He took a cautious step forward. “I’ve told you about Halcyon Key. I think you’ll find it even more marvelous than I have painted it for you — especially once you’re restored to your full youthful vigor. I’ve also told you about the arcanum. With a great deal of time, money, and research, I’ve been able to reformulate — almost — the old arcanum without resorting to the unfortunate necessity of extracting it from a human at the time of death.”
“Almost?”
“There is a complication. In order to complete the work, I need to prepare the original formulation one time only.”
“Why?”
“The explanation is complicated.”
“That answer doesn’t satisfy me at all. Are you saying you need to do an extraction from a human cauda equina?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can obtain the cauda equina you need from a corpse.”
Diogenes shook his head. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t work. The cauda equina needs to be fresh, you see — extremely fresh. Obtained at the very moment of death. The medical researchers I’ve employed have all come to the same conclusion.”
He saw a fury blaze across Constance’s face. She spoke quietly, with a razor’s edge to her voice. “You lied to me.”
“What I promised was that no human being has been harmed. And that is true — no human being has. The fact is, my research would have been far easier, and less expensive, if I had taken human lives. But I knew you would object. And… I am no longer a killer.”
“So you haven’t taken a human life yet, but now you will. How contemptible.”
“If you will let me explain, Constance. Please.”
Constance stared at him, saying nothing.
“It’s a life that would be taken anyway. You see, in three days, Lucius Garey will die by lethal injection, in a prison in southern Florida. He’s exhausted all his appeals, and the governor will not commute. Garey is a sociopath who’s expressed no remorse — on the contrary, he’s bragged of how much he enjoyed it. This horrible man, this sadistic killer and rapist, will die whether or not I lift a finger.”
He stopped, looking intently at Constance. She did not reply. That unreadable expression was once again on her face.
“Try to understand.” Diogenes spoke more quickly now. “I need the cauda equina, one very fresh cauda equina, for the chemical synthesis necessary to re-create the improved formula. A drug can’t be synthesized from nothing. You have to know its chemical structure. I need to have it analyzed and the chemical structure of certain compounds determined. We are talking about complex proteins and biochemical compounds that have millions of atoms within a single molecule, folded in complex ways. In the eighteen months I’ve had biochemists analyzing the problem, I’ve learned a great deal. As soon as I can obtain a sample of the original formulation, at long last my work will be done.”
Still Constance said nothing. Diogenes was unnerved by the opacity of her expression.
“Constance, I beg you — think this through. It’s a onetime process. After that, the synthesis of the arcanum will be free and clear. And nobody is being hurt: Garey is a dead man anyway.”
“And just how do you plan to obtain this man’s ‘fresh’ cauda equina?” Her voice was cold, cold.
“After an execution, a medical examiner must perform an autopsy. I will arrange to be that medical examiner. Once I have the cauda equina, I will extract what I need, bring the extraction to Halcyon, and biochemically synthesize it in the lab I’ve built there. Everything is prepared and in readiness — save for this. No more bodies needed. And you, my dear Constance, will get your youthful vitality, your health, restored in full. Please, Constance. Please.”
He fell silent, watching her very carefully. She remained still for what seemed an eternity, as if struggling with some inner conflict. Then — briefly, almost inaudibly — she said: “All right.”
Relief flooded through him. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for seeing the logic of the situation. I’ll leave you to your packing. Until eight tomorrow morning, then.”
And with a smile, he turned and left the room.
31
The midnight sea was like rippled glass, with a quarter moon setting over the horizon — a perfect night for business like theirs. At the helm, Filipov glanced over at the chartplotter. He had taken a heading due south from Bailey’s Hole, passing by the southern end of Machias Seal Island, avoiding the Grand Manan Banks and their flotilla of fishing boats. He was looking for water deeper than trawler depth, and according to the charts the Jordan Basin was the place for it. They were now fifty miles offshore, still in the U.S. exclusive zone but well outside the twelve-mile territorial limit. The radar indicated no boats, fishing or otherwise, as far as it could reach. This was one of the deepest parts of the continental shelf — and a notoriously poor fishing ground at that. The body would go to the bottom and never, ever reappear, not even in some bottom trawler’s net.
Filipov throttled down, brought the boat in a circle, and backed the engine until they were stationary. They were within the Labrador Current, a sluggish, quarter-knot flow of very cold water coming down from the Labrador coast, with no wind and little swell. No point in putting out a sea anchor; the boat could drift.
The crew had gathered in the pilothouse, their faces illuminated in the dim-red light of the nighttime bridge. Filipov looked at Miller. The man had a special hatred of the FBI, and Filipov had decided to let him do the honors — along with Abreu, the engineer, who was built like a brick shithouse. That should keep them happy. When they had dispatched the fed and dumped him overboard, they would head to Canada. And then, just as soon as was humanly possible, Filipov would shake free of these losers and head to Macedonia, where his family was originally from and he still had relatives. He had plenty of money; he could lie low and see how things developed. But he wanted to make sure they all got out of Canada first, and that none of them balked and decided to try their luck staying in the States.
“Miller, Abreu,” he said. “You two go below, get the fed, bring him up. Be careful — he’s a dangerous one. Check your weapons.”
“Why don’t we just shoot the fucker down in the hold?” Miller asked.
“Leaving his blood and DNA everywhere and giving ourselves a ten-hour cleanup job? No: we lay out tarps on the aft deck and shoot him there, then we can wash everything out the scuppers with the raw water hose.”
Miller and Abreu removed their weapons, checked them, racked in rounds, and stepped out into the darkness.
Filipov turned to Smith. “Dwayne, cut twenty feet of half-inch chain and spread some plastic tarps out on the aft deck. The rest of you, rack rounds; I don’t want to take any chances with this guy. He looks like shit, but looks can be deceptive. Take positions along the gunnels.”
He reached down to the breaker panel and flipped on all the night floods, bathing the working deck of the boat in dazzling light. Then he stepped out of the pilothouse, hooking the door open. Smith was already laying out the tarps, held down by lengths of chain. The lazarette hatch opened and Abreu emerged, hauling Pendergast up by his two handcuffed hands, with Miller shoving from below. The man could hardly walk; he looked practically dead already. Still, Filipov wasn’t about to take any chances — he remembered the look he’d seen in the man’s eyes.
“Everyone, keep your weapons at the ready. You two, dump him on the tarp.”