Douglas Preston: The Obsidian Chamber

Lincoln Child dedicates this book to

his mother, Nancy

Douglas Preston dedicates this book to

Churchill Elangwe

Proctor eased open the double doors of the library to allow Mrs. Trask to pass through with a silver tray laden with a midmorning tea service.

The room was dim and hushed, lit only by the fire that guttered in the hearth. Before it, sitting in a wing chair, Proctor could see a motionless figure, indistinct in the faint light. Mrs. Trask walked over and placed the tray on a side table next to the chair.

“I thought you might like a cup of tea, Miss Greene,” she said.

“No thank you, Mrs. Trask,” came Constance’s low voice.

“It’s your favorite. Jasmine, first grade. I also brought you some madeleines. I baked them just this morning — I know how fond you are of them.”

“I’m not particularly hungry,” she answered. “Thank you for your trouble.”

“Well, I’ll just leave them here in case you change your mind.” Mrs. Trask smiled maternally, turned, and headed for the library exit. By the time she reached Proctor, the smile had faded and the look on her face had grown worried once again.

“I’ll only be gone a few days,” she said to him in a low tone. “My sister should be home from the hospital by the weekend. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

Proctor nodded and watched her bustle her way back toward the kitchen before returning his gaze to the figure in the wing chair.

It had been over two weeks since Constance had come back to the mansion at 891 Riverside Drive. She had returned, grim and silent, without Agent Pendergast, and with no explanation of what had happened. Proctor — as Pendergast’s chauffeur, ex-military subordinate, and general security factotum — felt that, in the agent’s absence, it was his duty to help Constance through whatever she was dealing with. It had taken him time, patience, and effort to coax the story out of her. Even now, that story made little sense and he was unsure what really happened. What he did know, however, was that the vast house, lacking Pendergast’s presence, had changed — changed utterly. And so, too, had Constance.

After returning alone from Exmouth, Massachusetts — where she had gone to assist Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast on a private case — Constance had locked herself in her room for days, taking meals only with the greatest reluctance. When she at last emerged, she seemed a different person: gaunt, spectral. Proctor had always known her to be coolheaded, reserved, and self-possessed. But in the days that followed, she was by turns apathetic and suddenly full of restless energy, pacing about the halls and corridors as if looking for something. She abandoned all interest in the pastimes that had once possessed her: researching the Pendergast family ancestry, antiquarian studies, reading, and playing the harpsichord. After a few anxious visits from Lieutenant D’Agosta, Captain Laura Hayward, and Margo Green, she had refused to see anyone. She also appeared to be — Proctor could think of no better way to put it — on her guard. The only times she showed a spark of her old self was on the very rare occasions when the phone rang, or when Proctor brought the mail back from the post office box. Always, always, he knew, she was hoping for word from Pendergast. But there had been none.

A certain high-level entity in the FBI had arranged to keep the search for Pendergast, and the attendant official investigation, out of reach of the news media. Nevertheless, Proctor had taken it upon himself to gather all the information he could about his employer’s disappearance. The search for the body, he learned, had lasted five days. Since the missing person was a federal agent, exceptional effort had been expended. Coast Guard cutters had searched the waters off Exmouth; local officers and National Guardsmen had combed the coastline from the New Hampshire border down to Cape Ann, looking for any sign — even so much as a shred of clothing. Divers had carefully examined rocks where the currents might have hung up a body, and the seafloor was scrutinized with sonar. But there had been nothing. The case remained officially open, but the unspoken conclusion was that Pendergast — gravely wounded in a fight, struggling against a vicious tidal current, weakened by the battering of the waves, and subjected to the fifty-degree water — had been swept out to sea and drowned, his body lost in the deeps. Just two days before, Pendergast’s lawyer — a partner in one of the oldest and most discreet law firms in New York — had finally reached out to Pendergast’s surviving son, Tristram, to give him the sad news of his father’s disappearance.

Now Proctor approached and took a seat beside Constance. She glanced up at him as he sat down, giving him the faintest smile. Then her gaze returned to the fire. The flickering light cast dark shadows over her violet eyes and dark bobbed hair.

Since her return, Proctor had taken it upon himself to look after her, knowing that this was what his employer would have wanted. Her troubled state roused uncharacteristically protective feelings within him — ironic, because under normal circumstances Constance was the last person to seek protection from another. And yet, without saying it, she seemed glad of his attentions.

She straightened in her chair. “Proctor, I’ve decided to go below.”

The abrupt announcement took him aback. “You mean — down there ? Where you lived before?”

She said nothing.

“Why?”

“To… teach myself to accept the inevitable.”

“Why can’t you do that here, with us? You can’t just go down there again.”

She turned and stared at him with such intensity that he was taken aback. He realized it was hopeless to change her mind. Perhaps this meant she was finally accepting that Pendergast was gone — that was progress, of sorts. Perhaps.

Now she rose from her chair. “I’ll write a note for Mrs. Trask, instructing what necessities to leave inside the service elevator. I’ll take one hot meal each evening at eight. But nothing for the first two nights, please — I feel over-ministered-to at present. Besides, Mrs. Trask will be away, and I wouldn’t want to discommode you.”

Proctor rose as well. He took hold of her arm. “Constance, you must listen to me—”

She glanced down at his hand, and then up into his face with a look that prompted him to immediately release his grasp.

“Thank you, Proctor, for respecting my wishes.”

Rising up on her toes, she surprised him again by lightly kissing his cheek. Then she turned, and — moving almost like a sleepwalker — headed to the far end of the library, where the service elevator was hidden behind a false set of bookcases. She swung open the twin bookcases, slipped inside the waiting elevator, closed it behind her — and was gone.

Proctor stared at the spot for a long moment. This was crazy. He shook his head and turned away. Once again, the absence of Pendergast was like a shadow cast over the mansion — and over him. He needed time to be alone, to think this through.

He walked out of the library, took a turn down the hall, opened a door that led into a carpeted hallway, and mounted a crooked staircase leading to the old servants’ quarters. Gaining the third-floor landing, he walked down another corridor until he reached the door to his small apartment of rooms. He opened it, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.