Douglas Preston: Crimson Shore

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 release his grasp immediately.

“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 bookcase. She swung open the case, 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 felt a sense of failure with her. He needed time to be alone and 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, closed it behind him.

He should have protested her plan more forcefully. With Pendergast gone, he was responsible for her. But he knew that nothing he said would have made any difference. Long ago he learned that, while he could handle almost anyone, he was hopeless against her. He also had other family business to worry about: most pressing was what to tell Tristram, Pendergast’s son, who was away at school in Switzerland and who knew nothing yet of his father’s disappearance. He simply had to hope that, in time, Constance would face the reality and accept it — and rejoin the living...

A gloved hand whipped around from behind, seizing him around his rib cage and tightening with immense force.

Taken by surprise, Proctor nevertheless reacted instinctually with a sharp downward movement, attempting to throw the intruder off guard; but the man anticipated the reaction and thwarted it. Instantly, Proctor felt the sting of a needle jabbed deep into his neck. He froze.

“Movement is inadvisable,” came a strange, silky voice that Proctor, with profound shock, recognized.

He did not move. It stunned him that a man — any man — had gotten the drop on him. How was it possible? He had been preoccupied, inattentive. He would never forgive himself for this. Especially because this man, he knew, was Pendergast’s greatest enemy; returned, it seemed, from the dead.

“You’re far better versed than I in the arts of physical combat,” continued the smooth voice. “So I’ve taken the liberty of evening the odds. What you’re feeling in your neck at the moment is a needle. I have not yet depressed the plunger. The syringe contains a dose of sodium pentothal — a very large dose. I will ask you once, and once only: signal your acquiescence by relaxing your body. How you react now will determine whether you receive a dose that is merely anesthetizing... or lethal.”

Proctor considered his options. He let his body go limp.

“Excellent,” said the voice. “The name is Proctor, I seem to recall?”

Proctor remained silent. There would be an opportunity to reverse the situation; there was always an opportunity. He only had to think.

“I’ve been observing the family manor for some time now. The man of the house is away — permanently, it would seem. It’s as depressing as a tomb. You might as well all be wearing crepe.”

Proctor’s mind raced through various scenarios. He must pick one and execute it. He needed time, just a little time, a few seconds at most...

“Not in the mood for a chat? Just as well. I have a great many things to do, and so I bid you: Good night .”

As he felt the plunger slide home, Proctor realized his time was up — and that, to his vast surprise, he had failed.