by Brad Meltzer
Suddenly she turned on Pendergast. “And you!”
Pendergast raised his eyebrows, then carefully placed a blini back on his plate.
“Sneaking around the Museum, picking locks, fomenting suspicion. You started all this.”
Pendergast bowed. “If I have caused you any distress, Dr. Kelly, I regret it deeply.”
“Distress? They’re going to crucify me. And there it all was, in today’s paper. I could kill you! All of you!”
Her voice had risen, and now people were looking at her instead of at the man at the podium, still droning on about classifying his great apes.
Then Pendergast said, “Smile. Our friend Brisbane is watching.”
Nora glanced over her shoulder. O’Shaughnessy followed the glance toward the podium and saw a well-groomed man—tall, glossy, with slicked-back dark hair—staring at them. He did not look happy.
Nora shook her head and lowered her voice. “Jesus, I’m not even supposed to be talking to you. I can’t believe the position you’ve put me in.”
“However, Dr. Kelly, you and I do need to talk,” Pendergast said softly. “Meet me tomorrow evening at Ten Ren’s Tea and Ginseng Company, 75 Mott Street, at seven o’clock. If you please.”
Nora glared at him angrily, then stalked off.
Immediately, Brisbane glided over on long legs, planting himself in front of them. “What a pleasant surprise,” he said in a chill undertone. “The FBI agent, the policeman, and the reporter. An unholy trinity if ever I saw one.”
Pendergast inclined his head. “And how are you, Mr. Brisbane?”
“Oh, top form.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“I don’t recall any of you being on the guest list. Especially you, Mr. Smithback. How did you slither past security?”
Pendergast smiled and spoke gently. “Sergeant O’Shaughnessy and I are here on law enforcement business. As for Mr. Smithback—well, I’m sure he would like nothing more than to be tossed out on his ear. What a marvelous follow-up that would make to his piece in today’s edition of the Times.”
Smithback nodded. “Thank you. It would.”
Brisbane stood still, the smile frozen on his face. He looked first at Pendergast, then at Smithback. His eyes raked Smithback’s soiled tux. “Didn’t your mother teach you that caviar goes in the mouth, not on the shirt?” He walked off.
“Imbecile,” Smithback murmured.
“Don’t underestimate him,” replied Pendergast. “He has Moegen-Fairhaven, the Museum, and the mayor behind him. And he is no imbecile.”
“Yeah. Except that I’m a reporter for the New York Times.”
“Don’t make the mistake of thinking even that lofty position will protect you.”
… and now, without more ado, let us unveil the Museum’s latest creation, the Hall of Primates…
O’Shaughnessy watched as a ribbon beside the podium was cut with an oversized pair of scissors. There was a smattering of applause and a general drift toward the open doors of the new hall beyond. Pendergast glanced at him. “Shall we?”
“Why not?” Anything was better than standing around here.
“Count me out,” said Smithback. “I’ve seen enough exhibitions in this joint to last me a lifetime.”
Pendergast turned and grasped the reporter’s hand. “I am sure we shall meet again. Soon.”
It seemed to O’Shaughnessy that Smithback fairly flinched.
Soon they were through the doors. People drifted along the spacious hall, which was lined with dioramas of stuffed chimpanzees, gorillas, orangutans, and various monkeys and lemurs, displayed in their native habitats. With some surprise, O’Shaughnessy realized the dioramas were fascinating, beautiful in their own way. They were like magic casements opening onto distant worlds. How had these morons done it? But of course, they hadn’t done it—it was the curators and artists who had. People like Brisbane were the deadwood at the top of the pile. He really needed to come here more often.
He saw a knot of people gathering around one case, which displayed a hooting chimpanzee swinging on a tree limb. There was whispered conversation, muffled laughter. It didn’t look any different from the other cases, and yet it seemed to have attracted half the people in the hall. O’Shaughnessy wondered what was so interesting about that chimpanzee. He looked about. Pendergast was in a far corner, examining some strange little monkey with intense interest. Funny man. A little scary, actually, when you got right down to it.
He strolled over to check out the case, standing at the fringe of the crowd. There were more murmurs, some stifled laughter, some disapproving clucks. A bejeweled lady was gesturing for a guard. When people noticed O’Shaughnessy was a cop, they automatically shuffled aside.
He saw that an elaborate label had been attached to the case. The label was made from a plaque of richly grained oak, on which gold letters were edged in black. It read:
ROGER C. BRISBANE III
FIRST VICE PRESIDENT
THIRTEEN
THE BOX WAS MADE OF FRUITWOOD. IT HAD LAIN, untouched and unneeded, for many decades, and was now covered in a heavy mantle of dust. But it had only taken one swipe of a soft velour cloth to remove the sediment of years, and a second swipe to bring out the rich, mellow sheen of the wood beneath.
Next, the cloth moved toward the brass corners, rubbing and burnishing. Then the brass hinges, shined and lightly oiled. Finally came the gold nameplate, fastened to the lid by four tiny screws. It was only when every inch, every element, of the box had been polished to brilliance that the fingers moved toward the latch, and—trembling slightly with the gravity of the moment—unsnapped the lock, lifted the lid.
Within, the tools gleamed from their beds of purple velvet. The fingers moved from one to the next, touching each lightly, almost reverently, as if they could impart some healing gift. As indeed they could—and had—and would again.
First came the large amputation knife. Its blade curved downward, as did all American amputation knives made between the Revolutionary and Civil Wars. In fact, this particular set dated from the 1840s, crafted by Wiegand & Snowden of Philadelphia. An exquisite set, a work of art.
The fingers moved on, a solitary ring of cat’s-eye opal winking conspiratorially in the subdued light: metacarpal saw, Catlin knife, bone forceps, tissue forceps. At last, the fingers stopped on the capital saw. They caressed its length for a moment, then teased it from its molded slot. It was a beauty: long, built for business, its heavy blade breathtakingly sharp. As with the rest of the tools, its handle was made of ivory and gutta-percha; it was not until the 1880s, when Lister’s work on germs was published, that surgical instruments began to be sterilized. All handles from that point on were made of metal: porous materials became mere collector’s items. A pity, really; the old tools were so much more attractive.
It was a comfort to know that there would be no need for sterilization here.
The box contained two trays. With worshipful care, the fingers removed the upper tray—the amputation set—to expose the still greater beauty of the neurosurgical set below. Rows of skull trephines lay beside the more delicate saw blades. And encircling the rest was the greatest treasure of all: a medical chain saw, a long, thin band of metal covered in sharp serrated teeth, ivory hand grips at each end. It actually belonged among the amputation tools, but its great length consigned it to the lower tray. This was the thing to use when time, not delicacy, was of the essence. It was a horrifying-looking tool. It was consummately beautiful.
The fingers brushed each item in turn. Then, carefully, the upper tray was lowered back into position.
A heavy leather strop was brought from a nearby table and laid before the open box. The fingers rubbed a small amount of neat’s-foot oil into the strop, slowly, without hurry. It was important that there no longer be any hurry. Hurry had always meant mistakes, wasted effort.
At last, the fingers returned to the box, selected a knife, brought it to the light. Then—with lingering, loving
care—laid it against the leather strop and began stroking back and forth, back and forth. The leather seemed almost to purr as the blade was stropped.
To sharpen all the blades in the surgical set to a razor edge would take many hours. But then, there would be time.
There would, in fact, be nothing but time.
The Appointed Time
ONE
PAUL KARP COULD HARDLY BELIEVE HE WAS ACTUALLY going to get some. Finally. Seventeen years old and now finally he was going to get some.
He pulled the girl deeper into the Ramble. It was the wildest, least visited part of Central Park. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.
“Why don’t we just go back to your place?” the girl asked.
“My folks are home.” Paul put his arms around her and kissed her. “Don’t worry, this is great right here.” Her face was flushed, and he could hear her breathing. He looked ahead for the darkest, the most private place he could find. Quickly, unwilling to lose the moment, he turned off the paved walk and plunged into a thicket of rhododendron bushes. She was following, gladly. The thought sent a little shiver of anticipation coursing through him. It only seemed deserted, he told himself. People came in here all the time.
He pushed his way into the densest part of the thicket. Even though the autumn sun still hovered low in the sky, the canopy of sycamores, laurels, and azaleas created a verdant half-light. He tried to tell himself it was cozy, almost romantic.
Finally they came to a hidden spot, a thick bed of myrtle surrounded by dark bushes. No one would see them here. They were utterly alone.
“Paul? What if a mugger—?”
“No mugger’s going to see us in here,” he quickly said, taking the girl in his arms and kissing her. She responded, first hesitantly, then more eagerly.
“Are you sure this place is okay?” she whispered.
“Sure. We’re totally alone.”
After a last look around, Paul lay down on the myrtle, pulling her beside him. They kissed again. Paul slid his hands up her blouse and she didn’t stop him. He could feel her chest heaving, breasts rising and falling. The birds made a racket over their heads, and the myrtle rose around them like a thick, green carpet. It was very nice. Paul thought this was a great way for it to happen. He could tell the story later. But the important thing was it was going to happen. No longer would it be a joke among his friends: the last virgin of Horace Mann’s senior class.
With renewed urgency, he pressed closer to her, undid some buttons.
“Don’t push so hard,” she whispered, squirming. “The ground is bumpy.”
“Sorry.” They wriggled on the thick myrtle, searching for a more comfortable spot.
“Now there’s a branch digging into my back.”
Suddenly she stopped.
“What?”
“I heard a rustle.”
“It’s just the wind.” Paul shifted some more and they embraced again. His fingers felt thick and awkward as he unzipped her pants, unbuttoned the rest of her shirt. Her breasts swung free and at the sight he felt himself grow even harder. He put his hand on her bare midriff, sliding it downward. Her much more expert hand reached him first. As she took him in her cool gentle grasp, he gasped and thrust forward.
“Ouch. Wait. There’s still a branch underneath me.” She sat up, breathing hard, her blond hair falling over her shoulders. Paul sat up, too, frustration mingling with desire. He could see the flattened area where they had been lying. The myrtle was crushed and beneath he could see the outline of the light-colored branch. He stuck his hand through the myrtle and grabbed it, yanking at it angrily, struggling to wrest it free. Goddamn branch.
But something was very wrong: it felt strange, cold, rubbery, and as it came up out of the myrtle he saw it wasn’t a branch at all, but an arm. Leaves slid away exposing the rest of the body, languorously, unwillingly. As his fingers went slack the arm fell away again, flopping back into the greenery.
The girl screamed first, scrambling backward, standing, tripping, standing up again and running, jeans unzipped and shirt flapping around her. Paul was on his feet but all he seemed able to hear was her crashing through the undergrowth. It had all happened so fast it seemed like some sort of dream. He could feel the lust dying away within him, horror flooding in to take its place. He turned to run. Then he paused and glanced wildly back, driven by some impulse to see if it were actually real. The fingers were partly curled, white skin smeared with mud. And in the dimness beyond, under the thick undergrowth, lay the rest of it.
TWO
DR. BILL DOWSON LOUNGED AGAINST THE SINK, EXAMINING his precisely trimmed fingernails without interest. One more, then lunch. Thank God. A cup of coffee and a BLT at the corner deli would hit the spot. He wasn’t sure why he wanted a BLT, exactly: maybe it was the lividity of the last stiff that started him thinking about bacon. Anyway, that Dominican behind the deli counter had elevated the sandwich into an art form. Dowson could practically taste the crisp lettuce, the tang of tomato against the mayonnaise…
The nurse brought in the clipboard and he glanced up. She had short black hair and a trim body. He glanced at the clipboard without picking it up and smiled at her.
“What have we here?” he asked.
“Homicide.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh, rolled his eyes. “What is that, the fourth today? It must be hunting season. Gunshot?”
“No. Some kind of multiple stabbing. They found it in Central Park, in the Ramble.”
He nodded. “The dumping ground, eh? Figures.” Great. Another piece-of-shit killing. He glanced at his watch. “Bring it in, please.”
He watched the nurse walk out. Nice, very nice. She returned a moment later with a gurney, covered by a green sheet.
He made no move toward the body. “So, how about that dinner tonight?”
The nurse smiled. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Doctor.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve told you before. I don’t date doctors. Especially ones I work with.”
He nodded, pushed down his glasses, and grinned. “But I’m your soul mate, remember?”
She smiled. “Hardly.”
But he could tell she was flattered by his interest. Better not push it, though, not these days. Sexual harassment and all that.
He sighed, eased himself off the sink. Then he pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. “Turn on the videocams,” he said to the nurse as he prepped.
“Yes, Doctor.”
He picked up the clipboard. “Says here we have a Caucasian woman, identified as Doreen Hollander, age 27, of Pine Creek, Oklahoma. Identified by her husband.” He scanned the rest of the top sheet. Then he hung the clipboard on the gurney, drew on his surgical mask, and with the nurse’s help lifted the sheeted corpse onto the stainless steel examining table.
He sensed a presence behind him and turned. In the doorway was a tall, slender man. His face and hands looked remarkably pale against the black of his suit. Behind the man stood a uniformed cop.
“Yes?” Dowson asked.
The man approached, opening his wallet. “I’m Special Agent Pendergast, Dr. Dowson. And this is Sergeant O’Shaughnessy of the NYPD.”
Dowson looked him over. This was very irregular. And there was something strange about the man: hair so very blond, eyes so very pale, accent so very, very southern. “And?”
“May I observe?”
“This an FBI case?”
“No.”
“Where’s your clearance?”
“I don’t have one.”
Dowson sighed with irritation. “You know the rules. You can’t just watch for the hell of it.”
The FBI agent took a step closer to him, closer than he liked, invading his personal space. He controlled an impulse to step backward.
“Look, Mr. Pendergast, get the necessary paperwork and come back. Okay?”
“That will be time-consuming,” said the man named Pendergast. “It will hold you up considerably. I wo
uld appreciate your courtesy in letting us observe.”
There was something in the man’s tone that sounded a lot harder than the mellifluous accent and genteel words suggested. Dowson hesitated. “Look, with all due respect—”
“With all due respect, Dr. Dowson, I’m in no mood to bandy civilities with you. Proceed with the autopsy.”
The voice was now cold as dry ice. Dowson remembered the videocam was on. He glanced covertly at the nurse. He had a strong sense that a humiliation at the hands of this man might be just around the corner. This would not look good and it might cause trouble later. The guy was FBI, after all. Anyway, his own ass was covered: he was on record stating the man needed clearance.
Dowson sighed. “All right, Pendergast. You and the sergeant, don scrubs.”
He waited until they returned, then pulled back the sheet with a single motion. The cadaver lay on its back: blonde hair, young, fresh. The chill of the previous night had kept it from decomposing. Dowson leaned toward the mike and began a description. The FBI man was looking at the corpse with interest. But Dowson could see that the uniformed cop was beginning to look uneasy, shifting from one foot to another, lips pressed tight together. The last thing he needed was a puker.
“Is he going to be all right?” Dowson asked Pendergast in an undertone, nodding to the cop.
Pendergast turned. “You don’t have to see this, Sergeant.”
The cop swallowed, glancing from the corpse to Pendergast and back again. “I’ll be in the lounge.”
“Drop your scrubs in the bin on your way out,” said Dowson with sarcastic satisfaction.
Pendergast watched the cop leave. Then he turned to Dowson. “I suggest you turn the body over before making your Y-incision.”
“And why is that?”
Pendergast nodded toward the clipboard. “Page two.”
