Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

There it was again: the owner’s name inscribed on the inside front cover, in the same handwriting — Diogenes Pendergast.

The handwriting looked familiar. And, with a sudden shock, so did the name. Pendergast. That was the name of the FBI agent they had been observing in Exmouth.

My best friend is a first-rate FBI agent but simply a babe in the woods when it comes to women…

She slid the book back with a savage thrust, but not so savage as to make any noise. Was this the secret life that Petru Lupei talked about? Was this “best friend” actually something more — a relative perhaps? A brother? Did Petru have another name: Diogenes Pendergast?

She knew, of course, that Petru used false, temporary identities in the work they did; he’d used one in Exmouth and another in New York. But it had never occurred to her until this moment that Petru Lupei itself was just another of those identities.

Embarrassment at her gullibility — and anger at being so used — rose within her. For the first time in her life, she had allowed her feelings for someone to bring down her guard.

More quickly now, but with consummate stealth, she crept upstairs. It was divided into two wings, each comprising a suite of rooms: bedrooms, morning room, bathroom. Both wings appeared occupied. One of them had several articles she recognized as belonging to Peter — a pocketknife, a money clip, an Hermès tie, carelessly draped over the back of a chair.

The other wing was occupied by a woman.

After very quietly and cautiously examining all the rooms — and finding them all to be empty — Flavia returned to the second floor’s central hall. Her mind was a whirl of confusion. What was the meaning of this?

She descended the steps and left the house through the front door, once again closing it behind her. She glanced around, then walked stealthily along the beach, past the servant’s quarters, to a trail that cut into the mangroves, heading inland.

She followed the trail over another sandy bluff, then stopped. Ahead lay a very odd building: a circular structure, almost like an ancient temple, that overlooked the Gulf. Between its marble columns were windows that — instead of being made of glass — were of some unusual dark-colored stone that gleamed like mercury in the moonlight.

Flavia stared at the structure for a moment. A strange feeling came over her, a most uncharacteristic apprehension, as if the building held secrets too terrible to learn. But, catching sight of a mullioned door between two of the columns, she took a deep breath and came forward, at the same time reaching into her fanny pack and pulling out one of the Zombie Killer blades she always carried. Not only was it useful for sticking, but she found it made an excellent lock pick and jimmy, as well.

But when she reached the door, she stopped. An odd, sick mingling of emotions came over her as she listened to the sounds from within. After a moment, she knelt to look through the keyhole. It was dark inside, barely illuminated, but there was enough ambient moonlight filtering through the smoked windows for her to see all too clearly what was going on. She froze, a surge of fury, hatred, and disgust welling up inside her.

So it was all lies — all of it. His “best friend,” the “fortune hunter,” the million-dollar theft and ransom. Not one thing he’d told her was true. And here he was, with that woman, making love to her with a passion that, despite herself, tore Flavia’s breath from her lungs.

She staggered away from the door, then sank back against the cool wall of the temple. She wanted to raise her arms, stuff her fingers in her ears, shut out the sounds… but it was as if all strength had been leached from her limbs. All except for her hands: they kept playing with the Zombie Killer, passing it back and forth between her palms, as the sounds of lovemaking went on, and on, and on.

The medical examiner’s office of Miami-Dade County was located in a drab-colored modern building of indifferent architecture. The interior was as cold as sun-soaked Tenth Avenue outside was hot. In the basement, among the capacious walls of corpse lockers, it was even colder. Susceptible to chill as always, Pendergast buttoned his suit jacket, pulled his tie up around his throat.

The medical examiner who’d greeted them at the entrance to the morgue cooler, Dr. Vasilivich, was a cheerful, heavyset man with a tonsure like a medieval monk’s. “It’s a good thing you’ve got pull,” he told Longstreet after the introductions had been made. “And that you were able to get here so early. Both bodies were about to be released to their families.”

“We won’t take up much of your time,” said Longstreet, with a significant glance at Pendergast. Pendergast knew his old CO was growing tired of humoring him.

“What are you looking for, exactly?” Vasilivich asked.

“We aren’t sure,” Pendergast said before Longstreet could speak.

Vasilivich nodded and led the way down the room. To the left and right, the walls were lined from floor to waist height with stainless-steel doors. “Montoya first, then,” he said. “Age before beauty.” He chuckled.

Stopping before a locker near ground level, he grabbed the handle, then slid it out slowly. A draped form lay on the cold steel. “If you have any specific questions, ask,” he said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “I’m afraid I’m the only one who can touch the bodies.”

“Understood,” said Longstreet.

“Prepare yourself,” Vasilivich said as he grasped the concealing drape. “This makes Hellraiser look like Captain Kangaroo.”

He pulled the drape aside, revealing the naked figure of an elderly lady.

“Christ,” Longstreet muttered.

The head and chest were covered with dozens of deep, gaping wounds, the slashes strangely gray given the bloodless tissue. Lacerations seemed to cover every inch of the torso, and the face was so cut up as to be almost unrecognizable. The two agents looked on in silence.

“No autopsy,” Pendergast said at last, referring to the lack of a Y-incision.

“The county coroner deemed it unnecessary,” said Vasilivich. “Same thing for Dr. Graben.” He paused. “Funny thing, though.”

“What is?” Pendergast asked.

“According to the toxicology report, Ms. Montoya died of heart failure, most likely due to an overdose of morphine.”

“These wounds weren’t the cause of death?” Pendergast asked.

“The window of time between events is so brief that it’s hard to be sure. But at least some of the lacerations were postmortem. There was as much blood on the bedsheets, you see, as there was on the walls — insufficient vascular pressure.”

“Couldn’t the death have been caused by the shock of the initial wounds?” Longstreet asked.

“It’s possible. As I say, the overdose was only ruled the most likely causative factor. But given the violence of the attack, any number of elements could have brought on death — and probably did.”

Leaving the body, Vasilivich moved down a few more rows, pulled open another cold locker, and rolled out another body. When the drape was removed, the corpse of a man was exposed. If anything, this body was even more lacerated than the elderly lady’s had been.

“No question about cause of death here,” Vasilivich said as they surrounded the body. “Exsanguination, resulting from transverse laceration of the aorta. That was probably the killer’s initial blow. There are several others, however, that would have been sufficient to cause death — the severed femoral artery, for example, here.”

There was a pause.

“What would cause an overdose of morphine?” Longstreet asked. “Could the drip have malfunctioned?”