City of Endless Night (Pendergast #17)(73)
“He said he’d been paid to bring you this letter.” She advanced, bringing with her the dirty, folded envelope on a silver salver. “I wonder why Proctor did not answer the door?” she couldn’t help but add—as she slightly disapproved of Proctor and the liberties he sometimes took with the master.
Pendergast looked at the letter with an expression Mrs. Trask could not quite fathom. “I believe he did not answer because the doorbell was never rung. The boy lied to you. Now, if you would please place it on the table.”
She put the salver down beside the tea set. “Will there be anything else?”
“Not for the present, thank you, Mrs. Trask.”
Pendergast waited until she had exited the library; until her steps had died away down the hallway; until the entire mansion was quiet once again. And still he did not stir, or act, or do anything but regard the envelope the way he might an explosive device. What it was, he could not be sure—and yet he had all too strong a premonition.
At last, he leaned forward, picked it up by one edge, and unfolded it. The envelope was printed with a single word, typed on a manual typewriter: ALOYSIUS. He regarded this for a long moment, his sense of premonition increasing. Then, he gingerly slit the envelope open along its narrow edge with a switchblade he kept nearby for a letter opener. Looking inside, he saw a single sheet of foolscap and a small USB memory stick. He slid the sheet out onto the salver, then used the tip of the switchblade to unfold it.
The typewritten note it contained was not long.
Dear A. Pendergast:
This is the Decapitator writing you. The endgame has arrived. On the USB stick you will find a short video starring Lt. D’Agosta and Associate Director Longstreet. They are my captives. Quite frankly, they are the bait: to bring you to me for a special evening. I am in Building 44 of the abandoned King’s Park Psychiatric Center on the North Shore of Long Island. Come to me alone. Do not send in the cavalry. Do not bring Proctor or anyone else. Tell no one. If you do not arrive by 9:05 PM, which if my message has been delivered properly should be in approximately fifty-five minutes, you’ll never see either of your friends alive again.
While you don’t yet know who I am, you certainly know a great deal about my talent. Since you are an intelligent man yourself, you will parse out the situation you now find yourself in and realize there is only one thing to do. Naturally you will view the video, ponder the situation, and consider various courses of action; but in the end you will understand you have no choice but to come here, now, alone. So don’t dawdle. The clock is ticking.
One other requirement: bring your Les Baer 1911 .45 and an extra eight-round magazine, both fully loaded, and make sure there is an extra round in the chamber, for a total of seventeen rounds in all. This is vitally important.
Sincerely,
“The Decapitator”
Pendergast read the letter through twice. He took the USB stick and inserted it into the port on his laptop. There was only one file on it. He clicked it.
A video sprang to life: D’Agosta and Longstreet, tied, gagged, and immobilized, each with a single hand free. They were staring at the camera, sweat beading on their brows, holding between them with their free hands that morning’s New York Times. The video had no sound. The background appeared to be a derelict, warehouse-like room. The two men were beaten, bruised, and bloodied—D’Agosta worse than Longstreet. The video lasted only ten seconds and it played again, and again, in an endless loop.
Pendergast viewed the video a few more times and read the note again before putting both back in the envelope and sliding it into his suitcoat pocket. For three minutes he remained very still in the library, his face bathed in flickering firelight, before rising to his feet.
The Decapitator was right: he simply had no choice but to comply.
Pendergast had only a vague knowledge of King’s Park, a gigantic decaying psychiatric hospital complex on Long Island not far from the city. A quick Internet search filled in the details: it had been abandoned decades ago, leaving numerous crumbling buildings scattered over expansive grounds sealed up behind chain-link fences; it was infamous for the electroshock treatments it so liberally administered to hopeless cases, before the advent of effective psychiatric drugs. The campus was situated in Sussex County between Oyster Bay and Stony Brook.
He printed out a map of the psychiatric center, folded it into his coat pocket, removed a spare .45 magazine from a drawer, checked to see it was full of rounds and slipped it into his other pocket, then removed his Les Baer to confirm it was fully loaded. He racked a round into the chamber, removed the magazine to insert a fresh round, and pocketed the gun.
As he was putting on his vicu?a overcoat in the front hall, Proctor approached silently, like a cat. “May I be of assistance, sir?”
Pendergast glanced at him. Mrs. Trask must have told him of the letter. There was an eagerness in Proctor’s face that was both unusual and disturbing. The man, of course, always knew or guessed a great deal more than he let on.
“No, thank you, Proctor.”
“No need for a driver?”
“I have a yen to take a night drive by myself.” He held out his hands for the keys.
For a moment, Proctor stood immobile, his face a mask. Pendergast was well aware Proctor knew he was lying, but there was no time to prevaricate in a more satisfactory fashion.
Reaching into a pocket, Proctor wordlessly handed Pendergast the keys to the Rolls-Royce.