“And the address of this safe house?”
“Four Twenty-Eight East End Avenue.”
He fell silent for a minute before rousing himself to speech once again. “They don’t know who you are. They have no way of finding you, short of happening upon you by accident. That is of course unlikely, but we shall reduce the likelihood even further.” He glanced at her. “Is there someplace you can stay? With friends, perhaps? Somewhere out of town?”
Corrie was shocked. She’d just assumed that Pendergast would take her in, protect her, help her deal with the situation. “What’s wrong with here?”
There was a protracted silence. Then Pendergast let out a deep, shuddering breath. “Without going into detail, the fact is that, at present, I am simply incapable of looking after your well-being. In fact, I am so preoccupied that I could actually pose a threat to your safety. If you rely on me, you place yourself in grave danger. Besides, New York City is the one place you stand a chance, however small, of coming in contact with these people. Now: is there anyplace else you can go? I can guarantee that you’ll get there safely, and have sufficient funds— beyond that, you will be on your own.”
This was so unexpected that Corrie felt herself in a kind of daze. Where the hell could she go? Her mother was still in Medicine Creek, Kansas, of course—but she swore she’d die before she ever set foot in that shit hole again.
“My father lives near Allentown,” she said, dubiously.
Pendergast—whose expression had once again turned distant—returned to her. “Yes. I do recall your mentioning that. Do you know where he lives?”
Already Corrie was regretting bringing up her father. “I have his address. I haven’t seen him since he skipped out on my mom, what, fifteen years ago?”
Pendergast reached over, pressed a small button beneath the end table. A minute later, Proctor was standing in the doorway to the library. Even with the crutch, he looked immensely powerful.
Pendergast turned to him. “Proctor, please call our private livery service. I would like them to take Miss Swanson to an address she will give them outside Allentown, Pennsylvania. Provide her with three thousand dollars and a new cell phone.”
Proctor nodded. “Very well, sir.”
Corrie looked from Pendergast to Proctor and back again. “I still don’t believe it. You’re just telling me to turn tail and run?”
“I’ve explained that necessity already. You’ll be safer with your father, especially given that you’ve had no recent contact with him. You need to stay away for at least a month, perhaps two. Use only cash—no credit or debit cards. Destroy the SIM card, throw away your old cell phone, and don’t transfer the contacts except by hand. Contact me—that is, Proctor—when you plan to return.”
“What if I don’t want to go stay with my loser dad?” Corrie fumed.
“These people whose safe house you invaded, who you robbed of highly incriminating documents, are not to be underestimated. You do not want them to find you.”
“But…” This was unreal. She started to get mad. “What about school?”
“Of what use will school be to a dead person?” Pendergast said evenly.
She stood up. “Goddamn it, what’s going on with you?” She paused, looked at him more closely. “Are you sick?”
“Yes.”
Even as he spoke, she realized the sweat was streaming down his brow. Jesus, he really
“I’m sorry.” She sat down abruptly. “I just don’t like the idea of running away. Who are these people and what the hell is going on?”
“I’m afraid that information would put you in greater danger.”
“Let me stay and help with whatever’s troubling you.” She managed a smile. “We made a good team once.”
For the first time, he seemed affected. “I appreciate the gesture,” he said in a low, even voice. “Truly, I do. But I require no help. At this moment, in fact, all that I require is solitude.”
She remained in her seat. She’d forgotten what a pain in the ass Pendergast could be.
“Proctor is waiting.”
For a moment, she just stared. Then, without another word, she got up, picked up her knapsack, and strode out of the library.
After Corrie had left, Pendergast sat, motionless, in the darkened room. Ten minutes later, he heard the distant sound of a door closing. At this, he rose and walked over to one of the bookshelves. He pulled out a particularly large and hoary old volume from it, which produced a muffled clicking sound. The entire bookshelf swung away from the wall. Behind it stood a folding brass gate that opened onto a solid maple door: the hidden service elevator to the mansion’s basement. Pendergast stepped in, pressed a button, and rode the elevator down to the basement. Getting out, he progressed through long and secret corridors to an ancient stairway, hewn from the living rock, that corkscrewed down into darkness. Descending this staircase to the mansion’s vast and rambling sub-basement, he made his way through a series of dimly lit chambers and galleries, perfumed with the scent of ages, until he came to a room full of long tables covered with modern laboratory equipment. Turning up the light, he strode over to a device that looked like a cross between a fax machine and a modern cash register. He sat down before the machine, turned it on, and pressed a button on its side. A wide tray in its front panel popped free. Inside were a number of small, squat test tubes. Taking one out, Pendergast held it between thumb and forefinger. Then —plucking a lancet from his jacket pocket—he pricked his other thumb, took a blood sample, placed it into the test tube, inserted it in the machine, pressed a series of buttons, and settled down to wait.
DR. FELDER CROSSED SEVENTY-SEVENTH STREET, ROUNDED the corner onto Central Park West, climbed a short set of broad steps, and walked into the dimly lit confines of the New-York Historical Society. The austere Beaux-Arts building had recently undergone an extensive renovation, and Felder looked around the public entrance curiously. Although the galleries and library had been subjected to a painstaking twenty-first-century face-lift, the institution as a whole seemed firmly rooted—or perhaps mired—in the past, as the hyphen in its name New-York made abundantly clear.
He approached the research information desk. “Dr. Felder to see Fenton Goodbody.”
The woman at the desk consulted her computer screen. “Just a minute. I’ll call him.”
She picked up a phone, dialed. “A Dr. Felder to see you, Mr. Goodbody.” She hung up. “He’ll be right down.”
“Thank you.”
Ten minutes passed. Felder had ample time to examine the entrance hall in its entirety before Mr. Goodbody appeared. He was tall, bespectacled, heavyset, and florid, in perhaps his early sixties. He wore a hairy tweed suit with a matching vest.
“Dr. Felder,” he puffed, wiping his palms on the vest before shaking hands. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem.”
“I hope you don’t mind if we make this quick? It’s already half past eight, you know, and this evening we close at nine.”
“That should be fine, thank you.”
“In that case, follow me, if you please.”
Goodbody led the way past the research desk, along an echoing passageway, through a door, down a narrow staircase, along a second, far more institutional passageway, and then into a large room whose walls were
