Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

“I believe it was Diogenes, yes. Although judging from the evidence, I would guess he planned to kill only the old woman. The doctor surprised him in the act; to escape detection, he killed the man and harvested his cauda equina as well, as a trophy of opportunity. And then he savagely slashed up the bodies in the hope of covering up his excisions.”

“But why? You said you destroyed the last copy of the formula for Leng’s elixir. Is he taking it himself? Or has Miss Greene decided she wants to remain young, after all?”

“I can’t say,” Pendergast murmured after a moment. “It is possible there was another copy of the formula, still in existence, that I did not know about. But recall: the formula Leng used for the last sixty-odd years of his life was artificial —it did not require using the cauda equina of a human being. Diogenes would appear to be using the original formula. Making his actions doubly confusing.”

“Do you think it was somebody else — that this was just a freak coincidence?”

Pendergast shook his head. “I don’t believe in coincidence.” Then he glanced at Longstreet. “And after what happened to us, underneath that bridge in Thailand, I thought you’d stopped believing, as well.”

Longstreet nodded slowly. “You’re right. I did.”

There was a hollow thud from the deepening hole, and a shout from one of the gravediggers. Pendergast and Longstreet came forward as the two men swept mud off the top of a flimsy coffin. Within minutes, ropes had been secured around the coffin and — with an effort — it was raised from its grave and deposited atop a plastic tarp on the nearby grass. The public health official stepped forward; examined a small plate screwed into the top of the coffin; examined the headstone; examined a piece of paper attached to a clipboard he held in one hand; then gave a nod. The gravediggers unsealed the coffin and placed the lid to one side.

Within lay the large form of Lucius Garey, wearing a dark suit and white shirt open at the collar. He had proven too large for the coffin, it seemed, and the mortician had bent his knees to one side in order to fit him in. His eyes were wide and staring, and in death the prison tattoos on his neck had turned a ghastly color.

The county-appointed doctor began pulling on gloves, but Pendergast beat him to it. Gloves already on his hands, he darted forward and — with a grunt of effort — flipped the body over indecorously within its coffin.

There was a chorus of protest. “Aloysius,” Longstreet said, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Instead of replying, Pendergast merely pointed.

As was the way with cheap, potter’s-grave-style burials, Lucius Garey’s “suit” did not extend over his whole body. Instead, it merely covered his torso and the tops of his legs, like a sheet. His naked backside was now exposed to the sky.

At the lower end of his spinal column, a small incision was visible.

“Doctor?” Pendergast asked, removing his own latex gloves and tossing them into the coffin. “Would you mind examining that incision?”

After glaring briefly at the FBI agent, the doctor knelt at the graveside and scrutinized the corpse.

When he said nothing, Pendergast went on. “Would you say that the cauda equina of the deceased appears to have been removed?”

The doctor’s only answer was a curt nod.

At this, Pendergast turned, ducked between the privacy curtains, and began walking briskly away from the grave site. Longstreet watched for a moment, then turned to the others. “Thank you,” he said. “We’re done here.”

Back in the car, driving slowly toward the front gate, Longstreet cleared his throat. “So Dr. Walter Leyland — Diogenes Pendergast, that is — performed the state-ordered execution of Lucius Garey. In his role as acting medical examiner, he also certified him dead. And in so doing, he was able to extract the man’s cauda equina without anybody being the wiser. Taken in a different sort of context, one might almost call the whole thing beautifully symmetrical.”

“One might,” said Pendergast.

They waited at the gate for the cemetery guard to unlock the chain and let them out.

“There’s one thing that’s obvious,” Longstreet said. “Diogenes did not want anyone to know he was harvesting the cauda equina. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have needed to go to such elaborate lengths as performing an execution.” He glanced over. “Is there any chance Diogenes knows you’re alive?”

Pendergast didn’t answer for a moment. “I don’t think so. I believe he’s been too busy with… other matters. On the other hand, in my haste to track him down, I haven’t made an effort to conceal my presence. That was an oversight on my part.” He stirred in the passenger seat. “One thing, though, is crystal clear.”

“What’s that?”

“Whether my brother knows I’m alive or not, he is a transcendentally careful individual. There’s only one reason I can think of why he’d go to such lengths to conceal his harvesting of these caudae equinae: the chance that I might still be alive. Because I’m the only person who would understand their real significance. And the only reason this would concern him would be if he was — and planned to remain — within a short distance.”

“You mean—?”

“Yes. Diogenes, and Constance, are here in Florida… somewhere close.”

The electrum sun rose into the late-morning sky, illuminating the myriad mangrove islands that dotted the shallow turquoise water, ending in the blue sea of the Gulf. Diogenes felt the warmth of the sun on the side of his face as he stood at the stove, cooking a breakfast of omelets with enokitake mushrooms, prosciutto, Gruyère and Brie, and fresh-chopped basil. He picked up the pan and slid an omelet onto a plate, which he whisked over to Constance, seated in the breakfast nook.

This omelet was in addition to the thick slabs of buttered toast and marmalade, half a dozen rashers of bacon, and fried green tomatoes he had already served. She was famished — and no wonder, when he thought back to the long, and wakeful, night they had spent together. My God, she was strong — and so daring, self-assured, and fearless! She had exhausted him many times over. He was spent; utterly spent.

Her face was unnaturally bright as she ate. Finally, omelet finished, she laid down her fork. “That will do, thank you very much.”

“My dear, I’ve rarely seen such an appetite.”

“I’d hardly eaten in days. And, of course, we burned a lot of calories.”

“Yes, yes.” Diogenes was curiously reluctant to discuss these sorts of things; it was his strict Catholic upbringing. He was glad Constance didn’t do what some women did and go over such details in retrospect, discussing it as if it were as commonplace as driving a car or going sailing. But she did not; she was apparently as reticent as he to sully their shared experience with conversational vapidities. And yet he couldn’t help recalling, with a frisson of electricity, the way her delicate fingers had traced the lines of his private scars…

She rose abruptly, pushing the plate aside. That same bright look was on her face — too bright, perhaps, but he supposed that’s the way certain women were…

“Let us go for a swim,” she said.

“Of course. But perhaps we should digest our meal, first?”

“That’s an old wives’ tale. Come.”

He thought of querying her about bathing suits but realized that was not the point. He rose, kicking off his slippers, and they walked arm in arm across the veranda, through the buttonwood, to the pier. She headed down it at a quick walk and he followed; even before she reached the end she was shedding her bathrobe and, nude, dove into the water. He followed.