Douglas Preston - Two Graves

Viola followed, glancing around curiously. She had been in Pendergast’s Dakota apartment before, of course, but never in this room. It was a revelation. The floor was covered in antique wood planking, very wide and beautifully varnished. The walls were clad in historic textured wallpaper of an exceedingly subtle design. The ceiling was painted as a blue trompe l’oeil sky in the style of Andrea Mantegna. There was a single display case, containing numerous strange things: a piece of lava, twisted and dark; an exotic lily of some kind, pressed within a sealed case of clear plastic; a stalactite, its end roughly broken off; what appeared to be a piece from a wheelchair; several mangled bullets; an antique case of surgical instruments; various other items. It was an eccentric and even bizarre collection, whose meaning was perhaps clear only to Pendergast himself.

This must be Pendergast’s private study.

But what most caught her eye was the Louis XV desk that occupied the middle of the room. It was made of rosewood, with gilt edging and fantastically complex inlays. Its surface was empty save for three items: a small glass medical container with a rubber top; a hypodermic syringe; and a silver dish that held a small white pyramid of some fine powdery substance.

Pendergast took a seat behind the desk. There was only one other chair in the room: an ornate fauteuil pushed up against the far wall. Viola placed it before the desk and sat down as well.

For a moment, they sat in silence. Then, with a wave of his hand, Pendergast indicated the items on the desk.

“What are those, Aloysius?” Viola asked, fear rising in her heart.

“Phenylcholine para-methylbenzene,” he said, pointing at the white powder. “First synthesized by my great-great-grandfather in 1868. One of the many odd potions he developed. After initial private, ah, trials, it remains to this day a family secret. It is said to confer upon the user a state of complete and utter euphoria, offering total negation of care and sorrow, along with, supposedly, a unique intellectual epiphany, for a period of twenty to thirty minutes—before inducing irreversibly fatal, and painful, renal failure. I have always been curious to experience its initial effects, yet until now never have—for self-evident reasons.”

Speaking about the objects on the desk seemed to rouse a degree of energy in Pendergast. His bruised-looking eyes shifted to the small medication bottle. “Hence, this.” He picked it up and showed it to her, the colorless liquid within shifting slightly. “A mixture of sodium thiopental and potassium chloride, among other compounds. It will induce unconsciousness, then stop the heart—well before the unpleasant side effects of the para-methylbenzene manifest themselves. While still providing enough time to give me a modicum of peace and, perhaps, even diversion before the end.”

Viola looked from Pendergast, to the objects on the desk, then back to Pendergast. As the implications of what he was saying became clear, a feeling of dread and horror swept over her.

“Aloysius, no,” she whispered. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am deadly serious.”

“But…” She fell silent as her throat closed up involuntarily. This can’t be happening, it just can’t be happening … “But this isn’t you. You have to fight this. You can’t take the… the coward’s way out. I won’t let you.”

At this, Pendergast put his hands on the desk, rose slowly to his feet. He walked to the door, held it open for her. After a certain hesitation she rose and followed him as he turned and walked back down the corridor, through the hidden doorway, and into the reception room. It was as if she were in a bad dream: She wanted to stop him, she wanted to sweep those hateful things off the table and dash them to the ground. And yet she could not. So deep was her shock that she felt herself powerless to do anything. It’s a matter of life and death —her own words now returned, torturing her with their irony.

Pendergast said nothing more until they had reached the door leading to the elevator. Then, at last, he spoke again. “I thank you for your concern,” he said, his voice strangely faint and hollow, as if coming to her from a great distance. “And for the time and effort you have taken on my behalf. But now I must ask you to return to Rome.”

“Aloysius—” she began, but he raised a hand for silence.

“Good-bye, Viola. You would do well to forget me.”

Viola realized she was crying. “You can’t do this,” she said, her voice trembling. “You simply can’t . It’s too selfish. Aren’t you forgetting something? There are people, many people, who care about you. Who love you. Don’t— please don’t—do this to them. To us.” She hesitated and added, in an angrier tone: “To me .”

As she spoke, something seemed to flicker in Pendergast’s eyes—a faint spark, like the glow of an ember encased in ice—before vanishing again. It came and went so quickly she could not be certain she’d seen it at all. Maybe it was a trick of the tears that filled her own eyes.

He took her hand, gave it an almost imperceptible pressure. Then, without another word, he opened the front door.

Viola looked at him. “I won’t let you do this.”

He looked at her briefly, even kindly. “Surely you know me well enough to realize that nothing you or anyone can do will change my mind. And now it is time for you to go. It would be highly distressing to both of us if I were forced to have you shown out.”

She continued to look at him, pleadingly, for another minute. But his gaze had gone far away once again. At last she turned away, her entire body shaking. Sixty seconds later, she was once more walking across the interior courtyard, legs like rubber, without the faintest idea of where she was headed, the tears coursing freely down her cheeks.

Pendergast stood in the reception room for a long time. Then—very slowly—he made his way back to his private study; seated himself behind the desk; and—as he had been doing for numberless hours—once again began to contemplate the three items arrayed before him.

11

AFTER LEAVING SINGLETON, D’AGOSTA HEADED STRAIGHT downtown. Fucking Heffler . He was going to wipe the floor with that son of a bitch. He was going to cut the man’s balls off and hang them on a Christmas tree. He remembered the time he had visited Heffler with Pendergast, and how Pendergast had ripped him a new one. That had been fun. He, D’Agosta, was—he decided—going to “do a Pendergast” on Heffler.

With these pleasant thoughts in mind, he pulled up at the forensic DNA unit on William Street, an annex to New York Downtown Hospital. He glanced at his watch: eight AM. He had checked with the duty officer and learned Heffler had been in the office since three. That was a good sign, although D’Agosta wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

He heaved himself out of the unmarked car, slammed the door, and strode through the glass entranceway of the William Street building. He passed by the receptionist, holding out his badge. “Lieutenant D’Agosta,” he said loudly, without slowing down. “I’m here to see Dr. Heffler.”

“Lieutenant, the sign-in sheet—?”

But D’Agosta continued on to the elevator, punching the button for the top floor, where Heffler had installed himself in a cushy, oak-paneled corner office. Stepping out of the elevator once again, he found there was no secretary in the outer office—too early. D’Agosta breezed through and flung open the door to the inner office.

And there was Heffler.

“Ah, Lieutenant—” the director began, rising abruptly.