The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(119)
Now the gurney was moving. A low, brickwork ceiling was passing by overhead, punctuated occasionally by naked bulbs. A moment later, and the ceiling changed, rising into what seemed a cavernous space. The gurney swung around again, then came to rest. Leng bent down, out of sight. Smithback heard four measured clicks, one after the other, as the wheels were locked in place. There were banks of heavy lights, a whiff of alcohol and Betadine that covered a subtler, far worse, smell.
Leng slid his arms beneath Smithback, raised him up once again, and moved him from the gurney to another steel table, wider and even colder. The motion was gentle, almost loving.
And then—with a completely different motion, economical and amazingly strong—he turned Smithback over onto his stomach.
Smithback could not close his mouth, and his tongue pressed against the metal gurney, unwillingly sampling the sour chlorinated taste of disinfectants. It made him think about who else might have been on this table, and what might have happened to them. A wave of fear and nausea washed over him. The ventilator tube gurgled inside his mouth.
Then Leng approached and, passing his hand across Smithback’s face, shut his eyelids.
The table was cold, so cold. He could hear Leng moving around. There was a pressure on his elbow, a brief sting as an intravenous needle was inserted near his wrist, the ripping sound of medical tape being pulled from its canister. He could smell the eucalyptus breath, hear the low voice. It spoke in a whisper.
“There will be some pain, I’m afraid,” the voice said as straps were fixed to Smithback’s limbs. “Rather a lot of pain, in fact. But good science is never really free from pain. So do not discompose yourself. And if I may offer a word of advice?”
Smithback tried to struggle, but his body was far away. The whisper continued, soft and soothing: “Be like the gazelle in the jaws of the lion: limp, accepting, resigned. Trust me. That is the best way.”
There was the sound of water rushing in a sink, the clink of steel on steel, instruments sliding in a metal basin. The light in the room grew abruptly brighter. Smithback’s pulse began to race wildly, faster and faster, until the table beneath him seemed almost to rock in time with the frantic beating of his heart.
SIX
NORA SHIFTED IN THE UNCOMFORTABLE WOODEN CHAIR, GLANCED AT HER watch for what had to be the fifth time. Ten-thirty. This was like the questioning she’d endured after finding Puck’s body, only worse—much worse. Though she’d deliberately kept her story brief, reduced her answers to mere one-liners, the questions kept coming in an endless, moronic stream. Questions about her work at the Museum. Questions about being chased by the Surgeon in the Archives. Questions about the typewritten note Puck—or rather the murderer, pretending to be Puck—had sent her, which she’d given to the police long before. All questions she had already answered two or three times, to more intelligent and thoughtful police officers than these. Worse, the two cops sitting opposite her—one a beefed-up little troll, the other decent-looking but full of himself—showed no signs of reaching the end of their list. They kept interrupting each other, darting angry looks back and forth, competing for heaven only knew what reason. If there was bad blood between these two, they shouldn’t be working together. God, what a performance.
“Dr. Kelly,” said the short one, Finester—looking for the thousandth time at his notes—”we’re almost through here.”
“Praise be to God.”
This comment was met with a short silence. Then O’Grady waded in once again, looking at a freshly scribbled sheet that had just been handed to him.
“You are familiar with a Mr. William Smithback?”
Nora felt her annoyance giving way to a sudden wariness. “Yes.”
“What is your relationship to Mr. Smithback?”
“Ex-boyfriend.”
O’Grady turned the paper over in his hands. “We have a report here that earlier today, Mr. Smithback impersonated a security officer and gained unauthorized clearance to some high-security files in the Museum. Would you know why?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Mr. Smithback?”
Nora sighed. “I don’t remember.”
Finester sat back in his seat, folded his beefy arms. “Take your time, please.” He had a shiny, paste-colored dome of a head, topped by a tuft of hair so thick and coarse it looked like a hairy island in the middle of his bald head.
This was intolerable. “Maybe a week.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“He was harassing me in my office.”
“Why?”
“He wanted to tell me that Agent Pendergast had been stabbed. Museum security dragged him away. They’ll have a record of it.” What the hell was Smithback doing back in the Museum? The guy was incorrigible.
“You have no idea what Mr. Smithback was looking for?”
“I believe I just said that.”
There was a short silence while O’Grady checked his notes. “It says here that Mr. Smithback—”
Nora interrupted impatiently. “Look, why aren’t you pursuing some real leads here? Like those typewritten notes of the killer’s, the one sent to me and the one left on Puck’s desk? Obviously, the killer is somebody with access to the Museum. Why all these questions about Smithback? I haven’t spoken to him in a week. I don’t know anything about what he’s up to and, frankly, I couldn’t care less.”