“Done,” Diogenes said briskly, stepping back from the monitor.
The warden exchanged glances with the prison doctor. They were, Diogenes noticed, both ashen looking — the condemned had died an ugly, protracted, and painful death. He felt contempt for their weakness and hypocrisy.
The warden took a deep breath, mastering himself. “Very well,” he said. “Dr. Leyland, would you please confirm that the subject has expired and sign the death certificate?”
Diogenes nodded. Stepping away from the monitor, he plucked a few items from his medical bag — replacing the empty syringe in it as he did so — then stepped into the execution chamber. The viewing curtain was closed once again: already, the family members were being escorted out by prison staff, and official witnesses would be signing documentation. He walked over to the corpse of Lucius Garey. The man, in his agony, had struggled mightily against the leather bonds, as abraded and bleeding skin at the wrists and ankles attested to. Diogenes plucked the needle from the cubital vein and disposed of it in medical waste. He shone a light into Garey’s eyes and confirmed the pupils were fixed and dilated. After this, he did not look again at the face of the corpse: its unpleasant expression, including the fat protruding stub of a tongue — like an eggplant-colored Popsicle, papillae distinct and engorged as if from chelonitoxism — was offensive to him. Instead, he went methodically through the steps necessary to confirm death. He did a trapezius squeeze to ensure there was no pain reflex; observed the skin color; noted there were no signs of respiratory effort; felt the carotid artery for a pulse and found none. Using a stethoscope on the chest of the corpse, he listened carefully for respiration or a heart rhythm for two minutes. There was nothing; Lucius Garey was as dead as a mackerel. He stepped back, then turned and walked quickly away from the body with relief: Garey had voided his bowels during the execution process.
He walked out of the chamber, gave his findings to the warden and LeBronk, then completed the official paperwork, concluding with the time and date. Everything was done now — everything, that was, save what was for him the most important step of all.
By now, he knew, a refrigerated van would be waiting in a small parking area outside the death house. He’d drive back to the M.E.’s office in advance of it. He shook hands with the warden and LeBronk in turn. They both still appeared a little shaken from Garey’s protracted death. It amused Diogenes, on one level, that it had not occurred to either of them — or anyone else, for that matter — that the same doctor who’d administered the fatal cocktail of drugs to Garey would, rather unusually, also be the coroner who both pronounced the man dead and performed the postmortem. As a result, the unusual preservatives he had introduced would never be discovered in the deceased’s bloodstream. Of course, he hadn’t told Constance he was executioner as well as examiner — that would have distressed her unnecessarily.
Within five minutes he was out of the prison and headed toward LaBelle, county seat of Hendry County, where the M.E.’s office was located. He glanced southeast, in the direction of Miami. While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. In the trunk of his rental car — along with the beautiful suit, fast-acting hair coloring, and colored contact lenses of his Petru Lupei identity — was a special medical case, used in the transporting of organs or human tissue for such critical applications as transplants. At present, it was empty.
In an hour or so, he knew, it would be empty no longer.
40
Howard Longstreet’s office on the twenty-third floor of 26 Federal Plaza was not at all like the usual FBI office, which was how Longstreet liked it. For one thing, it rarely if ever received visitors — the executive associate director for intelligence called on others; they did not call on him. For another, considering Longstreet’s lofty position in the FBI, it was quite sparse. Longstreet eschewed the usual trophies, framed certificates or awards, and photograph of the sitting president normally found in such offices. There was not even a computer — Longstreet did his digital work elsewhere. Instead, there were three walls lined in books of every imaginable subject; a small table barely large enough for a tea service; and two wing chairs of cracked red leather.
Longstreet’s thin and remarkably tall form lounged in one of the wing chairs. He was reading — alternately — from a confidential report in one hand and a copy of George Eliot’s Daniel Deronda in the other. Now and then he stopped to take a sip from an iced beverage sitting on the table.
There was a faint knock on the door, then it opened a crack. “He’s here, sir,” came the voice of his private secretary.
“Send him in,” Longstreet said.
The door opened wider and A. X. L. Pendergast entered the room. Now, two days after his rescue, his rather distracted face still bore the marks of numerous scrapes and abrasions, but he was once again wearing his trademark black suit.
“Aloysius,” Longstreet said. “Good morning.” He gestured to the empty chair — a little dusty from disuse — and Pendergast took a seat.
Longstreet gestured at his drink. “Care for an Arnold Palmer?”
“Thank you, no.”
Longstreet took a sip of his own. “You’ve been busy.”
“One could say that.”
Those few people who knew Pendergast well would notice that he addressed Longstreet differently from the way he addressed others. There was somewhat less irony in his tone, and his normal air of remote detachment was tempered with something almost like deference. It was the vestigial effect, Longstreet knew, of being in the company of the man who had previously been one’s superior officer.
“I want to thank you for my rescue,” Pendergast said, “and for getting me back to New York so quickly.”
Longstreet waved a dismissive hand. Then he sat forward and pinioned Pendergast with bright black eyes. “If you want to thank me, you can do so by answering a few questions — with the honesty that I’ve always expected and demanded of you.”
Pendergast went a little still. “I’ll answer however I can.”
“Who brought you into the FBI?”
“You know who did: Michael Decker.”
“Yes. Michael Decker.” Longstreet ran a hand through his long gray hair. “My direct report, and your right-hand man, during our time in the Ghost Company. He saved your life twice during the later tactical ops, did he not?”
“Three times.”
Longstreet raised an eyebrow as if in surprise, although in fact he already knew the answers to all these questions. “And what was the motto of the Ghost Company?”
“Fidelitas usque ad mortem.”
“Quite right. ‘Loyalty unto death.’ Mike was close to you, was he not?”
“He was like a brother to me.”
“And he was like a son to me. After the Ghost Company, you were both like sons to me. And since his death, I’ve tried to take on his role so far as it pertains to you. I’ve done what I can to see you have free rein to work on the cases that most interest you — because, after all, that is what you’re best at, and it would be a shame to waste or, God forbid, lose your services. I’ve also, on occasion, shielded you from the official wrath of the Bureau. So far as I could, of course; there were one or two occasions when not even I could help completely.”
“I understand, H. And I’ve always been grateful.”
“But it’s Mike Decker’s death I want to talk about right now.” Longstreet took another sip of his drink.