Diogenes went pale. She could see that he did indeed recall: 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.”
Now she smiled in turn. “But I do leave you with something.”
“And what is that?”
“The arcanum. Take it: and may you live a long, long life.”
A silence ensued as they looked at each other.
“We’re finished here,” said Constance, turning away. “Take me to the boat, if you please.”
“I’ll meet you at the boat,” Diogenes said, in a hoarse voice. “I have something to take care of first. In that—” and he laughed suddenly, giddily— “in that vast perpetual torture-house. Let thine eyes stare…Let thine eyes stare…”
Shutting her ears to this, Constance turned and walked around the edge of the cistern and up the stairs into the dusk.
He did not follow. She had no fear of turning her back on him—despite everything, his love for her was still too great to allow him to do her harm. Besides, her own life held little value for her.
She hoped he was setting the charges. A museum like that, the physical embodiment of mental sickness the likes of which the world had rarely seen, should not be allowed to exist. She had destroyed his future; and now he himself would destroy his past. If in the end he had the intestinal fortitude to do it: that was still an open question.
She walked the trail through the buttonwoods and mangroves to the long beach. At its far end, the pier ran out into evening water, dark blue in the twilight. Now that it was over, she felt a deep catharsis—but at the same time an emptiness. Her burning hatred, her thirst for revenge, was over, and it left behind a yawning hole. What would be her life now? Where would she go? What would she do? She could never return to Riverside Drive; with Aloysius dead, that was out of the question. She was utterly alone in the world.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sound of crashing vegetation. She turned and out of the mangroves came—inexplicably—the figure of a young woman, small, wiry, with streaming blond hair, coming straight at her, silent and focused, knife in one hand and gun in the other, face swollen with bloodlust.
Taken utterly by surprise, Constance tried to dodge the charge as the woman rushed into her, but it was too late and the knife came flashing through the evening light, catching her dress and cutting across her ribs like the scoring of a hot poker. Constance cried out and pivoted, raking her hand across her assailant’s face as the girl skidded in the sand and came back at her, gun raised.
65
ONCE THE SUN dipped below the sea horizon, darkness fell rapidly. A small kayak, in dull olive, slid out from behind Johnston Key and embarked on the half-mile crossing of the shallow channel. A. X. L. Pendergast, paddle in hand, headed for the cluster of mangrove islands that lay off the southeastern end of Halcyon Key. The kayak glided over the water as Pendergast struggled with the paddle, trying to get into the rhythm of it, propelling the kayak forward without splashing or tipping over. It was a quiet November evening, herons flying low over the water, their wings making a sound like rustling silk.
He knew he had very little time; the two SWAT helicopters would be arriving from Key West Naval Station in less than twenty minutes. Pendergast had been unable to persuade Longstreet that his sort of massive response would not be effective against a man like Diogenes, that it would play to his strengths, and that it might well end in the death of Constance—whether she was hostage or participant. Pendergast was painfully unaware of her state of mind, but he felt certain she was—whatever else—unbalanced. For these reasons, during the staging process Pendergast had slipped away and “appropriated” a cigarette boat from the South Beach Harbor Marina. It had a carbon-fiber hull and twin engines that, in quiet water, could put out a thousand horsepower and do close to ninety knots. At Upper Sugarloaf Key, he’d exchanged it for a kayak and tropical wet suit from one of several kayak rental shops, now closed for the day. The problem was, he had never used a kayak before and not only was the bloody thing tippy and hard to control, but he kept catching the feathered paddles in the water as he tried to go forward.
Finally, though, he mastered the basic motion. And it was not much later when the little island cluster loomed into sight ahead. They were not actual islands, per se, but clusters of mangroves rising out of the shallow water, their roots forming a tangled mass. Pendergast drew the kayak into a hidden channel in the mangroves and tied it up. After a brief struggle he managed to extract himself silently and stood up in about two feet of water. He reached into the kayak’s cargo compartment and took out a shoulder holster holding his Les Baer, strapped it on, then shrugged into a small black Osprey backpack.
Light was fading from the sky as he waded around the side of the mangrove island. The charts indicated the water was no more than three feet deep, and that proved to be the case as he moved forward, threading his way among mangrove stands. The lightweight black wet suit made him almost invisible in the gathering dark. Emerging from the cluster of mangroves, he kept low as he waded across an area of open, shallow water toward the main island, Halcyon. He emerged from the water at a small, sandy beach and paused there, listening. All was quiet. A trail wound inland, which he knew from satellite images led to the smaller house on the island; he moved along the trail until it opened up in the sandy area surrounding the house. It revealed itself as a caretaker’s cottage, a light glowing in the living room window. Moving stealthily, he came up to the window, raised himself, and peered in. An elderly black man, seated in a wing chair, was reading a thick copy of Ulysses.
Pendergast considered that the gentleman’s quiet evening was about to be disturbed—but not quite yet.
Moving past the window, he consulted his mental map of the island, and chose the trail that led to the big house. The path carried him through a shadowy buttonwood grove and a pair of old gumbo-limbo trees before the rear of the house came into view. The lights were off; it didn’t appear anyone was at home. A black night was falling; the moon would not be rising for a few hours yet. Keeping to the shadows, he ventured onto the back veranda and tested the door. Unlocked. He let himself inside, made a quick reconnaissance of the first floor, then exited the front door, convinced no one was home but that the house was currently occupied. Diogenes and Constance were on the island somewhere; he was sure of that.
He paused. There was a distant sound: a high-pitched cry, echoing from far down the island. Drawing his weapon, he listened intently. And then he heard three shots fired in quick succession.
Seeing the handgun, Constance dove straight for her assailant’s knees, tackling her as the shots passed overhead with a whiff of air. They both fell and rolled in the sand, Constance grabbing the girl’s forearm in both hands and slamming it repeatedly into the sand, knocking the gun loose. But the woman was amazingly strong for her size and managed to wrench free of Constance’s grip; they both lunged for the weapon, the woman dropping her knife in order to get it. They fell upon it at the same time, clawing and scrabbling in the sand, seizing it with all four hands at once. They rolled over and o
ver in the sand, squirming and writhing, first one on top and then the other. The girl tried to bite Constance but she jerked her head away, then bit back, aiming for her face, her teeth sinking into the woman’s cheek, the woman screeching in pain. They rolled again and Constance ended on top, trying to dislodge the gun, while the other woman keened, blood flowing from the bite on her cheek. Just as Constance began to prize the gun free, she left herself open and the attacker hit her in the solar plexus with one knee, knocking the wind from her, and in the same moment wrenched the gun away.
Swinging out with her arm, Constance knocked the gun aside just as the shot came, the round hitting the ground next to her with a thud and kicking up a gout of sand. Constance’s head was turned, but the attacker got a faceful. The woman fell back, shaking her head to try to clear the sand from her eyes, firing wildly, again and again and again, the shots going wide as Constance, gasping for breath, jumped on her once more and—with the strength of a rising madness—grabbed the gun and tore it away, jammed it into the woman’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
The clip was finally empty. In that moment the girl—with remarkable presence of mind—took full advantage of her momentary astonishment, striking Constance across the face with a karate chop and then rolling out from under her, reversing their positions. Now she was on top, and had recovered her knife from the sand; she lunged downward, but Constance rolled and the thrust went through the heavy material of her dress into the sand. With a determined silence the girl slashed and tore with the knife, back and forth, but it had snagged in the fabric. As her adversary worked to free her knife, Constance managed to draw her own stiletto out of her bodice and instantly thrust it upward.
The woman jumped back, landing nimbly but giving Constance time to get to her own feet. They circled each other like scorpions, knives drawn.
“Who are you?” Constance asked. The young woman looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place her.
“Your worst nightmare,” came the reply.
She thrust; Constance danced to one side.
That was when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Diogenes. He had appeared at the edge of the beach and was watching them. His arms were folded, just like a spectator’s.
But Constance had to maintain focus—and with a cool opponent like this she could not afford to give in to homicidal anger. The two circled tensely. She could see from the way the girl held her knife, and her light and quick movements, that she was far more experienced with a blade and that Constance would lose any extended contest.
The woman lunged; Constance dodged, but just barely, the swipe tearing the fabric of her sleeve and nicking flesh.
“A hit, a very palpable hit,” said Diogenes.
She jabbed at the woman and found only air, the woman leaping to one side with a spinning martial arts movement, capitalizing on Constance’s miss by offering her own lightning cut, this one nicking Constance’s wrist even as she pivoted to avoid it.
One of those jabs was going to find its way home, Constance realized, and soon. Her heavy dress, weighted down with her blood, was slowing her. Would Diogenes intervene? But no: another glance revealed him standing in place, a look of interest, even amusement, on his face. Of course this would be just the kind of spectacle he’d enjoy: two women fighting to the death over him.
The heavy dress…The masses of fabric could be to her advantage. But she had to move fast; any moment, the attacker would connect with a thrust.
Constance made her move: taking a running leap at the woman, she swung her legs up in a swirl of fabric, enveloping her opponent in the dress; the girl, taken completely by surprise, issued a muffled cry and slashed with the knife, but it rent only cloth as they both fell to the sand, Constance scissoring the woman tightly between her knees. The woman thrashed and struggled, keening with fury, but she couldn’t get her knife arm out of the tangle of material.
Crushing the girl between her legs, Constance twisted around, picked up the gun, and slammed the woman in the side of her head with it, and then again, until the screaming turned into a gurgle and she felt the woman’s body go limp. Now she pinned the stuporous girl’s knife arm, wrenching the wrist around and forcing the blade from it. Snatching up the knife, she scrambled backward, then rose unsteadily, knives in both hands.
Her attacker lay on the sand, unable to rise, moaning and semiconscious.
Constance turned to Diogenes. He was flushed, breathing fast, a look of almost sexual excitement in his eyes. This was the old Diogenes; the one she remembered so well. He made no move to help her and said nothing; he was spellbound by what he had just witnessed.
She felt abruptly dizzy. She placed her hands on her knees and lowered her head to try to clear it, taking deep breaths.
After a moment she heard Diogenes speak: she looked up, but he was not talking to her. The look of libidinous gratification on his face had changed to one of utter amazement and consternation, as he stared at a dark figure emerging from the buttonwood. The figure stepped forward into the last glimmer of twilight, dressed in a sleek black wet suit.
“Ave, frater,” came Diogenes’s rasping salutation.
66
CONSTANCE STOOD ON the sand, the semiconscious girl moaning at her feet, and stared in utter disbelief. Pendergast—is it really him?—was approaching, gun in hand. He was like a vision; she could hardly comprehend what she was seeing.
“Aloysius,” she breathed. “My God. You’re alive!”
She started to rush toward him, but something in his expression stopped her dead in her tracks.
“Ave, frater,” Diogenes said again. He was weaving in place slightly, almost as if he were drunk.
Pendergast raised the gun. At first, he aimed it somewhere between Constance and Diogenes. Then, after a moment, he trained it squarely on his brother. His eyes, however, were on Constance.
“Before I kill him,” he said, “I need to know: do you love him?”
Constance looked at him in shock and disbelief. “What?”
“The question is clear. Do you love him?”
She felt movement at her feet. The girl, having regained her senses, had taken advantage of the standoff and made a shambolic run for a nearby cluster of mangroves. Pendergast paid no attention to her.
Now Constance was beginning to recover from the shock of seeing Pendergast standing, alive, before her. A hundred questions rose in her mind: What happened? Where have you been? Why didn’t you reach out to me? But the look on Pendergast’s face made it clear this was no time for questions.
“I detest him,” she said. “I always have—and always will.”
“Love lives on hope,” Diogenes said in a singsong voice. “And dies when hope is dead.”
Pendergast ignored this, his gaze fixed on Constance. “Then perhaps you could explain why you left our Riverside Drive residence with him of your own free will—injuring Lieutenant D’Agosta in the process.”
Constance took a deep breath. Her head was clearing from the fight, and she felt that amazing strength returning. In a calm, steady voice, she told him how she’d believed him to be dead; how she’d been wooed by Diogenes with confessions of love and the revelation that Leng’s synthesized arcanum had begun to backfire—and of her own secret plan: how she hated Diogenes and realized his reappearance was her opportunity to wreak a vengeance on him more terrible than death. “You must trust me, Aloysius,” she concluded. “I will explain it all, in full—in due time.” She gestured at Diogenes, standing there, listening. “But meanwhile, you can see the result for yourself. Look at him: a broken man.”
Pendergast listened to the entire recitation in silence, gun lowered. “So you were lying to him? From the very beginning?”
“Yes.”
“And you do not love him,” Pendergast repeated, as if unable to quite comprehend.
“No. No!”
“I’m so glad.” And he repointed the gun at Diogenes’s head.
“
Wait!” Constance cried.
Pendergast looked at her.
Diogenes stepped forward, grasped the muzzle of the gun, pressed it hard against his own temple. “Go ahead, frater. Do it.”
“Don’t kill him,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Much better to spare his life—to force him to live with his loneliness, with the memory of his wrongdoing. And…” She hesitated. “I learned something about him.”
“Which is?” Pendergast’s voice was cool, clipped.
Constance glanced back at Diogenes, who was still standing there, swaying in the moonlight, muzzle held against his head. “I didn’t want him to hear me say this—but now there’s nothing for it. He’s not totally responsible for what he’s become. You, of all people, know that. And there’s a small seed of good in him—I’ve seen it. I believe he truly did want to reform, to start a new life. What he wants now, I can’t say. Looking at him in this condition, my thirst for vengeance is thoroughly slaked. If you let him live, perhaps—just perhaps—he’ll nurture that seed.” Then she added, bitterly: “Perhaps he can water it with his tears.”
As she spoke, a change came across Pendergast’s face. It lost just a little of its marble-like hardness. But it was still impossible to know what was going on in his mind.
“Please,” Constance whispered.
In the distance now, over the low whisper of wind among the palm trees, she could hear the sound of helicopter blades—faint, but growing ever closer.
67
LONGSTREET SAT IN the jump seat of the lead chopper as it thundered across the Keys, heading for a small cluster of islands north of Upper Sugarloaf Key. There were two SWAT teams coming in: Team Blue would land on an LZ near the main house on the northern end of the island, and Team Red, his own, would land in an open area by a few old outbuildings at the southern end. In addition, he had a Zodiac inbound, with more waiting in Key West on high alert, ready to shuttle in additional backup and shuttle out any casualties. He believed that, by employing a textbook pincer movement, they could land, secure the island, and capture Diogenes in less than ten minutes, provided it did not devolve into a hostage situation. That was always a possibility, although an unlikely one: he was fairly certain this Constance Greene was Bonnie to Diogenes’s Clyde and that both would go down in a quasi-suicidal blaze of gunfire. But he also had a carefully worked-out alternative plan, just in case, with two experienced negotiators as part of the team.
The Obsidian Chamber Page 32
