Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

Pendergast watched for a moment. Then he returned his eyes to the window. Gazing over the tops of the low buildings that stretched westward toward the river, he could make out — past the long lines of brownstones — the tall gables and crenellations of his own Riverside Drive mansion. Even without binoculars, he was able to make it out quite clearly: the front door, servants’ entrance, service ports — even the shuttered windows of the library.

This apartment had obviously been chosen because it afforded an excellent spot from which to observe the activity at 891 Riverside.

Now he stooped to take a close look at the windowsill. Two sets of three holes each, at regular intervals, had been drilled into the wood of the sill, forming two triangles about six inches apart. Anchors, no doubt, for a telescope mount. The heavy weight of a sixty- or eighty-power, light-enhancing spotting telescope such as Diogenes would have used would make such anchoring advisable — providing extra stability for his study of that most private of domiciles.

As he straightened up, Longstreet came forward. In answer to Pendergast’s unasked question, he nodded. “Agent Arensky’s filled me in,” he said. “It’s more or less what we expected to find. The apartment was leased for a one-year term by a Mr. Kramer, about three months ago.”

“No doubt one of Diogenes’s throwaway identities. And was much seen of this Mr. Kramer?”

“We’ve interviewed the neighbors and the doormen. The next-door neighbor, a woman in her late seventies with very little to do, was particularly helpful. We’ve got a police artist in to make the facial reconstruction — not that it will do us much good. Mr. Kramer was seen with some regularity at the beginning of his tenancy, frequently in the company of a young woman.”

“Flavia.”

Longstreet nodded. “Several people identified her from the mug shots we provided. Diogenes, on the other hand, was not. He was here, though.” Longstreet swept the room with a hand. “Even doing simple field matches with the forensic laptop, we’ve found prints from both of them all over the apartment.”

“I see.”

“There was a period when neither of them was seen. That, no doubt, corresponds to the Exmouth period. And then, around four weeks ago, ‘Mr. Kramer’ returned — this time without Flavia. He began to keep odd hours: leaving late at night, returning home around dawn. He was seen, off and on, by various doormen and the elderly neighbor… until about a week ago. And then, suddenly, he vanished — taking all his possessions with him.” Longstreet frowned. “And this time, Flavia seems to have been more careful. There are no scraps of evidence to suggest where they, or more importantly he, might have gone.”

There was a pause. “I’m afraid that’s about the same story we’ve been getting down at Special Operations,” Longstreet continued. “There have been no recent hits on TSA monitors, bank or credit card audits, or anything else. Cross-correlation of the security screen network has produced nothing. My teams in the field, and I’ve employed many, have turned up nothing. The trail’s gone cold.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, old friend. I know that finding that sales receipt, tracking him down to this bolt-hole, must have raised your hopes. I know it raised mine. But now, it’s as if Diogenes has just vanished into thin air.”

“I see,” Pendergast said in a flat voice.

“I want to get him as much as you do,” Longstreet said. “Believe me, this is going to remain my top priority. Although I’m afraid we’re going to have to turn down the heat on our search for Diogenes temporarily. We’re forced to take some men off the job and retask them to that crazy doctor-slasher murder in Florida. It won’t be for long, though — I promise you that.”

“Doctor-slasher murder?” Pendergast asked, turning away from the window.

“Yes. This doctor — apparently a doctor, anyway, I don’t recall his name — just walked into a Miami hospital and killed an elderly woman. On death’s door already, if you can believe it — dying of congestive heart failure. Slashed her up most impressively, Jack the Ripper would have approved. When another doctor walked in and, it seems, surprised him at his game, the lunatic killed him and slashed him to ribbons, as well. And then he just disappeared.” Longstreet shook his head. “Craziest thing. All over the national press, which makes it a priority for us, as well.”

Pendergast stood still for a moment. Then he looked back at Longstreet with a curious expression on his face. “Tell me more about this double murder.”

Longstreet seemed surprised. “Why? It’s just a distraction. We’re obviously dealing with some sociopath — he’ll be picked up soon and we can get back to the business at hand.”

“The double murder,” Pendergast repeated. “Humor me, old friend, if you please.”

It was another glorious November day in the Keys as Diogenes eased his Chris Craft into the dock, cleated it, and hopped out. He plucked the small cooler out of the back cockpit, filled with ice and containing the two caudae equinae, and hurried along the pier to the house. He kept an eye out for Constance as he approached, but all was quiet.

He entered in a state of high nervous energy, avoided the library, and went straight to his basement laboratory, locking the door behind him.

Six hours later he emerged with a box tucked under his arm. It was now late afternoon and the house and island were awash in that soft golden light so distinctive to the Keys. He went to the library and there found Constance, sitting by the dead fireplace, book in hand.

“Hello, my dear,” said Diogenes.

She raised her head. He was shocked by her distracted appearance, but he managed to keep his expression cheerful.

“Hello,” she said in a low voice.

“I hope you got along well in my absence.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Diogenes was hoping she would ask about his trip, or why he’d shaved off the Van Dyke he’d begun to regrow, but she did not. He hesitated. This might be difficult. “Constance, there’s something I must discuss with you.”

She put down the book and turned to him.

“I… I have to confess I deceived you about that blood test. It wasn’t routine. And it revealed something wrong.”

Her eyebrows raised, a faint stirring of interest in her face.

“The arcanum I gave you failed.”

He took a deep breath, let that sink in. He had rehearsed this scene a dozen times in his mind on the way back from Miami. He couldn’t rush this; he needed to give her time to absorb the new information and think through the situation.

“Failed?”

“I imagine you are feeling the ill effects of it. I am so very, very sorry.”

She faltered, looked away. “What happened?”

“The biochemistry is exceedingly complex. Suffice to say I made a mistake. I have now corrected it.” He set the box down and opened it up, to reveal a three-hundred-milliliter bag filled with a violet liquid.

“Is that why you went to Key West?”

“Yes.”

“To obtain more caudae equinae?”

Diogenes had been waiting for this very question. “Good Lord, no!” He shook his head vigorously. “Absolutely not. I’ve fully synthesized the drug, no need for more human tissue. It’s just that the first synthesis was faulty because of a mistake I made. I’ve now synthesized a new batch, reformulated. A good batch.”

“I see.”

She looked so exhausted, she appeared almost more unwell than tired.

“I’d like to give it to you, now, to restore you to health.”

“How do I know this batch isn’t a ‘mistake’ as well?” A dryness had crept into her tone that Diogenes didn’t like.