Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

Constance hesitated a moment, then complied.

An unbearably tense minute passed. And then Longstreet slowly lowered the gun. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said. He stared at Diogenes with open hatred and spat into the sand. “If I ever see you again, motherfucker, you’re a dead man.”

Pendergast moved quickly, uncuffing Diogenes, who had abruptly gone silent, staring.

“Wade out to that cluster of islands,” Pendergast spoke to him quickly. “In the outermost one, you’ll find a kayak in the mangroves.” He held out the Osprey pack. “In here is food, water, money, and a chart. Head for Johnston Key. Lie low. When things have died down, make your way back to civilization. I’ve no doubt you can come up with a good story and a new identity. And, I hope, a new outlook as well. Because Diogenes Pendergast died here — in the explosion. Metaphorically and literally.”

After a hesitation, Diogenes took the pack and slipped it onto his back. He stepped forward, bent sharply, moving slowly, as if under a far heavier load than the pack could account for. He began wading out into the dark waters. But then he turned. His dim form wavered in the murky gloom, like a disembodied ghost. “Died, you say? Frater , you’re quite right. I am become death. ” And then he turned and vanished into the night.

After a long hush, Longstreet turned to Pendergast. “That was a big one to ask. Too big. You’ve caused me to break both my oath and my sworn duty as a federal officer.” He glanced around. “I think we’re done here — and you and I, brother, we’re also done.” He turned briskly. “What about her?”

Pendergast spoke with quiet meaning in his voice: “You’re referring to the kidnap victim? Thank God we managed to rescue her. Constance, Agent Longstreet will take care of you now and get you to a hospital. There will be a debriefing, of course, in which you’ll tell the FBI all about your kidnapping .”

“I understand, but… what will you do, Aloysius?” asked Constance, staring at Pendergast.

“I will go home. And await you there.”

As they spoke, two more Zodiacs came roaring in over the water toward the pier, followed by a third. They were filled with men. A fire was now leaping up above the trees — the main house was going up in flames, as Longstreet knew it would from the flash-bangs. The men piled out of the Zodiacs and came running down the pier, some heading toward the burning house, a few peeling off and running up the beach toward them. Longstreet quickly replaced his headset and switched it on.

“Is everything all right?” one cried.

“Fine,” he said. “We rescued the kidnap victim. Constance Greene. She’s hurt: evacuate her in a Zodiac, take her straight to Lower Keys Medical. Assign two agents for her protection.”

“And the target? Any word on him?”

Longstreet hesitated for a second, jaws working. “Took the coward’s way out,” he said brusquely. “At our approach, he blew himself to kingdom come in a massive detonation. I doubt we’ll find so much as a fingernail. Gentlemen, the operation is now over.”

Mrs. Trask walked briskly across the marble floor of the grand reception hall of the Riverside Drive mansion, feather duster in hand. It was one of those deceptively warm late-November days that seemed to promise that spring, rather than winter, was imminent. Sunlight filtered down through the antique skylights, gilding the brass fixtures of the mahogany display cases and illuminating the objects within. Mrs. Trask found many of these objects to be peculiar, even disturbing, and she had long ago learned to dust the cases without examining their contents.

The room looked far different than it had when she’d first returned from Albany with a glad heart, despite her grief over Mr. Pendergast’s death: her sister’s mysterious illness, which had at first seemed to be getting increasingly worse, had suddenly vanished in a way the doctors described as little short of miraculous. But imagine: arriving home at 891 Riverside meant discovering not only an empty house, but yellow crime scene tape strung across this very room! A quick call to Mr. Pendergast’s friend Lieutenant D’Agosta had fixed that, at least: the lieutenant had come over the very next morning and supervised in person the removal of that dreadful tape. He’d also given her the surprising and wonderful news that Mr. Pendergast was all right; he had not drowned after all, and was now simply — as was his wont — off on one of his cases. No doubt he would show up in his own good time, probably sooner rather than later.

The lieutenant had not, however, answered her other questions. Where was Proctor? And where was Constance? She couldn’t tell if the man knew nothing, or was hiding the truth from her.

Just before she left for Albany, Mrs. Trask had heard Constance announce her intention of moving to quarters in the sub-basement… a place she herself never entered. But it seemed that, in her absence, those plans had changed. Suitcases were missing from Constance’s room. Proctor, too, was absent, and it appeared he’d left in a hurry: his room was disordered — something most unusual for a man as finicky about neatness as he was.

No doubt when Mr. Pendergast returned he would explain all. It was not her place, he had made clear many years ago, to concern herself with these endless and strange comings and goings.

Mrs. Trask moved from the reception hall to the library. Here there was no cheerful November sunlight: as usual, both the shutters and curtains were drawn, leaving the large space lit only by a single Tiffany lamp. Mrs. Trask bustled about, dusting and straightening, but in fact the room was already spotless — she’d gone over it every day since she’d returned — and her cleaning was more from habit than necessity.

She was used to Mr. Pendergast’s frequent absences, of course, but it was much rarer for Constance or Proctor to be gone. With all three of them away, things felt queer indeed. The mansion seemed even bigger than usual, and it was full of a lonely, ambient emptiness that made Mrs. Trask rather uncomfortable. Upon retiring each night, she locked not only the door to her rooms, but the door leading into the servants’ quarters, as well.

She’d thought of trying to telephone, but realized that she knew neither Mr. Pendergast’s nor Proctor’s cell phone number. Constance, of course, had no phone and didn’t care for one. Really, once they were back, she was going to have to make sure to…

At that moment, a hollow knock resounded on the front door.

Mrs. Trask paused in her dusting. Visitors to 891 Riverside were rare — almost unheard of. Except for Lieutenant D’Agosta’s recent appearance, which she herself had requested, she could only recall two such knocks on the door in the last twelve months. The first had proven most distressing indeed, and the second had precipitated the sudden visit of Mr. Pendergast and Constance to Exmouth that — until just recently — she believed to have ended in tragedy.

The housekeeper stayed where she was.

A few seconds later the knock sounded again: so loud it seemed to reverberate through the house.

It was not her place, she told herself, to answer the door. Nevertheless, something told her that — in the absence of anyone else — Mr. Pendergast would want her to do so. It was a bright, sunny morning, after all; what was the chance of it being a robber, or some other ne’er-do-well?

Exiting the library, she crossed the reception hall once again, passed through the long, narrow refectory, and entered the front hall. The massive front door stood before her like an ominous portal, monolithic, with no door viewer set into its grim lines.