After a moment, she rose. She appeared unsteady, because she placed one hand on the deck chair briefly before heading into the suite’s salon. Taking a seat on an overstuffed sofa, she removed her hat, smoothed its brow, placed it on the arm of the sofa, then took off her sunglasses.
Diogenes was shocked. Inside, out of the glare of the sun, her face looked pallid and drawn, and her eyes dark, as if slightly bruised. Could this be the result of the flight, or the shock of leaving her home of so many years? No: these manifestations looked systemic, not emotional. Was it possible that — now she was no longer in denial of the physical degeneration caused by Leng’s faulty elixir — she was succumbing to its effects? As he looked at her, pain and sympathy mingled with love.
“Are you all right?” he asked before considering his words.
She waved a hand. “A slight headache. It will pass.”
He took a seat on a chair across from her. “Here’s what will happen next. Lucius Garey is scheduled to die at nine PM tomorrow, in the Florida State Prison at Pahokee, about ninety miles northwest of here. The execution order has been signed and will not be rescinded. I’ll take the place of the medical examiner, who at the last minute will be suddenly indisposed — nothing serious, I assure you, but an issue that will keep him from performing his duties. The body should be delivered to the M.E.’s office by about ten. I’ll immediately remove and stabilize the cauda equina. Then I’ll make the examination of the body, as required by law. I’ll have to prepare a report and fill out the paperwork to have the body transferred to the next of kin. The incision I will make in the lower back will be small, and my report will give a medical reason for it. Nobody will be the wiser. Everything will be done by the book. My credentials and affiliation will pass muster.”
He swept a hand around the room. “Over the next thirty-six hours, while I’m gone, I would strongly encourage you to remain in the suite. The less we show of ourselves, the better. I’ve done all I can to make this a comfortable retreat. Choose whichever of the three bedrooms pleases you most. There are books, music, and a video library at your disposaclass="underline" I’ve laid in a set of the complete works of Yasujirō Ozu, by the way, and recommend them if you’re not yet acquainted with his filmography. There’s twenty-four-hour maid and butler service, of course, and a full menu for in-suite dining at your disposal. You’ll find the refrigerator stocked with mineral water, fruit juices, and Dom Pérignon.” He tapped a cell phone that sat on the glass tabletop between them. “Should you need anything at all, please call me anytime.”
He stood up. “I should be back early the morning after tomorrow. My yacht is moored at South Beach Harbor. By that evening, we’ll be at Halcyon. I’ll have synthesized the arcanum — and you’ll be on your way back to health.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to leave in a moment. Is there anything else I can do for you, to make you more comfortable in my absence?”
“There’s nothing, thank you.”
“No meds? Muscle relaxants? Stimulants?”
She shook her head.
Suddenly, on impulse, he knelt before her and took her hand. “Constance, I make you a solemn promise: two days from now, we will already have begun our new life on my private island. Our private island. And I will devote myself entirely to your health and happiness.”
He gently turned her hand over in his, kissed her palm. Constance smiled.
He rose again. “Remember: call me anytime. I love you.”
And then he turned, picked up Petru Lupei’s elegant malacca cane, and silently left the hotel suite.
37
At around the same time Diogenes was leaving the hotel suite, Pendergast — still dressed in the FBI windbreaker and ruined shirt and trousers — was entering his mansion at 891 Riverside Drive. Ignoring the crime scene tape set up across the reception hall, he stepped through and — after a quick reconnoiter — walked past the evidence tags and residual fingerprint dust into the library.
Nothing seemed out of set save for a letter that had been placed on a side table: a letter, addressed to the house at which no mail was ever received, except via a post office box. The letter was from Mrs. Trask, addressed to Proctor.
Pendergast tore it open. The letter stated that, due to her sister’s health, Mrs. Trask was forced to remain in Albany one or perhaps even two weeks longer than she had expected. She apologized, but she felt certain that looking after Constance would prove no imposition for Proctor.
Pendergast put the letter down. He remained motionless for a moment, listening to the empty house. Then, leaving the library, he made his way quickly through the upstairs area of the mansion, pausing first in Proctor’s and then — at greater length — in Constance’s sets of rooms.
The house appeared deserted. Proctor gave every indication of having left in a great hurry, and — judging by the very faint accumulation of dust over the surfaces of his furniture — had done so nine or ten days before. His bug-out bag was also missing.
Constance’s rooms, too, appeared not to have been occupied recently, with the exception of what was clearly a hasty packing job.
Standing there in the gathering dark of her room, Pendergast slipped a cell phone from his pocket, then dialed a number in the Cleveland suburb of River Pointe. It was answered on the third ring. Pendergast waited through the requisite fifteen seconds of silence while the identification process was completed.
“Is this my own Secret Agent Man?” came the familiar, breathy voice at last, speaking from a room illuminated only by the glow of computer screens and a single candle, burning in the gable window. “It seems you’ve got yourself a new number. And a new phone, as welclass="underline" iPhone 6s, based on the internal hashtag. Very nice.”
“Mime, I need you to do something for me.”
“Isn’t that always the case? You never call just to chat anymore.”
“It is most urgent.”
“That’s the way it always is, too.” An exaggerated sigh. “Okay, what’s on your mind?”
“You know my chauffeur, Proctor?”
“Of course. Ex-military, in your unit at one time if I’m not mistaken, first name—”
“Very good. He’s gone missing from the Riverside mansion, as close as I can tell about ten days ago. I need you to track him down for me.”
“Hey, that actually sounds like fun. And when I’m done, maybe you can do something for me? There’s this new FBI toy that I’ve been coveting, a cellular duplexer that disguises—”
“Whatever you desire. Just find Proctor — and keep me informed. Thank you, Mime.” And Pendergast slipped the phone back in his pocket. Then he glanced around one more time.
Despite the deserted look of the room, D’Agosta had seen Constance in the house just this morning — in the presence of Diogenes. D’Agosta had told him Diogenes was carrying a suitcase. And Constance had been wearing a hat. This was something she rarely did — and only when traveling.
Diogenes. That he had survived the plunge into the volcano at Stromboli seemed impossible. But he had nevertheless been in this very house that morning, and he could have only one possible motive: revenge. Revenge on Pendergast, and especially on Constance, who had pushed him into the volcano almost four years ago.
But something wasn’t right. His questioning of D’Agosta that morning had raised certain discrepancies — curious, unsettling discrepancies that Pendergast found himself unable to account for.
He opened the door to Constance’s walk-in closet. Although she had an extensive wardrobe, it was obvious to Pendergast that a number of items were missing.