Douglas Preston - Two Graves

Helen remained stock-still. A single tear welled up in one eye, then trickled down her cheek. It was an answer of a kind.

Pendergast looked at her, waiting, for a long time. Then, with a barely perceptible sigh, he closed his eyes. When he next opened them, the room was once again occupied only by himself.

And then faintly, from somewhere in the front of the apartment, he heard a deeply muffled scream.

28

JUMPING TO HIS FEET, PENDERGAST EXITED THE READING room and sprinted down the hall toward the reception area, following the sound of the scream. As he approached, he could hear a growing commotion, several loud voices mingling with Miss Ishimura’s unintelligible, high-pitched expostulations—and the sound of someone groaning and babbling.

He swept through the flush door into the reception room and was greeted by an extraordinary sight. A doorman and the head of Dakota security—a man named Franklin—were holding up between them a skinny young man, hardly more than a boy, dressed in jeans and a torn work shirt. His hair was matted, his entire body was covered with soot, and he smelled. One ear was wrapped in a bloody bandage, and there were grimy bandages on a hand and a foot. The boy was clearly half out of his mind, hardly able to stand, his eyes rolling in his head, murmuring incoherently.

Pendergast turned to the head security officer. “What the devil?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pendergast, but the boy, he’s been hurt, he’s in trouble.”

“I can see that. But why have you brought him here?”

The security officer looked confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Mr. Franklin, why have you brought this boy here, to my apartment, of all places? He needs to go to a hospital.”

“I know that, sir, but since he’s your son—”

“My son ?” Pendergast stared at the bedraggled boy in total amazement.

The head of security stopped, then restarted, all in a panic. “I just assumed, given what he said…” He again hesitated: “I hope I haven’t done anything wrong, bringing him up here.”

Pendergast continued to stare. All mental functions had ceased and he was overwhelmed by a feeling of unreality, as if the world had suddenly become flat, cartoonish. As he took in the boy’s features—the hair, light blond beneath its mantle of soot; the silvery blue eyes; the narrow, patrician face—his sense of paralyzing astonishment only deepened. He could not move, speak, or think. And yet everyone in the room was waiting for him to say something, to act, to confirm or reject.

A groan from the boy filled the empty silence.

This seemed to jolt Franklin. “Forgive me, Mr. Pendergast, but we’ll take care of it if you’d prefer, call the police or an ambulance. If he is your son, I thought you might wish to handle it yourself… not involve the authorities….” His voice trailed off in confusion.

Pendergast’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Mr. Pendergast?” The head of security stood there with the doorman, each still holding the boy by one arm.

Another long silence seemed to solidify in the room as everyone waited, the whispering sound of the waterfall sliding down the marble becoming unnaturally loud.

Finally, it was the diminutive Miss Ishimura who reacted. She stepped up to Franklin and gestured vigorously at him. Her gestures were very clear: the security personnel were to lay the boy down on the leather sofa in the middle of the room. They did so, easing him into a supine position, while Miss Ishimura fetched a pillow and put it under his head. The movement seem to rouse the boy from his stupor. As he lay there, his eyes focused, roamed the room—and then fixed on Pendergast.

He raised his head, the pale eyes glittering, staring. “Father…” he gasped in strongly accented English. “Hide me…” Even this small exertion seemed to exhaust the boy and his head fell back, the eyes unfocusing, the lips moving in an unintelligible murmur.

Pendergast blinked. His vision cleared somewhat and his eyes, now very dark, traveled once again over the boy, his observant mind coming alive to many small details: the location of the bandages; the youth’s height, frame, carriage, and facial features. As the mental lock slowly released itself, the full dimension of what he was seeing seeped into his consciousness: the resemblance to Diogenes; the even stronger one to himself and Helen. And, unbidden, the security videotapes that he had watched endlessly began to loop through his mind.

A sentence formed in his head. This is my son—the Hotel Killer.

“Mr. Pendergast,” said Franklin, “what should we do? Should we call the police? This boy needs medical attention.”

My son—the Hotel Killer.

Reality returned in a blinding flash. Pendergast was suddenly all action, springing to the side of the boy, kneeling. He grasped the boy’s hand—it was burning hot—and felt for a pulse. Rapid and thready. He had a high fever and was delirious. The self-amputations were probably becoming infected.

Pendergast rose, turned. “Thank you, Mr. Franklin,” he said quickly. “There is no need to call the police. You have done well. I’ll get him a doctor right away.”

“Yes, sir.” Franklin and the doorman exited the apartment.

Pendergast turned to his housekeeper, who watched his lips attentively. “Miss Ishimura, please get me bandages, a basin of hot water, antibiotic cream, washcloths, and scissors, and bring them into the Red Room.”

Miss Ishimura went off. Pendergast slipped his arms under the boy and lifted him up—he was shockingly thin—carried him into the inner apartment, and laid him on a bed in a cool, disused bedroom that faced the inner courtyard of the Dakota. The boy began babbling, shivering violently. Pendergast pulled off and, where necessary, cut away his filthy clothes, then inspected his wounds, starting with the ear. The earlobe was gone, in a way that all too clearly matched the piece left with the first corpse. It was an ugly-looking wound, with an incipient infection. The missing finger was in still-worse shape, the bone end exposed, and the amputated toe had opened up and was bleeding badly. The boy appeared to have walked a long way on the injured foot.

Miss Ishimura arrived with the basin and washcloth, and Pendergast wiped the boy’s face. The gesture brought the boy once more back into reality. “Father…” the boy said, “help…”

“I’m here,” said Pendergast. “It’s all right. You’re safe now.” His voice came out as a croak. He rinsed the washcloth and patted the face dry. Now Miss Ishimura returned with a tray of bandages, antibiotics, and other medical supplies.

“Not my fault… bitte, mein Gott, bitte , do not give me up…”

Pendergast gently washed the injured finger, cleaning the wound and applying antibiotic ointment and a fresh bandage. He next worked on the toe, which was in the worst shape, continuing to ooze blood despite all he did, but he washed and bandaged it all the same, wrapping it in a gauze cloth. As he worked, the boy moaned and turned restlessly, murmuring over and over, “Not my fault…”

When Pendergast was finished, he stood up. For a moment the room spun around, and Miss Ishimura grasped his arm and steadied him. She led him, almost like a child, out of the room into the hallway, signaling to him that she would take over, that he was not to concern himself with the boy any longer, that he was to go into his study and rest.

Nodding wordlessly, he walked down the hall to his study. He shut the door and leaned against it momentarily to steady himself, to try to bring order to his thoughts. He made his way to his habitual chair, eased himself down, closed his eyes, and fought—with a supreme effort of will—to bring his stampeding emotions under control.