Douglas Preston - Cold Vengeance

“The improvised dressing stopped my leaving any blood spoor,” Pendergast said. “I moved with great care. The rain took care of the rest.”

“You traveled three miles in the rain, with a sucking chest wound, to the doctor’s house?”

Pendergast fixed him with his gaze. “Yes.”

“Jesus Christ, how …?”

“I suddenly had something to live for.”

D’Agosta shook his head.

“Roscommon is an unusually intelligent and subtle man. He quickly understood my situation. Two things were in my favor: the bullet had missed my subclavian artery by a hair, and it had passed all the way through, so an operation wasn’t necessary to extract it. Roscommon re-inflated the lung and managed to control the hemorrhaging. Under cover of darkness, he brought me out to this cottage. And his aunt has looked after me ever since.”

“His aunt?”

Pendergast nodded. “Looking after her well-being is the only thing that keeps him in this part of Scotland, rather than in a lucrative Harley Street practice. He knew I would be safe with her.”

“And you’ve been here for the past month.”

“And I’ll be here a little longer still — until I’m sufficiently recovered to finish the job.”

“You need me,” said D’Agosta.

“No,” Pendergast said with great vehemence. “ No. The sooner you go home, the better. For God’s sakes, Vincent, you may already have led the wolf to the door with this ill-timed discovery.”

D’Agosta fell silent.

“Your mere presence imperils me. Judson is undoubtedly still around. He’s in high panic. He doesn’t know if I’m alive or dead. But if he sees you, particularly in the vicinity of this cottage…”

“I can help you in other ways.”

“Absolutely not. I almost got you killed once. Captain Hayward would never forgive me if I let it happen again. The best thing you can do for me, the only thing, is to return to New York, go back to your job, and not breathe a word of this to anyone. What I must do, I must do alone . Say nothing to no one, not Proctor, not Constance, not Hayward. Do you understand? I need to recover my strength before I can get Judson. And I will get him. If he doesn’t get me first.”

D’Agosta felt the sting of this last comment. He stared at Pendergast, lying in the cot, so weak in body, so fierce in mind. Once again, he was struck by the fanatical obsession lurking in those eyes. God, he must have loved that woman.

“All right,” he said with huge reluctance. “I’ll do what you say. Except that I’ve got to tell Laura. I swore I’d never deceive her again.”

“Very well. Who knows of your efforts to find me here?”

“The inspector, Balfour. Quite a few others. I’ve been asking around.”

“Then Esterhazy knows. We can turn this to our advantage. Tell everyone your search was fruitless, that you’re now convinced I’m dead. Go home, show all the outward signs of mourning.”

“If that’s really what you want.”

Pendergast’s eyes slid toward him. “It’s what I insist .”

New York City

DR. JOHN FELDER WALKED DOWN THE ECHOING hallway of Mount Mercy Hospital, a slim folder under one arm and the physician in charge, Dr. Ostrom, at his side.

“Thank you for allowing this visitation, Dr. Ostrom,” Felder said.

“Not at all. I take it your interest in her will be ongoing?”

“Yes. Her condition is… unique.”

“Many things involving the Pendergast family are unique.” Ostrom started to say more and then fell silent, as if he’d already said too much on the matter.

“Where is Pendergast, her guardian?” Felder asked. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with him.”

“He’s a cipher to me, I’m afraid — comes and goes at the oddest times, makes demands and then vanishes. I’ve found him a somewhat difficult person to deal with.”

“I see. So you have no objections to my continuing visits to the patient?”

“None at all. I’ll be glad to share my observations with you, if you wish.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

They reached the door, and Ostrom knocked lightly. “Please come in,” came the response from the other side.

Ostrom unlocked the door and ushered Felder in ahead of him. The room looked similar to the last time he’d seen it, except that there were more books in it — many more books. The bookcase that before had held only half a dozen volumes now had several times that many. Glancing at the titles, Felder noticed The Complete Poetry of John Keats , Jung’s Symbols of Transformation , the Marquis de Sade’s 120 Days of Sodom , Eliot’s Four Quartets , Thomas Carlyle’s Sartor Resartus . No doubt these were from the Mount Mercy library; Felder found himself mildly shocked that certain of these titles were allowed to circulate.

There was another difference, too: the room’s single table was now covered with sheets of foolscap, which were filled with dense lines of writing, punctuated by elaborate sketches, profiles, still lifes, equations, and Leonardo-like diagrams. And there, on the far side of the desk, sat Constance. She was in the act of writing, a quill pen in one hand, a bottle of blue-black ink on the desk beside her.

She glanced up at the two men as they entered. “Good morning, Dr. Ostrom. Good morning, Dr. Felder.” She stacked the sheets one on top of the other, then turned the top sheet over the rest.

“Good morning, Constance,” Ostrom said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Then I’ll leave you two. Dr. Felder, I’ll have someone outside the door. Just knock when you’re ready to leave.” Ostrom stepped out. A moment later, Felder heard a key turning smoothly in the lock.

He turned to see Constance regarding him with her strange eyes. “Please have a seat, Dr. Felder.”

“Thank you.” Felder sat in the only vacant chair in the room, a plastic chair with steel legs bolted to the floor. He was curious about her writings but decided to address that issue another time. He placed the folder on his knees and nodded at the quill. “Interesting choice of writing instrument.”

“It was either this or crayons.” She paused. “I did not expect to see you again so soon.”

“I hope you don’t find our conversations disagreeable.”

“On the contrary.”

Felder shifted in the chair. “Constance, if you don’t mind, I wanted to speak with you again, briefly, about — about your childhood.”

Constance sat up slightly.

“First, let me make sure I understand. You state that you were born on Water Street in the 1870s, though you are unsure of the exact year. Your parents died of tuberculosis, and both your brother and older sister died within a few years as well. That would make you…” He paused to calculate. “More than one hundred and thirty years old.”

For a moment, Constance did not reply. She just regarded him calmly. Once again, Felder was struck by her beauty: her intelligent expression, her bob of auburn hair. She had far more self-possession than was natural for a woman who looked only twenty-two or — three.

“Doctor,” she said at last, “I’ve much to thank you for. You’ve treated me with kindness and respect. But if you’re here to humor me, I’m afraid my good opinion of you will suffer.”

“I’m not here to humor you,” Felder said, with sincerity. “I’m here to help you. But I need to understand you better first.”

“I’ve told you the truth. Either you believe me or you don’t.”

“I want to believe you, Constance. But put yourself in my place. It’s a biological impossibility that you’re a hundred and thirty years old. And so I seek other explanations.”