“Don’t be a fool, Alban. I will kill you.”
The youth spread his hands. “I am waiting.”
A long silence ensued, and then Alban went on, almost jauntily. “With Der Bund gone, I’m free. I’m only fifteen—I have a long and productive life ahead of me. The world, as they say, is now my oyster—and I promise you it’ll be a more interesting place with me loose in it.”
And with that he leapt nimbly from the rock into the shallow water.
Pendergast followed him with his gun, blood dripping slowly from the fingers of his left hand, as Alban waded onto the beach and strolled up it. Pendergast remained unmoving, gun still aimed at his son, as Alban continued, in no apparent hurry, to the grassy verge of the shore, climbed the shallow embankment, and strolled into a field of grass, finally melting into the black and unbroken wall of trees at the forest’s edge. Only then did Pendergast—ever so slowly—lower his weapon with a trembling hand.
85
IT WAS CHRISTMAS EVE AT MOUNT MERCY HOSPITAL. A small Douglas fir, freshly cut, stood in the waiting area near the guards’ station, plastic trimmings attached to its branches by discreet rubber bands. Deep within the hospital, a recording of carols was faintly audible. Otherwise, the vast and rambling mansion was cloaked in a nostalgic silence, its resident murderers, poisoners, rapists, arsonists, vivisectors, and social deviants caught up in reveries of Christmases past: of presents received, and—rather more commonly—of presents inflicted.
Dr. John Felder walked down one of the interior corridors of Mount Mercy, Dr. Ostrom at his side. Over the last several weeks his broken ribs had mostly healed, and the concussion he’d sustained had receded. The only scar—the only external scar—that remained from his ordeal in the Wintour mansion was from the cut on his temple, now a scarlet, jagged line.
Ostrom shook his head. “What a strange case. I still feel we’ve hardly scratched the surface.”
Felder did not respond to that.
Ostrom stopped before a pair of double doors that—like most at Mount Mercy—were unlabeled. A single guard stood outside.
“This is it?” Felder asked.
“Yes. If you need anything, call for the guards.”
Felder extended his hand. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“My pleasure.” Ostrom turned and made his way back down the corridor.
Felder nodded to the guard, took a breath. Then he pushed open the doors and stepped inside.
Beyond lay the Mount Mercy chapel. It was an artifact from the days when the hospital had been a sanatorium for the very rich, and Felder, who had never seen it before, was amazed. It remained unchanged from its late-nineteenth-century zenith, when the numerous bequests of fearful, ailing patients had given the chapel’s designers working capital a Medici would envy. It was a masterpiece in miniature, jewel-like and utterly perfect, the nave only six rows deep, with a single central aisle; and yet the builders had cleverly re-created the ribbed vaults of a gothic cathedral, and in so doing filled both the side walls and the curved ambulatory with delicate, vividly colored stained glass. In the late-afternoon light, the chapel’s interior seemed almost drowned in color; the pews, the slender pillars, the other architectural features, were so dappled and painted with light as to be almost indistinguishable from each other. Felder took a hesitant step forward, and then another. It was like being inside an ecclesiastical kaleidoscope.
Felder advanced up the rows of pews, glancing left and right. All was silent—there was no one here. But then, as he approached the sanctuary, he noticed a tiny side altar off to the left. There, sitting on the single bench, was Constance Greene. She was motionless, camouflaged by the dappled half-light, and it took him a minute to make her out. He turned and approached her. She was leaning forward slightly, absorbed by the book she was holding up in both hands; her lips were just parted; her eyes were half shut, the long lashes giving the false impression that she was dozing. But Felder could tell she was quite alert, her eyes scanning the lines of the book intently. He wondered if perhaps it was a Bible. He tried to control the excessive pounding of his heart.
She turned, saw him. “Good day, Dr. Felder,” she said.
He nodded. “May I join you?”
She smiled faintly, made room for him on the bench. As she closed the book, he noticed that it was not a Bible, but Petronius’s Satyricon.
“It’s been some time since you last came to visit,” she said as he sat down. “How are you faring?”
“Well enough, thank you. And yourself?”
“The same. I hope that you won’t find the holidays—”
“Constance,” he interrupted. “Would you mind terribly if we dispensed with the formalities?”
She looked at him, surprised.
Felder reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. He took out two envelopes—one, old and faded; the other, fresh and new. He laid them in front of her, one after the other.
After a moment she took up the old envelope in both hands. Felder noticed her pupils dilate. Without a word, she opened it and looked inside.
“The lock of my hair,” she said. She spoke in quite a different voice from the one she had used to greet Felder and inquire after his well-being.
Felder inclined his head.
Now she turned to him with something almost like excitement. “Where on earth did you find it?”
“In Connecticut.”
Constance frowned. “Connecticut? But—”
Felder forestalled the question by raising his hand. “The less you know of the particulars, Constance, the better. For both of us.”
Constance’s eyes drifted to the scar on his temple. “When I suggested the existence of this lock, Doctor, it was not my intention that you should put yourself in any jeopardy to obtain it.”
“I know that.”
She slipped the lock out of the envelope, placed it in the palm of her hand. Glancing down at it, she traced a single fingertip along its brief extent with the gentlest of motions. In that strange aquarium of color and silence, her expression seemed to go far, far away. For many long minutes, she remained silent. Felder said nothing.
At last—quite abruptly—she collected herself. She returned the lock to its envelope and passed it back to Felder. “Forgive me,” she said.
“Not at all.”
“I hope you were not… unduly put out in its recovery.”
“It proved an interesting experience.”
Now Constance picked up the other envelope. It bore the return address of a laboratory in Saratoga Springs. “And what is this?”
“The DNA results on the lock of hair.”
“I see.” Constance’s demeanor—which had grown more than usually informal—became more reserved. “And what does the report say?”
“Take a look at the envelope,” Felder said. “You’ll see that I haven’t opened it.”
Constance turned the envelope over. “I don’t understand.”
Felder took a deep breath. He felt his limbs begin to tremble, ever so slightly. “I don’t need to read the results. I already believe you, Constance. Everything.”
Constance looked from the envelope to him and then back again.
“I know how old you are—and how young you are. I don’t need any DNA analysis to tell me that. I know you were telling the truth when you said you were born in the 1870s. I don’t understand it—but I believe it.”
Constance said nothing.
“I also know you didn’t murder your child. No doubt you had a reason for the deception—and as soon as you feel able to tell it to me, we can proceed.”
Something flickered in Constance’s eyes. “Proceed?”
“With overturning your involuntary commitment. And getting the murder charges dropped.” Felder moved a little closer. “Constance, you were sent here on my recommendation. I see now that was a mistake. You’re not insane. And you didn’t murder your child—that was a smokescreen. If you tell me where your child is, I will have it duly verified
by the authorities. And then we can begin the process of obtaining your release.”
Constance hesitated. “I…” she said, before stopping. She seemed uncharacteristically at a loss.
Felder had brooded, planned, dreamed about this moment. But now that it was actually happening, it seemed to take him by as much surprise as it took Constance. “I took a terrible risk obtaining that lock.” He touched his scar. “This is the least of it.”
He let that sink in.
“I had to know. It’s not your fault, of course, but now that it’s done, I want you to know that I’d do it again. I’d walk through fire for you, Constance. No—no, let me speak, please. I’d do it again because of… of my feelings for you. And it’s not just because I’ve wronged you, by putting you in here. It’s because of the way I’ve grown to feel about you. I want to undo the wrong and get you out of here, because it’s my hope that by setting you free, by putting us on an equal basis, in time you can come to look at me, not as a doctor, but as… as…” He hesitated, more confused than ever. “And naturally at that point, because of professional ethics, I’ll have to recuse myself as your doctor… if, of course…”
He finally fell silent, overwhelmed, and then, tentatively, reached out and took her hand. With trepidation, he looked up to meet her gaze. One glance was all it took. He looked down again and released her hand, feeling ill.
“Doctor,” Constance said gently. “John. I’m touched—I am, truly, deeply. Your belief in me means more than I could put into words. But the truth is that I could never return the feelings you seem to have for me—for the reason that my heart belongs to another.”
Felder did not look up. As Constance spoke, her voice had grown increasingly soft and troubled, until the final five words were just barely audible.
He thought back to that day in the Mount Mercy library, when Constance had first mentioned the existence of the lock; when she’d implied that his finding it, bringing it to light, would do more than simply vindicate her—for him it would be a lover’s test, a way to prove the depth of his feelings, to wipe out the past with all its false steps and dubious medical observations. But he realized now it was all in his head, that she had implied no such thing. He had projected his own hopes onto what she’d been offering him: simply an opportunity to satisfy himself about the truth of her age. And only because he demanded it.
He felt Constance take his hand. He looked up to see her smiling at him. She had fully recovered, and her smile held its usual suspension of cool amusement and benevolent distance.
“I can’t return your feelings, Doctor,” she said, giving his hand a gentle pressure. “But there’s something else I can do. I can tell you my story. It is a story I’ve not told to anyone else, at least not in its entirety.”
Felder blinked. Her words were slow to settle in.
She went on. “I fear this story must remain between us. Are you interested?”
“Interested?” Felder repeated. “My God. Of course.”
“Good. Then please consider this my gift to you.” Constance paused. “After all—it is Christmas Eve.”
86
THEY SAT, QUITE STILL, IN THE PROFUSION OF DAPPLED light. Constance looked over Felder’s shoulder, out into the main body of the chapel. The two envelopes, one old, one new, lay on the pew between them.
Constance began. “I was born at Sixteen Water Street, New York City, in the 1870s. Most likely it was in the summer of 1873. By the time I was five, both my parents were dead of tuberculosis. In 1878, my older sister, Mary, was confined to a workhouse—the Five Points Mission—and ultimately vanished. My brother, Joseph, died in 1880. This much you know.
“What you may not know is that my sister, Mary, was the victim of a doctor attached to the Five Points Mission, a surgeon of great skill who called himself Enoch Leng. Dr. Leng was a man with a singular ambition—to extend his own life span far beyond that of a normal human being. Before you judge him, however, I should explain that Dr. Leng was not trying to extend his life for selfish reasons. He was working on a scientific project—one that would take longer than a normal life span to complete.”
“What scientific project?” Felder asked.
“The details of the project aren’t necessary for my own story.” Constance paused. “Now, here we come to the first of several grotesqueries. Dr. Leng’s theories were unorthodox, as was his sense of medical ethics. His research led him to believe it would be possible to create a medical treatment—a formula or arcanum—for greatly prolonging life. The ingredients could be procured only from living human tissue, taken from a healthy young person.”
“Good Lord,” Felder murmured.
“As a specialist at a children’s workhouse in the Five Points section of Manhattan, then New York’s most notorious slum, Dr. Leng had no paucity of raw material. My own sister fell victim to his experiments—her mutilated corpse, along with dozens of others, was discovered in a mass grave about three years ago in Lower Manhattan.”
Felder recalled coming across an article describing this discovery on one of his visits to the public library. It had been in the New York Times, written by that reporter—Smithback—the one who was later murdered. So Mary Greene was Constance’s sister, he thought.
“I’m afraid a great many people fell victim to Dr. Leng while he was refining his technique. Suffice it to say that—in 1885—he succeeded in perfecting his arcanum.”
“He found a way to prolong his life?”
“His technique centered on the bundle of nerves known as the cauda equina—I have no need of further anatomical explanation, you being a doctor. But yes: by increasingly subtle refinements, he did in fact succeed in creating an arcanum that would dramatically slow the aging process of the human body. By that time, I was a ward, living in his house.”
“You—?” Felder began.
“After my sister vanished, I became—in the parlance of the day—a ‘guttersnipe.’ I had no family and lived in the streets, doing whatever it took to stay alive. I begged, I did cartwheels or swept the sidewalks free of filth for pedestrians, hoping for a penny. More than once I very nearly froze or starved to death. Many nights I slept within the shadow of the Five Points Mission, where Dr. Leng donated his services. One day the doctor stopped and asked my name. When I told him, I think he realized he was responsible for my situation—and for some unknown reason he took pity on me. Or perhaps not. At any rate, he took me into his mansion on Riverside Drive and used me as a guinea pig, administering the perfected arcanum, probably to test for side effects. And over time, strangely enough, he became fond of me. Why, I shall never know. He fed me, clothed me, educated me, and… continued to administer to me that same elixir that he gave himself.”
Constance had been slow to utter these last words. For some minutes, the chapel fell into silence. The story was incredible, but Felder knew it was the truth.
At last, Constance resumed. “For many, many years, we lived a solitary, reclusive life in that mansion. I continued my courses of study in literature, philosophy, art, music, history, and languages, partly with the doctor’s help and partly on my own, making free use of his library and scientific collections. Meanwhile, Dr. Leng continued his work. Around 1935, he achieved his second success. Using various chemicals and compounds that had been previously unavailable, he managed to synthesize an arcanum that no longer required… human factors.”
“In other words, he stopped killing,” Felder said.
Constance nodded. “As long as it prolonged his life, he felt no special compunction against taking lives. However, as a scientist, it offended his sense of purity and aesthetic. Yes—he stopped killing. He no longer needed to. The arcanum we both continued to take was now purely synthetic. But his greater task remained incomplete. And so his scientific research continued until it finally stopped, rather suddenly, in the spring of 1954.”
“Why 1954?” Felder asked.
A thin smile appeared on Constance’s face. “Once again, that isn’t g
ermane to my story. But I will tell you one thing. Dr. Leng once explained to me that there are two ways to ‘cure’ a patient. The common way is by restoring him to health.”
“What’s the other?”
“Putting him out of his misery.” The thin smile vanished. “In any case, with his work finally complete—or, more precisely, no longer necessary—Dr. Leng ceased to take the elixir. He lost interest in life, became even more reclusive, and began to age at a normal rate. But he gave me a choice. And I… chose to continue treatment.
“And so things remained for another fifty-odd years—until we were the victims of an unexpected and violent home invasion. Dr. Leng was killed, and I went into hiding in the deepest recesses of the house. Ultimately, order was restored, and the mansion passed into the hands of Leng’s great-grandnephew: Aloysius Pendergast.”
“Pendergast?” Felder repeated, hugely surprised.
Constance nodded.
Felder shook his head. It was too much to take in—too much.
“I watched Pendergast for many months before I finally revealed myself to him. He very kindly took me in as… as his ward.” She shifted on the bench. “And there you have it, Dr. Felder—the story of my past.”
Felder took a deep breath. “And—your child?” He couldn’t help but wonder who the father was.
“I gave birth to my son in Gsalrig Chongg, a remote monastery in Tibet. Through a complicated process, the monks of the monastery recognized that my son was the nineteenth incarnation of one of Tibet’s holiest rinpoches. This proved a great danger. The occupying Chinese authorities have been ruthlessly suppressing Tibetan Buddhism, especially the idea of the reincarnation of holy men. Back in 1995, when the Dalai Lama proclaimed a six-year-old boy as the eleventh incarnation of the Panchen Lama, the Chinese seized the boy, and he hasn’t been seen since—perhaps murdered. The Chinese learned that my child had been proclaimed the nineteenth reincarnation of the rinpoche—and so they came to get him.”
“So it was necessary to convince them that he was dead,” Felder said.
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