He should have protested her plan more forcefully. With Pendergast gone, he was responsible for her. But he knew nothing he said would have made any difference. Long ago he’d learned that, while he could handle almost anyone, he was hopeless against her. In time, he mused, with his subtle encouragement, Constance would accept the reality of Pendergast’s death — and rejoin the living…
A gloved hand whipped around from behind, seizing him around the rib cage and tightening with immense force.
Taken by surprise, Proctor nevertheless reacted instinctually with a sharp downward movement, attempting to throw the intruder off balance; but the man anticipated the reaction and thwarted it. Instantly Proctor felt the sting of a needle jabbed deep into his neck. He froze.
“Movement is inadvisable,” came a strange, silky voice that Proctor, with profound shock, recognized.
He did not move. It stunned him that a man — any man — had gotten the drop on him. How was it possible? He had been preoccupied, inattentive. He would never forgive himself for this. Especially because this man, he knew, was Pendergast’s greatest enemy.
“You’re far better versed than I in the arts of physical combat,” continued the smooth voice. “So I’ve taken the liberty of evening the odds. What you’re feeling in your neck at the moment is, of course, a hypodermic needle. I have not yet depressed the plunger. The syringe contains a dose of sodium pentothal — a very large dose. I will ask you once, and once only: signal your acquiescence by relaxing your body. How you react now will determine whether you receive a dose that is merely anesthetizing… or lethal.”
Proctor considered his options. He let his body slacken.
“Excellent,” said the voice. “The name is Proctor, I seem to recall?”
Proctor remained silent. There would be an opportunity to reverse the situation; there was always an opportunity. He only had to think.
“I’ve been observing the family manor for some time now. The man of the house is away — permanently, it would seem. It’s as depressing as a tomb. You might as well all be wearing crepe.”
Proctor’s mind raced through various scenarios. He must pick one and execute it. He needed time, just a little time, a few seconds at most…
“Not in the mood for a chat? Just as well. I have a great many things to do, and so I bid you: good night.”
As he felt the plunger slide home, Proctor realized his time was up — and that, to his vast surprise, he had failed.
1
Slowly, Proctor swam back up toward consciousness from inky depths. It was a long swim, and it seemed to take a long time. At last he opened his eyes. The lids felt heavy, and it was all he could do not to close them again. What had happened? For a moment he lay motionless, taking in his surroundings. Then he realized: he was on the floor of his sitting room.
His sitting room.
I have a great many things to do…
All of a sudden, everything came back to him in a mad rush. He struggled to rise; failed; tried again with still-greater effort, and this time managed to push himself to a sitting position. His body felt like a sack of meal.
He glanced at his watch. Eleven fifteen AM. He’d been out just over thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes. God only knew what might have transpired in that time.
I have a great many things to do…
With a heroic effort, Proctor staggered to his feet. The room rocked and he steadied himself against a table, shaking his head violently in an attempt to clear it. He paused just a moment, trying to collect both his physical and mental faculties. Then he opened the table’s single drawer, pulled out a Glock 22, and stuffed it into his waistband.
The door to his set of rooms was open, the central hallway of the servants’ quarters visible beyond. He made for the open doorway, steadied himself against its frame, then lurched down the hall like a drunken man. Reaching the narrow back staircase, he grasped the railing tightly and half walked, half staggered down two flights of stairs to the mansion’s main floor. This effort, and the sense of extreme danger that enveloped him, combined to help sharpen his senses. He walked down a short corridor and opened the door at the end leading to the public rooms.
Here he paused, preparing to call for Mrs. Trask. Then he reconsidered. Announcing his presence was inadvisable. Besides, Mrs. Trask had in all probability already left to visit her ailing sister in Albany. And in any case she was not the person in greatest danger. That person was Constance.
Proctor stepped out onto the marble floor, preparing to enter the library, ride the elevator to the basement, and take whatever steps were necessary to protect her. But just outside the library he stopped again. He could see that, within, a table had been overturned, books and various papers spilling over the carpeting.
He glanced around quickly. To his right, the mansion’s grand reception hall — its walls lined with cabinets full of strange displays — was a mess. A plinth had been knocked over, the ancient Etruscan cinerary urn previously displayed upon it shattered into pieces. The oversize vase of freshly cut flowers that always stood in the middle of the hall, its contents changed daily by Mrs. Trask, now lay broken on the marble floor, two dozen roses and lilies disarrayed in puddles of water. At the far end of the hall, at the doorway leading to the refectory gallery, one of the cabinet doors was wide open, canted to one side, half ripped from its hinges. It looked as if someone had grasped it in a frantic attempt to avoid being dragged away.
All too clearly, these were signs of a terrific struggle. And they led — from the library, across the reception hall — directly toward the mansion’s front door. And the world beyond.
Proctor ran across the hall. In the long, narrow room beyond, he could see that the refectory table — at which, until recently, Constance had been occupied with researching the Pendergast family history — was a riot of disorder: books and papers strewn about, chairs knocked over, a laptop computer upended. And at the far end of the room, where a foyer led to the front hall, was something even more disturbing: the heavy front door — which was rarely unlocked, let alone opened — stood ajar, admitting brilliant late-morning sunlight.
As he took in these signs with mounting horror, Proctor heard — from beyond the open door — the muffled sound of a female voice, crying for help.
Ignoring the still-receding dizziness, he raced down the room, pulling the Glock from his waistband. He ran under an archway, through the front hall, then kicked the front door wide and paused under the porte cochere beyond to reconnoiter.
There, at the far end of the driveway, a Lincoln Navigator with smoked windows was idling, facing Riverside Drive. Its closest rear door was open. Just outside it was Constance Greene, her wrists bound behind her. She was facing away from him, struggling desperately; but there was no mistaking the bobbed cut of her hair and her olive Burberry trench coat. A man, also facing away from Proctor, had hold of her head and was just now pushing her violently into the rear seat and slamming the door behind her.
Proctor raised his gun and fired, but the man leapt over the car’s hood and through the driver’s door, the shot going just wide. Proctor’s second shot ricocheted off the bulletproof glass, even as the car accelerated with a cloud of rubber and lurched onto Riverside Drive, the form of Constance, still struggling wildly, visible through the tinted rear window. The car roared down the avenue and out of range.