Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

“Charming,” Pendergast murmured.

“At around sixteen, her wanderings took her to Japan, where she got involved with a yakuza gang. After some kind of violent falling-out that the Tokyo police are still investigating, she apparently went to Canton, China, where she joined one of that city’s triads. According to our intelligence sources, her natural affinity for violence helped her rise quickly through the ranks. Almost immediately, she graduated from a ‘49’ to a ‘426’—a ‘Red Pole’ enforcer, whose specialty was managing and carrying out offensive operations. By twenty-one, she was set to rise still higher within the organization, when something happened, we don’t know what, and she left China for the United States.”

Longstreet looked away from the screen. “In the years since, she’s made her home here, although it appears she left the country for Europe on a few occasions. Based on the crimes she’s presumably committed, she appears to be an extremely highly functioning sociopath, who kills and maims primarily for her own amusement. She has shown a remarkable ability to hide in plain sight and to evade the authorities at every turn. That mug shot is the only one we have of her, taken in Amsterdam. She escaped the following day.”

“An ideal accomplice for Diogenes,” Pendergast said.

“Precisely.” Longstreet sighed. “Having identified Greyling is a coup, without doubt — and yet, given her ability to successfully elude law enforcement in the past, I’m not sure how much material progress we’ll make.” He glanced at Pendergast. “I presume you searched the cottage where they stayed with particular care?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“It had been meticulously cleaned.”

Longstreet stretched, ran a hand through his long steel-colored hair. “We’ll send a CSU there anyway.”

“I doubt if they’ll find more than this.” Pendergast reached into his pocket, withdrew something in a plastic bag, and handed it to Longstreet: a small slip of robin’s-egg-blue paper.

Longstreet took it. “Interesting.”

“I found it wedged between two floorboards near an air vent.”

As Longstreet turned the bag over in his hands, Pendergast continued. “It’s a partial receipt for a piece of jewelry — a gold ring with a rare tanzanite gemstone. I would speculate it was a present from Diogenes to Flavia — a reward, perhaps, for a job well done.”

“So, with luck, we can use this to trace the purchase back to Diogenes,” said Longstreet. “If we knew where this ring was purchased. Too bad the name of the store has been torn off.”

“But we do know the store. There is only one that uses that particular color as the face they present to the world.”

Longstreet glanced at the receipt again. And then he smiled — a slow, triumphant smile.

Diogenes entered the library, carrying with him a silver bucket of ice and a bottle of champagne, with two glasses. He set them down on the side table and turned to Constance, who was sitting at the harpsichord bench, idly turning pages of sheet music.

“Do you mind,” he asked, “if I enjoy a glass while listening to you play? If you’re in the mood to play, of course.”

“Certainly,” she replied, turning to the keyboard. He could see the music on the stand: preludes from L’Art de Toucher by François Couperin. Uncorking the champagne, he filled his glass and eased himself back into a chair.

He was concerned; more than concerned. That morning, Constance had arisen at ten, which seemed to him very late, although he wasn’t sure — some people did sleep excessively long. She had eaten very little at dinner the evening before, and hardly touched the magnificent breakfast he’d prepared for her. It had now been almost forty-eight hours since the infusion, and she should be showing its effects — strongly. Of course, this life was very new to her, and an adjustment was to be expected. What he was noticing could well be emotional rather than physical. Perhaps she was also having second thoughts.

While he was thus preoccupied, he heard the first notes of the Premier Prelude in C major, slow and stately. It was not a difficult piece of music from a technical point of view. But as her fingers moved over the keys, and the rich low sound of the harpsichord filled the cozy room, he heard that the notes were uneven, tentative; he winced at a wrong note, and another; and then Constance ceased playing.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I seem to be rather distracted.”

Diogenes made an effort to disguise the strong feeling of dismay, even panic, that arose in him. He set down the glass, rose from his chair, and came over to her, taking her hand. It was warm — too warm — and dry. Her face was pale, and half-moon shadows had formed under her eyes.

“Are you feeling well?” he asked, casually.

“ Very well, thank you,” came the sharp retort. “I just don’t feel like playing.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Champagne?”

“Not tonight.” She removed her hand from his.

Diogenes thought for a moment. “Constance, before dinner, if I could just have a moment of your time. I need to do a little routine blood work, now that the arcanum has been in your system for two days.”

“I’ve been pricked enough, thank you.”

Not nearly enough for my taste , thought Diogenes, but quickly removed that unworthy thought from his head. “Really, my dear, it’s a necessary part of the process.”

“Why? You never mentioned it before.”

“Didn’t I? I’m so sorry. Quite standard, I assure you. A routine follow-up to any drug infusion.”

“What could be wrong?”

“Nothing, my dear, nothing! Just a medical precaution. Now, may I? Let’s just get it over with.”

She brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Very well. Be quick about it, please.”

She began to roll up her sleeve. Diogenes went to the cupboard where he kept the infusion supplies, removed a blood draw kit, and came back. He laid a sterile pad on the side table, placed her white arm upon it, strapped the tourniquet, tapped her veins, inserted an extra-large Vacutainer needle, and drew thirty milliliters.

“Do you really need that much blood? That’s enough to choke a vampire.”

“All quite standard.” It was indeed far more than the usual amount, but he needed plenty to work with.

He quickly withdrew the needle and applied a cotton ball, taped it, and folded her arm up. “Done!” he said as brightly as he could muster.

She gave an irritated sigh. “I think I’ll go to bed early. I feel drained — literally.”

“No dinner? I am preparing brochettes d’agneau à la Grecque .”

The irritated look on her face softened a bit. “I’m sorry, it sounds lovely, but I’m not hungry.”

“Perfectly fine, not a problem. Shall I see you upstairs?”

The look came back. “Please don’t hover so. I can manage on my own.”

She disappeared through the library door, and a moment later he heard her light tread climbing the stairs.

He waited, listening acutely to the extremely faint sounds of her movements; the water running; and finally silence.

Swiftly, Diogenes took up the vial of blood and hastened through the darkened halls to the basement door, descending to his laboratory. Now he gave full flow to his feelings of apprehension. He quickly began setting up the tests for her blood work, chemistry panel and blood count, fibrinogen, hemoglobin A1C, DHEA, C-reactive protein, TSH, and estradiol.

At a certain point later that night he found that his hands were shaking, and he took a moment to put everything down, close his eyes, fold his hands, center and empty his mind. Then he continued, maintaining focus. There could be no more mistakes.