Douglas Preston - The Book of the Dead

“So what did you do?”

“I scratched away the plastic in two places along the circuit to expose the wire. Then I attached a loop of wire to each spot, cut the bracelet in between-and took it off. Elementary, my dear Viola.”

“Ah, je vois! But where did you get the loop of wire?”

“I made it with foil gum wrappers. I was, unfortunately, obligated to masticate the gum, since I needed it to affix the wire.”

“And the gum? Where did you get that?”

“From my acquaintance in the cell next door, a most talented young man who opened a whole new world for me-that of rhythm and percussion. He gave me one of his precious packs of gum in return for a small favor I did him.”

“What was that?”

“I listened.”

The woman smiled. “What goes around comes around.”

“Perhaps.”

“Speaking of prison, I can’t tell you how thrilled I was to get your wire. I was afraid you wouldn’t be permitted to leave the country for ages.”

“Diogenes left behind enough evidence in his valise to clear me of the murders. That left only three crimes of substance: stealing Lucifer’s Heart; kidnapping the gemologist, Kaplan; and breaking out of prison. Neither the museum nor Kaplan cared to press charges. As for the prison, they would like nothing more than to forget their security was fallible. And so here I am.”

He paused to sip his wine. “That leads me to a question of my own. How is it that you didn’t recognize Menzies as my brother? You’d seen him in disguise before.”

“I’ve wondered about that,” Viola replied. “I saw him as two different people, but neither one was Menzies.”

There was a silence. Viola let her gaze drift again toward the younger woman in the olive grove. “She’s a most unusual girl.”

“Yes,” the man replied. “More unusual than you could even imagine.”

They continued to watch the younger woman drift aimlessly through the twisted trees, like a restless ghost.

“How did she come to be your ward?”

“It’s a long and rather complicated story, Viola. Someday I’ll tell you-I promise.”

The woman smiled, sipped her wine. For a moment, silence settled over them.

“How do you like the new vintage?” she asked. “I broke it out especially for the occasion.”

“As delightful as the old one. It’s from your grapes, I assume?”

“It is. I picked them myself, and I even stomped out the juice with my own two feet.”

“I don’t know whether to be honored or horrified.” He picked up a small salami, examined it, quartered it with a paring knife. “Did you shoot the boar for these, as well?”

Viola smiled. “No. I had to draw the line somewhere.” She looked at him, her gaze growing concerned. “You’re making a valiant effort to be amusing, Aloysius.”

“Is that all it appears to be-an effort? I am sorry.”

“You’re preoccupied. And you don’t look especially good. Things aren’t going well for you, are they?”

He hesitated a moment. Then, very slowly, he shook his head.

“I wish there was something I could do.”

“Your company is tonic enough, Viola.”

She smiled again, her gaze returning to the young woman. “Strange to think that murder-and there’s really no other word for it, is there?-could have been such a cathartic experience for her.”

“Yes. Even so, I fear she remains a damaged human being.” He hesitated. “I realize now it was a mistake to keep her shut up in the house in New York. She needed to get out and see the world. Diogenes exploited that need. I made a mistake there, too-allowing her to be vulnerable to him. The guilt, and the shame, are with me always.”

“Have you spoken of this to her? Your feelings, I mean. It might be good for both of you.”

“I’ve tried. More than once, in fact. But she violently rejects any possibility of a discussion on that topic.”

“Perhaps that will change with time.” Viola shook out her hair. “Where do you plan to go next?”

“We’ve already toured France, Spain, and Italy-she seems interested in the ruins of ancient Rome. I’ve been doing everything I can to take her mind off what happened. Even so, she’s preoccupied and distant-as you can see.”

“I think what Constance needs most is direction.”

“What sort of direction?”

“You know. The kind of direction a father would give a daughter.”

Pendergast shifted in his chair, ill at ease. “I’ve never had a daughter.”

“You’ve got one now. And you know what? I think this whole Grand Tour you’ve been taking her on isn’t working.”

“The same thought had occurred to me.”

“You need healing-both of you. You need to get over this, together.”

Pendergast was silent for a moment. “I’ve been thinking about retreating from the world for a time.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a monastery I once spent some time at. A very secluded one, in western Tibet, exceedingly remote. I thought we might go there.”

“How long would you be gone?”

“As long as it takes.” He took a sip of wine. “A few months, I’d imagine.”

“That might be most beneficial. And it brings me to something else. What’s next… for us?”

He slowly put down the glass. “Everything.”

There was a brief silence. “How do you mean?” Her voice was low.

“Everything is open to us,” said Pendergast slowly. “When I have settled Constance, then it will be our turn.”

She reached out and touched his hand. “I can help you with Constance. Bring her to Egypt this winter. I’ll be resuming work in the Valley of the Kings. She could assist me. It’s a rugged, adventurous life, working as an archaeologist.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course.”

Pendergast smiled. “Excellent. I think she would like that.”

“And you?”

“I suppose… I would like that, too.”

Constance had drifted closer, and they fell silent.

“What do you think of Capraia?” Viola called over as the girl stepped onto the terrazzo.

“Very nice.” She walked to the balustrade, tossed over a mangled flower, and rested her arms on the warm stone, staring out to sea.

Viola smiled, nudged at Pendergast. “Tell her the plan,” she whispered. “I’ll be inside.”

Pendergast stood and walked over to Constance. She remained at the railing, looking out to sea, the air stirring her long hair.

“Viola’s offered to take you to Egypt this winter, to assist her with her excavations in the Valley of the Kings. You could not only learn about history, you could touch it with your own hands.”

Constance shook her head, still staring out to sea. A long silence followed, filled by the distant cries of the seagulls, the muffled whisper of the surf below.

Pendergast drew closer. “You need to let go, Constance,” he said. “You’re safe now: Diogenes is dead.”

“I know,” she replied.

“Then you know there’s nothing more to fear. All that’s past. Finished.”

Still she said nothing, her blue eyes reflecting the vast azure emptiness of the sea. Finally she turned toward him. “No, it isn’t,” she said.

Pendergast looked back at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”

For a moment, she did not answer.

“What do you mean?” he repeated.

At last Constance spoke. And when she did, her voice was so weary, so cold, that it chilled him despite the warm May sunshine.

“I’m pregnant.”

We are frequently asked in what order, if any, our books should be read.

The question is most applicable to the novels that feature Special Agent Pendergast. Although most of our novels are written to be stand-alone stories, very few have turned out to be set in discrete worlds. Quite the opposite: it seems the more novels we write together, the more “bleed-through” occurs between the characters and events that comprise them all. Characters from one book might appear in a later one, for example, or events in one novel could spill into a subsequent one. In short, we have slowly been building up a universe in which all the characters in our novels, and the experiences they have, take place and overlap.