“Precisely. I pretended to flee with the child and then throw him overboard, all as a diversion. My arrest was highly public, and it seemed to satisfy the Chinese. Meanwhile, my real child was being smuggled out of Tibet to India.”
“So you brought a dummy aboard the Queen Mary and threw it overboard?”
“Exactly. A life-size doll. It went over the side in midpassage.”
There was a brief silence before Felder spoke again. “There’s something else I don’t understand. Why did you send me after your lock of hair? I’d always assumed it was a…” Here he colored. “A labor of love. To exonerate myself, to prove myself to you. But you’ve made it clear that you—you have no feelings for me along those lines.”
“Haven’t you guessed the answer, Dr. Felder?” Constance replied. “Actually, I suppose there are two answers.” She smiled slightly. “That day you came to visit me in the library here, I’d just learned my child had reached India safely. He’s in Dharamsala, with the Tibetan government in exile, very well protected. Now he can grow up and undergo the proper training to fulfill his position as the nineteenth rinpoche, in absentia. Safe from the Chinese.”
“So there’s no longer a need to maintain this fiction that you murdered your child.”
“Exactly. And as a result, there’s no need for me to remain any longer in Mount Mercy.”
“But to be allowed to leave, you’d have to be certified as compos mentis.”
Constance inclined her head.
“Which meant convincing me of your sanity.”
“That’s correct. But there’s also the second answer that I mentioned. By convincing you of my sanity, it would resolve the agonizing doubts in your own mind. If you knew I was speaking the truth, it would help you resolve the difficulties in my story—difficulties that I know have been wearing on you.”
So she did care for him—in some manner or another. At the very least, she’d noticed his internal struggle and taken pity on him for it. In the silence that followed, Felder found himself—in light of all this new information—framing the arguments he would put forward for overturning Constance’s commitment. He realized, with growing dismay, that nothing she’d just told him could be used as evidence. It would not even begin to stand up in a court hearing. He would have to find his own way through the legal maze—and the maze of demonstrating that the distant child in India was hers—but, he knew, he owed that to her… and more. At least, proving the child was alive would be fairly straightforward—thanks to advanced DNA testing.
He still had so many questions to ask that he found himself somehow unable to frame even one of them in his head. Instead, he realized he needed time to process all that he had heard. It was time to leave.
He picked up the two envelopes, held the old, yellowed one out to Constance. “This is rightfully yours,” he said.
“I’d be happier knowing it was in your possession.”
Felder nodded. He slipped both envelopes into his jacket pocket. He stood up, but did not leave, hesitating a moment. One important question still remained to be resolved.
“Constance,” he said.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“The, ah, arcanum. When did you stop taking it?”
“When my first guardian, Dr. Leng, was killed.”
He hesitated. “Does it ever bother you?”
“What?”
“The—sorry, I can’t think of a delicate way to put this—the knowledge that your own life has been artificially extended by the murder of innocent people.”
Constance regarded him with her deep, inscrutable eyes. The chapel seemed to go very still.
“Are you familiar,” she asked at last, “with F. Scott Fitzgerald’s quotation: The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function?”
“I’ve heard it, yes.”
“Consider this. I was not merely the beneficiary of Dr. Leng’s experiments. I became the ward of the man who murdered and mutilated my own sister. I spent over a hundred years beneath his roof, reading his books, drinking his wines, consuming his food, conversing pleasantly with him in the evenings—all the while knowing who he was and what he did to my own sister. A rare case of opposing ideas, wouldn’t you say?”
She paused. Felder was struck by the unusual look in her eyes—of what? He could not say.
“So I ask you, Doctor: does that mean I have a first-rate intelligence—or that I am insane?” She paused, her deep eyes glittering. “Or… both?”
And with that, she nodded her dismissal, picked up her book, and began to read.
87
D’AGOSTA WAS FEARFUL THE OLD BAR MIGHT HAVE closed up. He hadn’t been there in years. Few of his fellow officers even knew of the place—the ferns in their macramé hangers guaranteed that no self-respecting cop would be caught dead in there. But as he turned the corner from Vesey onto Church Street, feet crunching against the light dusting of snow, he saw—with relief—that the place was still there. The ferns in the window appeared, if anything, deader than ever. He descended the steps and went inside.
Laura Hayward was already there. She was sitting in the back, at the very same table—how was that for a coincidence?—a fresh, foamy Guinness in one hand. She looked up as D’Agosta approached, smiled.
“I didn’t even know this place had a name,” she said as he sat down.
D’Agosta nodded. “Vino Veritas.”
“Maybe the owner’s a wine connoisseur. Or a Harvard graduate. Or both.”
D’Agosta didn’t quite understand this, so instead of replying he nodded to the waiter and pointed at Hayward’s drink.
“It seemed like a good place to meet,” he said as his own Guinness was placed before him. “Just a stone’s throw from Police Plaza.”
He took a sip from the pint glass, then sat back in his chair, trying to appear nonchalant. In fact he was nervous as hell. The idea had come to him that morning, on his way to work. No big plan this time, no elaborate preparations. Instinct told him that he’d better just go for it.
“Big doings in Captain Singleton’s office,” Laura said, teasingly.
“So the word’s already out?”
She nodded. “Midge Rawley. She’s the last person you’d think. I mean, she’s been Glen’s confidential secretary, known every last bit of his business, for—what?—at least ten years.”
“And I think she was loyal for all of them. Until just recently. At least, that’s when the payments took place—according to the bank records.”
“I’d heard she’d been having some personal problems. Separated from her husband, mother in a nursing home. I suppose that’s why they chose her.”
“Maybe they blackmailed her. Almost makes you feel sorry for her.”
“Almost. Until you remember it was her tip-off that betrayed the location of the Central Park boathouse meet. Which led to the shootout, the deaths of five people, and the kidnapping and murder of Helen Pendergast.” Laura paused. “Did the search warrant uncover anything?”
D’Agosta shook his head. “We’re hoping to learn more from the audio and video surveillance logs. Or maybe from Rawley herself. The Internal Affairs boys have her down in the Tombs right now. Who knows? She might get talkative.” He took another sip of his Guinness. He was getting more nervous by the minute—and this small talk wasn’t helping any.
“Anyway, you did good, Vinnie. This will be a real feather in your cap.”
“Thanks.”
“And it may take Singleton down a notch or two, as well.”
D’Agosta had thought of this. Having a mole discovered in his own private office would make Captain Singleton defensive, to say the least—and that, indirectly, would only help get D’Agosta off the hot seat. Although it was a damn shame—Singleton was a decent man.
“It’s really Pendergast who should get the credit,” he said.
“He just called you, out of the blue, and told you w
ho to finger?”
“Not exactly. Let’s say he pointed me in the right direction.”
“So it was your own good police work that did it. Don’t sell yourself short, Vinnie—you scored, big-time. Take the credit and run.” Laura’s sly smile deepened. “So does this mean you and Agent Pendergast are best buddies again?”
“He called me ‘my dear Vincent,’ if that’s any indication.”
“I see. So Pendergast is back in New York, the Hotel Killer murders have stopped, and the FBI profilers think the killer’s moved on. It’s Christmas Eve. God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.” She raised her glass.
D’Agosta took another sip of his Guinness. He barely tasted the brew. It was all he could do to keep from squirming in his chair. This was growing intolerable. He’d have to find some way to introduce the subject, but he was damned if he knew how—
Suddenly he became aware that Laura had put down her glass and was gazing at him intently. For a moment they looked at each other in silence. And then, she spoke.
“Yes,” she said in a low voice.
D’Agosta was confused. “I’m sorry?”
She reached over, took his hand. “You big dope. Let me put you out of your misery. Of course I’ll marry you.”
“You… how…?” D’Agosta fell silent, at a loss for words.
“Do you think I’m a complete idiot? Why would you ask me to meet you for a drink here, of all unlikely places? You made such a big deal out of picking this particular spot—the spot where we first got to know each other. Two years ago, remember?” She squeezed his hand, then laughed. “Vino Veritas, indeed. You know what? Deep down, Lieutenant D’Agosta, you’re just an old softie. A sentimentalist. And that’s one of the things—one of the many things—I love about you.”
D’Agosta looked down. He was so moved that he could not speak. “I can’t believe you knew. I mean…”
“So where’s the ring?”
D’Agosta stammered, trying to explain it was spontaneous, last minute, until he was interrupted by her laugh. “I’m just teasing you, Vinnie. I like spontaneous. I can wait for the ring—no problem.”
Sheepishly, he reached over and took her hand. “Thanks.”
Still smiling, she cocked her head. “Let’s go someplace else. Some new place, really nice. As nostalgic as this place is, let’s make a new memory of tonight. We need to celebrate—and not just because it’s Christmas Eve. We’ve got a lot of planning to do.”
She signaled the waiter for the check.
And Last
THE LARGE, ORNATELY PANELED LIBRARY OF 891 RIVERSIDE Drive was lit only by fire and candlelight. It was a late-February evening, and a light freezing rain was falling on the cars passing by on Riverside and the West Side Highway, but no sound of traffic, no tick, tick of ice upon glass panes, penetrated the barred and curtained windows. The only sound was the crackling of the fire, the scratch of Agent Pendergast’s fountain pen on cream laid writing paper, and a low, infrequent conversation that was being carried out between Constance Greene and Tristram.
The two were sitting at a gaming table placed before the fire, and Constance was teaching Tristram how to play ombre, a card game that had gone out of fashion decades, if not centuries, before. Tristram stared at his cards, his young face screwed up in thought. Constance had begun introducing him to games slowly—with whist—and already Tristram’s memory, concentration, and logical abilities showed remarkable improvement. Now he was immersed in the subtleties of spadilles, entradas, and estuches.
Pendergast was sitting at a writing table in the far corner of the library, his back to a wall of leather-bound books. From time to time he glanced up from his writing, his silvery eyes moving around the room, always coming to rest at last on the two persons playing cards.
Now the quiet of the room was broken by the ringing of Pendergast’s cell phone. He slipped it from his pocket, glanced at the number. “Yes?” he spoke into it.
“Pendergast? It’s me. Corrie.”
“Miss Swanson. How are you faring?”
“Fine. I’ve been swamped catching up with my coursework, that’s why I’m calling only now. I’ve got one hell of a story to tell you… and…” Here there was a hesitation.
“Is everything all right?”
“Well, if you mean by that I’m not hearing any goose-stepping coming at me from behind, yeah. But listen: I solved a case, a real, honest-to-God case.”
“Excellent. I want to apologize for having been unable to give you greater assistance when you came to me back in December—but I had great faith in your ability to look after yourself. Faith that, it would seem, was justified. And as it happens, I have a rather interesting story to tell you, as well.”
A pause.
“So,” Corrie went on. “Any chance of renewing that offer for lunch at Le Bernardin?”
“How remiss of me for not suggesting it immediately. We should do it soon, however—because I’m thinking of taking an extended vacation.”
“Name the date.”
Pendergast considered a small appointment book he plucked from his jacket pocket. “Next Thursday, one o’clock.”
“That’ll be great, I don’t have any classes on Thursday afternoons.” Another hesitation. “Hey, Pendergast?”
“Yes?”
“Would it be all right if… if I brought my father along? He’s part of the story.”
“Naturally. I’ll look forward to seeing the two of you next Thursday.”
He put pen and paper aside and stood up. Tristram had left, and Constance was sitting at the table alone, shuffling the cards. Pendergast looked over to her.
“How is his playing coming along?”
“Quite well. Better than I expected, actually. If he continues to learn at such a rapid pace, I may move on to rubicon bezique or skat.”
Pendergast remained silent a moment before speaking again. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. Back when I visited you in Mount Mercy, looking for advice. And you were right, of course. I had to go to Nova Godói. There was no choice. And I had to act—alas, with extreme violence. I’ve rescued Tristram, true. But the other half of the equation—the more complex and difficult part of the equation—remains unsolved.”
For a moment, Constance did not reply. When she did, it was in a low voice. “So there’s been no word.”
“None. I’ve got certain, ah, assets in place, and he’s been put on the watch lists of both the DEA and the local consulate officials—discreetly, of course. But he seems to have vanished into the forest.”
“Do you think he might be dead?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” Pendergast replied. “His injuries were grievous.”
Constance put down the cards. “I’ve been wondering. I don’t mean to offend with the question but… Do you think he could have gone through with it? Killing you, I mean.”
For a moment, Pendergast did not answer, looking into the fire. Then he glanced back at her. “I’ve asked myself that question many times. There were times—when he was shooting at me in the lake, for example—that I felt sure he meant to do so. But then, there were so many other times when he seems to have missed his opportunity.”
Constance picked up the cards again and began dealing fresh hands. “Not knowing his future intentions, not knowing whether he’s dead or alive… rather disquieting.”
“Indeed.”
“What about the rest of the Covenant?” Constance asked. “Do they still pose a threat?”
Pendergast shook his head. “No. Their leaders are dead; their fortress destroyed; all their decades of research findings burned and gone. Their raison d’être—the twins themselves—are almost all alienated from the project. From the reports I’ve received, many have already begun integrating themselves into Brazilian society. Of course, the very latest ‘iterations’ of twins—those leading up to Alban and the beta test—were the Covenant’s greatest successes, and I understand the Brazilian authorities are finding so
me of them too incorrigible to be rehabilitated. But their number is small, and there is simply no way for Der Bund to achieve a second critical mass, even…” And here his voice sank lower: “Even were Alban to resurface.”
There was a brief silence. Then Constance nodded at Tristram’s empty chair. “Have you decided what to do about him?”
“I was considering one idea.”
“And what might that be?”
“That, in addition to being my amanuensis—and my oracle, it would seem—you might be his…”
Constance glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. “His what? Babysitter?”
“More than babysitter. Less than guardian. More like—older sister.”
“Older is the operative word. A hundred and thirty years older. Aloysius, don’t you think I’m a little advanced in age to start acting like a sibling again?”
“It is admittedly a novel idea. Will you at least consider it?”
Constance looked at him for a long moment. Then her gaze returned to Tristram’s empty chair. “There is something affecting about him,” she said. “So much the opposite of his brother, at least as you’ve described him to me. He’s so young and impatient—and remarkably naive about the world. So innocent.”
“As was someone else we both knew, once.”
“The thing is, I sense in him an incredible, almost boundless empathy, a depth of compassion I haven’t seen since the monastery.”
At this point Tristram stepped back into the library, glass of milk in hand.
“Herr Proctor is coming,” he told them. “He is bringing you—what was the word he used?—refreshments.” He repeated the word as he sat down at the card table, as if to taste it.
Pendergast turned toward the youth. For a moment, he simply looked at him, drinking his milk with evident enjoyment. His wants were so simple, his gratitude for even the slightest kindness so boundless. He rose from his chair and walked over to his son. Tristram put down the milk and looked up at him.
He knelt, bringing himself to the boy’s level, reached into a pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a ring: gold, set with a large, perfect star sapphire. Taking Tristram’s hand, he pressed the ring into it. The youth stared at it, turned it over in his hands, then brought it closer to his eyes, watching the star move on the surface of the sapphire.
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