Douglas Preston - The Cabinet of Curiosities

He tried to stand in automatic groggy panic but fell back again immediately, to a chorus of clinks and clatterings. He was stark naked, chained to the ground by his arms and legs, his mouth sealed with heavy tape.

This couldn’t be happening. Oh, Jesus, this was insane.

He hadn’t told anyone he was coming up here. Nobody knew where he was. Nobody even knew he was missing. If only he’d told someone, the pool secretary, O’Shaughnessy, his great-grandfather, his half-sister, anyone…

He lay back, head pounding, hyperventilating again, heart battering in his rib cage.

He had been drugged and chained by the man in black — the man in the derby hat. That much was clear. The same man who tried to kill Pendergast, no doubt; the same man, probably, who had killed Puck and the others. The Surgeon. He was in the dungeon of the Surgeon.

The Surgeon. Professor Enoch Leng.

The sound of a footfall brought him to full alertness. There was a scraping noise, then a painfully bright rectangle of light appeared in the wall of darkness ahead. In the reflected light, Smithback could see he was in a small basement room with a cement floor, stone walls and an iron door. He felt a surge of hope, even gratitude.

A pair of moist lips appeared at the iron opening. They moved.

“Please do not discompose yourself,” came the voice. “All this will be over soon. Struggle is unnecessary.”

There was something almost familiar in that voice, and yet inexpressibly strange and terrible, like the whispered tones of nightmare.

The slot slid shut, leaving Smithback in darkness once more.

All those Dreadful

THE BIG ROLLS-ROYCE glided its way along the one-lane road that crossed Little Governors Island. Fog lay thick in the marshes and hollows, obscuring the surrounding East River and the ramparts of Manhattan that lay beyond. The headlights slid past a row of ancient, long-dead chestnut trees, then striped their way across heavy wrought iron gates. As the car stopped, the lights came to rest on a bronze plaque: Mount Mercy Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

A security guard stepped out of a booth into the glare and approached the car. He was heavyset, tall, friendly looking. Pendergast lowered the rear window and the man leaned inside.

“Visiting hours are over,” he said.

Pendergast reached into his jacket, removed his shield wallet, opened it for the guard.

The man gave it a long look, and then nodded, as if it was all in a day’s work.

“And how may we help you, Special Agent Pendergast?”

“I’m here to see a patient.”

“And the name of the patient?”

“Pendergast. Miss Cornelia Delamere Pendergast.”

There was a short, uncomfortable silence.

“Is this official law enforcement business?” The security guard didn’t sound quite so friendly anymore.

“It is.”

“All right. I’ll call up to the big house. Dr. Ostrom is on duty tonight. You can park your car in the official slot to the left of the main door. They’ll be waiting for you in reception.”

Within a few minutes Pendergast was following the well-groomed, fastidious-looking Dr. Ostrom down a long, echoing corridor. Two guards walked in front, and two behind. Fancy wainscoting and decorative molding could still be glimpsed along the corridor, hidden beneath innumerable layers of institutional paint. A century before, in the days when consumption ravaged all classes of New York society, Mount Mercy Hospital had been a grand sanatorium, catering to the tubercular offspring of the rich. Now, thanks in part to its insular location, it had become a high-security facility for people who had committed heinous crimes but were found not guilty by reason of insanity.

“How is she?” Pendergast asked.

There was a slight hesitation in the doctor’s answer. “About the same,” he said.

They stopped at last in front of a thick steel door, a single barred window sunk into its face. One of the forward guards unlocked the door, then stood outside with his partner while the other two guards followed Pendergast within.

They were standing in a small “quiet room” almost devoid of decoration. No pictures hung on the lightly padded walls. There was a plastic sofa, a pair of plastic chairs, a single table. Everything was bolted to the floor. There was no clock, and the sole fluorescent ceiling light was hidden behind heavy wire mesh. There was nothing that could be used as a weapon, or to assist a suicide. In the far wall stood another steel door, even thicker, without a window. Warning: Risk of Elopement was posted above it in large letters.

Pendergast took a seat in one of the plastic chairs, and crossed his legs.

The two forward attendants disappeared through the inner door. For a few minutes the small room fell into silence, punctuated only by the faint sounds of screams and an even fainter, rhythmic pounding. And then, louder and much nearer, came the shrill protesting voice of an old woman. The door opened, and one of the guards pushed a wheelchair into the room. The chair’s five-point leather restraint was almost invisible beneath the heavy layer of rubber that covered every metal surface.

In the chair, securely bound by the restraints, sat a prim, elderly dowager. She was wearing a long, old-fashioned black taffeta dress, Victorian button-up shoes, and a black mourning veil. When she saw Pendergast her complaints abruptly ceased.

“Raise my veil,” she commanded. One of the guards lifted it from her face, and, standing well away, laid it down her back.

The woman stared at Pendergast, her palsied, liver-spotted face trembling slightly.

Pendergast turned to Dr. Ostrom. “Will you kindly leave us alone?”

“Someone must remain,” said Ostrom. “And please give the patient some distance, Mr. Pendergast.”

“The last time I visited, I was allowed a private moment with my great-aunt.”

“If you will recall, Mr. Pendergast, the last time you visited—” Ostrom began rather sharply.

Pendergast held up his hand. “So be it.”

“This is a rather late hour to be visiting. How much time do you need?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Very well.” The doctor nodded to the attendants, who took up places on either side of the exit. Ostrom himself stood before the outer door, as far from the woman as possible, crossed his arms, and waited.

Pendergast tried to pull the chair closer, remembered it was bolted to the floor, and leaned forward instead, gazing intently at the old woman.

“How are you, Aunt Cornelia?” he asked.

The woman bent toward him. She whispered hoarsely, “My dear, how lovely to see you. May I offer you a spot of tea with cream and sugar?”

One of the guards snickered, but shut up abruptly when Ostrom cast a sharp glance in his direction.

“No, thank you, Aunt Cornelia.”

“It’s just as well. The service here has declined dreadfully these past few years. It’s so hard to find good help these days. Why haven’t you visited me sooner, my dear? You know that at my age I cannot travel.”

Pendergast leaned nearer.

“Mr. Pendergast, not quite so close, if you please,” Dr. Ostrom murmured.

Pendergast eased back. “I’ve been working, Aunt Cornelia.”

“Work is for the middle classes, my dear. Pendergasts do not work.”

Pendergast lowered his voice. “There’s not much time, I’m afraid, Aunt Cornelia. I wanted to ask you some questions. About your great-uncle Antoine.”

The old lady pursed her lips in a disapproving line. “Great-uncle Antoine? They say he went north, to New York City. Became a Yankee. But that was many years ago. Long before I was born.”