Pendergast asked for an image of Dr. Leyland and the man complied with a grainy screen capture. Pendergast and Longstreet studied the image for some time: a salt-and-pepper-haired man with puffy cheeks.
“Doesn’t look like your typical serial murderer,” Longstreet said. “All the same, there’s something familiar about him.”
“Isn’t there,” Pendergast murmured.
Finally, he called for the chief crime scene investigator. The man had had two days to write up his findings, and he had a very interesting observation to make. While the old woman had died first, the violent slashings and stabbings had begun with the unlucky doctor who’d blundered into the room.
“How can you be sure?” Pendergast asked.
“Blood spatter analysis,” the CSI said. “There were spatters of arterial blood from Dr. Graben on the lower walls, the bed, the monitoring equipment. But these were overlain by most of Ms. Montoya’s blood.”
“That makes no sense,” Longstreet said. “If Leyland was interrupted in his murder of Montoya, you would expect the blood spatter analysis to show the opposite.”
“Precisely,” said the CSI. “Something else: there is much less of Ms. Montoya’s blood on the walls than there is of Dr. Graben’s.”
Pendergast thought for a moment. “Thank you,” he said at last to the CSI. “You’ve been most helpful.”
As the man left the room, Longstreet turned to Pendergast. “Okay. I admit it’s a conundrum. How did this Dr. Leyland get out of the hospital without being seen? And why did he commit this atrocious double murder, slash these two innocents to pieces? But more to the point: what on earth is your interest in it?”
“All excellent questions. Do you think you could arrange for us to see the bodies?”
“You mean, at the morgue? Of course—if I make some phone calls PDQ. They don’t keep bodies on ice too long down here in Florida.” Longstreet frowned. “Wait…you’re not thinking that—”
Pendergast raised his eyebrows, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But Longstreet shook his head. “No. It makes no sense.”
“I am thinking that, and, yes, it would make no sense. That is, in fact, what interests me: the completely bizarre and inexplicable nature of these murders. That, and the screen capture of Dr. Leyland. I’m hoping an examination of the bodies will help shed further light on things.” And Pendergast indicated the cell phone in Longstreet’s pocket. “And so: if you wouldn’t mind, H? You did imply time is of the essence.”
53
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS had now passed with Constance locked in her room—twenty-four hours of absolute silence, save for the occasional running of water and the lightest of treads on the floor, which reassured Diogenes that at least she was still alive. She had made no appearance, not even to eat. Once, late the previous evening, he had gone to the door and knocked softly, carrying a tray of food for her, the most exquisite sweetbreads and foie gras in a red wine veal reduction. There had been no sound, no response, to his knock. And so he leaned in to the door panel and whispered that he had dinner for her. And the strangest whisper, just on the other side of the door, came back, startling him with its proximity and its crazy timbre.
“Go…away…now.”
And now, as another evening approached, he sat in the library, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. He couldn’t concentrate; he couldn’t read; he didn’t want to listen to music; he couldn’t even think straight. What was she doing in her room? Had the arcanum taken effect? Had he made another mistake, despite the maniacally obsessive care he had taken with the new formulation? Her mental state had always been of a rather precarious nature. Had she, at long last, finally gone insane?
He had to get himself under control and put an end to this morbid brooding. The place to do that was his meditation chamber. He made for the back door, almost running; went down the stairs; and hastened along the sandy path that led to the bluff. Moments later he emerged into the saw grass. As he came around the bluff the temple emerged from behind the dune, gilded in the late-afternoon light, beckoning him with its sanctuary. He opened the door and entered, making his way shakily to the black leather divan near the center, where he lay down, exhausted and slick with sweat.
Immediately the magic of the place began to work on him: the coolness, the peace, the gray silence, the A minor light. He half closed his eyes and, yes! He could just see, obliquely, those little glints of color, like fleeting flecks of rainbow from a rotating piece of cut glass.
Yes, this was better. Constance would eventually emerge from her room—the requirement for food demanded it. And then he would deal with whatever happened, turn on the full wattage of his charm, and try as he had never tried before to keep her on his island, make her love him as he loved her. He had succeeded this far; he would not fail now.
Slowly, his breathing returned to normal as peace settled over him. The sun was low in the sky, and one side of the temple glowed pearlescent, while the other side, in shadow, was dark and mysterious.
He stretched out on the long divan, the leather buttery soft. He reminded himself that dealing with her was indeed like taming a wild animal. He could not, must not, press her or push things to a head. She had to come out of that room of her own free will. And then he would see if the arcanum had worked. He felt certain that, once she felt its surging effects, she would have a new outlook on life. That the outlook still included him, he hoped and prayed to the gods.
Suddenly a vague shadow passed over the panels of obsidian glass. Someone had just walked by. And there it returned: a dim outline, moving slowly toward the door. It wasn’t Gurumarra; this part of the island was forbidden to him.
Whoever it was, was standing at the door. Waiting. And then he watched in a kind of chilling horror as the knob slowly turned and the door eased open.
And there, framed in the blazing light of the dying sun, was Constance.
He stared at her, as she stared at him. He rose to his feet. She was transformed, utterly changed: strong, radiant, glowing with health and vigor. She was wearing one of the old-fashioned dresses she had brought down from New York, but now, as she stepped into the temple and closed the door, he saw her white hands reach behind and unhook the top of the dress. It was like a dream. He watched, mesmerized. Slowly she worked open the hooks, one by one, and then she slipped her arms out of the sleeves. For a moment she held the top of the dress in place, and then she released it, letting it drop to the floor.
She wore nothing underneath. Her long, white body, slender yet voluptuous, with a hint of muscles moving under the pale skin, was like a vision.
She gave her head a little shake, loosening her hair. He couldn’t move. She took a step toward him, and another, then a third, until she was very close, her face inches from his. Slowly she began to unbutton his shirt, and he saw she was breathing rapidly, her chest heaving with excitement, face flushed. It was extraordinary: the change the arcanum had wrought on her was nothing short of miraculous.
Ever so slowly, barely touching him, she removed his shirt, and then she knelt, taking off his shoes, unbuckling his pants—until the two of them stood there, inches from each other, naked. Only then did she reach out and lean toward him, giving him a long, lingering, delicious kiss before slowly pushing him backward onto the divan.
54
IT WAS SHORTLY before one in the morning when the dark figure piloting the airboat through the Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge navigated past the final group of small, hump-like islands that obstructed the way to the larger landmass identified on the coastal classification atlas as Halcyon Key. The engine was kept low, to avoid attracting attention. It had been a difficult journey—the shallow water and labyrinthine channels were barely navigable, even in daylight—but the airboat’s draft was almost insignificant. Now it approached a long pier. A speedboat was moored alongside: an antique wooden runabout named the Phoenix.
Flavia Greyling cut the airboat’s engine and let it glide past t
he pier and come to rest onto the long, sandy beach that ran away on both sides into clusters of mangroves. She got out of the boat and pulled it up under the pier, the crunch of sand barely discernible over the sighing of the wind in the palm trees. Then, crouching behind the little gazebo at the pier’s end, she took stock.
Over a low bluff, she could see the roofline of a large house, surrounded by royal palms. Some distance away, she made out a smaller structure, half-hidden among the mangroves, that appeared to be the servant’s quarters.
Flavia was dressed entirely in black, and wore the lightweight tactical research boots favored by SEALs. She had exchanged her blue fanny pack for an ebony one, and she wore black leather gloves of Italian design, chosen for their thinness rather than for style. She had not gone to the extent of blacking her face and dyeing her blond hair black, as she sometimes did on other missions she’d undertaken: after all, this was a different kind of job.
She moved forward, creeping cat-like up to the edge of the low bluff. Here, she took a small monocular from her fanny pack and examined the house and grounds. All seemed quiet. There were a few lights on—gas lamps or perhaps kerosene, judging by their flickering quality—but no activity that she could spot.
She returned the monocular to her pack and zipped it closed.
She had been beside herself with fury when Peter had left her in that hotel room in Miami; more angry than she liked to recall. It wasn’t just that he was keeping part of his life private from her: it was the way he’d tried to jolly her with praise and then paid her off with that money and then left—as if money could somehow take the place of all the time they’d spent together, everything she’d done for him, like she was some kind of whore. Even though they hadn’t done that yet, she knew he’d been tempted. She’d seen him looking at her.
What really burned her up was that she’d seen him pull the same slick shit on others, and it made her furious to think he believed she would swallow the same line. He obviously didn’t trust her—and after all she’d done. Well, two could play at the deception game. He’d not be on his guard. He’d assumed he’d succeeded: he’d think she was spending his money in Copenhagen and waiting by the phone for a call that might—or might never—come.
Fuck waiting by the phone. She wasn’t going to let him get away like that. So here she was.
She had his credit card number from the hotel. Easy to get as they’d checked in as husband and wife. Starting with that, she’d wasted no time learning more about Petru Lupei. It was investigative work of the kind she’d done many times before in tracking down her quarry, and she was very good at it.
Through a combination of social engineering, rudimentary hacking, rummaging through public data, and getting a billing address via the credit card number, she’d fitted the pieces together. It began with a PO box, which contained a few bits of helpful information. With these, and some phone calls to the hall of public records and related government offices, she picked up a bread-crumb trail that had been inadvertently—and very indirectly—left behind by Petru Lupei. It lead from one shell company to another, and ended, finally, in a corporation, Incitatus, LLC, that had only a single asset: an island off the southern coast of Florida called Halcyon Key, purchased almost twenty years before.
It was an hour’s trip by motorboat from Miami.
On the dark beach, as she examined the house, Flavia smiled. Petru knew, of course, that she was good at her job. He was the kind of person who would never hire second best. It was becoming clear he didn’t return the kind of feelings she had for him; at least, not yet. But he was fond of her, of that she was sure.
And now, here, she’d done him one better. She’d learned his secret. She had discovered his private hideaway. Not only that—she had managed to find it all on her own and make her way to it. And now, when she chose to reveal herself to him, he’d understand just how clever and accomplished she really was. She would surprise him. That surprise, she knew, would lead to a heightened respect, because Petru respected people who got the better of him—which happened almost never. And that respect—she felt sure—could easily blossom into love. Especially in a place like this. He only had to see how perfectly matched they were in every way.
Making no noise, she rose over the bluff and made her way across the sand to the rambling house, almost ethereal in the moonlight. She stepped onto the veranda, tried the front door, and, finding it unlocked, quickly entered, closing it behind her. She wondered at the lack of security, but then surmised that the island’s very remoteness—and difficult access—was its own best defense.
She stood in the front hall, cloaked in darkness and silence, and did a quick recon: openings to the left and right led into what appeared to be a library and living room, respectively, while a broad staircase ahead led to the second floor. Curious, she walked into the library. Moonlight streaming in the broad windows revealed it to be a two-story space, with expensive-looking rugs on the floor and walls covered with books and small framed paintings. A tiny, unfamiliar-looking piano stood in a far corner.
Flavia frowned. Something about this room did not feel like the Peter she knew. Somehow, it had a…feminine sensibility about it. She could almost smell perfume lingering in the air.
She crossed the hallway to the living room. This room, while equally beautiful, was rather different in feeling. The cut-glass chandelier, the heavy wing chairs, the plush fabrics of the sofas and cushions—everything had an old-fashioned elegance rather than the modern, almost clinically simple style that Petru Lupei had always favored.
At least, so far as she’d known.
In the far corner of the living room, a doorway led into darkness. Listening again to make sure her presence was not yet known—she’d surprise Peter in her own time, and in her own pleasant way—she pulled a tiny torch from her fanny pack, turned it on, and—shielding it with one hand—walked through the door. It led into another library-cum-office, this one much smaller than the one across the hall. She gazed for a minute at the books on the walls; at the framed paintings. The pack of tarot cards on the desk she recognized as being Peter’s preferred Albano-Waite deck. The shelved books were on topics such as military strategy, torture methods of the ancient world, novels in what appeared to be Italian—now, this was more like the Peter she knew. The frown fading, she pulled down one book, Walter Pater’s The Renaissance.
It opened to the flyleaf. To her surprise, an unfamiliar name had been written in ink: DIOGENES PENDERGAST.
She shrugged, replaced the book. Peter must have borrowed it and forgotten, accidentally-on-purpose, to return it. How very like him. She put the book back and took down another: Suetonius’s The Twelve Caesars.
There it was again: the owner’s name inscribed on the inside front cover, in the same handwriting—Diogenes Pendergast.
The handwriting looked familiar. And, with a sudden shock, so did the name. Pendergast. That was the name of the FBI agent they had been observing in Exmouth.
My best friend is a first-rate FBI agent but simply a babe in the woods when it comes to women…
She slid the book back with a savage thrust, but not so savage as to make any noise. Was this the secret life that Petru Lupei talked about? Was this “best friend” actually something more—a relative perhaps? A brother? Did Petru have another name: Diogenes Pendergast?
She knew, of course, that Petru used false, temporary identities in the work they did; he’d used one in Exmouth and another in New York. But it had never occurred to her until this moment that Petru Lupei itself was just another of those identities.
Embarrassment at her gullibility—and anger at being so used—rose within her. For the first time in her life, she had allowed her feelings for someone to bring down her guard.
More quickly now, but with consummate stealth, she crept upstairs. It was divided into two wings, each comprising a suite of rooms: bedrooms, morning room, bathroom. Both wings appeared occupied. One of them had several articles she recognized as belonging
to Peter—a pocketknife, a money clip, an Hermès tie, carelessly draped over the back of a chair.
The other wing was occupied by a woman.
After very quietly and cautiously examining all the rooms—and finding them all to be empty—Flavia returned to the second floor’s central hall. Her mind was a whirl of confusion. What was the meaning of this?
She descended the steps and left the house through the front door, once again closing it behind her. She glanced around, then walked stealthily along the beach, past the servant’s quarters, to a trail that cut into the mangroves, heading inland.
She followed the trail over another sandy bluff, then stopped. Ahead lay a very odd building: a circular structure, almost like an ancient temple, that overlooked the Gulf. Between its marble columns were windows that—instead of being made of glass—were of some unusual dark-colored stone that gleamed like mercury in the moonlight.
Flavia stared at the structure for a moment. A strange feeling came over her, a most uncharacteristic apprehension, as if the building held secrets too terrible to learn. But, catching sight of a mullioned door between two of the columns, she took a deep breath and came forward, at the same time reaching into her fanny pack and pulling out one of the Zombie Killer blades she always carried. Not only was it useful for sticking, but she found it made an excellent lock pick and jimmy, as well.
But when she reached the door, she stopped. An odd, sick mingling of emotions came over her as she listened to the sounds from within. After a moment, she knelt to look through the keyhole. It was dark inside, barely illuminated, but there was enough ambient moonlight filtering through the smoked windows for her to see all too clearly what was going on. She froze, a surge of fury, hatred, and disgust welling up inside her.
The Obsidian Chamber Page 27
