But no; this was just another one of Diogenes’s baroque lies.
Again, his quiet voice intruded on her thoughts. “Here’s the heart of the matter. Through a great deal of time and effort I’ve managed to accomplish two things. First, I’ve worked out Leng’s formula for the original arcanum. This is the formula my brother believed he had burned the only surviving copy of. He was wrong; there was one other. I found it. It took longer than I’d care to admit, as well as unique knowledge of this house — but I did it. I did it for you. And then I was able to synthesize, perfectly synthesize, that formula, so its manufacture would not require ongoing human victims. I give this to you, my dear.”
A brief silence descended. Again her head spun: it was all too much — too much. She felt overwhelmed; she could hardly stand. She glanced around, looking distractedly for a place to sit down; remembered who was standing before her; and with a great effort focused her attention once again on him.
“Of course, to do this I needed laboratories, scientists — and money. But that work is done. I have the new, synthetic formula. You don’t need to age prematurely. You don’t need to feel your mind tiptoeing into oblivion. After a brief course of treatment with my arcanum, your physiology will have stabilized; you can live out the rest of your life with no premature deterioration. We will both grow old together — normally. All I want from you is one word: yes.”
But Constance said nothing.
Looking at her, a new urgency came over Diogenes’s expression — as if, having said all this, he was afraid that she would refuse. His voice rose. “What kind of life are you going to have in this huge house, without my brother? Even if you do emerge from this self-imposed isolation, what kind of company do you think Proctor and Mrs. Trask will prove to be, year in and year out? Will they help you during the lonely decline you’re destined to suffer… through no fault of your own?”
He fell silent. If what he said was true, Constance could picture the result all too clearly: a wasteland of boredom and ennui, sitting in the darkened library, moving between books and the harpsichord, while the well-meaning Proctor stood guard at the door and Mrs. Trask served her overcooked pasta. It would be nothing less than standing guard at her own death watch. The thought of losing her mental faculties was almost more than she could bear.
“All those years,” Diogenes said, as if reading her mind. “All those years you spent under the tutelage of my great-grand-uncle Leng — what a shame to see such a mighty intelligence, such deep learning, go gentle into that good night.”
He waited, looking at her intently, as if willing her to speak. But she remained silent.
At last, he sighed. “I’m so sorry. Please know that I’ve risked a great deal for you already. I would never force a choice on you. Once the course of treatment is complete and you found you were not truly happy with me and Halcyon, I wouldn’t stand in the way of your leaving. I believe, I know, a beautiful and happy life awaits us there. But if you can’t see past my terrible misdeeds and your own hatreds, if you can’t believe that a love like mine can transform a man… I’ll have to accept that.”
And then, he turned away from her.
As he spoke these last words, Constance experienced a curious epiphany — one that had been bubbling up during their talk. Diogenes had treated her abominably. She had hated him with a fury that was almost beyond human. But it was also true that… she almost shuddered at the forbidden nature of the thought… here was the Pendergast she could have — a Pendergast who, perhaps, was more a kindred spirit to her than his brother could ever be. If Diogenes had truly changed.
He was slipping on a pair of gloves. She glanced over at the harpsichord, to where he had set down the stiletto. The weapon was still there. It would be the work of a second to snatch it up, bury it between his shoulder blades. Surely, he knew this as well as she did.
“I…” she began, then faltered. How could she possibly express the thought? But she said it: “I need time.”
Diogenes whirled toward her, hope blossoming on his face — an expression so earnest Constance realized, with a shock, that it was impossible to feign. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll leave you now. You must be very tired. Take all the time you need.” And he reached for her hand.
Slowly, self-consciously, she extended it.
He grasped her hand in his; turned it over in a slow, caressing motion; and planted a kiss in her palm. Then — as he drew back — he took the tip of her finger between his lips for the merest fraction of a second. It was like an electric shock to her entire body.
Then, with a smile and a short bow, he was gone.
25
On a back street of one of the shabbier business districts in Katutura, Namibia — a Windhoek suburb whose name translates as “the place where people don’t want to live”—stood a three-story residential building, sandwiched between a radio station and a garment factory. The building was seedy and in disrepair, its stucco exterior cracked and peeling, its tiny, lopsided balconies heavy with rust. Each floor was painted a different color — turquoise, yellow, gray — which, along with the mismatched windows and slapdash architectural details, gave the structure a bizarre, disquieted appearance. It was two in the afternoon, and every window was open in the vain hope of a cooling breeze.
Lazrus Keronda sat by the window of a two-room, barely furnished second-floor apartment. He was tucked back from the window, positioned strategically so that he could see the goings-on in the noisy street below while remaining unobserved himself. The restaurant on the floor below specialized in mopane worm crisps, softened in a stew of tomatoes, fried onion, turmeric, and green chilies. The pungent smoke from the steaming worms, wafting up, made his eyes water. But he would not take his gaze from the window.
He reached for a bottle of Tafel Lager — holding it loosely so that his injured hand would not protest — and took a long pull. The fresh, bitter taste of the beer helped a little. Maybe he was being overcautious. Still, it wouldn’t do to take chances. Another three days, maybe two, and then it would be safe to leave town. He had a stepbrother who lived in Johannesburg; he could hunker down there, with the brother and his family, for a couple of months. And with the cash he’d received, he had enough money to start a new venture. The dealership had been deep in debt, it wasn’t like he was losing anything by—
There was a faint sound behind him — the creak of a single floorboard — and he wheeled around.
“You!” he said. The beer bottle dropped from his hand and rolled away, unheeded, dribbling amber foam.
“Me,” came a soft voice. And then a young woman stepped out from the shadows. She was in her midtwenties, with light-blond hair, blue eyes, and prominent cheekbones. She was dressed in black leggings and a denim shirt with the tails knotted around her midriff, revealing a flat, muscled abdomen and a navel pierced with a diamond ring. Despite the heat, her hands were covered in latex gloves.
Keronda jumped to his feet. He was immediately aware of the extremity of his situation. A hundred excuses came to mind; a hundred lies, distractions, apologies, justifications. Instead, he blundered: “How did you find me?”