He moved to the next frame, which contained a copy of the magazine Museology; a museum ID, spattered with blood; and a box cutter.
“Margo Green,” Diogenes said, by way of explanation.
The next frame held a handwritten letter, several pages long, signed “A. Pendleton.” Beside it was an expensive-looking ladies’ handbag.
“Viola Maskelene,” Diogenes said in the same, strange, hollow voice. “That did not end well.”
More quickly now, he steered her past other frames, rounding the obsidian space to the exhibitions on the third walclass="underline" a cut-glass crystal containing what appeared to be diamond grit; a memorandum from Herkmoor Prison — and then, Constance stopped. In the middle of the third wall was a frame containing a fragment of a bloodstained satin sheet and a half-drunk glass of greenish liquor, with a faint trace of lipstick on the rim.
She turned suddenly to face Diogenes.
“You,” he said simply.
“I’ve seen enough,” she said, and abruptly stepped past him and began making her way toward the exit without looking at the other displays.
Quickly Diogenes scrambled to keep up. He darted ahead, and — as she rounded the fourth and final wall — placed himself between her and the door, blocking her path.
“Wait,” he said. “Look.” And he pointed at the frames.
After a moment, she complied. Save for the first — which contained an obituary, a bloody scalpel, and a decorative fan of Central American design — the frames on this wall were all empty.
“I’ve changed,” he said — and this time, the voice was not entirely cold and hollow; there was an edge to it. “I’ve changed again. I’ve stopped. Don’t you understand, Constance? Although that was not my original intention when I started keeping these trophies, this place has become — as I’ve implied — my Museum of Shame. It chronicles my misdeeds, both successful and unsuccessful, as a way of ensuring that I will never, ever go back to the old ways. But I created it for another reason, too: a safety valve. I realized that, if I ever did feel the old… needs resurfacing, all I would have to do was come here.”
Constance turned away from him, not entirely sure whether she was blocking out his words or her uncertain reaction to them. She realized her eyes were resting on the final occupied frame: the one that contained a scalpel, a fan, and an obituary. The obituary was for an eminent cardiac surgeon, Dr. Graben, who had been the victim of a homicidal slasher. The obit bemoaned the incalculable loss to science and humanity this man’s death heralded. It was dated only four days earlier.
“So you lied,” she said, pointing at the obituary. “You did kill more people.”
“It was necessary. I needed another sample to synthesize the elixir. But I don’t need any more: you can see, feel, the results for yourself.”
“And how is that supposed to make me feel? Others have died — died unnecessarily — so that I could live.”
“The old woman was comatose, moribund. And the doctor wasn’t supposed to die. His entrance was unexpected.”
Once again she began to walk away; once again he interposed himself between her and the door. “Constance. Listen. This room is a perfect cube — but the space that originally held the pump machinery was not. I’ve created a room within a room. Did you notice that large box, at the top of the stairway? When I made this room, I filled the space between the walls of my obsidian chamber and the original stone of the pump room with plastic explosive. Plastic explosive, Constance — enough C-4 to turn all of this — the chamber, the cistern, everything — into a fine mist. That box at the top of the stairs is the trigger, set on a time delay. Once, as I said, this chamber had a different purpose for me. Now it fills me with self-loathing. As soon as I was secure in your love, I was planning to blow it up — to destroy forever my shameful and violent past.”
Constance said nothing.
“I’ve bared my heart to you, Constance,” he went on, his voice suddenly urgent. “You’ve seen everything now. I never told you, but it was always my hope that, in time, we could both take the arcanum, and keep on taking it. Now that I have the perfect synthesis, not only have I succeeded in reversing your unnatural aging — but I have the ability to keep you, in essence, forever young. We can both stay forever young, cut off from the world, reveling in each other. And not only that alone: our son could join us, here in this most special place. He deserves to join us. Despite what you said before, he’s only a child. A little boy. He needs more than to be a figurehead, an item of veneration. He needs his parents. Here, we can forget our difficult, painful former lives and turn instead toward the future. Isn’t that a beautiful vision?”
His pleading tones echoed through the dim room.
“If all that is true,” Constance said, “if that life is really behind you, if this is nothing more than a chronicle of the past deeds of a former existence… why were you so quick to enshrine this?” She pointed to the obituary.
Diogenes looked from her to the frame. After a moment, he hung his head.
“I thought as much.” And she turned to maneuver around him.
“Wait!” he said urgently, following her as she opened the door leading to the catwalk. “Wait. I’ll prove it to you — the ultimate proof. I’ll arm the device now, detonate the C-4. Turn this museum into a crater. You can see for yourself — from a safe distance.”
She paused on the catwalk, looking down into the dark water. Behind her, Diogenes spoke again.
“What more proof can I give you?” he asked quietly.
64
Constance gazed at Diogenes a long time. She watched as perspiration beaded his face, and she absorbed the desperate yearning in his eyes. She saw the last, faint glimmer of hope in him, like the final coal in a dying fire.
Time to step on that coal.
“Proof?” she said. “You’ve given me all the proof I need of your love.” She spoke this last word with heavy irony. “Please do set the timer. I would take great pleasure in seeing all this blown up.”
“I’ll do it. For you.”
“I’m not convinced you could bear to have your precious mementos destroyed. You see now,” she murmured, in a voice full of feigned warmth, “how well we understand each other? It is true — we are alike, so very alike. I understand you. And you, Diogenes — you understand me.”
Diogenes went pale. She could see that he did indeed recalclass="underline" these were the very words he had spoken to her at the moment of her seduction at his hands, four years before.
And then she recited, in Italian, the lines of poetry he had whispered in her ear as he’d eased her down onto the velvet cushions of the couch:
He plunges into the night,
He reaches for the stars
With the recitation of these words, his bicolored eyes seemed to drain of color. She had stepped on that last spark of hope, and she felt the metaphorical crunch of it under her heel.
His face now began to change, his features slowly twisting into a horrible grimace of mirth. A dry, dusty, dreary laugh issued from his lips; it went on and on, a whispery, throbbing thing.
“So it is not to be,” he finally said, wiping his mouth. “I was duped. I, Diogenes, was completely taken in. It appears I am still searching for an honest man — or woman, as the case may be. Brava, Constance. What a performance. Your genius for cruelty exceeds my own. You have left me with nothing. Nothing.”