“So what’s your, ah, plan?”
“I’m going to find him. I’m going to put a gun to his head. And I’m going to make him take me to Helen.”
D’Agosta was filled with dismay. The obsessive timbre of the voice, the desperation of it, was very unlike his old friend.
“And if he doesn’t do as you say?”
“He will, Vincent. Trust me: I will make sure of that.”
D’Agosta decided not to ask Pendergast how. Instead he changed the subject. “When you were shot… how did you get away?”
“When the impact of the bullet knocked me into the bog, I began to sink. After a moment I realized I wasn’t sinking farther — that my feet had come to rest on something only a few feet beneath the surface. Something soft and buoyant, a carcass I believe. It kept me from going down. To give the illusion of sinking, I slowly lowered myself into a crouch. It was my great good fortune that Judson left the scene without waiting until I was fully… immersed.”
“Great good fortune,” D’Agosta muttered.
“I waited four, maybe five minutes,” Pendergast said. “I was bleeding too badly to wait any longer. Then I rose again and — using the carcass as leverage — extricated myself from the mire. I improvised a compression bandage as best I could. I was miles from anywhere — miles from the nearest village or the lodge.”
Pendergast fell silent a minute or two. When he began again, his voice was a little stronger. “Judson and I had hunted here before, a decade ago. On that trip, I made the acquaintance of a local doctor named Roscommon. We had some similar interests. His practice was in the village of Inverkirkton, about three miles away. It happened to be the closest point as the crow flies from where I was shot.”
“How did you do it?” D’Agosta asked after a moment. “Reach him without leaving any tracks?”
“The improvised dressing stopped my leaving any blood spoor,” Pendergast said. “I moved with great care. The rain took care of the rest.”
“You traveled three miles in the rain, with a sucking chest wound, to the doctor’s house?”
Pendergast fixed him with his gaze. “Yes.”
“Jesus Christ,
“I suddenly had something to live for.”
D’Agosta shook his head.
“Roscommon is an unusually intelligent and subtle man. He quickly understood my situation. Two things were in my favor: the bullet had missed my subclavian artery by a hair, and it had passed all the way through, so an operation wasn’t necessary to extract it. Roscommon re-inflated the lung and managed to control the hemorrhaging. Under cover of darkness, he brought me out to this cottage. And his aunt has looked after me ever since.”
“His aunt?”
Pendergast nodded. “Looking after her well-being is the only thing that keeps him in this part of Scotland, rather than in a lucrative Harley Street practice. He knew I would be safe with her.”
“And you’ve been here for the past month.”
“And I’ll be here a little longer still — until I’m sufficiently recovered to finish the job.”
“You need me,” said D’Agosta.
“No,” Pendergast said with great vehemence. “
D’Agosta fell silent.
“Your mere presence imperils me. Judson is undoubtedly still around. He’s in high panic. He doesn’t know if I’m alive or dead. But if he sees you, particularly in the vicinity of this cottage…”
“I can help you in other ways.”
“Absolutely not. I almost got you killed once. Captain Hayward would never forgive me if I let it happen again. The best thing you can do for me, the
D’Agosta felt the sting of this last comment. He stared at Pendergast, lying in the cot, so weak in body, so fierce in mind. Once again, he was struck by the fanatical obsession lurking in those eyes. God, he must have loved that woman.
“All right,” he said with huge reluctance. “I’ll do what you say. Except that I’ve got to tell Laura. I swore I’d never deceive her again.”
“Very well. Who knows of your efforts to find me here?”
“The inspector, Balfour. Quite a few others. I’ve been asking around.”
“Then Esterhazy knows. We can turn this to our advantage. Tell everyone your search was fruitless, that you’re now convinced I’m dead. Go home, show all the outward signs of mourning.”
“If that’s really what you want.”
Pendergast’s eyes slid toward him. “It’s what I
CHAPTER 19
DR. JOHN FELDER WALKED DOWN THE ECHOING hallway of Mount Mercy Hospital, a slim folder under one arm and the physician in charge, Dr. Ostrom, at his side.
“Thank you for allowing this visitation, Dr. Ostrom,” Felder said.
“Not at all. I take it your interest in her will be ongoing?”
“Yes. Her condition is… unique.”
“Many things involving the Pendergast family are unique.” Ostrom started to say more and then fell silent, as if he’d already said too much on the matter.
“Where is Pendergast, her guardian?” Felder asked. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with him.”
“He’s a cipher to me, I’m afraid — comes and goes at the oddest times, makes demands and then vanishes. I’ve found him a somewhat difficult person to deal with.”
“I see. So you have no objections to my continuing visits to the patient?”
“None at all. I’ll be glad to share my observations with you, if you wish.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
They reached the door, and Ostrom knocked lightly. “Please come in,” came the response from the other side.
Ostrom unlocked the door and ushered Felder in ahead of him. The room looked similar to the last time he’d seen it, except that there were more books in it — many more books. The bookcase that before had held only half a dozen volumes now had several times that many. Glancing at the titles, Felder noticed
There was another difference, too: the room’s single table was now covered with sheets of foolscap, which were filled with dense lines of writing, punctuated by elaborate sketches, profiles, still lifes, equations, and Leonardo-like diagrams. And there, on the far side of the desk, sat Constance. She was in the act of writing, a quill pen in one hand, a bottle of blue-black ink on the desk beside her.
She glanced up at the two men as they entered. “Good morning, Dr. Ostrom. Good morning, Dr. Felder.” She stacked the sheets one on top of the other, then turned the top sheet over the rest.
“Good morning, Constance,” Ostrom said. “Did you sleep well?”
