“Do you really believe he was telling you the truth?” Pendergast asked gently. “That he loved you? That he had left the sick and evil part of him behind?”
Constance took a deep breath. “He had left the evil part of him behind—as best he could. I don’t think he’ll ever be free of it; not entirely. But yes: he loved me. He cured me; he saved my life. He would have done so even if I hadn’t agreed to stay at Halcyon. Those days we spent together…he couldn’t have said such things—done such things—if he hadn’t been utterly in love.”
“I understand.” Pendergast hesitated. “And, forgive my bluntness—just what, ah, things did you do?”
Constance went quite still in her chair. For a moment, she didn’t reply. When she did, it was in a very quiet voice.
“Aloysius, I hope you’ll understand if I ask for your solemn promise never, ever to ask me that question again.”
“Of course. Pray forgive my indiscretion. The last thing I want to do is pry, or to cause you mortification in any way.”
“Then it’s forgotten.”
Except that it wasn’t. If anything, Constance seemed now to grow more restless, more agitated. She went back to looking at the fire, and the conversation died. And then, after several minutes, she glanced over at Pendergast again.
“There’s something that Diogenes told me—shortly before you arrived.”
“Yes?”
“He observed that my son—our son, his and mine—needs to be more than a figurehead; more than the nineteenth Rinpoche, the venerable figurehead of a distant and secret monastery. He’s a boy, as well: and a boy needs his parents—not just acolytes to worship at his feet.”
“You’ve visited him before,” Pendergast said.
“Yes. And do you know what? The monks wouldn’t even tell me his religious name. They said it was a secret, to be known only to the initiated and never spoken aloud.” She shook her head. “He’s my son; I love him…and I don’t even know that name.”
She was breathing more quickly now. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to stay with him.”
“Another visit?”
“I’m going to live with him. In the monastery.”
Slowly, Pendergast laid the book aside. “You mean, leave Riverside Drive?”
“Why not?”
“Because—” Pendergast was nonplussed. “Because we have—”
Constance stood up abruptly. “What do we have exactly, Aloysius?”
“I care for you deeply.”
“And I—I love you. But you made it very clear, that night in the Captain Hull Inn, that you don’t return my love.”
Pendergast began to stand up, as well. Then he sat back down. He passed a hand over his forehead slowly, and he felt his fingers trembling as he did so. “I…I love you, too, Constance. But you must understand—I cannot let myself love you in that way.”
“Why not?”
“Please, Constance—”
“Why not, for God’s sake?”
“Because it would be wrong; wrong in many ways. Constance, believe me: I’m a man; I feel the same things you do. But I’m your guardian. It wouldn’t be proper—”
“Proper?” She laughed. “Since when have you cared for propriety?”
“I can’t help the way I’ve been brought up, the system of values and morals inculcated into me my entire life. Then, there’s our age difference—”
“Are you referring to our hundred years age difference?”
“No. No. You’re a young woman, I’m a—”
“I’m not a young woman. I am a woman who has already lived far longer than you ever will. I’ve tried to tamp down those needs, those desires, that every person feels.” Now her voice was quiet again, almost pleading. “Don’t you understand that, Aloysius?”
“Of course. But…” Pendergast felt overwhelmed with confusion, unable to order his thoughts. “I’m not very good at this. I fear that should we…have the relationship you suggest, something will go wrong. I would no longer be the person you look up to, that you respect, as your guardian, your protector…”
This was followed by a long silence.
“That’s it, then,” Constance said quietly. “I can’t stay here. Knowing what I know, having said what we’ve said—continued living under this roof would be intolerable.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “There’s an Air France flight to Delhi that leaves at midnight. I checked earlier in the day. If you’d be so good as to make the arrangements, I’ll ask Proctor if he would drive me to JFK.”
Pendergast was stunned. “Constance, wait. This is so sudden—”
She spoke over him, quickly, her voice trembling. “Please just make the arrangements. I’ll get my things together.”
An hour later, the two stood beneath the porte cochere, waiting for Proctor to bring the car around. She was wearing a vicuña coat, and her Hermès Birkin bag—a gift from Pendergast—hung on one shoulder. Headlights striped the façade of the house; a minute later, the big Rolls came up. Proctor, his face a taciturn mask, emerged and put Constance’s things in the boot, then opened the rear door for her.
She turned. “There’s so much I want to say. But I won’t. Good-bye, Aloysius.”
Pendergast had a thousand things he wanted to say, as well, but in that moment he couldn’t find the words. It felt, somehow, that a part of himself was leaving—and yet he seemed powerless to do anything about it. It was as if he had set an engine in motion that, once started, could no longer be stopped.
“Constance,” he managed. “Isn’t there anything I can say or do—?”
“Can you love me the way I wish you to? The way I need you to?”
He did not reply.
“Then you’ve answered your own question.”
“Constance—” Pendergast began again.
She put a finger to his lips. Then, taking it away, she kissed him. And without another word got into the Rolls.
Proctor closed the door, then got back behind the wheel, and the car began making its way slowly down the drive. Pendergast walked after it as far as Riverside Drive. He watched as the vehicle merged with the northbound traffic. He watched as its lights slowly became indistinguishable among myriad others. And as he watched, a silent shadow clad in black, a light snow began to fall, covering his pale hair; he remained unmoving for a very long time as the snow grew heavier, his figure slowly fading into the blur of the white winter night.
The authors wish to thank Patrick Allocco and Douglas Child for their assistance with various aircraft-related aspects of the novel.
About the Authors
The thrillers of DOUGLAS PRESTON and LINCOLN CHILD “stand head and shoulders above their rivals” (Publishers Weekly). Preston and Child’s Relic and The Cabinet of Curiosities were chosen by readers in a National Public Radio poll as being among the one hundred greatest thrillers ever written, and Relic was made into a number one box office hit movie. They are coauthors of the famed Pendergast series and their recent novels include Beyond the Ice Limit, White Fire, Blue Labyrinth, and Crimson Shore. In addition to his novels, Preston writes about archaeology for the New Yorker and National Geographic magazines. Lincoln Child is a former book editor who has published six novels of his own, including the huge bestseller Deep Storm.
Readers can sign up for The Pendergast File, a monthly “strangely entertaining note” from the authors, at their website, PrestonChild.com. The authors welcome visitors to their alarmingly active Facebook page, where they post regularly.
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