“Let me understand,” he said, voice low. “You have a twin brother who is killing people in New York City hotels. He’s kept you a prisoner and has been cutting off your body parts—an earlobe, a finger, and a toe—and leaving them at the crime scenes.”
“Yes.”
“And why did you come to me?”
“You are… Father. Are you not? Alban… spoke of it. He talk of you a lot with others. They do not think I listen. Or that I understand.”
Standing very still, Pendergast did not say anything for a long time. And then he stepped back to the chair and eased himself into it, almost as if he was in pain. “Perhaps,” he said, passing a pale hand across his brow, “you should start at the beginning. Tell me everything you know. Where you were born, under what circumstances, who your brother Alban is, and what he and you are doing here in New York.”
“I will try. I not know much.”
“Do your best.”
“I was born in… Brazil. They call the place Nova Godoi.”
At this, Pendergast froze. “Your mother was—?”
“I never met Mother. Alban was the good twin. I… bad twin.”
“And your name?”
“I have no name. Only good twins get names. I… Forty-Seven.”
“What are these good twins and bad twins? What does it mean?”
“Not know how it works. Not exactly. Good twins get all the good stuff, bad stuff go into bad twins. Good twins go to school, have sports, have training. They eat good food. We… work the fields.”
Pendergast slowly rose from his seat, a shadow growing in silent amazement. “So the town, Nova Godoi, is full of twins?”
The youth nodded.
“And your twin, this Alban: he’s the one doing the killing?”
“He… loves it.”
“Why is he killing?”
The boy shrugged.
“And you escaped? How?”
“They think I am more stupid than I am. I fooled them, got away.” This was followed by a brief hiccuping sob. “I hope they do not follow me.”
“Where were you held?”
“It was… under the ground. There was a long tunnel, old, very cool. They kept me in… giant oven, cold, big as a room. Bricks dirty, floor dirty. Big metal door. Last time… they forget to lock it.”
“And?”
“I ran, just kept running.”
“How did you find me?”
“I heard them say you live in fancy place. Dakota place. So I asked. A stranger told me, helped me, put me in yellow car. Gave me those.” And he pointed to a few wadded bills Miss Ishimura had removed from the pocket of his jeans.
He fell silent. Pendergast slid his hand into his pocket, removed a key, and unlocked the shackle from the boy’s wrist. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I misunderstood.”
The boy smiled. “I care not. I… used to it.”
Pendergast pressed a button beside the door, and a moment later Miss Ishimura came in. Pendergast turned to her and spoke briskly. “Could you kindly prepare a full American breakfast for our guest? Eggs, sausage, toast, orange juice. Thank you.”
He turned back to the boy. “So someone put you in a taxicab? How long was the ride?”
“Very long. Pass many, many autos.”
“What do you remember of it? Did you cross any bridges, go through tunnels?”
“We crossed a big bridge over a river.” He shook his head at the memory. “So many buildings, so tall.”
Pendergast immediately picked up a house phone. “Charles? The cab that brought the boy. I need its hack number. Go through the building’s security videos and get it to me right away. Thank you.” He hung up, turned back to the boy lying on the bed, looking so lost, so confused, so vulnerable.
“Let me see if I understand what you’ve told me,” he said. “You and your brother are twins, born and raised in Brazil. You are apparently part of some program. As part of this, he got all the desirable qualities, the good genetic material, somehow leaving the unwanted material to you, in a manner of speaking. Is that it?”
“They say we are dumping ground. Garbage.”
“And you each get a number. You’re Forty-Seven.”
“Forty-Seven.”
“So there must be a lot of you.”
The youth nodded. “Could you open curtains? Please? I want to see light.”
Pendergast went to the window and slid open the curtains, letting in the long yellow light of early winter, coming in low over the slate roofs, dormers, gables, and turrets of the famous apartment building. The boy turned gratefully toward the light, which fell on his pallid face.
In a gentle voice, Pendergast spoke. “The first thing is that you should have a name. A real name.”
“I do not know what to call myself.”
“Then I will name you. How do you like… Tristram?”
“I like it fine. And shall call you… Father?”
“Yes,” said Pendergast. “Yes. Please do call me…” He struggled to get the word out. “Father.”
CORRIE STOOD AT THE FAR END OF THE PARKING LOT OF the Joe Ricco Chevrolet-Cadillac dealership, rows of new cars and trucks glittering in the chilly sunlight. Times were tough, especially in the Allentown area, and she had just been given the bum’s rush, hustled out the door of the dealership as soon as they realized she was a job seeker, not a buyer.
She was mightily annoyed. She had had her hair done at a local salon. It had been hell getting the purple out, and in the end they’d had to dye it black and cut it shoulder length, with a little flip. It gave her a 1950s retro look that she sort of liked, but it was still way too conservative for her taste. A tailored gray suit, low pumps, and a touch of makeup completed the transformation of Corrie the Goth into Corrie the Yuppie. It had made quite a dent in Pendergast’s three thousand.
Fat lot of good it had done her.
In retrospect, she realized it was unrealistic to think she could get a job selling cars when she had no experience beyond a year of college. She should have applied for a position as a clerk-assistant or janitor or something. Now it was too late. She would have to figure out some other way to get in close to the dealership, find out what was really going on.
As she was standing there, wondering what to do next, a voice behind her said: “Excuse me?”
She turned to see an older couple, well dressed, friendly.
“Yes?”
“Are you available to help us?”
She looked around and was about to say that she didn’t work there, but something stopped her. Instead, she said: “Of course.” She bestowed on them a dazzling smile and offered her hand. “I’m Corrie.”
“Sue and Chuck Hesse,” said the man, shaking her hand.
She wasn’t sure where this was going, but what the heck?
“Welcome to Joe Ricco Chevy-Cadillac,” said Corrie.
“I’ve just retired from the university and we’re looking for something comfortable and elegant,” the man
