The door to his stateroom rolled back with a clatter. Diogenes sat up, smoothing his shirtfront and slipping a hand into his jacket pocket for the ticket. But it was not the conductor who stood in the corridor beyond: it was the frail old woman he had seen walk past on the platform a few minutes earlier.
He frowned. “This is a private room,” he said in a clipped tone.
The woman did not answer. Instead, she took a step forward into the compartment.
Instantly, Diogenes grew alarmed. It was nothing he could immediately put his finger on, but some sixth sense abruptly screamed danger. And then, as the woman reached into her handbag, he realized what it was: these were no longer the slow, hesitant movements of an old lady. They were lithe and quick—and they seemed to have a dreadful purpose. But before he could move, the hand came out of the bag holding a gun.
Diogenes froze. The gun was ancient, practically a relic: dirty, webbed with rust. Almost against his will, Diogenes found his eyes traveling up the woman’s form until they reached her face—and he recognized the bottomless, expressionless eyes that looked back at him from beneath the wig. Recognized them well.
The barrel rose toward him.
Diogenes leaped to his feet, absinthe sloshing over his shirt and spattering the front of his pants, and flung himself backward as she squeezed the trigger.
Nothing.
Diogenes straightened, heart beating madly. It dawned on him that she had never fired a weapon before—she did not know how to aim, she had not yet turned off the safety. He sprang at her, but even as he did so, he heard the click of a safety being released, and a shattering explosion filled the compartment. A bullet punched a hole in the skin of the train car above his head as he twisted and fell sideways.
He scrambled to his feet as the woman took a step forward, wraithlike in the billows of cordite and dust. Once again—with perfect, terrible composure—she leveled the gun, took aim.
Diogenes threw himself at the door to the adjoining compartment, only to find that the porter had not yet unlocked it.
Another deafening explosion, and splinters flew from the molding mere inches from his ear.
He turned around to face her, his back against the window. Perhaps he could rush her, knock her from the door . . . But once again, with a deliberation so slow it was unspeakably awful, she leveled the old pistol, took aim.
He jerked to one side as a third bullet shattered the window where just a moment before he had been standing. As the echoes of the shot died away, the clank of the train wheels drifted in. There were shouts and screams in the corridor of the train now. Outside, the end of the platform was in sight. Even if he overcame her, wrestled away the gun—it would be all over. He would be caught, exposed.
Instantly, without conscious thought, Diogenes whirled around and dived out through the shattered window, landing heavily on the concrete platform and rolling once, twice, a confused welter of dust amidst bits of safety glass. He picked himself up, half dazed, heart beating madly, just in time to see the last car of the train disappear beyond the platform and into the dark mouth of the tunnel.
He stood there, stunned. And yet, through his daze, through his shock and pain and fear, an image persisted: the terrible calm with which she—Constance—had corrected her aim. There had been a lack of emotion, expression, anything, in those strange eyes . . .
Except utter conviction.
68
Anyone observing the gentleman going through security at terminal E in Boston’s Logan Airport would have noticed a dapper man in his mid-sixties, with brown hair graying at the temples, a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, wearing a blue blazer with a white shirt open at the collar and a red silk handkerchief poking from his breast pocket. His eyes were a sparkling blue, his cheekbones broad, and his face open, ruddy, and cheerful. A black cashmere overcoat was slung over his arm, and he laid it on the security belt along with his shoes and watch.
Past security, the gentleman strode vigorously down the terminal corridor, pausing only at a Borders near gate 7. He ducked inside, perused the shelves of thrillers, and was delighted to find that a new James Rollins had been published. He took up the book, plucked a Times from the rack, and brought them to the cashier, greeting her with a cheery “Good day,” betraying in accent and diction his Australian origins.
The gentleman then chose a seat near the gate, seated himself, and unfolded the paper with a snap. He took in the world and national news, turning the pages with a crisp, practiced motion. In the New York Report, his notice fell on a small item: Mysterious Shooting on Amtrak Train.
A sweep of his eyes took in the salient details: a man had been shot at on the Lake Champlain out of Penn Station; witnesses described the shooter as an elderly woman; the would-be target threw himself off the train and disappeared in the tunnels underneath Penn Station; a thorough search failed to identify the assailant or recover the weapon. The police were still investigating.
He turned the page and scanned the editorials, a slight frown gathering over some point he apparently disagreed with, soon clearing up.
A meticulous observer—and, in fact, there was one—would have seen nothing more remarkable than a wealthy Australian reading the Times while waiting for his flight. But the pleasant, somewhat vacant expression on his face was no more than skin-deep. Inside, his head was a boiling stew of fury, disbelief, and savage self-reproach. His world was upended, his careful planning destroyed. Nothing had succeeded. The Doorway to Hell: ruined. Margo Green: still alive. His brother: free. And most unacceptable of all: Constance Greene, undead.
Smiling, he turned to the sports section.
Constance, unsuicided. With her, he had miscalculated disastrously. Everything he knew of human nature indicated that she would take her own life. She was a freak, mentally unstable—hadn’t she been stumbling blindfolded along the cliff’s edge of sanity for decades? He had given her a push—a hard shove. Why hadn’t she fallen? He had destroyed every pillar in her life, every support she had—undermined her every belief. He had drowned her existence with nihilism.
With rude haste the bloomy girl deflow’r’d,
Tender, defenceless, and with ease o’erpower’d.
In her long, sheltered, uneventful life, Constance had always drifted hesitantly, uncertain what she was intended for, confused about the meaning of her life. With bitter clarity, Diogenes now saw that he had cleared up her confusion and given her the one thing no one else could have: something to live for. She had found a new, shining purpose in life.
To kill him.
Normally, this would not be a problem. Those who interfered with him—there had been several—hadn’t survived long enough to make a second attempt. He had washed away his sins in their blood. But already he could see that she was not like the others. He could not understand how she had identified him on the train—unless she had somehow physically followed him from the museum. And he was still unnerved from the utter self-possession of mind with which she had shot at him. She had forced him to leap out a window, flee in undignified panic, abandoning his valise with its treasured contents.
Fortunately, he had retained his various passports, wallet, credit cards, and identifications. The police would trace the valise and luggage back to Menzies; but they could not identify his traveling alter ego from them: Mr. Gerald Boscomb of South Penrith, Sydney, NSW. Now it was time to put aside all extraneous thoughts, all the little voluntary and involuntary mental tics and flourishes and whispered voices that made up his internal landscape—and identify a plan of action.
Closing the sports section, he turned to business.
No thought of right and wrong—only her fury
With all her being speeded toward revenge.
Constance Greene alone could identify him. She was an unacceptable danger. As long as she pursued him, he could not retreat to his bolt-hole and regroup. And yet all was not lost. He had failed this time, at least in part, but he had many years of life left to establish and e
xecute a new plan, and he would not fail a second time.
But as long as she lived, he would never be safe.
Constance Greene had to die.
Mr. Gerald Boscomb picked up the novel he’d purchased, cracked it, and began reading.
Killing her would require a finely tuned plan. His thoughts turned to the Cape buffalo—the most dangerous animal hunted by man. The Cape buffalo employed a peculiar strategy when hunted: alone among animals, it knew how to turn the hunter into the hunted.
As he read, a plan formed in his mind. He thought it over, considered various locations for its execution, and discarded each in turn, before arriving—at chapter 6—at the perfect setting. The plan would work. He would turn Constance’s very hatred for him against her.
He placed a bookmark in the novel, shut it, and tucked it under his arm. The first part of the plan was to show himself to her, to be intentionally seen—if she had managed to follow him here. But he could take no more chances, make no more assumptions.
He rose, slung his coat over his arm, and strolled down the terminal, glancing casually left and right, observing the masses of humanity as they ebbed and flowed on their futile business, a tidal flow of grays and more grays: layers of gray, an infinitude of gray. As he passed the Borders once again, his eye paused fleetingly on a dowdy woman buying a copy of Vogue; she was dressed in a brown woolen skirt of African design with a white shirt, a cheap scarf wrapped around her neck. Her brown, unwashed hair fell limply to her shoulders. She carried a small black leather backpack.
Diogenes passed slowly by the bookstore and went into the Starbucks next door, shocked that Constance had made such a poor effort to disguise herself. Shocked, also, that she had managed to follow him.
Or had she?
She must have. To find him any other way would take a mind reader.
He purchased a small organic green tea and croissant and made his way back to his seat, taking care not to look at the woman again. He could kill her here—it would be easy—but he would not be able to escape the layers of airport security. Would she make an attempt on his life in this exposed place? Did she care enough about her own life to take greater care—or was her sole aim to end his?
He had no answer.
Mr. Gerald Boscomb finished his tea and croissant, brushed the crumbs off the tips of his fingers, dusted his coat, and resumed reading his newly acquired thriller. A moment later, the first-class cabin of his flight was called to board. As he proffered his boarding pass to the gate attendant, his eye swept the terminal aisle again, but the woman had disappeared.
“G’day,” he said cheerily, as he took the ticket stub and entered the jetway.
69
Vincent D’Agosta entered the library of 891 Riverside Drive, pausing in the doorway. A fire blazed on the hearth, the lights were up, and the room was a hive of concentrated activity. The chairs had been pushed back against the bookcases, and a large table covered with papers dominated the center of the room. Proctor was at one side, murmuring into a cordless phone, while Wren, his hair even wilder than usual, pored over a stack of books at a desk in the corner. The little man looked pinched and ancient.
“Vincent. Please come in.” Pendergast called D’Agosta over with a curt gesture.
D’Agosta complied, shocked at the agent’s uncharacteristically haggard appearance. It was the only time he remembered ever seeing Pendergast unshaven. And, for once, the man’s suit jacket was unbuttoned.
“I got the details you wanted,” D’Agosta said, holding up a manila folder. “Thanks to Captain Hayward.” He dropped it on the table, flipped it open.
“Proceed.”
“Witnesses say the shooter was an old woman. She got on the train with a first-class ticket to Yonkers, paid in cash. Gave the name Jane Smith.” He snorted. “Just as the train was pulling out of Penn Station, while it was still underground, she entered the first-class berth of a passenger named . . . Eugene Hofstader. Pulled a gun and fired four shots. Forensics recovered two .44-40 rounds embedded in the walls and another on the tracks outside. Get this: they were antique rounds—probably shot from a nineteenth-century revolver, a Colt perhaps.”
Pendergast turned to Wren. “Check to see if we’re missing a Colt Peacemaker or similar revolver from the collection, along with any .44-40 rounds, please.”
Wordlessly, Wren stood up and left the room. Pendergast glanced back at D’Agosta. “Go on.”
“The old woman vanished, although no one saw her get off the train, which was sealed almost immediately following the shooting. If she was wearing a disguise and discarded it, it was never found.”
“Did the man leave anything behind?”
“You bet: a valise and a garment bag full of clothes. No papers or documents, or even a clue to his true identity. All labels had been carefully razored off the clothing. But the valise . . .”
“Yes?”
“They brought it into the evidence room, and when the warrant came down, they opened it up. Apparently, the evidence officer took one look and, well, whatever happened next he had to be sedated. A hazmat team was called in, and the stuff is now under lock and key—nobody seems to know where.”
“I see.”
“I guess we’re talking about Diogenes here,” said D’Agosta, slightly annoyed that he’d been sent out on the assignment with less-than-complete information.
“That is correct.”
“So who’s this old lady who shot at him?”
The agent gestured toward the table at the center of the room. “When Proctor returned here last night, he found Constance missing, along with a few articles of clothing. In her room, he found her pet mouse, its neck broken. Along with that note and the rosewood box.”
D’Agosta walked over, picked up the indicated note, read it quickly. “Jesus. Oh, Jesus, what a sick fuck . . .”
“Open the box.”
He opened the small antique box a little gingerly. It was empty, a long dimple left in the purple velvet interior by some object, now gone. A faded label on the inside cover read Sweitzer Surgical Instrument Company.
“A scalpel?” he asked.
“Yes. For Constance to cut her wrists with. She seems to have taken it for another purpose.”
D’Agosta nodded. “I think I’m getting the picture. The old woman was Constance.”
“Yes.”
“I hope she succeeds.”
“The thought of their meeting again is too terrible to contemplate,” Pendergast replied, his face grim. “I must catch up with her—and stop her. Diogenes has been preparing for this escape for years, and we have no hope of tracing him . . . unless, of course, he wishes to be traced. Constance, on the other hand, will not be trying to conceal her tracks. I must follow her . . . and there is always a chance that, in finding her, I will find him as well.”
He turned to an iBook sitting open on the table, began typing. A few minutes later, he looked over. “Constance boarded a flight to Florence, Italy, at five o’clock this afternoon, out of Logan Airport in Boston.” He turned. “Proctor? Pack my things and book a ticket to Florence, if you please.”
“I’m coming with you,” said D’Agosta.
Pendergast looked back at him, his face gray. “You may accompany me to the airport. But as for going with me—no, Vincent, you will not. You have a disciplinary hearing to prepare for. Besides, this is a . . . family matter.”
“I can help you,” said D’Agosta. “You need me.”
“Everything you say is true. And yet I must, and I will, do this alone.”
His tone was so cold and final that D’Agosta realized any reply was useless.
70
Diogenes Pendergast, a.k.a. Mr. Gerald Boscomb, passed the Palazzo Antinori and turned into the Via Tornabuoni, breathing in the damp winter air of Florence with a certain bitter nostalgia. So much had happened since he was last here, mere months ago, when he had been filled with plans. Now he had nothing—not even his clothes, which he had abandoned on th
e train.
Not even his treasured valise.
He strolled pass Max Mara, remembering with regret when it was once the fine old Libreria Seeber. He stopped in at Pineider, bought some stationery, purchased luggage at Beltrami, and picked up a raincoat and umbrella at Allegri—all of which he had sent over to his hotel, keeping only the raincoat and umbrella, for which he had paid cash. He stopped at Procacci, settled himself at a tiny table in the crowded shop, and ordered a truffle sandwich with a glass of vernaccia. He sipped his drink thoughtfully, watching passersby through the window.
The Book of the Dead Page 42
