“And the young girl?” Longstreet asked. “Constance?”
“She must remain unharmed. We can sort out her involvement once Diogenes is dead.”
Longstreet thought for just a moment. Then, silently, he extended his hand.
Just as silently, Pendergast shook it.
41
THE BOAT PARTED the cerulean water in a silky motion, the warm air riffling Constance’s mahogany hair and playing over her long dress. She reclined on the turquoise-colored upholstered seat next to Diogenes, who was at the wheel. They had taken his yacht from South Beach Harbor to a place called Upper Sugarloaf Key. There, at a bungalow nestled among pines on the water, they had exchanged it for a smaller boat with a shallow draft. Diogenes had spoken of it in reverential tones: a nineteen-foot Chris Craft Racing Runabout built in 1950, which he’d had restored with new bookmatched sides, new decks, and a meticulously rebuilt engine. The boat’s name, in gold leaf edged in black, was PHOENIX, with HALCYON KEY below.
Now, as they neared their destination, a change came over Diogenes. Not a voluble man to begin with, he had become more communicative, if not talkative. At the same time, his normally masked face had smoothed out and relaxed, his expression becoming almost dream-like—a most odd change from his normally acute, watchful mien. The wind stirred his short, ginger hair and his eyes were narrowed, looking ahead. As Petru Lupei, he had among other things covered his dead white eye with a colored contact lens, but she noticed that at some point he had removed it, bringing his eyes back to their heterochromic state, along with removing the dye from his hair. His Van Dyke was already starting to regrow. His whole way of moving, of speaking, seemed to have changed as well, physically becoming the Diogenes that she remembered from almost four years ago, but mentally different; not so hard-edged, not nearly so arrogant and acerbic.
“On the right,” he said, his hand moving from the chromed wheel toward a cluster of tiny islands covered with palmettos, “are the keys called the Rattlesnake Lumps.”
Constance gazed in their direction. The sun was low on the horizon to her left, a great yellow globe throwing a dazzling path across the water, painting the tiny islands in a golden light. Everywhere she looked there were low islands, uninhabited and wild. While she had never really thought much about the Florida Keys, the beauty and serenity of this place—and its tropical isolation—was something she never would have expected. The water was shallow—she could see the bottom zipping along below—but Diogenes handled the boat with sureness, apparently knowing the shallow, winding channels by heart.
“That little key to the left is called Happy Jack, and the one ahead is Pumpkin Key.”
“And Halcyon?”
“Soon, my dear. Soon. That large key on the right, almost entirely mangrove, is called Johnston Key.”
He turned the wheel and the boat eased left, bringing them toward the setting sun, passing Happy Jack on the left and Johnston on the right.
“And that, straight ahead, is Halcyon Key.”
Beyond Johnston, silhouetted in gold, she saw a large island surrounded by four tiny humps. As the boat approached, a long beach came into view, with a low, sandy bluff at one end, and beside it the white rooflines of a large house. Mangroves extended across the lower two-thirds of the island. The islets were also clusters of mangroves, some with tiny beaches at the seaward end. A long pier extended from the key, with a little wooden gazebo at its terminus.
Diogenes brought the boat in smoothly to where the dock made an L. He threw out a couple of fenders, reversed the engine for a moment, and the boat came to rest. He killed the engine, hopped out, tied up, and held out his hand. She grasped it and stepped out on the weathered pier.
“Welcome,” Diogenes said. He reached into the rear cockpit of the boat and pulled out her things. “Do I dare say, welcome home?”
Constance paused a moment on the pier and breathed in. The air was rich and fragrant with the sea, and the sun was just setting into the palms that fringed the beach. To her right she could make out, beyond the scattering of more uninhabited keys, the great expanse of the Gulf.
Two awkward pelicans sat on posts side by side at the far end of the pier.
“You are rather quiet, my dear.”
“This is all very new to me.” She inhaled, braced herself, tried to shake the feeling of being a stranger; of venturing into unknown and dangerous territory. She wondered, briefly, if she hadn’t made the biggest mistake of her life and would come to regret it bitterly. But no: she had to forge ahead and not look back.
“Tell me about the island,” she asked.
“Halcyon Key is about nine acres in extent,” said Diogenes, strolling along the dock with her luggage in his hands. “Six of that is mangrove and the rest palm trees, sandy beaches, and that bluff, there, which is unusual for the Keys.”
As they walked down the pier, the two pelicans raised their wings and flapped heavily away. Reaching the end of the pier, Constance followed Diogenes along a wooden walkway above the beach, through a cluster of mangroves, which suddenly opened into a wide area covered with sugary sand, shaded by numerous royal palms rising above lush gardens. In the middle of this open area stood a large, two-story Victorian house painted white, with wraparound verandas on both floors and a square tower rising at one end. It was a sprawling, airy house, the roof peaks and gables shining in the light of the setting sun.
“It was built in 1893 by a wealthy Bostonian,” said Diogenes, “who retired here with his wife. They had romantic ideas of turning it into an inn, but once here they found it unrealistic and lonely and soon left. After that it had a string of impecunious owners and went downhill—until I bought it twenty years ago and had it restored to its original splendor. We’re surrounded on all sides by the Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge. This key with its house was grandfathered in when the refuge was created.”
“I don’t see any boats around.”
“The water’s too shallow, and the channels too tricky, for most motorboats. You’ll see kayakers in the warmer seasons, though.”
“It is beautiful,” she murmured.
“Come.” He led her up the stairs and onto the broad veranda, which looked out over the lush gardens to a wall of mangroves. He opened the door for her and she stepped inside. A front hall with walnut wainscoting led to a staircase, with a living room on the right and a library on the left, each with large fireplaces, Persian rugs, and two Venetian chandeliers. The house smelled pleasantly of polish, beeswax, and potpourri.
She felt his eyes on her, awaiting her reaction. When she said nothing, he continued: “I’d like to introduce you to my factotum.”
She looked at him sharply. “You have help?”
“Yes.” He turned. “Mr. Gurumarra?”
A man silently appeared, as if out of nowhere. He was very tall and slender, with very dark skin, an extremely wrinkled face, and a head of tight white hair. It was impossible to guess how old he was; he seemed timeless.
“Mr. Gurumarra, this is Miss Greene, who is the new resident of Halcyon Key.”
The man stepped forward and shook her hand with his own, which was dry and cool. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Greene.” He spoke very formally, with an Australian accent.
“I’m pleased to meet you as well, Mr. Gurumarra,” said Constance.
“Mr. Gurumarra is from Queensland. He is Aborigine. Whatever you need, he can fix it here or bring it to the island for you. I suspect you will be needing a new wardrobe appropriate to the warm climate. If you put together a list, Mr. Gurumarra will take care of it.”
“Thank you.”
The man seemed to melt silently back into the shadowed corridor.
“He has been with me ever since I bought the island,” said Diogenes. “His discretion is absolute. He does not cook—that is my domain—but he keeps the house in order, shops, and handles all the little details of life that I find so irksome.”
“Where does he live?”
“The gard
ener’s cottage, through the buttonwood grove across the beach.” He took her hand, briefly, and led her around to the back staircase. “You probably want to refresh yourself after our journey. Let me show you to your rooms.”
She followed him up the stairs. They arrived at a second-floor sitting room that faced the veranda in the back of the house. From here there was a spectacular view northward, past keys fringing the Gulf and to the great expanse of water beyond. The sun was now touching the horizon and sinking fast. The windows were open and a breeze from the sea billowed the lace curtains and flowed through, keeping the room cool.
“You have your own wing,” said Diogenes. “Three bedrooms and a sitting room at your disposal, fireplace, and kitchenette. Accessible by the back stairs. Very private.”
“And where do you sleep?”
“In the front wing.” He hesitated. “The arrangements are, of course, flexible and can be allowed to…evolve.”
Constance understood his meaning quite well.
He set down her suitcase and trunk. “I’ll leave you to choose your room and get settled. I’ll meet you in the library for a drink. Would champagne be suitable?”
That queer feeling of strangeness was almost overpowering. She wondered if she really had the spine to go through with this.
“Thank you, Peter.”
He smiled and took her hand. “On Halcyon, it’s Diogenes. I am myself. There’s only family here.” He paused. “And speaking of family, we should—at some point—discuss what to do about ours.”
“Excuse me?”
“My dear, there’s our son to consider. And, then, of course, there is my brother’s child. Tristram. I want all my blood relatives well taken care of.”
Constance hesitated. “My, I mean our, son is in the care of the monks of Gsalrig Chongg. I can think of no better place for him.”
“And I agree. For now. Circumstances might change.”
“As for Tristram, he’s been told of his father’s disappearance and I suppose, when his death becomes official, he’ll learn of it. He’s fine for now in boarding school, but perhaps we can become his guardians when appropriate.”
“An ideal plan. I know so very little about my brother’s sole remaining son—I look forward to a deeper acquaintance. But for now, adieu.” He began to carry her hand to his lips but she gently removed it. He did not seem to mind. “In the library, at six.”
He left, and she stood in the sitting area, looking out to sea. The sun had now vanished below the limn of the sea and a warm twilight seemed to rise up from the ocean.
Wandering through the three rooms at her disposal, she picked the one facing east—with a view of an archipelago of tiny uninhabited keys—to take advantage of the rising sun. It did not take her long to unpack. None of her clothes were the slightest bit suitable for Florida. She had taken so relatively little from the Riverside Drive mansion, and no keepsake or memento of Aloysius—that would only cause her pain.
She entered the library at six, pausing in the doorway, her breath taken away.
Diogenes, sitting in a wing chair by a small fire, rose. “I’ve worked hard to make the room agreeable to you. It’s the heart of the house.”
Constance took a step inside. It was a sumptuous space, two stories high. The floor was spread with Persian rugs, the walls crowded with bookshelves, with an oak library ladder on brass rails and a red marble fireplace. Instead of books, one wall was covered with small paintings, crowded together in the nineteenth-century atelier style. A gorgeous painted and inlaid harpsichord dominated a far corner.
“What a beauty,” Constance murmured, approaching the instrument.
“The harpsichord is by the Florentine builder Vincenzo Sodi, 1780. Double tongue jacks with soft and hard leather plectra in the manner of the Cembalo Angelico. A lovely tone.”
“I look forward to playing it.”
“And you will find on the shelves all your favorite books, in rare editions, with many, many new titles for you to discover: titles of beauty and whimsy, such as Verga’s Livre de Prierès in vellum, the closest thing one can find to a nineteenth-century illuminated manuscript; or Teague and Rede’s exquisitely rare set of colored woodcuts, Night Fall in the Ti-Tree. Just to name two. Ah, and the paintings! As you have probably discerned already, they’re by Bronzino, Pontormo, Jan van Eyck, Pieter Bruegel the Elder, and Paul Klee.”
Diogenes pirouetted almost like a dancer, gesturing this way and that.
“In the other corner you’ll find an array of musical instruments. And in those cupboards are games, cards, and puzzles; chess and go. That construction in the other corner is an Edwardian dollhouse.”
It was huge and intricate, of almost magical workmanship. She went over to it. It was exquisite, precisely the thing she would have loved above all else to own as a young girl, and as she examined it her feelings of uncertainty and physical enervation faded. She could not help but be enchanted.
“Come, let us enjoy the champagne.”
He ushered her to a chair before the fire. With the setting of the sun, the evening had become slightly cool. The feeling of surrealness overwhelmed her again, seeing him sitting in a leather wing chair, smiling in domestic content as he removed a bottle of champagne from a silver ice bucket and poured two glasses, offering one to her.
“Nineteen ninety-five Clos d’Ambonnay, by Krug,” said Diogenes, raising his glass and touching the rim to hers.
“Good champagne is wasted on me.”
“Only until you develop your taste.”
She sipped, marveling at its flavor.
“Tomorrow I’ll show you the rest of the island. But for now, this is for you.” He took out a small wrapped box from his jacket pocket, with a ribbon tied around it, and gave it to her.
She took it and removed the wrapping, revealing a plain sandalwood box. Unlatching it, she opened it—to find, nestled in velvet, an IV bag, filled with a faintly roseate liquid.
“What’s this?”
“The arcanum. The elixir. For you, Constance. Especially and only for you.”
She gazed into the liquid. “And how do I take it?”
“By infusion.”
“You mean, intravenously?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Whenever you like. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
She stared at the box. “I’ll take it now.”
“You mean, right now?”
“Yes. While we drink the champagne.”
“That’s what I love about you, Constance. No hesitation!” Diogenes rose, walked over to a tall, narrow closet, opened its door, and rolled out a gleaming, brand-new IV rack on a trolley, with all the associated equipment.
Constance felt a faint sense of alarm. This was indeed crossing the Rubicon.
“The infusion takes about an hour.”
He positioned the rack by her chair, plugged in the electronic pump and monitor, fussed with the tubes and valves.
“Roll up your right sleeve, my dear.”
Suddenly Constance had a thought: a very dark thought. Was all this a charade? Was she being played once again? Maybe Diogenes’s love for her was a sham; maybe this was some insanely intricate plot to deliver into her veins some poisonous or deforming drug. But as quickly as this thought came, she dismissed it: no one, not even Diogenes, could pull off a deception as profound as that. And she felt certain she would have sensed something wrong. She rolled up her sleeve.
His warm fingers took the arm, gently palpated it, strapped a rubber tourniquet around. “No need to look.”
She looked anyway as he expertly inserted the needle. Diogenes hung the bag on the rack, turned the stopcock—and she turned back to watch as the violet liquid crept down the tube toward her arm.
42
THE MAIN STREET of Exmouth, Massachusetts, looked far different today from the last time Pendergast had seen it in sunlight. That had been—he thought a moment—twenty-eight days ago. On that day, the entire population of the town
had been assembled before the police station, spilling down side streets, and the mood had been one of relief and joy: the cloud that had lingered over the town had vanished; the recent murders, and the vestiges of an old, poisonous past, had both been resolved. But now the police station was quiet and dark: a temporary National Guard barracks had been erected beside it until the shattered town could re-form itself and a new chief of police be appointed.
The main street itself still appeared at first glance to be a typical working-class New England fishing village…until one looked closely. Then the differences became apparent: the boarded-up windows; the numerous FOR SALE signs; the empty shopfronts. It would be years before the town returned to normal—if, indeed, it ever did.
Back in New York, Pendergast knew, Howard Longstreet was—in his quiet way—bringing all the massive resources at his disposal to bear on the single question: where had Diogenes vanished to? Favors were being called in, sister agencies were being queried, even NSA domestic surveillance was being tapped. Nothing, however, had yet surfaced. And so Pendergast had journeyed to Exmouth: the last place he’d seen his brother before he himself had been swept out to sea.
He had spent the morning speaking with several of Exmouth’s inhabitants, sharing joint memories with some and asking vague, indirect questions of others. Now he continued driving down Main, glancing this way and that. Here, he saw, was the corner from which he and Constance had watched the festivities on that final day. Constance. Pendergast held her image in his mind for a moment, then forced it away. Feelings of restlessness, doubt, and guilt were threatening to impair his judgment. It was vital that he keep his speculations as to her motives at bay.
At the far end of the business district, Pendergast paused long enough to glance at the rambling Victorian sea captain’s house that had, until recently, been the Captain Hull Inn. The Inn’s cheery signboard was now gone, replaced by a large, monochromatic sign bearing the name of the R. J. Mayfield Corporation and heralding the building’s imminent destruction, to be replaced by Exmouth Harbour Village, a series of “starter condos, with ocean views, priced to sell.” If, in the wake of tragedy, the town was ultimately unable to return to its roots as a fishing village, it could always become just another middlebrow vacation destination.
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