The Book of the Dead

by Richard Preston

  At last she rose from the bath, dried herself, and completed her preparations for bed. She chose to wear not one of her cotton nightgowns, but rather one of finely milled silk that lay, unworn and half forgotten, at the bottom of a drawer. Then she slipped into bed, propped up her down pillows, and opened the collection of Rambler essays.

  The words all ran together without meaning, and she grew restless. She flipped ahead to the next essay, scanned its stentorian opening, then closed the book. Getting out of bed again, she walked over to a heavy Duncan Phyfe armoire and opened it. Inside was a velvet-lined box containing a small collection of octavo books Diogenes had brought on his last visit. She carried the box back to bed and sorted through its contents. They were books she had heard about but never read, books that had never been a part of Enoch Leng’s extensive library. The Satyricon of Petronius; Huysmans’s Àu rebours; Oscar Wilde’s letters to Lord Alfred Douglas; the love poetry of Sappho; Boccaccio’s Decameron. Decadence, opulence, and passionate love clung to these pages like musk. Constance dipped into one and then another—at first gingerly, then curiously, then with something like hunger, reading late into the restless night.

  30

  Gerry Fecteau found a sunny spot on the walkway overlooking yard 4 and snugged up the zipper of his guard’s jacket. A late-winter light filtered down from a whiskey sky, not strong enough to melt the patches of dirty snow that still edged the yards and building corners. From where he stood, he had a good view of the yard. He glanced over at his partner, Doyle, placed strategically at the other corner.

  The nature of their assignment had not been explained to them, not even hinted at. In fact, they had been given only one order: watch the yard from above. But Fecteau had been around long enough to read between the lines. The mystery prisoner, still in solitary, had been given yard privileges for good behavior—in yard 4. Obligatory yard privileges. With Pocho and his gang. Fecteau knew very well what was going to happen to the prisoner—who was about as white as a white man could get—when he was turned out in yard 4 with Lacarra and his thugs. And watching the yard from the walkway above, like he was doing, it would take a couple of minutes at least to get down to the yard if any trouble erupted.

  There was only one reason for an order like that. The drummer hadn’t worked—for some inexplicable reason, he’d actually grown quiet—and now they were on to something new.

  He licked his lips and scanned the empty yard: the basketball hoop with no net, the parallel bars, the quarter acre of asphalt. Five minutes until the exercise hour. Fecteau wasn’t exactly thrilled with the assignment. If anybody got killed, it would be his ass. And he sure didn’t relish the thought of pulling Lacarra off someone. On the other hand, another part of him relished the thought of violence. His heart rate accelerated with anticipation and apprehension.

  At the appointed time, to the second, he heard the bolts shoot back, and the double doors to the yard opened. Two guards stepped into the weak sunlight, hooked the doors open, and stood on either side while Pocho ambled out—always first—his eyes squinting around the cement yard, stroking the tuft of hair under his lip. He was wearing the standard prison jumpsuit, no coat despite the winter temperature. He turned as he walked, twisting the tuft of hair, muscles rippling under his sleeves. His shaved head gleamed dully in the weak light and across his face, making his old acne scars look like lunar craters.

  Lacarra sauntered into the center of the yard as the six other inmates filed out after him, heading off in different directions, striking casual poses as they looked around, chewing gum, walking aimlessly across the tarmac. One guard tossed out a basketball, which bounced toward one of the men; he flipped it up with his foot, caught it, then began bouncing it idly.

  A moment later, the new prisoner stepped out, tall and straight. He paused just beyond the threshold, looking around, with a degree of casualness that made Fecteau tingle. The poor guy hadn’t a clue.

  Pocho and his boys didn’t even seem to notice the newcomer—except that they all stopped chewing. But only for an instant. The ball continued its steady bounce, like the slow beating of a drum, bom . . . bom . . . bom. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  The mystery prisoner began to walk along the cinder-block wall of the yard. As he walked, he looked about, face neutral, his moves easy and smooth. The others followed him with their eyes.

  The yard was enclosed on three sides by the cement walls of Herkmoor, with chain link topped by concertina wire forming the fourth barrier at the far end. The prisoner walked alongside the wall until he came to the chain link, then turned to follow the line of the fence, staring out through it as he walked. Prisoners, Fecteau had noticed, always looked out or up—never back in toward the grim building. A guard tower dominated the middle distance; and beyond that, the tops of the trees rose above the prison’s outer wall.

  One of the delivery guards looked up, caught Fecteau’s eye, and shrugged as if to say, “What’s going on?” Fecteau shrugged back and signaled them to leave, that the transfer of prisoners to the yard was good. The two disappeared back into the building, shutting the doors behind them.

  Fecteau raised the radio to his lips and spoke in a low tone. “You reading me, Doyle?”

  “I read you.”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Yup.”

  “We better be ready to run down there and break things up.”

  “Ten-four.”

  They waited. The sound of the bouncing ball continued steadily. Nobody moved except the mystery prisoner, who continued his slow perambulation along the fence.

  Bom . . . bom . . . bom, went the ball.

  Doyle’s voice crackled over the radio again. “Hey, Gerry, this remind you of anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “You remember the opening scene of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is it.”

  “Maybe. Except one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The outcome.”

  Doyle snickered over the radio. “Don’t worry. Pocho wants his meat alive, only tenderized.”

  Now Lacarra removed his hands from his pockets, straightened up, and pimp-rolled over to a point on the fence thirty feet ahead of the prisoner. He hooked a hand on the chain link and watched the prisoner come toward him. Instead of varying his route to avoid Lacarra, the prisoner continued his leisurely stroll, not pausing for an instant, until he had come right up to Lacarra. And then he spoke to him. Fecteau strained to hear.

  “Good afternoon,” said the prisoner.

  Lacarra looked away. “Got a cigarette?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.”

  Lacarra nodded, still looking off into the distance, his eyes half closed, like two black slits. He began stroking the tuft of hair, pulling his lip down with each stroke, exposing a row of yellow, broken teeth.

  “You don’t smoke,” Lacarra said quietly. “Isn’t that healthy.”

  “I used to enjoy the occasional cigar, but I quit when a friend of mine developed cancer. They had to cut off most of his lower jaw, poor fellow.”

  At this, Lacarra’s head swiveled toward him, as if in slow motion. “He must’ve been one ugly motherfucker after that.”

  “It’s amazing what they can do with plastic surgery these days.”

  Lacarra turned. “Hey, you hear that, Rafe? This boy’s got a friend with no mouth.”

  As if on cue, Lacarra’s gang started to move again—all except the one with the ball. They began drifting in, like wolves.

  “I think I’ll continue my walk now,” said the prisoner, moving to one side.

  With a casual step, Lacarra moved to block the prisoner’s path.

  The prisoner paused, and fixed a pair of silvery eyes on Lacarra. He said something in a low voice that Fecteau didn’t catch.

  Lacarra didn’t move, didn’t look at the prisoner. After a moment he replied, “And what’s that?�
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  The prisoner spoke more clearly now. “I hope you’re not going to make the second worst mistake of your life.”

  “What the fuck you talking about, second mistake? What’s the first mistake?”

  “Murdering those three innocent children.”

  There was an electric silence. Fecteau shifted, stunned by what he had heard. The prisoner had broken one of the most sacred rules of prison life—and what was more, had done it with Pocho Lacarra. And how in hell did he even know Lacarra? The man had been in solitary since he arrived. Fecteau tensed all over. Something terrible was going to happen—and it was going to happen soon.

  Lacarra smiled, looking at him for the first time, showing more yellow teeth with a gap in the top, and then, through that gap, he ejected a gobbet of phlegm which hit the toe of the prisoner’s shoe with an audible smack. “Where’d you hear that?” he asked mildly.

  “You tied them up first, though—big brave macho hombre that you are. Wouldn’t want a seven-year-old girl to leave a scratch on that pretty face of yours. Eh, Pocho?”

  Fecteau could hardly believe his ears. This guy had a death wish for sure. Lacarra’s gang seemed equally stupefied, unsure how to respond, waiting for some kind of signal.

  Pocho began to laugh: a slow, ugly laugh, full of menace. “Hey, Rafe,” he called over his shoulder. “I don’t think this motherfucker likes me, know what I mean?”

  Rafe sauntered over. “Oh, yeah?”

  The prisoner said nothing. Now the others were still drifting in, like a pack of wolves. Fecteau felt his heart pounding in his chest.

  “You hurt my feelings, man,” Pocho said to the prisoner.

  “Indeed,” came the reply. “And what feelings are those?”

  Pocho stepped back and Rafe came in, all slow and nonchalant, and then—fast as a spring-loaded trap—he swung on the prisoner’s gut.

  The prisoner moved like a blur, one leg flashing out, and suddenly Rafe was doubled up, on the ground. Then, with a horrible sucking sound, he vomited.

  “Knock it off!” Fecteau screamed down at them, raising his radio to call Doyle.

  The others moved in fast while Pocho took another step away, letting the others do the dirty work. Watching, Fecteau was amazed, confounded, to see the prisoner move in a way he never thought possible, faster than he thought possible, some kind of martial art he wasn’t familiar with—but of course, he was up against six gang members who had spent their entire lives street-fighting and nobody could hold up to that. As for the gang itself, they were so surprised by the prisoner’s moves they had retreated, temporarily at bay. Another had fallen beside Rafe, stunned by a blow to the chin.

  Fecteau turned and ran down the walkway, yelling into his radio for backup. No way was he going to break this up with just Doyle.

  Lacarra’s voice rose up. “You gonna let this bitch kick your ass?”

  The rest moved in and around. One lashed out and the prisoner spun, but it was a feint so another could move in while a third struck him in the gut—getting him good this time. And now they all moved in, fists flying, and the prisoner began to struggle beneath the blows.

  Fecteau burst through the upper doors, no longer able to see the yard, ran down the stairs, unlocked another door, and dashed along the corridor. Doyle was just arriving, along with four other backup guards running from the station, riot sticks drawn. Fecteau unlocked the double doors to the yard and they jumped through.

  “Hey! Cut the shit!” Fecteau screamed as they ran across the cement toward a small knot of Lacarra’s men, hunched over an invisible figure on the ground, kicking the crap out of it. Two others now lay on the ground nearby, while Lacarra himself seemed to have disappeared.

  “Enough!” Fecteau waded in with Doyle and the others, grabbing the collar of one thug and jerking him back, whacking another across the ear with his stick.

  “Cut it! Enough!”

  Doyle charged in beside him, Taser in hand, and the other guards waded in as well. In less than thirty seconds, the inmates had been restrained. The special prisoner lay on his back, unconscious, the blood covering his face a striking contrast to his skin, his pants nearly torn off at the waistband, his shirt split down the side.

  One of the other prisoners was screaming hysterically somewhere in the background. “You seen what that crazy fucker do? You seen that, man?”

  “What’s happening, Fecteau?” came the warden’s voice over the radio. “What’s this about a fight?”

  As if he didn’t know. “The new prisoner got nailed, sir.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “We need EMTs!” one of the other guards was calling in the background. “We got at least three prisoners hurt bad! EMTs!”

  “Fecteau, are you there?” came Imhof’s strident voice.

  “Yeah, the new prisoner’s hurt, don’t know how bad, though.”

  “Find out!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Another thing: I want the EMTs on the new prisoner first. You understand?”

  “Copy, sir.”

  Fecteau looked around. Where the hell was Pocho?

  Then he saw the form of Pocho huddled in a frozen corner of the yard, motionless.

  “Oh, God,” he said. “Where are those EMTs? Get them here now!”

  “Motherfucker!” came the hysterical voice. “You seen what he done?”

  “Secure the others,” Fecteau cried. “Hear me? Cuff them and get them the hell out of here into lockdown!”

  It was an unnecessary order. The gang members who could still stand were already being marched to the yard door. The shouting faded, leaving behind the high-pitched whimpering of one of the injured inmates. Lacarra lay in grotesque imitation of a supplicant, knees and face in the snow, head twisted in an unnatural angle. His motionlessness creeped out Fecteau most of all.

  The EMTs arrived, two of them, followed by two more wheeling stretchers.

  Fecteau pointed to the special prisoner. “Warden wants him taken care of first.”

  “What about that one?” The EMTs had fixed their horrified eyes on Lacarra.

  “Take care of the new prisoner first.”

  Even as they worked on the new prisoner, Fecteau couldn’t take his eyes off Lacarra. And then, as if in slow motion, Lacarra’s body began to move, began to topple on its side, where it lay, again unmoving, the grinning face and wide-open eyes now turned to the sky.

  Fecteau raised the radio to his lips, wondering just what to tell the warden. One thing was clear: Pocho Lacarra wasn’t likely to be making anybody his bitch, ever again.

  31

  On a cold March day, eastern Long Island did not much look like the playground of the rich and famous it was supposed to be. At least, that was Smithback’s impression as he cruised past yet another muddy, stubble-strewn potato field, a bedraggled flock of crows wheeling about overhead.

  Since his meeting with Hayward, Smithback had tried everything in his journalistic bag of tricks to find out more about Diogenes. He’d written suggestive articles, hinting at imminent breakthroughs and soliciting tips. He’d poked around the museum, asking questions and sifting rumors. Nothing. Pendergast remained in prison on charges of murder. Just as bad, Diogenes remained utterly vanished, free. The image of Pendergast’s brother at large and no doubt hatching some fresh outrage both angered and frightened Smithback.

  He wasn’t sure, exactly, when the idea had come to him. But come it had . . . and now he was driving eastward on the island, heading for a house that he hoped—rather fervently hoped—was unoccupied.

  Chances were, he’d find nothing. After all, what could he find that the police hadn’t? But it was the only thing still left for him to do.

  “In five hundred feet, turn right on Springs Road,” spoke a mellifluous female voice from the dashboard.

  “Thanks, Lavinia darling,” Smithback said with a jauntiness he didn’t feel.

  “Turn right on Springs Road.”

  Smithback complied, swingi
ng onto a cracked macadam road sandwiched between more potato fields, shuttered beach houses, and bare-limbed trees. Beyond lay a marsh of dead cattails and sawgrass. He passed a faded wooden sign in a picturesque state of dilapidation. Welcome to the Springs, it told him. This was an unpretentious corner of eastern Long Island, only faintly perfumed with the odor of quiet money.

  “The town, my dear Lavinia, is small and unremarkable, but not wholly without atmosphere,” said Smithback. “Wish you could see it.”