Open the box.”
He opened the small antique box a little gingerly. It was empty, a long dimple left in the purple velvet interior by some object, now gone. A faded label on the inside cover read Sweitzer Surgical Instrument Company.
“A scalpel?” he asked.
“Yes. For Constance to cut her wrists with. She seems to have taken it for another purpose.”
D’Agosta nodded. “I think I’m getting the picture. The old woman was Constance.”
“Yes.”
“I hope she succeeds.”
“The thought of their meeting again is too terrible to contemplate,” Pendergast replied, his face grim. “I must catch up with her-and stop her. Diogenes has been preparing for this escape for years, and we have no hope of tracing him… unless, of course, he wishes to be traced. Constance, on the other hand, will not be trying to conceal her tracks. I must follow her… and there is always a chance that, in finding her, I will find him as well.”
He turned to an iBook sitting open on the table, began typing. A few minutes later, he looked over. “Constance boarded a flight to Florence, Italy, at five o’clock this afternoon, out of Logan Airport in Boston.” He turned. “Proctor? Pack my things and book a ticket to Florence, if you please.”
“I’m coming with you,” said D’Agosta.
Pendergast looked back at him, his face gray. “You may accompany me to the airport. But as for going with me-no, Vincent, you will not. You have a disciplinary hearing to prepare for. Besides, this is a… family matter.”
“I can help you,” said D’Agosta. “You need me.”
“Everything you say is true. And yet I must, and I will, do this alone.”
His tone was so cold and final that D’Agosta realized any reply was useless.
Chapter 70
Diogenes Pendergast, a.k.a. Mr. Gerald Boscomb, passed the Palazzo Antinori and turned into the Via Tornabuoni, breathing in the damp winter air of Florence with a certain bitter nostalgia. So much had happened since he was last here, mere months ago, when he had been filled with plans. Now he had nothing-not even his clothes, which he had abandoned on the train.
Not even his treasured valise.
He strolled pass Max Mara, remembering with regret when it was once the fine old Libreria Seeber. He stopped in at Pineider, bought some stationery, purchased luggage at Beltrami, and picked up a raincoat and umbrella at Allegri-all of which he had sent over to his hotel, keeping only the raincoat and umbrella, for which he had paid cash. He stopped at Procacci, settled himself at a tiny table in the crowded shop, and ordered a truffle sandwich with a glass of vernaccia. He sipped his drink thoughtfully, watching passersby through the window.