The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(58)
He leaned forward slightly. “Dr. Kelly, I’m convinced he’s the same man who killed Doreen Hollander and Mandy Eklund.”
Nora looked at him sharply. “What makes you say that?”
“I caught a glimpse of the weapon—a surgeon’s scalpel with a myringotomy blade.”
“But… but why you?”
Pendergast smiled, but the smile held more pain than mirth. “That shouldn’t be hard to answer. Somewhere along the way, we brushed up a little too close to the truth. We flushed him out. This is a very positive development.”
“A positive development? You could still be in danger!”
Pendergast raised his pale eyes and looked at her intently. “I am not the only one, Dr. Kelly. You and Mr. Smithback must take precautions.” He winced slightly.
“You should have taken that painkiller.”
“For what I plan to do, it’s essential to keep my head clear. People did without painkillers for countless centuries. As I was saying, you should take precautions. Don’t venture out alone on the streets at night. I have a great deal of trust in Sergeant O’Shaughnessy.” He slipped a card into her hand. “If you need anything, call him. I’ll be up and about in a few days.”
She nodded.
“Meanwhile, it might be a good idea for you to get out of town for a day. There’s a talkative, lonely old lady up in Peekskill who would love to have visitors.”
She sighed. “I told you why I couldn’t help anymore. And you still haven’t told me why you’re spending your time with these old murders.”
“Anything I told you now would be incomplete. I have more work of my own to do, more pieces of the puzzle to fit together. But let me assure you of one thing, Dr. Kelly: this is no frivolous field trip. It is vital that we learn more about Enoch Leng.”
There was a silence.
“Do it for Mary Greene, if not for me.”
Nora rose to leave.
“And Dr. Kelly?”
“Yes?”
“Smithback isn’t such a bad fellow. I know from experience that he’s a reliable man in a pinch. It would ease my mind if, while all this is going on, you two worked together—”
Nora shook her head. “No way.”
Pendergast held up his hand with a certain impatience. “Do it for your own safety. And now, I need to get back to my work. I look forward to hearing back from you tomorrow.”
His tone was peremptory. Nora left, feeling annoyed. Yet again Pendergast had dragged her back into the case, and now he wanted to burden her with that ass Smithback. Well, forget Smithback. He’d just love to get his hands on part two of the story. Him and his Pulitzer. She’d go to Peekskill, all right. But she’d go by herself.
NINE
THE BASEMENT ROOM WAS SMALL AND SILENT. IN ITS SIMPLICITY IT resembled a monk’s cell. Only a narrow-legged wooden table and stiff, uncomfortable chair broke the monotony of the uneven stone floor, the damp unfinished walls. A black light in the ceiling threw a spectral blue pall over the four items upon the table: a scarred and rotting leather notebook; a lacquer fountain pen; a tan-colored length of India-rubber; and a hypodermic syringe.
The figure in the chair glanced at each of the carefully aligned items in turn. Then, very slowly, he reached for the hypodermic. The needle glowed with strange enchantment in the ultraviolet light, and the serum inside the glass tube seemed almost to smoke.
He stared at the serum, turning it this way and that, fascinated by its eddies, its countless miniature whorls. This was what the ancients had been searching for: the Philosopher’s Stone, the Holy Grail, the one true name of God. Much sacrifice had been made to get it—on his part, on the part of the long stream of resources who had donated their lives to its refinement. But any amount of sacrifice was acceptable. Here before him was a universe of life, encased in a prison of glass. His life. And to think it all started with a single material: the neuronal membrane of the cauda equina, the divergent sheaf of spinal ganglia with the longest nerve roots of all. To bathe all the cells of the body with the essence of neurons, the cells that did not die: such a simple concept, yet so damnably complicated in development.
The process of synthesis and refinement was tortuous. And yet he took great pleasure in it, just as he did in the ritual he was about to perform. Creating the final reduction, moving from step to step to step, had become a religious experience for him. It was like the countless Gnostic keys the believer must perform before true prayer can begin. Or the harpsichordist who works his way through the twenty-nine Goldberg Variations before arriving at the final, pure, unadorned truth Bach intended.
The pleasure of these reflections was troubled briefly by the thought of those who would stop him, if they could: who would seek him out, follow the carefully obscured trail to this room, put a halt to his noble work. The most troublesome one had already been punished for his presumption—though not as fully punished as intended. Still, there would be other methods, other opportunities.
Placing the hypodermic gently aside, he reached for the leather-bound journal, turned over the front cover. Abruptly, a new smell was introduced into the room: must, rot, decomposition. He was always struck by the irony of how a volume that, over the years, had itself grown so decayed managed to contain the secret that banished decay.
He turned the pages, slowly, lovingly, examining the early years of painstaking work and research. At last, he reached the end, where the notations were still new and fresh. He unscrewed the fountain pen and laid it by the last entry, ready to record his new observations.